A Dark Sacrifice Read online

  And suddenly, Cuillioc was able to see the whole complicated plot with bitter clarity. Everything that had happened was part of the scheme: The slow months of poisoning. All of the beguilements and distractions that kept him and his men in the city until the time was ripe. Followed in due course by the swift events of the night just past, beginning with the fiery destruction of almost half of his galleys, and yes, even the hour when the servants became willing to tell his little page everything they had kept secret for so long.

  The timing of each individual step had been calculated with the utmost precision, all meant to bring him and his ships out on the water at this present time, in their present weakened state, just to provide sport for the Mirazhite navy.

  Even for people as indolent as these there could be little amusement, and certainly no glory, in cutting the throats of invaders while they lay sick and dying in their beds, but in attacking ships manned by the walking dead, doing battle with a fleet crippled and in disarray—it seemed there was glory enough.

  Yet, oddly, the Prince felt a surge of gratitude. “I would never have expected this last favor,” he said under his breath.

  There was a flutter of scarlet cloth, and the priest’s white face rose up directly in front of him. “Favor? I do not think I understand you.”

  “No? Then I will explain. Instead of slinking back home in humiliation and defeat, we’ve been given the chance to make a good end.” He started toward the bridge in order to take command while the battle lasted, but Iobhar slipped around him to block the way.

  “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, Great Prince: I can summon a wind that will enable us to outrun the fastest ship in the Mirazhite navy. They have cut off our galleys inside the bay—but this ship, and possibly the ones just ahead and behind, may yet escape. Not so romantic, perhaps, or so compatible with your peculiar idea of honor as going down with the rest of the fleet, but it would be wise—it would be expedient.”

  Cuillioc flashed him a look of contempt. “No,” he said, stepping around the priest and continuing on toward the bridge, so that Iobhar was forced to follow if he meant to hear the rest. “They have given us an opportunity to die like men, and I’m not minded to refuse.” Nor was he willing to take two or three ships back to Phaôrax to serve as scapegoats for the entire debacle. He owed his men much more than that.

  “They may have chosen us for their sport, but I intend to give them a battle they will long remember! We stay and fight. In the name of Ouriána—for the honor and glory of Phaôrax.”

  14

  By dint of much clumsy maneuvering and a fair degree of luck, Cuillioc’s inexperienced oarsmen managed to ram one of the Mirazhite vessels, and Iobhar’s sorcery accounted for another, consuming it in a cold, unearthly fire, before one of the enemy ships drew near enough to cast out grappling hooks and catch the Prince’s galley in a virtual death grip.

  Then there was an exchange of missile fire, in which the taller ship had all of the advantage. Arrows, lances, and rocks rained down on the galley, while Cuillioc’s men, retaliating with slings and crossbows, could scarcely see their targets. Even in the first few minutes the slaughter was tremendous, and it might have ended swiftly had not the glittering Mirazhite warriors, eager for glory in hand-to-hand combat, leaped down from their own ship to the deck of the galley.

  Then the Pharaxions, fueled by desperation, overcame their weakness and the blood flew in every direction. The Prince himself seemed to be everywhere at once, hair flying, sword running red. One man after another fell before the fury of his onslaught, and all around him the deck was littered with the bodies of men he had killed.

  Reckless of his own safety, determined to account for as many of the enemy as possible, he nevertheless knew that he could not last much longer. With the tide in his veins alternating between fire and ice, his pulse pounding like a drumbeat in his ears, he could feel his strength failing, his movements growing heavier and slower, his cuts and thrusts less and less accurate. Sometimes it felt as though the sky was falling down on him, the whole weight of it threatening to crush him. Already several men had gotten past his guard and landed glancing blows. Blood trickled into his eyes from a gash on his forehead, and his whole left side was wet and burning under his armor and padding.

  Up on the bridge, Iobhar and his acolytes had been defending themselves with greater success. Omair and Maël waged a furious battle with swords and round shields, for the poison had not much affected them as yet, and the priest fought with chanted spells as well as a long knife. The knife was the lesser weapon, and whoever suffered the touch of his left hand died shrieking.

  Suddenly, in the midst of dispatching a tall Mirazhite warrior, Iobhar became aware of dark shadows gliding one after another across the wooden deck. Risking a brief skyward glance through eyes watering with the smoke, he caught sight of a great flock of wyvaerun passing immediately overhead. He had no time for more than a bare glimpse; two more men (refusing to profit from the example of their fellows) closed in on him from either side. But now as he slashed and ducked he was chanting a new spell.

  In the sky overhead, the wyvaerun began to wheel about. Minutes later, a dozen of the snake-bird hybrids came plummeting down in a rush of dark wings, striking with beaks, claws, and scaly prehensile tails. For a moment the sun went out like a windblown flame. As the Mirazhites were beaten back, three of the creatures, many times larger than the rest, descended on the furiádh and his servants, hooked their iron claws agonizingly into flesh and muscle, and rose into the sky, carrying Iobhar, Omair, and Maël with them, lifting them back into the searing light.

  On the galley below, Prince Cuillioc finally fell beneath a shattering blow from a two-handed axe and moved no more.

  Most of that day passed in a delirium of pain before the wyvaerun set the priest and his acolytes down, none too gently, on a barren stretch of shoreline, then soared back into the sky to rejoin their flock.

  They left their passengers torn and bleeding, almost more dead than alive. Maël was unconscious and fell in an awkward heap, where he remained for many hours, while Iobhar and the other acolyte lay panting and moaning on the hot sand. Only at moonrise, with the heat of the day beginning to fade, did they recover enough to look to their own welfare, ripping their outer garments into strips to serve as bandages, then lurching painfully to their feet to search for water. Of the three, the furiádh had suffered by far the worst, for the skin of his face and hands had been scorched by the fierce southern light while he dangled in the air helpless to cover himself.

  “The Empress has spared our lives by sending her winged messengers to save us,” said Omair hoarsely, out of a dry, cracked throat. “But they have handled us cruelly.”

  Iobhar knew from experience that while the sunburn would fade, his own hurts would never truly mend; the marks would be there always, nor would he ever be entirely free of the pain. “Consider yourself fortunate,” he said, baring yellow teeth in one of his unpleasant smiles. “You now bear the stigmata of the Goddess.”

  They had no way of knowing whether they were still in Mirizandi or safe in Nephuar, but there were no signs of human habitation along the shore, and inland it was dense rain forest concealing any villages there might be nearby. When they finally discovered a spring of sweet water not far distant, Iobhar decided to remain in that spot, set up a camp of sorts in the shade of the exotic vegetation, and remain there for as many days as it took to regain their strength. In any case, the moon was waxing and would be full in another two nights.

  The interval was an uneasy one. By day, birds and monkeys made an ear-splitting din in that dense tangle. During the deep indigo nights the sounds were fewer and more ominous: yelps and screams, occasionally accompanied by the rank stench of some large predator. So little they knew of these southern lands outside the cities that it was impossible to reckon the dangers.

  On the night of the full moon, Iobhar limped alone through the forest, heading for the shore. Fireflies hung in the dark under the trees
like sparks from a furnace, but when he came out into the open, the beach was drenched in cool white moonlight. It was a clear sky, but the stars seemed faint and tremulous compared to that tremendous moon.

  Removing a silver disk from a pocket in his robe, he placed it reverently on the sand, so that the glory of the greater disk might be reflected in its smaller counterpart. He had lost a flask of oil blessed in the temple on Phaôrax, but because the moon and the tides were so intimately linked, seawater would serve in its place.

  Scooping up a palmful of water from a tidepool like a sheet of black glass, Iobhar allowed it to drip from his hand onto the metal disk. Gradually, the silver clouded over, then began to shimmer with unwholesome purple light.

  He sensed the presence of the Goddess, like heavy perfume, even before her face appeared on the disk. Though her image was tiny, the priest could see that her face was drained of color, her eyes intent and electric with tension. Her fiery auburn hair seemed to crackle. There was a battle at sea, said the voice inside her head. I saw it in one of the Dragonstones, though only dimly. All of our ships were lost?

  I fear so, said Iobhar. We were greatly outnumbered. There was no other possible outcome. He hesitated, cringing at the thought of what he must tell her next, but knowing that Ouriána’s wrath would be a hundred times worse if the news came belatedly and from other lips. And, I grieve to inform you, Prince Cuillioc is dead. He fought bravely, his enemies fell in great numbers, yet even so valiant a man could not hope to prevail against so many.

  There was a long, nerve-racking silence before she responded. My son is dead? A shudder passed over her, then there was another lengthy silence, during which the furiádh squirmed uneasily.

  Prince Cuillioc is dead, she said at last, and yet you, Iobhar, were spared?

  He had prepared himself to answer the question in advance, but now that the moment had arrived, all the words he had planned nearly deserted him. Before I left for Mirizandi, you told me that the one thing you could not tolerate was another failure from Prince Cuillioc, another humiliating defeat.

  Her eyes narrowed, and he could almost hear the hiss of her indrawn breath. And so you arranged for him to die a hero’s death?

  Oh no, Radiance, he protested, panic beating in his breast. I arranged nothing. Let us say, merely, that I did nothing to prevent a heroic death from overtaking him. Did I mistake your meaning? Have I done wrong?

  A third time Ouriána was terrifyingly silent, while Iobhar waited in agonizing suspense for her reply, and her image wavered like the moon seen through water.

  No, she said finally. No, you have not done wrong. In truth, the reason I sent you with him to Mirizandi was because I knew you would not be deterred, as another might, by sentimental attachment to the Prince, from doing what needed to be done.

  She heaved a great sigh. Squinting at the disk, the better to see her face, Iobhar was startled by an expression he had never seen there before—not grief precisely, but a kind of angry perplexity, as if she, who was always so sure, so unshakable, did not quite know what she ought to be feeling. And yet my son is dead.

  Iobhar bowed his head in mock sorrow. Many have lost sons in the war, Radiance. Fathers, brothers, lovers—many have died, and women and children have mourned them. Your great sacrifice sanctifies their smaller sacrifices.

  Yes, she replied bleakly. All are sanctified by the death of my son. You say—you say that he died well?

  In truth, he died most heroically, Iobhar said unctuously. Died as he lived, valiantly, honorably.

  Then, said the Empress just before her image began to fade, I must arrange for him a hero’s funeral.

  15

  Sindérian was growing hardened to a swift mode of travel, to taking her sleep in snatches and eating most of her meals cold. Besides, it suited her desire for speed.

  Three days and the better part of two nights of hard riding brought the company under Prince Kivik’s leadership out of the mountains and into the foothills, where the grass grew sparse and coarse on rocky slopes. At a place where the road divided, they found unmistakable signs that retreating Eisenlonders had marched off in one direction, roughly east, while the Furiádhin chose the other road, tending toward the south.

  “I know a third way we might take,” offered one of the Skyrran riders, after a careful study of the marks in the dust. He had been a hunter before the war and one of Prince Kivik’s scouts since, and was chosen as part of this company because he knew the hill country well. “Not an easy trail but much more direct, and it should bring us through the hills and back to the road again in half the time.”

  “Then by all means, Orri, show us that way,” said Prince Kivik. “If we can gain a day on the villains who have taken my cousin, let the path be as hard as it will!”

  Back in the saddle, the scout led them through what looked like an impenetrable wall of brush to a trail no one would have suspected from the other side, it was so thoroughly screened by boulders and shrubbery. At first it took them on a meandering course over the shoulders of the hills, then the path narrowed and made a sudden plunge, down a slope so steep it was necessary to dismount and lead their horses.

  To call it a trail at that point would have been too generous, it was so poorly marked and the footing so treacherous. Sindérian lost her balance before she reached the bottom and slid the rest of the way, but Aell was beside her almost immediately, offering a hand up. She was quickly on her feet again, with scant loss to her dignity and only a few shallow scratches where she had grasped at thorny shrubs on her way down.

  Back in the saddle, they urged the horses into a brisk trot. They were in a deep cleft between the hills, which turned out to be a very good trail, keeping to a nearly straight course for miles and miles. Yet as the day went on it became uncomfortably warm in that airless pocket between two slopes, until Sindérian found herself longing for a breath of wind.

  It was still early the following day when a sharp bend in the trail brought them out of the foothills, into an open country vivid with wildflowers and short, springy turf. The weary, plodding horses became frisky and eager. It seemed to raise the spirits of the men as well.

  Eventually, they came back to the same road they had abandoned in the mountains, where the scouts discovered evidence of a camp along the verge, cold ashes where the Pharaxions had lit a fire and cooked a meal.

  “They were here the night before last,” Orri reported to Prince Kivik. “We have gained on them, but not so much as I hoped.”

  “The Furiádhin will be taking fewer and shorter rests than we do,” said Sindérian. “They make little of discomfort themselves—and their guards and acolyte-servants have no choice.”

  “Then we have no choice either. We must ride harder and longer too,” said Skerry, coming up just in time to hear this exchange. “We followed this same road before, in the other direction. It has many windings, but we can cut across country some of the time.”

  Under his raven-dark hair, his face was pale and set in lines of pain as well as determination. Long days in the saddle could only be torture on newly healed wounds—Sindérian wondered if she had done the right thing, encouraging him and Prince Kivik in the belief they were strong enough to ride. Yet would they, under any circumstances, have consented to stay behind?

  They rode due south all of that day, where the grass grew higher, thicker, and greener, and the short turf gave way to beardgrass, foxtail, and wild oat. Once they left the road it became obvious the land was not nearly so flat as it looked from a distance. There were dips and hollows, dells and gullies, streams and wetlands; sometimes the fields were divided by sharp spines of stone, rising up like natural barriers.

  Sindérian sensed desolation and a deep sadness through all this land. Travelling in the Autlands on the way to Tirfang there had been countless deserted farms and villages along the way, but little actual destruction. The Haestfilke had another tale to tell: charred ruins of manors, farmhouses, and settlements dotted the countryside; vast gra
in fields and orchards had been burned to the ground; crops that had somehow escaped the Eisenlonders’ attention lay untended in the heat. Occasionally, a great cairn of stones marked a mass grave; more often they rode past battlefields where acres and acres of bones lay bleaching in the sun.

  Late on their second day of riding through this lonely country, one of the scouts pointed out a thread of silver smoke rising like a warning in the sky ahead of them.

  “There are none of our farmers and herders left in this part of the realm,” said Kivik. “And while it might be a company of our own warriors, it will probably be more of the cursed Eisenlonders. We are too few to challenge a large band of them, so we will go around on the west and try to avoid meeting them.” Yet he took his sword out of its sheath and carried it naked across his saddlebow in case of trouble, and the other men did the same.

  They rode on for several miles in the gathering twilight, veering toward the sunset. After they turned south again, a smudge of light grew on the horizon directly ahead, and brighter flares bloomed in the darkness to the east and west.

  Kivik called for a halt. “This is as close as we dare go, until we learn whose fires those are.”

  “I don’t understand why they have spread out over such a distance,” said Skerry, peering through the darkness. “No single encampment could be so large.”

  It was decided Faolein should fly ahead and scout out the encampment, whoever it belonged to. The hawk launched himself into the sky and set off in the direction of the distant fires. It did not take long for him to disappear in the dusky air.

  While the others awaited his return, they made a camp in a little hollow behind one of the bony ridges, kindling only the smallest blaze so that the light could not be seen by hostile eyes.

  Sooner than anyone might have expected him, Faolein was back again. He landed in the grass at Sindérian’s feet, ruffled his feathers, tilted his head, and looked at her out of one firelit yellow eye.