Chapter 15
ILSEVEL
Taar assigns Halamar as my personal nursemaid.
I don’t enjoy being treated like a troublesome child in need of a caretaker.
But neither can I complain. Considering the hostility simmering in the eyes of each and every warrior in that mounted company whenever I chance to come in sight, it’s probably safest if I remain out of everyone’s way.
Taar, of course, is needed up front where he can be seen, noble leader that he is.
While I am relegated to the back, behind even the supply wagons. Just me, Diira, and Halamar on his roan mare. Dust in our eyes, grit in our teeth, and all adventurous spirit well and truly doused.
The size of the fighting force is greater than I anticipated.
Though there are no more than ten or twelve licorneir, excluding Taar and myself, I calculate close to two hundred horses and armored riders.
The Licornyn riders, of course, favor the light style armor I’ve become used to—which is hardly armor at all, merely some protective pauldrons and a lot of intimidating bare flesh.
Among the horsemen and women, however, I see examples of heavier leather armor and even some plating, which I suspect has been foraged from Cruor, for I saw no evidence of a smithy in the Hidden City capable of such complex craftsmanship.
Though the horses cannot help paling in comparison to the magnificence of the licorneir, they are nonetheless an impressive sight.
Breastplates and helmets flash in the early morning light as we cross the fields beyond Elanlein and ride for the Morrona.
How such a squadron will stand against the Miphates’ defenses I cannot guess.
With any luck, the Shadow King broke with my father when I failed to turn up for our marriage.
Have the Miphates other friends or allies to aid them against the coming siege?
Shanaera’s half-rotten face springs to mind.
But she is only one horror, and her crew of shamblers were defeated.
Surely, however many of these undead warriors the Miphates may have created with their dark, rift-born magic, they are nothing compared to this fighting force.
The thunder of hooves echoes to the sky as we make our way across the empty sweeps of country where Diira and I rode in solitary training these last five days.
From my position at the far back of the company I cannot see Taar at all, though the velra connecting us gives me a vague idea of his whereabouts.
I am also aware of the songs of the other licorneir, a subtle hum deep in my bones.
They do not ride close together but are spread out among the horses in preparation for the passage into Cruor.
Taar explained to me how they will use their song to cast a protective barrier around the whole company when the vardimnar inevitably strikes.
He spoke with confidence, but I detected a note of anxiety thrumming in his soul.
I ride in teeth-gritting silence. Tassa gave me some old garments of hers—soft doeskin trousers, a stout belt and scabbard, and leather bracers for my arms. She gave me a cloak and hood as well, which I pull up to cover my face, though it is no disguise against my humanity.
Every member of that fighting force knows who and what I am.
Their animosity is palpable even from this position at the far back of the line.
Never in a thousand lifetimes could I have envisioned this future for myself—riding to war against my own people, alongside those who are my enemies, who hate me with every fiber of their souls.
And yet I long to protect these strange, fierce Licornyn folk.
If I could be of any use to them in their upcoming endeavor, I would offer my life and this small sword strapped to my saddle.
Not that they want it and my pitiful four days of training.
Halamar rides beside me. Despite his mare’s long legs and his own great bulk, the level of his head is much lower with mine, so much greater is even a small licorneir like Diira when compared to average horses.
He has maintained a strict silence all this while.
I don’t blame him—the procession away from the Hidden City is solemn as all these men and women march from a home most of them do not expect to see again.
Though I have no shared history with these people, much less shared blood, I feel the weight of their choice, their determination, and their unflagging courage in the face of what will likely prove impossible odds.
But it might not be impossible, I remind myself firmly.
I’ve seen Ruvaen’s force, how formidable it is.
And the Shadow King, whom they all fear so greatly, will not come.
It might all turn out right in the end, the citadel recovered, Taar seated on the throne of his forefathers, and all the ravaged land of Cruor restored to its former glory.
It could happen. Miracles still do, they say.
Movement draws my eye to the open landscape beyond Halamar.
Grateful for any excuse to turn my face away from the churning dust, I look out to see Tassa on her bay gelding, riding parallel with the company across the open fields.
She urges her mount at a swift pace, never once turning to look our way, her focus on the river up ahead.
Diira’s song moving through me augments my gods-given sensitivity, and I feel broken threads of song trailing between Tassa and Halamar.
Though the solemn warrior never looks her way, I know he is as aware of her as I am.
More aware, perhaps. And more determined not to show it.
Tassa pulls her gelding up at the banks of the river.
Flanked by licorneir, the horses surge into the ford, leaving behind the safety of this shore and progressing into Cruor.
Halamar and I, still at the back of the line, watch everyone else forge on ahead of us.
Though there is no sign of the vardimnar, I imagine a shift in atmosphere on the far side.
A darkness, not of vision, but of song, which infuses the very air and oppresses the souls of those who dare breathe it. I do not care to enter that land again.
But as Diira approaches the river for our crossing, I glimpse Tassa’s face in passing.
There is an expression of intense sorrow, envy, and regret, which is echoed by the song in her soul.
She would give anything, I know, to ride with us.
To sell her life dearly for the sake of the kingdom she still believes in.
She catches my eye for half an instant, and in that instant, the intensity of her song is strong enough to make me gasp.
But she turns away almost at once, refusing to look at me again. She never acknowledges Halamar.
So my hearttorn escort and I cross the Morrona, the last two pathetic stragglers of the proud Rocaryn Tribe, leaving Tassa and Elanlein and the Hidden City behind.
I feel as though, even from this distance, I catch the song of the ilsevel blossoms crying out to me, urging me not to go.
But halfway across the water, the river’s voice drowns them out.
By the time we reach the banks of Cruor, I hear them no more.
The landscape on the far side of the river is devoid of feature.
Unlike those places on the side of the river where the Licornyn people dwell, and the songs of the licorneir permeate all, it’s almost as though these barren hinterlands are slowly returning to the unformed state from which they originated.
I know that farther in, where great cities and civilizations once dwelt, the land is much firmer, more varied and interesting, despite the lack of life.
I suppose everywhere the licorneir once ranged in large numbers simply holds on to its own existence longer.
Eventually, however, it will all slip away.
Swallowed either by nothingness or hell.
Even the songs of the licorneir feel muted on this side of the water. I’m grateful for Diira’s song in my heart and wonder how I ever managed to cross Cruor without it that first time. Perhaps the near proximity with Taar, riding tandem in Elydark’s saddle, made the difference.
I still see nothing of my husband as we progress hour after hour deeper into Cruor.
I’m terribly bored . . . which is not what I’d expected of this day.
Somehow I’d harbored the belief that setting forth into battle, glory, and almost certain doom would be quite a thrilling experience.
Instead it’s monotonous. And very, very dusty.
The afternoon is well advanced when Taar finally appears in my line of sight, looping Elydark back to find me, weaving through the supply wagons.
He looks stern and strained, and it is a jolt to see him wearing again the same armor he wore the night I first met him.
But when he catches sight of me, filmed over in dust though I am, his hard features soften into a smile.
He urges Elydark into a quick canter, pulls around and rides at my side.
“And how are you fairing, my zylnala?” he asks.
“Oh, it’s been lovely,” I answer, my voice cracked with disuse. “Halamar is such scintillating company, you know.”
Halamar, on my left, looks up from his pommel for possibly the first time that day, his eyebrows puckered. Then with a grunt, he sinks back into himself and the dullness of his broken song.
Taar chuckles softly and reaches out to brush my hand with his fingertips. “It does me good to see you,” he says, and with those words, I feel the velra cord warming between us. “We’ll stop soon for a short rest,” he adds. “The horses need refreshment.”
“The humans too,” I add dryly. No doubt these proud Licornyn riders could go on for days and nights without ceasing, but I certainly cannot.
Taar nods his understanding. “I’ll try to make my way back to you then. Watch for me.”