Chapter 22
TAAR
When all is said and done, we didn’t lose as many of our troops as we could have.
The Noxaurians charged headlong into that plain without protection, and I feared we would lose them all in the sudden onslaught of Ashtari.
But when the vardimnar lifted, the virulium-crazed fae were dazed, confused, but by and large untouched.
Virulium offers a sort of protection against the predation of the vardimnar, being wrought of the same realm.
In a state of disordered madness, the Noxaurians turned on each other, rabid with bloodthirst and the need to satisfy the compulsion of the poison they’d taken.
In this way we lost far more warriors than we did to the darkness itself.
My concern, however, is primarily with my own people.
We lost half of the Nakashyn Tribe in that doomed charge.
Chief Athorlassar, remembering the death of three sons and a daughter on the fields of Agandaur, driven mad by his own thirst for vengeance, threw himself straight into the jaws of hell.
Not even his licorneir’s song could save him nor any of his loyal warriors, who followed after him.
I can only hope Athorlassar found some measure of peace in the end. But I doubt it.
Some of the Noxaurians managed to cross the dried riverbed and approach the ruins of Evisar City.
Even from a distance, the disaster which followed was fearful to behold, for the Miphates were not unprepared for what was coming.
A blockade of death mages, wielding necroliphon magic, blasted the fae warriors with spell after spell, until the atmosphere sparked and crackled with the after-effects of magical disturbance.
I’ve never seen mortal spellcraft on such a scale, not even three years ago at Agandaur.
There is a stench of Ashtari in the air everywhere, and I believe the theories which postulate that the Miphates are drawing the source of their power directly from hell itself.
In the end the Noxaurians were driven back long before they approached the citadel.
All this while I could do nothing for my own people save keep them behind the songs of protection.
Even the virulium-maddened fae did not dare approach the pulsing light of the licorneir.
It was many hours before we dared lower the barrier and allow both licorneir and riders to rest. I am exhausted, and Elydark’s head hangs from his proud neck, his fire burned down low within.
Night has come on much too fast, and I give orders for the dakaths to be assembled and for my weary Licornyn riders to prepare for shifts, knowing all the while the vardimnar could strike again at any moment.
Despite these discouragements and setbacks, my soul remains exultant.
The obscuris is gone—for the first time in over twenty years, this sweep of country lies exposed to my view, and I look again upon the City of Spires.
Many of those spires are crumbled away to sad, blunted nubs, but the overall silhouette of the city is nonetheless familiar.
As for the citadel—its once gold and white stones are now stained black with corruption.
But by the dimness of evening, I can no longer see that stain, just the proud shape standing tall above even the highest remaining towers of the city.
My heart leaps with pure joy at the sight.
We are close. So very close. If we can break the defenses of the death mages, we could be at the citadel gates by tomorrow afternoon. Tonight, however, I have another task to accomplish.
I don’t want to bring Ilsevel with me into the Noxaurian encampment.
Were it not for the velra, I should have left her in my own dakath, with Halamar as guard.
As it is I cannot risk showing any weakness in front of my dangerous allies.
So, as I ride Elydark through the network of black tents and red campfires, Diira keeps close beside us, my bride on her back, hooded and cloaked.
Halamar is with us of course, making for a small but impressive entourage and inspiring many a fearful glance from the Noxaurian fae.
They do not like licorneir or those who ride them, familiar only with the more dangerous wild unicorns which sometimes prey on their kind.
They give us wide berth, and we pass unmolested to the center of the camp where Ruvaen’s pavilion stands.
A twist of familiarity pulls at my gut at sight of that pavilion.
It is a large, impressive structure and, unless I miss my guess, the very same one which Ruvaen offered up to me and my bride for our personal use on our wedding night.
That night seems so very long ago now and, though fraught with its own peril, so far removed from the horrors now pressing in around us.
Elydark and Diira pull up in front of the pavilion. I turn to Ilsevel. “Would you prefer to wait here or come inside with me?”
She casts a nervous glance around at the encampment.
Halamar urges his horse a few paces closer, holding her gaze with steady confidence.
Between him and the two licorneir, my wife should be well protected.
She looks at me again, and I see her utter hatred for Ruvaen warring with her dread of the fae surrounding her.
But she tips her chin and answers in a steady voice, “I will wait here.”
“Are you certain, zylnala?”
“I am. Halamar is with me.”
I would feel better if Sylcatha was present as well, but she and her licorneir are needed on the perimeter tonight, along with all our other riders.
My jaw tenses. I don’t care to let Ilsevel out of my sight, but neither will I force her to endure Ruvaen’s presence.
“Stay close,” I tell her. “If there is any sign of trouble, come inside after me.”
She reaches out, touches my chest, her palm resting over the place where the ruehnar mark glows. “Go,” she says softly. “Do what you must.”
For a moment I allow my own hand to cover hers, to feel the goodness of her touch, her nearness. Then I dismount and, after a quick word to Elydark, enjoining him to remain with my bride no matter what, I enter the pavilion.
Ruvaen lounges in an elegant, low-backed chair before a stone-ringed fire, one leg slung over a cushioned arm, reclining with utter ease as though he’s on a summer holiday.
He cradles a cup of sparkling qeise in one hand, which he tips in greeting at my appearance.
“Ah! Welcome, my friend,” he cries. “Do join me in a toast to our great venture!” Lifting his cup, he takes a loud sip and smacks his lips with satisfaction, then reaches for the carafe sitting on a little table at his elbow and pours a second cup.
“A worthy first day, can you not agree?” he asks, offering the cup to me.
I fold my arms and make no move to accept the drink.
Ruvaen’s smiling face goes rigid, his lips twisting into a grimace.
“I can feel the chastisement on the way.” He takes another sip then swirls the liquid moodily.
“Will you kindly get on with it? I’ve got better things to do with my time than to be scolded by an ibrildian. ”
“You must keep better control over your forces,” I growl. “If they continue to break ranks like they did today, the Miphates will simply open the Rift time and again, picking them off in droves.”
“Oh, that’s unfair, Taar, and you know it.
” Ruvaen points a finger up at me and shakes his head.
“It wasn’t my people who were swallowed up by the jaws of hell today.
I lost only a handful compared to yours.
” He tilts his head then, curious. Firelight shines in his silvery hair, pulling out different hues of iridescent color.
“Why do you not feed your people the virulium? You know they need it for their own protection.”
“I will not.”
The prince snorts. “And why not? I know you have your moral compunctions, but you can’t deny its effectiveness against . . . whatever that was.”
“The vardimnar.”
“And what does that mean, exactly?”
“The Hand of Darkness.”
“How ominous.” Ruvaen shudders and takes a reflective sip. “Apt, but ominous.”
“I have forbidden my people from taking the virulium,” I continue firmly. “The price it exacts from their souls is simply too great.”
“If you’re going to be so concerned with souls and such nonsense,” Ruvaen snarls over the lip of his cup, “we’re going to have a devil of a time doing what needs to be done here. Do you want to root these Miphates from your land or don’t you?”
“I do—”
“Then don’t go weak on me now, Taar. Where is the ruthless warlord I’ve so come to admire?” He grins suggestively. “Is it that human girl? Has she turned you soft? Maybe a bit of sorcery on her end. Are you quite certain she isn’t a Miphata spy?”
My blood goes cold. “Leave her out of this, Ruvaen.”
“Oh, I would have!” the prince declares, leaning back in his chair, his long sleeves pooling grandly to the ground. “Gladly! In fact, I’ve never been less interested in a mortal wench. It’s you who can’t seem to shake yourself free of her influence.”
“We need to prepare our forces.” I take a step forward, determined not to let him bait me.
“We’ll never reach the citadel if we do not first breach the city.
The death mages drastically reduced their supply of magic today.
They will renew it, no doubt, but if we work together, we can hit them before they’re—”
“Oh, don’t worry your head about any of that, Taar, my friend. I’ve got everything well in hand.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I have a plan.” He grins, and the gleam of the fire plays across his glamoured features, making him look like a beautiful devil incarnate. “Hobgoblins.”
My heart seems to stop beating. I cannot react, cannot speak. Then in a cold blast of air: “What?”