Chapter 24
24
S TANDING WITHIN THE circle of bonfires, Kanthe considered all the places he could hide. His options were few and growing scarcer. Knights in bloody armor and crimson-faced Vyrllians continued to flow out of Brayk and crowded into the king’s encampment at the edge of the swamp.
Bodies lay strewn all around, dragged or carried here by others. Many had limbs torn off, the stumps field-wrapped in bloody, seeping bandages. Others writhed in poisonous delirium, with skin blackening around deep bites. Even more simply lay on their backs with small strips of cloth over dead, glassy eyes.
Clouds of black flies swarmed thick in the air, drawn by the blood. A handful of knights waved torches, their flames burning with bitter incenses. They tried to smoke the buzzing masses off of the wounded. It was a losing battle as more injured were hauled into the camp.
All around, groans, sobs, and cries echoed—here and across the breadth of the town and school. The misery rose like smoke toward the darkness overhead, where the hordes of bats still massed, winging about in plain threat. Like the knights and guards, the bats were collecting their dead and wounded, carrying them away. Anyone who dared to thwart them were met with savage attacks.
No one bothered any longer.
Kanthe gazed at the swath of flames burning through a section of Brayk. Smoke roiled into the sky, chasing embers upward, only to be churned by the flurry of wings above.
He had come to one firm conclusion about all of this.
I should’ve tried harder. He pictured his mad flight down the steps atop the wagon. Maybe I should’ve argued for the beast’s release, instead of running. But he knew that was his usual nature: to flee what was difficult rather than stand his ground.
A hard voice broke through his despair. “There you are!”
He turned to find the head of the Vyrllian detachment stomping toward him. Anskar carried a broad-ax in one hand, his arm bloody to the shoulder. Gore spattered his skull and drenched his light armor. His face was a storm of fury. He came straight at Kanthe—then pulled the prince into a fierce one-armed hug.
“Thank the Father Above, you’re still breathing.” Anskar pushed him back and held him at arm’s length, his gaze sweeping up and down. “And unscathed as best I can tell.”
“I’ll live,” Kanthe admitted, baffled by the Vyrllian’s greeting. He had expected to be reproached and castigated, maybe even restrained for his earlier actions. Instead, from the relieved grin splitting the hard man’s face, Kanthe suspected the Vyrllian’s concern was genuine.
Anskar’s crimson brow wrinkled. “But what were you thinking before, lad? Running off with that accursed bat?”
Kanthe sighed. Clearly my plan had not been well thought out. Still, he swept an arm to encompass the dead and dying. “I was trying to prevent all of this. I knew if the bat was sacrificed that the town would be attacked.”
Anskar’s wrinkles deepened. “How could you possibly know—?”
The inquiry was cut off as Frell coughed and rose from beside a young knight whose face was shredded. Since wading out of the swamp, the alchymist had been attending to the wounded alongside two harried physiks. Frell looked like he had aged a decade. His black robe hung heavy with soaked blood. As he stood, he shook loose a coat of black flies and waved them away with an arm.
“We received word of bats massing in great numbers to the south,” Frell explained, lying to the vy-knight. “It was not hard to surmise that such a horde might be coming to the aid of one of their own.”
Anskar turned to the school. From the third tier, a huge shadow rose with a heavy beat of wings, drawing up a broken form in its claws. “If only we’d known. Plainly there be a noble savagery to their nature.”
Frell’s gaze followed the rise of those dark wings. “Is it any wonder that no one ever returned with one of their kind—alive or dead?”
Kanthe had a more important question and asked it of Anskar. “What now? Where do we go from here?”
Anskar shouldered his ax, balancing it there. “Don’t know for sure, but we’re definitely done with hunting bats.” He scowled over at a clutch of men, all from Fiskur, who stood outside the ring of bonfires. “We should have never appeased that bloated cur.”
In the middle of the group, Highmayor Goren was planning something. He and his men had their heads bent together.
“That bastard got his sacrifice,” Anskar rasped, “but it cost us a quarter of our force. It’s clear now we’d never survive bringing the fight to the swamps, let alone to their steaming mountain home.”
Frell drew closer. “What about the king’s desire to gather the beasts’ venom, to distill it into a malignant weapon?”
The Vyrllian shrugged. “King Toranth will have to be satisfied with the glands we already collected.”
Kanthe frowned. “What glands? From where?”
Anskar clapped him on the shoulder. “From that bastard you so finely shot, my young prince. Shrive Vythaas cut free a pair of glands, each the size of my fist, from that beastie before its body was tossed into the flames.”
Despite the heat from the bonfires, Kanthe felt a cold chill. He remembered the Shrive and Gyn sneaking away before the attack. Where are they now?
Anskar continued, “Hopefully with that prize in hand, we can pack up and haul out of here once and for all. ’Course, we still have one last task to complete. We can’t return to Highmount without one final trophy.”
“What’s that?” Kanthe asked.
Loud voices, rife with triumph, erupted from the group gathered around the highmayor. Goren shoved his way clear of his men and lifted an arm and hollered toward the swamp, “About time you got here, Krask, you quaggy ort!”
Kanthe spotted a wide raft being poled toward shore. Atop it, a bedraggled band of bearded men brandished hooks and spears. One of them was pissing off the back.
Anskar nodded toward the highmayor. “The only reason I escorted that bastard down to our camp was that he promised he could fetch us that lass your father wants so badly, the one who survived the poison and regained her sight.”
Kanthe shared a glance with Frell.
Nyx…
Goren crossed toward the water’s edge with his men.
Anskar pushed for Kanthe to follow. “Let’s see if that rangy lot of fisherfolk caught anything worthwhile. Word is that the girl was spotted leaving the school and heading across Brayk with some fat lad.”
Kanthe dragged his feet, letting Anskar take the lead. He drew next to Frell. “What are we going to do?”
Frell grabbed his elbow. “Stay silent. That’s all we can do. We’ll have to see how this plays out.”
By the time they reached Goren’s men, the raft bumped into shore and was poled farther aground. A broad-shouldered ruffian in clothes that looked like they’d been woven from old nets pushed to the front. He hopped off the raft, ran a hand down a knotted beard to clean the filth from his palm, then grasped Goren’s forearm.
The highmayor returned the greeting, while eyeing the others on the raft. “Well?”
Krask stepped to the side. “Got a little something for ya.”
Behind him, the clot of swampers shoved two men into view. One looked like an older version of Bastan, only with an eye swollen shut. The other elbowed his way forward and stepped onto shore, his face blustery and red.
It was Nyx’s father.
Holding his breath, Kanthe searched the raft but saw no sign of the girl.
The old man stalked forward to confront the highmayor. “What’s this all about, Goren?”
The highmayor faced the anger in the other’s face without balking. “Where be your daughter, Polder?”
The old man ignored him for the moment. His gaze swept the sprawl of dead and dying. His face paled, likely only now recognizing the bloody magnitude of the attack.
Goren got nose to nose with Nyx’s father, drawing back his attention. “Your daughter, Polder.”
The old man gave a small shake of his head. His answer was dulled by shock and horror. “Up… Up at the school.”
Goren lunged and snatched Polder by the collar. “No, she ain’t. And you know it. Your little fen-whore was eyeballed running through Brayk. No doubt going home.”
Polder knocked the man’s arm down with surprising force. “Then look for her there, you bastard. My boys and I been out working the paddocks all day.”
“We already searched your house. And once we’re done with ya, we’re going to torch that lice-ridden place.” He leaned closer. “And we’ll do worse to your daughter.”
By now, Kanthe’s group had reached the others. He remembered overhearing Goren’s earlier threat, directed at Nyx’s whole family. Clearly the highmayor intended to carry it out, to exact vengeance for the death of his son in all ways he could. Luckily, there was another who represented the king’s order.
Anskar barged through the highmayor’s men. “You’ll do no such thing, Goren. The lass is wanted by the king. You even bruise such a prized plum, and you’ll face His Majesty’s wrath.” The Vyrllian hefted his ax from his shoulder to his other palm. “And mine.”
Goren sneered, his face darkening with fury. “So be it,” he muttered through a clenched jaw. “But the king’s shield does not defend all.”
The highmayor swung around, and with a flash of silver in one hand, he stabbed a long dagger into the old man’s belly. Surprise, more than pain, burst across Polder’s face. Goren reached his other hand to better grip the dagger’s hilt and shoved high, driving the point of the blade deep into chest and heart.
Kanthe lunged forward, though he knew it was already too late. A cry rose from the raft, from Nyx’s brother, but he was clubbed to his knees before he could act.
Anskar knocked Goren to the side. “What have you done, you beef-witted fool?”
The highmayor glared back at him, triumphant.
Polder stumbled back, cradling the dagger still plunged in his belly. Then he slowly slumped downward. As he did, he continued to stare at the sky. Agony etched his face, but he did not cry out.
Instead, his pain screeched down from above, rising from a thousand throats, shivering the very waters with its might.
As terror welled inside him, Kanthe suspected the true source of this shrieking chorus—along with the fury behind it.
N YX CLUTCHED HER belly, bent in half by pain and shock.
A moment ago, her winged brother had swept down, wheeling in clear panic. His keening shattered her world, erasing the slow trudge of Gramblebuck and deafening the words of Jace sitting next to her.
Instead…
She stares from on high. Her scrutiny snaps from one pair of eyes to another and another, spreading into a dizzying view of the scene below. Men cluster at the edge of the swamp, near a raft she recognizes. Fear incites her. She needs to see more. Demand becomes intent. One set of eyes sweeps lower.
Below, someone falls to his knees, holding his belly, his eyes gazing up at her as she rushes down. She smells his blood, his pain, his shock.
Dah…
She cries, louder and louder, until it fills the world.
Below, frail hands fall away, revealing the hilt of a dagger. Life flows out around it in a wash of crimson. Then the body slips to the side, as if exhausted by all the hatred and cruelty of this harsh world.
No, no, no, no, no…
With a breath, her grief sharpens to a blood-tinged fury.
Movement flicks the gaze of the predator to the side, to a wide-bellied figure. Triumph is on his lips as he laughs, on his scent as he gloats. The man’s hands are bloody, drenched in the life of her father.
She dives down as he looks up. His joy turns to terror in a flash. Wings buffet wide as she slows, leading now with her claws. Others scatter to all sides. She strikes Goren in the chest. Talons dig through leather and flesh. Claws hook into ribs. She beats her wings and lifts him off his feet and into the air.
Goren screams, pouring blood from lips and lungs. She carries him higher still. Shadows dive past, her fury spreading as far as her screams, igniting a thousand fiery hearts.
She sweeps into a roll, tossing Goren’s body high. He cartwheels, limbs spread, blood spraying from his torn chest. But he still lives.
Good…
She whips around. Talons catch him again, piercing his back, snagging his spine. He still wails. She bends to bring her prey closer. Fangs flail flesh from bone, limb from body. She guts and hollows until finally there is nothing but dead meat in her claws. She throws him far into the swamps, to feed what slithers and lurks below.
She dives again, her anger far from slaked. Her gaze multiplies and spreads. Her bloodlust stretches across the breadth of the sky. Below, men scream and die. Instinct demands she joins the fray.
Then her gaze—fueled by her own heart and memory—fixes on the raft, on a familiar figure that momentarily dims the predatory fire. She knows that face, her nose scents the swamp and bullock on him.
Ablen…
She struggles to beat back the savagery still raging inside her and across the sky. She begins to drown in that darkness, losing control. On the raft, her brother fights with four men. They stab and threaten with spear and hook. He bleeds from a score of cuts. As he falters, a man runs at his exposed back with a raised dagger.
She struggles to go to her brother’s aid, but bloodlust has burned away her control. Even her vision darkens.
No…
Then the attacker with the dagger falls to the side, an arrow impaled through his throat. Her gaze shifts as the predator inside senses another hunter. Kanthe, down on a knee, snaps arrow after arrow toward the raft, defending her brother.
Ablen breaks free. He rushes and dives headlong into the swamp. He vanishes under its black mirror and escapes. She sees herself reflected for a breath in those waters, a shimmering winged shadow that sweeps past overhead.
Shock loosens her control further.
Unable to stop, she rolls in the air, drawn by the blood and screams.
Her vision dims as she drowns in the otherness, in the vastness around her. Again, she senses ageless eyes staring back at her out of the depths of the darkness. The intensity of the gaze shoves her away, as if finding her unworthy, disapproving of her blind fury.
She is cast aside, a gnat before a gale.
Nyx tumbled back into her body with such force that she nearly toppled off the bench. But Jace caught her, pulled her back into the seat. He took her, held her close. She shook and trembled, balanced still between fury and grief, unable to settle. Tears blinded her, soaked her cheeks, filled her nose and mouth.
Jace squeezed her. “Nyx, I’ve got you.”
She sobbed a refrain, “Don’t let me go, don’t let me go…”
“I won’t.”
She felt his heat, the press of his muscles, took in his sweaty scent. She used his familiarity like a muck-anchor, to draw herself back into her own flesh. She sensed how close she had come to losing herself to the savage otherness, of being lost forever in that darkness.
As she came back into her own body, the grief inside her ached more sharply.
Dah… no…
Her anguish grew quickly, becoming too much to bear, to carry in a single heart. It seemed impossible she could survive it.
Then a quiet peeping reached her. Its plaintiveness drew her eyes open.
Over Gramblebuck’s rump, her winged brother hovered. She met those crimson eyes glowing nearly golden under the shadowed bower. As if drawn by her grief, wings tipped lower, and he glided toward her.
She straightened out of Jace’s arms. Her friend also caught sight of the bat’s approach and gasped. But she held her place and lifted a hand, her fingers trembling.
The bat drifted and sniffed at her fingertips. Whiskers tickled for a breath, then the little creature soared up her arm. He reached her shoulder, and tiny talons found a roost. Wings battered her head, then folded tight. Claws shifted and tucked the softness of his fur against her cheek and neck. His body was a furnace. His panting like tiny bellows. Tall ears rolled to touch their tips together.
She lifted her other hand, realized it was too much, and settled on a single finger. She slowly reached and rubbed under the tiny chin. The bat stiffened, wings shifting wider, wary and nervous—then with a final tremble, his body relaxed and leaned into her touch. She offered her palm, and he scooped his head against it, rolling one cheek, then another. A raspy tongue tested the salt on her skin.
Then he shifted even closer. He tucked his velvet ears and ducked his head under her chin, rubbing her as she had done to him a moment before. Finally, he settled against her. His gentle peeping softened to a note heard only in one ear.
For a moment, she flashed back to something similar.
Two figures snuggled together in the cradle of warm wings.
She knew this glimpse was not memory fired from any keening, but simply born out of his soft touch now, the shared heat, the quiet murmur of two who had known each other all their lives.
Nyx leaned a cheek closer, allowing her eyes to close again.
Grief still pained her, large and bottomless, but she no longer had to carry it in one heart. While she no longer had the breadth of a thousand hearts to disperse the agony, she sensed the truth.
For now, two is enough.