39

South of the Eastmaw Mountains

WINTER WOKE WITH A start, sitting up straight in her cot. She was covered in sweat, shivering, with a headache strong enough to split a mountain.

Someone was outside her tent.

She was terrified of the presence, whatever it was, but at the same time she felt drawn towards it. Slowly, she crept out of her cot. Her breath came fast and shallow, but she tried to keep it quiet. She reached down for her sword, and moved to the tent opening. Peeking out the partially open door, she saw nothing outside except the night sky.

Winter slipped out, sword at the ready.

There were no other tents around hers. No campfires. No Rangers, no Khalic prisoners. She was alone in a great field, the night sky above her.

Winter looked down, and saw her legs in a pool of dark blood up to her knees.

The blood crept up her legs, soaking her, staining her a dark, blackish red.

“Hello, Winter.”

Winter looked up sharply. She knew that voice. Dark, deep, rolled in flame.

Azael stood before her.

Black cloak, ragged and worn, fading into coils of mist where it met the ground. Hood drawn low over his face, and nothing inside it but darkness.

“What do you want?” she asked. The blood continued to creep up her body, and with it a panicked, obliviating fear. The higher the blood rose, the more helpless she felt, the more fear consumed her.

“I want you to be my avatar,” Azael said. “We can help one another.”

The blood had reached her chest, now, and soaked slowly higher. Winter fought the feeling that accompanied it, pushing the panic and terror down deep inside of her.

“I do not need your help.”

“Your body cannot sustain itself for long without frost,” Azael said. “But I can strengthen you. I can take away this sickness, and make you mighty.”

“I… I…”

The blood had reached her neck.

I am mighty, Winter wanted to say.

“I am nothing without faltira,” is what she said instead.

“Then you will join with me?” Azael asked, his voice rising.

“No—” Winter managed, but then the blood reached her mouth, filled it, warm and thick. Winter choked on it, spluttering it up, but it kept coming.

“No matter,” Azael said. “There is another.”

* * *

Winter woke with a start, sitting up straight in her cot. She was covered in sweat, shivering, with a headache strong enough to split a mountain. She was sick and weak as Oblivion.

But at least this time, she was alone.

There is another, Azael had said. Another body he could possess?

“Commander.”

Winter coughed violently, rising to her feet. She steadied herself on a tent pole. She had hoped to plunder faltira from the slain, but her people had not been able to identify the psimancers among the dead at the Canaian Fields. Their bodies had been there, Winter had been sure of that, but it was not easy to find a half-dozen psimancers among twelve thousand dead. Impossible, in fact. She had sent riders to the nearest cities to procure more faltira for her, but they might not return for days, perhaps weeks.

Between her withdrawal from faltira and the node of pain that still pulsed between her ear and her temple, her head felt as if it might split open with every sudden movement. Her shoulder was healing, but it still hurt, and she would have limited use of that arm for the next few weeks, the healers told her. Her only consolation was that she’d taken the wound on the shoulder of her non-dominant hand; she could at least still use a sword relatively effectively.

“A moment,” she said, between coughs. She dressed quickly—as quickly as her lethargic limbs would allow, anyway—and strapped her sword to her waist. Then, she walked outside. The gray sky above threatened rain. They had made their camp north of the Canaian Fields, near the Eastmaw Mountains. Trees spotted the land here, growing thicker closer to the mountain range. They’d found one grove to serve as their base camp for now, Ranger tents spilling out of the copse and into the plains beyond. There were a surprising number of rihnemin in the area. Nothing like the great monolith at Adimora, but a dozen or so great stones roughly the size of horses, and a few as large as a building, dotted the landscape, covered in tiellan runes. Her Rangers took courage at the sight of so many relics of their people, but Winter was more cautious. She had yet to see a rihnemin do anything to actually help her people.

Selldor, Urstadt, and Ghian were waiting for her.

“Are you all right, Commander?” Urstadt asked.

She, too, had taken to calling Winter commander since the battle at the Canaian Fields. Winter did not like it; she felt as if she had lost a friend, despite no other discernible change in their relationship.

“Fine,” Winter said, coughing again, but she got a hold of herself more quickly this time. Pain branched through her skull with every cough. “Are we ready to make the exchange?”

“We are ready,” Selldor said. “The Khalic contingent waits for us just over the hill.”

“There is other news,” Ghian said.

Everyone looked at the Druid leader. Winter wondered what news Ghian could possibly have that she wouldn’t already be privy to.

“Some of our scouts returned early this morning,” Ghian said, looking straight at Winter. “They discovered a hidden force not far off.”

“A hidden force?” Winter asked. “More Khalic soldiers?”

“Not Khalic,” Ghian said. “Cantic.”

“The Sons of Canta,” Winter said quietly. Whatever business the Sons had here, it surely could not be in her favor. While the Denomination claimed to treat humans and tiellans equally, their actual practice made their opinion quite clear. And Winter’s tiellan force now threatened the very existence of the government that sustained the Denomination.

“Goddess, why didn’t you tell us this earlier?” Selldor demanded, gaping at Ghian.

“How many?” Winter asked.

“At least five thousand,” Ghian said.

“Ghian,” Winter said, stepping forward so they stood face to face, “my scouts would never report to you before they did to any of us. How did you come across this information?” Something bothered Winter about the whole exchange. Ghian seemed… different, somehow.

While Winter could not access telesis without faltira, she still had acumency. One acumenic tendron snaked from her toward Ghian. When it made contact, the tendron snapped back to her, and an image flashed in her mind.

A black skull, wreathed in dark flame.

There is another.

Winter grabbed Ghian by the throat and slammed him against a large tree trunk. She immediately regretted the action when pain thundered through her skull. Her shoulder throbbed, too, but it was nothing compared to the pain in her head.

“What have you done?” she demanded.

“Commander—”

Winter’s hands wrapped around Ghian’s throat, and he began to laugh. The sound was eerie, a choking rasp.

“What is wrong with him?” Selldor asked.

“I have become… something greater than myself,” Ghian rasped.

“Commander, what…” Urstadt approached, but did not say anything further. She looked at Ghian intently.

“You need me,” Ghian whispered. “You cannot lead the tiellans without me.”

“Why can’t you just leave me alone,” Winter seethed, speaking not to Ghian, but to the thing that had taken him. The Daemon. If this was similar to how it had gone with Daval, Ghian was still in there, probably still largely in control. But he had been imbued with Azael’s power, and could become a force for the Daemon at any moment.

She could not allow him to live.

But he was right. Ghian’s power was waning, but he still technically commanded the Druids. Winter could attempt a hostile takeover, but the Druids would not respond well if they knew she’d killed Ghian with her own hands. But she couldn’t very well let the avatar of the Lord of the Nine Daemons roam around freely.

Winter released him.

“Commander, what is going on?” Selldor asked, glancing at Ghian. The Druid leader rubbed his neck where Winter had gripped him, but the smile did not leave his face.

“Take him into custody,” she ordered.

Immediately, Selldor signaled for some nearby Rangers. The men approached, binding Ghian at Selldor’s command.

“Be careful, and keep a close eye on him,” Winter said. “He will be much stronger than he once was. He could probably break those bonds, if he really tried.”

The Rangers tied Ghian up, looking at the man cautiously.

“He is like Daval once was,” Urstadt said, realization dawning on her face.

“Yes,” Winter said quietly, rubbing the bridge of her nose with one hand as pain drummed in her head. “I am quite sure he is.” Goddess, this was the last thing she needed at this moment. She pointed at the Rangers who had secured Ghian between them. “Do not let him out of your sight. I will explain more when I can, but for now, we need to prepare for another battle. The Khalic army clearly is not done with us yet.”

* * *

Winter’s first objective was dealing with the Khalic prisoners.

“Any hope of exchanging them is gone?” she asked Urstadt.

“I believe so, Commander,” Urstadt said. She was staring straight ahead, clearly lost in thought.

“Ghian isn’t Daval,” Winter said, guessing what occupied Urstadt’s mind. “The force that possessed him is the same, but Ghian is still Ghian—only stronger, more powerful, and now in the service of one of the darkest forces on the Sfaera.”

Goddess, Winter thought to herself, if you’re trying to make her feel better you’re doing a shitty job of it.

“I know,” Urstadt said. Winter had explained what had happened to Daval after they killed him together in Izet— everything about Azael and the Nine Daemons that Winter knew, which admittedly wasn’t much. “It was just… I did not expect that presence to be back so soon.”

Winter sighed. She rotated her injured arm experimentally. It lanced with pain when she rose her hand above her shoulder, but she at least had some mobility if she needed it. Her head still hurt like Oblivion, but that was a pain she’d already determined to grow used to. It made the pain that ached through her entire body feel like a light massage, which was one advantage of the splitting headache, she supposed. “Neither did I. But now is not the time to discuss Ghian and Azael. Will you be ready to fight, Urstadt?”

Urstadt straightened, her eyes finally focusing on Winter. “Yes, Commander.”

Winter nodded, relieved. “Then we must deal with the prisoners first.”

“What are your orders, Commander?”

“Do we have a choice?” Winter asked. “We cannot exchange them, not when they’ll likely go right back into a battle against us. We can’t keep them around. Even unarmed, we couldn’t manage that many prisoners during a battle. We have to eliminate them.”

“If I may, Commander, there may be a way to get rid of them without immediate bloodshed.”

Winter took a deep breath, rubbing the side of her head with one hand. In truth, she’d hoped Urstadt would say something like that. She did not know if she could order her Rangers to kill two thousand prisoners in cold blood, no matter what those prisoners had done or represented.

“We know something the prisoners don’t,” Urstadt said.

“That we’re about to have another battle,” Winter said. “But how does that help us?”

“We let them go,” Urstadt said. “The Khalic and Cantic armies are amassed to the east. We give the prisoners the option: run south, where we tell them the rest of the Khalic army waits for them, or die by our hand. They’ll all choose to run. We leave them weaponless, with the bare minimum to survive.”

“They might circle around and make their way back to the Khalic army to the east.”

“Unlikely,” Urstadt said. “The only intelligence they have is what we give them. They’ll eventually rejoin the Khalic Legion, but by then the battle should be long over.”

“Then that is what we’ll do,” Winter said. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than funneling two thousand soldiers directly back into the Khalic war machine.

* * *

That afternoon, after they had sent the Khalic prisoners packing southward, Winter rode out with Urstadt, Selldor, and Nardo to meet the Legion’s leadership to negotiate. Rain pattered on Winter’s leather armor, and the sky above had grown slowly darker throughout the day, though the sun would not set for another few hours. The weather reflected Winter’s mood.

So far, Winter had refused to meet with the leaders of the armies she had faced in battle. Her anger over the slaughter of hundreds of tiellans from Cineste still burned brightly. This time, however, she did not have much of a choice. She had to at least attempt to negotiate.

“Our situation is dire,” Winter said as they rode. Four men waited near one of the larger rihnemin in the area, at the base of a shallow hollow between two hills. On the western hill, the remaining Khalic troops had taken formation, while Winter’s Rangers occupied the hill to the east.

She noticed a Goddessguard among the four men waiting for her. They certainly weren’t being subtle.

“It has been dire before,” Urstadt responded. “We have defeated forces that outnumbered us four times over. We can do it again.”

“We could,” Winter said, “if I had faltira. What if the Cantic troops have psimancers with them?”

If Winter had faltira, their outlook on this battle would be very different. But she did not. Not only that, she was weak and disoriented from withdrawal and from her injuries. Her entire body ached, but her head specifically still thrummed with pain.

Urstadt swore. Winter looked at her captain. “You knew I was out of frost—”

“No, Commander,” Urstadt said, pointing at the men who waited for them. “One of those men is Riccan Carrieri.”

“Canta’s bloody bones,” Winter muttered. Urstadt had reviewed everything she’d known about the Khalic Legion with Winter at the beginning of their campaign, placing special emphasis on the Grand Marshal of the Khalic forces, Riccan Carrieri. According to Urstadt, the man was unsurpassed on the battlefield.

“What in Oblivion is he doing here?” Selldor asked.

“I suppose we’re about to find out,” Winter said.

Winter sat straight in her saddle, head high, determined not to let her infirm state show. Her retinue reached the top of the hill, and they rode forward together to meet with the four humans. Winter recognized General Publio Kyfer, and the tall bearded fellow next to him looked familiar as well. The Goddessguard she’d never seen before. And the fourth human must be Riccan Carrieri.

The man was shorter than Winter would have thought; he was taller than Winter, but that was not saying much for a human. He had handsome features, dark brown hair going gray at the temples, and a long scar on one cheek.

Publio Kyfer glared at Winter. Winter could not blame him. She had routed his forces time and time again on the battlefield. She would be upset, too. But the way he smiled threw her; his eyes were full of wrath, boring holes into her, but his smile was wide, gleeful. Winter shivered.

“Lagerta Urstadt,” Carrieri said, when he saw the Rodenese woman. “I did not expect to see you here, of all places. I don’t suppose you could tell us what brought you into the tiellan fold?”

Lagerta? Was that Urstadt’s given name? Winter realized she had never thought to ask. Urstadt was Urstadt; adding anything to it seemed superfluous.

Winter wondered why Carrieri recognized Urstadt on sight; Urstadt had never given the impression that she knew the Grand Marshal personally. Urstadt, however, said nothing.

“Very well,” Carrieri said. His eyes met Winter’s. “And you are Danica Winter Cordier, I presume?”

How in Oblivion does he know my name?

“Who’s that?” Winter asked, nodding at the Goddessguard.

“That is High Cleric Butarian,” Carrieri said.

“He the one in charge of the Sons of Canta you have holed up not far from here?” Winter asked.

Carrieri’s eyebrows rose, and he looked from Kyfer to Butarian, and then back to Winter. “Your intelligence is impressive,” he said. “The Cantic soldiers are a contingency plan, that’s all.”

“Is that what they’re calling an ambush these days?”

Carrieri shrugged. “Is it any different than what you did to the legionaries you killed at Lake Dravian?”

Yes, Winter thought. You are doing this to me.

“We don’t have your prisoners anymore,” Winter said. “When we heard about the Sons, we figured you wouldn’t bother with the ransom.”

Carrieri’s face darkened. It was the first sign of real emotion he’d shown in the conversation. “If you’ve murdered prisoners of war—”

“We haven’t,” Winter said quickly. No sense in provoking them if she could avoid it. “But they won’t be joining you any time soon, if that’s what you were hoping.”

“If you have no prisoners to exchange, then we have nothing to negotiate,” Carrieri said.

“If that is the case, I would be happy to take my Rangers and go,” Winter said, her voice sincere. “I do not wish to fight you today.”

Kyfer laughed quietly, but Carrieri ignored the general.

“I never wish to fight anyone,” Carrieri said quietly, his voice barely audible above the rain. “But I have a duty to Khale, and I will fulfill it at any cost.”

“You outnumber us,” Winter said, “but you have outnumbered us in every battle we’ve fought. That hasn’t mattered. You’ve seen what I can do.”

“I have,” Carrieri said, “but your luck was bound to run out at some point, Winter. This is the end of the tiellan movement.”

“Somehow I disagree,” Winter said.

Carrieri grew somber. “You could surrender. Give yourselves up, turn your army over as prisoners. It would go better for you.”

“I’d rather rot in Oblivion.”

Carrieri sighed. “I’m afraid we can arrange that. I am sorry it has come to this, Winter.”

“We will see what the day has in store for us both.”

She turned her horse and rode away, and Urstadt, Selldor, and Nardo followed.