Lonen watched the last of the warriors and wagon loads of supplies cross the moat, the once-teeming city almost ghostly quiet. They were leaving Arill City nearly as empty as they had on that day so long ago when Lonen accompanied his father and three brothers on a lost cause, while the caravan of non-fighting citizens departed in the other direction. This time, of course, they were leaving the city occupied with the Queen Mother in charge, but a surprisingly large number of citizens had chosen to accompany the army and fight—or assist in whatever way they could.
Those staying behind had consolidated into a tighter ring of dwellings near the palace, partly because those buildings had the best construction, and the logistics made sense—but also to create the illusion of a populated city for Nolan, and whoever might look through his eyes.
Arnon had gone ahead to organize the march through the tunnels from the lead, while Lonen—along with Alyx and three hand-picked warriors for his personal guard—brought up the rear.
Overhead, Oria rode on Chuffta, Baeltya riding behind her, the great form of the derkesthai king beside them, the sky filled with derkesthai of all sizes, flying in perfect formation. Lonen’s mother stood beside him, also watching the final departure, her expression stern and expectant.
“Once you retract the moat bridge, don’t extend it again for any reason until we return,” he told her.
“Don’t be ridiculous, boy. If people seek shelter here, of course we’ll extend the bridge and let them in.”
Lonen bit back a sigh. “Remember who we’re dealing with here. These are sorcerers who can animate golems and who’ve possessed Nolan and subverted his will. It’s entirely possible they could create a simulacrum of a Destrye refugee to infiltrate the city.”
Vycayla’s brows had climbed as he spoke, finishing in incredulous arches. “I’ve been dealing with the Bárans and their magic since before you were born. I’m not an idiot.”
“I know.” He allowed the sigh to escape. “Just… be careful. I don’t like the feeling that we’re leaving you undefended.”
Her expression softened. “You are your father’s son—but you’re balancing what you can control with what you can’t better than he did.”
Lonen couldn’t help glancing at the sky and the copper banner of Oria’s hair streaming against the blue. “Nothing like a sorceress wife for lessons in what a man can’t control,” he commented wryly.
His mother patted his cheek, but for once the gesture felt sympathetic and not condescending. “You’ll do fine.” Her gaze went to the sky, too. “You two make a formidable team. Send word often, and we will, too.” A small derkesthai winged over to land on her shoulder, winding its tail down her arm like a set of iridescent ivory bracelets, and Lonen was vividly reminded of Oria when he first met her. “Illya and I have worked out a system of conversation with yeses and noes, haven’t we, pretty lady?”
The derkesthai dipped her chin in a clear affirmation. “I should have done something like that with Chuffta long ago,” he said admiringly.
“Yes, well, you can’t be expected to think of everything,” his mother replied archly, pleased with herself. “Take care of our people, and come home victorious.” She embraced him, her eyes suspiciously bright, and walked off across the bridge.
Lonen took his time checking his gear, then mounting Buttercup, who had his head high and tail flicking with excitement, the warhorse recognizing the signs of battle to come. The delay let him reassure himself that the bridge had been properly withdrawn, the city and people safely within. Smoke curled up from fireplaces, hanging low in the chill air, along with the scent of meals being cooked. High above, in the towering tree Arill called Hers, the fabulous spiraling structure of Her temple perched like a beacon of peace.
Taking one last look at his home, he reflected on what it might mean that he left it for Bára a third time. A prickle of foreboding accompanied the realization, and he shook it off, Buttercup lifting his ears in question. “Nothing, man,” he said quietly, patting the horse’s neck. “Silly human superstitions. Let’s be off,” he called in a raised voice. Alyx and the others saluted, their faces full of the same eager anticipation thrumming through Buttercup.
Buttercup eagerly kicked into a fast walk, and Lonen lifted a hand to Oria, sweeping his arm forward. She waved back, and the derkesthai squadron peeled off into groups, some going ahead as the vanguard, others fanning out to scout the countryside they’d pass through on the way to Bára.
“Oria is ready to meet us at the first oasis,” Lonen told Arnon, holding up a candle to read the message Baeltya had penned and the bright-eyed derskesthai perched nearby had brought. As soon as he read the missive, he blew out the candle, the pervasive dark of the enclosed tunnel returning.
That particular element had been left out of Nolan’s stories. And—though Nolan’s men had mentioned the tunnels were dark—nothing had quite prepared them for the utter lack of light so far below ground. Lonen suspected those men had been so long in the tunnels, making their way back, that they’d become accustomed to lacking sight and had forgotten.
Moving an army of warriors, support personnel, and food supplies through the tunnels without light presented various tactical issues, which Arnon muttered about pretty much non-stop. The tunnel, however, went in two directions only—forward and back—which at least made it impossible to get lost, so that worked in their favor. Other than that, they’d found themselves pressed to handle the foreign experience of being trapped underground for days on end. The Destrye were not a people who dealt with that well. It didn’t help that the floor of the tunnels retained moisture, forming stinking pools in places, and soggy mud in much of the rest, slowing their progress.
Added to that, they hadn’t brought along enough candles and lanterns for the entire strung-out caravan to have light all the time. They’d concentrated light at the front, in case of unforeseen obstacles, and the rest of them used light only when necessary. They’d discovered, too, that their eyes did adjust somewhat, and if they avoided light as much as possible they were able to make out general shapes of black on black.
Fortunately, the derkesthai seemed able to see just fine, so they winged their way happily up and down the tunnels, carrying written messages and bringing news from the outside world. After a week underground—and without Oria—Lonen found his own grip on reality fraying. Having the connection to her through the marriage bond kept that sun lit inside of him. He had no idea how the rest of them coped.
So, when Arnon argued—yet again—that only Lonen should go aboveground at the break in the tunnel, he shook his head vigorously, even knowing his brother couldn’t see him. “Anyone who wants to go above should be able to.”
“There are a lot of very good reasons not to,” Arnon said, his voice muffled by whatever he was eating. “One, we could be spotted, blowing the element of surprise. Two, the oasis can’t support great numbers, so not everyone can go. Three, our eyes are adapted to the depths now and anyone who goes above will simply have to adjust again.”
“Four, we are not meant to live like moles belowground and I need our people in top condition.”
“A desperate army fights harder,” Arnon pointed out.
“Is that true?” Lonen didn’t think so. “I’d rather have people remember what they’re fighting for. Besides, we need to replenish the water supplies. And Oria has arranged to ferry more candles and lanterns from Arill City.”
“We have a relay team to pass things along.”
“Isn’t it driving you crazy,” Lonen demanded, “being underground for days on end like this?”
“Yes,” Arnon replied evenly, not sounding anywhere near as crazed as Lonen. His hand bumped Lonen’s shoulder, then gripped it. “I just keep reminding myself it’s worth it. Every man and woman in this army knows that. Being upside a few hours isn’t worth blowing the element of surprise.”
Lonen really hated that Arnon was right. “Fine. I’ll stay below and so will everyone else. But quietly pass the word among the commanders that anyone who really needs some fresh air, so much so that they’ll crack without it, gets to go up.”
“No, you go up.” Arnon’s voice held laughter. “Maybe fuck your wife and take the edge off. You need it.”
From nearby, Alyx snickered, quickly muffling the sound. “You sound like Ion,” he retorted, then regretted it immediately. Their older brother had died at Bára and had been buried there next to their father. As much of them as they could scrape together to bury.
“I think Ion would approve of what we’re doing,” Arnon said, and they were both silent a moment. “Does Oria have a plan for countering the Trom if the derkesthai can’t stop them from landing?”
Lonen had been surprised Arnon hadn’t asked it before. The looming question that haunted his own mind. They had iron weapons to fight the golems. The sorcerers they could perhaps counter with Oria’s magic—though she’d be one against many. They had their own dragons to battle the ones the Trom would no doubt bring. But how to battle the Trom themselves, who seemed indestructible and could dissolve an armored warrior with a single touch?
“Yes,” he said, with confidence that was a total lie. Oria would only say that she was working on it. He knew her well enough to understand that she meant she had a few ideas that she’d likely have to test in the moment, while they prayed like hell to Arill that one of them would work.
Shouts echoed from ahead, followed by flares of light, and a wave of sound as a message passed back. With the Destrye army strung out a good five leagues along the tunnel—necessary because of the space restriction and to keep the good air flowing—Lonen had appointed a person in each group to be the relay. Their one job was to accurately repeat any message they received. They couldn’t afford to have messages from ahead or behind get distorted or changed.
Fenive, who’d gone with them to the derkesthai colony, served as the relay for the king’s party, and she came dashing back from the next group ahead, her lantern painfully bright. Lonen closed his eyes until she shuttered it. “Golem attack at the fore,” she repeated carefully and clearly, the relay from the group behind them listening carefully. “Unknown numbers.”
“I’m going,” Lonen said, rising and whistling for Buttercup, who saw better in the darkness than he did.
“We’re with you, Your Highness,” Alyx said. “Fenive, give us the light.”
She took the lantern and the lead, both of them riding as fast as they dared on the uneven surface and through close quarters. Lonen gave Buttercup his head, letting the warhorse choose his footing. Forewarned, the groups of supply wagons and marching warriors crowded to the side, giving them room.
It still seemed to take forever to reach the vanguard, and it occurred to Lonen that the scouts had reported the exit to the oasis was only a few leagues beyond that. Had Oria and her derkesthai squadron landed at the oasis only to be overwhelmed by golems? The thought filled him with rage and terror. An answering pulse along the marriage bond reassured him that Oria was alive and reasonably strong. Though he knew she’d hide any distress from him.
To his great frustration, by the time they reached the vanguard those warriors had dispatched all the golems, leaving Lonen nothing to vent his fury upon. The Destrye were hacking apart the fallen, methodically chopping the pieces into bits too small to cause damage. Spotting a clawed arm, Lonen dismounted and chopped it in half with his battle-axe, a small thing, but satisfying.
“Too bad we can’t eat them, Your Highness,” Alby said, with a cocky grin. Lonen had put his lieutenant at the fore, trusting his former squire to recognize all manner of trouble.
“Isn’t there an old saw about eating broken glass?” Lonen returned, giving the man a smile. The golems weren’t made of glass, exactly, but Oria had explained that the monsters were made from the same substance as the Báran glass, but forged differently so as to be flexible, then animated. Their lethal claws, however, had a hard and sharp edge—as evidenced by the bleeding wounds on the warriors in the group. “Casualties?”
Alby sobered. “Two dead. Several severely wounded. They’re with the healers.”
Lonen nodded, having spotted the group working on their way past. “Were the golems looking for us—could you tell?”
“I couldn’t.” Alby frowned, troubled. “Do the creatures show surprise? There were an even two dozen of them, marching this way. Our derkesthai scouts saw them before they saw us. We set up an ambush and had them surrounded before they could do much.”
The tunnels also made for good bottleneck fighting, thankfully turning with the landscape just enough to create ambushes at blind corners. This was the first time they’d tested it, though. A pulse came along the marriage bond, followed by a bobbing lantern. Oria came striding down the tunnel, light glowing off her copper leathers, Baeltya just behind and beside her. Both women carried swords.
Lonen glanced at Alyx. “Are the swords your doing?”
She gave him a cheeky grin. “Magic is one thing, but there’s nothing like a sharp blade to boost a girl’s confidence.”
Oria had spotted him, slowing her headlong pace, taking in the piles of golem bodies. “You’re all right?” she called.
Rather than answer, he strode to her, handed her lantern to someone else, and caught her up in a fierce kiss. He only surprised her momentarily before she kissed him back with passionate fervor. “What was that for?” she asked breathlessly when he let her come up for air.
“I missed you,” he said in a low voice. “And I thought to keep you from embarrassing me further in front of my warriors.”
Her fine, fiery brows arched in disdain. “Me, a small and simple woman, embarrassing a mighty Destrye warrior? Pfft.”
“Why are you here, Oria?” he asked, still holding her close. Arill, but it felt good to touch her again.
“I felt your battle rage. And I was close, waiting for you at the oasis.”
“Did you see golems there?”
“No.” She frowned, extricating herself and scanning the area. “Let me take a look at these. Are any mostly intact still?”
“I’m afraid we chopped them all up, Your Highness,” Alby said from a discreet distance.
“Next time leave me a torso or two,” she ordered, crisp and offhand, as she knelt by a pile of the biggest pieces. It struck Lonen then how much confidence Oria had gained. With her hair bound in gleaming copper braids woven into a coronet, bound by the gleaming gold circlet of her rank, she looked queenly indeed.
Lonen signaled the others to give her room, then squatted beside her. When they’d been attacked by golems—near this same oasis—she’d been able to absorb the packets of sgath they carried in their torsos where a human had a heart. Not a tangible thing, the sgath magic would nevertheless have been dispersed when they were chopped up with iron.
“Anything?” he asked after a while.
“I really wish I could figure out how to determine who is controlling them.” Then she looked at him, the frown still on her face. “I don’t like to sound an alarm unnecessarily.”
“Just say it.”
“I’m pretty certain they were looking for us.”