A Mark of Kings Read online

  The dead, after all, are often far more disquieting than those still left to live.

  Corpses were scattered where they fell, mostly villagers and townspeople. Of these, Abegale was horrified to find she could recognize only a handful of their number, a disturbing fact in-and-of itself. Estwyn was—before today, at least—generally considered an obsolete, unremarkable outpost guarding the long-sealed eastern pass that was said to have once crossed through the Mother’s Tears into the wild tundras of Eserysh beyond. It was not a large community. Abegale didn’t think the town’s population had ever risen above a thousand souls in her lifetime spent at the foot of the mountains. She ought to have been able to name every man, woman, and child they passed, living or otherwise.

  The mangled remains of the bodies, though—so clearly torn asunder by dirty claws and rotting teeth as often as they’d been struck down by rusted blades and crude clubs—left little to be known by…

  There were others, too, among the dead. The King’s Vigil, those soldiers unfortunate enough to be garrisoned in Estwyn, had not died quietly either, having fallen in ravaged groups of threes and fours. To their credit, not a man or woman among them looked to have failed in putting up a fight. Around their still forms, crueler, harsher shapes lay equally unmoving, some burly and mountainous, others lithe and sinuous, and still more somewhere in between. These silhouettes, dark against the glow of the flames, Abegale avoided looking at too closely, glancing away the moment she made out the outline of sharpened horns or antlers or matted fur across the melting snow.

  The wereyn and their warg were terrifying creatures to behold, even slain and silenced, and she thought her courage could only weather so much.

  While it felt like hours, it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes on the road before the last of the stragglers of the evacuation passed them in the form of a baker rapidly towing his wife and three daughters away in a hand-drawn cart, wooden wheels clattering desperately against the stone. After that, Abegale and Ertus moved more cautiously, no longer calling out for Ryn, careful to peer around each corner they took and glancing over their shoulders every few seconds to make sure no sinister presence might be creeping up on them from behind. For a time Abegale suspected the Mother was making up for her lack of mercy earlier in the night by watching over their movements with a careful eye, guiding them around the correct turns and into the shadows at all the right moments. The fighting continued, more north of them now, the shearing sounds of cutting steel mixed with the bellows of men and the wild calls of their more beastly opponents. Every so often they would catch a glimpse of outlines darting against the lit end of one pass or another, usually chased by a handful of men waving swords and axes, but nothing ever crossed their own path.

  Then, while they were nearing the village’s center square, the Mother must have blinked.

  It happened as they were edging along the low half-wall of old Adus’ smithy—one of the few buildings in Estwyn made of stone rather than timber, aside from the ancient gates at the mouth of the pass to the north. Of the blacksmith himself, Abegale glimpsed only a single booted foot sticking out of the narrow mouth of the shop’s great clay furnace. The sight, coupled with the horrid smell of cooking flesh, nearly had her emptying the contents of her stomach onto the road, and her momentary pause as she heaved nearly cost Ertus his life. He must have felt her slow, must have looked around at her instinctively, alarmed at the sound of her retching, and turned his back on the road ahead.

  By the time they heard the throaty sounds ahead of them, like the growling of a pack of hungry wolves, it was almost too late.

  Ertus cursed, spinning so fast Abegale lost her grip on his arm and stumbled to her knees. She looked up in time to see a humanoid, furred form barreling at them from where it must have been lurking in the space between two burning homes across the way, howling as it ran. Her vision had cleared, but against the brightness of the blaze mixed with the constant whirl of smoke the wereyn was nothing but a black outline against the heat. She made out the shape of an old, chipped sword and what looked like a torch clutched in its off hand, but the details of the figure were lost to the fire as it launched itself at them.

  Fortunately, Ertus didn’t wear his own steel for show.

  In a flash the man was between Abegale and the charging creature, bare feet set in a fighter’s stance, blade shrieking diagonally upwards even as the wereyn brought its own weapon down at his head. The swords met with a clang that made Abegale’s teeth shudder and set Declan to screaming again, but her heart leapt as she saw the rusted iron blade spinning away, its master having lost its grip on the hilt. Instantly Ertus reversed the slash, bringing his razored metal down in a savage, two-handed chop, and the fires swallowed the wereyn’s dying shriek.

  They did nothing, on the other hand, to hide the pitching bays and snarls that rose up in a rumble all around them even as the dark shape of the beast fell to the cobbled stone, split half-in-two.

  “UP!” Ertus roared, spinning on Abegale and hauling her to her feet by one arm. “UP! RUN!”

  Abegale didn’t have to be told twice, seeing the forms and shadows split off from the fires all around them, converging on them from ahead and behind.

  Adrenaline beat away the fatigue in her legs, and Abegale suddenly had no issue keeping pace with Ertus as he led them, full-tilt despite his bare feet, north down the nearest alley. He still held her in an iron grip, pulling her forward through the blazing remnants of the town, taking every turn they could. They skirted the edge of the center square, passed the charred remains of the Snowy Joy Tavern, and even leapt clear over the smoldering remnants of the barracks stockade where the Vigil had once kept their mounts, the horses now dead and ravaged as any of the other corpses. Behind them Abegale could hear the panting of their pursuers, the clacking sound of claws on stone and the howling of the warg mounts, and her blood ran cold. She wished she could scream, wished she could shout in fear and hopelessness. Never before had she felt so helpless, so useless, unable even to voice her terror. As Ertus turned and led them up the wide side-road between the burning husk of the Ferens’ former home and the still-standing wall of the town brewery, Abegale felt tears streaking along her face, unbidden and unwanted.

  Unfortunately, all it took for her to forget about them were the trio of ghastly outlines who appeared at the end of the way, cutting off their flight.

  Ertus swore again, halting so suddenly he nearly tumbled forward, but he found his feet in time to get his sword up once more, hauling Abegale so that she and Declan were between him and the searing timber of the brewery wall.

  “BACK!” her husband howled, swinging his weapon to the left and right, alternating between threatening the lumbering forms who had barred their escape and the four or five pursuers, approaching more cautiously from the other end of the alley now that their prey was trapped. “BACK, YOU BASTARDS!”

  Abegale, for her part, clutched at Declan while he screamed, pressing herself against the wood behind her even though she could feel the blistering heat of it through her borrowed furs. She shut her eyes tight, praying to the Mother above for Her mercy, for Her assistance. She fought to keep at bay the horrid sounds of snorting, huffing breath, of gnashing teeth and iron blades being dragged across the stone.

  “BACK!” Ertus howled again, but Abegale could hear the fear in her husband’s voice now, could make out the desperation with which he yelled. “ON MY LIFE, IF YOU COME ANY CLOSER I’LL—!”

  Before he could finish his threat, a beast to the left, one of the wereyn who had blocked their way, lunged with a snarl.

  Ertus spun to meet it, and Abegale saw in terror what would happen as the figures on the right—still some four or five paces off—launched themselves at the man’s exposed back, taking advantage of the opening. She tried to scream, tried to beg, holding Declan so tightly to her chest he screeched in discomfort. She saw Ertus’ black outline knock away the wooden club of the first charging form against the flames, saw him sweep his blade up, lodging it squarely in the creature’s throat in a spray of dark blood. She saw the others’ clawed hands reach for him, saw dirty blades rise in the heat, and the maws of the warg opening wide.

  And then, over everything else, a roar, as loud and terrible as the layered howl of the living hell blazing around them, shook the very stone beneath Abegale’s feet.

  From the left side of the alley a massive, four-legged shape came hurtling over the heads of the paired wereyn still barring the path, black as the darkest night, white fangs bared. It half-flew, the momentum of its leap carrying it past Ertus’ own silhouette, and slammed into the charging line of beasts to Abegale’s right. The thing was so big it bore the leading warg and its rider to the ground in an instant, slamming them back into the cobblestone as they screeched in terrified surprise. There was a flurry of action, terrifying against the blaze, then a wrenching, ripping sound, and what looked like a head bounced back up the alley, torn loose of its body. A moment later there was another scream, and the thing pulled open the warg’s chest with a strain of its neck, wrenching most of its ribcage away and leaving it to die, shattered and jerking on the stone.

  The horror that followed would keep Abegale from ever sleeping soundly again. Unable to tear her eyes from the scene, she watched as Ertus, on one side of her, danced with the two remaining wereyn along the left side of the alley, while on the right the hulking form of the creature who had saved their lives ripped into the remainders of the pack. Her husband’s blade sang over the cacophony of the fire as blood splattered the ground and walls around his opponents, blade severing a twitching limb, cleaving open an abdomen to spill acrid entrails over the ground, then ramming through a wide, furred throat. At his back, the action was nothing more than an engine of slashing and tearing and roaring, the great black thing as indomitable as an avalanche as it shredded its way through its opponents with tooth and claw. The screams were horrible, the dying wails of the wereyn and the sheer terror in their shrieks as nightmarish as their calm approach had been moments before. No mercy was spared for them, no blow measured, no death withheld. Seconds stretched into a minute, then two, until the last of the beasts finally fell, or turned and fled. When the scene was quiet again, when nothing moved but the shimmer of the blaze around them, Ertus and the creature still stood ready. He was heaving, drawing in staggered breaths with his reddened sword still held before him, while it padded back and forth across the lane, bloody hackles raised and rumbling a constant, threatening growl that shivered through the air.

  Finally, when it became clear that the fight was indeed well-and-truly over, Ertus sagged, falling to one knee, blade tumbling to clatter to the stone from his shaking hands.

  “Mother’s bloody hells,” Abegale heard him say, looking over his shoulder at the creature still prowling behind him. “To compliment you on your timing would be an understatement, Ryn.”

  At his words, the beast looked around at him.

  If she’d had to, Abegale Idrys would have called the creature a wolf, except not even the er’enthyl trackers of the Vyr’en would have been fool enough to hunt this wolf. Its shoulder measured higher than Ertus’ elbow, and its head rose to just below the man’s chin. Its fur was black as a bottomless pit in a lightless room, carrying a sheen to it that was something like glass, or melting ice. Its curved claws were similarly dark, but the tips of its white fangs, exposed as it panted steam into the winter air, were reddened by the fight. If all that wasn’t strange enough, though, it was Ryn’s eyes that always stood out the most to Abegale. Matching amber orbs, they gleamed like gemstones in the light of the flames, their uniform gold marred only by a dim, vertical paleness where irises might have been, centered by faint white pupils. To the common passerby, those eyes would have been nothing short of eerie.

  To Abegale, in that moment, they were the fitting emblem of everything that was warm and safe in the world, and she sagged, sliding down to sit on the cobbled floor of the alley, not even feeling the heat of the wall still burning at her back.

  At her movement, the wolf’s great head turned towards her, and Ryn loped forward, bringing his black snout close to sniff at her and the baby still crying in her arms.

  Be at ease. They’ve gone for now.

  The voice, deep and resounding, came—as ever—from nowhere in particular, rising rather from the depths of Abegale’s own mind. She looked up, meeting the beast’s bright gaze, and felt again the tears against her cheeks as she nodded in ascension, hoping Ryn would be able to sense the gratefulness in her understanding.

  Whether he did or not, the wolf looked around at Ertus. You should have stayed by the house, the voice chided, speaking to both of them now. I could have met you there just as easily.

  “It was a gamble,” Ertus conceded with a pained expression, picking up his sword. With a grunt, he used it to leverage himself to his feet. “You only chased the two off who’d set fire to the house. There were more close by, and I thought the fleeing crowds would attract what numbers the Vigil wasn’t able to handle.”

  Ryn considered this, then bobbed his head in acknowledgment. The faint paleness of his pupils scanned the three of them, lingering on the squirming bundle that was Declan, still held in Abegale’s arms. She might have been mistaken, but she thought she saw something like relief pass across the creature’s features at that, a moment in which the wolf, too, relaxed infinitesimally.

  We have to get the three of you away from here, Ryn said, looking up and down the alley quickly. The remnants of the garrison are being pressed at the gates. They won’t hold long. It’s a miracle they managed to shut them before more got through. He glanced back at the gruesome, scattered remains of the wereyn with what might have been distaste.

  “What’s happened that would make them attack like this?” Ertus asked aloud. He was a bloody mess, but a long, narrow cut below one eye looked to be the worst of his injuries, apart from his burn. “Where did this come from?”

  Ryn hesitated at this, and not for the first time Abegale thought she caught something in the creature’s gaze that hinted of words left unspoken.

  Then the wolf shook his great head. Questions for another time. We need to leave, Ertus. Now.

  In answer, Abegale watched her husband hesitate, looking north, towards the sound of continued fighting.

  “Yes,” he said after a moment, seeming to shake himself before looking around at her. “Abegale can’t walk on her own. Can you carry her?”

  Of course.

  There was shifting in the corner of Abegale’s vision, and she looked around at Ryn. Where a moment ago there had been a massive wolf, however, a tall, handsome stallion now stood, its coat as pitch as the night sky above them. The only flash of color in its form, in fact, came from those same golden eyes that were the only thing the two animals shared. Hooves clomping over the stone, Ryn stepped closer to Abegale, dipping his head low in obvious suggestion. She nodded her thanks a second time, looping her free arm over his thick neck, and allowed herself to be hauled to her feet. The stallion’s hair felt strange beneath her fingers. It was wet, slick with the same blood that had coated the wolf’s fur, but beyond that the coarse hair was stiff, almost rigid, like no hide she’d ever felt on any other animal. This was nothing new to her, of course, and—as Ertus moved to help her clamber up onto Ryn’s strong back—she patted the beast’s newly grown mane gratefully.

  They made their way west, then, back in the direction she and Ertus had come. Ryn plodded along as smoothly as he could, conscious of Abegale huddled over his shoulders, babe yet held to her chest. They took the widest road, avoiding the fires and the bodies that still clung to the edges of the street, and within five minutes they reached Estwyn’s western edge, where a trickle of villagers still fled into the farmlands beyond the town limits.

  The entire time, Abegale watched Ertus, studying her husband, taking dreadful note of how often his head turned back, towards the audible chaos of ongoing battle at the pass gate.

  Her worst fears came true when they reached the edge of Ulrot Theron’s tilling fields, now frosted with a crust of snow.

  “Ryn,” her husband said in a voice of forced calm, stopping at the edge of the plot. “Take them away from here.”

  For what must have been the hundredth time that night, Abegale Idrys cursed her absent voice. His words pulled at her heart, twisting her stomach into a heavy knot, and she spluttered and coughed as she tried to protest. Ryn, too, snorted in anger, and there were several seconds of silence as Abegale could only assume the horse berated Ertus privately.

  “You said yourself the gate won’t last,” her husband answered in a tone of false calmness. “Look at that.” He indicated the train of fleeing villagers passing them with a shaking hand. “If the pass opens again, how far do you think these people will manage to get? A mile? Maybe two? Aletha’s a hundred leagues from here. Mathaleus won’t even hear of this for days, much less mobilize a response any sooner.”

  And you think you can change that? Abegale thought to herself, wishing desperately she could demand so aloud as she clutched at Ryn’s mane in cold panic.

  Fortunately, the horse apparently asked the man something similar.

  “I don’t know.” Ertus’ face hardened, and the sword in his hand trembled slightly as he gripped it too tightly. “But every man is going to count.” He looked up at Abegale, and his expression grew torn as he saw the way she was staring at him. “I’ll catch up to you as soon as I can, I swear it.” He stepped forward, reaching up to her, and she took his hand desperately, clinging to his fingers with her own. She tried to tell him, tried to plead with him with her eyes. She attempted to speak yet again, even knowing how little good it would do, but a faint croak and a pained rasp was all she could manage.

  “I’m sorry,” he told her with a heartbroken smile that twisted the cruel stain of his burned cheek, and she could see a wetness in his eyes that frightened her more than anything else in the world. “I have to. No one will make it if some of us don’t stand here, now.”