She lost control. Her feet slipped through the boat, followed by her legs. Instinct had her lash out, dropping the sword so she might grab the first thing she could. It was Darius’s leg. Her lower half felt aflame, and she had a sensation akin to her legs stretching on and on, as long as the river. The fish and the bugs crawled through them, and she felt every bit of their surface. Her fingers dug into Darius’s armor, and with a cry she flung herself back into the boat, her whole body solid. Atop Darius she lay, her upper half trembling, the lower half slowly becoming bones, legs, flesh.
Kill him, she thought. Kill him, then fling yourself into the river, and let whatever god that would take you, take you.
She reached for the hilt but stopped. No. Enough of this farce. Her hatred for Cyric and Darius had nothing to do with Karak, not anymore. It wasn’t for redemption. It wasn’t cleansing, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that it wasn’t her performing Karak’s secret desire. No, it was selfish, it was desperate, and it was all she could hope for to remove the torment and chaos that filled her mind. Her entire world, built prayer by prayer, lesson by lesson by Karak’s priests, had crumbled. She only hated Darius for exposing it with that damn glowing blade of his.
But there was no honor in killing Darius. No redemption. No salvation, no clarity, no relief. Just a bitter, angry denial of the painfully obvious.
Abandoning the sword for the oar, she began to row so she might have something to do instead of dwelling on her decision. Summoning the courage only once, she looked back and saw the black star directly over the distant blur that was the Blood Tower. She wanted to pray for the men remaining behind, but knew Karak would only mock her, and she did not think Ashhur would care to listen. So she rowed, rowed, and wished the night would finally end.
13
Thirty years Brute had served in Mordan’s military. Before enlisting he was Tory Baedan, an older cousin of Marcus Baedan, who would soon be crowned king. Brute had known remaining in any possible contention for the crown would put his life in danger, and so he’d become a soldier, quietly and without ceremony. He’d changed names often, but after a particularly deadly conflict with border raiders from Ker he’d earned the nickname Brute from his superior officer. Separated from the rest of his squad, and outnumbered four to one, he’d emerged victorious through his sheer strength and skill with his ax.
Four to one, thought Brute as he stood on the wall overlooking the coming force. What he’d give to have odds that good.
“I want every man on this wall,” he ordered, not taking his eyes off the north. “Let’s hope they don’t realize the gate is broken, and think far more of us are on the ground.”
The soldier beside him saluted and hurried down the stone steps. Brute took in a deep breath, then slowly let it out, trying not to question his decision to send away Darius and the witch woman. He’d expected to die before, coming close numerous times. Once an elf had shot an arrow aimed at his eye, stopped only by another man stepping in the way without realizing it. Several times he’d been outnumbered, and whenever rebellions broke out in the north, it’d been Brute’s men who went their way, far ahead of any reinforcements. He’d often thought Marcus was secretly trying to get him killed, despite all his attempts to show his lack of desire for the throne.
But then he’d been assigned to Sir Robert Godley’s division, and had stood with him when he refused to engage the fleeing elven refugees after the destruction of their kingdom. To the wall of towers he went, joining Sir Robert in his punishment. For years he’d been a glorified gatekeeper, killing the occasional beast foolish enough to try crossing the Gihon. Never had he thought to see another battle, not anywhere near the scale of his early days. But if he was to die, at least it wouldn’t be from a raging fever or shitting himself in a bed as his innards slowly turned on him.
Brute looked to the gate. He’d purposefully snuffed out the torches near it. The witch woman had completely ruined the metal, and he hadn’t a fraction of the men required to repair it. So in darkness he hoped Cyric would not realize it was broken, and even better, assume some sort of trap lay within. Not that he expected to find any kind of victory. No, he was a delaying tactic, nothing more. Every minute Cyric wasted observing his walls and planning his strategy was another minute those under Daniel’s protection could travel toward safety. And from what he saw, they’d need every minute.
“How many?” asked Alex, the youngest of the men to elect to stay. He’d come up the stairs to join him, watching the approaching force with a mournful expression on his face.