On Black Mesa: The Dreaming King Saga, #3

Prologue: Giang’s Final Devotion

Give praise to Valjar even when everything in your life, in the world, goes wrong. Those who espouse such praise have never tested their faith and never faced death—not just their own death, but of loved ones, of children, the death of hope.

I have. I stood in the shambles. Around me, my army lay dead or dying. The school we’d used for cover—the school where Calfjoro taught, where Elutheros, Den, and myself trained—reduced to smoking rubble. Even after all this time, through all the fighting and all the failures, as I stood amid the stone, wood, and dust, I did not understand the world I knew had ended.

Why would mere buildings cause me such pain? So many had died, so many friends, and both of my sons, but the buildings where I’d made my life, their destruction had me standing in tears. This day, as all the days, Den fought in sorrow for his friend, Palu fought in righteous anger, and Lasa with dogged determination while Iara laughed at us all and fought harder than any.

Elutheros took my magic from me. All the power I harnessed to fight him, he pulled it from me and with it destroyed my men. I had harnessed more power than ever before, because I would need it to fight Elutheros—far more than Calfjoro had rated me for. Stealing it shouldn’t have been possible, but Elutheros did it. My own magic, tuned to me, blasted people and buildings, but could not harm me.

There I stood, covered in dust and blood while Elutheros ignored me. He knew I could do him no harm without magic. He knew I had no one else to stand beside me. He knew nothing. For by destroying the school, he proved what the others had been saying. No risk is too great to stop him.

Therefore, I am inscribing this for any who come after to find. So much magic I can muster. I know, now, what is at stake, and I will get Elutheros to notice me. I will drink the forbidden water, the Koriotoy itself, where power so pure bubbles to the surface any who drink it will die. I wonder, could Elutheros have partaken? It might be, but one thing is sure, he who drinks will not die immediately. Elutheros will notice me and thus not notice Calfjoro. Iara will help too, as will the others.

So, I offer this last devotion to go with all the others. Valjar be praised! I still believe Valjar can save us; with his power, we can prevent Elutheros’s assault on the Gates of Heaven. My faith has not waned, even with death and destruction all around. What Calfjoro says is true. We must find a way to love everyone, even Elutheros. My heart misgives. I don’t know why, but in some way Calfjoro’s plan will fail.

Chapter 1: On the High Pass

Prasta Jacinto marched up the pass, snow crunching under his boots, and wondered how he’d gotten here. A priest to Valjar shouldn’t be in any army, let alone an army bent on destroying Dendalen, his native country. Armed men surrounded him, half large, bearded men wearing furs, and half ordinary men like himself.

At long last, they reached the summit and found more road leading back down again. After two more miles, even harder downhill on the snow and ice, they approached the treeline. Jac remembered how he’d gotten here.

BEFORE SNOW CLOSED the passes the year before, Jac had come to live in a high, barren village nestled near timberline. On that fateful day, he sat in a stone hut surrounded by children. Each one had a rough slate—stone being common here—and chalk. It had surprised Jac how fast he’d learned their language. It turned out to be similar to the language healers and mages used, though changed through the years of separation. Jac loved languages and finding mysteries, so he invented how to spell this new language, how to write it down and teach it.

The adults thought it a waste of time. Only Mother Karita, who ran the village, gave apathetic approval. The adults spent their days scrabbling in hard dirt to grow meager gardens, raising sheep and goats on the steep, rocky slopes, and hunting deer and elk. Teens and children as young as twelve helped with all those chores. Even so, Jac had the kids teach him their songs and stories. Five children had been intrigued enough to want more, especially when Jac wrote down what they told him with ink on parchment. It amused them to teach a grown-up too. So Jac used the results to instruct them in reading and start writing. He also mixed in songs and stories of Valjar.

A boy, with a wonderful voice and joy in music, sang of the mountains as living things until a commotion arose outside. The boy stammered to a halt and cocked his head to listen. The burro is here!

Jack grinned as an excited babble broke out. He’d lost them for the day. Go!

All five kids dashed out onto the crusty, hard snow. Jac stacked up the slates, collected the chalk into a little wooden box carved with animals, and followed them. Bright sunshine made the snow blinding. The Merkfjallen’s western slope, the Dendalen side, got all the storms coming up off the plains. Here on the eastern slope, they had a lot more sun and a lot less snow. Downslope, it became almost a desert, but this high, some storms leaked over, so the people lived near the peaks where the snowmelt let more plants and trees grow.

When Jac’s eyes adjusted, he saw four burros coming down from the pass. The last people over this year, they risked getting caught on this side by a big storm. It looked like a man and a woman, so the usual married couple. Jac had never caught their names, but they enjoyed working together.

Such traders brought useful and luxury items, to tempt the villagers and improve their lives. The excited conversations in the village said the strategy worked. Adults dashed back into huts to find a few raw gems along with artwork—carved stone and wood—and musical instruments to trade for steel knives, simple jewelry, spices, and refined wool clothing.When the couple got halfway down the slope to the village, their heads came up. Twenty men with spears charged from the woods. The merchants tried to turn the burros, which proved their undoing. The balky animals didn’t want to go back. The wife yelled at her husband, and they turned to run up the snowy slope, slipping and sliding. The pursuers had gained too much ground, though, and appeared to be practiced in winter travel. They slipped less on the packed snow. The merchants got a mere hundred yards before the soldiers caught them.

One ran a spear through the husband. The wife screamed and tried to hold onto her husband as he fell, but two soldiers pulled her away. Horrified and sick, Jac wanted to run up and try to heal the man, but he’d never shown and aptitude for healing. His body shook, torn between fear and anger.

Leaving the dead merchant lying on the white slope with a dark, spreading stain, the soldiers dragged the woman and the burros back to the village.

Worse, since everyone had been outside to meet the merchants, the villagers all had their valuables with them. The soldiers had no trouble rounding everyone up, even Jac’s children who ran back into his little hut.

Before the others made it down with the woman, a man with a gold medallion around his neck stepped forward. These people! He pointed up at the dead merchant. These people are our enemies! If you have dealings with them, you are traitors and must be punished. First, your young men will join the king’s army.

Jac had to struggle to catch all the words, not being fluent in the language yet, and this man’s accent differed from those in the village. Conscription gang rumors had reached the village in the spring. If they stuck to gathering recruits, the encounter might not be so bad.

Second, you will pay taxes so the king might recover the damages you have done.

By then his other men had made it down with the hysterical, weeping merchant wife. The captain ripped her cloak off and grabbed her hair. Third, my men are lonely. Some of you will satisfy them.

Three men dragged the village’s youngest women forward—three teenagers, one recently wed. The captain ripped the jerkin from the merchant woman, who covered her breasts and sank to her knees.

After pulling the woman’s pants down, the captain knelt behind her. He pulled his hard penis from his pants and forced himself into her. She cried out, then collapsed face-first into the snow, weeping.

Meanwhile, the other men had begun doing the same to the three young women. Jac wished he had a sword, wished he had the Tigress’s speed, wished he could take some action besides dying. Rather than being the hero young men imagine themselves to be, Jac found he wanted to live. He glanced at the still, lonesome body up on the trail from the pass. Jac wanted to live.

The young, married villager shook free of the soldier holding her and turned to him, hands on hips and eyes flashing. Don’t rip my dress. I’ll pleasure you. Who’s first?

A soldier pulled out his penis. The woman went to her knees and stroked it a couple times before taking it in her mouth. When another man stepped up behind her, she lifted her dress and pulled down her small clothes. She even moaned as he entered her.

He searched his mind for the young woman’s name. Silja? Silja had been wed less than a year now. Her husband, already held by two soldiers, screamed and earned the butt of ax to his face. He crumpled to the ground, and a soldier tied him up.

The other two girls looked at the merchant’s wife. After several glances between the fearful, whimpering woman and the young wife pleasing two men, the second teen shook her head, unfastened her cloak and lifted her skirts. She looked more stoic than encouraging, but she turned her back and let the soldier do as he pleased.

The last young woman pressed her lips together and joined in.

Jac looked on in horror at what these women had to do to survive—allowing themselves to be raped. Then again, Jac almost wished he could do the same rather than be conscripted into a foreign army. Valjar forgive me. Jac didn’t know if he meant for not being able to help or thinking he would rather be raped than be in the army.

Jac and the entire village watched as the soldiers took the women. A few went from one woman to the next. On and on it went, never ending. When all had taken their turns, blood ran down the merchant woman’s thighs to melt the snow. She’d been reduced to whimpers.

The captain grabbed her hair and pulled her head up. He drew a knife and slashed her throat. The woman looked up, and Jac would have sworn he saw relief there. Her blood came out in great gushing bursts as she sank to the ground. Soon she whimpered and gurgled no more.

The soldiers herded Jac and four other young men, including Silja’s husband, down the mountain to train as soldiers. Jac’s stomach roiled and his hands shook. How could he be in an army? The rape of the merchant’s wife would not leave his mind as they marched him down to th coast.

Days later they reached the shore and the small city there. As far as Jac knew, no such city had existed ten years ago. It had stone buildings and quays out into the surf. Two large ships sat at dock, and six or seven longboats had been pulled up onto the beach.

Months of abuse and training with spear and ax followed. Jac did not excel at any of it. He wanted to go back to being a priest, to teach children about Valjar, to perform the ceremonies and study the scriptures. He wanted the nightmare to end. Instead it went on and on.

Now, marching over the snowy pass, he faced fighting his own country’s army, all because he’d been afraid to die.

Jac trudged over the rise, wind in his face. Trees started here and there, in sheltered areas and south faces. Through a gap in the men, Jac saw an army arrayed across the next valley inside the pine verge. The road wound down a steep slope then came back up again. Halfway up the far slope, a wooden barricade had been thrown up across a cut where the road traversed a rocky defile. Behind the piled wood, the Dendalen army waited. Foot soldiers stood in front with archers behind, and the cavalry at the rear. Weapons shone bright and metallic in the sunlight.

The sight caused the ranks to pause, but not for long. Soon a roar took hold and the fur-clad soldiers hurried down the slope to join the battle. Jac’s feet slipped on the icy ground while he tried to keep up

DISTRACTED BY THE DREAM she’d had the night before—a group of men wearing black masks cracking the world—Kala watched the enemy come and checked her troop’s deployment. The ones out front belonged to Dom Ivar. The archers up on the ravine walls, the twenty horsemen, and the canhao crew belonged to her—troops from the Second Legion.

Since the dream had again taken place on that empty beach where she had met Valjar, it had come from him. What it might mean, Kala had no idea.

Ghost shifted under Kala and tossed his head. He could smell the battle coming as the chill, wet west wind blew at Kala’s back. No one liked fighting this high up, this early in summer. Snowmelt dripped from the trees standing in the sun, and the bright white landscape half-blinded everyone. Breath from horses and men alike fogged the air.

How will these troops react to berserkers? Mrin asked. She had been Kala’s fellow sergeant in the Queen’s Tigress Kavalkad. Due to an unintentioned magic vow, she and all the others who had died inhabited Kala’s body. Mrin had been killed by a berserker.

They’ve been instructed, Ama said. They’ll do fine, but I’m glad we have the canhao with us.

Valjar will give us victory over these heathens! Flame Priest said.

Oh, shut up, Vania said.

You’d think they might figure this out after a while, Ama said.

Their banter distracted Kala, which let her mind drift back to Edric kissing her in the haunted barracks. If not for Asmund, she would wed Edric with a glad heart. He reminded her of the girl she used to be, except she hadn’t been that girl for years.

Kala’s mooning over her men again, Sassa said. Picking between the Haug Prasta and a Riva Travess Warden isn’t easy.

I vote for Edric. I like him, Sigrid said.

You marry him! Kala said, surprised at her own vehemence.

You’re a whore! the Spinster said.

Because two men kissed her? Ama laughed. Poor, innocent child.

Captain? A cavalry sergeant interrupted the exchange, confused at Kala’s last comment. He pointed toward the enemy, now much closer.

Kala raised the Sword of Light in her left hand and brought it down. Fire!

The canhao blast made Ghost jump, but he didn’t bolt. The shot exploded in front of the enemy column. Two men went down, and four or five more stumbled. The rest kept coming, though.

She’d fired a little too soon, but it would be fine. The enemy would walk under the next canhao shot without her men adjusting the aim. Fire at will.

Behind Kala, four men reloaded as fast as they could. Out front, the infantry shifted their grips on weapons and adjusted shields. The archers behind the formation loosed their arrows. The shafts arced high into the sky. A sudden gust whirled out of the north, scattering the arrows.

Wind magic! Sigrid said.

Kala raised her hand to stop the second canhao shot. Sergeant, wait for the next volley, then adjust for windage. Send a runner to the ridges to tell them.

Yes, Captain.

Kala hadn’t gotten used to the honorific or rank. General Demetri had promoted her after the civil war ended. Magnus had won by stealing his brother Filip’s body, which made sense to Kala alone, since her Blade of Sorrows had made it happen.  It had also caused eight priests of the Order of the Nfikin to join her.  The Sword of Light drew men to the wielder so they would follow her into battle. What else could her swords do?

In the year since that first kiss, Kala had seen Edric alone three more times, and she hadn’t stopped him from kissing her. She had agreed to wed him all those years ago, after all. At least the queen kept finding tasks for her, which kept her either in royal company or on the road.

Dom Ivar’s archers let fly again, and again the wind took them. The canhao team shifted the device left and fired as the archers on the ridges popped up and loosed arrows. Some arrows hit their marks, but the berserkers kept coming. The canhao shot curved and came down left of the main column. The explosion took out twenty enemies.

The berserkers charged, dashing up the slope. Dom Ivar’s troops set spears and waited. At least they held some discipline. The first enemy rank ran heedless onto the shafts, but didn’t stop. Now, at least, the infantry knew to take them down hard. The archers on the ridges poured arrows down into the berserkers, but the magic winds limited their effectiveness.

The front ranks held out for minute after minute. When one man fell, another took his place. Kala had given them an out—she told them she would call the retreat if they held long enough. They didn’t have to win the battle, so they fought harder, with confidence in her.

Even so, Kala could feel them breaking. With her left hand, she pulled a lance from the holder on her saddle. She raised the Sword of Light overhead. To me! To me!

The Sword of Light flared bright in the mountain sunshine. Everyone looked, and even the berserkers paused. Dom Ivar’s men, expecting this, threw themselves off the road.

Kala press her left leg into the saddle and Ghost sidestepped. The canhao fired straight down the road. The explosion shattered the wooden barricade and took down a dozen berserkers.

Split the arrow! Kala shouted as her cavalry formed up. Because she wanted to get to the enemy wizards, she ordered her backup plan with her in the center rather than on the point. As the others formed into a wedge and charged, Kala moved Ghost to the middle.

Before the enemy recovered from the explosion, Kala’s wedge hit them. The rider on point drove his lance through the first berserker into the second. Grunting and leaning into the stirrups, he threw both men back into the next rank. The men beside him hit two more while the man on point pulled his second lance.

Amid the enemy formation, five or six soldiers jumped aside, leaving weapons behind. The man on point hit the next rank, but this impact slowed him down. He shifted sideways.

Giving her ululating battle cry, Kala lowered her lance and spurred Ghost. The white horse leaped forward. The first impact jolted Kala’s shoulder, but Sigrid, Mrin and the others held her steady. Sassa lashed out with the Sword of Light on the other side, slicing open a berserker’s throat. Steam rose from the wound and Ghost’s fur, bringing the smells of battle, blood and sweat.

After dropping her first lance, embedded in a berserker, she pulled out the second and lowered the point in time to hit another man as he dove away. The next man sliced down through the lance’s shaft with his battle ax. He took a backswing and aimed at Ghost. Kala whipped out the Blade of Sorrows and cut off the ax-head. The next horseman skewered the ax-man. Kala, meanwhile, laid about her on both sides. Blood splattered her horse and armor.

She broke through the last man and reigned in Ghost. Her kavalkad kept the enemy at bay, giving her some space to assess the battle. Twenty yards away, four huge guards protected two men wearing furs, but these two had bone amulets and tattoos on their faces.

Behind Kala, Dom Ivar’s infantry regrouped and attacked. Reverse wedge! The kavalkad reformed, going the other way to trap the berserkers between two forces. The two wizards and their guards belonged to Kala alone. What are those wizards going to do?

No idea. This is different than any magic I’ve seen, Sigrid said.

You priests, be ready with the fire.

You can’t just order— White Door Priest Four said.

I think she can, Flame Priest said.

Indeed, she can. Now shut up and get ready, Sassa said.

Kala sheathed both swords and reached into her saddlebag for her white half-mask and the surcoat with Valjar’s concentric circle symbol in red—the items she wore when acting as Valjar’s holy warrior. With practiced calm, she put both on and dismounted. Everyone knew the Tigress had become the holy warrior.

Taking a deep breath, Kala drew both swords with a slow, evil grin. You four should leave.

At least they don’t have bows, Ama said.

The body guards glanced at each other and spoke in a language Kala did not know. Oh, well. She stalked toward them, anticipation warring with regret for the inevitable. They offered little danger to her.

One guard stepped forward and swung his battle ax at Kala’s head. She ducked under it and sliced the shaft in two with the Sword of Light. Sigrid lashed out with Blade of Sorrows, taking out his knees. The guard went down, howling.

Fear entered the other guards’ eyes. The two wizards, however, tossed a spell at her. Kala blinked. She couldn’t see, couldn’t think. What...?

They have new magic. I will figure it out, Sigrid said.

Don’t worry, Mrin said. We will deal with these wizards.

Kala’s sisters moved her body. Blind, she felt her muscles flex, the steps, the balance, as if it happened to someone else.

The Blade of Sorrows hit a weapon. The Sword of Light cut into flesh. Kala’s body turned. The strike and parry felt so strange when she couldn’t see. Then her sword struck flesh. No other vibration or impact felt that way through the hilt. A second guard went down. Moments later, a howl followed by a gurgle meant a third had fallen. The fourth should have run, but didn’t. Dedicated guards meant they protected important wizards.

The last guard hit the ground and more blood splattered on Kala. The wizards tried two more times to stop her. It made Kala dizzy, but didn’t stop her sisters. The next impact went beyond a cut—it sliced through flesh and bone.

Kala’s eyes cleared in time to see one wizard fall, head going one way and his body the other. The second wizard ran down the slope and back toward the pass. He’ll have an interesting story to tell.

I hope it terrifies them, Soderfastning Priest said.

What will they do if it does? Mrin asked.

JAC SAT, LOOKING AT his two missing fingers and the battle’s aftermath. Bodies lay on the snow, melting it. Water ran, stained red, ran downhill until it froze.  The wounded moaned and wailed, but Jac could not help. When the cavalry wedge had borne down on him, Jac had jumped aside, but not fast enough. Now blood ran down his arm and pain throbbed in his missing digits. A Dendalen soldier came by with bandages, but, seeing an enemy soldier, he hesitated.

Weary beyond words, and in pain, Jac looked into the man’s eyes. I’m a priest of Valjar, conscripted.

The soldier bandaged his hand then went to get his sergeant, and Jac repeated his story to one man after another until that female captain listened. When Jac finished, the captain stood, head cocked, thinking. Blood splattered her helm, armor, and leathers, but not her surcoat. It remained solid white with the Valjar’s bisected, concentric ring symbol—a good sign.

The captain said, Have we won the high villages already?

Too busy being a soldier, Jac hadn’t considered how the villages would view conscription and rape. Perhaps so, if we protect them from a repeat performance. Pausing, Jac looked off toward Dendalen where he’d been raised, and then up at the high pass they’d marched over. He missed the village. It felt like home. I’m going back.

Chapter 2: Summer Heat

Sweat rolled down Queen Carlota’s neck. The Ilyaforte’s upper courtroom, used in the summer heat, had a west wind blowing through the verandas, muting the hubbub from the gathered court. Off to one side, Mejla and Luzia watched little Prince Karlis and Princess Ines. Karlis bounced his head on his sister’s chest, and her giggles cut across even Dom Gosta’s blustering.

Behind Dom Gosta, the adelsmann of Dios Rios province, stood the five wardens who represented the five burros of Riva Travess—the first time they had stood before her together. The issues rebuilding the city from the aftermath of Prince Filip’s rebellion had come to a head. More, Master Eclison and three merchant’s guild acolytes stood in opposition. As a third participant, Carlota had summoned Damen Valdis, who had lived in the Morros as a child and married Dom Gosta’s father after his first wife died. Gosta had not appreciated his stepmother. Now, Valdis had become betrothed to Captain Anton of prince Karlis’s guard.

Carlota wished she had Magnus with her. He would know how to deal with this. Since he’d stolen Filip’s body, he rather intimidated people too. She could not be his friend now, however, although they had placed him on her council by publicizing it as negotiated to end the war, a lie.

The more Master Eclison talked, the more the five wardens fidgeted and scowled. If merchants are trusted to construct these buildings, some remuneration is to be expected.

Some? the Morros warden repeated.

Carlota held up a hand to forestall him. The dispute amounted to whether those who built new buildings could do as they wish, or it begged the question; where would the poor and dispossessed live? Eclison no doubt would say ‘Where would the thieves and whores live?’ Rising, Carlota took a deep breath. Let us go take a look.

With no direct access to the wall from the throne room, Carlota headed toward the walkways across the vault over the singing fountain, up a few steps and across. At the center, the fountain’s voice could be heard, rising faint from below. The vault and fountain divided the Ilyaforte’s ceremonial side—throne room and chapel—from the offices and apartments across the way. There, steps took them down to the gardens and verandas comprising the upper residence. Carlota motioned Damen Valdis, and the dark-haired beauty who had Dom Djavan, Gosta’s father, laugh again in the years after his first wife died, accompanied her.

Prince Karlis shrieked when she walked away. He stood and toddled after. At almost three, he wanted to see the world. Carlota waited for him to catch up and took his hand. Some people in the court disapproved, but Carlota did not care—she loved holding his hand too much. The nursemaid brought Ines along too, making them a merry troop crossing the Ilyaforte, passing functionaries and clerks conducting government work—collecting taxes and recording deals—in their own verandas.

With Karlis setting the pace, it took a while to get to the wall. Sentries closed in as the court approached. When she reached the parapet, Karlis wanted up so he could see. Carlota lifted him up, holding him in her arms. She needed to bring him here more often, since he rarely wanted up anymore.

Tall, he said.

Indeed, tall. Carlota looked out across the Cirkus, the oval plaza that acted as the interface between the Morros slums and the rest of