Chapter 6

Gavin and his companions are being escorted by Knights of Embrace on their way to the wizard's tower. They encounter drake riders, and Gavin reflects on his guilt and the dangers they face. They pass through hostile territory and reach the tower, where they see burnt bones and a skull. Gavin and Amanda are exhausted, and when they request food, they are met with hostility from the knights. Latimer, a former champion, intervenes and they are given food. Chapter 7 You do realize they're going to kill us as soon as the battle is over, Skip said calmly from Gavin's left. Yes, Gavin was well aware of that fact, but frankly, he was too exhausted to care, and in too much pain. I don't think they're going to get the chance, Noah answered for him while stepping over a rotting log overtaken with mushrooms and lichen. The smell reminded Gavin of old potato chips, but that could be due to his hunger. Running for one's life rarely left time for such minor details as food or sleep. Their company had an honor guard of twenty Knights of Embrace on horseback arrayed around them. They were of low rank based on the plain finish on their armor and the simple silver dagger inlaid on the right shoulder pauldron. Knight to the dagger, the lowest of the three orders of Vambration Knights, and they had no compunction expressing their displeasure with their new babysitting task. To them—Gavin was sure—they should be back at the front, the heads of this small band of Neromian survivors mounted on pig poles to show what happened to magi who dared tread foot on Vambration soil. They were curt, suspicious, and spoke to no one besides themselves. Even their horses were imperious. You don't think they have any kind of chance? Amanda asked. Her voice was hoarse and broke mid-sentence. Gavin glanced at his fiancée and felt the familiar stirring of guilt beneath his fatigue. She should have been back in class, back in Trinity, not walking bejaggedly beside him in a mystical land with a sociopath's sniper rifle slung over her shoulder. Gone was the young-minded suburbanite whose life had come so easily—private school, horseback riding lessons in Simsbury, and a brand-new Jetta on her sixteenth birthday. Anything is possible, I suppose, Gavin said in response to her question. But no. I think you're going to get slaughtered. His guilt for her was not the only demon he was wrestling with. Where are you, Darcy and Serena? Are they somewhere close, dodging the drin, too? Or lying dead in some ditch, headless, heartless, while rigamortis stiffened their limbs? The mere thought of it turned his stomach, but he didn't dare check. Not with the warlocks out there. They were too close, but home in on his magic like an enemy submarine. You are the biggest failure in the history of the world, Gavin Blackburn. Or Stavanger on the top, whatever the hell your name is. All you had to do was make sure that tomb never got open. Holy shit, Skip said, not bothering to shut his jaw while pointing to the sky. Gavin looked up, along with the rest of the company. Even his self-loathing malaise wasn't enough to stamp out the sensation of wonder and dread. Flying overhead in tight, crisp V-formations was something Gavin had never seen before on Thea. What are they, Gavin? Amanda asked. I don't know, he breathed. They're drake riders, Twinsault said. Gavin had heard of the concept of drake riders back in the First War. The Vambration retort to the famed Griff Riders of New Rome. The problem, of course, was that the mind of a fire drake was small and primitive. A bit like trying to teach an alligator to do tricks. Alligators that could shoot tongues of flame right out of their mouths. Somebody had figured it out. Because flying above them, like squadrons of World War II P-51 Mustangs were at least fifty of them. Majestic, ominous, fearsome. Maybe Vambrace could do it after all. Where the hell were these guys when New Rome needed them, Skip Bass finally shutting his jaw. Even their escorting retinue stared up in wonder. Watching, Gavin said tonelessly. Already his malaise was returning. Couldn't that just be something? The world, saved by the evil kingdom. The ones who'd betrayed his people and murdered them while awarding them medals. It was enough to make him puke. They passed wheat farms on flats, vineyards on slopes, dotted with toiling peasants working under the whip. At a glance, Vambrace could be called beautiful. Granted, in a cold, foreboding, cheerless sense. But it was impossible to shrug off the undercurrent of hostility that dogged their every step. It seemed to come from the land itself. Permeated every swath of mist they passed, or tract of forest they traversed, even the trees seemed to frown at them. Jeez, Skip muttered. Tough crowd. The sun was bright, but it held no warmth. Every once in a while they'd see clusters of men-at-arms and sergeants galloping past on horseback toward the front line, always with the same quizzical expressions at this large group of armed Olympians—carrying anything larger than a knife was a capital offense in Vambrace—and two full-sized griffons walking away from a battle summons. The fact that they had a retinue of twenty knights of Vambrace must have struck the soldiers as particularly odd, but not so odd that they forwent protocol. Hasty salutes were fired from horseback, but were not returned from their sullen guides. Gavin wondered if any of the galloping sergeants would survive. Probably not. What is that, Gavin? Amanda asked, breaking through his reverie which had become dangerously close to sleepwalking. His eyes were so heavy they hurt. His muscles screamed. Please tell me we're not going there. Gavin looked to the west through bleary slits and saw her cause of concern, a structure he'd only read about in books and seen in portraits and murals—a wizard's tower. It was a simple construction of red stone in the shape of a wizard's staff, high and slender, with a single turret of red-stained glass. Looks like an evil lighthouse, she said, stepping closer to him. Gavin guesstimated it to be about a hundred feet high. He could see a shadowy silhouette behind the stained glass, even from the distance, and wondered how many were in there. He'd also taken note of the two crows with crimson-edged feathers and moist, beady eyes watching them from a black birch twenty feet to their right, third branch up. Whatever happened from this point on, their every movement would be known. The tragedy of it all was that if Van Brace did somehow manage to fight off the Dren and if Gavin gave them maybe a one-in-thirty chance, they would more than likely use their assembled might and wipe out this whole company. Why not? Big bang for the buck. Two for one, Dren and Vagi. And what exactly did they want with Donovan? They didn't even know him. Or did they? Gavin tried to contemplate their schemes, but only came up with bad news. The closer they got to the tower, the larger it loomed. Hands strayed through the hilts of weapons, which in turn attracted the attention of their escorts. There was a pit in the front of a giant double doors made of gray ash with a precise circular border of black stones. In the middle stood a charred iron stake with manacles attached to it. That can't be real, Amandette whispered. It is very much real, Twinsault said matter-of-factly. In the pit, lying like sticks washed ashore were burnt bones. In front, as if to greet them, was the top half of a human skull buried in ash. Its hollow eyes watched their every stride. And these guys are the world's last hope. Irony of ironies. The very ones responsible for killing its parents, slaughtering its homeland. The kingdom of embrace. Thankfully, their escorting knights clopped on past the ominous structure, and soon the tower was receding behind them. At least there was that. Gavin threw a last glance over his shoulder and felt the hairs on the back of his neck still standing. Shadows without bodies watched. I don't know how much longer I can keep going, Gavin, Amanda said under her breath, so that only he could hear. Her shuffling steps were becoming slower, and the only trace of moisture on her lips was a thin crease of blood in the center of her mouth from chapped lips that had split. He turned and saw the rest of them, with their heads low and shoulders slumped. Even the griffins were dragging. Halt, he called. In unison, the company halted. The lead knight, Sir Wustigin, snapped his head in Gavin's direction. We halt when I say we halt, he said, pulling up the visor of his helmet. Two grim brown eyes stared down at Gavin. My people are exhausted. We need food. Although the bottom of Sir Wustigin's face was hidden by his helmet, his eyes narrowed in a sneer. Then what of this legendary strength I read of the Chardin? Just a prattling of bards? Yes, Gavin said, closing eyes. Just a prattling of bards. I have no food for you or your oak. I move along before my patience is tested. Take caution in your words, Latimer said from Gavin's side. The former Nuvram champion never made a sound when walking, and even though the knight sat high on his horse in his full plate armor, his face blanched. Everyone knew who Latimer the Merciless was. Their exchange of words summoned the attention of the other knights, and four more broke off to join their captain, which in turn summoned the attention of the northmen of the Fu Manchu jousters. The Fu Manchus in particular eyed the knight's horses enviously. We will rest as long as we see fit, Latimer continued. The tattoos etched in his face and arms made him look all the more fierce, especially since it was common knowledge that each glyph represented a head he'd taken. Wizard Demond was explicit in his instructions, Sir Whistikin. These words were for one of the four who had joined him. We are to deliver them to Castle Pauldron and treat them as Wizard Demond's guests. Sir Whistikin glared at the other knights, sneered one last time, and then turned his horse to canter away. The rest followed. Only somebody in this kingdom has a brain, Gavin thought. Otherwise, this would have gotten messy. Your reputation precedes you, Roland said. Latimer, the merciless. I am known, Latimer said with a nod. The knight who'd spoken up for them returned a minute later with two stuffed saddlebags and tossed them at Latimer's feet. Before they could hit the ground, the dark elf caught them in each of his hands. They handed one off to Noah, and together, an unspoken concert, the two began doling out strips of dried venison and boar, salt cod, hardtack biscuit, and half a dozen other small wheels of waxed cheese. Unceremonious, perhaps, but it would keep them alive. For at least five minutes, the thirty survivors of New Rome feasted in silence across a narrow track of freshly plowed farmland. On that farmland were a couple dozen peasants toiling with pitchforks, hoes, and shovels. They were scrawny and bent over. Even from here, Gavin could see the whip marks on their backs, welling through their crude and frank smocks that hung as shapeless potato sacks on their skinny bodies. One filthy, broken man stopped and leaned on his hoe to wipe the sweat from his forehead and dared a curious glance their way. He was instantly rewarded with a sharp crack of a whip across that same brow, with a pitiful screech he fell over, clutching his face. But the taskmaster, a large, greasy-looking brute with hairy arms and a bald dome for a head, stomped over to him and began whipping him some more. That ain't right, Skip said with one hand on his revolver. There was a stir among some of the Olympians. They didn't seem to like it either. Ambrace wasn't exactly a tourist destination. It was similar to, say, East Berlin back in the Cold War. Enter at your own risk and don't plan on leaving, ever. In a collective scrape of metal, their escort swiveled their attention to Skip's soft outburst, which he carried easily in the still air, even with the screaming of the peasant. Because of his ring, they understood his words. Now is not the time, Skip, Gavin said. It's the way things are here in Ambrace, the way they have been for thousands of years. Yeah, well, maybe the dren should wipe these bastards out. It would kill the peasants, too, Noah said. Color had returned to her cheek since she no longer was limping, thanks to Duensalt's skills. Of the four of them, Gavin had to believe Tarcy and Serena were out there somewhere. She'd been injured the least times, and like an abstemious drinker, she'd indulged in magical healing only in the direst of emergencies. Therefore, it wasn't nearly as hard for her to be healed as the rest. She's gonna kill that guy, Skip said. He still hadn't removed his hand from his revolver. Now that the Taskmaster had an audience, he increased the tempo of his strikes and unleashed a flurry of lashes on the defenseless peasant another half-dozen times before the boots to the ribs began. The other peasants kept their heads down and worked harder. Oh, hell with this, Skip said. If living means I let this shit slide, I'd rather be dead and call it a day. He started towards the Taskmaster. Your life isn't the only one you risk, Skip. Your life isn't the only one you risk, Skip, Noah called. He stopped, turned, and flashed her a glare. I thought you were the one who was a knight. He then spun and continued toward the beating with the decisive calm of a baseball coach about to switch pitchers. Even the knights looked on curiously. Gavin let out a resigned, familiar sigh, rested his fingers on the hilt of his quarren eye and tried to blink some light back into his eyes. This is something you would have done, brother. Part of him shook his head, another part smiled. Lucian had always been quick to act, especially in the defense of the helpless, even if strategy would have been more effective. Seemed familiar, Vladimir asked with an amused glint in his eyes as if he could read Gavin's mind. Indeed, Noah said. She didn't even bother hiding the wistful, approving smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Be ready to move, Gavin said, began popping his knuckles. Am I ever otherwise? Vladimir responded. It was subtle, but a ripple went through the group, Griffins included. They might have been together only for a few days, but Gavin sensed a cohesion among them, a sense of unity that only could have arisen from what they'd all had to endure together, what they'd seen. As far as he knew, they were the only survivors of New Rome. The taskmaster looked up at Skip, who'd stopped not five feet away from him. That'll be enough of that, Skip said matter-of-factly in a perfect cop's voice. I think you got your point across. By what authority do you dare address me thus? the hairy brute said. His eyes were red and glassy. Skip backed his head away as if dodging spittle. Half of the mounted knights edged their horses closer and formed a half-circle around a seemingly unconcerned Skip. The other ten kept their attention on the rest of the company. What did you eat for lunch today, a walrus ass? The man with the wit blinked in astonishment and then shook out his head like a wet dog. Who is this cur? he demanded of their escorting knights. Guests of wizard Demond, one of the knights said, the second-in-command who'd told Wistikin to lay off. His words paused the taskmaster's response long enough for him to give Skip a full evaluation. You have the look of a freelander. If you say so. The peasant on the ground moaned pitifully. The taskmaster looked down at him, looked back up at Skip's face, and then delivered a hard boot to the writhing man's ribcage. The peasant screamed. Please stop, Skip said. Another kick, and this time there was the sound of a breaking stick. Who do you have, Gavin asked in a low voice. His heart was finally beginning to get into the fight, sending squirts of adrenaline to his brain as reflexes coiled. Wistikin, Latimer said, the one with the flanged mace, Noah said, the one on the white horse, Amanda said, adjusting her prize crossbow. There was a look in her eyes Gavin had never seen before, a hard calmness. Hit him again, and I'm going to take that whip of yours, and I'm going to shove it straight up your ass sideways, Skip said. Skip was a big guy, six feet in change, with beefy muscles and good balance, a natural fighter. One of the three Minotaurs snorted. The bald-headed, hairy-armed, baby-faced brute's eyes flashed. He drew back his arm to give Skip what he was dishing out, but before he did, Skip closed the distance between them with a quick step forward and rammed the top of his head into the peasant Whippick's face. There was a collective, disbelieving gasp from the mounted knight before Skip unloaded his elbow right to the staggering man's face. Twice. The second shot put him on the ground in a gurgling scream. Told you, bitch. Kill him, Sir Whistikin yelled and pulled his sword from its scabbard. It was the last thing he ever said. Before his horse could take a single step, he toppled from his saddle with the hilt of Latimer's dagger protruding through the gorget that protected his neck. And then the world became chaos. Gavin and Noah struck first. They blurred to the crescent of knights about to attack Skip so quickly that they never even got a chance to draw their swords. Maybe it was the buildup of every atrocity Gavin had ever been forced to watch these monsters inflict, or just plain old adrenaline. But in seconds, the six red knights around Skip fell from their horses by their cyclone of whirling, burning steel. Fingers of blue flame clung to their cloven armor. Before the horses could bolt, both Noah and Gavin grabbed their reins, vaulted to their tops, and turned to the rest of the battle. From behind him, their griffins let loose two bowel-shaking battle cries, which sent every horse bolting despite the knights' attempts to stop them. Dwinsult and the other five magic users unleashed the last of their crafts on the fleeing knights, and in mere seconds, the twenty knights had been reduced to four, which were now land-bound and fighting for their lives against three very angry Minotaurs, the four Manchus and the three Northmen. The knights were good, as were their armor and weapons, but even their lifelong training couldn't hold out against the savagery of the Minotaurs or the sheer skill and talent of the other Olympians. Olympians were the best in the world. There are two left to carry on Rorschach. They must not be allowed to escape. Dwinsult said, pointing at the healthy griffin with two wings, and then slashed at the sky. Catch them. I will gather the horses. In one fluid leap, the old druid landed in a saddle. We will need to move quickly. The wizards will be coming.