Michael Stackpole - When Dragons Rage

A warm breakfast and good night’s sleep helped revitalize the company. Morale was slowly climbing and remarks were made about pursuing the Aurolani instead of slinking away from them. Everyone replenished their provisions and the squad moved out cautiously.

That second day passed uneventfully. Erlestoke could feel how anxious everyone was to move quickly, for the route they took was wide, tall, and largely without sign of conflict. Yes, the Aurolani had taken to defecating on anything that could even vaguely be considered ornamental, but even having feces smeared over murals did little to spoil the majesty of Sarengul’s Grand Corridor. The sculptures that decorated pillars and defined balustrades defied desecration. It made Erlestoke imagine that while the Aurolani might take control of Sarengul, they would never truly possess it—and that it would welcome those who came to liberate it.

That second day ended in another way station where they again found stores of food, drink, and fuel. It struck Erlestoke as a bit odd that those who had evacuated the area had not come back in the wake of the Aurolani advance either to secure or to poison these supplies. Jullagh-tse offered no answer as to why that had not happened, but the supplies proved to be untainted, so the group spent another night in relative comfort and safety.

On the third day, however, any illusion of safety vanished as they came upon the reason no urZrethi had ventured into the Grand Corridor. The route had run south and Jullagh-tse indicated they were getting close to one of the larger towns and an intersection with more roads similar to the one through which they’d entered. Even before the dim lights allowed them to see what had happened, they could smell it and, worse yet, hear things feeding upon the aftermath.

Little frostclaws, not much bigger than dogs, worried the bodies of the dead.

The huge, cylindrical intersection for paths from all levels of the mountains had roadways that spiraled up and down. Directional arrows carved in the stone pointed out the diverse destinations that could be reached over the broad avenues. Even though most of the intersection remained hidden in shadows, it was easy to imagine it as a place of much activity.

Now, though, the activity consisted solely of the flapping of flesh as greedy little temeryces crawled inside bloated bodies to feast on decaying flesh.

Erlestoke had little problem understanding what had happened. The urZrethi defenders had fallen back before the Aurolani assault. Chytrine’s troops had pursued quickly and had not taken precautions against an ambush. When they reached the crossroads, the urZrethi hit them with a withering attack.

Unfortunately, they had not hit hard enough.

It could have been the presence of dragonels and draconettes that undid the urZrethi. He saw much evidence of the damage that both would wreak. A dragonel ball bouncing up and around one of the spirals would eventually lose momentum and stop, but it would harvest arms and legs as it went. Bodies of urZrethi magickers appeared to have been riddled with draconette shots, and their deaths would have made countering Aurolani magick all but impossible.

The crawls, it seemed, had won the battle, for there were very clear signs of their presence. Not only were bodies blackened and burned as the result of spells, but holes had been melted in walls. The sheer power of the magick astounded him, and the evidence of the cruelty with which it had been employed sickened him.

All around the walls, the crawls had been at work. Magick had melted stone, and survivors had been pressed into it, hand and foot. The stone then solidified, binding them there—in essence crucifying them. While the urZrethi should have been able to shift their shapes to escape those bonds, being battle-weary and, as most were, wounded, would prevent them from effecting any escape.

Crucifixion, Erlestoke knew, was not an easy death. Hanging there, the body would labor to draw breath. The very weight of the viscera on the lungs would shrink their capacity until the victim slowly suffocated. Cries for mercy would shrink to moans then mews, rasped breaths, and finally death rattles.

Jilandessa started to cast a spell, then shook her head. “A week ago this battle took place, not much more. The victims here lasted two or three days, five at the most.”

The prince nodded. The cylinder would have collected the sounds of their dying and sent it through the mountains like an ill wind. No one knowing of the attack and hearing that finale would have ventured forth. The silence that came with their deaths would have been welcome, but would have encouraged people to stay hidden.

Jullagh-tse Seegg pointed south. “The Aurolani went that way. We will catch up with them soon if we follow.”

Erlestoke frowned. “The first thing we do is find a place to hole up, then we backtrack and see if we can find a parallel route. If we can’t, then we follow in their wake. They’re not going to let themselves fall into another ambush like this, but what we see here doesn’t mean they’ll be unopposed hereafter. Our goal is to get through—and we will, somehow.”

He took a last look at the walls. “We have to. If we don’t, there are many other places where we’ll see this and worse.”

Alexia had known this meeting was important even before both King Bowmars put in an appearance. The man she had first been introduced to as King Bowmar had, in fact, been Crown Prince Bowmar. When he was present with his father in the map room they could not have seemed more different, save for similar masks and almost identical robes. The elder Bowmar was shorter than his son, balding and stoop-shouldered and reminded her of her grandfather.

When he spoke, however, the true king seemed his son’s age. He spoke with clarity and even wit. He— they , Alexia corrected herself—had a tactician’s grasp on the state of their nation that few other rulers would have understood or accepted. The king did not shrink from the grim assessment of things indicated on the maps and models.

The crisis Muroso faced had forced the two Bowmars to undertake a most dangerous and radical exchange of spells. As it was explained to her, because of their consanguinity and long years of association, during which the true king had not only raised his heir but had instructed him in the ways of magick, the two of them were singularly like-minded. Together they worked a spell that was a variation of one that allowed magickers to cocast a spell that linked them very tightly. What one knew, the other did as well.

The crown prince said to her, “It is not as if we share a mind; we simply share memories. We benefit from each other’s experiences. While one rests, the other works.”

While Alexia understood the idea of the magick, the reality of it made her uneasy. Giving another access to her memories was something she could never do. It was a sacrifice of self that she couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

But, then, I was raised to be entirely at the disposal of my nation, so am I really any different ? She had accepted fully that her life would be subordinate to the cause of her nation—at least she had until she’d fallen in love with Crow. But in her case, at the very least, she had the illusion of free will, which the magick denied both kings.

The elder king studied the latest maps of the situation near Porjal. “Pursuit of the refugees to Nawal has been cursory only. Reports do put the sul-lanciri as gathering their host for a drive south here to Caledo. This was not unanticipated, and our strategy to deal with them has kindly been supplied by Princess Alexia.”

He pointed to a small unit located roughly sixty miles north-northeast of the capital. “Here are our Freeman Rangers, more or less. We have not had reports from them that betray their location, but we anticipate that they have reached roughly this area. They have made good progress, and as the Aurolani host moves south, they will be able to cut the supply lines.”