Except for one small circle around the vord Queen. She stood up slowly, uncrossing her arms, and that gleeful smile spread over her face again as she stood over Tavi. Though her tattered old gown was singed black over most of its surface, she was apparently unharmed.
He let out a panting snarl and fought his way up to one knee, sword in hand.
“I came here only to weaken you, Father,” the Queen said in a purring voice. “This was more than I dared to hope for. Perhaps there is such a thing as good fortune, after all.”
A movement sent a fire-sphere toward Tavi. He caught it on his sword, willing the weapon to absorb the heat, to make it burn all the more brightly—but the effort made his vision tighten down to a narrow tunnel. His heart was racing, faster than he’d ever felt it. He couldn’t breathe. She was coming, so fast, faster than he could see, even clawing for the speed of windcrafting, and he couldn’t get his sword to move—
Maximus slammed into the vord Queen with a roar of pure rage, his armored body hurtling into her, a self-contained avalanche of steel. He carried her past Tavi and through a second upright, shattering it to kindling, and bringing two-thirds of the remaining canvas of the large tent down upon them all like an enormous, smothering blanket.
Tavi lifted his sword and cut an opening almost before the canvas could settle. He stumbled upright, through the opening, only to see the vord Queen neatly duplicate his maneuver using her talons, drag a metal tub out with her, and slam it with savage force onto a thrashing lump beneath the canvas—one that sagged and abruptly went still.
The vord turned toward Tavi, a wild grin twisting her lips, showing him teeth that were very white, with threads of green-black running in crazed lines over their surfaces.
Tavi lifted his sword, calling more heat to it, more light furiously shining forth. He couldn’t move. His body was shaking, too weak. He knew that he now stood nearer death’s door than he ever had before, though his furycraft allowed him to stay on his feet.
“Your grandfather,” the vord Queen said, “died just that way. Defiant to the last, his sword in hand.”
Tavi showed her his teeth, and said, “This isn’t a guard position. It’s a signal fire.”
The Queen tilted her head, her eyes narrowed, and a steel balest bolt hit her in the ribs, just below her left arm. It didn’t pierce her pale, seemingly soft skin, but the sheer force behind the bolt struck her from her feet and sent her down. She was up again almost instantly. Thirty yards away, all but invisible in the dark and the mist, Fidelias dropped his balest—and swung a second such weapon, already loaded, from his back, lifting it to his shoulder to shoot as he shouted, “Go!”
Windstreams rose in a howl as the Knights Pisces came streaking past Fidelias, thirty strong, some of them passing only inches over his head. A solid wall of wind preceded them, slamming into the vord Queen, forcing her back and away from Tavi like a leaf driven by a gale.
She looked at them for an instant, unimpressed and unafraid, her smile undiminished.
Then she let out another brassy, mocking laugh and bounded away, toward the northeast. She leapt into the air, gathering up a windstream of her own that ripped every tent within fifty yards from the earth, vanished behind a veil, and was gone in a howl of cyclonic thunder.
Fidelias tracked the movement with the second balest but didn’t shoot. He came sprinting toward Tavi after that, as the Knights Pisces streaked forward in pursuit—but the men didn’t go far before pulling up and spreading into a defensive formation over the camp. Tavi sagged in relief. If they’d followed her out there, she would surely have torn them to shreds.
“Your Highness,” Fidelias breathed as he reached Tavi. He set the Canim weapon down and began to examine Tavi’s injuries. “Oh. Oh, bloody crows, man.”
“Kitai,” Tavi grated. “Crassus. Back behind me. Dorotea and Maximus under the tent. Foss is dead. I couldn’t stop her.”
“Bloody crows, hold still,” Fidelias snarled. “Stay down. Stay down, sire, you’re bleeding. Stay down.”
“Poison,” Tavi mumbled. “Poison. Check her trail. Think we went by the water tanks. She could have dropped something in.”
“Be still,” Fidelias snarled. “Oh, great furies.”
Tavi felt the metalcrafting slip. A second later, he felt the agony of his wounds rush up as viciously as a rabid gargant.
And then he felt nothing.
CHAPTER 43
Amara felt rather awkward, truth be told, about being given Bernard’s old room at Bernardholt-Isanaholt-Fredericholt, but Elder Frederic had insisted on yielding it to Count and Countess Calderon. She had only seen the chamber once, and that briefly, as Bernard had fetched her a pair of shoes that had belonged to his late wife, back during the hectic hours leading up to Second Calderon.
Her husband had lived a significant portion of his life in that room. It was hard not to feel uncomfortable here. It reminded her how much of his life she had not been present to share. He hadn’t stayed at the steadholt long, after she had come into his life.
She walked around the room, slowly. It was spacious enough, she supposed, for a small family, if they didn’t mind being close, though not nearly as large as the chambers they shared at Garrison. She tried to imagine the large fireplace in one wall, shedding the only light on a quiet winter evening, children sleeping on little mattresses in front of it, their cheeks rosy with—
Amara shook the thought away. She would never give him children, no matter how much she might wish it or fantasize about it. And in any case, the entire exercise was ridiculous. There were more important things she should be focusing on.
The vord had been driven away, and they had not reappeared in the hours of the afternoon, but they would surely not absent themselves for long. The evacuation of the easternmost half of the Valley, moving everyone behind the last redoubt at Garrison, was not yet completed. The vord would surely not wait much longer—which was why she had come to this chamber, to attempt to get some sleep in the time available to her before the enemy arrived. She hadn’t slept in days.
Amara sighed and slipped out of her armored coat. If only the Elder Frederic, now the acting Steadholder, hadn’t been the steadholt’s gargant master. The great beasts were of unsurpassed utility on a steadholt, but they stank—not unpleasantly, but enormously. They smelled very, very large. It was not the sort of addition to the décor one could readily ignore.
Unless you worked with gargants every day, she supposed.
On the other hand, Amara was exhausted. She dropped her weapons and armor next to the large simple bed and cast herself down upon it with a groan. A genuine mattress, by the furies. She hadn’t slept on anything but a bedroll or the cold ground since the fighting had resumed. But even so, she just couldn’t shake her sense of discomfort. It had, in fact, progressed to a sense of absolute unease.
Amara sat up, lifted her boot to the bed, and bent over it to unlace it. She seized the handle of the knife concealed there and called upon Cirrus to lend her arm speed as she threw it at the empty space next to the gaping fireplace, not six feet in front of her.
The dagger flickered through the air with a hissing hum, and steel met steel in a sharp chime and a shower of green sparks.
Amara flung herself over the bed without waiting to see the outcome of the throw. She grabbed her weapon belt along the way, drawing her gladius and holding the belt loosely in her still-aching left hand. The metal-fitted sheath dangling near the end of the belt, next to its heavy buckle, would make as good an improvised weapon as she was likely to find in these quarters. She gauged the distance from the bed to the door.