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The blade struck him true, shearing through plate armor and mail into Cortael’s heart. The heir to Old Cor fell to his knees, head lolling on his shoulders.
Taristan used one booted foot to draw the sword from Cortael’s chest, letting his body slump. “And a dead man is still dead,” he hissed, sneering over the corpse.
He raised his weapon again, ready to hack his brother’s body to pieces.
But his sword met another, a blade of Iona in the hand of the last Companion alive.
“Leave him,” Dom snarled, furious as a tiger. He shoved Taristan back with ease.
The Elder planted himself between Taristan and his friend’s body, feet set for another fight though he was torn apart, surrounded, and already beaten. Cortael’s sword, bloody and useless, still stood upright in the mud, a gravestone waiting for them both.
Taristan laughed openly, amused. “The stories say your kind are brave, noble, greatness made flesh. They should say you are stupid too.”
Dom’s lips twitched, betraying a smile of his own. His eyes, the Elder eyes of an immortal realm, were shockingly green. They shifted for an instant, looking up the hill, to the squire planted firmly in the saddle of a white stallion.
Andry’s heart surged, his jaw set in grim resolve. He nodded, only once.
The Elder whistled, high and true. The horse exploded, charging down the hill. Not into the battle, but around it, past the creatures, the bodies, the Companions fallen and dead.
Moving with the speed only an immortal could claim, Dom lunged for Cortael’s sword, vaulting head over feet to draw the blade from the mud. He threw it as he rolled upright, using all his momentum to hurl the blade like a javelin, up and over the scarred heads of the Spindle army. It sailed, an arrow from the string. One last gasp of victory against defeat entire.
Taristan roared as the blade and the stallion raced each other.
Andry’s world narrowed to the flash of steel as it landed in the slick grass ahead. He felt the horse beneath him, all muscle and fear. The squire was trained to ride, trained to fight in the saddle. He slung himself sideways, thighs gripping hard, brown fingers reaching.
The Spindleblade felt cold in his hand.
The army screamed but the stallion did not break stride. Andry’s pulse rammed in time with the hooves pounding beneath him, an earthquake rattling up in his chest. His mind blurred, a haze as each fallen Companion flashed before him, their endings irrevocably carved into his memory. No songs would be sung of them. No great stories told.
It was too much. All his thoughts splintered and re-formed, melting into one.
We have failed.
1
THE SMUGGLER’S DAUGHTER
Corayne
There was clear sight for miles. A good day for the end of a voyage.
And a good day to begin one.
Corayne loved the coast of Siscaria this time of year, in the mornings of early summer. No spring storms, no crackling thunderheads, no winter fog. No splendor of color, no beauty. No illusions. Nothing but the empty blue horizon of the Long Sea.
Her leather satchel bounced at her hip, her ledger safe inside. The book of charts and lists was worth its weight in gold, especially today. She eagerly walked the ancient Cor road along the cliffs, following the flat, paved stones into Lemarta. She knew the way like she knew her mother’s own face. Sand-colored and wind-carved, not worn by the sun but gilded by it. The Long Sea crashed fifty feet below, kicking up spray in rhythm with the tide. Olive and cypress trees grew over the hills, and the wind blew kindly, smelling of salt and oranges.
A good day,she thought again, turning her face to the sun.
Her guardian, Kastio, walked at her side, his body weathered by decades on the waves. Gray-haired with furious black eyebrows, the old Siscarian sailor was darkly tanned from fingertips to toes. He walked at an odd pace, suffering from old knees and permanent sea legs.
“Any more dreams?” he asked, glancing at his charge sidelong. His vivid blue eyes searched her face with the focus of an eagle.
Corayne shook her head, blinking tired eyes. “Just excited,” she offered, forcing a thin smile to placate him. “You know I barely sleep before the ship returns.”
The old sailor was easily thrown off.
He doesn’t need to know about my dreams, nor does anyone. He would certainly tell Mother, who would make it all the more unbearable with her concern.
