CS Friedman [Magister 02] Wings of Wrath

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had taken place along Kierdwyn's southern border that appeared to be the work of mountain
bandits—but those bandits had been outfitted with military weapons and supplies. And
disguises, (rood disguises. The people in the villages they had raided had believed themselves
to be at the mercy of common outlaws. The women they had raped—
Rage flared inside the Lord Protector; it took all his willpower to keep it from consuming him.
Calm. Calm. Those who protect the civilized world must be calm.
Why would Salvator sanction something like this? What did he stand to gain?
Salvator would never order something like this. His faith would not allow it.
Hut a prince could set things in motion without ordering them directly. A single comment
overheard by the wrong overzealous minister might result in actions he himself would never
have approved. Some kings, like Danton, used that to their advantage, manipulating men
without ever seeming to do so. Others, less savvy—or perhaps simply less careful— might
well find themselves having to pass judgment on men at a later date whose only crime had
been the blind passion ol their service.
He did not want to think that the son of Danton Aurelius—his own grandchild!—could be so
careless. But the only other viable explanation was that Salvator was losing control over his
northern border, and that was not a good thing either. Gwynofar's marriage had been meant to
secure a lasting peace in that region so that both the Protectorate and the High Kingdom might
focus their attentions elsewhere. On new conquests in Danton's case, and ancient duties in
Stevan's. Salvator had sworn that he would honor that treaty. So what was happening now?
Kierdwyn would have to move troops down to the trouble spot. There was no way around
that. Whether the threat was from roving bandits or soldiers in disguise, his people had to be
protected. And all of this was coming at the worst possible time, with their ancient enemy
returning to the human lands. He could not attend to that threat properly with his soldiers
having to spread out, ready for trouble anywhere along the border— bire!
Startled, he looked up just in time to see the air in the center of the room begin to ripple
oddly. Sorcery! His lord constable moved forward quickly, putting himself between the Lord
Protector and whatever unknown spell was about to manifest. Stevan moved back, giving his
officer room to defend him if need be. Who would enter his home like this, unannounced?
Magisters generally had better manners, and witches rarely used their power for
transportation.
Then two figures stepped through the rippling portal, and with a rushing sound the illusion
vanished behind them. For a moment Stevan did not recognize either of them, then—
"Rhys?"
The Guardian was dazed and unsteady, and his shirt was streaked with blood. There was a
woman by his side who the Lord Protector did not recognize at all, a fiery redhead dressed in
a man's raiment who met his eyes proudly—nay, defiantly—as he took her measure. Both of
them were wearing matching uniforms of some kind, and both looked like they had just
fought their way through the seven hells and back.
Then the alarm came from his Seers, magical words lancing red-hot into his brain. There is
sorcery in the palace! Were his Seers watching the castle right now, or had they set up some
kind of magical alarm? Either
way, he offered his mental reassurance. All is as it should be. Whatever was happening here,
it was not cause for alarm ... yet.
"Sire." Whispering the word, Rhys went down on one knee; the gesture seemed as much the
product of sheer exhaustion as social courtesy. "Forgive us for the sudden intrusion." The
woman at his side said nothing, and offered no gesture of obeisance. Was she the witch that
had brought them here? If so, that was a noteworthy sacrifice.
"There is nothing to forgive," the Lord Protector told his son. "You would not have come here
without good cause. So speak."
Rhys raised up his head; the expression in his bloodshot eyes was an empty and terrible thing.
"The Wrath has been breached," he whispered. "In Alkali. The Guardians are corrupted."
A cold chill ran down Stevan's spine. "Does Favias know?"
Rhys shook his head. "I ... we ... came straight here. You are the first. . . ."
And then the faint light in the Guardian's eyes flickered and died. The strength bled out of his
limbs as his lids fell shut, and he collapsed into a crumpled heap upon the floor.
Alarmed, the Lord Protector knelt down beside him, pressing fingers against Rhys' wrist to
see if there was still a pulse. A servant stepped forward to help him.
"His wounds are healing," the witch told them. "But he has not slept in a very long time."
Rhys' pulse was strong. Racing, in fact, despite his collapse. Stevan felt an odd ridge on the
inside of his son's wrist, and pushed up the sleeve to sec what it was. Then further.
"What are these?" he demanded. Strange, angular symbols had been crudely etched into Rhys'
flesh. They looked oddly familiar, as though he had seen something like this sometime in the
past, but he could not place when or where.
"It is a long story," the witch said, "and one I am sure he would rather tell you himself. But
give him a place to sleep for now, so that his spirit can restore itself, and I will explain as
much as I can."
He nodded shortly and signaled for his servants to pick up the fallen warrior. "Put him in the
finest guest chamber. I lave food brought and a
bath drawn for when he awakens, and see that he is attended at all times." The servants
hurried to obey, one of them hoisting Rhys up onto his shoulder, while the other ran ahead to
open the chamber doors ahead of him.
Stevan turned to face the witch. She awaited his Word politely enough, but he could see the
spark of defiance in her eyes, and she offered him no greater obeisance than a stiff, measured
bow of her head: the absolute minimum that his rank required.
That was good. Witches should have spirit.
"Send word to Master Favias," he ordered his men, all the while never taking his eyes off her.
Was she from the Protectorates? Did she understand the significance of Rhys' warning? If so,
she gave no sign of it.
"My name is Kamala," she said quietly.
He nodded solemnly. "Kierdwyn is in your debt, Kamala. As is its Lord Protector."
Raising a hand to silence her for a moment, he looked to his lord constable. "I want an
estimate of the manpower and supplies needed to secure the most vulnerable portions of the
southern border. Assume that we may soon have two fronts to deal with." There could not
possibly be a worse time for this sort of trouble, he thought. Not if the Wrath is truly failing.
"We will meet again after Rhys gives his report."
He held out a hand toward a small door at the back of the map room, gesturing for the witch
to join him. "Come," he said to Kamala. "We will talk."
Nightmare creatures with wings of slivered glass fill the sky. Ravenous monsters from out of
legend, now manifested. Rhys stands in their shadow, naked and unarmed. Alone. No
Guardians are left in all the world but him. No hope will be left in all the world if he cannot
stand up to these creatures.
An arctic wind sends a chill down his spine as the great beasts circle overhead, their black- [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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