The Northern Approach Page 39

  “Not hardly,” Estin agreed. “The last two bodies I found were a couple weeks old, at most. Probably less.”

  “Then we find out who they were before we leave them,” On’esquin told him, walking stoically down the flight of steps.

  Following a few steps behind, Estin and Feanne fell in side by side, both watching for an ambush without having to say so. That, at least, had not changed.

  Estin had made it almost halfway down into the seating area before Feanne slapped his arm and pointed toward the dais at the bottom. In the low light, he had not seen that there was something built there due to the large barricades, and even where they were, he could not make out enough detail. Getting to it would require going through hundreds of bodies that lay right at the foot of the platform.

  The bodies they passed were no more helpful than the ones Estin had already seen. All were torn open, likely by undead even before the scavengers had reached them. A week or two earlier and he could have figured out much about them from their remains, but now they all looked the same. Humans, elves, even dwarves and halflings decayed the same and appeared no different until one looked closely. It was a gruesome thought, but the dead were far better at being one true community than the living ever were.

  “Estin, these were not defenders,” On’esquin said as he continued toward the dais, with only a dozen steps to go. “I see insignias on armor and weapons that cover a dozen lands. The majority of those dead far from the platform have clothing styles similar to those I saw in the buildings we passed. These…they are something else.”

  Estin tried to spot the differences On’esquin was seeing without success. Those near the platform were men and women, ogres, elves, humans, and so on, just like those farther out. Then he finally began to see the differences.

  Where those at the edges were barely equipped, often lying beside broken rough-hewn spears or rusted old swords, these people were better armed and armored. On one old woman who lay crumpled at the base of the dais, Estin even saw the remains of an Altisian flag that had been all but destroyed after being trampled into pools of blood.

  “They came from all over…to protect this city?” he asked, genuinely confused.

  “No,” On’esquin told him, pointing up to whatever was on the platform. “I’m guessing that they followed those four.”

  Estin looked up at the structure that had been built on the platform and felt his stomach go cold. Someone had erected a guillotine, though unlike everything around it, this weapon of execution only bore dried blood near the blade. Arranged across the front of the dais were four heads: an orc, a raccoon wildling, a wolf wildling, and a human. Even more disturbing, the human had the telltale markings of a Turessian. Beyond them, there was a piece of parchment tacked to the guillotine, flapping in the slight breeze over the rotted bodies of those four people.

  “Four executed, while hundreds were simply cut down,” mused On’esquin, continuing up the steps to the platform. “None taken to make more zombies. There is as much message in that as there would be if they had painted it in the sky.”

  Estin stopped at the base of the platform and examined the heads, which had been badly torn up by the birds. Their eyes and tongues were long gone, but he could see the wildlings were young, perhaps only five or six years old. They were only a little older than Estin and Feanne’s oldest child. Even the human did not look terribly old, probably only a young adult, though Estin was never as good at judging human aging.

  “These were some of the youngest people here,” he said aloud, mostly to himself. He looked around at the other bodies and saw people who were middle-aged or older. There were no children among them that he could see. “They were the leaders, though. Counting the two others I found, that’s six. They were the best armed and they had a Turessian among them…”

  On’esquin clomped onto the platform and knelt beside the body of the orc—a woman, Estin realized after a moment. He checked her shoulder and then let his arm and head both drop. “A Turessian slave,” On’esquin announced. “When I left, my people were branded as traitors for all time. We were among the first to follow Turess, but now we are marked among the ignorant.”

  Eyeing the human Turessian’s facial markings, Estin tried not to let his hatred of them show, out of courtesy to On’esquin. Feanne did not do nearly so well and he could hear her growling nervously as she stayed beside him, watching the hundreds of corpses.

  “What does the parchment say?” asked Estin. He had to point at the flapping paper when On’esquin looked at him confusedly.

  Getting up and going to the guillotine, On’esquin snatched the parchment from the nail that held it in place. He skimmed it briefly before crumpling it and throwing it aside. “‘An army for the traitors.’ The word they use for traitor is singularly meant for my people…or myself. This was our army, come to join us on our trek northward.”

  Estin’s eyes went back to the head of the orc. “How could they know we were coming?” he asked, putting a hand to his sword. If the Turessians knew the six of them were on their way even before their encounter with the woman in the last village, the entire journey had just gotten far more deadly.

  “The prophecy was not only in my hands,” On’esquin replied, sitting down hard. To Estin’s surprise, he crawled to the body of the Turessian human and bowed in front of the man’s remains. He remained kneeling for almost a minute before he sat up. “Festil was one of my friends. He had managed to resist Dorralt’s call even better than I have. I tasked him with bringing me an army when the signs pointed to Turess’s prophecies coming true. I believed that our enemies would look for me, not him. I thought it would be safer for him this way and allow me to find the six that Turess foretold would march north. While he could not die from age, he did not have the same capabilities as I do. He likely gave up waiting for me and collected his own six that he thought fulfilled the prophecy.”

  “How many others are there out there trying to help us?” asked Feanne suddenly, sounding angry. “Can we count on anyone that is not with us?”

  Estin made a point of positioning himself between her and On’esquin, just in case given her tone.

  “None, now,” admitted On’esquin, still staring sadly at Festil’s body. “I lost most of my kind in the first war. When Estin woke me from slumber, I found three more who had been executed by Arturis, which I believe is why he invaded Corraith. I am the last of those who opposed Dorralt in the first war. There is no one left and no help coming. On the upside, Dorralt likely thinks he has killed the six from the prophecy…the six dead would seem to indicate that he put significance on them.”

  Estin studied the remains again and shook his head. “That makes no sense. Why would the Turessian woman be hunting us if they thought they had already averted the prophecy?”

  “I…good point,” answered On’esquin, standing up and looking around. “Festil bore one of Turess’s relics at the end of the last war. That would mean that the enemy has it…”

  On’esquin stared at the human’s corpse and then bent down, plucking a tarnished copper chain from a hidden pocket of the man’s torn robe. Staring at it in confusion, he shook his head. “They should have taken it,” he explained. “Turess sent all nine of his relics away, mostly with the one clan that stuck by him during Dorralt’s attempts to usurp the empire. He said on his deathbed that they must be found again. I believe his exact words were ‘Find that which I sent away with family. Three are too little and five or more will bring ruin. Bring them into the white lands that the six might face the true betrayer.’ We have three such relics with us, but I cannot imagine why they would leave one behind. I would have expected them to either destroy all of Turess’s heirlooms or take them for Dorralt. They all are powerful in their own way and could prove valuable.”

  Estin glanced toward Feanne, but she gave him a look that said she did not understand, either. “What relics?” he asked On’esquin.

  “Items of significance to Turess and few others,” the
man replied, shrugging as he came back down the steps from the platform. “The bracelet that Raeln wears is one of the relics, once placed on Turess’s wrist during his wedding ceremony. Yoska carries a second, tied to his belt.”

  “The cup?” Estin asked. “I got that for him in Altis. It’s just an old gypsy cup.”

  “A copper cup, emblazoned with Turessian symbols that the gypsies altered over the years, Estin. That cup was once the endcap of Turess’s staff, which sadly has been lost.”

  “You said we had three?”

  On’esquin nodded and shrugged. “The fae-kin woman has something, though I do not know what,” he replied. “I can feel it on her. Given that I do not want these items for myself, I only care that they come with us. I will not take any of them from those who carry them, just as I did not take the one your son wore.”

  “My son?” Estin asked, lowering his weapon. “He didn’t…”

  “The ring, Estin. The silver band he wore. I could feel that it had once been a silver sculpture Turess had enchanted and had me hide at his death. Melting it down or reshaping it would not break down the magic on that item.”

  A sharp wind began to pick up and Estin looked up at the sky. Dark clouds were rolling in quickly, hinting at a storm. Even with the last light of the sun fading, the clouds were dark enough that he could make them out clearly.

  “What happens if there are five?” asked Feanne. She turned her back on the two men and knelt beside a pile of bodies that appeared to have fallen with their backs to the dais.

  “I have no idea, I must admit,” On’esquin told her, wrapping the copper chain around his wrist. “We have four, now that we have part of the chain that once was used to whip Turess as a youth.”

  Estin could not take his attention off the clouds. His fur prickled the way it would when lightning was about to strike, but he saw no flashes of light in the sky. Something was coming and he had felt that chill more than once in the last few years. The sensation was not one of a thunderstorm, but of raw magic.

  “Is this another?” Estin asked, remembering the coin necklace he had taken from the elf in the bakery. Fishing it out of his pouch, he held it up to On’esquin, though he did not really need an answer when he saw On’esquin’s eyes widen. “What happens?”

  “This is a trap!” On’esquin exclaimed and seemed to notice the sky for the first time. “I can feel magic to the east, beyond the wall. Can you get to the top and see what is coming?”

  Estin did not hesitate long enough to reply. Instead, he ran as hard as he could toward the sheer stone wall, throwing aside his swords as he neared it. He ran right at the wall, leaped as he got close, caught the edges of the wall’s bricks with his claws, and raced up it. He had struggled up far more difficult walls in Altis his whole childhood, and between the fear of what might be coming and the easier surface, he scrambled up with ease.

  A minute later he reached the top of the wall and grabbed the battlements there to pull himself up. He slid onto the flat top of the wall, where archers would have stood, though he had to watch his step there. The wall was broken badly and blackened, making his footing unsteady.

  The moment Estin landed on the top of the battlements, he felt his heart skip several beats as a brilliant flamelike light from the east washed over him. Spread as far as he could see to the north and south was a wall of mists, sweeping across the stony ground toward the burned-out city and directly toward him. It was no more than fifty feet away and moving faster than he had ever seen mists travel. He only had seconds before they would wash over him, and given his record for surviving the mists, he knew his luck had to be running out.

  Turning, Estin hopped over the edge of the battlements, intending to catch himself on the stones and attempt to get down to the others. He managed to catch hold of the gap between two stones with his left hand, but before he could get his feet situated, the entire wall buckled and shook as the mists hit the far side and ripped away at the wall. He caught himself with two toes briefly, but the wall shook again and he fell backward away from the wall toward Feanne and On’esquin, almost thirty feet below him.

  Shouting as he fell, Estin tried to warn them before he broke his neck. “Mists!”

  Tumbling around, Estin watched as the entire wall fell away and the billowing cloud of flaming smoke roiled in front of him. A tendril of the mists swept past him, narrowly missing him but still managing to freeze all of the fur on his right side.

  Estin closed his eyes and let himself go limp, an instinctual move that had spared him from far shorter falls over the years. Falling onto stone would likely not be so easy to survive he knew, but it was all he could do.

  With a thud that knocked the wind from his lungs and bruised his whole body, Estin came down on what felt like a pile of leaves. Looking around, he saw a mass of soft leaf-covered vines had torn through the paving stones of the plaza and layered themselves right where he had landed.

  “Are you all right?” asked Feanne, running to his side with her sword in one hand yet. She grabbed his arm and pulled him off the vines before he could answer, just seconds before the mists swept across the plants, withering them instantly.

  “I’ll live,” he answered, trying to keep his balance as Feanne practically carried him toward On’esquin. “We need to run!”

  Feanne turned and pressed her muzzle to his and hugged him before pushing him away again. “Don’t scare me like that!” she hissed, her face gradually becoming illuminated by the mists that had slowed to tear down the walls. “You know I need you, Estin!”

  “You…you saved me,” Estin mumbled, trying to figure out what to say, digging his claws into the fur between Feanne’s neck and shoulder, trying to keep her from getting away. He could feel heat and cold getting close behind him as the mists neared. “I think we need to run.”

  “Allow me,” On’esquin told them, slamming the butt of his spear into the gap between some of the paving stones to prop it up. “Get behind me and keep going. I’ve never tried this and I don’t like gambling with prophecies and lives.”

  Estin grabbed Feanne’s wrist as she tried to go to On’esquin. Memories or not, she had not changed. She wanted to stand with those who were fighting a losing battle without concern for her own survival. He had to practically drag her away, pulling her as he ran up the stairs out of the amphitheater toward the road that circled the eastern part of the city. It was not until he reached the street that he finally slowed, allowing himself to look back.

  The mists had torn away a hundred-foot section of the city walls and hung like a tidal wave, ready to crash over On’esquin, who was still standing atop the dais. He held his hands up toward the mists, somehow holding them back or confronting them.

  “Just like Atall did,” Estin muttered and saw Feanne look sharply at him. There was no recognition in her eyes, but she seemed to understand she should know that name. “He can’t hold them forever.”

  “He doesn’t need to, Estin. He needs to get out of there so we can run and find the others. I won’t leave him behind! I won’t leave any of you behind!”

  Estin tightened his grip on Feanne’s wrist, but instead of trying to pull away, she shifted her hand to clasp his, their fingers intertwining. She had never been an affectionate female in public and this marked twice in minutes that she had been willing to show “weakness” where others could see. It meant something, but Estin had bigger concerns so long as On’esquin was in the path of those mists.

  Tendrils of light drifted lazily from the mists toward On’esquin’s hands. They were not the hazy cloudlike extensions of the mist that it used like hands to strike at things in its path, but rather it looked to Estin as though On’esquin was pulling something from the cloud.

  Shifting his vision to see spirits and magic, Estin saw he was right. On’esquin was literally ripping magic from the cloud and pulling it into himself. Anywhere the magic was yanked free of the mists, he could see the glowing cloud dissipate slightly, and On’esquin only seemed to g
row stronger. Soon the cloud itself stopped advancing and Estin could see it was struggling like a trapped animal, trying to wrest itself free of On’esquin’s grip and pull away.

  With a shrieking sound that forced Estin and Feanne to clamp their hands over their ears, the mists recoiled and fled back over the walls, racing away faster than a horse could. Despite that, On’esquin remained at the foot of the ruined walls, his hands still held up and the air around him wavering the way it would over hot stones.

  “On’esquin!” shouted Feanne, picking up her sword. She eyed it oddly for a moment before passing it to Estin. “Are you all right?”

  On’esquin lowered his hands and turned slowly toward them. Brilliant yellow light beamed from his eyes like a lighthouse, sweeping toward the two wildlings. “Get…down!” the orc screamed.

  Estin barely managed to grab Feanne’s arm and pull her off her feet before an explosion rocked the plaza. Light and heat burst from On’esquin’s eyes, outstretched hands, and even his mouth as he screamed at the sky. Waves of flame crashed over the area, singeing Estin’s clothing and washing out his vision. Praying they were far enough away, he threw himself over top of Feanne to shield her from the ongoing flames.

  Soon the explosions ended, and Estin tentatively crawled off of Feanne, his skin raw and tender from the heat.

  To his amazement, she looked up at him with wide eyes, whispering, “Thank you.”

  Turning to look into the amphitheater, Estin had trouble picking anything out in the dark, especially with the dark spots floating in his vision. It took him a moment to be sure that anything moving there was not part of the blurred spots, but he soon spotted On’esquin lying on the ground, struggling to stand, surrounded by a burned-out crater that had once been the dais.

  “He’s hurt!” Feanne exclaimed, apparently seeing him about the same time as Estin. “Move!” Feanne hopped to her feet and gave Estin one sharp tug to get him moving and then took off. She was far faster than Estin, her bare paws somehow managing to avoid the myriad bodies Estin had to constantly jump or move around. In seconds she had reached On’esquin’s side, while Estin was still a good twenty feet out.