Still, she did not give up. Her fingers clenched in Aamon’s fur.
I am vargr.
She sang louder, pulled harder, straining all she could. Slowly her strands teased through the pestilent air until they could brush the steel. With a touch, she knew she was blocked. Still, for a breath, she caught a flash of agony, of drilling through bone, of fiery poison flowing into skulls.
She flinched from it but held strong to her song.
She tightened her throat and drew upon the strength of another brother. Though her fingers still felt the texture of Aamon’s fur, she also remembered a curl of bark, the scent of tea.
A keening flowed into her song, drifting her eyes further closed. She sent those waves out with each note, testing the steel, searching for its lock. But again the corruption fought her. It wasn’t only in the air, but also in the steel. She sensed there was no key she could use. It was too corrupt, too poisoned. She would never find a path through that fouled metal.
Worse, as she struggled, she caught the briefest glimpse past the steel. It was all shadows and poison. There was truly little left of her brothers in there. But for a fraction of a heartbeat, she saw the tiniest flame of them, drowned deep in the darkness.
Not all had been snuffed away.
This agonized her more than anything, knowing they were trapped.
Despairing, she let her song die, recognizing its uselessness against such vileness.
She opened her eyes.
Her two brothers reached her.
Aamon growled, struggling to stand.
She again felt that storm in the air, dark energies building in the skies. Something was nearly upon her, far more dangerous than anything here. She prayed it was just the Sparrowhawk, burning all its forges to reach here.
Still, she knew she was wrong.
Both her brothers stabbed their pikes at Aamon.
Nyx covered her face, knowing all was lost.
59
ATOP THE MIDDECK of the warship, Graylin stepped toward Haddan. They were surrounded by knights, trapped in mists lit by torches and lanterns. The liege general had his sword out.
Graylin slid his sword from its scabbard and raised his ancient family blade. Even in the mists, Heartsthorn shone brightly, inscribed with twining vines.
Haddan stepped away from the sweating flank of his black steed. He held a palm toward the knights gathered in the fog, making his intent clear. He wanted this kill for himself. Graylin’s sword arm ached, from when Haddan had slammed a hammer against it ages ago, another lifetime ago.
Haddan eyed Graylin’s blade. “I thought that was melted into slag.” He shrugged. “No matter. I will see to it myself this time.”
Graylin firmed his grip and his stance on the planks. He let Haddan come to him, waiting until their swords nearly touched. “Some steel can never be broken,” he said in a cold, calm voice. “Not even by the hammer of a craven coward.”
Haddan’s lips fought against a sneer, trying not to react to Graylin’s taunt. Still, the general’s hand tightened on his sword. His hip shifted, giving too much away.
Graylin dodged left when Haddan came at him from the right. The general’s sword plunged where Graylin no longer was. It was easy to parry that thrust and riposte back with a stab.
Still, Haddan was no firstyear. He sidestepped the blade, slid a leg back, and swept his sword low. Graylin barely twisted his sword around in time to block the blow, a strike that could’ve taken off his leg.
They both retreated.
Haddan cracked his neck. “You’ve been practicing, I see. Breaking yet another oath. To wield steel. Here on lands you swore never to set foot.”
Graylin waved his free hand at the mists. “Ah, but I’m not touching land, am I?”
Haddan scowled. “You were always one to seek excuses for your actions. Like bedding a whore that was forbidden to you and claiming it was love rather than lust. Then feigning a swooning adoration when her belly swelled.”
Graylin growled and lunged swiftly. Haddan easily counter-parried, nearly trapping Heartsthorn with his blade. Graylin redoubled with a twist of his wrist to free himself and his sword. He feinted quickly to the right. Haddan fell for his ploy, allowing Graylin to slice high. Still, his blade only nicked a cheek.
They disengaged. Blood ran down Haddan’s face, but the general ignored it. It would be just one more scar among his many.
“It’s why your men despised you,” Haddan said. “Your feigned nobility and honor. Couching all your slights in pretty words. You, who had the king’s ear, yet found no time to better anyone but yourself.”
Graylin studied the man’s fury, but also heard his words. Graylin knew Haddan was not entirely wrong. In truth, few of his fellow knights had ever counted Graylin as a friend, let alone a boon companion. It took Marayn to begin to show him his truest self, to teach him how to be a better man, someone less selfish, someone capable of being loved, of truly loving another.
He licked a lip and faced the anger in the man.
Did I create my own enemy here?
Haddan sneered. “Yet, with all the king’s love, you still betrayed that friendship.”
Graylin sensed here was the source of Haddan’s loathing and scorn for him. “So, is it jealousy then? Did you wish you could bed Marayn—or was it the king’s love you lusted for your own?”
Haddan bellowed at the insult, the insinuation, maybe the truth. He came hard at Graylin, chaining an attack of feints, remises, thrusts, and swipes. Graylin fought against the storm, fearing he had pushed the man too far.
A sting sliced across the meat of his shoulder, cutting deep.
He smacked the blade aside and withdrew.
Haddan’s cheeks were dark, his eyes shadowed, narrowed with fury. Still, Graylin read the calculation shining there. He feared the general had only been sizing him up, testing his skill, devising an unassailable strategy.
Fortunately, Haddan took too long.
A door crashed open behind them. “Graylin! Now!”
Eyes turned to the stern quarterdeck. Darant and Glace flew out, skidding across the planks. They cranked their arms back, fuses sparking between their fingers. They threw their explosive charges high—not toward the middeck, but over the starboard rail. The blasts burst into balls of flames out in the mists.
Crewmen retreated warily.
Graylin lunged toward the flames, sheathing his sword in mid-run.
Haddan howled, clearly suspecting what was coming. Surely, by now, he realized the true feint here was not with any sword—but with a sailraft, a boat sent plunging along the starboard side, intended to draw fire and empty ballista and cannons along that flank.
All to open safe passage for another craft.
A great grinding of wood sounded from that direction. More of the crew fled from the threat. A large shadow shot upward from the mists with a roar of flashburn forges, first a balloon, then the hull of a swyftship.
The Sparrowhawk rose until its deck was even with this one, still scraping the flank of the warship. Darant and Glace ran toward the rail. Graylin fled in step with them.
All three swept through the emptied ballista.
A few arrows and crossbow bolts chased them. But the shuddering and shaking of the deck threw off any firm aim. Graylin leaped to the top of the rail, bounded off of it. He remembered the last time he had done this. But now there was no ladder to grab. Instead, he hit the top deck of the Sparrowhawk, rolled, and slid across the planks.