The Assembly Page 3

  It was penance, she realized suddenly. It hadn’t made sense to her before where she found the strength and courage to push through the tortures time and again. She hadn’t understood what inner motivation had nudged her to live despite the desire for it all to be over. The endless cuts and bruises, even the time her arm was shattered by a falling stone slab; Grenthar had put her through such a gauntlet that it would always be a part of her.

  After recovering from those trials, she had thought that Grenthar had brought out her inner strength. But then she and her friends were trapped in the magical Trials at Magehaven, and the power of the healing jade had caused her to face her true pain, and though she didn’t want to dwell on the horrific losses of her mother, lover, and unborn child, she knew that her failure to protect them gave her strength now. Now, she had the power to overcome all tribulations.

  It was a blessing and curse, though, she mused as she looked across the sand and saw movement among the shimmer visions in the distance—apparently the creatures were awakening from their noontime slumber. Kitalla was blessed because her agility and stamina were incredible compared to most people around her. But she was cursed because she couldn’t remain idle for long without a burning need to battle something.

  Turning her attention back to the distant movement, Kitalla pitched forward slightly and entered a solid jog, determined to work out some of her energy on a good scuffle, whether the beasts wanted it or not.

  The sand shifted before her, revealing several sandorpions. The large, scorpion-like creatures sensed her approach and turned to meet her, poisonous tails raised overhead in the hopes of a quick strike.

  They didn’t know Kitalla.

  The one-time thief leaped into the air and came down in a roll, dodging three lancing tails and bowling into a fourth sandorpion, knocking it onto its side. The large beast squealed and its limbs flailed about as it tried to right itself. The five other sandorpions responded angrily, as pincers started clicking together in anticipation. Kitalla was already on her feet again, daggers in hand, pouncing onto the hard shell of one of the creatures. Another sandorpion struck at her, but Kitalla pounced into the air and let the tail strike into her ride’s spine. A second keening wail filled the air.

  Kitalla didn’t remain idle, especially as other sandorpions in the vicinity heard the pained cries of their brethren and turned to join the fray. The rogue didn’t care. She dove low under a sweeping tail and rolled to the side to avoid another’s set of pincers. She brought her dagger up into one beast’s jaw and cracked a fang to pieces. The bones fell and Kitalla avoided touching the blood, for some sandorpions carried a blood poison that was fatal to humans.

  The wounded sandorpion thrashed around and Kitalla grinned when she saw the beast inadvertently topple two of the others. She didn’t hesitate, though, leaping forward and bringing a dagger down between the monster’s eyes, killing it instantly. Its body collapsed heavily to the sand.

  Two of the other sandorpions hissed in rage, tapping their lower feet in warning. Kitalla sized them up and determined that these two were some sort of leaders of the rest. The other sandorpions responded to the tapping sound by mimicking it and swaying side to side. With ten more of the creatures nearby, now swaying in synchronization with each other, Kitalla felt unnerved.

  Her answer was not to leap and attack but instead to join their dance. She reached out her hands and pulled them close, trying to feel a sense of calm that belied her predicament. The sandorpions moved faster and faster, and Kitalla knew instinctively that in a few moments, they would pounce all at once and she wouldn’t likely escape.

  So instead, she dropped to the sand and reached her arms out in front of her, snapping her fingers in the same fashion the creatures were clacking their pincers. She raised her left leg up, supported by her right leg, and bent the knee, then tried to sway it left and right in a slight arc, mimicking the sandorpions’ tails. She used her breath to try to keep her thoughts calm and to reach for the energies in the air around her. Kitalla was no mage, but her unique dance skill called to the energies as if she were. She pulled them into focus, keeping the rhythm going and trying to forget that most creatures did not fall prey to her illusions.

  She targeted one of the two leaders and ignored the minions. Outward she sent her thoughts, creating an image of herself off to the side, while mentally concealing herself under the likeness of a small sandorpion. She had only moments to hold the image before the beating feet double-stomped the sand and the rush took place.

  Kitalla had to hold the image and the motions carefully, for once she released them, so went the energies she was channeling. It was the greatest weakness of her skill because she was completely vulnerable while maintaining any sort of dance posture. She had joined Dariak’s quest over a year before, hoping he could train her to extend her abilities and to give herself offensive power with the dances. She had only succeeded in briefly spewing small bits of fire and once turning herself into the semblance of a metallic porcupus, but then they hadn’t had much time to explore her unusual gifts on the journey.

  With a thunderous reverberation, the sandorpions sprinted ahead and Kitalla heard a crash, reminiscent of stone grinding against stone. She rolled to the side to escape a sandorpion whose body had been upended by its fellows. Apparently, she had chosen her target well and the leader had more intellect than the minions, for it was duped into attacking its own mate.

  Daggers flew from her hands, striking two sandorpions in the eyes, and as she pulled more knives from her boots, she rolled and then pounced onto the leader itself. The other sandorpions turned and slashed at them both and the leader screamed, trying to regain control of the other creatures. However, the minions had followed its command to attack and kill the first leader and now a sort of mutiny arose. Kitalla felt the sandorpion trembling in fear beneath her and she realized it was time to flee.

  She waited for the first creature to strike, then she leaped backwards off the sandorpion and sprinted away, breathing heavily. She risked a glance over her shoulder and saw the smaller creatures ganging up on the larger one, tearing it viciously apart. There was no telling what the rest of the creatures would do once they had finished their task, and Kitalla decided that she didn’t need to kill all of them right then. It was good, perhaps, that the lesser sandorpions were rather stupid, else they might have saved their revenge for after taking care of the human.

  When she was a safe distance away, Kitalla crouched and dug a shallow hole, after which she crawled in and covered herself, keeping a scrap of cloth over her head so she would have some air. The people of Marritosh had dealt with the sand creatures before and they had instructed the visiting Kallisorians how to disguise themselves from the predators temporarily. Her scent could still give her away, but being under the ground would keep them from seeing her, and many of the sun-dwelling creatures relied on keen sight for verification.

  She rested for nearly an hour before deciding it was time to continue onward. Sitting up, Kitalla looked around for signs of movement, but saw none, save the natural shimmer visions of the hot afternoon. As trained, she watched those visions carefully to ensure they wavered symmetrically without breaking. A disrupted pattern would indicate more beasts.

  Kitalla reached into her pockets and withdrew the fire and metal jades. She set them on the sand in front of her and gently placed one hand on each. She couldn’t feel much vibration from them, so she pivoted around slowly until the metal jade shook with a minor tremor. She turned a little more until the fire jade also twitched, ever so slightly. She pushed the jades gently into the sand and then released them, after which she reached her hands forward and carved two lines forward in the sand. After reclaiming the jades, she closed her eyes and held them out before her, letting the energies course through her the best she could. Pivoting slowly once more, she confirmed the first set of readings to ensure they weren’t aberrant. Because the tremors aligned with the first set of marks she had made in the sand, she knew th
e right way to go. After a few sips on her waterskin, she was off to continue her search.

  It was a lonely journey, and she did her best to keep her thoughts focused on her goal. She needed to find Gabrion and learn what had transpired with the warrior to make him run off from the others. Kitalla wondered if he had learned of Mira’s whereabouts and went off in a mad rage to find her. She chuckled at the thought of him running rampant, arms flailing over his head, calling out Mira’s name.

  But then she stopped chuckling, for she felt a pang in her chest. It wasn’t a physical pain, but she checked herself anyway for a wound. No, it was a pain inside of her; an emotion she thought she had banished from her soul ages ago. She cursed the healing jade and the mages of the tower who had used its power to draw out her innermost memories.

  Yet those weren’t the aches she felt now, she realized. It wasn’t the past plaguing her, but the present. It was Gabrion. No, not specifically him, she amended. His quest for Mira. The pain lanced through her again and she nodded. She hated to admit it to herself, but she was jealous.

  During their time together, Kitalla had pandered Gabrion every time he spoke of his love for Mira. She scoffed at him, saying it was absurd to cling to the girl so fiercely. He needed to sharpen his skills, not pine after some childhood sweetheart. And as they had quested together, Gabrion’s nobility was always present. He fought when his life was in danger but he did not kill needlessly. He strove to always find his beloved and to save her, regardless of the personal cost.

  Kitalla hated Mira for it. Not because the girl had been captured or that she needed to be saved. Not because she and Gabrion had grown up together. Not even because Mira had Gabrion’s heart.

  Kitalla hated her because no one had ever given everything for her. Sure Joral had risked his future as a nobleman by running off with her when they were so young. But he hadn’t been able to protect her the way Gabrion sought to rescue Mira. Joral had run away with her, but he had died, unable to defend her or her mother. Gabrion hadn’t died. No, after all this time his quest still went on strong.

  No one had seen Gabrion since he had run into Castle Hathreneir, but Kitalla knew he was alive because a spirit as pure as his would never die until his quest was over. And the jades guided her toward the north, toward him, the protector.

  Kitalla screamed suddenly and dropped. She felt broken and unable to control her thoughts. She was supposed to be the most disciplined among the group, not prone to these emotional pains. It frustrated her greatly to not only feel jealously of Mira, but to be contemplating its source. She was never one to dwell on such things, and she wasn’t happy to do so now. Pounding her hands into the sand did nothing to sate her angst, so she stood back up and ran.

  Her body ached with the effort after a time, but she pushed herself harder and harder, pumping her arms to keep in counter-balance with her feet. She welcomed the fiery pain running up her legs and back and used it to push herself onward even further. She was stronger than the silly emotions that were coursing through her. No one would see her weakened from mere thoughts.

  It didn’t matter that no one was nearby. It was pride kicking in again, and she reached for it, remembering Grenthar’s domain and claiming the metal jade at long last, using its power instinctively to slay her captor. Her dagger had grown in size and lashed out like a whip, cutting down her terrible foe and freeing her at last from her torment.

  Yes, freedom. She felt it now. Around her, the world seemed suddenly open and vast. The desert spread out before her and begged her to travel its surface. The sun was falling from the sky and Kitalla knew the night would be upon her soon. She pushed harder, ignoring the growing agony in her body. Somewhere in her mind she knew she needed to stop running and build herself a quick shelter before she was too exhausted to protect herself. But her body had never failed her when she needed it. She would run to the end of the kingdom if she needed to, but her thoughts would plague her no longer.

  But run as she might, she could not escape them. Jealousy burned in her breast, mocking her. She didn’t know how to turn it into a power for her own use. It bore her down, weakening her and bringing back that empty ache of loneliness. Her throat clenched from the tension. Running was of no use any more and her legs gave way, dropping her harshly to the sand.

  Kitalla smacked down and crumpled in a heap and—though she fought against it as much as she could—she wept deeply, her body wracked with pain and not from her fall. Her sobs echoed solemnly as the sun dipped out of the sky, deserting her like everyone she had ever loved.

  Chapter 4

  Ervinor’s Army

  “Come on, now. Time to wake up, Ervie,” said Lica, a middle-aged woman from Kallisor, whose magic skills had tagged her an outsider as a child. She had joined the Mage Underground at the age of fifteen, where she teamed up with Quereth and later Frast, and she had been working with them ever since. “It’s already midday and the troops need their general.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Ervinor complained.

  “As long as you make me play the role of mother, then I’ll call you whatever pet names I want.” She pulled open the curtain to let the sunlight in and hovered by the door to ensure he was going to get out of bed.

  “Thanks, ma!” he called out playfully as she closed the door behind her.

  It was never easy for Ervinor to rise out of bed. His body was so different since he had lost his right arm when he had pushed Quereth out of the way of a falling ax in Castle Hathreneir. Everything was harder to do and it still felt as if the arm was there, ready to help him move the sheet aside and allow him to push himself up. But no, it was gone, and every time he awoke he had to remind himself that this was his new norm.

  He sat up and turned his body, setting his feet on the floor, after which he spent some time stretching and getting ready for the day. Lica had teased him, both with a nickname and with a title. There were about a hundred men and women who were unofficially under his command, gathered together for the united goals of Dariak, Randler, Gabrion, and Kitalla. During his time in Marritosh with the warriors and mages, Ervinor’s own passionate leadership had drawn the eyes of the people in the town. Though it was a Hathren town, the people banded together with the Kallisorians, with the hope of bringing about an end to the constant wars.

  In a sense, he was indeed their general, even though, at twenty-three, he was young for the job and didn’t exactly look the part, especially now that he was missing an arm. One of the town elders had told him that he possessed an old soul and a wise spirit and that’s why he was born to lead these others, especially while the companions were away. Ervinor didn’t see it as a burden, just something that needed to be done. He had served for a couple of years under Ordren in Pindington, so he had a sense of how to lead them. Although he sometimes thought his experiences with his siblings had been better preparation.

  He reached over to scratch his right arm, then realized belatedly that he didn’t have an arm there anymore. The healers had stopped the major pains, but they had only prescribed time to heal the itching sensations. Already a month had passed. He wished they had been able to give him another arm instead of empty promises.

  He grunted at himself for his thoughts. Kitalla would draw her daggers and battle him right then and there at the start of a good wallowing. That is, if she were around. But no, his friends were off on their own quests at the moment, each for good reason, but he was stuck here instead because of his missing arm.

  As he considered it, though, he wondered what he would have done if he hadn’t been injured. He could have either gone off with Kitalla to find Gabrion or with Dariak and Randler to seek the healing jade. But that would have left the army without a leader, unless they divided it into two, or—

  He stopped himself, knowing it was pointless to debate it with himself. Most likely, he admitted, he would still be here in Marritosh, fortifying the town’s defenses, training the army, and ensuring that when the others returned, they would be ready to march
on to their true goal.

  With that, he stood up at last, teetering a little to the side with his new center of gravity. It would take some getting used to, he reminded himself. He knew he had dallied long enough; if he didn’t dress and fetch food soon, Lica would come back and really let him have it.

  Marritosh was unique from other places he had been to because it had four elders who oversaw the events in the area, instead of only one. They worked together in a close-knit team and rarely disagreed when it came to major decisions. Ervinor had grown closest to Herchig, an eccentric old warrior who belabored everyone with long-winded tales, whose meanings always related but were sometimes hard to find. The respect between them was mutual and after Ervinor’s dread injury, the old man and his wife, Nessaria, had taken it upon themselves to craft something special for the young soldier. They had waited until the day after the companions’ departures to present it to him.

  Ervinor went to the special armor now. It was a set of leather leggings and tunic, hand-crafted for his unique situation. He started by pulling on the leggings and tugging a special drawstring with his arm and looping it through a ring until they were snugly secured. He didn’t have to fumble with tying the drawstring or buckling the belt, for the simple mechanism worked perfectly.

  The tunic was more complex in design but easy enough to put on. He pulled the darkened leather over his head and slipped his arm through the elbow-length sleeve. But there was a lot more to the design than having one sleeve removed and closed off. Wound around the leather was a greenish corded strap that served a number of purposes. Along the right side, the straps linked through small ringlets, each of which could carry a dagger. The handles would face forward, which would have been a terrible hindrance for his right arm.

  The straps continued onto the back and wound upward diagonally from his right hip to his left shoulder. Inside the straps, Herchig had fastened in a scabbard, which would allow Ervinor to draw his sword over his shoulder for a quick strike. He still struggled with sheathing the blade safely, but Herchig had assured him he would figure it out soon enough.