Page 7 of WarBride

The word appears in my head and, with it, a sense of incredulity. I’ve heard tales of horned creatures, who are said to be beings of pure magic, untamable, deadly, and beautiful beyond description. But no word in any language is big enough to capture the glory of the beasts even now descending on me. Theirs is a beauty that could sear you straight to the heart and leave your hollowed-out husk smoldering in its wake.

It takes me a moment—a long, everlasting, lifetime of a moment—to realize there are riders on their backs. At first their souls are so blended into the songs of their mounts, I cannot discern where beast ends and rider begins. My mind revolts against the idea of such heavenly beings permitting themselves to be ridden, and yet . . . and yet the oneness of mount and rider, of soul and song, is undeniable.

I am frozen at their coming, that onslaught of fire pouring out from the trees. Shadowy figures move in my peripheral vision, creatures of earth and dust that exist on a plain outside of that thunderous song. Somewhere far away I hear voices shouting, Artoris bellowing commands. But it’s all so meaningless compared to the glory that descends upon me with such destructive force. I can do nothing but wait to be overwhelmed, consumed, and—

“Ilsevel!”

The sharp sound of my name bellowed into my ear yanks me back into my physical body. I gasp in an agonized breath and latch hold of the pommel of my saddle just as my horse lurches to one side, dragged by a hand on its bridle. My dazzled vision struggles to make sense of the world around me, but Artoris’s voice barks again, close at hand. “Ilsevel, stay close to me!”

He’s urged his stallion alongside my mare. Crimson cloaks surround us, forming a protective barrier as riders on fiery beings close in. There’s a clash of steel in my ears, and a multi-voiced ululating cry surrounds us. It could be music were it not so terrible.

I turn to Artoris, confused, desperate, and see him holding a book in one hand. It looks so incongruous here in the midst of flames and blades. Then I realize what he’s doing—calling upon the power of a written spell. His mouth murmurs the dark, secret words, and one hand moves in the air as though kneading. Sparks of red light appear between his fingertips. Theglow intensifies, lighting up his face from below in ghoulish highlights. Magic ignites the atmosphere around him.

One of the flaming beings drives toward us, bursting through the defenses of the crimson cloaks. For the first time, I see one of the riders close-up—a man wearing no armor, his muscled torso completely bare save for tongues of fire licking across his flesh. His hair is long, flowing unbound down his back, and a black band is painted across his face from temple to temple, making his brilliant eyes stand out in terrifying relief. He opens his mouth to utter another one of those strange, ululating battle cries, his sword upraised as he charges straight for me. I raise my arm helplessly against the blow that must fall.

But it never does. A stream of writhing red light streaks through the air and hits the man straight in the chest. He falls from his mount, screaming, his body contorting in unnatural ways, all while that light continues to penetrate his chest. I stare down at him, aghast, uncertain what I am seeing.

Only then do I realize: I’m not seeing—I’m hearing. Hearing the dark song of a curse entering his body, dragging his soul forth. I hear the white light struggling to hold on, resisting the pull of that curse. But it’s useless. The magic is too great. It rips the man open and yanks out the light of his life, drawing it in a twisting stream of red and white and bursting anti-light. I follow the line of that song, that stream, back to its source. Back to Artoris, who sits astride his stallion, palm-outstretched to receive the life he has stolen. His eyes blaze with curse-light and his lips move, still speaking the secret words of the spell. I watch, I listen, as the soul of the dying man enters Artoris’s grasp.

He clenches his fist, and the song cuts off abruptly, leaving behind a shattering silence. I stare at the corpse of the dead man. The man who would have cleaved my head from my shoulders with a single blow of his sword. I stare at him, lying in broken ruin, his body warped with the pain of his death.

A scream erupts in my head: a song so broken, so dissonant, so wrong. I scream as well, dropping my reins and slapping both hands to my ears. My horse startles. There’s a moment of weightlessness followed by a painful thud, and I realize I’ve fallen and landed hard on my shoulder. It hurts, but I can’t think about that now, not with that broken song bursting in my head. I scream again, desperate for the sound of my own voice, desperate for anything that might drown out that horrible dissonance.

Twisting where I lie, I search for the source. I see one of the flaming beings. It’s skeletal, demonic, wreathed in flame. Riderless. It rears up, knife-sharp hooves tearing at the air. One of the other flaming beings rushes to it, and the rider tries to catch the screaming beast. It eludes capture, however, and races off into the night, carrying its hideous song with it. Only then can I breathe again.

I drag a painful gasp of air into my lungs, realizing suddenly where I am: on the ground in the middle of a battlefield, chaos erupting all around me. There are more death cries, more soul-songs abruptly ended. Some vague part of me realizes that no one else is hearing these terrible songs, no one else is reacting to them. Is this my gods-damned gods-gift at work?

I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to get away from these flaming beasts.

No one seems to see me, unmounted as I am. I wrap my dark cloak around me and run. Pounding hooves and lashing flames churn in confusion on every side. I spy a lone tree and race for it like it’s the last bastion of defense in a world gone mad. Somehow I reach it and collapse against the trunk. I drag three agonized gulps of air into my lungs. Only then do I raise my gaze to the temple on the hill.

The rooftops are on fire.

Aurae.

A curse spits from my lips. Gods damn me to the deepest hell! I left her up there. Alone. And now the temple is under attack, and why? The answer appears in my head at the same time as the question itself. These creatures, these unicorn-riders, they’re fae. Servants of Prince Ruvaen, my father’s enemy. Word must have reached them of Larongar’s alliance with the troll king. So Ruvaen sent his fae warriors deep into Gavaria, deeper than they’ve ever penetrated before. To find me. To kill me. To prevent the alliance from taking place. And my sister is caught in the middle of this attack.

Still using the tree for shelter, I search the battlefield, eyes throbbing with the pain of harsh lights and plunging darks and far too many twisting shadows. Then I see her—my mare. By the grace of the gods, she’s close. Her reins are snarled in a branch from this very tree, preventing her from galloping away from the mayhem. I dart to her side. She squeals and tries to jerk away from me. Almost unconsciously, a soothing, crooning song pours from my lips. She responds to it, lowering her head, and I’m able to snatch the reins free from the tree’s grasp. She’s too tall for me to mount on my own, but I drag her alongside an obliging tree root and manage to scramble into the saddle. From this height, I scan the scene before me once more, taking in the dead men on the ground, some bare-skinned, some clad in red.

Only . . . the crimson cloaks begin to stir. Strange, unnatural movements, pushing themselves up from the ground.

I don’t wait to see more. Pulling the mare’s head around, I bow low over her neck, urging her back up the temple road. She’s eager to escape and responds to me at once, breaking into a gallop. Somewhere behind me, Artoris’s voice shouts my name above the screams of the dying, but I don’t heed him. I shouldn’t have left with him in the first place, I shouldn’t have abandoned Aurae. Gods, what was I thinking? How could I have been so selfish? I never dreamed the shrine would be attacked. I can onlyhope Captain Wulfram is prepared to defend the temple against the fae.

By the time I reach the lower buildings, all such hope is extinguished. I see no sign of the captain or his men. Rooftops are on fire, people are screaming. I rein my mare in, my vision dazzled by fiery glare. Priests and novitiates flee from burning buildings even as shadowy figures dart among them. These figures, though man-shaped, don’t move like men. They’re animals, all brutal shrieks and bloodcurdling roars. Even as I watch, one of them drops its sword and leaps on the back of a screaming priest, biting into his neck with sharp, savage teeth.

But the guest house is not yet ablaze. My heart leaps with foolish hope. I ride to the back of the building where all is still shadowed and eerily quiet. Springing from the mare, I don’t pause long enough to secure her, merely trust she’ll be there when I return. I burst through the back door into the deep shadows within. “Aurae?” I call, my voice so thin and weak, it scarcely makes a sound. I hasten down the dark passage, stopping to peer into each room as I go. All is empty, echoing, while outside the slaughter rages on. “Aurae, where are you?”

I step into the front room, the assembly hall, with its mosaic floor and tall windows. Light from the burning building opposite this one falls through those windows and illuminates the faces of the dead lying before me: Captain Wulfram and his men. Their bodies sprawled out, their weapons still clasped in death-rigid hands, their eyes staring up at the ceiling.

Their throats have all been cut.

Everything else fades to nothing. I stand there, in a little slice of space and time, as realization washes over me. All thirty men. Every last member of my armed escort, who were charged with my protection on this pilgrimage. Dead. Not slaughtered by the raiders even now rampaging through the temple. No, I know who did this.

I see Artoris in my mind’s eye, astride his white horse, just outside the door of this building.“Is it done?”he asked as his crimson cloaks filed out.

My stomach heaves. I double over, sickness rising in my throat, whirling in my head, and vomit all over that mosaic floor.

“Ilsie?”

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