Why didn’t Saqri let Yasammez lead the way? The dark lady’s name was a byword for destruction; even without the Fireflower, Barrick knew the stories told by the survivors of her destructive advance across the March Kingdoms, how she had singlehandedly unhorsed and slaughtered the defenders of all the towns in her way, sometimes fighting half a dozen or more by herself and killing each and every one. But the Fireflower told him more—much more. Its voices sang to him triumphantly of Yasammez Aflame, the Scourge of Shivering Plains, the daughter of a god! And in images of so distant a past that even the memory of the Fireflower had dimmed a little, he saw the Yasammez of the elder days, glowing with green fire that hung about her head as she fought, so that she breathed it and spewed it out again in little streaks and sparks. In the stark instant of the lightning’s flash at Silvergleam’s hall, when all the field of war, men and Qar and even the gods themselves seemed to be frozen together as one thing, she had stood twisted in a spray of blood, the headless bodies of her enemies flung tumbling away by the force of her blow. That was the weapon that Saqri kept sheathed. Why?
Barrick could not begin to guess, but he knew as well as he knew his own name that the women of the Qar’s highest house, and especially those who took the Fireflower, were no less subtle than their husbands. It was better simply to trust the queen of the Fay…
But feel free to ask questions, a sly thought suggested to him. It might have been Ynnir, faint as a bird chirping at the top of a tall tree. Just be prepared to defend yourself afterward—a queen does not like to be second-guessed!
And then the first wave of Xixian arrows had spent itself. In the moment that followed Saqri’s troop leaped forward toward the center of the passage, into the flail of shadows and torchlight. Barrick was among them this time, caught up in the remembered glories of the Fireflower, shouting out things that even he did not understand.
Contorted faces, blades, the clank of metal on armor, or sometimes the weirdly thrilling chunk of an edge biting flesh—Barrick was terrified, but at the same time he felt hard as stone, cold and clear as diamond. The memories of a hundred kings were in him, some as warlike as Yasammez herself. Their ghostly voices sang with joy and their blood seized and pulled in Barrick’s veins. He did not resist these spirits, but let them lead him in a complicated series of strikes and defenses that his thoughts could not at first keep up with. He used Hawk’s Tail to catch a falling blade in the crossed metal of his sword and dagger, then kicked out and crushed the knee of the Xixian soldier. Even as the man toppled and Barrick whirled past, he dragged his blade backhanded across the man’s throat, then tightened his grip on the suddenly blood-slick hilt, ducked the strike of a second man, and came up under his chin with the dagger—Spiked Fist—so near the man’s face that he could hear the southerner gasp and then feel the man’s dying breath leap from his body.
Spin, sweep with his sword to catch an enemy’s hamstring, step on the man’s throat as he went down, and then direct the spear thrust of another away with his arm-shield. Barrick found himself shifting deeper and deeper into an unthinking dance, as if he were nothing but a line of heat passing through the cavern in a complicated filigree of motion, like the mark a burning brand swirling through the night air could leave on the eyes for moments after the torch itself had passed. But although he nearly lost himself in the wash of sensation, the rush of memory, and the demanding movements, he could not ignore the fact that as many of the enemy as he killed or disabled, and as many of them as his comrades destroyed, still more were always coming, flowing into the passage from either direction like the immense weight of seawater that must surround the land beyond these stony depths.
Might as well try to kill the sea itself. Saqri, where are you?
Here, manchild. Behind you and nearer to the southerners who had already passed through the cavern, but now have come back to join the entertainment. There was a wicked joy to her thoughts he had not sensed before—war agreed with her, it seemed.
They are too many! For each one we kill three more come to take his place!
They have always been too many for us, the humans. Your people outbred us long ago. With the gods gone, you see, your folk have no predators…
He had no idea what she meant. But what do we do?
We persevere. It wasn’t words but a feeling, the immensity of Qar suffering and the immensity of Qar stubbornness encapsulated in a single impression of resigned struggle. But remember, we do not need to defeat all these men; we only need to cross the cavern and enter the far passage. Then we will leave them behind to toil down the tunnels like ants while we drop from the sky upon their leaders!
She’s mad, Barrick thought as he fought for his life. This place has driven her mad. His loneliness, so much a part of him that he seldom noticed it anymore, rose up and threatened to choke him. Only the urging of the Fireflower voices reminded him that life still continued—a life that the two southern soldiers rushing toward him wanted to end.
Shark’s Fin. Catch the attack on the hilt of his sword. Spin into a two-handed slash, driving one man back long enough for Barrick to get his arm-shield up in the other’s face. Rip with the dagger. Spin and block.
Shaso would have loved this, he thought. Hopeless odds. No choice but fight or die. And no time to argue…
He let himself step back into the dance again. After all, there was nothing else he could do. Several of the Xixian torches had fallen, and the shadows in the passage were widening, deepening.
Soon enough, Barrick thought, we’ll be fighting in utter darkness, like dead men struggling in their graves…
It was all Utta could do to hold the frail older woman down. Still in the grip of the dream, Merolanna struggled so determinedly that she almost threw the Zorian Sister across the room. “No no no no… !” the duchess moaned, slurring her words so that it was more like an animal sound than the voice of a dignified noblewoman. “Let go they let go… !”
“Merolanna!” Utta leaned close to the duchess’ face so the woman could hear her even in the depths of whatever dream had seized her. “Merolanna! You’re having a nightmare! Wake up!”
“Don’t go! You can’t trust… he won’t ...” Her voice trailed off. For a moment she sat hunched in the bed, eyes closed as though she listened to some distant but important sound. Utta took the opportunity to pull the coverlet back up over Merolanna’s pale legs. “You can’t… !” the old woman said again, but this time with the confused sound of someone beginning to wake.
“All is well.” Utta let go of her and sat up, taking Merolanna’s cold hand in her own. “You have had a bad dream, Duchess. Wake up now and see that everything is well.”
“But it’s not.” Merolanna’s eyes fluttered open. She fixed Utta with a stare that was frightened but not the least bit groggy. “It’s not well. Nothing is well. He is coming for them.”
“He? Coming for… ?” Utta shook her head. “It was just a bad dream, dear. I told you. You were kicking like an angry horse.” She raised her hand to the side of her face, which was beginning to ache now. “Throwing your elbows around freely, too.”