Dreamwielder (33 page)

“They did not stop, idiot. They kept on walking right through town to the west. You best hurry if you want to catch them. But give me my gold first, I tell you.”

From his ship
Makarria
in the Sol Sea, Parmo looked upon Sol Valaróz, the city he once thought he would never see again. It was nearly as he remembered it, stretching up and away from the harbor in a series of tiers to the Royal Palace, its white marble buildings glimmering in the setting sunlight. Parmo did not feel as triumphant as he felt he should though. Here he was, returning as the Prince of Valaróz, on the cusp of leading an entire kingdom of subjects to war with Sargoth, and yet all he could think about was two specific people: Prisca and Galen. It had been a week and a half since he'd taken charge of the eastern Valarion fleet and gone to Prisca and Galen's farm near Spearpoint Rock, hoping to take his daughter and son-in-law away with him.

He had found the farm abandoned.

While there had been no signs of fighting or attack, he nonetheless knew something horrible had happened there. He told himself that Prisca and Galen had in all likelihood gone to Pyrvino looking for him and Makarria, but he did not believe it, and the haunting fear and guilt ate away at him. His only solace was the thought that Makarria was safe in Issborg.
You're the crown prince of Valaróz now,
he reminded himself as his ship approached the piers.
You need to think beyond your own personal concerns.

Word of his arrival had already reached the city and by the time his ship was docked, a massive crowd of people swarmed over the docks. The cacophony was deafening, and it took Parmo a few seconds to realize they were chanting his family name.

Pallma! Pallma! Pallma!

“We will escort you to the palace the best we can,” Socorro said as the crew secured the ship and lowered the gang plank. “There are a lot of cursed people out there though. If you get separated, just push your way through.”

“I know the way,” Parmo assured him and led the way down the gangplank and up the pier to face the crowds.

Before they reached the crowds, however, a regiment of soldiers pushed their way forward to bar the way. Parmo felt the prickling sensation of danger. So far the transition of power from Don Bricio to himself had gone smoother than he ever would have imagined, but sailors had always been loyal to the Pallma line of kings and queens. Dealing with the city soldiers and aristocrats could prove to be an entirely different matter, he knew. Parmo put his hand to his sword hilt, ready for trouble.

It proved to be unnecessary, for the captain of the soldiers bowed as soon as his men were in ranks and at attention. “Welcome, my prince,” the captain said. “My name is Antonio Haviero. I am Captain of the Royal Guard. Your coach awaits you and the palace has been prepared for your arrival. The houndkeeper and the rest of Don Bricio's men have been taken to the dungeon, except those who resisted—them we have flayed and fed to the desert cats. Also, the Assembly of Chancellors is gathering in the palace as we speak. They await your arrival to begin your hearing. If you can validate your claim to the throne, they mean to anoint you this very day.”

Parmo could hardly believe the words he was hearing. He'd expected resistance of some sort, but it seemed the people of Valaróz were more than ready for him.

“Thank you, Captain Haviero,” Parmo said with a smile. “I am much relieved and pleased by the warm welcome. Socorro, the rest of the men can stay on the ship now that we have an escort, but you best come with me. The chancellors will want to hear what you have to say.”

“Aye,” Socorro agreed, and with a few curt commands he dismissed the rest of crew to return to
Makarria
.

“Captain Haviero,” Parmo said, “Please lead the way.”

Captain Haviero gave a harsh whistle, and his men immediately sprung into action to clear a path through the crowd from the docks to the harborside streets where an armored coach awaited. The crowd seemed unperturbed by the soldiers pushing them aside, and they continued to chant:
Pallma! Pallma!

Parmo felt himself become flush with excitement. It had been decades since he'd heard that name. A woman in the nearby crowd pushed her way onto the shoulders of the soldiers blocking her way and threw a bouquet of flowers at Parmo. “May Vala bless your soul,” she shouted over the din. “We love you!”

Parmo bent down to pick up the flowers and blew the woman a kiss in thanks.

Pallma! Pallma!
the crowd chanted.

They reached the coach and Captain Haviero offered his arm to help Parmo up. “Your ride, Your Majesty.”

Parmo stood there for a moment, basking in the adoration of the crowd. “No, I think we'll walk, Captain.”

“You're sure?” Captain Haviero asked with a nervous glance at the people flooding the streets around them. “We are but a small regiment. We cannot keep the crowd at bay if they decide to mob you.”

“It'll be fine,” Parmo assured him. “The people of this city have been waiting a long time for their king to return. They deserve to see my face.”

King Casstian yelled out at his troops to reform behind him as he yanked his horse to a halt in the outskirts of Forrest Weorcan. They had come upon Guderian's war machines on the road just south of Weordan two days before, and nothing they could do slowed the iron-shelled wagons. The machines cut down the Pyrthinian troops just as Taera warned him they would. Casstian had ordered Taera and the rest of his constables and field marshals to sound the retreat back to Lepig, and then led his own small contingent of troops onward into the forest to harry the Sargothian infantry marching behind the war machines. Three times now the small Pyrthinian brigade had successfully darted from the trees to charge through the Sargothian lines and quickly retreat back into the safety of the forest. It was nearly dusk and Casstian desperately hoped they were nearing the Sargothian supply train. He knew the Emperor's war machines needed fuel; if they could succeed in destroying the supply wagons, they would effectively stop the war machines in their tracks.

“Draw your weapons,” Casstian yelled to his men grouped around him. “Archers, stay back at the perimeter of the woods. If we come upon the supply train, set your arrows aflame and take out the fuel wagons. They'll be carrying coal or naphtha or something of the sort and should be easy to spot.”

Casstian drew his own sword and steeled himself. “For Pyrthinia!” he yelled.

“Pyrthinia!”
his troops screamed back in reply, and he spurred his horse forward to lead the charge.

The forest thinned in front of them as they rushed forward through the trees and the supply wagons suddenly came into view on the road. Casstian felt a surge of triumph and spurred his horse on faster. He could clearly make out the supply wagons on the road, guarded only by a meager force.
They're just sitting there, waiting for the taking.
He could hardly believe it, but gave it not a second thought.

“For Pyrthinia!” he yelled again, and the forest opened up before him.

Captain Haviero's soldiers cleared a path through the crowd and marched forward, away from the docks toward the center of the city. Around them, the city folk still chanted the name Pallma. Parmo followed in the wake of the soldiers as if in a waking dream, and he had to remind himself not to get caught up in the reception.
These people have lived for thirty years under the rule of Guderian and Don Bricio,
he reminded himself.
Of course they welcome you.
He forced his mind to the tasks before him. The people would want to celebrate his return and draw out the coronation ceremonies, he knew, but he had no intention of sitting idly by while Pyrthinia fought against the Emperor.
I will insist on a quick coronation,
he decided.
Then it's off to Sevol to set forth the western fleet for the Gothol Sea. If we leave soon, perhaps we can take Lon Golier and Col Sargoth by surprise before Casstian is even fully engaged. And whatever infantry we have, we'll send to Makady to reinforce the Pyrthin troops.

His escorts pushed now through the lower boroughs of Sol Valaróz and up the long slope leading from tier to tier toward the Royal Palace. The buildings surrounding them were as he remembered from his childhood: irregularly shaped with white and yellow stucco walls, a wide array of balustered balconies and windows, and orange terra cotta tiled roofs. The smell of braised, spicy meat cooking in hundreds of homes and taverns tinged the air, intermingling with the briny harbor odor. More and more Valarions were crowding around in the streets now, eager to see their prince, but Captain Haviero and his men kept the path toward the palace clear. Parmo looked up to see men, women, and children waving at him from the second and third story balconies of the buildings along the streets.

Pallma! Pallma! Pallma!

He could not help but smile and wave back.

Startled shouts rose up from the Sargothian soldiers along the road and Casstian let out a cry of triumph, but then from nowhere, a dark shape appeared to his right and his horse locked its legs in fear, nearly throwing Casstian from the saddle. Before he realized what was happening or fully regained his balance, he was bodily knocked from his saddle to land sprawled out on the ground. The fall knocked the wind out of him, but he pushed himself up to stagger clear of his panicked horse and survey his surroundings.

His men were nowhere to be seen. Terrified screams echoed from the shadows of the forest behind him.

Without a second thought he abandoned the Sargothian supply line and dashed back into the trees. Around him, men and horses cried out in fear and pain. He saw them only as silhouettes flitting between the trees. One of his men ran toward him, only to collapse, his throat torn out and gushing blood. The hair at the nape of Casstian's neck stood up on end and he gripped his sword and shield tighter.

Suddenly, the wolf appeared from the shadows. Horses and men alike fled, leaving Casstian alone. The black wolf was impossibly large, its eyes and snout somehow human looking. Casstian crouched low and held his sword at the ready.

Pallma! Pallma! Pallma!

It still seemed unreal to Parmo to hear his name being shouted by thousands of people, but he waved and smiled nonetheless. When one of the soldiers beside him suddenly yelled out a warning, Parmo hardly noticed it over the cacophony of shouting and whistling around him, and even when he felt a sharp pain in his chest and was knocked backward onto the ground, he did not fully understand what was happening. “Where am I?” he whispered to Socorro, who was kneeling over him, but Socorro did not look Parmo in the face. His attention was on the feathered shaft protruding from Parmo's chest. Socorro tried to pull the shaft free, and the sudden searing pain nearly blinded Parmo. “
Merda
!” he swore. “Leave it,” he tried saying, but warm blood oozed into his lungs and he fell into a fit of coughing.

Around Parmo, the crowd was screaming and yelling in a frenzied panic. Captain Haviero and five of his men surrounded Parmo in a tight circle, and the rest of the troops Captain Haviero sent rushing into the building from where the assassin had fired his shot. They returned mere minutes later dragging the killer—a loyal follower of Don Bricio: an aged warrior from the Old World—and while Captain Haviero promptly disemboweled the assassin, none of it could keep the life blood of Parmenios Pallma from spilling onto the white cobble stones of Sol Valaróz.

I love you, Prisca, and my dear Makarria,
Parmo spoke inwardly, hoping somehow his words would reach them.
I'm sorry, dear Valaróz.
And then all faded to black.

“Come on, you filthy animal!” King Casstian yelled, and the wolf swiped a paw at him, renting his shield into a dented mess and breaking his left arm. Casstian staggered back with a gasp, only with great effort willing himself to stay conscious and on his feet.

The wolf growled, a low chortling rumble, as it circled Casstian.
It's toying with me,
Casstian realized, and with sudden fury he lunged forward with a sweeping overhand sword strike. The wolf merely sidestepped his blow though, and sprung back at him. Casstian tried but failed to raise his shield, and the wolf's claws dug into his shoulders, driving him back into the ground with impossible strength. The wind was knocked from Casstian's lungs and his ribs cracked beneath the force. He reached for the dagger at his belt in a desperate last attempt, but the wolf was again too fast. It snarled and snapped its fangs together like a whip, crushing Casstian's skull beneath them with ease.​

Taera awoke in her saddle with a scream.

Caile gasped, startled as much as she by her sudden outburst. He had been lost in his own thoughts and hadn't even realized she was in a trance. Just hours before he had been making haste toward Weordan and come upon Taera and the High Constables retreating with the mass of the Pyrthin army. After having sailed six days up the River Kylep just to get to Kylep and find his father had marched on without him, Caile had wanted nothing more than to continue on to Weordan to help, but Taera had entreated him to return with her to Tyrna and prepare the city for attack. Caile had reluctantly agreed.

“Are you alright,” Caile asked Taera. “Another vision?”

“I've seen everything,” she said, her breaths coming in short gasps.

“Tell me,” Caile said, his hair standing on end. He could sense in her voice that something was very wrong.

“I've seen everything,” Taera said again, numb from her visions. “Wulfram has come, and Father is dead. Sol Valaróz weeps. And Makarria: she's walking into a trap.”

The winter rains had finally come, soaking the lands east of the Gothol Sea with a cold, relentless drizzle. Makarria and Talitha stood shivering and drenched for a long time upon the hill looking down at Col Sargoth from the eastern high road. The soot-stained buildings and smelting factories belching smoke into the air radiated outward from the towers of Lightbringer's Keep like a feculent sore, and while only a handful of farmers passed by Makarria and Talitha on the eastern high road, the high road leading to the south was another matter: a solid mass of wagons and troops extended outward as far as they could see, trailing into Forrest Weorcan and Pyrthinia beyond. In the bay beyond the city, ships flying the blue and yellow banners of Golier made way for the harbor bearing even more troops.