First Lord's Fury

Ehren stared in shock at the fallen vordbulk for a full minute, hardly able to comprehend the incredible courage and sacrifice of the old High Lord. But then, Cereus’s daughter Veradis was behind the walls, employing her considerable talents as a healer, and his grandchildren were in the refugee camp. Of course her father would be willing to lay down his life to protect his sole surviving child and his sons’ orphans; or at least, a man of Cereus’s character would. It was one thing for a man to say he was willing to lay down his life for his child—but quite another for him to actually do it.

Count Calderon exhaled heavily, and breathed, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Ferocious battle ensued on the northern bluff, between the Wolf tribe and the vord who had been guarding the vordbulk, but it was no longer a hopeless fight for the Wolf, especially with the support of the Horse. Cereus’s brigade of Citizens came flying back into the fortress in a state of total exhaustion.

Bernard looked up from a message brought by a courier and grunted. “That’s it, then. We’re out of firestones, and the rain is keeping the workshop from making any more.”

“We can hold them with steel alone if they don’t bring us any more surprises,” Ehren said.

“I’d like to think that the vord are straining their limits as much as we are,” Bernard said. “But our experience with them thus far does not fill me with confidence.” He shook his head. “Well. We can only do what we can do. We’ll stand for as long as our legs hold us. Sir Ehren, I wonder if you would please inform High Lady Cereus of her lord father’s passing. Let her know exactly what happened.”

Ehren sighed. “Of course, my lord. Better to hear it now than in rumor half an hour from now.”

Bernard nodded and rubbed at his jaw—then froze and peered to the west.

Far down the valley, the storm clouds veiling Garados had apparently gone mad, spewing a thousand colors of lightning like spray at the bottom of a waterfall. Ehren stopped in his tracks and watched, as well, as the distant storm raked the land with lightning bolts. He was sure he imagined it, but for a moment it almost looked like one enormous windmane, miles and miles across, was raking the ground with claws of living lightning.

Then the vord all began to shriek, screaming as one creature. The wail put the hairs up on the back of Ehren’s neck, but he stepped forward and gripped the edge of the balcony’s railing, staring.

The seething, pulsing rhythm of the mass of vord, that sense of underlying organization and purpose that made them all seem like the various organs of a single body, began to fray. Over the next several minutes, Ehren watched the vord attackers change from an army driven by purpose and perfect discipline to a mob of hungry, dangerous predators. Though the sheer pressure of numbers crammed into limited space forced the vord at the leading edge of the mob to continue the attack on the walls of Garrison, farther back was a different tale.

Ehren brought up a sightcrafting and stared as the vord to the rear of the immediate combat began to turn upon one another, apparently driven by desperate hunger—and those farthest back began to depart altogether. It would take a long time, hours perhaps, for the pressure on the leading edge of the vord to relent enough to allow them to retreat, but it would happen. It would happen!

“What can you see?” Count Calderon asked, his weary voice anxious.

“They’re breaking,” Ehren said. He recognized that his own voice was thick with emotion he had neither expected nor approved. “They’re turning on one another at the back of the mob. They’re breaking.” His vision was blurred by something. “They aren’t holding together. They’re breaking.”

“They did it,” Count Calderon breathed. “By all the furies, they did it. They killed the Queen!”

Ehren couldn’t hear what Calderon said next. Months of horror and despair had all come down to this moment. He found himself sitting on the stone floor of the balcony, sobbing and laughing at the same time. He had never believed, never really believed, that the vord could be defeated. Not after so many retreats, so many deadly surprises.

But here, in the Calderon Valley, they had finally done it. They had endured the heaviest blows the enemy could deliver and survived. The Realm had survived. The Realm would survive.

It would survive thanks to the sacrifice of Cereus, and to the rather unassuming backcountry Citizen who now knelt beside him, putting a brawny arm around Ehren’s shoulders. “Easy there, son. Easy. Come with me. I could use a drink. I’ve given orders to the Legions to keep rotating fresh troops in. Now all we have to do is wait this out.”

Ehren nodded several times. “A drink,” he said, his voice thick. “I don’t drink very well.” Then he added, “But if you can’t drink to this, what can you drink to? Let’s go.”

EPILOGUE

History will eventually claim that the appearance of the vord was a water-shed moment, that it was the best thing that ever happened to Alera. The vord forced us to exceed our limits, to grow after centuries of stagnation—and to look beyond ourselves. It is certain that because of the vord, we have gained a host of new enemies, in the Canim sense of the word. May we keep them and meet many more.

But history is a cold and distant observer. Those of us who must face today have goals far more finite: We must mend our wounds, mourn our dead—and survive the winter. Crows take what the historians think.

History will attend to itself.

“It’s too tight,” Tavi complained, tugging at the neck of the tunic. “And it’s ridiculously overdone. Honestly, people are starving, and they’re trying to deck me out in gems and cloth of gold?”

“No one is starving,” Max said. “They just wish they were.” He wore his new suit of armor, marked with the black crow of the First Aleran Legion upon a field of red and blue, and his dress uniform beneath it, including a captain’s cloak of red velvet. “Bloody clever way to get rid of the croach if you ask me. Let people eat it up, especially as we’re short on food and all.”

“A bit too clever. I’m sick of the stuff.”

Max snorted, slapped Tavi’s hands out of the way, and started fastening the collar. “Stop eating it, then.”

“I can’t tell half the people in the Realm they’ve got to eat bug wax until next spring and not eat it myself, Max.”

“Sure you can. You’re the First Lord.” Max arched an eyebrow. “You must not hate it all that much. This tunic fit you at your confirmation, you know.”

Tavi grunted in discomfort. “It might taste terrible, but it’s apparently good for you. Plus I’m not wearing armor around every day, now.”

“And it shows,” Max said cheerfully. He got the collar fastened with one last, hard tug, then eyed Tavi carefully. “Why is your face turning red?”

Tavi idly slid an effort of will into the cloth of gold, metalcrafting its strands to stretch out a bit. Once the collar had loosened, he was able to exhale without making an effort. “There. How’s that?”

“Oh, ah,” Max said, looking him over judiciously. “You look like… a First Lord.”

“How descriptive. Thank you.”

“Anytime, Calderon,” Max said, gri

“Max,” Tavi said. “Have… have you heard from Crassus?”

Max’s grin faded. “He’s… not coming. Officially, he’s helping his father and mother get the situation in Antillus under control. But he’s still upset about… well. Everything.”

Tavi nodded, frowning. “I’m glad Antillus took Dorotea back.”

Max grunted sourly. Then said, “She’s gotten almost human over the past couple of years. I suppose she might do some good up there.”