The Darkangel

by Pierce, Meredith Ann

  Aeriel shrank away from them against the lyon. Seeing her, their pursuers yipped and yapped with laughter, slavering and snapping their jaws. "Jackals," Aeriel whispered.

  "Jackals, jackals."

  "Aye, daughter," the lyon nodded. His breath was coming shorter now. "The witch's dogs."

  "Can we go no faster?" Aeriel cried, clutching him. "They are fairly nipping at your heels."

  The pale, bounding jackals gave another bark of glee, and Aeriel realized dieir great, pricked ears must be able to hear even her tight-throated whisper.

  The leosol turned his head. "Not, I fear, and keep you aboard," he told her quietly. Aeriel felt her desperation rising. Her limbs already ached with the strain of resisting the wind.

  The Pendar-lon eyed the gaining dogs, then Solstar, then the stars. "Daughter, I had hoped to get you safe across the border," he rumbled at last. "These creatures take great mastery to wield at any distance from the witch's mere, and her might is much weakened by desert's edge___But pah," he

  snorted angrily, "I think we shall have to face them now."

  Aeriel felt herself pale. The jackals hooted and snatched at the air with their teeth. The leosol growled.

  "But hold fast to me first," he bade her. "If face them we must, let us at least choose our own ground."

  With that, he sprang away suddenly in such an unaccustomed burst of speed that Aeriel was dizzied. She locked her arms, her legs about him. Behind them the jackals sent up a wild yell—not of dismay but as of triumph. Their hunting song grew suddenly bolder, fiercer. Turning, Aeriel saw the double line of red-eyed dogs dashing in pursuit.

  The wind buffeting her was so intense Aeriel could scarcely breathe. She felt her hands slipping on the lyon's hot, silk mane, her knees dragging along his side as the rush of air shoved her back from his shoulders. Gritting her teeth and clenching her eyes, she clasped him as hard as she could. Even that was not enough. She felt herself beginning to slip___

  The lyon stopped—smoothly, without jolt, but instantly. Aeriel clung to him, dazed. Her body felt numb in the sudden cessation of wind. She gasped for breath. "Quick, daughter," the great cat was crying, shrugging his shoulders to help her off, "to the ground. We must stand ready."

  Aeriel tumbled to the sand, knelt a moment on hands and knees, winded. The leosol had brought them partway up the steep lee side of a dune. The lee slope slanted sharply away in front of them, toward the oncoming jackals. Behind her Aeriel saw the top of the same slope recurving to hang above her and the Pendarlon like the crest of a frozen wave—

  preventing attack from the rear. Aeriel scrambled to her feet and pulled her walking stick from her wrist. The lyon had already faced about toward the double line of jackals coursing up the slope.

  "Remember, daughter," the lyon said as she took her place beside him. "Stand flank to flank with me and do not let them part us. Odds," he growled in undertone, seemingly more to himself than to her, "a pair or even four of them would be no hard task to dispatch—but so many! I have never seen the like." Aeriel stood breathing fast and deeply, to steady herself. Gripping her staff, she gazed at the swiftly approaching pack.

  Beside her the Pendarlon snorted, shook his head. "Faith," he murmured, "their mistress's might must be growing vast."

  The witch's dogs loped to within ten paces of the leosol and halted. The two leaders came a few paces farther, then sat, regarding their quarry with hot, deep red eyes while the rest of the pack milled and trotted behind them, leaping over one another in a disturbing confusion of light and dark. Aeriel turned her eyes from them, studied the leaders instead.

  The one on the left, nearest the leosol, was slimmer, a female; her brawnier companion across from Aeriel, a male.

  They licked their lips and panted, waiting. Aeriel fingered her walking stick nervously, wondered which end might make the better weapon: the knotted head or the pointed heel.

  All the while, the weaving pack never gave up their high, humming song. Then the shaggy jackal spoke to the Pendarlon, ignoring Aeriel.

  "So, lyon," he said, grinning. "So." Gloating made his voice thick. His white-dark coat shimmered eerily. Behind him, the witch's pack-dogs prowled; half were heavy-shouldered like himself, the others slighter, like the brach beside him. "Give up your rider to us, lyon," the jackal said. "Our mistress wants her."

  Aeriel's eyes widened. They wanted her? She had thought they pursued the Pendarlon.

  She heard the leosol rumbling deep in his throat. "By our lady Ravenna," he answered, low and dangerous, "I am unaccustomed to obeying your commands." Aeriel racked her wits. What could the water witch of that desert lake want with her? The Pendarlon growled at the dogs, "I kill your kind."

  The jackal cut him off. "Ah, but that is all in the past, now, lyonling, when you came upon us singly, or in pairs. Now we in a pack have run you down, and you know very well you cannot stand against us." He rose and arched his back lazily, stretching. "Still, it is riot you we want today. Only your passenger. Give her up to us, or we'll take her."

  The rumble in the Pendarlon's throat grew darker, halfway between a purr and a growl, sounded to Aeriel like the dull thunder of approaching hooves. An answering growl arose from the jackal's throat. He lowered his head. Aeriel tensed. But then the other jackal, the brach, slunk forward a pace or two.

  "But softly now," she mused. Behind her the others wove and leapfrogged. Above their hunting song, they whined impatiently, licked their teeth. "Why always conflict," said the brach, "when simple persuasion may suffice?" Her round, lidless eyes gleamed red and cunning. "Come, cat," she murmured to the Pendarlon, "why resist? Hand over your prize willingly and you will earn our lady's gratitude. Join us!" Her voice grew softer still, even more winning. "Our mistress can grant you whatever you desire...."

  "The one thing I desire, jackal-brach," the lyon roared, "is to see your mistress overthrown!"

  All the jackals fell back snarling. Aeriel herself flinched at the force of the Pendarlon's words. "Fool," hissed the witch's dog; her companions gathered themselves. "Cat. Fool."

  Then, of a sudden, the jackals sprang. Half lunged for the leosol, half for Aeriel. Catching up her walking stick near the pointed base, Aeriel swung its heavy knobbed crown in a wide arc almost before she had time to think. The witch's dogs ducked, fell back, and sprang again. Again Aeriel swung and once more the jackals shied just out of reach.

  To the side of her Aeriel heard the lyon fending off his own attackers with savage growls and swipes of his paw. Aeriel kept her eyes on the pack before her. As they regrouped, still humming above the snarls, still bounding, weaving, and staring at her with their carbuncle eyes, she realized how they had bunched themselves.

  The quick, slender braches all dodged and darted about the lyon, ducking under his guard one at a time to worry him with their teeth. Casting a brief glance in his direction, Aeriel saw golden blood streaking the whiteness of his coat. The slower, more powerful dog-jackals faced Aeriel.

  She gripped her walking staff, watching them intently, trying to follow their movements despite the confusing shimmer of light and dark. Her clenched fingers hurt. Then suddenly, almost before she could react, one of the jackals lunged at her. Aeriel cried out, stumbled back, jabbed with her walking stick—too slowly. A scream escaped her throat as the jackal's jaws closed over her wrist.

  She felt no pain, no crunch of bone, nothing. Aeriel stared. The jackal's teeth met, passed through her like vapor. Her staff, as she thrust it, met no resistance, glided through her attacker's chest and shoulders as through empty air. She heard the dog-jackals' yipping, snarling laughter. The one before her fell back grinning, growling. Aeriel stood as if knocked breathless, staring at her whole, unwounded wrist.

  "Lyon," she stammered. "Pendarlon, what is it?" Her jackals crouched back from her in a semicircle, barking in gleeful, red-eyed malice. "It passed through my hand. My stick went right through—what manner of beast are they?"

  The leosol glanced over one shoulder a
nd stared at her, startled—but only for a moment.

  His pack of jackals had not paused, even to taunt him with laughter. Aeriel saw more blood on the lyon's coat, though for the most part he seemed to be keeping the braches at bay with furious snaps of his jaw and powerful sweeps of his paw.

  "Specters!" he cried suddenly. "Daughter, I should have seen it...."

  Now it was Aeriel's turn to stare. "Specters," she murmured. Her mind seemed too dulled to take it in. It came to her slowly then, memory of Bomba's cradle tales with their specters: images without substance, able to be seen and heard, but neither touched nor felt___Aeriel shook her head,

  catching sight once more of the sunlion's golden blood. "But you are wounded," she exclaimed. "How could they have harmed you?"

  Her jackals had begun to mill and circle again, heads lowered, grinning. Aeriel brandished her stick, wondered what good that would do. The witch-dogs redoubled their mocking laughter.

  "Desert jackals only run in pairs, daughter," panted the Pendarlon, keeping his own attackers back. "I grasp it now. The witch could not have had time to assemble all her jackals, nor has she power to control them all so far from her." One of the braches came too close. Aeriel caught a glimpse of the lyon's paw passing through her solid-seeming body. "Only two of this pack can be real," the lyon muttered, "the rest created in their images to confound us."

  He cuffed at another brach-jackal and his paw met only empty air. Only two of the pack were real, had he said? thought Aeriel. His bright blood gleamed from the flesh wounds on his shoulders and forelegs. But those two real dogs were obviously dangerous, and lost in this shifting crowd— "How may we find them?" she cried. All the dog-jackals prowling before her looked exactly alike, as did the braches.

  "We cannot," gasped the lyon, lunging and feinting. "She has made perfect likenesses.

  We dare not disregard any one of them lest..." His last words ended in a snarl. Aeriel turned in time to see one of the brach-jackals—the real one, clearly—sink her teeth into the great cat's pad, draw blood, then dodge out of reach before he could knock her away.

  They're just toying with us, thought Aeriel, for sport. They could have finished up long since, did they not so joy in baiting us.

  Aeriel felt a sudden rush of motion along her side and realized she had dropped her guard. Something hot and sharp grazed her forearm. She whirled away with a cry, bringing her knotted stick down on solid, shaggy bulk. She heard a yip of pain, surprise, and the dog-jackal fell quickly back, head low, blank lidless eyes glowering at her.

  He is the one, thought Aeriel. Her heart lifted; she ignored the pain of the gash along her arm. If I can but keep my eye on him...

  She aimed another blow of her staff at the witch's dog. But he fell back from her, deliberately, lost himself in the shifting shimmer of his fellows. Aeriel could not keep her eyes on him in the dance of spots. The jackals sang their hunting song and laughed.

  Aeriel halted, afraid to advance more than a pace from the lyon's side lest one slip behind her.

  Aeriel heard a sharp yelp from one of the Pendarlon's jackals, glanced to see a brach tumbling away from the leosol's mighty paw. For an instant all the other braches vanished. Downslope, the brach he had struck—the real one—staggered to her feet, one forepaw crumpled to her chest, and shook her head.

  Her fellows suddenly reappeared, barking and lunging about the lyon's ears, to no effect.

  He had the real one in his sight and she was injured, could not leap and lose herself among the others. Aeriel saw the great cat belly down to the sand and move fluidly forward. His golden blood gleamed in the light of Solstar.

  Blood on the teeth, thought Aeriel suddenly, returning her mind to her own fight now.

  Only a real jackal can harm me; only the real one has wounded me. Her slashed arm ached. The real witch-dog, Aeriel realized, must have my blood on his teeth. She searched the miasma of roving red eyes and broken black spots before her, tried to find fangs, stared at them—yes. One of the jackals did have a smear of rose on his white curled lip.

  He stood out from the others now as she recognized how to spot him. And she realized, too, as she studied him, that only he cast a shadow across the orange sand. Gripping her walking stick, she darted toward him, landed three quick blows to his head and shoulders.

  He barked, snarled, backed away from her. She followed, ignoring the howling pack of specters that sprang at her. She waded through their nothingness and aimed again at the one witch-dog she knew was real.

  "Stop," the jackal growled at her. He crouched, shoulders hunched; no laughter thickened his voice now. Abruptly the noise of the others ceased. Their images vanished. Aeriel was dimly aware in the sudden stillness that the false braches about the Pendarlon had also vanished. "Enough," the jackal crouching before her snarled. "You recognize I am the one. Very well. I shall stop toying with you. Even without my specters, I can kill you.

  Do you really think that stick would stop me?"

  "The Pendarlon will soon finish with your mate," panted Aeriel. Despite the other's surly confidence, she felt flushed and dangerous. "Do you think you could stand against him?"

  "I said, enough!" the jackal snarled. "I do not intend to stand against him. I intend to kill you and run. Have done with this game and save yourself death. Hand over to me the starhorse's hoof."

  Aeriel stared at him, startled. Was it the star-hoof they truly sought, not her? She felt a brief rush of gratification flit through her to realize perhaps she had done right in taking the hoof, interpreted the rime and the little mage's hurried instructions correctly after all.

  She blinked once to clear her thoughts, and searched her mind for cunning. "And... and what if I had this thing you ask for," she started, trying for a tone of confidence, even scorn; she was winded. She needed rest. "What would you do with it?"

  "There is no 'if,' " the jackal barked. "The lyon took you to the horse: so much we can guess. What other reason than to have its hoof? I and my fellow servants have been scouring these dunes a dozen years to find it...."

  "But why?" demanded Aeriel, stalling, stalling—would the lyon never come? From one corner of her eye she caught sight of him, now halfway down the slope, almost caught up to the limping, fleeing brach.

  "Our mistress requires it," the dog-jackal snapped, baring fang. "Ask no more. Hand it to me."

  Aeriel shook her head, slowly, held tight her walking stick, her muscles tensed, eyes on the jackal—but she made her face and voice all ignorance. "I do not have it," she replied.

  "This robe has no pockets." She raised her arms slightly to show him. "Did you think I might secrete anything upon my person?" The jackal cocked his head, eyed her with red suspicion. Aeriel dropped her arms. "I brought back nothing of the star-horse. He was dead."

  "Liar," spat the jackal. "You have it—you must—somewhere upon you. That pouch..."

  Aeriel lifted the black velvet bag, still slung from a thong about her neck, prayed for the lyon to come. She wrung the limp bag in one hand. "It holds nothing." In the background she heard the death cry of the brach in the lyon's jaws.

  "Liar," the witch-dog growled again, his muscles bunching, his eyes upon the pouch.

  "More likely charmed and only empty-seeming—"

  He sprang—so suddenly Aeriel was taken by surprise. Snatching the bag in his teeth from her hand, he knocked her back. She cried out, used her staff to ward him off. Falling, she felt the thong break from about her neck. The hard sand knocked the breath from her. The jackal came down upon her. For one instant his red, carbuncle eyes glared at her; his hot, foul breath scathed her cheek. Then she heard the lyon's roar and the jackal sprang away.

  She scrambled to her knees, saw all in an instant: the witch-dog already two bounds down-slope, the Pendarlon crouching over the fallen brach. A long wound was torn along his left leg and shoulder—she had not seen that slash before; his stance during the fight had hidden it. The jackal fled.

  "Pendarlon, stop him!" Ae
riel cried. "He has

  the pouch___" But she realized even as she heard

  herself speaking that with such a wound, even the leosol could never have caught him.

  The great cat staggered to his feet, lurched half a pace toward her. "Aeriel," he called—

  but his voice seemed oddly weakened, strained. "Aeriel, your staff!"

  But Aeriel's thoughts were already ahead of his words. Scrambling up from her knees, she snatched at her staff, lying where she had dropped it when she fell. Just out of reach, it slipped beneath her fingertips, sifted further into the coarse, slippery sand. Aeriel lunged for the stick, caught it up, whirled. She saw the pale, dark-spotted jackal, pouch in teeth, now halfway to the foot of the slope. Gauging the distance in that instant, she knew were she to wait even a half second more, he would be beyond her range and away.

  Aeriel gathered herself. Without a pause, striving to recall everything Orroto-to had taught her, she flexed her arm and cocked her wrist, took two half-running strides, and threw. The knotted staff arched up, sailed high like a javelin, point first. Reaching its zenith, it hung a moment against the black, starlit sky. Then it plunged, dropped. Aeriel, standing halted, panting on the hillcrest, saw the jackal, unaware of the danger overhead, sprinting down the pale orange duneside straight for the point where the shaft would come to earth.

  The thrown stick fell, fell, and just before it hit home, Aeriel's wrist-flick as she had launched it caught up with the shaft, snapped it around so the great knob of its head struck the dog's skull like a stone. Aeriel saw the jackal somersault, the black pouch fly from his teeth, and heard no cry. A great splash of sand flew up as the jackal landed, rolled limply a few paces to the slope's foot, and lay still.

  "Well done, daughter." She heard the lyon's cry dimly above the harshness of her own breathing and the pounding of her heart. "Well done."

  Aeriel half-ran, half-waded down the brittle-crusted, sliding slope then to retrieve the duar-ough's velvet bag and her walking stick. The jackal was dead. As Aeriel knelt in the sand beside him, she saw his eyes were clear now, colorless as glass and no longer red.