by Lou Hoffmann
“Thurlock,” he said as soon as he found him among the trees. He’d planned to tell him that he thought they couldn’t win, couldn’t keep their own people safe, if they tried to avoid killing the Earthborns with guns, but he never got a chance to say it.
Han rode in from the west with his banner flying and his Mounted Guard column close on his tail. They flooded down the impossibly steep slope that blocked the valley on that side, war cries rising to echo over the battlefield, Han’s fiercest of all. Simarrohn’s hooves darted between rocks and pitfalls, blazing a trail for the other mounts, and despite her zigzag descent, managed to move forward at breakneck speed.
Superbly timed, shifters arrived from the East, having come as Han had said they would through a tough, hidden pass much more manageable on four legs or with wings. They crested a small rise and flooded the valley, and the two Sunlands forces pushed toward each other, clamping the enemy ever more tightly like the jaws of a vise.
Han mowed a pistol-brandishing Earthborn down under Sherah’s footfalls before the man even knew what was coming. His sword dispatched a couple of zombies by cleanly removing their heads. Lucky lost sight of him when he moved too close to the cliff beneath the grove where he stood with Thurlock. Lucky thought once more of saying his piece to Thurlock, but Thurlock’s attention was on the battle below, and Lucky found it impossible not to watch too.
The battle surged toward Han’s company as they came down onto the field, the enemy gathering by command or instinct to meet this new threat. The Sunlands’ warriors and shifters had surprise on their side, and everyone among them fought with ferocious determination, but the enemy vastly outnumbered them, and even with inexperienced eyes, Lucky could see the Sunlands might not keep the advantage.
A clank of metal came from the edge of the ledge just inside the trees, just in the crook of the elbow formed from the ledge meeting the rise to the summit on the west side. He didn’t know what it meant, but it seemed dangerous, and he felt panic start to rise.
“Thurlock,” he said.
The wizard turned toward him and must have seen fear on his face, because he placed a heavy, comforting hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “It’s okay, Luccan. It’s Han.”
And it was! Ever resourceful, Han had apparently come equipped with a grappling hook and had used it to climb the steepest part of the slope. Quickly. Very quickly. Lucky spared a thought for assuring himself he’d never, if he lived to be twice as old as Han and worked out daily, match his uncle’s strengths and skills.
Han spared a few seconds to ask Lucky, “Are you okay,” but as soon as Lucky nodded, he turned to Thurlock. “We’ve got most of the enemy fighters corralled at the encampment—it’s under control and not much killing going on. But I think the story here is a little different. With all the… zombies? Okay, zombies mingled in, and the compulsion all of the enemy fighters seem to be under—there’s too much confusion. The shifters coming in just when they did, that worked out better than I expected, but there’s not enough of them to keep us on top for long. Our people are dying, because we’re trying not to kill the enemy. We can’t continue this way!”
Thurlock started to answer, but before he got two words out, a cadre of flame eagles swooped over their heads from the south. Rose rode Ghriffon, just like at the battle at Black Creek Ravine, and he swooped in so that he and she could consult with Thurlock while the rest of the oversized, fire-breathing birds circled over the battlefield. Lucky had an idea, and he stepped into the middle of the conversation. He butted right in.
“Uh… excuse me. I’ve called K’ormahk. I’m going to fly over and try to stop the people with those damned machines.” He realized his slip of the tongue too late, but neither Han nor Thurlock seemed bothered by him cussing. He muttered a “sorry” anyway, then continued with what he’d meant to say. “If we stop them—the machines—we stop the zombies, right? At the least I can harass them, slow them down. And… um, I could use some help.”
“Machines?” Ghriffon, Rose, and Han all spoke almost in unison. Thurlock explained, and once he had, they all agreed Lucky’s idea was a good one.
“But,” Thurlock said. “He’ll be out of my reach—Luccan, I mean. How can I protect him if I can’t even see him? I can put a shield spell on him, I suppose, but those work a lot better on someone stationary…. Han, you’ll have to ride with him, that’s the best solution.”
Han said, “Well, if that’s an order, but sir, I have to say I do have other matters to attend to, and he’s not without protection. K’ormahk has his own magic, I’d wager, and Luccan has Ciarrah and the Key and a lot of magic I don’t understand—”
“Neither does he, Han. That’s the problem—”
Lucky didn’t hear another word, because he saw K’ormahk swoop down outside the grove. He walked away from the wizard and warrior while they were in the midst of their argument, led K’ormahk to the place where the archers were set up for sniping, and consulted with Rio.
“Where exactly are those machines you were talking about?”
Rio directed him, then asked, “Why? What are you going to do?”
“Stop them, or slow them down, at least. I hope.”
“I’ll come with you, then. Let me grab some more arrows—I think we have a few flame arrows too. Those are amazing, by the way. I’d never heard of them before.”
Lucky stared after Rio, not sure at all that he wanted to take him flying over the battlefield. He wouldn’t be as safe as he was here in the archers’ trench. A few moments ago, he’d thought Thurlock and Han were being overprotective, but now he found himself in the same position—wanting to protect the boy he loved, even though he knew his arrows would help. He’d just have to hope their mail shirts and other bits of armor and K’ormahk’s magic would be enough, along with the Key and Ciarrah. He’d come all this way to help save the land he was supposed to lead—someday not too far in the future. He wasn’t going to sit it out. He wanted to do the most he could do, not the safest, and he knew Rio felt the same.
Rio returned after only a minute or two, they mounted up double, and K’ormahk flew them toward the half-hidden southwest corner of the valley.
Rose shouted at him as Ghriffon flew alongside. “Thurlock is fuming, and Han has gone pale with worry, so you’d better stay safe.”
Nearly at the same moment, Han’s thought came clearly to Lucky’s mind. “Lad, you’d best not get hurt out there. I’ll never let you farther away than arm’s length for the rest of your life if you do.”
Lucky smiled slightly, pretty sure it was an empty threat. He didn’t like making people worry, but he was glad for the love anyway. “I’ll do my best, Uncle. Promise.”
Rio leaned forward. “I didn’t know flame eagles were real.”
Lucky smiled slightly, comforted by Rio’s closeness, and turned his head to answer. “I only know about them because Han showed them to me—you know, in my mind. They’re really something in real life, right?”
Then the time for talk was over.
“Look sharp, Rio,” Lucky said with no particular emphasis. He’d seen Rio’s skill, and he trusted him.
K’ormahk led a diving charge toward the strange-looking Terrathians manning the horrible machines, and for a moment it seemed the job would be easy. They ceased what they were doing and did their best to hide their very narrow bodies in the shadow of their apparatus. But a squad of Earthborns bearing rifles came within minutes and set themselves up to shoot at the menacing flyers, and the attempt to stop the making of zombies and killing of captives—a supply of which were held in pens made of ropes of black mist-shadow and blue-flashing electricity—became a whole lot riskier.
Somehow Ghriffon communicated to the other eagles, and they set up a complicated maneuver whereby they took it by turns to swoop in, then zigzag overhead, and swoop back into a moving line. K’ormahk joined in the effort, and then the Condor and a half dozen or more eagle shifters started flying in and out of the formation, harrying the aliens on the ground. It made i
t harder for the snipers to find a single target, confounding them because they never knew where to look, or what flyer would be diving in where. The shifters’ clawed talons made contact from time to time, and the eagles’ piercing cries had even the battle-seasoned Earthborns cringing. Flame eagles used fire to great advantage, burning alien flesh and melting plastic parts on their sophisticated machines. Rose and Rio both fired arrows whenever they had an opening. Rio took one of the machines out for good with a flame arrow, and one of the eagles burned a Terrathian Prime—and sadly its unwillingly sycophant Echo—to ash. That required a concentrated, protracted flame, though, and the great bird was shot down in the effort, a high-powered bullet tearing her wing almost off at the shoulder.
Lucky nearly puked upon hearing her scream.
Rio whispered, “Gods.”
For Lucky, perhaps for Rio too, that was the moment their peril became truly real.
“Are you all right?” Lucky asked Rio.
“I have to be, Lucky.”
Right. They were committed to this fight, and so they’d soldier on.
K’ormahk, undaunted, continued taking his turn in the maneuver to harass the life-stealers, Rio letting arrows fly, and Lucky using Ciarrah in much the same way the eagles used their flame. A dozen times, close calls stole Lucky’s breath, sending him into a panic. A dozen more, then Rio’s sudden gasp and jerk nearly stopped Lucky’s heart with fear, but Rio’s dodge had been successful. In the midst of the fight, two huge flame eagles dove down to pick up the bird whose wing had been shot, but one more eagle was shot out of the sky right after that—one who’d been flying within ten feet of K’ormahk. He was so riddled with bullets he couldn’t be saved.
On the ground, about a dozen Behlishan’s Guard infantry had made their way to the southwestern end of the valley, and they rushed the Earthborn snipers. It provided a break for Luccan and the other flyers, making their job easier for a moment, but at great cost. The snipers turned their guns on the foot soldiers. Close-range shots blew through them leaving gaping holes where they exited, something Lucky could clearly see as the soldiers stood suspended for a long second before crumpling to the ground. Within another minute, the bodies got dragged away and piled atop the heap of corpses—potential zombies.
Rio once again choked out, “Gods.”
But for Lucky’s part, he figured he must be going numb or something, because although in his mind he was horrified, his body didn’t react to it at all. Or maybe he was just too tired to react much—even his brain seemed to be sliding forward on rails, no brakes. He asked K’ormahk to dive again at the Terrathians on the ground, but the great winged beast ignored him and joined the eagles. Led by Ghriffon and Rose, they circled in a steady climb and then winged back across the battlefield.
Back on the ridge, Lucky and Rio dismounted and leaned up against each other for a moment, then walked with K’ormahk to the spring hidden in the grove so they could drink. Lucky hugged K’ormahk’s neck, thanking him. Looking up at the unnaturally layered sky, he had the presence of mind to be thankful the enemy didn’t seem to have anything with wings. It made the grove and the spring as safe as any place could be in such a battle.
Until a wind whipped through, bending the tough old trunks and snapping the sparse branches. The force of it shoved Lucky and Rio up against K’ormahk, who bore it all with dignity. It was hot, this wind, bearing flecks of ash and sparking embers that bit when they made contact. Instinctively, Lucky turned his face in to K’ormahk’s folded wing, and gathered Rio under his arm. The worst thing wasn’t the wind itself, nor the sudden heat, but that even Thurlock and the other wizards seemed to have no idea where it came from or what it was.
The hot wind that stalled everything for Lucky and his allies remained unexplained, but it had exactly the opposite effect on the enemy thralls and zombies. They surged toward the steep slope that had protected the ridge, running and shambling in a roiling wave of flesh. Massed at the foot of the slope, they began to climb, driven and desperate, over rocks and gullies and brush, but mostly—mindlessly—over each other.
Lucky, like all the others atop the ridge, moved immediately to counter the attack. While others used arrows, bolts, swords, and spells, he Wished protection for all and then trained Ciarrah into the mass of tangled bodies. The sounds of this struggle disgusted him as much as the sights, but he thought perhaps gut-turning nausea was a good thing, keeping him at least from dwelling on fear.
But fear—or panic—stormed in a moment later after a bright light flashed in Lucky’s eyes. He heard Maizie give a bark of alarm from the ridgetop where she’d stationed herself at Thurlock’s back, and then everything—sound and motion—simply stopped.
Chapter Thirty-Three: Bloodred Fire and the Wizard of Ahmadou
THE SUDDEN absence of an enemy left Lucky with all the energy of his combined magics braced against nothing. He thought maybe he’d been stunned by some kind of explosion, but when his head cleared, he wasn’t looking at debris on a ruined battlefield. Instead, he stared into a chilling whirlpool of blue nothingness. Confused, he turned back toward Han and Thurlock to ask what was going on, but they weren’t there. Nothing was there. Or perhaps it was Lucky who wasn’t somewhere, but regardless, the moment was the scariest of the battle so far. But those seconds of fear paled in comparison to the heart-slamming panic he felt when he looked forward once more and saw Relian dragging a stunned Rio back through that Portal.
Even as Lucky ran full throttle toward the blue storm shouting Rio’s name, he wondered when he’d got so reckless as to do such a thing. At the same time, though, some calm corner of his being knew it didn’t matter that the action was impulsive, that Relian was a hell of a witch and he just a beginner at magic, that he was probably jumping out of the hot frying-pan battle and into the cold unknown fire. Relian had taken Rio, and he couldn’t let her hurt him.
This is a trick, Lucky, he told himself. She took him to get you. But that didn’t matter either.
He stepped into the swirling blue and a black wind swept him off the battlefield. The sensation was like, yet completely unlike, his trips through the Portals of Naught because, though he felt as if he’d left any possible world behind, this place wasn’t empty but filled with sensation. The winds stung his skin as if they carried millions of blade-sharp pellets, and they seemed to buffet him forward in some direction. The absence of light yet showed him things—horrible things: red hands and a bloody, toothy maw, a frozen lake with dead faces pressed against the ice, a red star with six blade-sharp rays hurtling toward him through a thick black mist. It all went by fast, though; before he could comprehend any one horror enough to really feel it, the blackness dumped him out on a hard, cold surface.
After a moment of groping, Lucky realized he’d shut his eyes tight, and he forced himself to open them. The first thing he saw was red—red pain behind his eyes, red light, and dark red marble that looked as if the rock had been bloodied so many times the stains had soaked in. He realized right away that wasn’t the case—it was simply red rock. It covered every surface in the cold chamber—floor, walls, ceiling. Even a bank of slight recesses along one wall, which looked like they might once have been windows, housed only the dark-patterned stone. Polished smooth, it reflected a torch flame that burned blue at its base but sanguineous red above. The air in the room was as still as the stone; the flame never flickered until the solitary man who had been standing in the farthest corner moved toward Lucky fast enough to create a draft. Carmine robes flowing behind him, his dark face set in a perpetual scowl, he made a forbidding figure, and at first Lucky expected an immediate attack. But before he could move in panic, the man stopped three long paces away and smiled.
“You remember me, boy?”
“Oh, yes I do, Mahros.” Lucky was shocked at how steady and conversational his voice sounded, because inside he quaked. Mahros had powerful magic, he didn’t like Lucky, and Lucky was—he looked around to double-check—yes, Lucky was completely on his own.
But when he thought that, he heard Ciarrah whisper, “I am here, Blade-keeper,” and at the moment she spoke, the Key tickled the center of his chest. “Why did you bring me here?”
“I didn’t. You remember the Lady Relian? She has reason to want you removed from Thurlock’s influence and Han’s protection. She brought you here and put you under my care because she believes I am her ally.”
The way he chuckled at the end of that statement ranked among the scariest things Lucky had ever heard. His heart boomed, but he reminded himself that he’d been in nasty situations before and survived. Now he was older and smarter, knew a little bit more, and had two awesome magical things to help him.
He said, “Aren’t you? Her ally, I mean?”
“Possibly. She and I have an important relative in common, and he is our singular shared enemy—not you, boy, Thurlock Ol’Karrigh. One shared goal, to see him fail and die. But where you are concerned, my plans and hers don’t precisely match.”
Lucky wanted to ask questions, but he figured that’s what Mahros wanted, so instead he did his best to look like he couldn’t care less about all the whats and whys that rose up in his mind when Mahros made that statement. As Lucky guessed, Mahros wasn’t able to stay silent for long.
“Don’t you want to know more about your future, Luccan?”
“I figure you’re dying to tell me, so whenever you’re ready is fine.”
A moment later, Lucky was thinking he might have been a little too flippant.
“You will die, of course, Suth Chiell”—he spat Lucky’s title as if it was at once ridiculous and ugly—“as an offering of blood to Mahl-Ahmadou, the eternal flame of the greatest manifestation of the vast Hunger toward which all things flow. But not yet. Not yet!”
Mahros’s eyes seemed to blaze as he raised his staff and pointed the metal tip at a point behind Luccan, hot red power pulsing out in a steady stream like electrical current. Lucky heard a cry of pain and turned to find Rio lying on the marble floor, Mahros’s awful power blanketing him. A Wish coalesced in Lucky’s mind and heart at once—a Wish for Rio’s safety, and one full of determination. Though he gave it no words its power set the Key of Behliseth alight. Power surged from Lucky’s heart, alternating current of golden yellow and purest white light, pushing back Mahros’s angry red heat. Lucky reached for Ciarrah and like the Key she seemed to hear his mind and know his purpose. Her violet light arced into the Key’s energy, and set it sparkling as if whole universes of gold and white stars were whisked into spiral orbits.
