by Helen Lowe
“That was not Hylcarian,” Yorindesarinen explained, still patient, “but a remnant fire that was bound into their cone lights long ago, against exactly the situation they encountered. The residual fire was sufficient to combat the eldritch light but not to slay the Darkswarm outright, since only the Blood may call on the Golden Fire to kill or consume. Now call Hylcarian, while there is still time!”
The entire pile of bodies was twitching now, wriggling like maggots and as loathsome to the horrified watchers. “Nine forfend!” muttered Sarus. “How in the name of all the Nine do we kill something that is already dead?”
Malian stepped forward, shaking Asantir’s hand from her shoulder. “You don’t,” she said quietly. “I do.”
She smoothed back her tangled hair and pushed up her sleeves. On her arm, the silver armring burned with cold fire. Now the first step had been taken, it was as though she knew what to do by instinct. She opened her mind to the vastness of the Old Keep, layer on stone-built layer, from its secret heart to its abandoned crown amidst the windswept peaks of the Wall. She felt the touch of Kalan’s mind like an anchor at her back, solid as the rock of the keep, as she sent her mindcall spiraling out, summoning the Golden Fire. “Hylcarian! I, Malian of the Blood of Night, call on you by right of the ancient bond between your kind and the Derai! Hear me, Hylcarian, and answer! “
She closed her eyes, shutting out the faces around her, some puzzled, some disbelieving, and prayed that Hylcarian would not take long to respond. The Fire, after all, was not the only power that might hear so compelling a call. “Hylcarian! “ she cried again and could not repress a flare of excitement, knowing it was the first time that name had been called by anyone in Night for half a thousand years.
“Summoned, I come; called, I answer!” The light-filled voice was a thunder in the room as well as in Malian’s mind and she opened her eyes to see amazement replacing disbelief on the surrounding faces. Light flowed into her like a golden river, a torrent of molten fire that seared down every artery. She was alive with it, blazing like a torch and in danger of being immolated herself unless she could redirect the energy and power. Malian raised her arms and the Fire crackled around them like lightning, golden white and blinding as it streamed out from her fingertips. She sensed rather than saw those around her turn away, throwing their arms over their eyes as she extended her fiery hands toward the twitching bodies of the Darkswarm dead. She alone was able to watch, steady-eyed, as fire engulfed the corpses, incinerating them to fine ash.
She saw something else as well, a pale thread of light that spun away from the place where the ashes lay and fled back into the darkness. Pursuing it with her mind, she saw a tall figure standing at its other end, surrounded by a swirl of power. The figure was eldritch as the light, but unmistakably a man. His face was more skull than flesh, all sharp planes and hollowed eyes with one long elflock of pale hair curving down beside it—although he still, Malian thought uneasily, bore a resemblance to the Derai. In his hands, he held a long, pale rod carved with hieroglyphs and runes; even looking at it made Malian feel nauseous.
“Come away, Child of Night,” Hylcarian’s mindvoice was inexorable. “Do not let him perceive you, for he is both powerful and vicious. Destroying his works here will give him enough of a setback, until you grow into your full power.”
Reluctantly, Malian turned away and Hylcarian sent a final tongue of fire crackling along the pale thread, so that it snapped and recoiled back toward its source. “More than enough of a setback,” the Fire said with satisfaction. “Nirn always did bind too much of himself into his spellcraft. But now for our own dead.”
The golden wildfire surged as Malian turned, raging so hot and fierce that her body stumbled. Hard hands came down on her shoulders, steadying her. Kalan was still there, too, Malian realized, an anchor in her mind; she could feel Jehane Mor’s strength supporting his, deep and cool as water. Malian sheered away from the coolness and depth, raising her hands again. The golden fire poured out of them, onto the bodies of their own dead, and consumed them utterly.
“Done,” said Hylcarian, a long hiss of satisfaction. “And well done, Child of Night!”
“Not quite done,” Malian said aloud. Maintaining her link to the Fire was like riding a wild horse, but she held on. “That sorcerer was not the last of them. His was only one of the voices that I heard in the darkness. If we take the long, slow way back they will snap at our heels and bring more of the company down—unless you can hold them off on your own?”
“If I could hurl them from this place by main force,” Hylcarian replied, his thunder filling the room, “I would have done so long before now. I lost too much, alas, on that dire night when Xeriatherien ripped our fire from all the keeps—and afterward the Blood of Night abandoned the defences that might have kept this evil out.”
Malian reeled from the sense of loss and the sorrow that accompanied the Golden Fire’s words. What had Haimyr called this story when he first learned the Derai sagas? “A tragic history,” that was it—but she did not want to add another footnote now. “Why throw lives away unnecessarily if together we can open another portal, directly into the New Keep?”
She felt Hylcarian’s reluctance before the golden voice spoke. “It is a grave risk for you, Child. Opening and holding a portal for such numbers takes enormous strength and will light a beacon for your enemies.”
Malian shook her head. “I suspect we’ve done that already. But look at the company. There are too many wounded and everyone is tired. Add our enemies into the mix and the road back may kill us all.”
The hiss and crackle of fire filled the air. “You are right,” Hylcarian said at last. “The risk must be taken. But even with the barriers down, I will not open a portal from the Old Keep into the New, not while the House is still reeling from last night’s attack.” The fiery voice paused again. “I could take you close, though, somewhere in this Old Keep.”
“The old High Hall!” Malian cried eagerly. She could still see the faces of the dead disintegrating in the searing blaze of golden flame, and feel the creeping chill of the eldritch light. Turning her head, she saw black gauntlets, steady on her shoulders, then looked up to meet Asantir’s eyes. The heavy leather of the gauntlets had begun to smoke, but the Honor Captain’s gaze was unflinching.
“We heard, my Malian,” she said. “And we stand ready. Command us!”
Malian strove to keep her voice steady, although she still felt half on fire. “As soon as the gate opens, everyone must go through. It might feel like stepping into air, but you will be quite safe.” She did not wait to hear Asantir’s reply, but focused on the Golden Fire again. Kalan and Jehane Mor were still with her, supporting her strength with theirs; now she reached for Tarathan’s power as well, letting it tap into her own like a thread of fire from the earth’s heart. The Golden Fire flowed through her and into them all, a connecting web of molten gold.
“Ready, Child of Night?” asked Hylcarian, a rumble of distant thunder.
“Ready!” cried Malian, the lightning’s snap after a thunderclap has died away. She pictured the old High Hall in her mind: the wooden minstrel’s gallery, the pillars of stone, and the ancient doors. “There!” she said and felt Hylcarian’s quick, wordless agreement. She shuddered as the Golden Fire blazed up in her again, and felt Asantir’s hands tighten, holding her up. Malian straightened and extended her arms once more as the golden light flowed down them, not to destroy this time but to save. She watched it flicker and twist along her fingers before curling outward like a fiery vine, creeping and growing until it formed a door in the air. The burnished threshold hovered just above the floor and the flaming apex pressed into the roof; within the frame, the air shimmered like a golden veil.
Malian looked around and saw mingled hope, wariness, and wonder as the veil thinned and they all saw the old High Hall, close on the other side. She wondered if she had enough strength left for speech, then relaxed as Jehane Mor spoke for her. “We must be swift,”
the herald said.
“The Heir must go first,” said Asantir, iron in her voice, but Malian shook her head. The door would close once she passed through, so she would have to go last. She closed her eyes, feeling the effort of holding the door open—but soon, soon it would all be over with, and done. They would all be safe.
’“Ware!” said Kalan, in a queer, strained voice. “We’ve got company.”
Malian opened her eyes and turned her head slowly to where another portal was forming in the air behind them. This one was all smoke and darkness and the substance within it bubbled and heaved like boiling pitch, only without heat. A bone-chilling cold emanated from its center, accompanied by a wave of relentless hunger and dark, driven malice.
“The Raptor of Darkness comes,” said Hylcarian, “diminished though it must be from last night’s battle. The Darkswarm insurgents wager all on a last, dire throw.”
“The hunter-in-darkness,” said Tarathan calmly, as though calculating odds, but Malian saw sick fear in all the young priests’ faces.
Asantir’s touch on her shoulders lightened. “Then we had better stop it before it gets through.”
“She is right,” said Hylcarian. “Even wounded it is still a dire foe—and we cannot fight for long and still hold our own gate.”
“Can’t we just flee now and close our gate behind us?” Kalan asked.
Everyone looked at Malian, forcing their eyes away from that deadly portal, but she shook her head. “It would only—follow us.” She had to force the words out. “We must—deal with it—here.”
If we can, she added silently, although her thoughts were racing. Yorindesarinen had said that only the Blood might call on the Golden Fire to kill or consume—and the last time they fought the Raptor she had been the only member of the Blood present, but had fallen away before the end. Malian bit her lip, knowing that this time she had to hold on. Whatever had happened before, or the reasons for it, the Raptor was still hideously strong.
Beside her, the guard called Korin was shaking his head. “It will deal with us, more like,” he muttered.
“Enough!” Asantir’s eyes were narrowed on the bubbling center of the Raptor’s gate, where a form was starting to take shape: an impression of vast but still partly folded wings with a sharp, avian head emerging between them. Power, too, was spiraling out through the half-open portal. It plucked at the edges of their minds, famished and searching, seeking for weakness: a chink, Malian realized, through which to suck out their souls. “We must attack now,” said Asantir.
“Yes!” said Hylcarian. A line of golden flames ran across the floor between the Derai and the dark gate, checking—but not stopping—the Raptor’s gyre of power. The dark portal nearly filled the chamber now and the Raptor’s avian form was clearer. Through the Golden Fire, Malian sensed that it hung on the lip of a vast abyss into which all life and matter flowed.
Behind her, someone sobbed. Tarathan was beside her now, fully joined in the Golden Fire, and Malian recognized the lightning that coruscated around him from the previous battle with the Raptor. His voice wove in and out of the Fire, part of the hiss and whisper of the flames. “We must hit it now: through you, but with all our strength, or it will be too late.”
Slowly, Malian raised her arms and touched the fingertips together, directing their apex toward the center of the dark gate. A long tongue of flame licked along her arms and hovered there, coiling around them like a serpent.
Darkness seeped from the Raptor’s portal as the avian head stooped down, turning sidelong to fix them with a baleful eye. “Do not meet its stare,” Hylcarian warned, “or it will consume you utterly, mind and soul.”
Beneath the hiss and crackle of the Golden Fire, a new voice sang. Its note was dark and grew swiftly into a glittering, menacing hum, as though a nest of hornets had woken in their midst, angry and prepared for battle. The voice fueled Malian’s will to resist the Raptor, but she had to exert all her self-discipline not to release her concentration on building power and trace the song’s source.
“Nine!” exclaimed Korin, sounding shaken. “What is that?”
“An edge,” said Asantir, cool as steel, and stepped forward, a tall, black-shafted war spear in her hand. She was smiling, a smile so terrible that even Malian wanted to avert her eyes, while the spear itself made her shiver. The blade was black as night and shaped like flame; its voice was the hornet’s song, that fierce, fiery battle hum.
Afterward, no one could say exactly what happened next except that everything happened at once. The Raptor filled the dark portal completely, thrusting both its beaked head and half-open wings forward for the final push into the chamber—and the Golden Fire exploded. Flame lanced from Malian’s outstretched arms in the same moment that Asantir cast the black spear, a smooth, powerful throw. Spear and fire blazed through the air together on a deadly trajectory that tore apart smoke and shadow and pierced the heart of the Raptor’s darkness.
The Raptor screamed, a furious cry that echoed on and on and made everyone clap their hands over their ears. Cracks ran across the roof and mortar began to fall as the avian shape reared toward the ceiling, its vast wings fanning wide as the Golden Fire lanced into it again. A conflagration ignited, deep within the Raptor’s mass, and the scream became a shriek as the demon was sucked backward, teetering on the edge of its own abyss. The portal shook—then the fiery darkness at its core exploded and the Raptor’s gate collapsed, vanishing completely.
“Well!” said Hylcarian to Malian alone, and she could feel his sudden focus on the Honor Captain, who was kneeling on the stone floor, her head bowed. “Ay, casting that spear might well drain her.”
Asantir lifted her head. “Look!” she gasped out. “See—what is happening!”
Everyone followed her upward gaze and saw that the cracks from the collapsed portal were spreading across walls and roof. “Flee!” Hylcarian cried. “Through the gate—swiftly! I will stay and hold back the collapse lest it bring the whole keep down, Old and New alike.” A copingstone fell out of the ceiling and shattered on the floor. “Run!” Hylcarian urged again. “I cannot help you hold the gate open and bind this place together at the same time, not for long.”
They ran. The sound and the strong snatched up their gear and the wounded at the same time; even those who had looked askance at the golden portal before did not hesitate, but plunged through. Soon only Malian and Tarathan remained, still locked into the Golden Fire, while Asantir leaned heavily on Garan’s arm. Another stone fell, smashing into shards beside them.
“Why do you wait?” demanded Hylcarian. “Go!”
Tarathan spoke for Malian, who was beyond words. “You must go through,” he told Asantir. “Malian has to wait until the last, for she links our gate to the Fire.”
Asantir frowned, then nodded and stepped through, still supported by Garan. Tarathan looked down at Malian. “Can you hold?” he asked. She managed a minimal nod, knowing she would be all right so long as she remained locked into the Golden Fire. But the pressure on Hylcarian was immense. She could feel his power and strength pouring into the fabric of the Old Keep, trying to halt the process of disintegration—yet he needed more. He needed the power he had lent to her, but she was not sure that she had sufficient strength left to release that power and her connection to the Fire at the same time, without collapsing the portal. She was not even confident of being able to move on her own.
Tarathan, still linked to both her and the Golden Fire, seemed to understand. He scooped her up and in two swift strides they were in the gate, momentarily suspended there. A split second and another long stride later and they, too, were through. Willing hands reached out to take Malian, setting her gently on her feet. She swayed, but Tarathan kept a steadying hand on her arm. “Not yet,” he said, commanding her. “You must close the gate.”
“That’s … easy,” whispered Malian, and released the link to Hylcarian. The Golden Fire fled away like a tide and the last of the flames around the doorway flickered, t
hen snuffed out with a soft huff of disturbed air. Dark flecks danced before Malian’s eyes and she thought she might have fainted, except for Tarathan’s hand on her arm. Another hand touched her hair, very gently, and she reached out blindly, clinging to the physical reassurance of hardened leather and cold mail. “Are we safe?” she whispered.
“Very safe,” Asantir’s voice said. “It was well done indeed, my Malian.”
“It was your spear that slew the demon, Captain,” said Tarathan, his low tone matching hers, “as much as the Fire did.” Malian lifted her head blearily, trying to focus on their faces, unsure whether Tarathan meant anyone else to hear him. She should have guessed, though, that Kalan, hovering close by, would overhear.
“If that spear was what I think,” he said, a thread of excitement burning through the weariness in his voice, “then it would kill anything, even a Raptor of Darkness.”
Asantir was standing without support now, although she still looked drained. “And what do you think it was?” she asked, with the slightest rise of her brows. Everyone was listening now and Kalan looked suddenly nervous. His reply, though, was steady.
“‘Of death my song and black my blade, for Kerem’s hand by Alkiranth made.’ Even to touch the edge of such a weapon, the slightest nick or scratch, is to die.”
“But that can’t be right,” protested Var. “The black blades of Kerem were swords.”
Kalan nodded. “It’s true that Kerem’s swords were black blades, but he also had other weapons. And Brother Belan said that because the legend of Kerem is one of our oldest, some variants confuse or intertwine the hero with even older stories, myths even, of the god Tawr, the Spearbearer. In those stories, Kerem had the use of Tawr’s own weapons, including the spear.” He had lost his nervousness, Malian noted, when it became a question of what the histories did or did not say. “But every variant agrees that Kerem’s arms were all black blades.”
