by Helen Lowe
He opened his eyes to a cloud-wracked sky and Jehane Mor’s quiet gaze. “I think I found them, there at the end.” He spoke aloud just to hear his own voice, and hers, after so long in silence. “It was just a flash, no more, but they are alive and closer to us than before.”
She nodded. “You were gone a long time, but we can make some of that up if we cross the river now and ride until either night or the weather stops us. Although the storm, I think, will not reach this far south until tomorrow.” Tarathan saw that she had already brought the horses close, ready to leave. He took the hand she held down to him and came swiftly to his feet, holding both the hand and her eyes with the question in his own.
“I heard what you said when Lira died. I thought that you stood at my side.”
Jehane Mor’s expression was thoughtful. “It was some trick of the Gate, I think, or of Jaransor. I felt as though I walked with you, step for step, once you left the shelter of the watchtower. And I heard you pledge your word.” She shook her head. “I was—a little surprised. I felt a change then, too, in the pattern of events.”
His answering look was somber. “She died hard, they both did. I did not think you would object.”
She smiled faintly. “Would it matter if I did?”
Tarathan’s eyes did not leave hers. “You know that it would. But we embarked on this path long ago. Pledging my word to the dying only reinforces what we had already begun. As for a change in the pattern—” He shrugged. “With such power at play in there, how could it be otherwise? “
“Change lies at the heart of every pattern, in any case,” Jehane Mor observed, her face calm, if not untroubled. “And we are still one in this endeavor, as we have always been.” She withdrew her hand and turned, stepping into the saddle. “So now we must ride. I will do what I can to shield our passage into Jaransor, but I think our best hope now is speed if we are to find them before the storm breaks—or worse occurs.”
As if to second her words, her horse flung up its head and trumpeted a challenge to the sky. She spoke softly to it, soothing, steady. And then Tarathan, too, had mounted and brought his horse alongside hers, facing north toward the Telimbras and Jaransor. While she watched, he slid his horseman’s curved bow from its covering behind his saddle, strung it, and slid it across his back. “Ready?” he asked.
The gleam of her smile answered his, steel meeting steel. “I ride in your shadow,” she said, and both horses leapt forward as one, into the face of the wind.
30
The Shield Ring
Snow fell softly out of a shadowed sky, dusting the midnight world of Jaransor with white. It touched the still, upturned faces of Kyr and Lira where they lay, unmoving beneath the sky, and floated, delicate as lace, into a perfect circle around the hilltop where the broken watchtower stood. The snowflakes swirled more thickly around the jagged rim of the shorn-off tower, spiraling across its shadow, which stretched black and unbroken on the wintry ground. Hounds gave tongue, calling to each other in a wild baying that circled between earth and heaven.
Kalan tossed fitfully, half asleep, half waking, caught between the pain of his wound and a sense of danger pressing in. He was aware that the pearl on his hand was glowing and he heard the voice of the hounds again, belling through his dream and calling him to rouse himself, to take action. Slowly, he got to his feet, wincing at the pain beneath his arm—whether awake or asleep, that at least was real. A glance at Malian showed her sleeping where she sat, propped against the wall on the far side of the fire. But the glow of the ring tugged at his attention, drawing his eyes toward the tunnel. Kalan hesitated briefly, then followed its pull, making his slow, determined way up the curving corridor, one hand against the wall for support.
He paused in the shadow of the arch and saw that the world was filled with softly falling white. There was something else out there, too, prowling beyond the perimeter of his shield ring, baffled still, but questing, seeking. Kalan could see the feral gleam of its eyes, like two viridian lanterns in the heart of a greater blackness. It did not call or make any sound, not yet, but he knew what that sound would be when it came—and the picture to match it was there in his mind as well, gleaned from one of the many Darkswarm bestiaries that he had pored over in the Temple quarter. “Night Mare,” Kalan whispered.
“Careful, boy!” A heavy hand rested on his shoulder. “Do not name such a creature aloud, lest the very act of naming bring it to your side.”
Kalan jumped violently and twisted round, staring up into the masked face. “You!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“How could I not be here,” the Huntmaster inquired, “when you yourself observed that both I and the crow should be present? This is our place.”
“I saw the Hunt over the door,” said Kalan. His eyes slid to the crow, sitting on the black-cloaked shoulder. “I thought I was awake, but I’m not, am I? This is the world of dreams.”
The Huntmaster shook his head. “Do you know nothing of Jaransor, having walked into it so blithely? It is one of the few places on Haarth that exists simultaneously in both the waking world and the realm of dreams. This archway is one of the crossing points between the two, which is why I can come to you here unbidden. It is also the reason why you can perceive the demon that hunts for you on the physical plane, even though you stand within the Gate of Dreams. Your barrier,” he added dispassionately, “holds against the demon, for now.”
Kalan shivered. “I can feel it probing at the shield, but I don’t know what more I can do to stop it getting through.”
The black mask stared out through the lightly falling snow. “Probably very little, on your own. Its psychic power is considerable.” The hand on his shoulder tightened. “Yet you are the Token-bearer. You may summon the Hunt to your aid, so long as you are confident that your shield will contain it.”
Kalan stared at him. “But—isn’t that too dangerous? Whatever’s out there is on the physical plane, just like the siren worm in the keep. I thought you said that the Hunt had to be contained within the Gate of Dreams?”
The black mask looked back at him, inscrutable. “So it must. But your enemy is a psychic as well as a physical hunter and this is Jaransor, where you stand on a bridge between the two realms. Here, you will be able to call on the Hunt to act against the demon on the other side. And you can be sure of this, the demon will perceive the hounds.”
“So long,” Kalan whispered, “as they don’t break through into the everyday world.” He shivered again. “If Jaransor exists in both realms at once, then the barrier between the two must be very thin here.”
The smile beneath the mask was grim. “If the Hunt is roused, then the Huntmaster must master it. But only the Token-bearer may summon the milk-white hounds with their eyes of blood.”
Kalan hesitated, remembering the terror and power of the hounds—and what Yorindesarinen had said about the Hunt and its master being both an ancient force and a very strong one. He wondered, too, what the Huntmaster’s coming to him unbidden might signify. Like Jaransor, the Hunt was not a Derai power and that could mean there was some trick to this, some hidden purpose that Kalan could not see.
But, Kalan reminded himself, the Huntmaster did help save Malian from the siren worm.
He could feel the pressure of the Night Mare’s power building, icy cold and compelling, as it probed at his shield. The viridian eyes were brighter than before, and a great darkness bulked behind them. Soon, Kalan knew, he would require all his strength to hold the demon at bay—and it would not be enough.
“Use the Token or be lost anyway.” The Huntmaster’s voice echoed his fear. “Trust in yourself, Kalan. Summon the Hunt!”
Letting go of his fear, Kalan found, was like stepping off a cliff with the ground rushing up to meet him. He could feel the wild beating of his heart, his eyes wide open as the air streamed past him, and he felt ill and exhilarated at the same time. The moonglow of the pearl flared into the snowy night and formed a perfect circle around th
e crown of the hill, ending at the outer edge of the mindshield he had built before he slept. The pack of huge, milk white hounds materialized inside it, lunging and fretting at the perimeter of the shield ring. They were even larger than Kalan remembered, their scarlet eyes burning like watch fires in the wintry night. He could feel their hunger, avid for the hunt and the kill, as well as their strength, sliding like a second shield between himself and the compelling force of the Night Mare.
The dark figure of the Huntmaster picked up his spear from where it rested against the shadowed archway and stepped forward, standing tall and straight before the entrance to the ruined tower. Kalan let his breath out slowly and steeled himself to confront the demon, but the Huntmaster extended an arm, holding him back.
“Do not step beyond the arch. You must not let your enemy see that it has tracked you here. Let it believe that it has triggered one of the ancient powers of this place.”
It was only afterward that Kalan realized that the Huntmaster had spoken into his mind. All the Night Mare would have seen or heard was the straining, snapping hounds and the silent, black-clad figure with the ruined tower behind it. But there was no time to think about that as a force like a black wind beat in against the edge of his shield barrier and tested it; the sweep of power was cold, malevolent, and hungry. The hounds howled their reply, and all along the boundary they leapt and snarled at whatever assailed them from beyond the shield ring. The cold, deadly pressure lifted, drawing back.
The wind rose again beyond the protective circle, screaming in toward the hilltop—and the demon screamed, too, a long, heart-chilling cry, and came riding in on the wind’s back. Kalan flinched, but the hounds did not hesitate. They surged forward, baying their own thirst for blood, destruction, and death—and the flame-filled blackness stopped, hovering just short of the shield’s rim. The hounds growled, a menacing rumble that shook the earth, and the Huntmaster strode forward, his cloak swirling at his heels. “Begone from this place, Night Mare!” His voice was strong and cold, and the crow raised its wings and cawed in fierce counterpoint from his shoulder. “This ground belongs to the Hunt of Mayanne. You cannot hunt here!”
There was no answer out of the darkness, but after a long, long moment the viridian eyes winked out, one after the other; the mass of black on black that surrounded them retreated slowly, then vanished. The hounds began to relax, sitting or lying along the shield perimeter, the soft pearl-light glowing around them. The Huntmaster stayed where he was, his head turned slightly as though listening to the wind, or for some other sound beneath its voice, before walking back to Kalan. “Whoever called it Night Mare,” he said grimly, leaning the hooded spear against the arch, “named it rightly.”
“What do you know of it?” Kalan asked. Even beyond the Gate of Dreams, the wind was cold, and he folded his arms against its chill.
The Huntmaster shrugged. “Other than that it hunts with the Darkswarm?” The black mask, if it could be said to have expression, appeared sardonic. “You could say that the Derai themselves brought the demon to Haarth, for your Alliance dragged the Swarm here with it, caught in the vortex of their great portal that tore apart the fabric of worlds.”
Kalan stared at him and the sardonic regard was replaced with a certain grim amusement. “Did you not know that, boy? Ah well, it may be that some histories have too bitter a taste, even for the Derai. But the Night Mares are powerful predators, however they came here. Their powers are greatest by night, since they are almost blind in daylight—but do not be lulled by that. Their sense of smell is remarkably keen, sharp enough to hunt by scent alone. But night predator or not, I do not think the demon will dare this place again, not while the Hunt is here. My guess is that it will retreat and seek out allies, those who accompanied it across the Telimbras, and hope to pick up your trail again by day.” He shrugged. “And even in Jaransor, the Hunt cannot protect you in the daylight world.”
Kalan nodded, because he already knew that they could not stay here, that this respite was only for a night or until the snow stopped. He studied the hounds, watchful along the shield perimeter. “They seem different,” he said slowly. “Not so wild as when we first met.” He thought about what the Huntmaster had said, about this being the Hunt’s place. “You knew that’s how it would be. That’s why you allowed me to bring them here.”
The mask was unreadable. “Your need called us,” the Huntmaster said at last, “and we answered, for you bear the Token.”
Kalan was still not sure he understood the real reasons that the Huntmaster was helping him, but was grateful that help had come. He shivered and the black gauntlet clasped his shoulder. “You have overreached yourself, have you not?” the harsh voice said. “Well, it is never too soon to learn that psychic powers are no different from physical aptitudes. You may train and strengthen them, but you can exhaust them as well. So be wary, boy—Kalan—of your own limitations as well as the strength of your enemies.”
The crow cawed as Kalan nodded again. “Ay, he should indeed rest,” the Huntmaster said, as though answering someone that Kalan could neither see nor hear. He grasped the spear, turning back toward the snowy hillside. “You go, boy. Sleep. I will keep watch here.”
Kalan blinked, feeling the physical weight of his body drawing him back into the cellar, toward the warmth of the fire. The deeper layers of sleep pulled at him and he let himself follow, slipping beneath the tide. It was only at the last that he heard the harsh voice again, deep within his mind.
“It was well done, Token-bearer, building a shield that could hold the Hunt of Mayanne.”
31
The Hidden Tower
Hounds bayed in the deeps of Malian’s dream but another voice spoke through them, filled with both darkness and light: “Chosen of Mhaelanar, Beloved of the Nine.”
“I am here,” said Malian. “Who calls?”
Only the night replied, the sigh of wind amongst the tors and the whisper of the falling snow, soft as death and as quiet. In the tunnel beneath the hilltop there was only darkness and the relentless, grinding voice of rocks within the earth. Anger turned in that voice, a slow, burning rage that echoed the belling fury of the hounds as they pursued a shade through shadows. Malian ran with them, keeping pace with their red-eyed flight, and the tunnel changed into the hallways of the New Keep. Everything she saw was at odd angles, as though she hung from ceilings or moved through walls, hating the light and thirsting after blood and death with a hunger that was not her own.
Retribution. The word reverberated down halls and along corridors as the hounds bayed again, scenting destruction and ruin. A miasma of fear crept through the silent courts and Malian saw stewards and pages looking back over their shoulders, starting at shadows and fearful for their lives. Revenge.
The hounds howled and raced through the shadows but their quarry eluded them, slipping away into darkness. Blood.
Malian drifted, silent as a fallen leaf through the familiar halls, and saw the trail of the fallen: Two guards lay in a pool of their own blood in the Warrior’s court, and a third on a lonely stair down into the stable yard. A young priest sprawled, rigid in death, on the threshold of Mayanne’s Temple, and the expression on his face was dread.
All the dead, Malian realized, as she looked down from vaulted roof-trees and ghosted through arched doors, were those who had fought the siren worm. Images flicked across her mind in quick succession: rooms, people, voices speaking.
“Retribution and revenge,” said Sister Korriya, staring down at an ancient tome. “It will come for us all as it did for Torin and the guards. Even the wyr hounds cannot find it.” The faces that looked back at her were mute and frightened, all young: all those who had gone with the priestess to the Red and White Suite—all except for Torin, who was already dead.
The Earl of Night lifted a bleak, hard face in the Little Chamber and stared at Asantir with eyes like chipped stone. “Find me this demon and slay it! How many more must we lose?”
In another room,
at a later hour, Asantir stared down at the play of black-and-white pieces on a chessboard. “Blood feud,” she said softly. She turned her head and looked long and hard at the war chest against one wall. “Death my song, “ she murmured at last—and took down the two swords from their stand on top of the chest. Her mouth set in a grim line as she studied the patterns on the black scabbards, and then she thrust them both into the loops on her belt.
Night followed day, and the stars wheeled above the earth. In the Temple of Mhaelanar someone screamed in terror and despair. Voices shouted, feet ran, and a sinuous form slipped between darkness and shadow near the sanctuary where Korriya and Vern had taken refuge. The sacred flame burned on the altar and cast the silhouette of a flat, narrow head onto the wall, reared above a robed body. The head and neck were armored with chitinous scales; the long, lidless eyes regarded the priests with contempt. “Blood demands blood,” it hissed. “Your puny defences will not save you, even here in the sanctuary of your great god. Where is your Defender now, servants of Mhaelanar?”
The sinuous body wove through air and shadow toward the trapped priests. Malian could see the wave edge of its power bearing down on the rim of Vern’s psychic shield. Sweat gleamed on the young priest’s forehead; beside him, Sister Korriya picked up the torch that held the sacred flame. The light illuminated her face, expressionless and austere as the mask of the god.
They are brave, thought Malian, filled with a remote regret, but they will never hold. Even the baying of the distant hounds fell into silence, waiting.
A dark figure stepped out of the shadows by the Temple door. “Will you dance with me, Worm?” the newcomer asked softly, and drew a long, curved sword from a black sheath. The blade snared all the light in the Temple into itself. “Darkness,” said Asantir, “draws darkness, after all.”
