by Helen Lowe
“No.” Malian hesitated, as though deciding how much to say, then she shrugged. “I had a very strange dream last night. Although maybe it wasn’t a dream, it might have been a farseeing. I could hear hounds barking, and then it was like I was back in the keep again and the second siren worm was there. I watched Asantir kill it.” She frowned, as though something about this memory bothered her, then shrugged again. “And then I woke up, but I could hear this voice calling me. It had been in my dream as well, but this time I was awake and I knew I had to answer it, to find out what it wanted. So I did. I went outside and found a shadow tower where the ruins are now.” Malian paused and the look she shot him was defiant, as though she didn’t think he would believe what she was about to tell him. “Yorindesarinen’s armring showed me how to climb the shadow tower, but there was a crow here as well. It spoke to me, helped me work out what I had to do—” She stopped. “What?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Kalan said quickly, then shook his head. “No, it isn’t nothing. Are you sure the crow spoke to you? Was it all that you met out here?”
Malian crossed her arms. “I know it sounds strange, more like a dream than reality, but it was definitely real. And the crow was all I met at first, although later—” She broke off again. “But you wanted to know about the helmet. I should tell that part first.”
Kalan glanced at the dented helm and nodded, then felt his eyes widen as Malian told him about what the crow had said to her, and finding the moon-bright helm at the top of the hidden tower. “It was the helm that had been calling to me,” she said. “Yorindesarinen’s helm, Kalan. I wish you could see it like it was then, both darkness and light, glowing on the black plinth.” But Kalan was shaking his head from side to side and she stopped again. “What’s wrong?”
“I am,” he replied bitterly. “I was supposed to tell you that the lost arms of Yorindesarinen would be seeking you, and that the armring would help you find them. Hylcarian told me,” he said, seeing the question in her face. “I was dreaming a lot in those days before we left the New Keep—because of the siren worm, I think, but it was all jumbled at the time. But I met Hylcarian in the dream and he gave me the message for you.” Kalan wondered if he looked as miserable as he felt. “But I wasn’t allowed to let anyone else know, so at first I didn’t dare risk telling you. And then with everything else that’s happened, I just forgot.”
Malian was nodding as though pieces of a puzzle were falling into place. “So that’s how you knew about the second siren worm! I saw you in that dream, although I thought that was all it was at the time, just a dream—probably because you were with the hunt that was on the tapestry in my room.”
“The Hunt of Mayanne,” Kalan said, and knew from her expression that she must have seen the hounds and the Huntmaster last night, as well as the crow. “The only times I’ve seen a crow, it’s always been with the Huntmaster.”
“It was last night, too.” Malian looked around the hilltop. “It told me that this was the Hunt’s place.” After a moment she folded her arms again, tight across her chest. “When I put on the helm,” she said, her voice very low, “I saw Kyr and Lira, dead in the snow.”
Kalan nodded, feeling the sharp ache of her grief, answering his own. “I know,” he said gently. “I saw them, too, in a dream.”
Malian’s eyes were fixed on the distant speck that was the hawk, but Kalan could see the glitter of her tears. “You’re right,” she said, not looking at him. “We should go. Carry on, like Kyr said.”
They swung into the saddle, but Kalan looked back at the faded carving over the archway one more time, trying to reconcile the ruined tower with the power and deadly beauty of the Hunt. “Come on,” Malian said, a little sharply, and Kalan nodded, letting his horse follow hers.
She’s upset about Kyr and Lira, he thought, and Nhairin as well. He was upset himself, about the guards, and knew they were both worried about the weather and their supplies lasting, on top of the Darkswarm pursuit. “What about a portal?” he asked abruptly, as his horse drew level with hers. “Could you open one to the Border Mark? According to the accounts I’ve read, power-wielders from the Blood didn’t need to be in a keep to use those sorts of abilities.”
Malian grimaced. “I’ve thought about that, but back in the Old Keep I knew my destination well. I’ve no knowledge of this country or the lands to the south. And there are too many stories of people who opened portals at random, without reference points, and never came out again.” She shivered and Kalan did, too, thinking about the void that had swallowed the Raptor of Darkness. “Besides, I had help in the Old Keep: you, the heralds, the other priests. Opening a portal large enough to carry ourselves and the horses over that sort of distance—” Her look was apologetic. “I just don’t know if I could do it on my own. It could act like a beacon for our enemies as well, who might have the power to follow it—unless you could shield them out?”
Kalan shook his head and Malian sighed. “I wish we could, though,” she said. “Open a portal, I mean.” Kalan just nodded.
The day, although windless, was still cold as they climbed higher into the pass beyond the watchtower. Snow-speckled hillsides rose steeply to the overcast sky, throwing deep shade across parts of the road; the horses’ shoes rang loudly on every stone and rib of rock. Kalan could no longer see the hawk, but uneasiness prickled along his shoulder blades and the horses seemed nervous, laying back their ears and showing the whites of their eyes, although there was no sign of pursuit.
“I’ll be glad to be out of this pass, “ Malian said, her voice low.
Kalan nodded. “It’s going to snow again, too, before long.”
The pass snaked on through fold on fold of hills, but after a while the steep slopes pulled back and a creek twisted out across a narrow flat. Like the much larger Telimbras, it was wide and shallow, with braided channels that twisted between shingle banks. The ford was in the center of the flat, at the creek’s widest point, and the rushing water looked very cold, although low enough to cross in safety.
“We should refill the water bags here,” Kalan said, as they approached, “since we may not find another stream for a while.” He heard his father’s voice, an echo out of the past, telling him that a warrior always did the hard things first, lest they became too hard to do at all. “We should cross first, though,” he added, looking down at the water’s cold swirl.
The creek purled past the horses’ knees as they waded through, but they crossed to the far bank without mishap. “I’ll scout up past that first corner if you look after the horses and the water bags,” Kalan said, as they dismounted. The path rose again toward the end of the flat, bending out of sight around a sheer bluff, and the trees on either side grew taller, making it difficult to see what lay ahead. A solitary snowflake floated down, settling on Kalan’s nose as he walked forward.
Behind him, one of the black horses screamed, and Kalan whirled to see both animals rear high, tearing their reins out of Malian’s hands. They came down in a lunging run, straight toward him, and he jumped for the side of the track as they thundered past. But his attention was all on Malian and the creature of nightmare advancing across the ford.
It was shaped approximately like a horse, only larger, with four legs, a mane, and tail—and it was black as the heart of night. The demon’s eyes were no longer viridian flame but opaque and gray as pebbles; its nostrils flared scarlet as it quested the wind for scent. The mane was a mass of writhing serpents, each individual head darting at the air; the tail was a long supple lash with a spike at its tip, and the legs ended in claws rather than hooves. Instead of walking on those claws, the Night Mare drifted above the water like smoke, the horselike head swinging toward Malian. When the velvet muzzle opened, Kalan saw a double row of razor-edged fangs.
He could see five riders now, waiting a short distance back from the ford. Four of the riders wore armor and closed helms, each one shaped in the likeness of a grotesque bird or beast; the fifth, cloaked in black on a black
horse, sat silently beside them.
The Night Mare, Kalan thought, must have used a concealing spell to hide them all. Far too late, he remembered the Huntmaster’s warning about the demon’s uncanny tracking ability, even though it was practically blind by daylight. The blank eyes were fixed on Malian now, and the distance between the two had narrowed; the Night Mare looked as though it could reach her with little more than one bound off its powerful hindquarters. The hideous head snaked forward, the serpent mane twisting and snapping in anticipation.
Kalan forced himself toward the creek, although his limbs felt like lead and nausea churned in his stomach as he caught the first rotten-meat whiff of the Night Mare’s scent. He stopped, choking down a surge of bile, and stooped to pick up a rock. It was pathetic, Kalan knew—a rock against armed warriors and this Swarm demon, but he held on to the rock anyway, willing himself forward again.
Malian had stopped backing away from the Night Mare, as though she recognized that retreat would not help her. She stood very straight instead, her head high as she looked beyond the Swarm demon to the five riders. “What are you doing with Nhairin?” she demanded. “She is a retainer of the House of Night. Release her at once!”
Kalan wondered why he had not realized sooner that the cloaked, silent figure was Nhairin. Her messenger horse seemed restless and reluctant. Its head was being held on a close rein by one of the other riders and a line of foam ringed its mouth. Nhairin, however, did not move or react in any way.
“What have you done to her?” Malian said, her voice ragged.
“You are in no position to make demands, Heir of Night.” A voice of smoke and terror, filled with echoes, boomed in Kalan’s mind. He shivered, clutching his rock, and wondered how Malian could face the Night Mare without flinching, or retching at its stench. Yet her back, which was all he could see of her, remained resolute.
“Night is true to its own, Darkspawn! Whatever you have done to Nhairin, you may not have her!”
“Fine words,” the mind voice sneered, “although you may find there is little enough left to have. But first, shall we see what you can do against me, little Heir? “
Malian’s fists clenched. “Perhaps nothing,” she said. “But I intend to try.”
The Night Mare lifted its terrible head and the opaque eyes glittered. Power sliced into Kalan’s mind like an ax and he reeled, almost dropping the rock. He heard the echo of malicious laughter as Malian swayed. A gray miasma billowed out from the Night Mare, creeping toward her across the water—and then everything happened at once.
Malian shouted defiance, snatching up the water bags that were lying near her feet and hurling them at the Night Mare. The demon growled as the bags smacked hard against its muzzle and exposed fangs; the miasma thickened and surged forward. At the same time, a harsh scream echoed Malian’s defiance from above and a great falcon hurtled out of the sky, straight into the Night Mare’s face. Powerful pinions beat at the serpent mane, and talons raked the opaque eyes.
The Night Mare growled, drawing back, and the watching warriors cursed and reached for their bows. One of them took aim at the falcon as it wheeled, circling to come in again. “No!” Kalan shouted. He ran forward, throwing his rock with desperate strength. It flew across the creek, smacking into the bowman’s elbow, and the arrow went awry. The visored helm turned in Kalan’s direction and the riders began to advance, joining the fight.
The Night Mare lunged, trying to spring clear of the water as Malian stooped for rocks of her own. The falcon shot past Kalan and closed with the demon again, but it was far from an even contest. The gray miasma swirled, reaching to entrap the bird, which strained to break free, evading a vicious snap from the fanged jaws and narrowly avoiding a flung javelin as it strove for height. Kalan looked around for another weapon as the hawk beat clear, knowing it was only a matter of time before arrows or the Darkswarm javelins found one or all of them. On the riverbank, the Night Mare’s tendrils of smoke and shadow were beginning to curl around Malian, following her every time she twisted aside or backed away.
The falcon shrilled its battle cry above their heads, banking steeply as it turned to attack for a third time. Malian screamed, struggling against the Night Mare’s power, while beneath them the earth rippled and then shook. The warriors’ horses plunged, shying in fear as the air above the creek bed tore apart and two great gray horses came striding through. “Over here!” screamed Kalan. “Tarathan! Jehane! We’re here!”
Tarathan’s horse plunged through the creek and rammed the Night Mare’s near shoulder, knocking it sideways. The Night Mare roared but the gray horse was already turning, charging the mounted warriors while Jehane Mor confronted the Swarm demon. The ground continued to undulate as the baleful head swung toward the second herald; gore from the falcon’s talons oozed from one opaque eye. The gray miasma swept away from Malian and toward Jehane Mor, only to recoil from an invisible wall. It banked, trying to roll around the obstruction, but was pushed back onto the Night Mare.
Kalan crouched to pick up more rocks, his gaze darting back to Tarathan. The herald had loosed an arrow that punched through armor as though it were cloth, tumbling the nearest Darkswarm warrior out of the saddle, then dropped from his own saddle to hang by one leg while he shot another arrow from beneath his horse’s neck. A second warrior reeled, pierced through the shoulder, and his horse shied, colliding with the riderless mount so that both scrabbled to keep their footing on the still-rippling earth. A crack ran along the ground and all the Darkswarm horses neighed wildly, struggling against their riders’ hold. One warrior loosed an arrow, but his horse’s plunge sent it clear of Tarathan, whose own mount closed the intervening gap in a burst of speed; the herald swung himself upright and struck at the bowman with one of his swords.
The rider collapsed sideways off his horse, while the warrior beyond him wrenched his struggling mount around and away. He pulled Nhairin’s reluctant messenger horse along with him, the steward still silent and unmoving on its back—but the warrior with the shoulder wound had recovered control of his mount and drawn his sword. He charged Tarathan and the herald blocked his strike. The ensuing struggle was brief and fierce, ending with the Darkswarm warrior lying motionless, facedown on the edge of the creek.
Further out in the ford, Jehane Mor and the Night Mare were locked in a struggle where smoke and shadow were pushing hard against an invisible wall. Kalan moved toward Malian across the undulating ground, struggling to keep his balance as the shingle slid out from beneath his feet. Just as he reached her, the smoke and shadow rolled forward as though it had gained an advantage. Jehane Mor’s hands rose in denial and the miasma was driven back, but not so far back as before.
The herald’s expression was concentrated, her eyes narrowed, and her horse barely avoided the fire dart that shot at them from the smoke. The Night Mare sprang forward, its clawed feet and serpent mane extended, its jaws stretched wide. Jehane Mor twisted in the saddle, lifting her arms in an abrupt gesture, and the air between her hands spiraled into a funnel that pushed the Night Mare back—but for the first time since the day tore open, the creek bed between Malian and the demon lay unprotected. The creature howled and sprang sideways, a tremendous jump toward Kalan and Malian, and disappeared.
“Shield!” There was no remoteness in Jehane Mor’s voice now and Kalan acted instinctively, slamming a mental wall around himself and Malian. He felt the Night Mare’s flare of psychic rage as its unseen attack was thwarted, but it remained invisible. “Stealth hunter,” whispered Kalan. “The Nine save us!” He focused on where the Night Mare had last been seen, straining all his senses to pierce the wall of daylight, but could detect nothing.
Jehane Mor’s horse stepped out of the water, its ears flat and nostrils distended as it tried to smell out its adversary, but the rotten-meat stench had vanished with the demon. Tarathan, too, was urging his horse through the creek as Malian fumbled amongst the stones, straightening with the old pot helm in her hands. She jammed the helmet
down on her head as Kalan’s stretched senses caught something at last, the slightest bending in the light or whisper over stone. Air and rocks exploded outward as a force lunged through his shield barrier and Malian staggered back, sitting down hard on the rocky ground. The Night Mare rematerialized in midleap—and Malian’s arms flew up, flame pouring from her hands.
The fire blast caught the Night Mare in the air and hurled it backward, roaring and twisting, before it reared skyward, its clawed forefeet raking at the sky. Yet even as it bellowed the gray miasma swirled thickly, smothering the fire.
“Nine!” cried Kalan. “It’s going to recover from that! It’s going to attack again!” Malian was already back on her feet and Kalan tried to rebuild his shield, to hold the Night Mare at bay. Tarathan was advancing, an arrow notched to his bow, but Kalan doubted that the herald could succeed where Malian’s wildfire had failed. Kalan groaned, trying to think of something, anything that he could do.
The ground cracked, a report like winter ice shattering, and one of the fractures beneath the Night Mare yawned apart. The predator dropped into the gap, its roar becoming a scream that echoed and reverberated between the hillsides as an updraft rolled it off balance, sucking the demon further into the earth. Kalan covered his ears, not quite taking in what was happening—then realized that the fissure was still moving, splitting the earth on a line aimed directly at Malian. She seemed mesmerized by its approach, frozen in place.
Another scream rang out, clear and wild as the falcon swept down, beating Malian away from the crevice with its wings. She stumbled back and the falcon soared up and away; the crevice, Kalan saw, had stopped moving.
What now, he asked himself numbly, staring at the yawning gulf and the frantically struggling Night Mare. Only a few moments before it had been terrifying, unstoppable: Now it seemed impotent as a fly, caught in the web of some ancient and unforgiving spider. The edges of the earth began to close, first creeping, then inching toward each other, and finally rushing together. There was one last despairing howl from the Night Mare, still fighting to lift itself clear, before the earth snapped closed and the world was still again.
