Daughter of Blood

by Helen Lowe

  So this is how it ends, she thought: alone except for a supposed Haarth urchin who turned out to be Derai. “It’s not your fault,” she tried to tell him, although she was not sure if her voice formed the words. “Not your fault, Faro.” Nimor had been right, but so, too, had she and Khar—whatever the boy’s part in this, he was debris caught in the flood, just as she was. Myr thought there was light where the shadow opening had been, though, so perhaps there would be a rescue for Faro, after all, if not for her. She was fairly sure there was not going to be anything for her, ever again.

  I did my best, she told herself: to be a true Daughter of Blood and the Bride my House wanted, and to serve the Derai Alliance. But Taly was right. I should have practiced my weapons more, like she told me. Taly . . .

  The hounds were louder now, and the light clearer. Myr could discern movement at its heart, although she could not make out details. She could hear that Faro was still crying, though, and tried to pat his hand by way of comfort, but was unable to feel whether she succeeded or not. I . . . should . . . have listened, she told herself again . . . to Taly . . .

  The movement against the light was darkness, which felt right. Despite what she had imagined Ilai saying, Kharalth with her battle glory would not come for Myrathis the Mouse, who ran from arguments and hid in shadows. For a moment Myr felt sure it was the crow, fluttering out of the tapestry, but the face that stooped over hers was undoubtedly a woman’s, even if the eyes were as sorrowful as the crow’s had been, gazing down on her from the sundered web. “Who?” she tried to ask, and was glad the pain had grown remote again as the darkness pressed close.

  “Emeriath,” the stranger said, so perhaps Myr had managed the question after all. Emeriath, she knew, was from the heart of one of the old dark tales, a lady of Night who had been captured by the Swarm. Together with Kerem, who came to her rescue, Emeriath had trodden the Maze of Fire and escaped. A lady of Night, but there was a link to Stars as well . . .

  Muzzily, Myr pondered whether Emeriath had been married to a Star lord: that might have been it. Even if she had not known she was dying, meeting a figure out of so old a story would have convinced her. Emeriath of the Sorrows was one of the lady’s names, although Myr was not sure if Ise had called her that when she related the story, or whether the phrase had come from a book, or simply out of the light that shimmered around them. She looks sad anyway, Myr thought, as the lady spoke again.

  “The spear has been claimed, but the Hunt is almost loose.” The sorrow was in Emeriath’s voice as well. “So now the hind must run, as she always does, or the fabric of existence will be torn apart.”

  “Captain Khar! The Storm Spear!” The defenders on the periphery of the assault were the first to absorb Madder’s arrival, but the chant spread: “Storm Spear! Storm Spear!” The defense steadied as the refrain was taken up, but the pressure on them was clear. Kalan pushed his personal shielding to capacity as he reached Nimor, and the foremost attackers eddied back as their supporting power dissipated. Nimor’s shoulders straightened, but neither he nor Kalan spoke because Arcolin was almost on them, his fresh troops pressing the assault.

  Kolthis was dead, his bloodied body lying a few paces clear of his cast-down pennant, with the last of the forsworn Blood honor guards fallen around him. Some had no wounds, so Kalan supposed their lives must have been tied to Kolthis in some way. Taly was still fighting, although the sheen of her battle fury had dimmed as Arcolin’s power built above the battle like a thunderhead. Disregarding Nimor, the Darksworn sorcerer extended his sword and pointed it straight at Kalan’s heart.

  Threat and promise, Kalan thought, as every glyph on Arcolin’s armor flickered with its own unique sorcery, before blending into a nimbus that coiled about the sorcerer like a cat. It stalked Kalan with feline intensity, too, testing his shield for weakness while the runes whispered of lingering death, fomented in dark places and brewed out of blood and poison. The sorcerer’s mindvoice twined through them, a rasp along the rim of Kalan’s psychic shield.

  “Thanir was right, after all. He said there was more to you than met the eye in the Red Keep. He warned, too, that it was wit, not luck, that ensured your survival, although Kolthis disagreed.” The sorcerer’s armored shoulders shrugged. “But neither wit nor luck will save you or your camp now.” Kalan wondered how Arcolin knew he could hear him, but supposed the Darksworn must assume the ability came with his other powers. Or since he was a talker, he might not care either way.

  More sorcery poured out of every rune and darkened the nimbus, which spiraled like the Gray Lands’ dust devils as Arcolin advanced. Kalan spoke softly to reassure Madder and removed the leather casing from the Great Spear, releasing a glittering, hornet hum of power. Momentarily, the fighting on both sides faltered, before the were-hunters howled in answer and the nimbus drew in tight about Arcolin, pulsing to the same rhythm as the howls—then exploded toward Kalan and his shield. The Darksworn troops roared and charged behind the magic’s blast, a flood tide of power and weapons, teeth and claws, intended to sweep the camp’s last resistance away.

  56

  Spear Song

  A net was dragging the darkness for Rook, hauling him back into the world of light. The net insisted that he was needed and refused to be gainsaid, even when he fought to sink back into the murk where there was no pain, and no shame of knowing he had brought calamity on them all by distracting Tirael and his company at a critical juncture in the camp’s defense. The world had exploded, he remembered that as he was pulled inexorably back into consciousness—and now it was a confusion of yells and running feet, war horns and battle cries, the clash of steel and the screams of the dying.

  Dying, Rook repeated, becoming aware that he was lying on a pallet close by the main entrance into the infirmary. And the attack on the camp included an onslaught of power, he could feel it even here. Shuddering, Rook curled into a ball against the aftermath of physical and psychic pain, and the return of memories in which the Swarm sorcerers tore at him, dissecting his farspeaking. No, he thought, curling tighter—but the net tugged at him: dying.

  Instinct told Rook the summons did not refer to the camp’s defenders, falling along the perimeter, but to a particular death that was calling out to him, or to his healing power. Dying . . . This time Rook followed the imperative tug, rolling from his pallet and crawling on hands and knees until he was clear of the infirmary. The pull strengthened once he staggered to his feet, drawing him toward the Bride’s tent. He fumbled over the ties before realizing the flap was already unlaced—only to cry out, lurching to a halt, when he stepped inside. The interior smelled of blood and burning, and Lady Myrathis lay at the foot of a tapestry that had been torn, or burned, in two, with a knife thrust into her. Captain Khar’s page crouched beside her, his face tracked with snot and tears and blood. Gore was smeared across his hands and clothes as well, but from what Rook could see, all the blood came from the Bride.

  Dying. Yes, Rook thought, because he doubted anything could be done with such a wound, even by Vael or the Sea House physician. He knew he should not repeat his farspeaking mistake, but run and fetch both of them immediately. He also knew that if he did, they would arrive too late. It might well be too late already. And this, Rook told himself, is something I can do. To atone . . .

  Dying. Something I can do. Atonement. The words were a refrain, but Rook was aware, as he knelt opposite the page, that without proper training or understanding limitations, what he intended doing could kill him and might not save the Daughter of Blood. But it was still something he could do, something that mattered. Sinking to his knees and placing his hands over hers, he tapped deep into whatever healing power he possessed and let it pour into Lady Myrathis.

  Taly was shouting out Brave Hold’s battle cry, but the Darksworn war cries drowned her voice as Madder and the wyr hounds leapt to meet Arcolin. Nimor’s marines answered with a Sea House yell as the first rake of Arcolin’s sorcery scored Kalan’s shield—but the black spear absorbed t
he brunt of the assault and turned the remainder back toward the attackers. Wary of the spear’s threat, the conventional forces parted, opening a path for the contest of power between Storm Spear and sorcerer. Arcolin snarled and sheathed his sword, pulling a spear of his own from the air. More runes were inscribed on both blade and shaft, the power twisting along them like flames. Kalan guessed that their touch, too, would burn—even as Arcolin spurred forward, striking at him simultaneously with both rune-spear and sorcery. This time, the magic clawed deeper into Kalan’s shielding before he threw it off.

  Madder sprang sideways, avoiding another spear thrust before wheeling to counterattack. Arcolin wove to one side, cloaked in the rune nimbus as the black spear thrummed and Madder spun about again, closing any potential gap before it opened up. Arcolin’s sorcery snapped outward a second time, the runes crackling, and Kalan pushed his psychic shield forward to intercept. The collision of power resounded above the battle, and both sides faltered as the Great Spear’s song swelled, cleaving a path through Arcolin’s nimbus.

  The sorcerer wrenched his horse away, spitting curses like lurker venom—because they were lurker venom, Kalan realized, expelling the psychic poison before it could dissolve his shield. Remembering Nherenor’s fate, he reinforced his shielding as Arcolin assailed him again. A were-hunter abandoned its own magical protection in a bid to hamstring Madder, and the roan whirled, countering the threat with hooves and teeth. Kalan swung the spear like an Emerian ladyspike, and the sweep set Arcolin’s horse back on its haunches as a wyr hound flung itself on the were-hunter.

  The two rolled over in a snarl of claws and teeth, almost beneath Madder’s hooves, before Kalan—wary of gutting strokes from below—kneed the destrier clear. His return sweep with the spear intercepted Arcolin’s strike, and he felt the physical and psychic strain as the weapons locked: runes pulsing against spear song, sorcery against shield-magic. When a second were-hunter raced in, Kalan flattened himself against Madder’s neck as the destrier pivoted to meet it, letting Arcolin’s spear whistle overhead. Straightening, Kalan spitted the were-hunter as it sprang for him, but the spear caught when he tried to wrench it free. Clamping his knees against the roan’s flanks, he abandoned his buckler and blocked Arcolin’s counterstrike with Asantir’s shortsword, before finally twisting the black spear free of the were-hunter’s corpse.

  Exultant, the spear thrummed its song of blood and death, while the sword sang in counterpoint, sparks of power flying as Kalan struck at the rune-spear again. He felt his weapons’ power soar as the two songs merged and Arcolin retreated, hurling more poison-laced curses. When Kalan pressed his advantage, the sorcerer raised the rune-spear high and cracked out a command—and the remaining were-hunters sprang into Kalan’s path.

  He’s withdrawing. The thought was fire in Kalan’s mind as the black weapons keened in unison. The wyr hounds and the marines were still with him—although he thought both were fewer than they had been, as more Darksworn in their bestial helms pressed in on Nimor. The spear-and-sword song built again, gradually rolling back the were-hunters’ magic, and Kalan became aware of Taly, reckless of Arcolin’s power as she hewed down from Tercel’s saddle, protecting his right. And like Taly with Kolthis, he was not prepared to let Arcolin escape. He had to finish the Darksworn or be finished, one or the other, both for the camp’s sake and—at a far more personal level—for Faro’s.

  A fresh wave of were-hunter magic swept toward Kalan as the black blades keened again, echoing his resolve and sucking the opposing power into themselves, Kalan was certain he could feel the weapons’ strength increase every time he struck home. Arcolin must have perceived the danger they presented because he was gathering his power, chanting runes that ignited in the air as he uttered them. His voice thundered, drowning out the battle roar, and the combat gradually grew dim.

  The Darksworn sorcery, Kalan realized, was drawing him onto a Swarm plane where Arcolin’s power would be enhanced and his own diminished. Grimly, he pulled the beleaguered earthworks and battle din back into focus as the Darksworn magic, shaped into a spear as black as his own, drove into his psychic shield. The resulting shock was so profound that both Kalan’s mind and body reeled. He knew he was trying to urge Madder aside and duck again as Arcolin flung the rune-spear in the psychic attack’s wake—but comprehended, with the slow-motion certainty of nightmare, that his evasion would not succeed.

  A wyr hound leapt through the half-light between planes, intersecting the rune-spear’s trajectory, and the cast meant for Kalan pierced its side. “I am Maurid, we are . . .” The mindvoice was barely a whisper as the beast fell. The glow of its eyes was already fading as Kalan pulled himself fully back into the daylight world, in time to witness light rising from the hound’s body. The black weapons wailed, striving to absorb the wyr power ahead of Arcolin’s rune nimbus, which also surged forward. Another of the hounds was too quick for both, reaching its fallen comrade and absorbing the light as Kalan restrained his weapons and Madder sidled, keeping Arcolin in view.

  Thwarted of the wyr hound’s essence, the Darksworn retracted his nimbus again. Sorcery roiled about him like an electric storm, and the runes were a lurid blaze, their collective power spiraling into a vortex of energy and magic.

  The spiral was some kind of pocket portal that he used to escape. I threw my dagger just as it closed . . . Malian’s description of her final encounter with Arcolin, beneath the great temple of Imuln in Caer Argent, resounded in Kalan’s memory. Now this spiral, too, was spinning faster, its inside curve beginning to collapse in on itself with the Darksworn sorcerer at its heart—but Kalan was gripped by an older memory still, of Asantir casting her black spear through another portal in the Old Keep of Winds and slaying the demon at its heart.

  A Great Spear was a very different proposition to a dagger. Yet sometimes, in order to gain all, one must risk all. Lord Falk had taught him that, among a great deal else. Channeling all the power he could draw into the spear, Kalan dropped his psychic shield and released the weapon in one great throw—through the closing portal, the protective nimbus, and the rune armor, to pierce Arcolin’s heart.

  Kalan just managed to restore his shield before the shockwave from the shattered portal reached him, but Madder still struggled to retain his footing as the reverberation shuddered out of the ground and into every bone. A voice was wailing and would not stop, but it was only as the aftershock cleared that Kalan realized it came from the Great Spear—which, rather than disintegrating with the portal like Asantir’s weapon, had pinned Arcolin’s body to the Gray Lands’ earth.

  Sheathing the shortsword first, Kalan worked the spear free. The wail faded altogether as he wiped the spearhead clean of blood, and the battle roar returned. The were-hunters were all dead, either bound to Arcolin’s will, as the former Blood warriors had been to Kolthis, or too close to the sorcerous blast. Among Kalan’s own, only Taly on Tercel, four marines, and six wyr hounds—all with heaving flanks and hanging heads, their fur thick with blood that was not their own—were still standing. Tehan was down with an ugly leg wound, her mouth clamped against the pain, and Nimor, collapsed onto a wagon tongue, was simply gray.

  Kalan had hoped the Darksworn would be cast into disarray by Arcolin’s death, but although the immediate attack had pulled back, the wider battle still raged. So either Arcolin was not the overall commander, or the Darksworn’s second-in-command had stepped seamlessly into his place.

  Despite aching in every bone and muscle, Kalan forced himself to assess the current situation. On the Darksworn side, a tall figure in black armor had joined the white-haired sorcerer, and shadows circled them both as the pressure on the breach intensified. The Star knights still held, but their bright armor was battle grimed and their numbers fewer, while the remainder of the defense, like the palisade, now presented as many gaps as ranks. Gathering Madder’s reins, Kalan dispatched the few lingering runners to warn his commanders to be ready to fall back.

  Although they’ll already k
now, he thought, that it must come soon, or never . . . “I’m needed in the main breach,” he told Nimor and Taly. The envoy just nodded, while Taly raised a hand, her good eye intent on the Darksworn who had fled when Arcolin fell, but were now regrouping. She did not turn even when Kalan urged Madder to a run, the wyr hounds racing alongside.

  Elodin and her cadre still had their power locked across the rupture in the shield-wall, but Kalan could sense their psychic strain, and also that Tirael and the rest of his knights were too hard-pressed to loan them much power. Swinging down beside the Son of Stars and slapping Madder away, he shouted to make himself heard. “Carve me a space forward of Elodin, my brother!”

  “Forward?” Tirael shouted back. But even as Kalan nodded, the Son of Stars was yelling orders and battling into the enemy ranks with his knights about him. Kalan followed with the wyr hounds, and while the Star knights held the attackers back, he worked the butt of the Great Spear into the center of the breach. “Now let’s see what you’re really made of,” he told all three black blades—and thrust Asantir’s swords into the ground on either side of the spear, creating a new barrier ahead of Elodin and her cadre’s psychic shield.

  The weapons crooned on a low note, each blade quivering as the energy storm pounding into the breach began to gyre around them. Whirlpools in the flood, Kalan thought, doing what he could to shield them from counterattack.

  Rather than drawing back, the miasma of shadows around the opposing sorcerers thickened, and a pallid, green-tinged glow haloed the white-haired adept. “Here it comes,” Tirael shouted, and Kalan could have sworn the Son of Stars was laughing as the black blades’ song deepened. But one of his knights—Liad, Kalan thought—was shouting, too, and gesturing urgently toward the wider plain.

  The wyr hounds pushed forward, wresting Kalan a momentary respite from the storm of power. Snatching at it, he saw a long, dark line emerging from the Gray Lands’ haze. From the amount of dust kicked up, this had to be the vanguard of Murn’s army, with the main force still concealed by the murk—and coming from entirely the wrong direction to be Derai.