When Darkness Falls

by Mercedes Lackey

  “It cannot be good,” Jermayan said uneasily.

  “Magarabeleniel said the city’s scouts thought there was an ice-drake somewhere on the plains, did she not? And indeed, I thought I smelled one as we landed.”

  “It is true that they suspected the presence of one, though they were not certain.”

  “It is not on the plains—not anymore,” Ancaladar said with certainty. “I believe we should find it before it finds her people.”

  Wearily, Jermayan mounted once more. Ancaladar folded his wings tightly against his body and trotted down out of the pass, until there was space to launch himself into the air.

  The Lerkalpoldarans were still in the trees below, invisible. The ice-drake’s lair would probably be above the tree-line, where it was colder. But it would be quickly drawn to the heat of prey.

  Even if he were at the height of his powers, no spell Jermayan knew had any effect upon an ice-drake, and Ancaladar had barely defeated the last one they had encountered.

  But we do not need to kill this one, Jermayan realized. We only need to keep it from killing the Lerkalpoldarans.

  “THERE,” Ancaladar said at last, indicating a cave in the ice below. Even without his Bonded’s heightened sense of smell, Jermayan would have known that something laired there, for the path to the entrance was polished smooth by the passage of a long heavy body. “I would never be so slovenly in leaving a path to my lair,” the dragon said disparagingly.

  “It is not as if anyone wishes to seek out ice-drakes,” Jermayan answered soothingly. “There is no reason for it to hide as you were forced to. But now we must draw it out.”

  “That is a simple matter, simply done,” Ancaladar said. He landed on the slope below the cave, and waited.

  They were only on the ground for a few moments before the ice-drake appeared. A wave of bone-numbing cold preceded it, and at that warning, Ancaladar flung himself into the air—not a moment too soon, for the long ice-white serpentine body whipped out from its hole with stunning speed, a fog of poison breathing from the ice-drake’s jaws as the creature swung its head about, looking for its prey.

  Ancaladar landed again, farther down the slope, luring his enemy onward, and the ice-drake obligingly rushed forward. This time, the black dragon barely made it into the air in time to evade the creature’s attack. It rose up on its coils, exhaling a thick fog of poison.

  Ancaladar wheeled around and struck the ice-drake from above and behind, seizing it, as he had the other he had fought, just behind the head.

  This time he did not waste time in trying to kill it, nor did Jermayan spend any of his own energy on anything but Healing spells to save his friend from the worst of the monster’s cold-damage. This time Ancaladar simply flew as high and as far as he could, doing his best to keep the wildly-thrashing serpent from striking his wings, or from coiling itself around his body.

  “I see a lake,” Ancaladar gasped, when they were well across the valley.

  “Yes,” Jermayan said, understanding what was in his Bondmate’s mind.

  With a groan of relief, Ancaladar released the ice-drake.

  It plummeted through the air, thrashing helplessly, and Ancaladar spiraled down after it to watch its fall. They flew beneath the low clouds, to where they could see the dark star of water in the center of the frozen lake where its impact had shattered the thick sheet of ice.

  But the lake was already freezing again—this time from within, frozen by the ice-drake’s radiant cold. The ice-drake’s head appeared above the surface as it churned the freezing slurry in its frantic attempts to escape, but though it thrashed madly, it could only get a small portion of its length near the surface, and was unable to pull itself out onto the unbroken ice. Jermayan and Ancaladar could see that the lake was obviously freezing faster than the creature could pull itself free of the water, and in a few moments it would be held fast beyond all escape.

  The lake itself would entomb the creature until it melted in the spring—if a solid block of ice with an ice-drake at its heart ever would melt—when the very warmth that had liberated the ice-drake might do what magic could not. Assuming of course that the ice-drake did not starve before then.

  At the very least, the east was safe from this ice-drake for now.

  “Let us return and tell the Lerkalpoldarans of their good fortune,” Ancaladar said, with a sigh of relief.

  “It will be a pleasure to have good news to share, for once,” Jermayan agreed.

  OVER a thousand souls had left the walls of Lerkalpoldara’s Winter City. A few days later, just under three hundred stood at the top of the pass with Jermayan and Ancaladar. It was only by the grace of Leaf and Star that among their number could be counted all of the women with child whom Jermayan had originally come to Lerkalpoldara to bring away.

  They had succeeded in keeping six sledges out of the original thirty with them, though they no longer had any draft animals running free. There were no spare horses left, either; the remount herd was gone, most ridden to exhaustion or death, the few survivors abandoned in the foothills.

  Magarabeleniel ruled alone now. Last night, as Jermayan had fought to protect their rear guard from Coldwarg following them across the ice, Chalaseniel had died among those fighting a shadewalker. There had been no time to stop to mourn him; no chance to recover his body, just as there had been no chance to honor any of the seven hundred who had died, whether by the jaws or hooves of monsters, or from cold, frost-burn, or simple exhaustion.

  “Now you must leave us,” Magarabeleniel said to him simply. “You have Andoreniel’s work to do, and we must go to Windalorianan, to tell Vanantiriel and Leamrainsia that Lerkalpoldara is fallen, and we are all that remain. The fortune of Leaf and Star go with you and with Ancaladar on your journey.”

  “And with all of you. And may Leaf and Star grant that we see you again on a happier day,” Jermayan answered.

  “Let it be so,” Magarabeleniel said. She turned her horse’s head and rode to the top of the column, and the riders moved slowly off through the blowing snow.

  BEFORE he left the Gatekeeper, there was one last task Jermayan wished to perform. He was not sure if he could, but he wished to try, for the sake of Magarabeleniel and her people.

  And here and now it should not be so difficult.

  He stretched out his hands toward the pass.

  A shimmering curtain of ice began to form in the air, soap-bubble-thin at first, then becoming thicker. It spread to the walls of the pass, and rose to the very top, in moments becoming a wall thicker and higher than those that had circled the lost Winter City, sealing the pass against anything that might wish to follow as unequivocally as a wall of solid rock.

  If the monsters that now roamed the Plains of Bazrahil wished to cross the pass, they would have to work for the privilege.

  Five

  The Best of All Beginnings

  OUTSIDE YSTERIALPOERIN, A fortnight after Jermayan’s departure, the army held a council of war.

  They were still awaiting new orders from Andoreniel, and the silence was beginning to worry all of the Senior Commanders, Redhelwar most of all. His forces were still not yet fully battle-ready, though another fortnight, at most, should see the majority of the Allies prepared to fight. Most unsettling of all, they had no clear idea of who to fight. Vestakia had still not been able to discover from the Crystal Spiders where the next—and Leaf and Star grant, the last—Enclave of the Shadowed Elves lay, nor did Redhelwar dare move his army against any lesser threat.

  IT was not a small group that was gathered in Redhelwar’s tent, though since the Battle of the Further Caverns, and the Battle for the Heart of the Forest, some long-familiar faces were absent from the strategy meeting, and would be forever. Nor was it restricted entirely to the Elves, for the Allied Senior Commanders were there as well.

  In addition to Padredor, Adaerion, Arambor, Belepheriel, and Ninolion, Rulorwen, Master of the Engineers, had been newly raised in rank. Though he and his command were not
mounted Knights, Rulorwen’s quiet promise was that if something held still long enough, he and his people would destroy it, tunnel beneath it, dismantle it for the army’s later use, or build a bridge across it.

  There were also two Elven sub-commanders present, for their specialized work for the army was vital: Artenal, Master of the Armorers, whose work it was to come up with new weapons and armor to deal with the evolving threats that the army faced; and Riasen, who had become captain of the Unicorn Knights upon Petariel’s death.

  Idalia was there both as Wildmage and as chief of the Healers, who were drawn from every race that marched with the army.

  Kerleu, Wirance, and Kearn attended to represent the High Reaches Wildmages and the Mountainfolk, including the farmers from the Wildlands who had fled to the High Reaches when Armethalieh had expanded her borders and had answered Andoreniel’s call for levies instead of returning home, adding their numbers to the small but valued cadre of Mountainborn foot troops. At home the Mountainfolk were organized first by families, then by clans, and at last the clans were gathered into houses. To an outsider, the Mountainborn organization looked like anarchy at best, madness at worst, for it was a structure designed to acknowledge the harsh realities of life in the High Reaches, where at the beginning of winter, no man—or woman—might be sure they would see the spring.

  As such, though they were fierce warriors, who did all and more that Redhelwar asked of them, they simply did not have the same sort of organization that either the Elves or the Centaurs did. What Kerleu, Wirance, and Kearn heard here would be carried back to the Mountainfolk camp to be discussed among them all, with a final decision reached only after hours—perhaps days—of arguing.

  Atroist was here for the Lostlander Wildmages, and Feyrt was here as the leader of the Lostlander fighting men. Though the villages were autonomous at home, here Feyrt had been elected absolute leader of all the warriors—Belrix, or War King—in a move unprecedented in Lostlander history. Though their numbers were small, they had already proven to be terrifyingly expert fighters, adept with their ancestral weapon, the murragh, or steelbride—a massive sword which, blade to pommel, stood taller than a tall man. Razor sharp and heavy as a war-axe, the murragh took much training to use properly, but it was said that an expert wielder could behead a running horse or slice a lightly armored man in half with one blow.

  Feyrt deferred to Atroist in all matters where the Wild Magic chose to give counsel, of course, for the Lostlanders lived more closely than any other folk with the power of the Wild Magic, since it had been their only defense against the constant raids of the Dark Folk, as they called Demons.

  Kellen was there; that went without saying. He was the army’s only Knight-Mage; the only Knight-Mage there was, so far as anyone knew, and the only one born in the last thousand years. This particular form of the Wild Magic gave an instinctive understanding of battle and war. Which didn’t mean Kellen always knew what he knew. Or that other people believed that he knew it.

  Cilarnen was there as well, though he had no true right to be, being neither a fighter nor one whose work was to support the fighters. But of all of them—even Kellen—he was the one who best understood Armethalieh, and he was the one who could best advise Redhelwar and the others in how to deal with her.

  And dealing with Armethalieh was one of their many priorities.

  Kellen had not seen Cilarnen since Kindolhinadetil had made his odd gift of books, and he was shocked at how changed Cilarnen seemed. The boy had lost weight—his skin was tightly drawn across the bones of his face and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes. He wondered if Cilarnen was still having his headaches, and if the Healers had discovered the cause. He promised himself he would make time to see Cilarnen after this meeting was over, and find out how his work was progressing.

  The traditional Elven formalities were shortened—out of respect to the humans and the Centaurs—to a single ceremonious round of tea.

  “We begin by hearing reports and sharing information in this informal manner,” Redhelwar said. “I regret to inform you all that fresh word has not yet come from Sentarshadeen.”

  There was a moment of dismayed silence as those present heard Redhelwar’s news.

  “Vestakia is making some progress in her task at least,” Idalia said with a rueful sigh. “She has ruled out the north and the east as locations for a Shadowed Elf Enclave—the lands around Windalorianan, Deskethomaynel, and Lerkalpoldara. Unfortunately, with the new encroachments, she’s starting to get, well, interference from the increased Enemy activity along our Borders and within the Elven Lands themselves. So far it isn’t bad, but if it gets worse, opening herself to link to the Spiders will become difficult, if not impossible.”

  “So we had better have an answer before then.”

  Kreylmedd was the warchief of the Centaurs, Redhelwar’s liaison to the Centaur camp, here with his lieutenants Siust and Truanolm. The three of them, between them, spoke for the Centaur army. In times of peace Kreylmedd was a landholder and a council member in the village of Mossmeade, and the beer he brewed was famed throughout the Wild Lands. Siust was a blacksmith said to be able to work iron fine enough to shoe the wind, whose forge held many fine young apprentices and journeymen, and had produced more than one master smith. Truanolm was a miller, whose eight sons and five daughters held much of the land between Merryknoll and Greenlaw, and whose fields kept his grindstones turning constantly.

  But fifty generations ago their ancestors had fought beside the Elves against Shadow Mountain, and if the Centaurs had forgotten much else about that time, they had not forgotten the need to be ready. Each generation they trained and prepared their Centaur warriors, even though they saw no more of battle than keeping the peace at country fairs and occasional run-ins with bandits and outlaws.

  Now the Centaurs were the backbone of Redhelwar’s army, for the Centaur nation was more numerous than the Elves. They fought as his heavy cavalry—infantry: slower-moving than an Elven Knight mounted on a destrier, but massive and unstoppable.

  “We will hope that she does, for if she does not, we will not be able to strike at the next Enclave of the Shadowed Elves. But whether we can do this or not, we must also find a way to warn the human city of the treachery she nurtures within,” Adaerion said.

  “Tell Armethalieh anything? Herdsman guide you,” Kreylmedd said with a cynical snort.

  “To warn the City of a Thousand Bells is only one of many priorities,” Redhelwar said, summoning the meeting back to order. “The Frost Giants are gathering beyond Deskethomaynel, and in a moonturn their shamans will be able to batter through the land-wards and the Frost Giants and their kindred will walk the Elven Lands unopposed. There is plague in both Deskethomaynel and Windalorianan—it brings fever and delirium, and many are stricken. There have been no deaths yet, but they are expected.

  “And this day, at last, riders have come from Deskethomaynel, bringing terrible news. Lerkalpoldara is no more. Its Flower Forest is gone.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence from the Elves in the tent.

  “They were besieged by the beasts of the Shadow, their passes sealed by winter, their numbers too few to defend themselves—not that any defense would have been possible against Them.”

  Kellen groaned inwardly. This was hardly the sort of talk he wanted to hear from the army’s general, especially when he was talking to his senior commanders.

  “When Jermayan went to the Winter City upon Andoreniel’s orders, he saw how it was with them,” Redhelwar continued. “By the grace of Leaf and Star, Jermayan and Ancaladar were able to unseal the pass leading out of the valley and help in the evacuation, but losses were yet heavy. At the pass he had to leave them to make their own way to Windalorianan while he flew on to Deskethomaynel, from which he sends this message, so he knows not how many of the three hundred survivors of the city reached their destination.”

  “Leaf and Star deliver us,” Belepheriel said softly. “One of the Nine is gone.” />
  “Believe me, I share your grief,” Kerleu of the High Reaches said, “but before I came to this council I spoke over distance with my home village. My wife tells me there is sickness there as well—perhaps of the same sort that has stricken your cities—and in the other villages nearby. She says that the Forest Wife has warned her that sickness will soon come to the plants of the forest as well, and the Huntsman warns that the monsters our cousins of the Lost Lands have long feared and fought are now moving into our domain.”

  “They can be fought,” Feyrt said simply. “But your losses will be heavy. The story-songs tell us that the first year the Dark Folk came to ravage us, after we had gone to live in the Lost Lands, half of all the Folk died before we learned how to fight them and win.”

  “That is no comfort,” Kerleu snapped, “when we have stripped the High Reaches of her Wildmages and fighting folk to come here and die in Elven Lands! We’d meant to draw the Enemy to us, but instead They seem to be everywhere but here—in our homes, and at our children’s throats!”

  “What are we to do?” Redhelwar said aloud, as if he were alone in the tent.

  Everyone, including Redhelwar, looked toward Kellen.

  When he had first ridden off to war—it seemed like a century ago now!—Kellen had been the only one who knew it really was a war, and that Shadow Mountain was as serious about destroying them in the here-and-now as it had been a thousand years ago. Then, he had realized that the only way to get the Elves to believe him—and to follow a battlefield strategy that had any hope of winning—was to teach them to trust, not Kellen-the-teenager, but Kellen-the-Knight-Mage.

  Apparently he’d succeeded.

  He took a deep breath.

  “They want us to scatter our forces,” he said, beginning with what they all knew. “They want us to try to hold the whole of the Elven Border against Them, and it can’t be done. They are trying to pull us in every direction at once. Warning Armethalieh has to be our highest priority—not because it was once my home, and still is Cilarnen’s, and not because it is the largest human city, but because if They take it They will become too powerful to be stopped. If warning Armethalieh won’t work, we have to keep Them from taking it by some other way.”