He had his army positioned as well as possible now, considering the fact that their backs were to the Golden City and they could not retreat into it—or into the sea.
He held Belepheriel’s troop back as a reserve. They would be needed in order to relieve the cavalry wings, give them time to disengage and—if they were incredibly lucky—get to their remounts.
The Centaurs would simply have to stand. But Kellen did not mean them to stand for long. Hold against the first charge, then collapse and fall back, drawing the Enemy in with them to where the two cavalry wings could swing in on Them and hack them to pieces.
If the battle went the way he hoped.
And no battle ever did. He already knew that.
In the distance, he heard the silvery sound of the Unicorn Knights’ war horn. Enemy sighted.
“Sound the horns,” Kellen said to Dionan. One thing, at least, can go just the way it has gone for the last thousand years.
All around him, from every part of the army, the war horns sounded the call to battle.
In moments they saw the first outliers of the Demon Army: Deathwings and Coldwarg. But the Elves knew how to fight the Deathwings now. They launched flaming arrows into the sky, and for each one that found its target, a Deathwing burned.
Behind them ran an undulating wave of Coldwarg, and among them, ten times their size, enormous black creatures similar to the one Kellen had killed in the mountain pass. Shadewalkers.
They could be killed.
He felt as if he stood above the battlefield now. He could see the enemy moving through the trees. Goblins and Frost Giants. Ice Trolls. Dwerro mounted on the backs of serpentmarae. And behind them all, their leader. Kellen could not see him clearly, even with the battle-sight, only a shining blackness where he was.
But he was the one Kellen needed to kill.
Somehow.
He called out orders, making final dispositions of his troops now that he could see the enemy they faced. The first of the Frost Giants broke through the trees. They hesitated, confused; they had expected to face a line of Elven Cavalry and saw only Centaurs.
The Centaurs roared a battle cry and charged forward.
The battle was joined.
“A proclamation?” Lorins said.
“It must be done,” Cilarnen said. “You must tell the people of the City—at once—where the power of your spells comes from, and what part they play in aiding you. Their aid must be freely given.”
“This is heresy,” Ganaret said.
“Do it,” Volpiril said. “It seems nonsense to me, and I am certain it will cause riots. But there is rioting already, Ganaret, or have your servants not informed you? It will be done within the hour. Now come. This chamber is needed for other matters.”
The six members of the High Council—and the three envoys from the Allied Army—walked from the Council Chamber. Standing outside in the hallway were a hastily-summoned Circle of High Mages. Not one Magewarden stood among them.
“My lords of the Council. For what purpose have we been summoned here at such an unreasonable hour?” the eldest of them demanded.
“The Wards have been breeched,” Ganaret said. “You must rebuild them. At once.”
“But—But—But—It is not the proper Hour for such a Working! Our preparations … it will take Bells …”
“Then begin at once,” Ganaret snapped. “Or do you wish this City to be undefended?”
“I can help them,” Cilarnen said. “I think it can be done more quickly. But there is much to do. If I am to work here, you must do as Idalia and Jermayan ask you to do. For the good of the City.”
“I will not work in a Circle with this … barbarian!” the elderly High Mage said.
“You will stand in the Great Circle with my son, Lord Kerwin, or none of us will stand anywhere at all,” Volpiril said. “Have both your wits and your knowledge of the Art both deserted you, that you do not recognize what he is? See that he has what he requires. Come, Lord Ganaret. You have a proclamation to write.”
Suddenly there was a sound of horns, audible even within the halls of the Council House itself. A moment later, the roar of a dragon—Ancaladar—shook the walls themselves.
Lord Kerwin flinched. “What—What—What was that?”
Volpiril smiled. “Our Allies. And if you do not wish to meet them, I suggest you work well and quickly.”
He turned away.
IDALIA and Jermayan followed the others to another room. Like the Council Chamber, it was crafted all in black and white marble, but this room had a large round ebonywood table in its center. Thirteen chairs ringed it. One, of course, was more elaborate than the rest, and Volpiril seated himself in this one. Apparently he had decided to declare himself Arch-Mage in Lycaelon’s absence.
Idalia disliked him completely—he was a High Mage, after all, and had done much to ruin Cilarnen’s life—but she certainly admired—if that was the right word—his ruthless single-mindedness. A lesser man—such as any of the rest of the High Mages—would still be sitting in the Council Chamber, arguing about whether or not Cilarnen was telling the truth under a spell that not only compelled him to tell the truth, but enabled all of them to tell whether he was telling the truth or not.
A Page entered at Volpiril’s summons.
“Bring tea and food. Send for Lord Lycaelon’s secretary. A proclamation must be drafted, and we will require the Arch-Mage’s seal. If there are any who have urgent business with the Council, send them here.”
“I …” the Page was about to protest, and obviously thought better of it. A lifetime in the Golden City taught nothing, if not obedience to those who wore the gray robes of Magehood.
“Yes, Lord Volpiril. At once, Lord Volpiril.”
“SO you now think you have all you would once have reached for, eh, Volpiril?” Lorins said.
“I have the distinction of not having served under a Darkmage these past moonturns, if that’s what you mean, Lord Lorins,” Volpiril said silkily. “Unlike all the rest I see here at this table.”
“We have work to do, and not much time—in case none of you have noticed,” Idalia said tightly.
Volpiril inclined his head condescendingly.
“I beg your pardon, my lady Wildmage,” he answered smoothly.
“Wildmage?” Harith said in horror. He began to rise from the table.
“Sit down!” Volpiril thundered. “If we must ally ourselves with Wildmages to save ourselves from Demons, then that is what we shall do. Lord Anigrel has told us time and again that the Wildmages are evil—I believe that is reason enough to think kindly of them. It need not leave this room.”
“But… but… the Wild Magic is Tainted. It leads to Congress with the Dark,” Lord Dagan sputtered.
Volpiril regarded him balefully. “Perhaps in time. None of us will argue that it is not a sorcery of anarchy and disorder. But if it does lead to Congress with the Dark, it will not do so today. And it is today that is my concern. Were Lady Idalia a cesspit of foulness, Lord Cilarnen would not ally himself with her. Nor would our ancient Enemy be working so hard to destroy the Wildmages. Now, if we may continue?”
“Thank you—I think,” Idalia said sourly. “In fact, if you kept accurate records, you would know that the Wild Magic is the older form of magic. Cilarnen believes that what you call High Magick was created during the Last War specifically to fight against Them. We have found that the spells of the Wild Magic, and the High Magick, working together, can kill Them. And nothing else can. This may be why it was invented in the first place.”
Volpiril, Leaf and Star blight him, actually looked interested. He summoned a Page.
“Send for Dyren Lalkmair,” he told the boy. “If we are to speak of ancient magicks, he must be present. And by the Light, Lord Ganaret, if you tell me one more time that this is either irregular or unseemly, I shall take you to the walls and feed you to that Light-blasted dragon that sits there myself.”
Idalia glanced sideways. Jermayan l
ooked amused—not that anyone at the table but she would be able to tell.
THE Frost Giants, just as Kellen had hoped, charged. The Centaurs fell back. The wings of the Elven Cavalry swept sideways to give them room—and to deal with their own enemies. Kellen’s reorganization of the army bore useful results almost at once: the Frost Giants were not used to dealing with an enemy who used tactics so similar to their own, yet were so much smaller than a mounted Elven Knight. Their comparative slowness was costing them as they faced the Centaurs.
On the wings, the cavalry formed squares, protecting the archers, both mounted and foot, who fired on the Deathwings and Coldwarg. Square was the safest and most effective method of repulsing the attacks of the giant white wolflike creatures; though there were casualties, the Elves were not losing as many as they could be. And the Coldwargs were dying.
The Shadewalkers presented a more difficult problem with their ability to heal their wounds so rapidly, one that cost all who faced them dearly. But arrows and cast lances could weaken them, and they, too, could be killed.
Suddenly the wind rose. There was always a steady wind coming in off the ocean, but now that wind increased tenfold. Kellen felt a ripple of Wild Magic over his skin. The Wildmages were working the weather, and he wondered why.
Suddenly he smelled smoke, and understood.
One of the burning Deathwings must have set the forest on fire.
It would have been winter-dry to begin with—not much snow here—and he suspected that Demon magic had simply killed all the trees where they stood. If there were fire, the Delfier forest was going to go up like a torch, and if they didn’t want to be caught in a firestorm, somebody was going to have to do something about it.
The fire spread.
It began to rain.
He saw—sensed—a break in the line, and spurred Firareth forward, shouting orders.
BY the time Lord Lalkmair had arrived, tea and food had also arrived, and Cilarnen’s proclamation had been drafted and sent to be copied and distributed over the Arch-Mage’s seal, though Lycaelon’s secretary, Journeyman Nircan, had bleated and whimpered and had to be threatened severely before he would comply. The proclamation was simple and blunt, stating simply that the spells of the Mages of Armethalieh were fueled by the energy granted them by the people of Armethalieh, drawn from their bodies by the Tokens of Citizenship which every Citizen of Armethalieh wore.
“And henceforward they may choose to wear them—or not,” Idalia said firmly.
She knew this was what Cilarnen would have wanted. What the basis of the High Magick had to be in Armethalieh, from now on. Power—participation in any spell of the High Magick—must be a gift freely given, just as it was for the Wild Magic.
“Preposterous!” Nagid said, pounding his fist on the table.
“If they don’t choose to wear them, they can leave,” she said.
“Leave?” Ganaret said. “Where in the name of the Light will they go?”
“Anywhere they wish,” Idalia said. “There is more to the world than just one city.”
“Write it down as she wishes,” Volpiril said, interrupting what promised to be another long drawn-out argument. The High Mages might despise women, but they seemed to be more than willing to argue with her. “There is reservoir enough at the Temple of the Light for a sennight at least. We must survive today before we worry about the future. Light knows, half of them won’t see it and the other half won’t believe it.” He smiled wolfishly at Idalia. “And any who do will blame Lord Lycaelon for this decree, not me.”
She smiled back. “And all of you will have a lot of explaining to do, when we win.”
DYREN Lalkmair was the very image of a befuddled scholar-Mage, but even Idalia had heard of him, for he had been famous—or infamous—among the Mageborn in the City since long before she had been born. There was nothing he did not know about the history of the High Magick. Which meant, of course, that his studies had veered very close to the edges of the Proscribed Arts even at the best of times.
Frankly, considering the way things had been going in the City lately, she was surprised he was still alive.
He entered the room and stopped, staring at Jermayan.
“One of the Elvenborn,” he said in disbelief. “Here?”
He looked at Idalia. “And Lord Lycaelon’s Wildmage daughter?”
He regarded Lord Ganaret sternly. “And Lord Volpiril, sitting in conclave among you once more? You have much to explain, Lord Ganaret. For years you have forbidden me the slightest freedom in my studies, saying that such license would lead to unsoundness, chaos, and anarchy. And yet, I find that you have taken far more liberties than I would ever have considered.”
“Perhaps you have noticed that the City is on the verge of being overwhelmed by Demons, and that there is a dragon sitting on the walls?” Lord Volpiril asked.
“No, no, I have no time for such things,” Lord Lalkmair said. He stopped, seeming to suddenly take notice of what Volpiril had said. “Demons? A dragon? No, not possible. The Great Dragons were all killed in the Darkmage Wars. And the Demons were destroyed at that time as well.”
“They’re sitting right outside the walls,” Idalia said. “Do you want to go look?”
“Certainly not, Lady Idalia,” Lord Lalkmair told her acerbically. “It would undoubtedly all be Wildmage illusion.”
“It is not Wildmage illusion,” Jermayan said firmly. “Nor were They all destroyed. They have returned. They have kidnapped the Arch-Mage Lycaelon Tavadon to use as a sacrifice to summon He Who Is back into the world, and we must stop him.”
“Well, that’s very interesting. There must be an ancient Land-Shrine around here somewhere. I always thought there might be. But the Council would never approve my petition to go outside the walls to look for it.” Lord Lalkmair didn’t sound in the least worried by the possibility of the imminent destruction of the entire world.
At least Idalia now knew why Dyren Lalkmair was still alive. Anigrel hadn’t bothered to kill him because the man never took his nose out of a book long enough to notice what was going on around him.
“Sit down, Lord Lalkmair,” Volpiril said. “We must know all you know of Wildmagery, and how our Art began.”
Lord Lalkmair seated himself, with some hesitation, at the ebony table. “If you wish to know such things, Lord Volpiril, why not ask the Elf? Or the Wildmage? By the Light, either of them know more than I—and do not risk Banishment for speaking of them!”
There was a faint chuckle from a few of the High Mages seated around the table.
“We don’t really have time for this,” Idalia said. “Though we do need Lord Lalkmair’s help. As Jermayan has said, They intend to sacrifice Lord Lycaelon at the Delfier Land-Shrine tonight at midnight. We must stop Them—by taking Their sacrifice from Them before They can use it.”
Volpiril frowned. “You cannot mean us to fight our way to the Shrine?”
Idalia shook her head. “If the entire Allied Army can’t do it, Lord Volpiril, you certainly can’t. I’m talking about magick. Pure High Magick. With some Wild Magic mixed in.”
Lalkmair looked interested at last. “Certainly we have enough of Lord Lycaelon’s personal items to create a Bond of Sympathy. The difficulty would be in raising enough Power to penetrate the Darkmage spells that will already have been cast. But adding the Forbidden Magic as well … that might very well disrupt the Etheric Currents to such an extent to allow a spell of lesser force to slip through the interstices in the Darkmage Working. It will still require an enormous amount of Power, but I believe it can be done. An adaptation, in a way, of an Apportation Spell—oh, I know, Lord Volpiril, that such an adaptation requires months of review by the appropriate committee, but …”
“Just this once, Lord Lalkmair, we will bypass the review,” Lord Volpiril said, with a long-suffering sigh. “Please determine precisely what items you will need for this spell, and what Mages you will require for the Circle, and assemble them here.”
“I’ll help him,” Idalia said firmly. She was very much afraid that if Lord Lalkmair went wandering off, he’d become caught up in some obscure byway of research and forget to come back at all.
“Oh, please,” said Lord Lorins ironically. “Do feel free to treat this City as your own.”
“We shall,” Jermayan said, getting to his feet and placing a hand on his sword. “Since we are saving it for you.”
“And while we’re gone,” Idalia said, “it might be a nice idea to see if you can round up any of your precious Mages who might actually be willing to poke their noses outside the walls and fight for it, instead of leaving Kellen and your so-called ‘Lesser Races’ to do all the work.”
CILARNEN had never thought—even before his Banishment—that he would ever be standing here, in the Grand Circle of the Council House, preparing to cast the most important and most sacred spell of the City.
Seventeen others stood with him, all men far older and—he would once have thought—wiser than he. All of them were of the highest rank of Mage-hood, High Mages all.
The last rank Cilarnen had formally attained was that of Entered Apprentice.
Yet he would be leading the ritual. He had claimed that right, and no one had argued.
It should have been Lord Kerwin’s position—of all the Mages gathered here, Lord Kerwin of House Festalen was the most senior Mage. Yet when Cilarnen had claimed the position of Keystone, Lord Kerwin had not said a word.
If Lord Kerwin had not been thoroughly cowed by Cilarnen’s father, he was doing a good imitation.
Of course, the fact that the Council House was only a few yards from the Delfier Gate, and that—in the absence of the wards—the sounds of the battle outside the walls were clearly audible inside the Council House might well have had something to do with it. Cilarnen had been in a few skirmishes, though not in a battle on this scale. And he’d seen more death and destruction than he really wanted to, through the Glyph of Far-Seeing. But for people like Lord Kerwin, the sounds he was hearing now were entirely new, and it was obvious that the venerable High Mage didn’t care for what he was hearing at all.
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