Hinterland g-2

by James Clemens

  The horse was a piebald, black on white.

  Stoneheart.

  The stallion’s legs shook and his flanks trembled. He smelled the blood, certainly heard the earlier scream. But he minded the boy on the lead. Someone he trusted.

  The stableboy Mychall.

  The boy walked on legs just as trembling as the horse’s.

  “Is that her favorite horse?” Mirra asked.

  “Y-yes, mum. Please don’t hurt my da.”

  Mirra swung her staff to point toward the opposite wall. Kathryn had to slip two steps lower to see the remaining horror here. Pinned against the far wall, bolted through both hands into the stone, hung Horsemaster Poll, Mychall’s father. At the man’s toes, the darkness shifted with denser shadows; a clot of ghawls guarded him.

  “Boy!” he called to his son. “Why did you stay when I told you to go?”

  “Da…let my da down…”

  Kathryn could surmise what had happened. The horsemaster had refused to abandon his charges, but he’d had enough force of will to drive the other stablemen and-women up higher. Not his son, though. Mychall must have snuck back or hidden close. Either way, they’d both been discovered and their love used against them.

  “When we’re through here, I’ll let your father go,” Mirra said with feigned warmth. “Walk that pretty stallion over here.”

  Mirra lifted a long sickle in her other hand.

  Mychall approached, his shoulders shaking in silent sobs, face wet with tears.

  Kathryn shifted and motioned to the others. She lifted her hand and dropped her shadows enough for the two knights to see. She pointed where she wanted them to strike. She didn’t need to see their acknowledgments.

  She raised her hand, fingers out. She counted down. When she formed a fist, small flashes of fiery Grace ignited the wicks of two small barrels, one held by each knight. They were lobbed down into the lower floor, landing precisely where she wanted.

  The first struck the dead horse, bursting up with fire, separating witch from boy. The second flew and struck the clot of ghawls by the pinned horsemaster.

  The three knights followed the flight of the flaming barrels, hitting the floor about the same time the fires burst. Stoked with shadows, Bastian and Tyllus dashed toward the horsemaster. They had an oiled brand in each hand, dipping them into the fresh fire as they passed, igniting the torches.

  Kathryn did the same with a single brand, but she also whistled sharply.

  Stoneheart had reared when the barrels blew, yanking Mychall off his feet. But he responded to Kathryn’s whistle, desperate for the familiar. He swung toward her. She still had enough shadows, despite the fires, to leap onto his bare back. She guided him with her legs, turning toward Mirra, her sword in her other hand.

  But Mirra was not one surprised into inaction.

  She had shifted and grabbed Mychall by the hair, and now had the sickle at his throat.

  “No!” Poll moaned.

  Below his toes, the two knights fought the ghawls among the fires, armed with their two brands. But they could not hold off the daemons long enough to free the father.

  Atop the horse, Kathryn watched more daemon knights boil out from the far passages. Cloaks rustled behind her. The stairs they had come down flowed with a river of darkness.

  A trap.

  She gaped at the sight. She had never imagined the witch’s legion numbered so many. Tashijan would be overrun.

  Mirra must have sensed her despair. “You surprised me, Kathryn.” Her voice sounded so familiar. “I thought I’d have to kill more than one horse-or at least the boy-to draw you down here.”

  “Why?” she finally choked out, the one word encompassing so much.

  The answer, though, was quite small. Mirra nodded her chin toward Kathryn. “I want my diadem back.”

  Kathryn stared into the face of madness.

  “And to make you suffer-all of you suffer-for the pain you’ve caused me-that oily-tongued rub-aki.” She spat on the stone. “I was going to simply send my legion through you like a fire through chaff, but after this cruel burning, I want you all to end your lives screaming.”

  She met Kathryn’s eye squarely.

  “We’ll start first with this boy.”

  Laurelle shook her head. “I can’t light you on fire.”

  Orquell turned to Kytt, holding out the torch. The boy backed several steps, almost knocking himself flat on the altar before catching his legs. The master turned again to Laurelle.

  “You must, Mistress Hothbrin.”

  Laurelle kept her hands clasped together between her breasts.

  Orquell lowered the torch and stepped closer. “Look at me, Laurelle.”

  She reluctantly met those milky eyes.

  “What god do I bow down to?” he asked, teasing her eyes more firmly to him. “Fire is my comfort. Flame is my passion. What I do, I do willingly. I’ll not say gladly. I won’t lie to you. But often life asks much of you, and you either honor life by answering with all your heart, or you cower your way into your grave.”

  Laurelle took a shuddering breath.

  Orquell read her reluctant hesitation. “I know what I ask of you is horrible. But I am rub-aki. We are trained to withstand a fire’s burn and still hold our minds. Only I can do what must be done here.” He glanced up. “Lives already end above because we hesitate below.”

  She searched upwards with him, not so much looking for answers as asking for forgiveness. As Orquell lowered his eyes, he met her gaze. A smile formed as he read her decision.

  “Very good, Mistress Hothbrin.”

  Kathryn could do nothing to save the boy.

  She sat atop her horse amid a sea of black ghawls. Bastian and Tyllus were trapped in a corner. She suspected the pair lived only at the whim of the witch. More fodder for her cruel games.

  “Do not turn your face,” Mirra warned, “or I’ll make him suffer worse.”

  Kathryn would not have looked away. Mychall was frozen in terror. All she could do was offer her vigilance, her witness. She met his frightened gaze, his weeping eyes begging her to save him.

  First Penni, then the squires, now Mychall…

  “What? No tears for the boy?”

  Kathryn shifted her eyes to Mirra. “You taught me well,” she said. “Tears are for later. After you’ve killed your enemy, only then do you mourn your fallen.”

  Mirra cackled at her words. “Then I’ll give you much to cry about.” She lifted the sickle high.

  “No!” the horsemaster moaned.

  Kathryn merely stared into Mychall’s eyes, letting him see her love.

  It was such focus that alerted Kathryn to a shudder along Mirra’s raised arm. Kathryn felt something rush through the room like a gust of wind, but the air didn’t move. Still, the passage stoked the fires momentarily brighter, knocking back the ghawls.

  Kathryn responded. She kicked Stoneheart, but as usual, he somehow read her intent, knowing her heart or sensing her hips tilting forward. Either way, he burst forward under her.

  He leaped the edge of flames that separated her from the witch.

  Mirra looked up, a cry on her lips. The sickle fell from her fingers.

  Surprised now, are you?

  Kathryn whipped her sword down in a savage swipe, but Mirra leaned back at the last moment. The tip of Kathryn’s sword sliced through the witch’s mouth, splitting her cheeks ear to ear as she screamed in rage. But it was not a fatal blow.

  Mirra tripped back, sporting a mouth as wide as her face, blood pouring in a river down her chin and jaw. She howled and revealed the full gape of her mouth.

  She lifted both arms, ready to unleash her legion upon Kathryn.

  It left her belly exposed.

  Mychall rose up from the floor, forgotten by the witch. He bore her sickle in hand. Using both arms, he hacked the blade through her gut.

  She screamed anew, stumbling back, spilling intestine.

  Kathryn had Stoneheart turned. She leaped back to th
e witch, but instead of attacking, she bent down and scooped Mychall one-armed up to her. He had been about to be skewered by one of the ghawls.

  Not this night.

  Mirra fell to her knees. She crawled to her staff, but the fire dimmed out of it. She grabbed it like a drowning man might a floating log. But the fires in it continued to die. And as the glow ebbed, the flames in the room brightened, as if a smothering smoke had lifted.

  The ghawls shifted about in confusion.

  Mirra rocked back, holding her staff, almost shaking it.

  One last cry, and she fell back in a pool of her own blood and entrails.

  Dead.

  Laurelle knelt on the stone. The torch lay nearby, forgotten, still burning. She held her hands over her face. Kytt crouched over her, an arm around her shoulders. He squeezed her tight. She leaned into him.

  “Come,” he said. “We must go.”

  Laurelle still could not stand. She could still picture Orquell smiling through the flames as he burnt, seated on the witch’s throne. The powder over his body had spread the flame quickly, wafting hay and sweetness. Laurelle suspected she would never again enter a barn without retching.

  Though the scent had been pleasant, the sight had been horrible.

  His clothes had burnt, his skin had blackened, and the flames contracted his body, as if he were trying to curl in the seat to read a book.

  She didn’t close her eyes.

  She thought she owed him that much for his sacrifice.

  But she failed at the end. The flames and heat writhed his body, twisting and consuming it. She dropped and covered her face. At that moment, she heard whispers in those last flames. Notes of gentle consolation. But she didn’t know if they were meant for her or for the tortured master.

  Then came a final fluttering rush of flames, like a hundred ravens taking flight-followed by a heavy silence.

  “Come,” Kytt urged. “He’s gone.”

  “I know…” she moaned.

  “No, I mean he’s gone. See for yourself.”

  His curious words finally drew her up. She still needed his help.

  Kytt lifted her.

  The black column had turned solid white, along with a splash across the arched roof where flames had licked. The rest of the Boil remained glassy and dark, but the heart had been purified.

  She stared into the niche, expecting to see a pile of charred bone. But it was empty. The space was the pristine white of new snow. Not even a sprinkle of ash or bone.

  She reached out a hand.

  “Take care,” Kytt warned.

  But Laurelle knew it was safe, purified by the selfless fire. Her fingers brushed the seat. As she made contact, words rang in her head, whether some echoing trace of the master or merely her own memory.

  Very good, Mistress Hothbrin…

  Either way, she offered a ghost of a smile.

  Then the stone underfoot began to tremble.

  Kytt grabbed her and drew her away.

  Stumbling with him, she glanced around her. “The Boil,” she said, picturing the black flame trapped in granite. “The naether wakes to the plug Orquell planted here. They are fighting back.”

  The quaking continued, rattling the roots of Tashijan.

  Laurelle and Kytt fled up the stairs. Ahead, loud crashes echoed down to them as large sections of rock struck the stairs.

  “It’s all coming down!” Kytt cried out.

  Kathryn felt the tower shake. She sat astride Stoneheart. Mychall hugged her back. She brandished a torch toward the few ghawls that still kept to the halls. The rest had fled in every direction, no longer guided by the will of the witch.

  Mirra’s body still lay bloody on the stone.

  As the shaking grew more violent, the last few ghawls lost their wills and fled, emptying the hall.

  A cry sounded behind her as Horsemaster Poll was finally freed from the wall. He fell to the floor, but Bastian caught him around the waist. He regained his legs, hugging his spiked hands to his chest.

  “I kin stand,” he mumbled weakly.

  “Da!” Mychall slid from Stoneheart’s back. He slammed into his father, wrapping his arms around his waist.

  The quaking continued. It seemed to arise from deep underground.

  Tyllus must have read her concern. “We’ll get these two upstairs. You’d best see to the pickets.”

  She nodded to the two knights. “Keep them safe.”

  She nudged Stoneheart toward the stairs. He had refused to climb before, but whether trusting this rider or merely happy to flee the blood and horror here, he burst up the stairs now. Kathryn leaned forward, balancing her weight.

  The horse clopped loudly, climbing out of darkness and into the flame-lit upper levels. The picket came into line ahead. Fire and black knights filled the stairs. A small cheer rose from them as they saw her clatter into view, astride the handsome stallion, sweated and shining in the firelight.

  She dismounted by the line and left the stallion with a knight she knew was familiar with horses. She forded the picket and climbed toward the level of the fieldroom.

  She met Argent as he climbed down from the line above.

  “What was that shaking?” the warden asked, breathless.

  Kathryn shook her head, but the quakes were already fading away. Whatever had been shaken up below was quieting back down. “I don’t know, but the witch is dead.”

  “What?”

  “Slain. Her legion routed and in full panic.”

  Argent’s eye brightened. Together they hurried toward the fieldroom. “That’s the first fair news in many a bell. Maybe we can hold out yet!”

  They reached the fieldroom to find Delia and Gerrod by the shuttered window, peering out the small opening.

  Gerrod turned to them. There was something grim about his stance. He lifted an arm, urging them to join him.

  Kathryn stepped around one side of the map table, Argent the other. They met again at the window. Argent touched Delia’s shoulder to make room. She slid back.

  Bending, Kathryn peered out into the dark stormswept night. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, but it appeared that the winds had subsided.

  “Lord Ulf has pulled back his wraiths,” Gerrod said. “At least those loose out there.”

  “Is he retreating?” Argent asked.

  Gerrod remained silent.

  Kathryn saw why. The shield wall was coated with ice. As she watched, black rock grew white with hoarfrost, spreading out in a crystallizing pattern, consuming the wall.

  All hope went cold.

  Her voice dropped to a dry whisper.

  “The ice is coming.”

  A CROWN OF AN ANCIENT KING

  Perryl’spoisonous blade pressed against Tylar’s chest, pinching through his cloak. He held the blade off by sheer trembling muscle. Rivenscryr crossed against the daemon’s sword.

  Pinned against the wall of the hide tent, Tylar could not maneuver. His legs shook. Even the hand that bore Rivenscryr had begun to gnarl as the venom inside him spread. The exertion only sped the corruption.

  “Perryl…” he begged.

  If he could somehow reach him…

  But the pale face remained impassive, no anger or fury, simply certainty. The face of a predator in a dark sea.

  Then a momentary flicker passed through the fire in the daemon’s eyes, like a brush of wind. Tylar shoved with his remaining strength.

  Perryl went stumbling back, plainly disoriented.

  Something had happened.

  Free, Tylar lifted Rivenscryr. He judged how to use the moment. Flee or attack. Overhead, rain pelted the tent, beating against it like a hide drum. With his body weakened, he could not match swords with Perryl.

  In that moment of hesitation, a splash of fire nosed under the tent flap and wiggled inside. Pupp’s molten form hissed with rain. Fiery eyes took in the scene, and he trotted blithely to the room’s center.

  The ghawl retreated another step, spooked by the appearance. Pu
pp’s fire and light stripped some of the shadows from Perryl, revealing cloak and pale skin. Again Tylar saw the strange translucent oil that was his new skin, squirming beneath with dark snaking muscles.

  Revulsion filled him anew.

  Perhaps with Pupp’s help…

  But the creature seemed to have come with another purpose. Pupp trotted to Tylar, molten spikes bristling. He carried something in his mouth. It shone brilliantly, lit by Pupp’s fiery tongue.

  Once near, Pupp spat it at his toes-then vanished away.

  Tylar stared at what lay at his feet. A black diamond, not unlike those that adorned a shadowknight’s sword. His own knightly blade lay on the floor, abandoned after cleaving off Krevan’s arm. And in that one breath, he understood. Only one stone brought Pupp to life.

  Brant’s stone.

  He stared between the diamond and the abandoned sword and understood. The stone was somehow meant to adorn Rivenscryr. But it wasn’t by wits alone that he came by this insight. In his grip, the sword’s hilt seemed to ooze tighter around his fingers. It grew warmer. He had felt such stirrings before in the sword, but never such a muscular spasm as this. Tylar sensed the sword’s lust for the stone-to complete itself.

  Tylar bent his one good knee.

  Perryl must have comprehended the danger and surged forward, his indecisiveness burnt away by fear. Tylar reached out and slammed the hilt of his sword atop the stone. He felt the pommel open and bite into the stone.

  As the contact was made, all the air in the room blew outward, rattling hide walls and roof, sucking the wind out of Tylar’s chest. Perryl was blasted back, cloak whipping.

  Rivenscryr blazed for a heartbeat in that airless moment.

  Then all the weight and substance collapsed back.

  Walls and roof sagged. Air fell atop them. Tylar felt as if the world had grown smaller, squeezing tighter around him. He remembered Miyana’s description when she held the stone, a gathering back of what was sundered.

  Tylar felt an echo of it. He gained his legs, less aching. The hand that had gripped Rivenscryr had straightened its bones, allowing him to hold tighter, more certain. He wasn’t cured. His knee was still frozen in scarred bone. His side still burnt with fire. But somehow the stone in the sword had gathered Meeryn’s aethryn closer to its naethryn, the two remaining fractions of the god of the Summering Isles. And in that moment, like Miyana, the naethryn found comfort enough to rally, to stave off the spreading poison a little longer.