Shadow Star

by Chris Claremont

  Now, Elora fought, though she feared it was too late. A reflex action, mostly, an instinct as primal and indomitable as Khory’s never to be subdued, never to be beaten without a fight. She might have succeeded, too, if not for the weight of memory crashing down upon her.

  There was an electric moment of contact…

  …and Elora found herself blinking human eyes, drawing human breaths, and instantly regretting both. The sight before her was a mountaintop citadel, breached and burning, with such flames that sodden timbers went up like kindling and curtain-wall stones thicker than a Daikini was tall cracked wide or crumbled to dust. The stench was of burning flesh; the taste, the harsh metallic copper of fresh-spilled blood; the sounds a cacophony of screams and curses, men and animals; too much confusion. About her, all was chaos.

  It was a battle. It was a victory.

  Her body didn’t sit right on her soul, which was how she knew it wasn’t really hers. She wore Khory Bannefin’s skin, in those ancient days when the warrior woman still lived her first life. Somehow, the cataract had etched a pathway to the past, an age so distant that both events and people were more the stuff of legend than history.

  This can’t be, she thought. Khory’s original soul was gone—Drumheller told me so, else he would not have performed the Rite of Transposition. She held fast to that belief, ascribing to it the same immutable force of the movement of the turning of the world about its axis and about the sun; she made it an absolute of her life, that Thorn Drumheller would do nothing so foul or dishonorable, because the alternative was unthinkable. Her rational mind formed a buttress to that desperate article of faith, reminding her of the taste and texture of the memories, like keepsakes in a hope chest too long sealed.

  “Khory was dead when Drumheller found her,” Elora told herself. “Her soul had long since fled its casement, that’s what he told me; otherwise, he’d never have cast the Spell of Binding to join it with the DemonChild’s essence. She was no more than a hollow vessel, stripped bare of every aspect of the woman that was. But this is her body I’m wearing, her life I’m watching. These have to be her memories.”

  The answer came almost as quickly, with blinding logic: “Think of where you are, Elora,” she continued, “and who knows, maybe who you are as well. In the Realm of Dreams, in the heart of imagination, with a pair of dragon’s eggs in your pocket, who knows what’s possible?” And she had to marvel then at the spirit of the woman whose life she now beheld, because if these scenes were but faint and pale shades of the pure memories there was a passion and a glory in Khory Bannefin that even the dragons would respect.

  She stood on a sloping plain below the fortress, amidst a series of defensive redoubts that her forces had been compelled to tackle each in their turn before the final assault on the keep itself. Bodies were scattered about as thick as snow and at first glance it was nigh impossible to tell friend from fallen foe. Both sides had fought with the ferocity and brutality that had become the hallmark of the war, acknowledgment by all the combatants that there were but two possible outcomes to their conflict, victory or annihilation.

  At first, Elora saw none of that. For her, this world was a wonder, unlike anything she’d ever known. Each breath made her giddy. There was power here, as young and untamed as the globe itself. All about, she perceived strands and filaments of raw energy, some representing the stuff of natural life itself, others the vast reservoirs of magic available to any with the talent or wit to tap them. She could feel that force crackle between her toes and under her skin like lightning, with such intensity she was surprised she wasn’t glowing more brightly than the full moon. It was a revelation to her. The world she knew, even in those of the Twelve Great Realms where such magic still held sway, was a desert by comparison.

  She strode across the field as though she owned it, taller than most, bareheaded so that everyone could see her face and know she had survived, her hawklike features distinct even without the raptor tattoo that decorated her left eye and cheek or the hair she’d cropped short in defiance of tradition and style. Her blades were sheathed but that meant nothing. Her speed with them was as legendary as her skill: she could draw steel, slice a gleaming blade through a foe’s body, and return the weapon to its scabbard almost faster than sight could follow. Her escort, picked warriors the lot, sworn to her service and the dearest of comrades, were almost as good. She moved over this ravaged moonscape, pitted and gouged worse than any open-pit mine, as surely as if she followed a paved highway and they found themselves hard-pressed to keep pace.

  A mist had risen over the course of the night, as land and bodies cooled while the air stayed unseasonably warm from the heat of the burning fortress. She’d heard mutters from some of the Rock Nelwyn that even their own furnaces didn’t burn so hot. The moon was waning, which meant it cast precious little light upon the scene—which was just as well; the view would be awful enough come sunrise. She could feel a tightness in her own face, from the strain of keeping herself from howling, and was thankful no one could see the grief and rage that battled there for dominion. She’d been in the thick of this battle, as she had in every one she’d fought, but this had been a rare occasion where she’d emerged without a wound to show for it. Yet she felt as if she’d been struck to the quick, a blow that should have been mortal, that could not be endured.

  All the other noise around her faded, she had ears only for the crackle of flames atop the rocky promontory before her. The memory of the screams that had brought the battle to a momentary halt, as the defenders, realizing their cause was truly lost, set their citadel alight.

  She cared nothing for the warriors, their end was richly deserved. But this castle had been the prison for almost the whole of the race of dragons. Rather than see their captives rescued, the defenders had chosen to see them burn instead.

  For all their might and courage, Khory’s army could do no more than watch.

  A hand grabbed for her arm but it caught her with fingers only and was easily brushed aside. Another managed a better hold but she sidestepped, dipped her shoulder, wrenched ahead and down in a reflexive move that was as sinuous as it was effective and remained free without losing stride.

  Her two captains, Rhys and Taliesin, blocked her path and she simply stiff-armed them both aside. She would not be stopped.

  Or so she thought, until a gale-force gust of wind staggered her, forced her back into the grasp of her comrades, and she looked up to behold a dragon executing a pinpoint turn almost right on top of her. The tip of one wing lightly scraped the surface of the ground, the other stretched as high as the crests of the castle flames, giving the impression of a creature so monstrous huge that he could have gathered the entire fortress up in his claws and carried it away as easily as a child would his toys.

  Air cracked like thunder as he belled his wings for landing, sending forth swirls and eddies that set the flames beyond to dancing. He was a shadow on shadows, features only hinted at by the firelight, as he dampened the inner energies that normally made him a riot of iridescent color.

  Elora recognized him at once, though this face was far younger than the one she knew. She’d last seen it atop the highest promontory of the Dragon’s Caldera, as she begged him to help her find a way to save himself and his people.

  “Dineer,” she screamed, her voice breaking as much as her heart, his name too poor a vessel to encompass the grief she felt.

  “I know” was his gentle reply, echoing her pain with his own, and Elora didn’t know if the reply was meant for her or Khory. She didn’t care. The forgiveness he offered struck her like an iron bar across her shoulders, so much so that she thought she’d break from the force of it.

  Within the caldera, Elora Danan bared her teeth. She tasted salt tears at the edges of her lips and saw tears of flame well from Khory’s eyes. On the warrior’s left side, the rivulets of fire were caught by the wells and ridges of her tattoo, until the entire ou
tline of the design was ablaze. She’d never noticed before but at the core of every framing line was a thread of purest silver, as pristine as her own skin, laced through the indigo ink stain. The flames took on that coloration as well, casting off no heat as they burned high and bright, doing the woman no harm.

  Unlike Khory, Elora made no sound as her back arched as deeply as though both women were bows drawn to their fullest extension. Thorn, watching, didn’t see how it was possible for bodies to be so limber. He feared their spines would break but the trance was so deep, the forces raging from one to the other so violent, he couldn’t see a way to help. Bad as things seemed to him, intervention would only make them worse.

  I’m sorry, Elora said silently in her thoughts. I should have known better how to save you.

  “I’m sorry,” she heard the warrior say aloud, her voice aching with loss and misery. It had been Khory’s plan, daring as they all were, to try to rescue the dragons. She’d taken a fearful risk. It had almost worked.

  “Their day was done,” Calan Dineer told her, and Elora wondered if the words were meant as well for her. He curled his neck, seemingly as boneless as a swan, only far more graceful, until his head was on a level with hers, angling it a bit to the side so one of his glimmering eyes could meet the both of hers. He kept his mouth closed as a courtesy when he spoke, since even the stoutest Daikini heart tended to skip a beat or three in such close proximity to a phalanx of gleaming fangs the size of tree trunks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “A new age dawns, milady. New dreams must inspire it, as young blood must consecrate it.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  The tone of his voice echoed the shrug of his great shoulders. “It’s war,” he said, as if that phrase explained everything.

  The warrior turned, and through her eyes Elora surveyed the battlefield, feeling a measure of Khory’s sadness at the cost of her victory. Despite the mist-laced darkness, her MageSight revealed the scene as clearly as daylight. She saw faint firefly flashes and marked them as fairies searching for survivors from either side. Close by were clutches of soldiery, mingling Daikini with the taller, lean-as-reeds forms of the elves of Greater Faery and a mix of shorter, broader, more overtly powerful forms representing the races of Lesser Faery. Any comrades found would be gathered quickly away to an aid station, for healing or the mercy of a painless and final sleep. Their foes, however…

  Elora had seen firsthand what fairies did to those they hated. To her it was an obscenity, that creatures of such delicacy and innocence could be moved to such terrible deeds. She couldn’t help but wonder what her victory would truly be worth, if those who won it were transformed by the struggle into brutes.

  “No one said it would be easy,” she heard from Dineer, a whisper on the wind, his voice a welcome caress. Are those Khory’s thoughts you speak to, my Lord of the Dragons, she thought with a touch of whimsy, or mine?

  “Someone should have mentioned it would be so hard” was Khory’s reply.

  “Think of the cost, aye,” the dragon said. “But never forget as well what’s been accomplished. That’s the miracle.”

  In truth, that’s precisely what it was as a squad of sappers trudged along the line of battle, gathering their tools and equipment. A Rock Nelwyn led them—who better to lay out the gullies and tunnels so necessary in siegecraft than those who spent their days mining deep within the earth—but close behind were three Daikini, themselves dwarfed by a pair of ogres whose specialty was heavy lifting. There were trolls and brownies to act as scouts, though they’d be far from here since brownies hated the stench of death that came with battle and trolls would find that same smell too irresistibly enticing, since they mainly fed on carrion. Fairies made the best messengers, provided the notes were neither long nor complicated; otherwise, brownies generally rode the backs of ravens and eagles. Firedrakes, kin to the dragons themselves, provided the raging heat for the furnaces where the Nelwyns forged their weapons and which likewise kept folk warm through the cruelest of winters. The spirits of field and forest, too numerous for her to name though she and her army were indebted to them all, provided the lasting bounty that kept them fed, and safe haven for their loved ones.

  The Malevoiy had preyed on every race. Their only hope of throwing off that cruel and seemingly eternal yoke of oppression was through unity.

  All her life, Khory had heard the myriad reasons why that couldn’t be done, a litany of despair that stuck in her craw like a jagged soup bone.

  She’d fought from the start, but she was one life, one sword, against a legion. In the scheme of things, the threat she represented was less than insignificant.

  Eamon Asana, the ard-righ, the High King, changed that.

  Trumpets sounded a fanfare in the distance, a shift in the wind bringing the sweat scent of approaching chargers, a tremble to the ground marking the thunderous hoofbeats of a squadron of heavy horse, assault cavalry. There was a taste of steel to the air as well, meaning men in armor. Her companions had noticed the newcomers as well, each taking his place on either side of her and a step behind, while the dragon loomed impossibly high overhead, completely blocking out all sight of the castle as the crest of the promontory collapsed even farther, turning it at last into a blazing cauldron.

  For Elora, Asana was a revelation. He was a barrel of a man, of moderate height and powerful build. On a bet, he’d managed to lift the war-mallet of the King of Lesser Faery, no mean feat even among the Nelwyns, who’d forged it, and in another wager had crossed blades with Rafiel, the High Elf who was Liege Lord of Greater Faery, emerging from that single combat wholly unscathed, without even a tear to his shirt. His hair was a true mane of ruddy gold and while his features were no match for the unhuman beauty of the Elf King’s there was a mark of character to them that brought out the best in people. He had a voice that could cover a parade ground and a way of speaking that made folk want to listen. Passion ruled him but that wasn’t such a bad thing because in him that passion was devoted wholly to the good. He viewed his crown as a solemn covenant with his land and with his people, to serve them both and do for them what was best.

  This Lord of the Daikini, the youngest of the races of the world, had forged the grand alliance against the oppressor Malevoiy. It was Khory Bannefin, his warlord, who’d led it to victory.

  Flanking him were both his fellow monarchs, at the head of escorts of their own. By right and custom, she should prostrate herself before them but they had fought too long together to stand on such ceremony. In their eyes, she had long since earned her place as their equal.

  “Bloody business,” growled the shorter of the Kings, with a voice rough as grinding stones.

  “Aye,” agreed Asana. Only his eyes betrayed his true feelings, for they were as haunted as her own. “But it’s done, Borugar. Thanks be for that at least.”

  “It’s a watchtower, Eamon” was the other’s retort, gnarled hands twisting around the haft of his mallet. If a boulder had been nearby, he’d have crushed it to powder then and there. “The least of our objectives. And d’you see the price we paid for it?”

  Rafiel lifted his stag-horned helm from his head—always keeping his right hand free, in case his sword was needed—then pulled at the bindings that held his hair in place, allowing it to tumble in a mahogany waterfall. He arched his neck and gave his head a quick shake, settling his glorious mane as a lion would.

  “I know the butcher’s bill as well as thee, friend Borugar,” said the Liege Lord of Greater Faery. “Didst think t’would be any different?”

  “You did your best, Khory,” Asana told her from horseback. Proximity to the dragon made the animal nervous, so Khory took the gelding by the bridle and stroked its muzzle gently. “It was a good plan.”

  “They’re only good, my lord,” she replied, “when they succeed. Borugar’s right. The Malevoiy never fought this hard before.”

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nbsp; “They’ve never faced defeat before.” There was satisfaction in the High King’s voice. This was a victory he’d richly celebrate.

  “Knowing what that means,” she said matter-of-factly, “they’ll make us pay for it.” Eamon’s horse danced a moment as a shrill, ululating shriek broke the morning peace. There was a small hubbub off in the middle distance that snared the attention of Rhys and Taliesin. Khory ignored both cry and sight, she knew full well what it meant. The fairies were making sure the Alliance had one less Malevoiy to fight.

  “Find me another way, warlord,” the ard-righ told her sharply. “I’ll gladly take it.” He jerked the bridle from her grasp, wheeling his mount roughly clear of her.

  She smelled the approaching dawn, cast about herself for some herald of the break of day, the smallest paling of the eastern sky, but Calan Dineer blocked her view, his monstrous great wings fully outstretched along the ground to cast a wall of shadow between her and the sunrise.

  Elora burned with the passion of Khory’s memories. She’d never ridden a wild bronco but she’d seen horsehandlers ply their trade enough to imagine how it felt. This was worse. She found no way for her soul to gain a safe and stable purchase as forces of tremendous power buffeted her every which way. She had to find an anchor for herself, and quickly, or her attempt to heal Khory would doom them both.

  She smelled pitch-coated torches, and death. She counted a handful in head-high sconces along the wall but the light they cast was pitiful, barely able to illuminate the patch of wall from which each hung, much less anything beyond. She thought she was standing but didn’t understand how solid land could possibly roll beneath her feet like a deep ocean swell. She thought she was going blind, because no matter how hard she rubbed her eyes her vision wouldn’t clear. They felt coated in grit as well, as did her entire body, and she wondered if some demon or vengeful sprite had painted a coating of pumice beneath her skin.