Shannivar

by Deborah J. Ross

  With each victory, he would sweep over the foolish resistance with greater ease. Before long, no clan would dare to stand against him.

  The steppe was wide. Even though it was sparsely populated, by the time he reached the borders of Gelon, he would be a power such as the earth had never known. Rivers of blood. Pillars of flame. Oceans of ice.

  And always, a vast expanse of mist and light, of bitter frost and unquenchable fire, would follow him, no longer fixed to the northern mountains but liberated by his will. In its wake would come an army of monstrous creatures, ready to do his bidding. The nag-riders were but the vanguard. Against the army of Fire and Ice, the army that answered to his will alone, nothing human could stand.

  Nothing could stop him now.

  Gelon will burn.

  PART VI:

  Shannivar’s War

  Chapter 29

  SHANNIVAR watched Zevaron and Eriu approach the wall of light, etched like silhouettes against the churning brightness. Before she could draw another breath, they were gone. The wall reformed behind them as if they no longer existed. Currents of palest gray erased all traces of their passage.

  Lights glistered on the mist-damp surfaces of the nearest rock formations, which looked like massive beasts struggling to pull themselves free of a frozen bog. She found herself watching them for any flicker of animation or shudder of breath. They seemed closer. Any moment now, she thought, a whip-lean skull would lift, turning toward her. Jaws would gape wide to reveal teeth like flint daggers.

  Over the sudden hammering of her heart, Shannivar reminded herself that she was a warrior and daughter of a race of warriors, beloved of the Sky People. What had she to fear from rock and vapor? She would master the fear that seeped like ice water along her veins. She would hold fast, no matter what came.

  My lifeline, he’d said. My safe harbor.

  Nothing came, only the slow drip-drip-drip of moisture and the ever-shifting ebb and surge of the lights behind the wall. Wind lashed her cheeks. Her throat ached, and her muscles felt brittle with cold.

  She had let Zevaron go, given him over to Tabilit or whatever god he looked to. The colorless light had swallowed him up. She must wait, and she’d had no idea it would be so difficult. Was that to be her fate? Waiting. Watching. Sitting by the cookfire. Tending her jort. Dying day by slow day. If she could have summoned tears, she would have wept. She drew in a shuddering breath. The cold seared her lungs. Some noxious vapor had gotten into her lungs, curling through her belly and sapping her resolve, putting cowardly thoughts into her mind. What was the use of waiting? Try as she might, Shannivar could not put the questions to rest. What was the use of anything?

  Zevaron had abandoned her. He’d never loved her, never intended to return to her. She was alone in a desolate, shattered place.

  Radu came to stand at Shannivar’s shoulder. The mare blew out through frost-rimmed nostrils. Her breath was warm against Shannivar’s cheek. Silly two-legs, you’re not alone. I’m here. Faithful, gentle Radu, who smelled of wind and snow and saddle leather and healthy horse. Weather and life. Home.

  Stroking the caramel-colored mane, Shannivar murmured, “Poor Radu.” The mare’s plight roused her, for Radu had never been bold and this journey had taxed her hard. She should never have asked so much of the aging horse. Radu needed food and rest, neither of which she would find here.

  Yes, the mists sang to her, she should leave this place, give up her pointless vigil, retreat to the camp, slink off to the south . . .

  Leave, reverberated in Shannivar’s mind. Leave now, before it’s too late.

  She swung up on the dun mare’s back, shifted her weight, and nudged Radu with one knee. She might as well have been riding a camel, for all the response she got. She squeezed her legs against Radu’s sides, and still the mare refused to move. She touched Radu with her heels. This time, Radu hunched her back and flattened her ears. Shannivar frowned. Never before had Radu disobeyed her. Wringing her tail, every muscle radiating distress, the mare swung her head around. One ear flicked sideways.

  Clearly, Radu sensed something that Shannivar did not. There must be a reason for this untoward stubbornness. Radu’s breed were called Tabilit’s Dancers. Did the goddess whisper in Radu’s ears, words only a horse could understand?

  As Shannivar spoke the name of the goddess in her mind, the sense of hopelessness lightened. She dismounted and stroked the mare’s neck, the hide rough with winter coat. “I wish you could talk. Tell me what’s going on.”

  Radu lifted her head, turning back to the wall of white. She pricked her ears as if she heard something beyond human senses.

  There’s more to come, Shannivar thought. The story, and her role in it, was not yet over. Or perhaps her own quest was about to begin in earnest.

  Heartened anew, she waited while the wind grew stronger, tearing away the layer of warmth around the mare’s body. She pulled the ear flaps of her felt cap tighter as the exposed skin of her cheeks and nose went numb with cold. She began pacing to keep the blood flowing through her legs. The mare’s focus did not waver.

  Without warning, a stain appeared on the glowing surface of the wall, a blemish that quickly grew larger. Currents of luminance clashed and surged around it.

  Radu gave a sharp whinny. Her ears flattened against her neck and white rimmed her eyes.

  Something moved in the splotch of darkness. Something was emerging. Zevaron?

  Shannivar took a step toward the wall. The air sizzled as if rent by invisible lightning. She tasted burnt metal and blood.

  Then the shadow parted and a horse galloped through it, wearing neither saddle nor bridle. At first sight, it seemed more ice-demon than flesh. Vapors like exhalations of storm-whipped snow whirled about its form. Head down, knees about to buckle, the horse came to a shivering halt. Steam rose from the bare back, where the spine stood out like a string of beads and the hip bones jutted sharply.

  Shannivar hardly recognized Eriu, he was so altered. This was not the sleek, powerful steed she knew so well. His body was no longer jet-dark, but frost white, even his hooves. Ice crusted his flaring nostrils. Blood streamed from eyes opaque as whitened marbles. Blind eyes.

  He lifted his head, swinging his muzzle back and forth, gulping air, searching—

  “Eriu!” The cry came from her heart.

  The horse’s inwardly curved ears swiveled forward. He nickered and stumbled toward her. Choking back a sob, she threw her arms around his neck. He halted, trembling hard.

  They had ridden into the wall of light only a few hours ago. What, in all the living earth or under the endless sky, had happened to him? She drew back, gazing with pity and horror at the blood dripping from Eriu’s maimed eyes and the dead-white hide. She wanted to wail aloud. She could not imagine what might have wrought such devastation on so strong a horse, nor did she want to.

  Sweet Mother! Where was Zevaron? Dead? Or altered almost beyond recognition, even as Eriu was? Heart-sick, Shannivar buried her face in the frost-bleached mane. This was her fault. Eriu had served her in love and loyalty, had borne Zevaron into the unknown terrors of the wall because she had asked it of him. How could she have let this happen to an innocent creature who trusted her?

  And Zevaron—was he still alive? Or was his death, too, her failing?

  Eriu was calmer now, comforted by her closeness, her touch, her familiar scent. His trembling had almost ceased. Radu sidled closer, resting her chin on his rump so that they stood head-to-tail as they had so many times in pasture. Eriu leaned into her strength, or perhaps they each sustained the other. She would be his eyes, and he her courage.

  And I—I will be the strong arm that draws the bow. I will be the keen eye that sends the arrow to its target. I will be the hunter that brings down the deer. Zevaron might be lost, vanquished, lulled by the same mists, overcome by the same unnatural evil that had smashed the very bones of T
abilit’s living earth and mutilated Eriu. But she, Shannivar, she would not falter, she who had brought him this far. She would find him, rescue him if need be, and defend him against whatever demons he had encountered. She stepped away from the two horses.

  She did not plan her next move, for she dared not give shape to hesitation or doubt. The horses would wait for a time, until hunger drove them to seek forage; if she did not return, their instincts would lead them back to the other horses at the campsite.

  Before her courage wavered, she hurried toward the wall of shifting light. The whirlpools of brightness sickened her. Although each step was harder than the one before, she pushed herself into a run. She dared not hesitate.

  She slipped on an icy patch and scrambled on loose gravel but kept going. The shock of each stride rattled her skull. The air turned to scorching ice in her lungs. It fought her, pushing back. Something clenched her throat. She tasted bile, a poison-bitter sickness. Her heart stuttered. Sobbing with frustration, she struggled for each breath, but she kept on.

  Run!

  The wall of light loomed ahead, larger than it had previously appeared. Perhaps a visual trick or magical guarding spell made it seem so. Ribbons of shadow raced across its surface, changing intensity with riotous speed, from the reflective brilliance of sun on snow, through shades of silver and pewter, to utter transparency. Between one gasping breath and the next, she glimpsed shadows moving within, hints of figures that could not be human.

  Run!

  The rocky ground was no longer as smooth as it had looked from a distance. She tripped and came down hard on her hands and knees. Her teeth snapped together from the impact. Her vision went gray. Her palms stung where the jagged rock bit deep. She gathered her feet under her, managed to stand up, and found she could not move. She pushed hard, straining her leg muscles. Something huge and dense pressed down on her. Struggle as she might, she could not advance even a tiny distance.

  She turned her body, settled into a wrestler’s stance, and inched one foot toward the wall of light. Her boot glided over the rough rock until it reached the farthest point of her advance. There it stopped, as if glued to the ground. She drew back and aimed a kick with all her power. Her foot shot through empty air. She staggered and then recovered. Pivoting, she lashed out with the other foot. This time, she was thrown back as if by an immense, invisible hand. Even though she wore thick boots, her feet stung where they had collided with the barrier. She tried a few more times with no greater success. Finally she gave up trying to batter her way through, lest she break the bones in her feet.

  Cursing aloud to keep from weeping, she twisted this way and that. Advancing slowly made no difference. She could move backward or sideways, but not forward. Unwilling to admit defeat, she summoned the strength for yet another sally and another, only to fail each time. With each effort, her energy waned. Her muscles felt thick and sluggish, and her heart labored. Each breath became more difficult.

  She glared at the wall as if it were a personal adversary. Brightness mocked her. A thought took shape in her mind. This glowing barrier was more than an inanimate structure, a trick of shiny minerals. Not only was it a thing of incomprehensible magic, but it was alive and aware. Whatever lay beyond it had taken—chosen?—Zevaron.

  Eriu had not escaped. He had been expelled, thrown out. And neither she nor any other human would be permitted entry.

  Raised to be a warrior of her people, and with abiding faith in Tabilit’s mercy, Shannivar had never feared her own death. Everything that she valued had come to her through change, and through change she would one day lose everything. All except honor.

  She would not give up. She would find a way through the wall of light or around it, although she did not know how. She had been training for this quest her entire life, and she would not turn back now. Wordlessly, she cried out to Tabilit, to Onjhol, to the sky hidden behind the blanketing mists. A sound like keening, yet so raw it hardly seemed human, filled her ears. Cradling herself, she rocked to its rhythm. It caught her up in savage jaws, blanketed out all other sensation. She let it take her, engulf her, drench her.

  Something was carrying her, moving her through space or perhaps time. The pain from her fall had vanished, and she no longer felt the cold. She lifted her head, blinking to clear her vision. The mist still surrounded her, but the ground underfoot was not the rough, fractured rock but soft and fertile earth.

  Am I dead?

  Shannivar clambered to her feet. Her body felt whole and well, her legs steady beneath her. The horses had vanished, along with the barrier of light. She was alone.

  Or was she? The skin along her spine tingled, alerting her to another presence, though she felt no sense of menace, the way she did from the disquieting currents of brightness and shadow. This mist felt cool and gentle on her skin, yet charged with energy. It thinned, or perhaps some other power sharpened her vision, for she could now see for some distance in every direction. As if from afar, she spied a horse and rider moving in a stately manner toward her. At first, they were only a wavering apparition. Then details came into focus: the horse’s shining hide, its proud arched neck and flowing tail, the inwardly curving ears that marked the Azkhantian breed.

  The rider was a woman, sitting tall on the horse’s bare back, guiding her mount without bit or rein. In one hand she held a bow that glittered with an iridescent sheen, and in the other hand, an arrow-case. For an instant, Shannivar thought she might be Grandmother or even Mirrimal. But Grandmother had never been as majestic as the rider now approaching.

  A hush like dawn stilled Shannivar’s heart. A feeling swept over her—awe perhaps, or something she had no words for. She could make out every shimmering strand of the horse’s mane, every line of cannon and fetlock, the sloping shoulders, deep chest, fluid gait. Never had she seen such a perfect horse. The beast regarded her with calm, intelligent eyes as it came to a halt. The warmth of its breath flowed into her, sending new vigor through her blood. Heartened, she dared to raise her eyes to the rider.

  The woman wavered in Shannivar’s sight, as if she were many women at once. A tribe of women, a nation of women, they were as strong and enduring as the sky, as the steppe itself. Behind them and through them, Shannivar sensed generations of men as well. She wondered how any one being could contain such a multitude. Or perhaps, there was something of Tabilit in every person. And then she knew.

  “Mother of Horses.” Shannivar would have prostrated herself, except that some instinct held her upright. Though only human, she, too, was a woman, and one woman did not kneel to another.

  Tabilit’s eyes were golden, her smile as warm as the summer sun. Her long-skirted riding jacket bore the emblem of the Tree of Life. The design shifted, the leaves unfurling, coloring, falling, budding with the seasons. Birds nestled in its branches and beasts sheltered at its roots. When Tabilit spoke, spring rains laughed in her voice. “You are not dead, my daughter. Nor am I a dream, although I often come to my people in that way. As you have guessed, this is not my true form, but it is the only one that you may look upon.”

  The horse pawed the ground uneasily, and Tabilit’s smile faded. “We have but a little time. You must act quickly, before the way closes.”

  “What must I do to free Zevaron from the clutches of Olash-giyn-Olash?”

  “Listen well, Daughter of the Golden Eagle!” Tabilit sounded impatient now. The silver horse shifted beneath her, neck arched, hooves dancing over the earth. “A storm is coming, such as my people have never before encountered. Unchecked, it will sweep all before it, leaving only ashes in its wake. Alone, my people cannot stand against it.

  “The outlander has his own destiny. You have yours. I have chosen you as my champion.” Tabilit guided the horse forward. She held out the bow and arrow-case.

  Shannivar stared at the weapons, uncomprehending. She had dreamed of glory, but only as a girl dreams. In truth, she was flesh, not lege
nd. How could she, even armed with Tabilit’s own bow, stand against a power mighty enough to smash mountains, to turn animals against their nature, to unmake the very fabric of the world?

  “Take them! Take them now or all is lost!” Tabilit urged.

  Shannivar reached out. The bow was smooth and supple, almost alive, the arrow-case perfectly balanced.

  She thought, I will wait for Zevaron, and together we will stand against the ancient foe, he with his Meklavaran magic and me with Tabilit’s gifts.

  “Still you fail to understand, human child,” Tabilit said. “This man—it is he who will lead the Shadow of Shadows, he who will enslave my people and turn them into instruments of destruction, he whom you must defeat.”

  Shannivar shook her head in wordless denial. It was not possible!

  “I know what is in his heart,” Tabilit went on. “He thinks to master the primal forces of chaos, to harness them to bring down his enemy. He thinks the magic of his ancestors will protect him. But no man, living now or in ages past, can turn such evil into an instrument of good. Instead, it will use his own strength to rule him—his valor, his love of justice, his desire to avenge those he loved.”

  Tabilit’s voice rang out like an iron bell, like a thousand thousand mourners wailing. “One by one, the horse clans will fall under his control. Like a swarm of locusts, they will sweep across the steppe, consuming every living thing in their path. Stone-drakes and ice trolls and creatures even more terrible, things without a name, will crush anyone who resists. He will drive toward Gelon and set it all afire. By that time, the man you love will be utterly devoured. The annihilation of Gelon and the ruin of its cities will not satisfy his lust for vengeance or ease his pain. Empty of everything but hatred, he will destroy men, beasts, fields, rivers, even the free wide ocean, until land and water lie in utter ruin.”