Ailith!
What was happening?
Colath appeared in the doorway.
They looked at each other.
Whatever it was, it had happened and was over a week or more of hard riding away. There was nothing they could do.
Then they felt it. Pain.
Scrambling to her feet, Ailith threw off her blankets and reached for her swords in the flickering light of the dying fire.
“Jalila, wake up,” she said. “Jareth! ‘Ware!”
All she saw were blurs in the darkness as she spun to face the entrance.
Startled out of his reverie, Jareth was just turning when something hit him from behind and knocked him sprawling, scattering the fire as he was driven through and past it. His head struck something hard and then he knew nothing.
An arrow took Jalila in the chest even as she sprang to her feet.
Both swords drawn, Ailith took the head off the hellhound that knocked Jareth out even as it spun to leap at her, a tracker behind it.
The rest of the trackers stormed inside and only she stood between them and the others.
She fought a hopeless battle, three against one, going into that place where she’d been with Elon and Colath that day in the forms, where her swords were simply extensions of her hands and arms. She almost held. Although she knew couldn’t win, she wouldn’t lose, not easily.
More came in behind them, encircled her.
It was a war of attrition, the trackers wearing her down, a cut on her arm, another on her leg.
It was the Hunter’s sword at Jalila’s throat and the one that pierced her shoulder that finally stopped her.
Death was final, life meant hope and the chance to fight another day, another way.
A twitch of the sword at Jalila’s throat was threat enough. Jalila’s eyes were defiant but the arrow in her chest quivered with each breath.
This was how they won, this was how they always won.
Ailith knew though, that while Jalila was alive there was some hope.
The enemy knew it, too. The trackers and Tolan counted on it, on that hope, that she would hold until all hope was gone. Once Tolan had them, it was done. Still, what choice did she have, what could she do, let him cut Jalila’s throat? Watch them do it?
He didn’t have them yet.
“No,” she said, softly and tossed her swords away.
The one with his sword in her shoulder pushed and twisted it until she was forced back against the wall. Then he backhanded her. Her head bounced off stone as he wrenched the sword free. She fell to her knees, her head swimming.
There was a clanking sound.
Ailith raised her head to look, blood in her mouth and running down her chin from the split in her lip.
A tracker walked into the cave. He carried chains. The dangling manacles struck each other, unmusically.
Chains.
Jalila, with an arrow in her chest, looked in horror at them.
In all honor, Ailith knew she must watch this. Had to.
She felt the trackers pull her to her feet, felt cold iron lock around her own wrists. She cared little. Her eyes were locked on Jalila, seeing the misery and hate in her eyes for the manacles as they closed on her.
Anger flared. My fault, Ailith thought.
Even Jareth, unconscious, was shackled.
Looking down at the metal on her wrists, she saw a short chain between them, with a longer chain attached. At the other end was a tracker. He smiled and yanked, nearly pulling her off her feet. As did the one who held Jalila’s chain. Even with an arrow in her chest. They dragged Jareth.
Ailith went to help Jalila and the tracker nearly jerked her off her feet again.
Painfully, Jalila got to her feet on her own somehow. It was that or be dragged and Jalila was too proud for that.
The trackers backed out into the snow.
Iron chains. Dwarven blood. All those Dwarves in the cavern who had died. Iron chains.
I know iron, she thought, I know iron through the Dwarves.
That cornice of snow above the cave, all it would take was a simple shift of stone. Ailith staggered at the entrance, in front of Jalila, felt the stone in her hands and held on. I know iron. I know stone.
The tracker yanked on the chains, hard, as he stepped out of the cave but that moment had been all she needed.
She reached into the earth and it answered with power.
Power rose up in answer to her fear, her desperation, her helpless fury, nearly choking her.
NO.
Bank it, hold onto it, control it.
She felt the cold places, the weaknesses in the iron and channeled that rage. The chains shattered.
The snow, the cornice of snow. If it went, it would take everything below it.
Below, down the mountain, what was below?
Nothing. The fragile stability was balanced on a thread, a shift of rock, its hold slightly weakened by the heat and warmth below it.
She broke that fragile balance.
From above came a slow groan, and then a roar.
Staring at the shattered chains, the trackers were frozen for a moment but at that sound they looked up.
There was an explosion of white and a blast of icy wind that drove Ailith back. Just as suddenly as the trackers had arrived, they were gone. The mass of snow hit them and the Hunters behind them like a wall and carried them away down the hillside.
Jalila sagged and Ailith eased her to the floor.
Her tormented gaze looked up at Ailith from the manacles.
“Get them off,” Jalila said, her jaw tight.
Too many times over the centuries her people worn such things, already the iron burned her skin.
As terrible as the pain in her chest was it was nothing to the burn of iron, to the constriction of being bound, of being captive. Of not being free.
Their eyes met, hers and Ailith’s.
With a nod, wrapping her hands around them, Ailith shattered them.
“Hold still, now,” she said, and curled her fingers carefully around the arrow.
It had to come out before she could Heal the wound, they both knew it, understood it.
Ailith’s hand was wet and slippery. Blood. Jalila’s and her own.
Jalila looked at her, braced herself and nodded. Resolutely, Ailith set herself as well, and pulled quickly. Jalila never made a sound as it came out, but her brown skin paled. Pressing her hand gently against the wound above Jalila’s breast, Ailith reached again for power. Found it in the earth, felt it shimmer through the hand she had braced against it. She found the familiar harmony that was Jalila, the sense of rightness, felt the lung heal and torn tissue mend.
It wasn’t as it had been with Elon, or with Colath, but it was still a knowing and a blending. A bonding of sorts, friends of the heart.
Once more their eyes met, but now in recognition.
There wasn’t much time.
She looked at Jalila. “Will you be all right?”
Breathing slowly, relief in her eyes now that the pain was gone, Jalila nodded.
Stumbling over to Jareth, Ailith fell to her knees beside him. His head was bleeding beneath an egg sized lump. Cradling his head in her hands, she sought the harmony that was Jareth.
It was easier with him, perhaps because he was wizard or a man, but there was less to do, it was more a calling him back to consciousness than true Healing, although she did that, too. Of them all, then, he was the strongest.
Her head pounded, a band of pain that tightened viciously around her temples.
Jareth looked up, confused, to find his head on Ailith’s knees.
She looked bad, pale again, her lip split and her cheek was turning dark. Blood soaked her shoulder.
All he could remember was her shout and then something big had hit him.
“Can you bind me up, Jareth?” Ailith asked.
“What happened?” he asked, bewildered.
“Tolan has been driving us, driving me, to a place where we would b
e trapped. I was foolish, Jareth. Stupid and blind. I nearly got us all killed. They waited until I was asleep. Tolan knew when I dreamed, knew when I wouldn’t be aware to know they were here.”
He shook his head. “You can’t see what you don’t know, Ailith. All you knew was they were behind us and closing. You made the best judgment you could with the information you had. Don’t do this to yourself.”
There was no point in arguing.
“Bind me up, Jareth. We have to leave.”
“Why?” Jalila said, “The avalanche took them.”
“The Hunters are dead, most of them. Those that were still men. Some are buried in the snow. The trackers are buried, too, but they aren’t dead. It will take them a while to dig themselves out and to heal. Longer than that to get back up the mountain but they will get back up the mountain.”
Tearing strips from her spare shirt in her travel gear, Jareth quickly wadded some up and wound the strips around her shoulder. Like Elves and Dwarves, with her magic set it would heal on its own in time.
The pain she could deal with, Ailith had known worse pain than this now.
The memory tugged at her. Elon’s face. Colath.
She took a long, shallow breath and then said, “Let’s go.”
Jareth got their things packed up, neatly, under Jalila’s watchful eye. Both Ailith and Jalila managed to get mounted without the indignity of needing help.
The wall of snow that had rushed down over the road had scoured the hillside and cleared it somewhat. Above them, the clouds parted and the moon peeked out from between them. It was enough for mage-sight and elf-sight.
It would have to be.
Morning rose, bright and sunny, and the sun glinted blindingly off the snow. Already it was melting. It was an early snow. Like the ice storm it was only the first of many. Each would make the ground colder so the next batch would take hold and then the one after it. True winter was almost upon them.
The pain was still there, an ache in Elon’s shoulder that told him Ailith and perhaps the others were at least alive. In pain but alive. It was something, enough perhaps, to know she still lived. Whatever had happened, he was too far away to help. Whatever had happened, it was over and nothing he could do would change it. He couldn’t reach her, however much he wanted. There were still thousands of lives at risk – Aerilann, Lothliann, those in the heartland. One life couldn’t count before so many.
It couldn’t but it did to him and Colath.
Still, there was Aerilann, there were all those lives. All he could do to help her now was to do what he’d come here to do so he and Colath could leave as soon as possible.
Duty held him. He would do what he’d come here to do. Here in this place that he’d helped design. Light shone through the dome, the clear crystal in its center symbolizing the light of reason, with the four pillars of knowledge, justice, compassion and wisdom to support it.
Warm sunlight fell over his shoulders, radiated from the white stone he’d intended to symbolize purity, but softened by the plants that had been intended to grow here. By life. On that he had been overruled – not surprisingly – by Daran, who liked the starkness.
Daran High King sat in the center seat beneath that dome as First of the Three, with Eliade of the Elves to his right, Goras of the Dwarves to his left as Second and Third.
Cool and detached, Eliade eyed him with some interest. They knew each other but not well. Goras looked grim and unsettled, his stony visage harder than ever.
“I’ve spoken to the Three,” Daran said, as First. “I’ve told them what you’ve told me. What is it you wish to add and what is it you wish from us?”
Was that something he’d wanted, that Daran had already spoken to them? He studied Daran for a moment, looking for some sign of the games he so loved to play. There was no sign of it that he could see. Then at least that much was done and he wouldn’t have to waste more time.
“You know I have the Sight,” he said, clearly but calmly.
That was unexpected.
Narrowing his eyes, Daran stared down at him. There was this that he didn’t like about Elves, this magic. He shifted uncomfortably.
Eliade sat up straighter and nodded. It was known. In years past it had warned them of the danger of incursions of men, of attacks by trolls. More recently, it had set Elon on the path to forging this Alliance, creating the Agreement, and ending the years of struggle.
Goras, however, didn’t move.
“I’ve had a true vision of a dark wave. A wave of creatures from the borderlands that builds even now in the north. We know these creatures, we’ve fought them of old. The Hunters and the Woodsmen have kept them in check. No more.”
That caught Goras’s attention, he straightened as well.
“When it crests and breaks, that dark wave will carry down over the hills and the valleys. It will crush all before it.” He took a moment to say the next words. “Aerilann and Lothliann will fall. The Caverns of the Dwarves will fall as well.”
Goras sat up. His voice was leaden with grief. “One already has. Not completely but the Lore Masters have had to seal up the tunnels against what comes from within. We had your warning, Elon, but we didn’t think it would come from there, we who live under stone.”
Elon looked at him. The grief in the old Dwarf’s eyes pained him.
“How many?”
“A hundred dead,” Goras said, heavily.
So many. Elon’s breath caught.
Dead. Not wounded. Not passed to the Dwarven version of the Summerlands, but Dead.
Eliade sat back, too, her eyes stunned.
Her action mirrored his own feeling. Elon closed his eyes and bowed his head. A hundred bloodlines, lost. He ached for them.
“We grieve for your losses, Goras.”
Sitting up again, Goras looked at him grimly. “There is more?”
Against that grief, to layer more pain on him.
“My people, your people, men, all in chains.”
Daran winced, as he should.
It was a thing of men, after all. It was men who’d first put chains on Elves and Dwarves. Paraded their captives down the streets of their cities like trophies. Men who’d put them in cages of stone and iron during the wars between them. It was something for him to remember during those times he forgot he wasn’t Ruler here. And that for a reason. This reason. That it not happen again.
“The armies move but too late to stem the tide. Banners turn, friend becomes foe. A dark figure waits for his victory.”
“Who?” Daran demanded.
Shaking his head, Elon said, “That I don’t know, that I can’t See.”
He’d debated showing them what he held, had gone back and forth about it. It was Daran High King he feared with this. It would convince the others, though, of the seriousness of the situation. Goras likely knew of it through his people but wouldn’t want to believe it. He had little love for magic either, who had so little of it himself.
Eliade, though…
From his pocket, he took the small Elven-silk wrapped bundle. He removed his wards and tossed it at their feet. “And this.”
Eliade felt it and flinched back, revolted.
Shaking his head, Goras sat back in his chair to be away from the thing.
“What is it?” Daran said, and started to get up.
Sharply, Eliade said, uncharacteristically shooting to her feet, “Don’t touch it, Daran, if you value your soul. Where did you get this, Elon?”
“The woman who bore it is dead,” Elon said. “There are more, Eliade. At least five that I’m sure of.”
Five, one for each member of his party, or so Tolan had indicated.
“It’s a soul-eater, Daran,” Eliade said, clearly sickened. “A thing from the wizard wars. Something your people don’t speak of much but ours remember all too well. It eats the soul to chain and bind what remains to the one who sets it to them.”
This was the reason Elves and Dwarves had fought wizards being added to
the Council, for they had created these things. History had proven that wizards rarely handled power well – the Jareths of the world notwithstanding. Never again would such be given so much power. That they had imagined such a thing that would chain a soul and bind it forever. Another mark against men, who in the wars they waged against each other and the other races, had thought to fashion such things. That men had also worn them unwillingly no one argued but they had been used to great and horrible effect on his people, on the Dwarves, and with such abandon.
Eliade looked down at it.
A soul-eater. Daran stared at it. He’d thought they were a metaphor for something. Not real. A thing of legend, from one of the dark periods of history. Of that shameful time during the wizard wars.
Elon continued. “I believe this dark one leads and controls those creatures from the borderlands. He sends them against us to weaken our defenses and to sow fear. We have reason to believe he’s one of those who escaped at the end of the wizard wars.”
Leaning down, Elon picked up the terrible thing, warded it once again. As much as he loathed carrying it he couldn’t think of a safe place to keep it. Not yet.
Daran looked at him. “That would make him nearly five hundred years old.”
It was a fact many men couldn’t encompass, that Elves lived so long. And one that some wouldn’t.
Daran was one of the former.
Taking a deep breath, Elon looked at him and said quietly, “I was born during that war. Eliade has a few years of me. Many of the wizards of that time practiced blood magic and soul magic. Men. They used that magic on our people torturing and killing many, taking our magic and our long lives. Talesin, Elf and wizard, has lived even longer than I have, nearly half again or more.”
For the first time he saw the light of understanding dawn in Daran’s eyes.
The concept of it took a minute to comprehend, that this Elf who looked no older than Daran himself was nearly ten times as old. He’d known they were long-lived but he’d never truly understood how long was long.
“Even now in the north, Ailith of Riverford, Jareth the wizard and Jalila of Aerilann ride to warn the Kings of that place of the danger. Putting their lives and souls at risk to buy us time. Don’t waste it.”
If he could do nothing else, he would assure that those precious lives hadn’t been spent in vain.
The Coming Storm Page 49
