by J. V. Jones
And then a strong contraction racked Jack’s body and his heart began to beat in time. Close to swooning, Jack slumped against the rock face. It was warm against his chest. An almost sensuous pleasure swept over his body; he felt calmed, soothed, held in a gentle embrace. It seemed natural to draw his power now—it was made of the same substance that surrounded him. Why hadn’t he seen it before? Why hadn’t he recognized his own?
Slowly the sorcery began to flow. There was no need for nasty scenes, no anger to be used for fuel. It flowed out of him to the rock, to the cavern, and down into the island’s core. It was so easy, it just drained away on its own. Jack knew such peace, such a sense of belonging, all he wanted to do was join with the rock.
Niggling little things kept buzzing through his head: sounds, sights, instincts. He went deeper so they wouldn’t distract him. The cavern enveloped him like a womb.
Jack! Be careful! You’re losing yourself.
What was Stillfox’s voice doing down so deep? Jack pushed it aside. It was just another memory amongst many.
You fool. You were in control of nothing. The glass was controlling you. You nearly lost yourself to it.
Oh, but this wasn’t glass. And he was in control. Deeper and deeper he went, power flowing from him like a river to the sea.
Stillfox’s voice seemed to have left open the gate to his senses. Irritating noises barged in on his thoughts. Swords ringing, footfalls sounding, the high shrieking cries of the seers. It was bedlam compared to the tranquillity of the stone.
“Do what you were born for.”
It took Jack a moment to realize that the words were separate from his thoughts. He tried to push the voice into the background. Only it wasn’t in the background, it came from right beside him.
“Do it now.”
There was a thin-bladed desperation in the voice that cut through the layers in Jack’s brain. His senses began to reassert themselves. He smelled the flinty dryness of the stone and caught the sharp ammonia whiff of urine. His vision blurred into focus. He saw the rock, his hands—they were distorted, as if seen through rounded glass.
The cavern lured him back. He pulled against it, whipping his head around in the direction of the voice.
The eyes of a madman looked into his. A seer, blue-eyed, hollow-cheeked, lips as dry as bone. Bound to his stone, the ropes had shaped his body like bread set to bake in a mold. Two mighty coils crossed his chest, and Jack could see how his rib cage had developed around the rope. The normal curve of chest wasn’t there. There were two deep depressions where the ribs had been unable to grow normally. The sight was appalling. What about the organs underneath—the heart, the lungs—were they misshapen too?
Young boys, Stillfox had said. The seers were bound before they were full grown.
“Do what you were born for.”
No. The eyes of the seer weren’t mad. Desperate, yes, but not mad.
The man was calling for his own destruction.
Jack senses sharpened like crystal. He saw where the rope cut through skin. He saw open sores, infection, malformed limbs, and atrophied muscles. He smelled decay. This was what Larn was made of. The mighty rhythm of the cavern was all for this.
And it was time to bring it to an end.
Jack turned back to the wall. No warm welcome this time: the rock was cool to the touch. He spread his palms fully and concentrated on the pulse in the stone. He smiled. The cavern had done the work for him: to entice him in it had to give him the key. His heart now matched the beat of the core. Jack drew upon his power. He tasted the metal on his tongue, felt the telltale pain in his head. The bands of muscle around his stomach contracted in perfect time, and the sorcery left his mouth with a vengeance.
The power rose up: up above the cavern, high above the island, soaring far into the night. Up and up it went, the sheer force of it pulling the ocean onto the shore, and dragging the clouds into lines. Jack felt the terrible suction it created, fought against the void it left behind. Everything—his blood, his breath, the skin on his back—strove to soar upward with the force.
Reaching the point where the heavens met the sky, the power slowed and began to gain weight. It collapsed in on itself: condensing, thickening, doubling down, gaining intent and body and mass. Jack knew without thought what he had to do, he knew without doubt what he was born for. Everything snapped into place within the space of an eyeblink and Jack became master of Larn. Working from memories older than himself, using strength offered up by the seers, he shaped a custom-made weapon to destroy the cavern’s heart, and blasted it down to the source.
This time the power didn’t flow through the rock. It tore right through it.
Down the power went. Heavier than metal, faster than a high storm, it smashed through the cavern like a message from the gods. Jack sent it plunging through rock and soil and minerals, down toward the core. Down to the dark primeval mass that formed the heart of Larn. The two forces met: one ancient beyond telling, one untried and blinding and raw. They were matched only for a quarter second, and then the old world gave way to the new.
In the flashing brightness of an instant, Jack’s power destroyed the cavern’s flow.
A single scream rose high from the seers, and then a wave of hot air ripped through the hall of seering.
A low rumbling rose from beneath the stone. The cavern began to tremble. Walls began to crack. The ground shook, rocks plummeted from the ceiling. Jack was dazed. He lay against a seer stone as the light in the cavern began to fade. Fissures formed in the floor, and dust flying from them choked the air. The whole thing was collapsing. All the seers would die. There was no other way: they were never meant to be saved.
Jack didn’t have the energy to move. Chunks of rock crashed around him. Seers keened their death songs as the walls began to give way. The entire cavern began to churn: rolling, fracturing, falling in upon itself. A rock grazed Jack’s thigh, and another hit his chest. The dust made it impossible to breathe. And then, in the middle of the madness there was Tawl. Blood-soaked, bloody-eyed, badly limping Tawl.
He grinned. “I thought I’d find you lying down.” Pushing the rocks from Jack’s body, he lifted him from the ground.
Tawl half-dragged, half-carried him from the chamber and up through the maze of buckling corridors toward the surface. They ran ahead of collapsing walls, dodged falling stonework, skimmed over broken paths, and used up two lifetimes’ worth of luck in one night.
Twenty-two
Maybor woke before dawn. He never slept well anymore. His dreams led him down the same path every night, and every morning he awoke with the same image tearing away at his soul: Melli kicking and screaming to distract the guard’s attention while he ran away from the courtyard. How could a man sleep knowing that his brave and beautiful daughter was being held by a monster? And that he might have done something to prevent it, if only he’d been daring enough to try?
Melli wasn’t dead. Maybor had to think that to keep his sanity. There had been no word of her for months. Occasionally reports would come in from palace servants, who told of a mysterious woman being held in the east wing under lock and key. It hadn’t taken Maybor long to convince himself that the woman was his daughter: he needed something to believe in.
“There’s a commotion going on at the south gate, m’lord,” said Grift, entering the tent. “Looks like they’re going to open it.”
“Well, dammit, man! Don’t just stand there, help me dress.” Ever since Grift had recovered from his injuries, he had acted as Maybor’s equerry. The man was slow about his work, inclined to drink and gamble, and was full of the worst advice about women that Maybor had ever heard! Court ladies fancying field hands, indeed! What woman would want a field hand when she could have a mighty lord? It was insanity! In fact, the only reason why Maybor kept the guard around was to keep track of Melli’s condition. The man knew about pregnancy and women’s complaints, and whenever Maybor wanted to know how close Melli was to term, or how she would be feelin
g, all he had to do was ask Grift. The guard always began his reply with: “The Lady Melliandra is as healthy as a packhorse, and I guarantee you she’ll be doing just fine.” To Maybor those words were more precious than gold and made enduring the man’s incompetence worthwhile.
Maybor picked out a fine scarlet tunic to wear beneath his breastplate. It seemed that today they would finally get a chance to fight Bren’s army man-to-man. About time, too. Those blackhelms had spent the last two months hiding behind the city walls like nuns in a convent.
“Full armor,” he said to Grift, who was busy putting a shine to the breastplate with a gob of spit. He wasn’t going to sit in the tent all day. He was going to ride out and meet the enemy. This might be their one chance of breaking Bren’s defenses. Oh, the blackhelms were probably up to something, but whatever it was, it would make them vulnerable.
Maybor strapped on his shin plates, grabbed hold of his helmet, and walked out into the field. It was cold, barely light; an icy wind that spoke of snow was blowing down from the mountains. Lord Besik, leader of the Highwall forces, was standing outside the command tent surrounded by his military aides. A man to be reckoned with both physically and mentally, he spied Maybor and hailed him over.
The two men clasped hands. “Well met, friend,” said Besik. “What do you think of this?” He indicated the south gate, which was slowly being drawn open.
Maybor liked Besik. The man didn’t mince words, he was bad tempered but even-handed, and he always listened carefully to advice. “Perhaps the blackhelms are bored with waiting. Perhaps they’re desperate for food and supplies.” Maybor shrugged. “But it’s more likely to be a trap.”
Besik sighed heavily. “You’re right. But we’ve still got to deal with it. I’ve positioned a line of crossbowmen in the trench—they’ll be firing quarrels so that should be enough to stop the first wave of troops. If the blackhelms are still coming, we’ll send out the light cavalry and back them up with mounted archers.”
“Let’s play it safe,” said Maybor. “Cover both flanks with foot archers and send out two parties of heavily armed horsemen, one to the eastern plains and one to the base of the foothills.”
Besik looked at him sharply. “There’s been no word from reconnaissance.”
“Men with slit throats make bad messengers.”
Besik nodded. “Very well. Caution it is.”
Maybor mounted his horse. He felt more alive than he had in months. Finally to be doing something physical, to be taking action instead of planning, to fight instead of strategize. Patience was needed in a siege, and that was one quality that he had never been endowed with. He hated sieges. A good and bloody battle was long overdue. It frustrated him to think that Melli was less than a league away from where he stood, yet he was powerless to help her. They’d tried things, of course: blasting the northern wall, poisoning the lake, sending divers to access tunnels under the water level. But nothing had seemed to work: the trebuchet had been set alight, the poison dissipated too quickly because of the sheer size of the lake, and the divers had never returned to shore.
But now, today, there was a real battle to be met. The portcullis over the south gate was fully raised and a legion of mounted blackhelms rode out of the city of Bren.
The ground shook with their thunder. Their horses were dark, their colors were midnight blue, and their helmets were blackened steel. Maybor watched them for a moment. Kylock had sent out Bren’s best: the duke’s guard, personally trained and handpicked by the now deceased duke. Banners waving, weapons glinting, they were a beauty to behold. And then the Wall’s bowmen took aim. Their mighty four-sided arrowheads were enough to stop a horse. The quarrels pierced breastplates, helmets, even shields. Maybor clearly heard the release cry, he heard the soft thuc of the bows and the air-skimming swish of the bolts.
The quarrels slammed into the blackhelms. Horses reared, squealing in terror; men fell and were crushed beneath their hooves. From his position on the rise, Maybor saw everything clearly. The first line of blackhelms fell like flies. Still they kept coming, spilling out of the gate by the hundreds. The crossbowmen cocked their bows. Moments later they released. The second line of blackhelms fell as easily as the first.
Watching them fall, a dark warning sounded in Maybor’s brain. Something wasn’t right. Behind the second line of blackhelms were badly equipped, poorly armed mercenaries. Not for them the midnight blue and horses that shone like steel. The blackhelms weren’t out in force—there were only two lines to fool the eye. Kylock was holding the elite troops back, saving them—but for what?
Even as Maybor urged his horse forward, Besik gave the order to charge. The Highwall cavalry began to advance. Clad in silver and maroon, they rode down the hillside to join the battle. The crossbowmen in the trenches shifted their positions to the flank and were backed up by mounted archers. A massive half-circle of Highwall forces began to come together around the south gate. Maybor was worried. Something was wrong. He had to make it to Besik.
The sun appeared over the eastern horizon. It sent pale rays slanting across the battlefield and onto the mountains. The shadows of troops and horses were grotesquely long. Besik rode down the rise, shouting orders to the foot soldiers. The cavalry of Bren and Highwall met. The maroon and silver began cutting a swath into the enemies lines. Bren’s mercenaries were no match for the Wall. Half of the blackhelms were down, and those who’d survived the crossbow fire could be seen making their way back to the gate.
Maybor raised his hand to shield his eye from the sun. He was halfway down the hillside, on his way to confer with Besik, but as he caught a glimpse of the courtyard that lay beyond the gate, he stopped in his tracks. He shifted his position back a few feet and to the left. Blackhelms, thousands of them, were waiting behind the gate.
Waiting for what? Maybor kicked his horse into a gallop. Kylock had lured Highwall into a battle, forced them to train their best resources upon the gate, and fooled them into thinking they’d be doing battle with the duke’s guard, when in reality they were fighting untrained, badly equipped mercenaries. Now it seemed that Kylock had every intention of bringing out the duke’s guard, but not until . . .
A high clarion call sounded on the westerly wind. Maybor was now only a short distance from Besik. The two men turned to the west at exactly the same instant. The mountains were banked by a shallow range of foothills. Above the foothills, lit brilliantly by a cruel morning sun, emerged the kingdoms’ army. Formed into tight, orderly columns, their armor flashed in the sunlight with all the arrogance of a perfectly worded threat.
For half a second, perhaps less, Maybor thrilled at the sight. The kingdoms: his homeland, his troops, his country’s colors of blue and gold. And then a deep weight fell upon his heart. They hadn’t come to save him. They’d come to destroy him. He was a traitor in their eyes—backing his daughter instead of his king.
Instead of his sons.
Maybor sucked in a thin breath and closed his eyes. His sons. The pain in his old heart increased with a dull and blinding ache. Kedrac would be leading the kingdoms’ forces. Son fighting father, father fighting son. Maybor shook his head slowly. His hands crept down to feel the warmth of his horse’s neck. He was so cold. How had it come to this? He couldn’t blame Kedrac; he was doing what any young grasping nobleman would do: standing beside his king. He had chosen country over family. And growing up with a father who had always put ambition first, his decision was hardly surprising.
“There, there, Lady,” murmured Maybor to his horse. His hands shook as he smoothed down her mane. There was a lump in his throat that wouldn’t be swallowed and an ache in his heart that he knew wouldn’t go. Kedrac was so young, so ambitious, who would condemn him for repeating his father’s mistakes?
It had taken Maybor a quarter of a century to learn the importance of his family. Not until he lost Melliandra did he realize that his children were all he had. He cursed himself for not being a better father. He should have cared for his children more
and hugged them harder and spoken words of love, not pride.
Maybor looked down from the foothills to the Highwall camp. Besik was looking at him. The commander of the Highwall forces trotted his horse over to Maybor’s side.
“I will understand if you go now,” he said.
Maybor reached out and grasped Besik’s arm. He was a good man, born of a time when loyalty and codes of honor were always respected on the field. “No, my lord,” Maybor said, deliberately addressing him as a superior. “My place is here, my loyalty is here. It is only my heart that is divided.”
Besik looked at him carefully a moment. He nodded once. “I am glad you will fight at my side.”
Maybor bowed his head. He was almost crushed by the weight upon his heart. With a great effort, he raised up his chin. When he spoke his voice was strong and competent. “Bren and the kingdoms will work together to try and flank us. We need to send a battalion to watch the two eastern gates. I expect they’re probably being opened as we speak. We need to recall the company that was sent to the foothills earlier—judging from the size of the kingdoms’ army, they won’t stand a chance without backup. . . . ”
Baralis lay in the dark. Any light was a torture to him. The candles had long been snuffed, the shutters were tightly drawn, even the fire was kept banked and shielded, lest its flames cast their light into the room.
The temple had fallen.
Larn was gone, destroyed, its power broken by the baker’s boy. The most ancient magic in the Known Lands had passed from the world last night.
Baralis didn’t move. He didn’t dare. Pain tore at his chest with every breath, spasms ripped across his forehead with each thought. The storm he’d created, the mighty, tide-turning storm, had proven useless. And now he was left paying the price.
If only he’d known they would choose to set themselves adrift! But who could have predicted such madness? If he’d known he would have expended less energy against the ship and saved his strength for the boat. Instead, he had weakened The Fishy Few to the point where one more blow would have smashed it to pieces. The mainmast was set to fall, and yet the baker’s boy had picked that moment to abandon the ship, so Baralis had been forced to abandon it, too. His strength rapidly depleting, he’d had to start a whole new attack upon the rowboat. He had just enough power left to draw the one mighty wave that had been intended for The Fishy Few. He did it, watched the wave crash against the boat, saw the boat begin to break up, and spied Jack and the knight being dragged below the water. He thought they were as good as dead!
