Blood filled her mouth as she clawed at her chest, helplessly falling onto her side.
“Now you die!” her enemy said from behind her shoulders. “And after that, my god, Erebos, will be forced to act, won’t he? He’ll have no choice; your world will be shattered to its core.
“Do you know who I am?” he drawled. “I am the slayer of Tierdon. Allastor Mens!”
Groaning, Avalar kicked desperately as blood sprayed from her throat. The mage was harvesting her magic with his stone, the pressure of it stretching her bones apart. She was being turned inside out like so many of her people before her, and it was agony.
“Mine!”
Avalar glimpsed a tawny blur leaping over her, the lean, gray-dappled prowler springing from the forest to knock the wizard flat. Still moaning, Avalar rolled onto her back as the she-prowler crouched next to her, the predator unhinging her jaws to fasten on the black-robe’s scrawny neck. Allastor Mens let out a gurgling wail.
The stone of his staff erupted, a rising sheet of midnight shadow blotting out the dawn. The breath whooshed out of Shetra’s lungs, and as her burnt body thudded to the ground, Avalar gagged at the stench of charred fur.
Terrek shouted from beyond the trees, and looking toward him, Avalar saw more creatures flitting from the branches with their sabers flashing, driving her leader and two other men before them. Then a swirl of ebony robes blocked Terrek from her sight. Allastor Mens stopped in front of her with his eyes afire, blood streaming from his wounds. She screamed when he touched his staff’s gem to her forehead, the stone adhering to her skin, greedily devouring her strength.
“Avalar!”
It was Terrek’s voice, so much like his brother’s, calling for her aid. Angrily, she slapped aside the bloodstone and scrambled to her knees. You already killed Camron, she raged silently at her attacker. You will not slay his brother, too!
Allastor Mens regarded her with a smug smile, his hooked nose level with her own. Glowering back in utter contempt, Avalar hauled herself erect and brandished her sword. “Govorian take you!” she howled.
The mage stopped her with a gesture. Avalar glanced where he pointed, seeing Terrek, her leader’s face bone white, clutching at his injured arm.
“So dies the fool, Terrek Florne,” the black-robe mocked.
Lunging with her weapon, her fury compensating for the weakness of her muscles, Avalar slashed at the mage’s hated face. She struck a blow for Camron and Terrek, and for her people long dead—to find empty air, her blade whistling unimpeded through the place where Mens had stood.
She wept as Terrek sank from her view among the horde, his two companions along with him. Too late! she thought in despair. Oh, Terrek!
A groan drew her to the side of the dying prowler.
Shetra’s amber eyes met hers, the predator’s nose wrinkling as she coughed in pain. “Giant . . . well?” she asked.
“No.” Avalar stayed the creature’s wrist. It is better this way, she thought, kinder for Shetra. Below the she-prowler’s chest, an oily liquid sizzled and popped, the warped magic dissolving Shetra’s flesh and bone beneath the blackened skin.
Shetra sniffed. “Yeesh!” she spat. “Smell she-prowler?”
“You saved my life,” Avalar said thickly. “You were so brave to fight for me.”
The prowler’s lips curled back. “Sephrym . . . command,” she gritted. “Watch giant. Defend! Give ball with fish, so I follow. I protect! Is . . . good?”
“Yes.” Avalar’s voice broke. “It was very kind of you. You saved me as . . . as any giant would!”
“Prowler follow,” Shetra whispered. “Protect . . .” She went rigid, her spine arching. With a sigh, she fell limp, her fierce, golden eyes growing dull.
Holding the prowler close, Avalar stroked Shetra’s lifeless cheek, this friend who had so discreetly watched over her. At any moment the wedge of dachs would complete their work. They think the wizard finished me. Avalar shook her head. When they realize I am alive . . . I cannot hope to fight so many!
Through the dripping tangle of her hair, she spied a figure among the trees. Power streamed from his slight form, vibrating through the air to tingle on her skin. No, she decided. Calmly she leaned forward to settle the prowler’s dead weight. Here and now, it would end. She would kill this menace, this mage who had destroyed Tierdon!
Allastor Mens! Now that she knew it, her heart pounded with the rhythm of his name. Slayer!
She crouched as the human advanced toward the site of Terrek’s fall. She identified the staff gleaming in his hands, Mornius’s multicolored stone flashing as his voice slurred out two words: “Holram, come!”
“Gaelin!” Avalar whispered.
A rush of dachs swarmed at her as another horde surrounded him. The staff-wielder’s eyes were open, and yet he flopped like a dead thing when the mob lifted him up, the creatures tossing his body above their heads. Why is he not fighting? Avalar wondered. Great Sephrym, has he surrendered?
She jumped as a rope settled around her neck, jerking her off her feet. Reaching up, Avalar tugged back hard—to haul the three dachs lifting her within the reach of her sword.
Blood soaked her hair. She landed in the mud and stumbled, the contorted bodies of her winged assailants thudding down dead beside her. Another dach, running full tilt, rammed her in the belly with its knobby skull. She collapsed, retching. Then the ground heaved beneath her. A silent detonation followed, sharp granules from the trees flaying her skin.
Steam filled the air. A white fire blasted, surging in wave after crackling wave between the tents. She dropped her sword, her arms shielding her face. In a slow kind of amazement, she peered through a protective haze that reached her from the staff, watching as her foes toppled away from her, their wings and tails thrashing.
A second eruption drowned out the first. She saw writhing dachs everywhere she looked, the creatures huddled in groups struggling onto their knees, crawling together through a swath of icy flame.
The sheets of energy crackled upward, a brightness as fierce as a sun. Within the glare, she beheld a lone figure.
Gaelin Lavahl.
She stared at the transforming dachs wading through his magic toward him. Their bodies shrank under his power, their wings, spines, and tails melting into their flesh, the angry lines of their hardened scales softening back to skin.
How can this be? Avalar thought. They are humans again, healthy and . . . She gasped as she recognized a face, a young man climbing to his feet, his eyes bewildered. The artist who painted my picture!
Close by her, the prowler was moving, coming alive in shudders and starts. As Avalar watched in awe, Shetra batted with a tentative paw at the vapor lingering where her wound had been.
Avalar held her breath as the world stopped trembling, as the power’s lurid radiance faded within the camp and among the splintered trees. The former dachs, naked and confused, blundered past her through the clammy mud. As she watched, the people pressed together shivering in the merciless cold, their glad cries changing to wails as they desperately fought to get warm.
“Gaelin?” someone called.
Avalar rubbed at her eyes and looked up. Terrek, his sleeve stained with blood, stooped over his friend. Below him Gaelin sat unresponsive in the ooze, his legs splayed.
“Can you help these people?” Terrek was asking the staff-wielder to no avail. “Gaelin?” Terrek shook him. “Gaelin!”
Terrek stepped back and straightened his shoulders. “Roth!” he rapped out. “The Eris village isn’t far. Ride south and west of the trail that brought us here! The elves live at the foot of Mount Alianth. You’ll make out their fires once you cross. Tell them we need blankets, food, and clothing. Ask if they have shelters or anything they can spare!”
As Roth sprinted toward the two remaining horses tethered by the trampled tents, Terrek hastened to Avalar. “All that magic!” he exclaimed, sliding to a stop before her. “How did you endure it, Giant? Are you hurt?”
Av
alar peered at her bloody mail and her mended thigh the dach had cut. “I am healed,” she said. Dazed, she probed beneath her jerkin. “I do not understand. Gaelin’s magic never touched me.”
“Good.” Terrek gestured to Shetra. “What about . . . ? That’s a magical creature. Is it a danger?” He frowned at Shetra’s toothy smile. “Oh, never mind,” he said. “Avalar, we must do what we can for these people. Now, before they freeze! I must find Vyergin.
“Oburne!” he called as the warrior stomped by them. “Form a crew from those who are able. Get those shelters up fast!”
“There are at least a hundred people,” Oburne protested. “And only—”
“We’ll have to pack them in,” said Terrek. “Getting them warm; that’s our priority. Vyergin has a crate of blankets and clothing on one of the sleds. Dig through the packs of our men who are missing. Distribute their bedding and provisions. Have Silva forage while you rekindle those fires. Look at them, Jahn. These are victims now; they deserve our compassion.”
“Vyergin’s better at this. Where is he? Silva!” Oburne bellowed to a distant black-armored figure. “Find Wren Neche!”
Avalar met Shetra’s curious regard while Terrek crouched at Gaelin’s side. The prowler huffed between her teeth, her whiskers flaring. “Heem bossy,” she said. “Human leader?”
“Yes, beautiful one,” Avalar affirmed, watching Terrek position Gaelin at the base of a tree and try to rouse him. Then, getting no response, Terrek straightened Gaelin’s legs.
Shetra yawned, flicking her long red tail. “Heem sick?” she asked.
“I know not,” Avalar said. She strode to the tent she shared with Jahn Oburne and groped within until she grasped her Sundor Khan cloak. Carrying it to Gaelin, she went to work, tucking its folds behind him and covering his legs.
“I don’t understand,” Terrek told her. “He doesn’t answer me.”
Avalar rolled to her knees. Gaelin slumped, his features slack, his dull stare directed past her.
“Maybe it was too much for him,” said Terrek. “He was already ill. He didn’t kill them this time. He restored them!”
She caught Gaelin’s chin and raised it, forcing his eyes into the light. “Sails,” she whispered. She turned, leaning her forehead on Terrek’s shoulder until he pulled away.
“Giant, what is it?”
“Nothing . . .” The word fluttered in her throat like a wounded bird. “He is gone. Gaelin is gone!”
“No!” The cry issued from Gaelin’s lips.
Avalar jerked back as Terrek stood to grip the staff-wielder’s shoulders. “What?” he demanded. “Talk to me. I’ve heard your voice before. Who are you?”
“I am the music!” Gaelin’s mouth twitched oddly as the words boomed from his throat, reminding Avalar of a puppet she had seen at solstice fair. “The singer of Mornius remains with you, and you know him,” the speaker said. “But the time has come for you to meet another. I am Holram, the song.”
Chapter 31
HOLRAM GRIMACED AT the bitter taste of the medicine in Gaelin’s mouth as he compelled his young host to smile. He peered across the valley where Roth had galloped his stallion. Now, as Roth returned, his steel-gray horse dancing nervously, he brought behind him a procession of elves.
Holram scowled. I did not expect this, he thought upon seeing the Eris. I have missed these elves. He straightened Gaelin’s shoulders, recalling how the forest’s defenders had once served him, helping him to endure his separation from the stars.
The Eris came riding with stoic stiffness on their wide-backed beasts, the bells tied to the creatures’ manes jingling softly.
The little shan the Eris chose to ride were as colorful as he remembered, with splotches of orange or crimson on their withers and shaggy chests and horizontal brown or red stripes down their stumpy legs. Each broad head was hooded with black, matching the ends of their tufted tails.
The animals squealed and fretted, their rounded ears swiveling and their yellowed teeth bared, their upright manes rippling in the wind.
Terrek intercepted Roth as the lieutenant reined in his lathered horse. With his hand on the stallion’s shoulder, Terrek greeted the elves.
Holram struggled to shuffle Gaelin’s feet, to manipulate his borrowed body to the place where Avalar stood, her expression wary as she surveyed the approaching strangers.
The giant searched his face. “Gaelin?”
“He is sleeping,” Holram said. “I, alone, control this body. It is a difficult task. Creatures of flesh make motion seem so effortless, but it is not.”
“Shetra is gone,” Avalar said bitterly, speaking to the frigid air above him. “The prowler defended you when I could not. She knew I would falter. Now bid Gaelin to wake up!”
Holram sensed his lips curling. “I regret I cannot,” he said.
“I need my friend,” Avalar responded, knuckling away her tears. “And he is not you!”
She whirled and stormed off.
I did that, he realized sadly, watching her slip among the trees. I am responsible.
Holram shivered. Though Gaelin’s mind was slumbering, his flesh was awake and aware, the winter’s chill creeping into his bones. Holram, unaccustomed to his host’s vulnerability to cold, stood in the icy wind. I want to move like humans do, he thought. Without dragging my feet.
The directions from his brain raced through his nerves to his lower appendages. Foot out! Out and push!
Holram started as Gaelin’s left leg jerked parallel to the ground. His torso reared back when his right foot followed, and then he was falling, landing hard on his rump.
He gaped as a tangled thatch of red hair rose from the wedge of white between his splayed legs. A furrowed brow climbed next into his view, followed by two piercing eyes.
“Interesting,” remarked Argus, his crooked mouth half-hidden by the snow. He wriggled his phantom mustache and sniffed.
Holram tried to glare, which widened the dead knight’s grin. His full lips twitching, the specter looked Gaelin over. “Troubles?” he queried at last. “You’ve escaped the Skystone; well done! But I must say, I am not impressed by this new mode of transportation.”
“Lord Argus,” Holram addressed the ghostly head. “How did you convey yourself when you were alive?”
Argus smirked. “ ‘Convey’?” He snorted. “You mean walk? I thought you gods knew everything.”
“No ‘god’ would get itself in this position.” Holram shifted Gaelin’s hips, marveling that he managed to do so. “Please instruct me, old friend. I do not know how to stand up.”
Flashing him a toothy grin, Argus sank down again until just the mop of his hair remained above the snow.
“This is ridiculous,” Holram thought to his drowsy human. “Gaelin, please wake.”
Then hands gripped Gaelin’s body and hauled it erect. Holram swayed for a moment, focusing on his knee joints that threatened to buckle. From the corner of his sight, he spotted a face, a man in black armor scowling fiercely. “Wren Neche,” he acknowledged. “On Earth, your surname meant ‘friend.’ ”
“I lost track of you,” Wren said.
Concentrating hard, Holram turned Gaelin’s head. “Which fighters have been lost?” he asked.
“Captain Vyergin’s missing, and Terrek fears the worst,” Wren said. “Of the few we had to begin with, ten remain, myself included. The rest—”
“Have joined the dance,” Holram finished, addressing the pain in Wren’s voice. “And one day their ashes will help birth new stars. I regret I cannot restore life to bodies torn to pieces. I have limitations, as all mortals do.”
Wren seized him by the neck, clasping him hard. “Whatever you are,” he hissed, “give some thought to what we’ve done here. How many of us have died for you? Too many, if you ask me.”
Holram frowned, concerned by Gaelin’s quickened respiration. His host’s consciousness was stirring at last, flinching away as if stung.
“Vyergin’s lost?” Gaelin’s gr
ief bubbled from his dreams.
“Now that voice, I recognize,” said Wren. “He sounds hurt. What have you done to him?”
“I have ‘done’ nothing except save his life, and yours,” Holram said. “Your companion requires rest after his ordeal. I am giving him that. I comfort him, Wren Neche.”
Wren glowered. “I don’t trust you!”
Lord Argus floated up from the base of a tree, laughing and spreading his arms. “Turn around, O supreme exalted one,” he boomed. “Your doubters are coming. Time to prove who you are!”
Holram glanced at the apparition with what he hoped was a quizzical expression. He continued to eye the ghost until Wren, with a cough, gripped Gaelin’s shoulders and spun him around.
The forest elves drew near, a formation of five elders with someone Holram recognized at their head. It was Kildoren, the same skinny boy who had frequented his temple prior to his transference into the staff. After six hundred cycles, the elven imp was not so young. Gray strands cut through his long black hair, matching the ruffled fur of his parka. Fine lines crinkled his temples, enhancing his stern expression.
“I tried to change his mind,” Terrek said from behind the solemn group. “But he insisted. He wanted to see you for himself.”
The small company of elves stopped and stared.
“It is true, then?” Kildoren asked. He lifted his arms with his palms turned upward—and Holram recalled how the elves could connect to the air with their nerves to read its magic, the Circle’s vibrations allowing them to feel beyond the range of their other senses.
Holram nodded. It was how the elves had recognized when he first arrived that he was unlike his foe. Smiling, he inhaled Kideren’s spicy scent. For the first time, he understood smell as humans experienced it. It reminded him of fire, the birthing place of stars. He gestured to the elf’s parted fingers. “What does the wind tell you?”
Kildoren’s green eyes went wide below his glistening hair as he mouthed, “Tiava,” the elven word for father, and stumbled forward.
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