“It doesn’t make much difference,” Skeelie said dourly. She began, with more determination than faith, to try to conjure an illusion that might confuse and turn aside NilokEm’s troops. If she could turn them aside, if she could even begin to deceive that dark Seer. He was no simple Herebian raider, to be so easily deceived as had been the warriors by the lake of fire. He was NilokEm, strong in his dark Seer’s powers, strengthened by the shard of the runestone he carried. Still she must try; their lives could well depend on such deception. What illusion could turn such a man aside, terrify him? Turn his soldiers back, frighten his horses as she had frightened the messenger’s mount? Something—she thought of a trick Ram had used when they were children: A vision of wolves raging in bloodthirsty attack. Oh yes, a vision of wolves might do it.
The vision rose in her mind, great dark wolves snarling and leaping. But could she make NilokEm see them? She began to conjure their shapes from the shadows beneath the trees, to turn and form the shadows; forcing her power into them until she could feel the mount beneath her cringe as the wolves took shadowy form around it. Telien fought to keep the horse from bolting. Skeelie brought wolves huge and leaping out of darkness, felt elation at her own strength, brought wolves stronger still, bolder, drew them close, a sea of snarling killers. Their frightened mount stood motionless now, crouching and shivering, wanting to explode in terror, but its fear gripping it in dumb immobility. Skeelie gave the wolves a rank scent, heightened their snarls; and in one lurching surge sent them streaking to where NilokEm’s horses crashed through the wood. She heard horses scream as they reared and spun. Branches shattered. Men cried out, swearing, caught in confusion.
But one wolf did not follow the rest, remained close beside their plunging horse, one wolf golden in the wash of dawn that fell between the slim trees. “Torc! Oh, Torc!”
Skeelie felt the bitch wolf’s laughter and went weak with pleasure.
Hold the image, sister! Do not let it fade!
She caught her breath, brought the image-wolves into wilder attack among the bolting horses. Their own horse fought Telien, tried to run suddenly. “Pull the horse up, Telien! Pull him up!” Though Telien was doing all she could, sawing its reins and jerking the animal in a circle. Skeelie stared down at Torc, so very glad to see the bitch wolf. Where did you come from? How . . .? The horse continued to spin, fighting Telien. Torc stood still, so as not to alarm it further. Out of another place, sister, out of another time that . . . but the shadows were shifting around them, the wood shifting and warping. The light changed suddenly: sun shone bright between thick branches of trees grown huge, ancient. Their horse spun now in terror, nearly fell, then stopped at last to stand trembling again, foam coating its neck. Around them, riders surged closer in a storm of confusion as Skeelie’s image-wolves leaped and snarled. Their horse crouched wild-eyed, as if it would throw itself. Skeelie slid off to safety, pulling Telien with her, though Telien tried to cling.
“Don’t, Skeelie! It’s only frightened, don’t . . .” The big mount snorted and reared, pulling Telien off her feet. Skeelie sensed a movement behind her and spun, saw Torc leap for a man who was nearly on top of them, his sword glinting.
The image, sister! The image! For the image-wolves had wavered again; Skeelie sent the vision stronger until wolves leaped once more, keening among the panicked raiders. In the confusion their horse turned and ran, the bit hard in his mouth so Telien was dragged at the end of the reins, her heels digging into the soft earth, then was forced to let him go. NilokEm’s soldiers and the image-wolves churned in a melee of confusion among ancient trees gnarled and thick beneath a high noon sun, all semblance of a young wood vanished into a time long dead.
And something else was happening in the wood. At the moment that the slim trees turned ancient, and the sun brightened, other forces were there; dark powers rising at cross-purposes to NilokEm’s powers; and other powers, powers of light. Forces clashed and rose, clashed anew.
*
Hermeth’s troops, come into the wood slowly and quietly and wanting rest, were startled into action suddenly, drew weapons, and spun their horses to face the circle of rabble made suddenly visible, penning them in; rabble that had slipped under cover of mind-fogging into a tight circle around them. Hermeth’s men lashed into them and all the violence of Urdd broke loose as, at the same instant, the woods shivered with overlapping images, warping, then the ancient trees came steady again; and another band of soldiers was there among them battling wolves in a confusion even Ram could not sort out. The rabble he and Hermeth had pursued was all around them, but facing strange soldiers now and strange wolves all come out of nowhere, in a senseless tangle. Come out of Time? Or were those other wolves image-wrought? And what were these troops? He slashed at a soldier, fought fiercely but abstractly, trying to make sense of the confusion.
NilokEm’s soldiers struck from the saddle at wolves and struck only air. They battled soldiers come out of nowhere, powers come out of nowhere. The dark Seer swore at their sudden fear, at powers gone awry. He brought his own powers down hard and felt them twisted and muted, fought his rearing horse with cruel fury, slashed at a Herebian bearing down on him. Then suddenly he saw ahead of him a flash of pale hair caught in sunlight, and he forgot wolves, forgot the confusion of warriors come out of nowhere, forced bloody spurs into his horse, and rode after Telien with sword drawn. His men, seeing him turn tail, facing wolves they could not kill, facing too many soldiers, jerked their horses and bolted in cold fear—but now again they met wolves, and these animals pulled men from the saddle and took horses down at full run. There was no escape, there was nothing to do but fight.
NilokEm bore down on Telien, then pulled his horse up suddenly as the cold presence of other Seers exploded in his mind; dark Seers behind him. How could that be? Even his hatred of Telien could not hold him. He spun his horse, searching for the rabble Seers among the troops that battled his men, puzzled and furious. There were no other dark Seers, not in all of Ere, not even such rabble as these. He was the last with such power, until Dal grew to an age to master such skills. But there were dark Seers here! Where had such Seers come from? And did he sense Seers of light? He sat his fidgeting horse still as stone, reaching out. And there was something else besides, something even more disturbing—or perhaps opportune. Could he be sensing clearly?
Yes, yes. There was a runestone here, he thought with rising excitement. One of those Seers carried a runestone, he could feel the power of it. His eyes grew dark and slitted with greed as he surveyed the raging battle, sorting, feeling out to find the bearer of that stone.
He did not search out for long, for snarling wolves surrounded him, singled him out, their eyes filling him with terror. A huge, dark dog wolf leaped for his leg as his horse reared, and another went for its throat. He lashed at them from the saddle, flailed with his sword, but they were too quick; his stricken horse twisted and fell, its throat gushing blood. He leaped free, faced a dozen wolves as the battle churned around him. He brought the power of the stone against them, drove them back snarling with pain. But again they advanced, strong-willed against the stone’s power, heads lowered. He sought the stone’s forces stronger—but he felt nothing suddenly. Nothing. He stared down at the stone, stricken. It lay lifeless and dull in his hand. The wolves paused, watching him, anticipating something. He felt the stone’s absence of power with terror. What he felt happening was impossible, incredible.
Was that other stone, carried by one of those Seers, stealing the power from this stone? How could such a thing be?
The wolves stood appraising him, their eyes slitted in eager anticipation that chilled him to the bone. Then suddenly the stone flared burning in his hand so he screamed and dropped it, saw the jade pulsing like fire at his feet.
At the same instant the stone in Ram’s hand turned to flame, seared him. He held it, gritting his teeth, did not know what was happening, would not let the stone go. He blew, spat on it. At last it cooled, lay green again in his
painfully burned palm. He was aware suddenly of the dark Seer facing him across the battlefield, was locked suddenly as if with bands of steel to that Seer. They stood, Ramad and NilokEm, facing across the melee of battle, two Seers come together, locked together in painful contest for possession of one shard of the runestone of Eresu that lay, in that instant, split in its nature: one stone, handed down from NilokEm to Dal, to the dark twins, taken in battle by Macmen, given to Hermeth, and given then to Ram. It could not exist for long divided. It must draw into itself, become one, and the stronger Seer would draw the stone’s strength to himself. Their wills dwarfed the battle that raged as Hermeth’s men fought Pellians out of Time and Pellians contemporary.
Sweat streaked Ram’s forehead as he forced his power against NilokEm. The dark Seer went ashen, then rallied, began to draw the force of the stone in a surge of desperation. It was then Ram saw Telien leaning half-conscious against a dying horse; knew she had been struck as soldiers battled around her; knew in an instant of clarity what NilokEm was to Telien, what NilokEm had made of her life, saw her enslavement, the beatings, NilokEm’s cruel lusting way with her, the baby born and taken from her; saw it all, and in his rage forgot the battle for the runestone and wanted only to kill NilokEm, was across the battlefield grabbing the dark Seer, striking and pounding him, dodging NilokEm’s blows, attacking him with insane fury. The man fell heavy and flailing against him. Ram held him and hit him again and again, then left him unconscious amidst the battle. The stone turned to but a faded rock in NilokEm’s hand, a skeleton of the runestone it had been.
Ram shouldered aside soldiers, struck out in fury to reach Telien. Stood looking down at her, shaken at the sight of her. She was so pale, so thin. He lifted her, held her, tried in desperation to revive her. At last he sought a sheltered place between trees where they were somewhat protected from battle, held her and whispered to her until finally she opened her eyes. He could feel her sick confusion, feel the pain of the wound across her forehead, as he examined it. She watched him, pale and uncertain. There was blood clotting, and her forehead was swollen and bruised. He stood holding her, stricken, aware of nothing else, unaware of the shadow moving toward them from deeper in the wood. He was desperate in his fear for her, tried to sense the damage the wound had done, felt her tears on his cheek. He knew her shame at having lain with NilokEm, her pain. He knew her mourning for her lost child. He felt her shame and yet her surging joy in him, her very soul a part of his.
The shadow drew closer. It, too, carried a shard of the runestone; yet it was drawn inexorably by the shard Ram held and the shard NilokEm held, seemed unable to distinguish between the gray, lifeless shard and the live runestone shining deep green in Ram’s closed fist. Ram stared at the jade absently, unaware of the shadow, and shoved it in his tunic, held Telien close to him against all harm.
The wraith approached NilokEm first, stood over the fallen Seer sensing out and felt only then the lifelessness of the shard. In anger, it reached down its cold hands, then drew back when NilokEm opened his eyes to stare up at it.
Slowly NilokEm rose, a bull of a man, seething now with hatred, mindless with fear of the powers that had risen uncontrollably around him. He stared at the wraith, drew his knife from his boot, began to stalk the wraith as a creature smaller and weaker than he. And as he drew close to it he knew suddenly and with pounding heart that this deathlike creature carried a shard of the runestone.
He would have that stone.
He dared not think of the destruction of the stone he carried, dared not think of the power that could have done such a thing. Now the stone possessed by this weak creature would be his. The two figures crouched motionless, locked in a gaze of mutual contempt. Of mutual greed. NilokEm’s greed was for the runestone, but the wraith’s greed was for something else altogether, now that NilokEm’s shard of the jade was useless. Its greed was like cold flame, wanting the powerful Seer’s body.
Ram watched, frozen; saw the wraith’s expression change to sudden pleasure; knew it wanted to die, wanted NilokEm to kill it, that it was aware of nothing now but the closeness of the dark Seer, that it wanted to slip as a shadow into the strong Seer’s body. Ram raised his bow. But he was not quick enough, the dark Seer thrust his knife into the wraith’s throat; the wraith twisted and fell, its breath gurgling in its severed throat. Ram watched, appalled. He felt the wraith’s cold spirit leave that dead body and reach out to enter NilokEm. The dark Seer was aware only then of his danger. He fought with terror, but already he had been weakened. NilokEm struggled against the wraith in desperation, then with growing horror. At last he drew on some deep well of final strength and determination. He lifted his knife and plunged it into his own heart.
NilokEm fell dying, had escaped the wraith in the only way left to him.
The wraith, thwarted and bodiless and in terror for its own existence, turned the darkness of its being suddenly and desperately to enter Ram’s body instead, wanted Ram now, this Seer who was master of the stones. Ram battled it, pushed back its questing dark with more strength, even, than he had battled the Pellian Seers when he was a child. Yet he went dizzy under the wraith’s growing power, did not understand the increase in that power. Had it drawn strength from the dark Seer as he died? He felt its desperation and drew upon powers he hardly understood in his battle to escape it, to be free of it.
He began to loose its hold at last. He was barely conscious, unaware of the fighting around him or of Telien holding him to her, her knuckles white on his arm where she tried with stubborn will to help him fight. He knew nothing of Skeelie’s straining, hard-biting battle to give him power. Yet sick, nearly lost, he rallied finally to drive the wraith out. He felt it go free of him and gasped for air as if he had been drowning. Trying to clear his head, he looked down at Telien.
He saw too late. Saw with cold horror.
Telien had dropped her hands to her sides and was staring up at him with a look of wary hatred. The sense of her being was closed and secret. But her lust for the runestone could not be hidden. She watched Ram greedily. Her beauty, her gentle green eyes, every feature he loved had been changed in an instant to a parody of Telien, horrifying in its greed and coldness.
Sick with shock, Ram watched her kneel over the wraith’s thin, abandoned body. He thought only then of the runestone it carried, watched appalled as Telien began to pry its dead fingers apart. He reached for her, but Skeelie was quicker: dark hair flying, she was on Telien reaching for the stone. Telien tore at her, scratching and striking Skeelie across the face. Ram grabbed Telien, sick at hurting her, pulled her off of Skeelie and saw her closed white fist, heard Skeelie gasp, “She has it!” Wincing, he forced Telien’s arm back, sick at doing this, amazed at her sudden strength. The pain in her arm seemed to be his own as he pried apart her fingers, took the stone from her; then she was gone from his grasp. Gone once more into Time. He stared at empty space, uncomprehending. A riderless horse lurched past him. The battle erupted nearly on top of him. Ram turned away from it unseeing, his fists clenched around the stone, sick inside himself, tears stinging his eyes.
Somewhere in Time the wraith moved, couched in the fair beauty of Telien. How much of Telien remained, aware and terrified, but unable to escape?
Ram turned back at last and saw Skeelie turn away quickly as if she had been watching him. She was kneeling beside the wraith’s body, occupied with pulling the boots off its feet. He stared at her, forgetting his grief for a moment. “You’re not going to wear those!”
She looked up at him as if she had forgotten he was there, though he knew well enough she had been staring at him caught blindly in his grief. Her face was smeared with dirt and blood. The knot of her dark hair was crooked and loose, hanging against her shoulder. “I have no boots. They’re only boots, Ram. My feet are cut and bleeding.” Her dark eyes held him; and suddenly they were children again; Skeelie a skinny little girl stealing iron spikes from the smith. It occurred to neither of them that their remarks about the wra
ith’s boots were nearly the first words they had spoken to one another in the generations since both of them had been swept away from their own time.
“I will need boots, Ram, if we are to follow her.”
Ram wanted to hug her. He remembered her sword then and held it out to her mutely, the silver hilt glinting. Her dark eyes went wide with amazement. Behind them the battle had swept past, not a battle so much now as a mopping up of unhorsed soldiers trying to flee on foot, stumbling over their dead brothers and pursued by wolves and by Hermeth’s riders. Ram said, “I took it off a dead Herebian at the foot of Tala-charen.”
She ran her finger down the flat of the blade, then sheathed the sword in a quiet ritual, discarding the heavy Herebian one she had used. When she looked up at him, her eyes were deep. “I missed it, Ram. I missed it quite a lot.”
*
The battle was ended. Hermeth’s soldiers stripped the bodies of valuables and dragged them to a common grave scraped out of the loose loam of the woods. Skeelie’s image-wolves were gone. Only the real wolves remained, licking their wounds from battle. Five wolves were dead, lost to the battling armies. They will live again, Fawdref said, ignoring Ram’s grief for them. They will live again, Ramad, in the progression of souls. Perhaps as men—or perhaps they will be luckier, he said dryly, nudging Ram. Ram cuffed him on the shoulder.
“Those dead ones fought for Hermeth, for the stone, Fawdref. Your wolves fought bravely.”
We fought for all of us, Ramad, just as we fought at the Castle of Hape. Just as we fought for Macmen. Never forget, Ramad; it is our battle too. Men are not the only sufferers when the dark grows strong upon Ere.
Ram knelt suddenly and pressed his face against Fawdref’s rough shoulder, reassured by Fawdref’s warm, solid presence.
The old wolf was silent for a few moments. Then he looked away across the wood. Those who have been buried in the common grave, who came from the time of NilokEm, are gone now, Ramad. Only traces of dry, rotting bones remain in the earth where, a moment ago, they lay still warm from recent life. And look behind you at NilokEm’s skeleton. His hand still holds the lifeless gray stone that is also a skeleton, lifeless body of the runestone. That stone will vanish too, as, in his own time, the live jade is lifted from his bloody palm to be passed on to his heir who was NilokDal, and to come at long last down to Hermeth’s hand—that jade that lies now in your tunic, Ramad.
Runestone of Eresu Page 25
