Shadowdance

by Robin W Bailey

  Veydon interrupted suddenly to direct their attention toward the forest where a line of torches moved among the trees. Silently, the Witch's soldiers emerged and took up formation on the field. The torchlight glittered on helms and greaves and breastplates, on lance points and swords and the metal rims of shields, and there was a terrible beauty to it. Innowen could not count the men. At a guess, they were five times Minarik's force.

  "It begins," Minarik murmured. "The final act."

  Veydon raised his right arm and cut a sharp arc through the air. The trumpeter blew a single blast. At that signal, every archer and slingman in the keep took a place along the wall. Inside the grounds below, soldiers, never far from their horses, mounted and armed themselves with lances while footmen with swords formed ranks behind the main gate. The doors to Whisperstone slammed closed, sealing in the women and children from the village.

  Innowen clutched his father's shoulder with one hand and bit his lip. With his wound, Minarik could be of little help on the wall, but Innowen knew better than to suggest that he withdraw. Instead, he walked a few paces away, begged a shield from another warrior, and pressed it upon his father. "Use this as best you can," he said.

  "What are they waiting for?" Razkili muttered impatiently.

  Before Innowen could answer, Minarik spoke up. "Their queen," he said with lofty sarcasm.

  Until now, the Witch's troops had formed ranks with deliberate silence. Abruptly, the front line brought up their shields and began to beat their lances on them with a steady cadence. The other soldiers picked it up, beating swords against shields or breastplates, the tips of bows against greaves, arm bracers against arm bracers until the forest and the field and the night rattled with the sound.

  Innowen felt his heart suddenly quicken to match the percussion. The rhythm called him with an infectious urging. His right hand thumped in tempo on the back of Minarik's chair while his left clenched and unclenched. He listened, drawn in by the persistent beating, until the sound of it took a familiar form and became a great heart throbbing, pulsing in the darkness.

  The realization snapped him out of its spell. He glanced self-consciously at Razkili and Veydon. Apparently, they had not been affected. But he hadn't imagined it. The rhythm was the same as that of a human heart. He felt it again as it tried to seize hold of him.

  A bolt of crackling power shot across the heavens, fracturing the black, cloudless sky. Innowen felt the hair rise on his body as he clutched at Rascal and gripped the back of Minarik's chair. All along the wall, soldiers screamed and threw up hands to protect their eyes from the sudden white fury.

  Thunderblast followed on the downbeat of the cadence set by the Witch's forces. Unbroken, the rhythm continued. Lance and sword banged on shield, on greaves. Hands clapped. Feet stamped the earth.

  Again, lightning split open the darkness, and a searing tongue of white fire licked down at Whisperstone. Minarik's soldiers cried out in fear. Someone stumbled backward, tripped, and fell among the soldiers clustered below. Another threw down his bow and jumped.

  Just as before, the thunderblast followed on the downbeat of the strange cadence. Innowen felt a sharp pressure in his ears, and for an instant it seemed as if a giant, invisible hand was trying to crush his chest. Chaos spread through Minarik's soldiers, both on the wall and on the ground, but the Witch's troops never broke their unholy rhythm.

  A moan from his father made Innowen forget his fear. Minarik slumped over the arm of his chair. A growing red stain seeped through the bandage around his waist. He grabbed the pillow Veydon had discarded and propped up his father. Minarik's eyes focused on Innowen's. They were filled with the glaze of pain, but there was fear there, too.

  "We are lost," Minarik whispered unevenly, his hand falling on Innowen's shoulder as he tried to right himself in his chair. "We can't fight her magic."

  Razkili dropped to his knees beside them. "Break up the rhythm," he suggested.

  Innowen stared at his lover. It shouldn't have surprised him that Rascal had noted the connection between the lightning and the shield-beating. Still, it took him a moment to grasp what Razkili had suggested. He leaped up, snatching the shield he had earlier given to Minarik, and drew his mother's sword.

  Innowen hesitated only a moment, listening again to the heartbeat rhythm from across the field. Then he slammed the flat of his blade against the shield's face, creating a deliberate counter-rhythm. Razkili drew his own sword, grabbed a shield from the nearest man, and followed Innowen's lead. Veydon, too, understood and began to beat his metal arm bracer against his breastplate as he rushed along the wall urging others to do the same. One by one, on the wall and down inside the grounds Minarik's soldiers took up the new rhythm. Minarik pounded his open palm weakly on the arm of his chair.

  Innowen turned again, facing the Witch's troops, as he raised sword and shield high over his head and crashed them together. He couldn't hear the heartbeat rhythm anymore over the din from his own side, but he could see the steady, unceasing movement of spears and lances in the front ranks.

  Suddenly, the entire sky flashed. For one searing instant, night became bright noonday. Innowen felt as if his flesh took fire as he fell to his knees, his scream lost in the tumult of screams around him. He struggled to rise, but his limbs flopped about uselessly until the burning sensation began to ebb.

  "Well, that didn't work," he muttered in disgust.

  The resultant thunder shook the wall itself, but Minarik sprang to his feet, pointing. "There she is!" he shouted with surprising power and vehemence. He staggered to the edge of the wall, clutching his side, and thrust his finger out a second time. "There she is!"

  Razkili and Veydon both helped Innowen to his feet, causing him to wonder if he had somehow borne the brunt of the last bolt, but a quick glance around the wall convinced him that wasn't so. Some were still down, eerily twitching and jerking, creating new and equally ineffective rhythms as limbs and armor scraped upon the stone.

  Innowen gazed outward, and all his fear left him, replaced by an icy cold anger.

  The Witch of Shanalane sat upon a huge white horse as she rode from the forest to the front ranks of her army. Though her mount kept a walking pace, her black hair streamed wildly in the wind that swirled around her, and the white folds of her gown whipped the air. Her men parted to let her pass, never losing the heartbeat rhythm, until she took her place at their head.

  Innowen stared at his mother. Could he see her laughing over such a distance, or did he imagine that? He picked up her sword and curled his fist around its hilt until his knuckles cracked. He remembered bitterly how he had seen her that first time in a different storm, her hair flying, the wind slashing about her, and how he had loved her in that first moment of seeing her. He knew it now for what it had been—a youthful infatuation with beauty, many times intensified by his need to find help for Drushen and by his own perceived inadequacies. She was like no woman he had ever seen.

  She was still beautiful and still like no other. But he knew her now with a knowledge uncolored by innocence and fantasies. The images from her bedroom in Parendur Still burned in his mind.

  A soldier came running breathlessly to Minarik's side. It took Innowen a moment to remember the man's name. Sireos, originally loyal to Kyrin. Innowen moved closer to his father.

  "That last blast," Sireos said quickly, wiping at his forehead. A thin streak of blood appeared again above his eyebrow. Somehow, he had taken a cut. "It shattered two hinges in the great gates."

  "Impossible!" Veydon swore.

  "You think so?" Sireos retorted sharply. "Come down and see, then. The wall itself has taken several quite amusing cracks, also around the gate." He backed up, beckoning Veydon to follow.

  "Go," Minarik told Veydon, "If what Sireos says is true..." He caught the back of his chair and leaned on it for support. "If what he says is true," he repeated, "report back to me." He waited until both men were gone, then he shook his head and slumped into his chair. "If it's true," he
said again, "all hope is gone.

  She'll shake the stones down around our heads, and there's nothing we can do about it."

  Razkili went to Minarik's side. "Charge," he urged. "Why wait for the stones to come down around you when you have weapons and men willing to fight? Throw open the gates before they crumble. Attack!"

  Innowen grabbed Razkili's arm and spun him around. "No," he said, and his voice brooked no argument. "I'm the only one going out."

  Razkili's jaw gaped, but before he could protest, Innowen stopped him. "I'm the only one going out there," he repeated firmly. He looked Rascal in the eye. "Remember Chohlit?"

  Razkili shook his head furiously. "That was only thirty or forty men!" he reminded with a note of desperation. "There are several thousand out there!"

  Innowen went to the edge of the wall and stared outward at his mother. She sat proudly upon her horse, as if she were waiting for him. All around her, her men kept up their cadence. It was eating at Innowen's nerves.

  "Exactly!" he snapped at Razkili. "Thousands! At least five times our number. And you want to go out and meet them? That's not a fight! That's barely an honorable suicide!" He slammed his hands down against the stone and turned to face his father and his lover. Minarik's face was utter bewilderment. Rascal's was stark terror.

  He addressed his father first. "She has power," he said by way of quick explanation, "and she wants to attack, not with her men, but with her magic. She's showing off." He drew a deep breath, held it, then let it out suddenly as he prepared to confess his most deeply held secret. "But I have a magic of my own, a power she unknowingly gave me. Maybe I can turn it against her. At least I'm going to try."

  An ear-splitting crackle filled the air. Another arcane bolt flashed earthward. Innowen gave a cry and felt as if his flesh were ripping away from his bones, as if his eyes were burning in their sockets. He sagged forward in his father's lap, gasping for breath as Minarik's knees twitched against his chest. Screams and shouts rose up from inside the grounds. Flames shot up from one of the outbuildings near the stables where the lightning had struck.

  Innowen regained control of himself. Minarik sat slumped over one arm of his chair, clutching his wound, his face contorted in a grimace. Innowen pried his father's hands from the bandages. The red stain had grown, but not significantly. He left his father and bent down beside Razkili. Rascal's eyes were closed, and a bruise mark showed above his left brow where his head had struck the stone, but his breathing was even. She's just made it easier for me, Innowen thought to himself as he hugged Rascal and laid him gently back on the stone.

  He got to his feet and looked around for his mother's sword and the helm he had dropped earlier. Snatching them up, he ran from the wall, pushing and shoving his way to the stairs as panicked soldiers abandoned their posts and ran in all directions. A terrified archer blocked the narrow steps at the halfway point, refusing to go up or down until Innowen ruthlessly kicked him off.

  At the gate, he found Veydon and Sireos, fruitlessly attempting, with the help of a few men who had kept their senses, to reinforce the gate by bracing it with a pair of huge beams.

  "The cracks are real!" Veydon shouted to Innowen, "and getting worse!"

  "That last one broke a hinge clean!" Sireos informed him.

  "Let me out," Innowen ordered. He sheathed his mother's sword and took her helm between both hands.

  "What?" the two men exclaimed together.

  Innowen shouted at them. "Open the godsdamned gate!" he demanded. "And shut it fast again behind me!"

  "I hope you know what you're doing," Veydon warned, pushing his dark hair back from his sweaty face, but he beckoned to several men to push open one of the great doors, and he lent his own shoulder to speed the task.

  "Innowen!"

  Innowen knew without looking that it was Rascal who called his name. He swallowed hard and took a step toward the gate. Rascal shouted his name again, the edge of fear in his voice sharp, enough to cut through Innowen's resolve. He hesitated, biting his lip. Slowly, he gazed up. Hands curled into fists, Rascal stood directly above him on the rampart, ready to jump.

  There was little time. Another lightning bolt, another thunderblast or two, and the gates might come crashing down, perhaps even the walls themselves, leaving Whisperstone open to the Witch's army. He looked past the opening Veydon had made for him at the sea of torches and glittering armor. Then he called up to Razkili. "Get everyone off the walls!" he shouted. "You know why! Get them off!" He rushed through the opening before Razkili could say more and heard it thud shut behind him.

  Innowen stood in the shadow of the gate where neither the moonlight nor the light from the watchfires above reached. He wondered if his mother had noticed the swift opening and closing of the gate, if she felt him watching her. His eye roamed the ranks of her warriors, and doubt quivered through him. There could be no turning back, though. A cloud of dust and ash swirled up around him in a gust of wind. He sputtered and wiped at his eyes. He had planned to wear his mother's helm. Instead, he pulled up the hood of his white cloak and tucked the helm under his arm. He started slowly across the powdery field.

  The shadow of the wall drew a black line across the earth. He stopped suddenly without crossing it. The Witch saw him, he was sure of it. She sat rigidly on her horse, and though the wind whipped her hair and the folds of her garments, she did not move. She stared his way, and he felt their gazes lock over the distance between them. He turned away and scanned the top of Whisperstone's wall. Not a single soldier stood atop it. Only two lonely forms remained to watch him from there. In the glow of the watchfires it was difficult to see their faces, but he was sure they were Minarik and Rascal. He wanted to shout at them, Get below! Don't look! But he knew nothing he could say or do would make either of them turn away.

  He stepped out of the wall's shadow. A crimson bolt sizzled across the heavens, and the world flashed white for a brief instant. But neither the lightning, nor the thunderclap that followed, had the same power as the earlier blasts. He hesitated, then continued walking across the field.

  The Witch raised a hand. The sudden silence was its own thunderclap as her soldiers ceased their rhythmic beating. Innowen bit his lip, uncertain of what to expect. If they charged, he was done for. The Witch gave no further order, however, and her troops kept ranks.

  They all saw him. It was impossible not to see him in his mother's white cloak with the moon shining on him. He pushed the cloak's folds back over his shoulders with his free hand, letting the moon strike the armor he wore, his mother's armor.

  Halfway across the field, he stopped. A sea of arms and armor stretched before him. Doubt rose in him again, but he took his mother's helm in both hands and raised it high overhead, letting the moonlight play on it. Then he lowered it again arid let it slip from his fingers to lie in the dust.

  He wished he could have spoken to her, that he could have walked right up to her. She would have said something like, You have my armor, thief, and he would have cleverly answered, Consider it my inheritance, Mother, and she would have been surprised to hear him call her that. She might have said, I thought you were a dream when you came to my bedroom, and he would have answered, Real as flesh, flesh of your flesh.

  But he dared not get that close. He knew her power. She might stop him before he could stop her army. They could all see him. He had their attention. Nothing remained for him to do, now, but dance. He touched the clasp of the cloak. The soft cloth slithered from his shoulders and dropped to the ground.

  He listened for the wind, and from his memory came an echo of Razkili's harp. He closed his eyes, hearing a note that had no physical sound as he put one toe forward, lifted and spun on it, and settled himself again. He opened his eyes and spun once more with his left leg bent behind him and his back deeply arched.

  He stopped. That had been no dance, only a series of mechanical movements. He stared at his mother, wondering what she must be thinking. His breathing was too quick. He forced it to slow.
Did he fear his mother so much? Or did he fear for her? Think of your father, he told himself sharply, think of Rascal. He eyed the line of soldiers with their shields and spears and swords.

  Innowen swept his hands forward lyrically as he made a deep lunge. His memory had let go a single echo from the magnificent wind harp. Now he called up its entire symphony from the well of his soul. He moved over the ash, flowing sinuously from one extension to the next. His arms swept upward in a rolling motion that carried him to the tips of his toes and over backward until he caught himself on one hand while the other strained toward the moon. Straightening, he flung out his arms and spun again, dragging one toe in the dust, carving a perfect circle on the pale, gray earth.

  The wind rose around him, and with it came a wail of music, like a storm, from out of the night. The wind harp! In his mind, he'd heard it. Now he heard it for real. On Sparrow Hill, on the other side of Whisperstone, it sang to him—with the voices of an angel's chorus or a demon's, he didn't know. But the sound filled him, lifted him. The wind surged. The music it carried crescendoed wildly, and Innowen embraced it as he danced.

  The Witch, her army, Whisperstone—it all faded from his awareness. That was always the deepest beauty of it. While he danced, his mind emptied. Worry, fear, troubles, all thought poured out of him like water. The world vanished. Time stood still. Out of this unreality, he carved for himself a new reality, a landscape defined by the power of his muscles and the stretch of his limbs, time created by the rhythm of his movements, the beating of his heart, and the pulse of the blood in his veins.

  And sometimes, when it was over, when he stopped, he cried, for the world he returned to could never be as beautiful as the one he made with his dance.

  Innowen dropped to the ground, exhausted. His heart hammered in his chest. Sweat made rivulets in the dust and ash on his face, and he licked at a droplet that ran into the corner of his mouth. It had a bitter taste. The music of the wind harp floated in the air, softer now, only a faint and purposeless harmony, hovering, lingering.