“Yes.” He looked once more at the map that showed the struggling birth of his empire, stared at the throbbing lines that were unfraying in the east. “Dismissed,” he said, but softly.
The high priest did not linger; like any of the Malanthi, he had no desire to remain in the presence of one whose power was greater than his own.
“It has been long,” the Servant said. He walked once again to his customary position, looked at the map his power had laid out, and watched its glimmering lines.
“Long.” He raised one arm and shadow swirled around it like a dark mist. His skin grayed and paled until he no longer wore the semblance of a mortal. Red eyes flashed in a face that knew no life.
One delicate claw tore the map asunder.
“First of Lernan,” he whispered. “First of the Light.” The darkness about him grew blacker still. “You send a healer against us as a vessel of your power.”
His power filled the room until no light existed within it at all. For a moment he could see the void again, the darkness of the all that existed before the coming of the world. And he could see the First of Lernan, cloaked in a light that matched his darkness, calling a power that matched his power.
“We were well matched then. But you have squandered much for the tainted.
“I will take to the field against your vessel.
“I will break it, Lady, and return it to you. Only your full power has any chance against all that I can summon.”
And then he began to concentrate, calling his power to search the continent for this Sarillorn. It was not easy; the Lernari had their own methods of guarding against this detection. Nor would his answer be quickly gained; but to the Servants, even the least of them, time was of no concern.
“Lady.” Words accompanied the rustle of grass and dry leaves.
“Latham. ” Once again she stood under open starlight, a pale beacon in the shadow of the night.
“What brings you here?”
As if she had not heard the question, she raised one arm and pointed between the crook of two large branches. “What do you see there?”
“The southern circle, Lady.” He began to search the sky for other constellations.
It did not matter; the Lady was no longer attending to him. Instead she saw the village of Colmen with its outlying fields and flat rectangular buildings, surrounded by a deep, red shield as it lay in slumber. Saw the army, priests, Swords, and the nonblooded approaching it under the grim command of the First of Malthan.
It was not a sight she could close her eyes against, so she gazed at the stars that Latham sought.
Beneath the southern circle, the guards of the fourth watch were being slaughtered.
“. . . and that, that one is Beryon himself, before the battle of field and Valley . . .”
Under Beryon’s eyes, Erin lay sleeping on a thin bed in the rooms built onto the small village temple. Sleeping peacefully, perhaps for the last time, in the small village that she had made her home when the road didn’t force her to march. It was closer than Elliath, as Erin had explained to the council on one of her rare visits, nearer to the front.
Farther from the line.
She wanted to understand these people by living among them as one of their own. The Lady might have told her the falseness of that hope.
“. . . and there—there, the sky is clear enough, I see the sword of Gallin.”
It was raised; the Lady could see it clearly fixed above Colmen like a doom. She could see the fires starting, their red glow forcing screams from dying bodies. She could see the Sarillorn of Elliath, torn from sleep in the middle of the night, sword already in hand as she leaped to answer the call of war in an unexpected place. No time here for the warrior braid; her hair swung about her wild eyes like a dark net.
And clearly, so clearly the distance made no difference at all, she could see the enemy that Erin could not see: the First of Malthan, as he had walked the skies eons past, cloaked in the thick, immutable darkness of the beginning. Only great age and accumulated wisdom allowed her to ignore the ancient call to battle.
As the village dissolved into chaos, she turned to Latham.
“What do you see there?”
And if there was a note of fear in her voice, he could not hear it—but unknowing, he answered her plea, eyes touching the stars that his comforting, familiar voice then named, while the battle, unknowable to him, raged on.
She listened, paying a little more of the price that Lernan’s Hope exacted.
chapter nine
Antel, you can’t be dead. But the peculiar stillness of the blistered chest beneath her hands told her otherwise. Denial dissolved as her fingers searched his neck for a pulse and found nothing but slackness and silence. Around her the clamor and clash of fighting tried to catch her attention. The screams of the dying told her firmly that he was only one among many, and the number would grow before the hour was out.
“Antel.” She shook her head, a wavering smile already dying on her lips. “Can’t you wait for your ability to catch up to your courage?”
He was the first of the nonblooded that she had raised on the field of battle; he had carried the enemy banner into the field with no true idea of how to protect it. He was young then, perhaps that was why she had saved him; his age in his terms had been no different from her own when she had first encountered the wars. But she had been with friends, fighting for a cause that she believed in with absolute certainty. He had not had those comforts.
But the truth was that she hadn’t had any choice. The Lady’s warning hadn’t been given without cause, and Antel’s near-worship of her was given solely because she hadn’t either the Lady’s, or her own mother’s, self-control.
She shook her head as the red outline of empty buildings at the nearest edge of the village grew brighter. Shadows criss-crossed the trampled grass; swords rose and fell. These grew fewer with each passing moment.
She had tried, after the day of healing, to tell him that she wasn’t going to serve as the cause for a young man’s death; had even gone so far as to criticize his technique—a generous term—in battle. But his eyes had followed her, perhaps the same way hers had once followed the Lady, and she found herself unable to get rid of him. And so he had stayed, no matter where the war took her. And now . . .
“You just can’t wait, can you?”
She imagined the grave lines of his face folding into an embarrassed blush at the tone of her voice, the way Belf’s once had. Imagined it, but not strongly enough to erase the look of hurt surprise that tightened his frozen lips. There was so much she wanted to say.
Instead she bent over him almost protectively and closed his eyelids with the tips of her fingers. She kissed his forehead, tasting the salt of tears that had splashed his brow.
In the distance she imagined the low thread of a familiar voice. “There is no place for tears on the battlefield. After all is over, you may mourn in pride—but never show that weakness to the enemy.”
Telvar, can you never leave me alone? Perhaps it’s true for the Lernari—but the nonblooded, no. Let me mourn, damn you, as I see fit.
“No, Sarillorn. The enemy understands suffering. They know that they’ve caused it and are satisfied.”
Does it matter what you think?
She could see Telvar’s stiff, brittle frown. Not that it mattered; he was dead these many months and only his words remained with her, a gift from her very first battle upon attaining her rank.
He was dead.
If the war had permitted, she would have gone to his ceremony and stood guard by his coffin, as he had stood by so many others. But perhaps it was better this way; his death was still just a story, and he lived in some way within her.
It doesn’t matter anyway, Telvar. The battle is over. Her tears continued to fall.
Already the sounds of metal against metal had faded; the smoke that lingered from the fire-strike wafted wayward in the strong breeze, obscuring the corpses of Malanthi and human
alike. It billowed like a ghost in a night punctuated by the glare of red flames.
The village had fallen.
She was weary. Loss of blood and the endless stream of enchantment that she had called forth had taken a heavy toll. She stood, forcing her knees not to buckle beneath her, almost giddy with apprehension. There had been Malanthi here, and in great numbers, but her blood was stronger than theirs—her own power should have been able to hold or drive them back in time to evacuate the village. She had done it countless times before.
No. It was not the Malanthi that had buckled her shields, allowing the enemy free passage, and not the Malanthi alone that had slaughtered so many of her people.
I should have been watching. I should have felt something. She shook her head bitterly. This isn’t the first time they’ve struck so far within our lines. Damn, I should know it’s never safe!
She straightened her clothing and looked around quickly. Her armor was lost; there had been no time or help to don it. Never mind. Word must be sent, and quickly.
A Servant of Malthan walked the lands.
She was bitterly thankful for the fact that she was almost exhausted—only the depletion of her blood-power allowed her to walk away from the pain of the dying villagers.
Swaying, she turned her back on the fire and began to walk toward the forest, knowing it would be easy to lose pursuit there if she could make it. She was dizzy, and twice stumbled as her legs rebelled against carrying her weight that far. Gritting her teeth she moved forward, listening for any sound from behind. Nothing but distant screams; no footsteps, no shouts. The soft unevenness of turned earth gave way to forest—she had reached the first line of trees. She stopped to brace herself against a maple, faced away from the village.
I’m sorry. I know I’ve deserted you, but the lines must have word of this. The Lady must have a chance to meet this threat. Please, please forgive me. Rough, old bark scraped against the back of her neck. Time to start moving in a darkness that she dared not alleviate with Lernari light.
Twenty feet of tree cover was behind her when she halted abruptly.
In the shadowed light that breached the leaves a figure had emerged. It stood very still, dark against darkness. A cold finger traced Erin’s spine, and she snapped her hands upward, tracing the sigil of the Greater Ward. The black outline of hands moved languidly in the air, mirroring her gestures and mocking them with a ward of their own. Her teeth clamped down as she repeated the ward, her hands and body tense with a concentration that was almost physical. The tingle at the base of her spine eased slightly, but she could still feel it. She gave ground slowly, stepping back as a foreign power pushed at her defense.
“You are very powerful.” The voice was casual. “I can almost feel your ward.”
She did not waste the energy or concentration necessary to respond.
“Sarillar? Ah, no. I see that you are female. ” Light, the voice, and mocking. It told her that he knew full well who she was. “Sarillorn, then. I am not feeding, and I am therefore not open to any of your little wards. I suggest that you stop wasting energy on them; if you do not, you will not last for long. And that would be a pity.”
Only her hands moved. Every bit of a reserve that she did not know she had fueled the gestures. You may be powerful, but I‘ve noticed that you aren’t breaching the ward.
An edge slipped into the velvet of the voice. “Very well. I grow quite bored of this.”
At his words, Erin threw the last of her flagging strength into the Greater Ward. She thought that she had long since recovered from her inability to draw a true one, but she suddenly knew that she had never wanted the hand of God so badly.
Her opponent stepped forward, then staggered back with a soft curse. A small, tight smile caught Erin’s lips. It vanished as her enemy gestured in a single, sweeping motion, one too wide, too deep. A red-fire flared in the darkness, crackling through Erin’s barriers as if they were kindling. A tongue of flame swirled round her, unable to quite reach her pale skin. It didn’t matter; Erin screamed in agony, and the color of her pain was red. She dropped to the ground, her body curling in on itself. Let the fire touch her, and she would have her God. But it didn’t; it lingered so close to her skin that it was almost clothing, but it did not push further.
“Come, little half human. The time for defiance is long over.”
Hands pulled Erin’s head up by the hair.
“Can you not stand?” He shook her sharply, but she remained limp. Exhaustion held her immobile. “A lesson, Sarilorn. One should never overextend one’s abilities in battle. As you shall see, it bodes ill for survival.”
Strong hands pulled her to her feet and kept her there. Slowly they turned her until she faced the village. It was almost more than she could bear.
“Walk.”
She was shoved forward. Her feet took a hesitant, automatic step before she crumpled. Again she was lifted.
“Your value as amusement is diminishing. If I have to carry you to the village, you will pay for the effort before you die.”
Erin said nothing. She closed her eyes, drawing deep, even breaths. She was very cold. A Servant walked her lands; she was powerless to stop his progress; she could get no word out; and in a short while she would be dead.
Just as her mother had died.
The Servant carried her back to the village. The noise of fading screams grew louder; the smell of burning wood and flesh clogged her nostrils and mouth. Involuntarily her eyes fluttered open to see what they had not seen since she had become Sarillorn: loss in war.
“You are conscious. Impressive. You!”
A figure separated from a crowd of armored men that had clustered in front of the ruins of the mayor’s home. It had once been grand—the only two-level home in the village. Now it was no more than broken glass and charred wood—an empty shell. The man who approached wore the red and black surcoat of the blooded—one of the Swords. His face shone with the glisten of sweat and blood, his eyes with feral triumph. He gave a low bow.
“Tend to her. She is the Lernari that has caused so much trouble with our borders. Bring her to the center of the village when the other survivors have been gathered.”
Erin was set down on shaky feet. Resolute, she met the eyes of the Malanthi, not flinching at what she saw in them. This was the way of war, and the death that warriors had faced from the dawn of time. He smiled and grabbed her, the grip of mailed fingers bruising her arm.
“And Damar—she is mine. Tell the others. ”
The light in the eyes of the Malanthi guttered at the chill in the Servant’s words. He nodded briskly and began to drag Erin along what was left of the village road. She walked with as much dignity as she could muster—in this, at least, she showed herself to be Telvar’s pupil.
But she could not help but see the caved-in sides of the small homes that the elderly chose to live in; the peaked wooden fences that lay in pieces against the winding dirt road; the empty, silent streets. The tiny market circle of Colmen was just ahead. The Sword turned off abruptly before they reached it. But she could see the flagpoles—wood, these, not steel—as they lay splintered on the ground, and she could see the bodies beneath them.
With little ceremony she was thrown into a dark, crowded hut. Meryman’s home, close as it was to the market circle. She wondered if the old man was still alive.
The door slammed shut behind her, although there was no longer any lock to secure it with. She leaned against the wall, allowing her eyes to accustom themselves to the gloom. Slowly the outline of huddled bodies made itself visible. The stench didn’t take nearly as long. Her throat was dry and tight; it caught as she gagged slightly.
I don’t have the power for this.
But it wasn’t quite true. What she didn’t have was the power to deny pain. She stumbled forward, her hands already outstretched and shaking. Beneath her fingers she felt the wrinkled visage of an old man. He groaned.
The voice was not Meryman’s; it was Gordan’
s. There was fear in it, but little strength.
“Shhh. It is the Sarillorn. I will try to help you.”
The man’s tension eased as Erin sent a small part off herself outward to gather his pain. She cried out then, all of her body writhing with the sudden contact that swamped her—but her hand remained in place, unmoved by the other’s agony.
From out of the darkness, another voice spoke up. It was hoarse. “Sarillorn. We thought you dead.”
“Not yet. ”
“It would have gone easier for you; you would have been spared much. There is a nightwalker here.”
“I know. But maybe it is better this way. I can ease your pain before the end.” Weakly she withdrew her hand from the old man’s face. She did not allow herself to think on the extent of his injuries; instead she concentrated on sleep, and as the last tendril of his thought merged with hers, he drifted off.
She moved on, her hand cupping the cheek of a young girl. The child did not move when Erin touched her, although Erin knew her to be awake. Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself outward. The physical injuries the child had suffered were minimal. Erin calmed the pain of them easily, but the girl did not even react. Shuddering, Erin brought her other hand up.
No, she thought. I am already too tired.
Shaking the thought away, she steeled herself and merged with the girl’s mind, praying for the strength she did not feel she had.
At first she felt only the darkness of oblivion. To one less experienced it might have passed for sleep. But Erin had been a healer for years, the brightest of her number. For her the black she encountered was a hard, icy barrier, devoid of the nebulous currents of sleep patterns—catatonia.
She traveled along the seamless wall, looking for some crack, some chink of light, that held the identity of the child. The search yielded nothing; no part of the girl faced the real world.
“Sarillorn.”
Shaky hands touched her shoulder, pulling Erin momentarily out of her link. “Yes?”
Into the Dark Lands Page 18
