“Iserat, what do you think?” the archer asked.
“I think …” the cadre leader began, and then tilted his head, listening. He straightened a fraction. “We are about to have company.”
Before Arrow had time to wonder how he knew, her sword flared, silver mostly contained in the sheath, but drawing the immediate attention of all the Erith.
“Not a war mage. A shadow-walker with a war mage’s blade.” The war mage was grim. “How did that come about?”
“Later, Willan,” Iserat ordered, voice flat. “Ronath.”
The one word seemed to be the archer’s name, as he tipped his chin in acknowledgement, already readying his bow, the quiver at his shoulder having too few arrows left.
The air thickened, the static presence of surjusi prickling across Arrow’s skin. She drew the sword, silver blinding.
“Can you turn that down? Bit bright.” One of the unnamed warriors made the request, voice light although, when Arrow glanced across, his face was quite serious.
“Apologies.” Arrow sent the command silently to the sword and it damped down at once, barest trace of silver lining the blade.
“A solid blade?” Iserat’s eyebrows lifted.
“I told you. Not quite a war mage’s sword,” the mage, Willan, snapped.
Arrow turned a little so she could see all of them. Apart from Iserat, they were inside the wards. Willan, the female warrior and the two unnamed warriors were all looking at her with varying degrees of suspicion across their faces. The archer, Ronath, was kneeling, bow ready, focus outside the wards.
Before any more words could be spoken, the static charge increased and the now-familiar pitch-dark mass of a surjusi slid into Arrow’s view, behind Iserat’s shoulder. She had barely opened her mouth to give warning when Ronath’s arrow flew, the tip of it brilliant with amber magic, and struck into the creature’s side.
The surjusi twisted and moaned, the sound grating through Arrow’s skull. Around her the rest of the third and the war mage waited. They were ready, weapons out and mage fire crackling in Willan’s hands. Waiting. A well-practised wait, Arrow thought, and wondered how many times they had needed to defend themselves. A hundred years in this place.
A slight shift in the air behind her made her turn, confident the others would deal with the approaching surjusi.
There was another of the creatures, smaller and more nimble, approaching her, the heavy static from the first having concealed its approach. It was almost on her.
One of the warriors cried a warning, but Arrow was already moving, letting the sword do what was needed. She took a few steps forward. Her arm moved, the blade moved, the dimmed silver cutting through the creature, releasing a roar of fury, a shower of amber sparks and a pile of thick, heavy dust.
As the creature fell, Arrow could see more behind it. Perhaps a half dozen in total.
“You kill them. We will watch your back.” Iserat’s voice was almost at her ear, making her jump, a little squeal of surprise out before she could check it. “Go.”
There was no time to argue or to wonder why they had decided she was the best person to deal with the surjusi. They were overrun. Arrow followed the sword. Somewhere in the spells of its creation, it knew what was needed, and in the link she had with it, her body moved as needed.
At length there were no more surjusi. There were great piles of heavy dust and the air was full of amber motes.
“We need to move.” Arrow thought it was Willan who spoke.
Her vision was fading at the edges. Now that the danger had passed, the sword was dormant and her entire body was trembling with fatigue.
“Agreed. Pack up.” Iserat. She was sure, even though she could see barely anything. She blinked, trying to clear her eyes.
“Are you alright?” That was one of the unnamed warriors. One of the shortest Erith she had ever seen.
He was kneeling and she had no idea why until she realised she was on the ground, her legs tangled under her, held upright by one arm, fingers still clasping the sword hilt, the dirt of this realm biting into her knuckles. She tried to move, to stand, and her legs would not work.
“Magic blind?” One of the warriors. Ronath, perhaps.
“No. Something else. A shadow-walker is not meant to carry so much death.” Willan.
“They were surjusi.” Onalla. Sceptical.
“Even so. In our world, when we defeat them they are banished here. Not dead. Here, they die.” Willan again.
Interesting, Arrow thought, attention caught. It was odd to hear her own conclusions echoed. Validated. And it was clear that Willan knew far more than she did about shadow-walkers.
“Arrow, is it? Arrow. Focus on my voice for a moment. Do you know the warrior’s meditation?”
“No.” Her voice was slurred, vision entirely grey and black.
“We need to move,” Iserat interrupted, tension in his voice. “This much magic will draw attention.”
“A moment,” Willan answered, sounding unruffled. “Shadow-walkers have a mantra to set aside the draw of death. You may find it in you.”
“Mantra.” Arrow closed her useless eyes and dug into her memory. Mantra. Something unfurled inside her. That thrice-damned book that Evellan had left for her. The one about shadow-walkers. She hissed, expecting pain, and instead the page opened in her mind’s eye, with the soft sensation of parchment brushing against her fingers, and a simple, four line, mantra appeared.
I walk in the dark but I am not the dark.
I walk in the light but I am not the light.
I walk in the shadows and I can become the shadows.
Above all, I walk.
It was a silly, simple thing. A child’s rhyme, a riddle to appease a young thing, and yet it settled in her mind, reminding her who and what she was. Her heart slowed, her breathing evened and the grey weight of death faded.
She opened her eyes to find her sight cleared and Willan’s face, intent, close by. The bright amber of Erith wards was gone, the plateau lit by the dull sparks of magic. The warriors were standing in a loose circle, facing outward, coats fastened, weapons stowed.
“Good. Now, we need to move. Can you run?”
Not again, was her immediate thought, weary and resigned. She made it to her feet and sheathed the sword. A few chuckles around her and she realised she had spoken aloud. Heat scorched her face. “Not very well,” she amended.
“A short distance only.”
And they ran. The warriors flowed around her, the pace no effort to them, their movements graceful and easy. Willan matched them stride for stride. Arrow did her best to keep up, her legs stretched, strides jarring.
After what seemed an age, Iserat called a halt. Arrow spared a glance around to see that they were on another plateau, similar to the last with good views around. She had no more energy for grace or dignity and stumbled to her knees, breath coming in harsh gasps, pulse loud in her ears. The ground seemed comfortable so she stretched out, staring up at the dark sky. There were no amber motes here.
Moments later the reassuring shimmer of battle wards rose around her.
“You have not been here long.” Iserat was kneeling beside her. He was not breathing hard, the only sign of their run a slight loosening of the braids around his head. Or perhaps that was due to the years he had spent here. “Your body thinks it should be tired, but in fact it is not.”
“We do not require food or drink here,” Onalla added, coming to crouch beside Iserat. She made a face like a child denied a treat. “Though it is something I miss. Took a long time to realise we were not starving to death.”
“I have food,” Arrow said, remembering. She sat up, wincing at the strain that simple movement put on her muscles, and opened her messenger bag. The packets of food she had gathered from the Crossings Abbey kitchens were still there. Enough fuel for her for a couple of days, she thought. In normal circumstances. And a large flask.
“Brandy! I thought you did not have any?”
“Not brandy. Peppermint tea.”
“Oh, horrible. Why did you get that when you could have got brandy?”
“Perhaps she likes peppermint tea?” Ronath suggested, sarcastic bite to his voice. “I suggest you mend your manners, Onalla, or she may not share with you.” He had settled near Arrow and now sent her a conspirator’s wink, out of Onalla’s sight. Arrow ducked her head, hiding a smile. The six were the most eccentric, easy-going Erith she had ever come across.
“This is human food,” she told them, unwrapping the first packet. “Something called frittata. And potato salad.” She opened the second, a large tub.
“Save some for another time,” Iserat suggested, coming to crouch nearby.
With the wards up, the six seemed relaxed, and, with greater self-control than Arrow had imagined possible, carefully portioned out some of the packets of food into meticulously even shares and ate the food in small, slow mouthfuls, sharing comments between bites.
“Human food is better than I would have imagined.”
“The only human food I had seen before was charred meat that they cooked on outdoor fires.”
“Odd creatures.”
“Serran’s lady was a terrible cook.”
Arrow twitched slightly to hear the Erith’s most famous mage, and her grandfather, mentioned so casually along with the lady, who might have been her grandmother. These Erith had known both well, from the way they spoke.
“Oh, yes. The raw chicken.”
They shared a round of laughter before Ronath, perhaps seeing a dozen questions in Arrow’s face, though not understanding them all, explained for her. “The lady was lovely in many ways, but could not cook. We were served a whole chicken that was charred on the outside and red raw inside.”
“Luckily she had a way with plants. They had a herb and vegetable garden that was the envy of even the Palace, so we did not starve.” Willan was smiling in remembrance.
“That was a good evening,” the smallest warrior agreed.
Arrow finished her portion of the small meal, an odd hurt echoing through her. These warriors had a shared past, before they had ended up here, and intimate knowledge of her grandfather and possibly her grandmother too. Perhaps they had even known her father.
The casual retelling of the tale was the product of a lifetime of such memories, and shared experiences. A past which she did not have, and never would, actively excluded from any Erith household apart from a short time when she was too young to fend for herself when she had been looked after by an elderly mage. He had shared his wonder at the world with her, opening her eyes to magic, her memories of those moments full of unfettered joy. Other than that, he had been generally kind, occasionally impatient, looking after her with a sort of disinterested efficiency that she was sure many Erith would have admired.
The hurt grew, spread across her chest. There had been no casual affection through her younger years. In some ways the old mage’s distance had served her well when she entered the Academy, the students there looking on her as an oddity. An aberration. The abomination that Seggerat vo Regersfel, the Taellan elder for so long and her other grandfather, had named her.
“Introductions,” Iserat declared, cutting through her thoughts. “We have much to discuss. I am Iserat. This is Onalla, Ronath, Yvan.” Arrow could not remember if Yvan had spoken. He inclined his head as Iserat named him and Arrow caught a glimpse of silver in his hair. Perhaps the oldest of them, then. “Pateris.” The small warrior, who gave her a smile and inclined his head. “And Willan, the mage.”
“We were trying to destroy the portal that had been created to bring surjusi through,” Willan said, voice soft, weighted with memory and sorrow. “The rest of the cadre fell. The portal was unstable.”
“We were dragged in,” Onalla added. Her normal exuberance had faded. “Too many lost. It was the least we could offer.”
“The portal closed behind us,” Iserat continued, “and we were trapped. We spent … well, it feels like centuries. We tried counting but there is no day or night, and we stopped marking time after perhaps a decade. Or two. We have been looking for a way out. And found nothing.”
“Until you arrived. Tell us how you got here.” Willan’s tone made it a request.
“And news from the world. Is Noverian still prancing about insisting on a new wardrobe every season?” Ronath asked. Arrow found it interesting that none of them seemed fond of the Consort.
“Is Seggerat still controlling things with an iron hand?” Onalla asked.
“Did the incursion stop?” Willan asked, voice suddenly urgent. “We assumed so, but did it actually stop?”
“It stopped,” Arrow said into the short silence, before anyone else could speak. “You stopped it. Whatever you did closed the portal in the heartland. The Erith remember. There … there is a statue of you all outside the Taellaneth. It is called Fallen not Forgotten. You are remembered.” She made her lips close before she babbled on. These were living beings, not abstract legends of old.
“A statue?” Onalla seemed utterly disbelieving. “Of all of us, or just Iserat? The ladies at Court did love his chin.”
Iserat turned a quelling expression to his warrior. It had no effect. She grinned, a dimple in one cheek.
“They consider us dead, then,” Willan said, before Arrow could answer.
“Yes. The story goes that you gave your lives to stop the last incursion. Your bodies were never found. Apparently there were funeral rites held.”
“Story? Apparently? You did not witness this?” Iserat asked.
“She must have been elsewhere,” Ronath speculated. “A shadow-walker was what was needed.”
“I was not born then,” Arrow told them, and silenced them again.
They exchanged glances, more than one worried frown.
“You said Taellaneth. And spoke about an Academy. How long ago did we die?” Iserat’s tone was sharp, demanding.
“The incursion was over a hundred years ago.”
The silence rang in her ears.
“Well,” Onalla said, “no wonder we ran out of brandy.”
CHAPTER 15
Still visibly shocked by the reality of how long they had been in the demon’s realm, the six pelted Arrow with questions. What had happened? Who was monarch? And specific questions about individual Erith, most of them names Arrow did not know.
She opened her mouth to answer a few times, only to have another pair of questions issued before she could reply.
“Enough for now, I think,” Iserat said. He had not raised his voice, but the group fell silent at once. “The mage cannot answer us all at once. Apparently we have been here over a hundred years. We can spare a few hours for news.”
“I …” Arrow began, urgency taking her over. In the fight, and the run, and the wonder of meeting the six she had temporarily forgotten that Kester, and the humans, were still somewhere in this realm. Now she had remembered, guilt stabbing her that they were out there alone.
“Tell us what has happened since we left,” Willan requested.
“Hold a moment,” Iserat said. Leader even after all these years. “Lady?”
“There was someone else with me. A warrior. We were separated.” Arrow was on her feet, eyes scanning the horizon as though she could somehow will Kester to appear. “And humans,” she added, feeling heat in her face at the obvious afterthought. “A pair of human magicians who fell through as well.” She drew a ragged breath in. “We encountered some rock creatures.”
“Oh. Those.” Willan grimaced.
“Persistent things,” Onalla added. “Did you run from them?”
“Yes.” Her face warmed again.
“Best thing. They give up after a while,” Ronath put in, grimacing. “Although it can take some time.”
“So. A warrior. And a pair of humans,” Iserat dragged the conversation back to the point. “Naturally, a shadow-walker would have at least one guardian. Let us start there. Do you know where he is?”
“
No. Sight does not work well here.” Arrow’s mind snagged on the idea of a guardian. She wanted to ask more. Later. When they had found Kester.
“Where did you lose touch?”
Arrow shook her head, unable to answer.
“She has not been here long enough to navigate,” Willan objected. “It took me a while.”
The six were on their feet around her, getting ready to move on again.
“Can you sense anything?” Iserat asked.
They were all looking to her for guidance. And ready to help find Kester. No questions asked. A fellow warrior was in this realm. Arrow swallowed a lump in her throat.
“Let me step outside the ward and try,” she suggested, moving forward. The ward fell before she had taken a step, the six moving, taking up positions so that they faced outward, every direction monitored.
“Try now.” Iserat again.
Arrow wondered how many times they had stood this way over the years they had been here. But Kester was still out there, and questions would have to wait.
She drew a breath in, stilling her mind with a small exercise of discipline the Academy taught in the early years, and then sent her senses out. As far as she could go, and then a little further, until the pain in her head was blinding and her focus shattered.
“That way.” She pointed. There had been something there. She hoped she had not wished it to being. It seemed like the trace of a familiar ward, muted as though the person did not want to be found.
~
Onalla spotted him first. They had been walking for long enough that Arrow thought her feet were raw again. The warrior made a small sound, and all the others’ attention turned to the direction she indicated, Arrow folded into the group as they moved.
There had been no need to worry about Kester, or indeed for her to try and find him, she realised, feeling lightheaded with relief. He was heading in their direction at the fluid, ground-covering run warriors were trained to. He did check in his stride when he drew closer. Too far for Arrow to read his expression to start with, but he still looked shocked when he drew close enough.
Taellaneth Complete Series Box Set Page 101
