She turned to Loren. Blood had spattered her face. When she spoke, there were flecks of it on her teeth.
“On,” she growled. “Do not stop moving, not even for a moment.”
Loren and the others obeyed, though I could see in their eyes that they were now almost as frightened of Mag as they were of the Shades. We pushed for the north gate. Twice more we met Shades in battle, and twice Mag massacred them until the rest fled in terror.
I had almost forgotten. The long years since our time as mercenaries had dulled my memories of Mag’s battle-trance, the thrill and the terror of it. Thrilling because I felt nothing could stand against us with Mag on our side. Terrifying because when you stand shoulder-to-shoulder with such blood lust, it is impossible not to imagine what would happen if it were turned on you, instead.
Two more turns in the street brought us within sight of the north gate. But there we stopped, for the way was barred. The Shades had already encircled the city. Ranks of them were marching through the gate, swords bared and shields up. It was an army—a far, far greater number than we had seen in the Greatrocks.
“There are so many,” breathed Loren.
“Surely not even Mag can defeat them all,” said Gem, his voice small and squeaking. “Albern … what do we do?”
I hesitated. The boy was not wrong. Mag was the best fighter I had ever seen or heard of in legend. Yet even she could not defeat an entire army on her own. I looked at her. She had stopped in her tracks. Surely, I thought, surely even her thirst for battle is not enough to draw her into a fight against so many foes.
Loren gripped her reins, pulling them to the right. “Come. Mayhap they have not reached the eastern gate yet. We can try to—”
“They will have reached it,” said Mag. She turned to the rest of us, and there was no trace of a smile on her lips. “Come now, little children. Do you fear so few of them? Come with me, and you shall reach the Birchwood. I swear it.”
I heard the words. But I heard what she left unsaid as well. Mag had said the children would reach the Birchwood.
She had said nothing of herself.
Fear gripped me.
“Mag!” I cried.
It was too late. She turned and charged straight into the midst of her enemies, her blood-soaked blade held aloft. Sten did not hesitate, but plunged into the fray just behind her.
Fury filled me then, and though they were not to blame, I turned it on the children. Loren had taken a vow not to kill. She would be no help to us in this fight.
“Make use of those bows on your backs, or give me your arrows, but do not stand here idle while she risks her life for yours.”
And so saying, I spurred my mount onwards behind Mag and Sten.
It can be hard to tell a story of your own exploits without sounding prideful, particularly when you accomplish something especially noteworthy. Let it sound like pride, then, when I say that my bow sang a mighty anthem of death that day. I fought like I had never fought for any mercenary company I had served in. This was no warfare for mere coin. For the first time since I had met her, I feared that Mag might fall in battle, and I swore I would not let it happen unless I had perished first. When the Shades got too close, I drew my sword and hacked them down. And I fired arrows as fast as heartbeats, slaying any Shade who dared approach my friend.
Mag, for her part, fought with all the glory and fury that legends have built up around her. Others have been called “one who walks with death,” but Mag was death’s master on that day. My friend was gone, and a merciless killer had taken her place. She was the Uncut Lady. She was death made beautiful. No matter how many she felled, her strikes never slowed. Her foes could not pierce her defenses, not even when they surrounded her, for Sten was behind her. Back to back they fought, Sten the bulwark and Mag the striking serpent. And I was the vengeful stormcloud that rained death on any Shade who threatened to break their guard.
“Albern!”
Loren’s scream pierced the chaos, and I wheeled in my saddle. She sat there with bow in hand, her already pale face Elf-white with fear. But her finger was outthrust, pointing north.
I looked, and I saw what Loren had spotted. The Shades, seeking to kill Mag, had drawn to one side of the wide street. There was an open corridor on the other side, and it led straight to the north gate.
For one moment, hope swelled in my breast. We could escape. We could ride hard before the Shades noticed, and we could reach freedom.
But then I turned back to the battle and saw Mag surrounded by her foes.
We could escape. But she never could.
And then Sten slipped.
When they tell tales of battle, they never tell you that the deadliest threats are often the most mundane. There are a thousand details in any fight, and the least glamorous are often ignored in songs and stories—like the way a person shits and pisses after you kill them, their bowels and bladder voided as their bodies slacken.
Other details are less crude, but even more vital in the heart of a fight. One is the way that blood soaks the ground. It turns dirt to sticking, sucking mud, or makes a city street slick as a greased board.
Sten knew it. He was never a mercenary, but he had done his fair share of fighting. He tried to compensate, keeping his stance low and wide to keep balance. But Mag had spilled enough blood to bathe in. It was only a matter of time before it became too much.
A blade crashed down on his shield. The shield held, but Sten lost his footing, falling to one knee.
The weapon came around again, flashing in the sun. Sten’s head jerked back.
For a moment, I thought he had dodged the blow. And then the skin of his throat parted, and blood poured from the wound.
I felt many things all at once, but three stand out to me now: a surging wave of anger; a heart-wrenching sadness for my kind, gentle friend.
And a rising wave of terror. Terror for Mag, and terror of her.
She did not see Sten at first, for he had stood behind her. She must have thought he merely lost his balance. With her shield arm she reached back, trying to pull him up.
He fell on his back instead, and his blood splashed across the street. And Mag saw him.
I will never forget the way she screamed. I can hear it now, as clear in my mind as it was in my ears then. We had been all across the nine kingdoms together. We had faced many dangers, lost many friends. But I had never heard her make a sound like the one that ripped from her throat then. It was like the scream of a banshee that strikes the listener dead in the night. It was the sound of a storm ready to break the world. If a host of Elves had gathered and proclaimed the doom of all humanity, they would not have frightened me more.
The Shades fell back from her, their spirit broken for a moment in dismay. But Mag did not let them retreat.
Before her scream had ended, she was killing again. But her movements had lost their methodical beauty of a moment ago. Now she plunged headlong into the fray. When Mag entered her battle-trance, she was cold, emotionless. But now she had removed the leash from her fury, and it burned like darkfire. Now she took no care to guard herself. She sought only to kill. Though she moved too fast to follow easily, I saw blood on her skin that I was certain did not belong to her foes. She would never escape from the midst of that press.
Beside me, Loren kicked her horse to leap into the fighting. I saw a wild light in her eyes. Mayhap she was ready to kill at last, or mayhap she thought she could help Mag escape the melee somehow. But I barked a command before she could.
“No! Fly, while you still can!”
She met my gaze, and I could see the anguish shining through the brilliant green of her eyes. I looked past her to Xain. He gave me a grim look and a slow nod before taking Loren’s arm.
“Fly,” he said. “Remember Jordel.”
Tears streamed into Annis’ eyes, but Loren did not weep. After only a moment’s pause, she took her quiver from her hip and threw it to me. I caught it and looked upon them all—for the last time, or
so I believed. I loved them in that moment, even Xain. We had passed through much peril together, and I hated that it should all come to this in the end. But I thought, at the same time, that there was something very right about it. They had ridden together before I had met them, and they would ride on together after I died. It had been my fault, after all, that we had taken that cursed road through the Greatrocks that had led to Jordel’s doom. If Loren and her friends did indeed survive, then mayhap my own death was only fair.
We all think we are the heroes of our own story. But I realized suddenly that I was only a passing figure in a tale that had been about others all along.
I rode for the battle, rode for Mag. And out of the corner of my eye, I saw Loren and the others ride off. They passed the Shades and reached the gate, vanishing out of sight. It was a comfort, if a cold one. No matter what happened to Mag and me now, they were safe. They would warn Underrealm, and evil would be defeated.
Of course, back then, I believed that such a thing was possible.
All my arrows were gone before I reached the Shades’ ranks. I fought with my sword from horseback, but then they killed my horse. I managed to jump clear of it as it collapsed. I took Sten’s place at Mag’s side, and together we forged a path of blood into the Shades’ ranks.
And then a chorus of cries broke out behind us. The Shades froze, looking over our shoulders at something to my rear. I risked a look back.
A mass of Northwood citizens poured from the streets and alleys. The people of Northwood had rallied, and they were coming to our aid. There were at least two hundreds of them, and though they held no weapons more frightening than a pitchfork, their eyes were alight with fury, and their screams of rage curdled the blood.
Despite everything, I managed a smile.
They slammed into the Shades. Now it was something close to a fair fight. They had not expected such a fierce battle, that much was certain. And Mag was still there, still cutting them down, covered in blood, the thrill of battle keeping her on her feet.
It was not long before the Shades turned and fled—not forever, I knew, but the respite was most welcome. I fell to one knee right there in the street, planting the point of my sword on the cobblestones and resting my brow on clasped hands over the hilt as I gasped for breath. Mag was on her feet, and darkness take her, she did not even seem winded.
And then I heard a faint croak, and a hand scrabbled at my boot. I looked down, and my eyes flew wide.
It was Sten’s hand. His eyes were pained, and his whole front was covered in blood. But somehow, defying all expectation, he was still alive.
“Mag!”
She looked as if she had been contemplating running after the Shades, but she turned at once at the sound of my scream. When she saw Sten lying there, the color drained from her cheeks. Her battle-trance passed in an instant, and she dropped her blade and shield to the cobblestones. Falling to her knees beside him, she grasped one of his hands in one of hers, and pressed the other hard on the wound in his neck.
“Sten, Sten, my love,” she pleaded. “Stay here. Stay with me.”
“Healer!” I roared. Everyone within earshot turned to look at me, and I gestured at them frantically. “Healer! Now! Sten is alive!”
One of them, a young, bearded man named Taron, managed to gather his wits. “The medica! She is not far. I will be right back!”
He darted off down the street, leaving me thunderstruck. A medica, here in Northwood? That was a stroke of fortune I could hardly have imagined. But Mag had not even looked up—Sten had to survive until help could come, and even then it might be too late.
“Hold on, friend,” I said, gripping Sten’s shoulder. I ripped off my cloak and gave it to Mag so that she could press it over the wound on his neck. “We are getting you help. We will not let you go so easily.”
Sten huffed through his nose, and a choked sound slipped between his teeth.
“Be silent,” said Mag. “Trying to talk will make it worse.”
Sten ignored her. He gripped her arm in a bloodied hand and met her gaze. I could not tell you, even now, what passed between them in that moment. When two souls are bonded as theirs were, many things can be said without words.
“I will not let you go,” whispered Mag, her voice shaking with grief. Tears dripped from the end of her nose to splash on his cheek. “Not though the Elves themselves should demand it.”
He gave another grim huff through his nose.
“There!” I turned at Taron’s shout to see him dashing across the cobblestones towards us. Behind him he pulled a younger woman with dark skin and long hair that she had tied back in a tail. Her hands and clothes were stained with a great deal of blood, but her gaze was steady, and as she knelt by Sten’s side, she was as calm as if this were a king’s garden.
“The throat?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Mag. “We thought it was fatal at first, but it must not have been too deep.” Sten growled, and despite everything, Mag smiled at him. “You know what I mean.”
“I will count to four,” said the medica. “Then you must pull away the cloak. This will hurt. One. Two. Three. Four!”
Sten’s whole body went rigid as Mag pulled away her hand. The medica’s fingers clutched his skin at once, and he tried to seize her wrists by reflex. Mag and I held his hands away, and the medica’s eyes began to glow. Beneath her fingers, I saw Sten’s flesh start to flow like water. He tried to scream, but only a gurgle came out.
“Try to be silent,” said the medica sharply. “It will only be worse.”
Sten’s guttural sounds cut off, but his eyes were wide and wild. They locked on Mag’s, and she lifted his twitching hand to kiss the back of it.
“Almost, my love,” she said. “Hold on.”
The flesh stitched itself together, sealing the wound. As an ander man, I knew more about medicas than most. This was not true healing—no wizard had that gift. This would only keep Sten from bleeding to death while his body fixed itself from the inside. But as the medica’s eyes stopped glowing and she pulled her hands away, Sten’s limbs relaxed, and he gave a deep sigh through his nose.
“It is done,” she said. “He is not out of danger yet, but—”
A flash of movement. I saw it from the corner of my eye, and a lifetime of instinct took over.
“Down!” I cried. I dove out of the way, seizing Mag and the medica and taking them with me.
A flash of brown fur streaked through the air where Mag had been a moment before. It landed on Sten’s chest. I heard the biting shunk of claws sinking into flesh and looked up, horrorstruck.
I recognized the creature at once—yet at the same time, I could not understand it. It was a great cat, the sort one finds in the mountains, larger than a man and with teeth and claws like daggers. This one had a white tail. But what on earth was it doing here in the midst of this battle?
All this passed through my mind in an instant. But before my thoughts could spin themselves into a conclusion, I heard Sten groan, and I realized what had happened. The creature had pounced on us, but I had pulled us out of the way. It had missed us and struck Sten instead. Its razor-sharp claws had pierced his chest many times over.
For a moment, Sten’s fingers grasped for the mountain cat’s throat. And then his whole body slackened as he died—truly this time, his sightless eyes staring into a sky streaked with the smoke of burning buildings.
“No,” said Mag. Not a scream this time. No battle-lust protected her from the pain now. She had dropped all her defenses, and nothing stood between her and her grief, no bulwark against the sharp, crushing reality. Sten was gone. This time he would not return.
“No,” said Mag again. She rose to her feet, and her hands curled to fists at her sides. Her sword was nowhere to be seen, but she did not seem to care. The mountain cat growled at her.
“No,” she cried, and she ran for the beast, even as I scrambled to my feet, even as I went after her, tried to drag her back.
“No!�
� she shouted, as the cat roared and leaped for her. She stepped to the side, but her hand flashed like a knife. Rigid fingers struck the cat in the eye, and it yowled in pain. I barely scrambled out of the way in time as it sailed past.
“No!” she screamed, and flung herself at the beast. It had curled its neck and was pawing at the eye she had struck. Her heavy boot caught it in the jaw, and as its head came up, her hands struck twice, thrice more. I saw blood gush from a wound in its other eye, and as it staggered back, one of its nostrils gaped where she had ripped it open. Mag tried to press the attack, but the beast yowled and leaped back out of reach.
And then its eyes began to glow.
That struck all of us motionless, Mag and the medica and all the onlookers, and me as well. As we watched, the cat’s form began to change, to shift and melt. It was the transformation of a weremage, and in a moment, there she was. A woman, not much older than I was, with nut-brown skin and dark hair worn in a short braid. She had on tight-fitting trousers of grey and a white shirt with yellow trim. Blood still ran from one of her eyes, which continued to glow as she tried to heal the injury.
“Sow!” she screamed, staggering back away from Mag. “You feckless sow!”
Mag did not answer, but merely stooped to pick up a fallen pitchfork. She crouched, readying to leap after the woman. But then there came a great roaring on the air, and another contingent of Shades burst out from between two buildings, rushing to support their master. For the weremage was their master, of that I had no doubt.
“Kill her!” cried the weremage, thrusting a finger towards Mag. “Kill them both!” But rather than help them, she turned and vanished into the press. I saw another flash of light from her eyes, and in an instant she had become a raven. It wheeled up into the sky, heading west towards the Greatrock Mountains.
For the second time, I saw Mag alone amid her enemies. My sword lay on the ground nearby. I scooped it up and launched myself towards the fight with a battle-cry.
The Tales of the Wanderer Volume One: A Book of Underrealm (The Underrealm Volumes 4) Page 7