Shadowborn

by Katie MacAlister

  “Excellent,” Hallow interrupted, not wishing to take time to inventory all the structures standing in the small but picturesquely named Nether Wallop. “And the south road is clear?”

  “It is. I just ran back from checking it myself. Jordan, the headman, says that no one uses it because it goes to an uninhabitable land, but I made sure there was nothing blocking it, no magic or pitfalls or even stray cattle making it impossible to pass. If your wife comes via that road, she should have no trouble getting here.”

  Hallow fought the need to leave everything to chase after Allegria…or at least where he thought she would be, given what Exodius had told him. He reminded himself that she wouldn’t thank him for leaving Lyl’s army to ravage yet another town when she was perfectly safe. “Although I wish she’d get here. She’s had enough time, judging by the map—what?”

  One of the local men he’d sent as a scout galloped toward them, riding up onto the narrow verge of grass to avoid the pit that lay across the road. Thorn flew behind him, his wooden wings flapping furiously.

  “They’re coming!” Hallow turned and bellowed back toward the town. “To arms!”

  A deep bell rang in response, and the people of Nether Wallop raced toward their appointed places. The old and young would be herded into the caves a quarter mile away, while everyone who could wield a weapon would be stationed around the village.

  “Let us hope Tygo is as effective at setting slowing spells as he is at currying favor with those in command,” Aarav said acidly, his white robe fluttering as he dashed past Hallow before leaping into one of the trees alongside the track.

  “Tygo?” Hallow called, taking up a stand in the middle of the road, about five yards from the trench.

  “In place, Master Hallow.” His voice was muffled, but filled with excitement.

  Hallow shook his head to himself. “You’d think he would have had enough excitement in the three days it took us to get here—how close are they?” he asked the scout, who had pulled up beside him, his horse snorting and sidestepping.

  “Less than half a league, and moving fast,” the man said, glancing over his shoulder.

  Thorn flew overhead, circling Hallow a few times until he held out his arm, allowing the bird to alight. “Did you see Lyl?” he asked the scout.

  “Aye, he rode at the front.” The scout frowned, dismounting when another man dashed out to take the horse. “There were men with him—men I’d never seen before. Piebald, they were.”

  “Piebald?” Hallow asked, confused.

  The scout waved his hand around vaguely. “Their skin was mottled in shades of brown and tan. Just like my best cow.”

  Hallow blinked a couple of times, realized he was doing that, and forced himself to stop.

  The scout’s voice grew grim. “They were also warriors, bristling with swords and lances and morning stars.”

  “I’ve never seen people who have such coloring.” Hallow dug through his prodigious memory, but came up with a blank.

  “You’re about to,” the scout said, watching the road anxiously.

  “I suppose so. Get to your place,” he instructed the man, pulling out his sword and wishing for the sixth time that day that he had the staff upon which Thorn normally sat. “Thorn, you saw these strange men?”

  The bird bobbed his head a few times, watching him with his strange, unblinking eyes.

  “Do you know who they are?”

  Thorn flapped his wings wide for a second, then bobbed again.

  “Blast it to the stars and back, I wish you could talk to me. Are these strange warriors from Genora?”

  Thorn sat silent, tipping his head to the side to watch Hallow.

  “Wonderful. Lyl has picked up supporters from somewhere unknown, as if his chasing us for the last three days wasn’t enough of a trial. Very well.” Hallow pulled down the leather jerkin he’d donned over his normal tunic and leggings, and pushed hard on the chaos power that had been buzzing inside him, making him feel like an entire hive of annoyed honeybees had taken up residence in his chest. “I know you are bound to the master should he call on you—damn Lyl’s hide—but does that mean you can’t stay here and help us?”

  Thorn squawked and leaped into the air, circling Hallow three times before alighting on his head, his wings flapping with excitement.

  Hallow had a picture of just what he looked like with a big wooden bird perched on his head, and fought a profound feeling of martyrdom.

  A dull rumble echoed down the road. “Be ready! They approach!” Hallow warned before bracing himself, gathering arcany around him, all the while keeping a nervous eye on the runes on his wrist and ankle cuffs. “I wish I’d had time to add to the runes—ah. There they are.”

  A horn sounded behind him as a warning to the people who were headed to the caves, followed almost immediately by harsh cries and shouting. The people of Nether Wallop, while determined to help the arcanists deter Lyl’s army, had never seen such a battle, and were no doubt terrified by the reality of the threat they faced.

  “I invoke that which created the night and day, bound by my hand, by my breath, by my blood, and unto it, I imbue my intention,” Hallow intoned softly, casting symbols into the air, locking them together into chains of blood magic. He ignored the sounds of panic behind him, keeping his attention focused on the body of men who rode down the narrow road. “That which no man has seen I cast before me, bound to this place, no more to be changed.”

  The chains of magic fell to his feet, glowing a rusty reddish color before melting into the road, long tendrils reaching toward the hidden trench. A cry went up from the men approaching, as several voices lifted at the same time.

  “By Bellias’ toes, what is that?” Hallow stopped casting symbols for a moment, his gaze narrowed on the men. He saw instantly what the scout had meant about the odd coloration of the warriors’ skin, but his sharp eyes had picked out what the scout hadn’t. “They aren’t piebald—they’re simply decorated. With runes, I believe, drawn onto their flesh.”

  Thorn hopped up and down on Hallow’s head, flapping his wings.

  “I have a very bad feeling they don’t need the swords they carry,” Hallow told Thorn, bracing himself as the first of the men was about to reach the trench. Behind the two score or so warriors, he caught sight of a familiar banner, and knew that Lyl had hidden himself in the middle of his company. “If something happens—if our defenses fail—you’ll find Allegria and warn her, yes? Get her to Deo or Lord Israel. She’ll be safe with them if Lyl strikes me down.”

  Thorn gave a great cry, hopping again on Hallow’s head before he took to the wing, making a circle overhead.

  “I invoke the bornless,” Hallow yelled once he judged the men in the front could hear him. He spread wide his arms, his sword in one hand, a ball of arcany in the other, while Thorn made high, piercing cries as he flew faster and faster in a circle over Hallow’s head. “I invoke the sightless. I invoke the breathless. Before you, I do commit them to my protection!” The words were ancient ones that his former master had taught him, an invocation that preceded even the arrival of the Fireborn to Alba, words that resonated with the elements of nature, and those beings who had been born of them.

  The road was wide enough only to allow three men to ride abreast, but although the men clearly heard him, they didn’t slow down. In fact, Hallow saw them spur on their horses as they started to chant. “No, not chant,” he said a second before the first of the men reached the trench. “Sing. How fascinating.”

  Chaos—both magical and physical—broke out just when the lead men reached the trenches. Reluctant to harm innocent animals when it could be avoided, Hallow had caused the road a few yards from the trench to be graven with a spell that caused fear in animals. He’d used it before to keep Penn from wandering when there were no hobbles at hand, and he was pleased to see the horses of Lyl’s army react in th
e same way. They whinnied in high, unnatural tones, bucking and kicking, instantly unseating the men before they turned and bolted into the woods. The first three men went down into the trench, no doubt looking as if they’d disappeared to those who rode behind.

  The chaos within Hallow surged, but he held it leashed, watching twenty or so of the nearest horses go crazy, either because their compatriots were doing the same, or because the magic woven on the road reached them. Regardless, the warriors with the runes etched into their flesh in great brown shapes were thrown, and rose to their feet, no longer singing. A couple cursed and went after the horses, while the others rushed toward Hallow, shouting battle cries.

  “For Bellias!” Aarav cried from where he was perched in a tree and cut the twine that held aloft the paper lanterns filled with arcany.

  “For the Master of Kelos!” Tygo answered from his tree and cut a second string.

  The effect of pure arcany splashing down on the front part of the army led to madness within its ranks. Horses screamed and attempted to twist aside to avoid the onslaught. Hallow, prepared for that, threw high the chains of blood magic intended to soothe the pain of the horses. Thorn caught the chains in his talons, flying swiftly over the pandemonium that lay before them in order to drop the blood magic on horses driven to near madness.

  “What is this? Why are all the horses running—for the love of the goddess, someone stop them! To the trees! You, Deter, fetch back those horses. The rest of you, come with me!” Lyl bellowed over the noise of horses panicking and men yelling, calling out questions or imploring the goddesses to protect them.

  A half dozen more men who had rushed toward Hallow disappeared into the trench. One teetered on the edge, but with a tremendous leap managed to land heavily on the other side.

  “Impressively done. I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me what you are before we proceed?” Hallow asked politely, lifting his sword in case the attacker decided to forego conversation.

  The man, as tall as Hallow but much thicker in the torso and shoulders, paused for a second. “You what?”

  “Who are you? I’ve never seen anyone with runes…er…etched? on their flesh. You’re not a runeseeker, for I’ve met one of those.”

  The man straightened the arm bearing a small shield, and pointed to his forearm where a patch on it was made brown with coiled sentences. “That’s a dirge, mate, not runes.”

  “Dirge?” Hallow searched his mind while noting with satisfaction that the arcane balls Aarav and Tygo rained down on the army were causing a break in the ranks, just as he’d hoped. Only a few men rushed forward now, and those that did were instantly swallowed up by the trench. “That’s a type of song, isn’t it?”

  “It is. I’m a dirgesinger. Have you never heard of us? We are the greatest warriors on Alba,” the man told him without a shred of modesty.

  “Sorry,” Hallow said, shaking his head. “Never heard of you.”

  “Blessed by the Paean? Children of the All-Father?”

  “Well, we’re all technically that,” Hallow pointed out.

  “Aye, but we’re his special children,” the dirgesinger answered. “Paean—his son, who was god of the sun before the Life-Mother cast him from the celestial realm—asked the All-Father for brothers, and he created the song which gave life to us.”

  “Song,” Hallow said, wishing he had time to fully discuss this new form of magic. He’d never heard of either dirgesingers or another sun god.

  “This here is my life song,” the dirgesinger said, tracing a collar of brown words that wrapped around his neck. “Granted by Paean himself, you understand.”

  Clearly, the man took much pride in that. Hallow, in the interest of possibly swaying the dirgesinger over to his side, away from Lyl, donned an expression of admiration.

  “Most impressive. Er…”

  “Aye,” the man said, nodding quickly. “We have gotten a mite distracted, haven’t we? Well, onward, eh?”

  Hallow tossed the ball of arcany he held into the air, catching it in a way that the dirgesinger couldn’t help but notice. “I don’t suppose you’d care to join my forces?”

  “Oh, we couldn’t do that,” the man said with a little frown and shake of his head. “’Twouldn’t be fitting, you know? His lordship back there, he called us forth from the Vinlands, and we swore fealty to him.”

  “You’re a Harii?” Hallow asked, having heard once of the Southerners, a race of people his old master Wix had said were more than half feral.

  “Aye, although we prefer the name dirgesinger.” He paused, and added with a little shrug, “Except the painsingers. But we don’t hold with their kind. They keep themselves to themselves, which is for the best, if you ken me.”

  Hallow didn’t even want to know what people called painsingers did, especially since the warrior before him clearly wished to avoid them.

  “You know—this is just a thought—you could always foreswear your fealty to Lyl.” Hallow gave a little grimace at the scowl the man sent his way, then sighed and lifted his sword again. “As you like, but be warned—”

  He attacked before completing the sentence, catching the dirgesinger by surprise, slamming the hilt of his sword alongside the man’s head. He dropped to the ground, issuing a low moan that had a hint of a tune to it. Hallow turned to move to the verge so that he could throw himself into the heat of the battle.

  His feet refused to move.

  He frowned down, but the dirgesinger was clearly unconscious. However, that moaned song he’d managed to vocalize had done its job. “Bellias blast it all. Fine. But if my magic gets out of control and singes you, you have no one to blame but yourself,” he snapped, and let the chaos inside him slip its leash just a little, directed downward at his feet.

  The resulting explosion threw him back a good fifteen yards, so that he collided with the side of one of the houses across the village square, causing his head to ring. He slid down the wall, slumping on the ground for a few minutes while he struggled to draw air back into his lungs and to clear the black blotches from his vision. Slowly, both his vision and hearing cleared, and he scrambled somewhat painfully to his feet, only to notice two important things.

  The cries and yells he’d heard from the townspeople weren’t prompted by the threat of Lyl’s oncoming army, but by the arrival of the woman who stood on the stone well, calling down streaks of sunlight. His heart sang a song of sheer and utter joy.

  “Allegria,” he called, stumbling forward, wanting nothing so much as to take her in his arms and kiss every inch of that dear, adorable face.

  She turned, staring at him first in surprise, then with matching joy. “Hallow! Thorn said you were close, but I didn’t know you were right here!”

  “Thorn said—” The words dried up when a woman wearing a banded leather skirt and form-fitting bodice rushed forward, a bow in one hand, a long dagger in the other.

  The chaos within him rose even as he gathered arcany, blasting the woman with both before she got within a few yards of Allegria. “What do you mean Thorn said? He spoke to you? In the spirit realm, you mean?”

  “Yes, but here, too. I heard him in my head just like you do.” She slammed down another column of light, this one causing the woman who’d attacked her to scream and curl into a little ball.

  “That’s fortunate, because I—well, we’ll deal with that later. Who is this?” he asked, gesturing toward the woman who now lay on her back.

  “Ask,” she said, turning back to face the south road that trailed along the coast into Nether Wallop.

  “I just did,” he said, moving to her side even as he checked to make sure Lyl’s army wasn’t getting any closer. He noted the villagers left behind lurking in the shadows, waiting to defend their town should the army make it past Hallow and the arcanists.

  “No, that was an Ask. She’s one of the Askia, the All-Father’s elite g
uard, or something like that. Mayam stopped providing information after I threatened to leave her behind because she wanted to rest and I wanted to survive. The Askia are tireless,” she added with an annoyed glare down the south path. Two women emerged from the shrubs on either side of it, one shooting a hail of arrows in rapid succession.

  Allegria slammed down a wall of golden light, causing the Askia to shriek and leap backwards. The woman who had been knocked back by Hallow’s magic started crawling toward a wagon that had been turned on its side to provide a barrier.

  “They appear to be impervious to arcany, as well,” he noted, frowning at the woman. By rights, she should be dead, with at least a fist-sized hole punched through her middle.

  “They are. It’s something to do with the Life-Mother and All-Father. They don’t like Kiriah’s blessings, though,” she added with a swift grin.

  At the sight of her standing on the edge of the well, all long legs, ample breasts, and hips that could convince him to do anything, he leaped up behind her, pulling her backward against his chest so he could bury his face into the nape of her neck.

  “Hallow!” Allegria sounded both shocked and amused. “You can’t do that now! Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a battle?”

  “As am I, my heart.” He lifted his head from where he was drawing in the scent of her and cast another glance to the west road. Lyl’s men were using long branches wrenched from the trees combined with their own belts to try to reach their friends in the trench. Tygo and Aarav, using balls of arcany from their perches high up in the trees, kept the bulk of the company from proceeding forward.

  “I’m very glad to see you, though,” she answered, turning in his arms to kiss him, the gold flecks in her eyes glittering brightly. “I’ve missed you.”

  “And I you,” he answered, groaning when she wiggled against him in a way that had the chaos—amongst other things—surging to life. “My heart, if you make that particular move again, I will damn all my responsibilities and take you to the nearest bed—”