[Lanen Kaelar 03] - Redeeming the Lost

by Elizabeth Kerner

  There were so many of them, and the Kantri so few.

  For all that they were beset on every side, however, a good quarter of the Kantrishakrim would not leave off harrying the Demonlord. They flamed and fought the Rakshasa even as they pursued or enticed the Black Dragon, flying like mad things to avoid its deadly fire, those who still had them throwing those great stones at it whenever they could to try to force it to ground, or better yet to douse it once more in the deep waters of the lake.

  I saw in that brief time more carnage than I could bear. The Kantri, those wise, ancient creatures, attacked from all directions by evil incarnate, fighting back with tooth and claw and the Fire that is sacred to them. So many wounded, so much of blood and agony on both sides. I have never heard that the Rakshasa ever wanted, truly, to take over the world, except in old legends. I think they were forced to it by Berys. If that was the case, every drop of blood, Rakshi and Kantri, was on his soul.

  And suddenly there was a great shout and a second deep splash and boom, a second great cloud of steam. The Restored, ted by Naikenna, had managed even in the midst of battle so to harry and anger the Demonlord that it had flown out over the lake once more. I saw in the instant I turned to look that some five or six of the Kantri had thrown themselves on the thing and forced it down. I could hear their agony, but there was triumph there also, and a fleeting sense of peace when they chose the Swift Death once the beast was under the surface of the lake.

  Berys called out something in a sibilant speech, and a group of the Raksha came for me.

  “Shikrar, swiftly!” I cried, in truespeech—and aloud. Would to heaven I had held my tongue. Would to heaven my tongue had withered in my mouth ere I had spoken.

  Shikrar arrived, covered in wounds, and with fang and talon he bit and crashed the Rakshasa who threatened us, ignoring the fresh cuts they inflicted on him. He spat, when he was done, and turning to Varien said, “It tastes worse even than you remember.” Varien grinned up at him.

  Then to my astonishment, Berys spoke. He had been watching the battle with delight, distracted perhaps, or perhaps simply keeping out of the way of Varien, Jamie, and Rella. That kind of healing must wear him out eventually, and they all three would cheerfully kill him again and again until it worked.

  “You are Shikrar?” he said, looking desperately pleased with himself.

  “I am, Rakshadakh,” growled Shikrar, drawing back his head to strike.

  “No,” said Berys smugly. ‘The true name is binding, knowing the true name is power over the named, truth in essence holds the soul and thus I bind you to my will. You are Hadretikantishikrar, and you will be still!” Berys cried.

  Shikrar froze. He was screaming in truespeech, he was fighting with his entire being, but for once in his life Berys spoke truth. The true name is the essence of the soul. He who knows the true name has a terrible power over the named. True names are kept secret, told only to a soulfriend or a loved one.

  Marik had overheard Shikrar’s true name when Varien bespoke Shikrar in the Language of Truth. If Shikrar and Akor had not forced open Marik’s mind out on the Dragon Isle, Marik would not have been able to hear their truespeech to report to Berys. If Marik had not been trying to kill them both, they would never have done such a thing. If, if, if…

  Berys grinned. “How delightful,” he said, seeing his foe immobile. With a casual gesture, he called a hundred of his demons down to him and threw them at Shikrar.

  Varien screamed, “NO!” and ran towards Berys, but there were too many demons in the way. Varien, my beloved, fought like a madman, but he made little headway. Too many demons. Not enough time.

  “IDAI! KEDRA! SHIKRAR NEEDS YOU NOW!” I screamed in truespeech, kicking myself that I had not called before, putting all my horror into my mind’s voice, and even I could hear the un-derthought that ran through my call. “Help help help he’s held by his true name Berys has him quickly quickly they’ll kill him help help help!”

  They flew, desperate, fury and terror driving every stroke of their wings. Time seemed to slow as I watched them approaching from two different directions. Too far away. Too slow.

  Too late.

  My breath stopped as I looked upon Shikrar held helpless. No, it can’t be—Goddess, help us—O ye Winds, blow that word back into Berys’s mouth and let him choke on it, let it not have been spoken, oh no,oh no…

  The demons tore Shikrar’s flesh with their teeth and with their claws and he could not fight back. He could not even cry out in pain. When they broke his wings, laughing, I heard his mind’s scream, a sound that shook my bones to the marrow and drew an answering scream from my own throat. I swear that sound will haunt me every day of my life.

  At the last instant, just before Idai and Keclra arrived, they broke his neck I heard it go. My knees would no longer hold me up, and I landed hard on broken stone, gasping for air, as if I could breathe for Shikrar. My throat ached as if some great hand choked me.

  Shikrar collapsed. Berys and the demons cackled, and then Berys said, “Enough of pleasure. Bring me the girl.”

  Vilkas

  It was harder than I thought.

  I reached out in all my pride and power to destroy the Prince of the Sixth Hell and found myself somewhere else entirely. I was thirteen years old and it was summer. My friend Jon and I were wrestling, as was our wont. I had him in a lock and had started to squeeze.

  “Ow, Vil, too tight!” he cried. “Let go!”

  “You’re such a baby, Jon.” I laughed, squeezing tighter. He started to choke. Suddenly I realised that I was grown furious with his weakness and had let go of my self-control. To my horror, I was on the very point of killing him before I forced myself to release him. “Jon, no, I’m sorry,” I began, and the world shifted again. The demon prince laughed.

  “Sssuch a fool you are,” it hissed.

  I threw my power at it again and found my hands clasped around Aral’s throat. She was beating at my arms and kicking my legs. I squeezed tighter, and suddenly found myself unable to move. My hands were forced apart and Aral dropped back, her hands protecting her neck. She released me.

  “Damn it, Vil!” she cried. “What’s wrong with you!”

  “Where are you from, Aral?” I shouted, convinced that she was some phantom of the demon’s. “Where were you born?”

  “Berun, you idiot,” she snapped. “What in all the Hells is up with you? You let it go and went for me!” She pointed up to the demon prince, who was laughing again. Or still.

  Once more I sent fire to envelop it, and this time there was a great fight. I closed my eyes and turned away that I might not be blinded, but when next I opened my eyes, I lay in bed. Clean, crisp linen sheets, gentle sunlight at the window filtering through the young spring leaves of a rowan tree.

  “Welcome back, Vilkas. You had us worried,” said Magistra Erthik. She smiled, the crooked smile she saved for those moments when she was feeling most maternal. “I am glad you have come back to us. I’d rather not lose my best pupil just yet.”

  I sat up in the bed. I was in the infirmary at Verfaren. Magistra Erthik was alive.

  “Magistra?” I asked, quietly. My throat began to close but I fought it. “What happened? Where is the demon prince?”

  “Gone with your waking, young man, and not before time. You’ve been feverish for nearly a month.” She reached out and touched my forehead. “It has truly broken at last. Thank the Goddess.”

  “A dream, was it?” I asked suspiciously. “What of Aral?”

  “Was that someone else in your dream?” Magistra Erthik asked, politely curious.

  “Stupid,” I said. I called on the Goddess and sent my corona to cover Magistra Erthik, who screamed and vanished. I was back on the hillside above Lake Gand, with the demon prince almost near enough to touch. I backed away.

  “Vil, what’s wrong?” asked Aral frantically. “I thought—l felt you change, I know you aren’t restricted any longer. What are you waiting for?”

  “It�
��s playing with my mind, Aral,” I said quietly. “Changing time, changing appearances. Its illusions are horribly real. How shall I know truth when I see it?”

  “As you ever have, Vilkas,” she said, and her voice had taken on the strange cadence it sometimes did when she was speaking not entirely for herself. ‘Trust those who love you. Here. She wants to help. We both do.”

  And with that, Aral put the soulgem of Loriakeris into my right hand.

  It was astounding. No wonder the Kantri are so good against the demons. I could see the demon prince twisting reality, changing shape, trying to govern my mind and make me drop my guard or injure myself or Aral. The touch of that ancient mind, Loriakeris of the Kantri, granted me for that brief time the vision of the Kantri and acted as a talisman of truth.

  Or perhaps it was the touch of Aral’s hand and soul.

  I bowed my head briefly, committing myself to the Lady, and lifted my hand. Blue flame mixed with red surrounded the demon prince and swiftly constricted about it. Its screams, I am ashamed to say, were music to me. I squeezed harder. I kept expecting it to dissipate, but Berys must have performed quite a spell. It died the True Death.

  In my defence, once I realised that it was not going to disappear back to its Hell I killed it swiftly. Even demons require some mercy, after all. It is their nature to bargain and they are forced to obey their master’s commands.

  It is people who deserve no mercy. They can choose, after all.

  I turned to find Berys advancing swiftly on Lanen, a company of Rakshasa with bloody claws before him. A sight that would have moved me to frustrated terror such a short time ago. I raised my hand and Lanen was shielded from their attack.

  “Take him first!” cried Berys, gesturing, and a score of demons flew at me, roaring, fanged mouths agape, talons raised to rake and rend.

  I blessed them in the Lady’s name and destroyed them all with Her power, flowing from me as light from the sun. It was—trivial. Berys looked on impassively, as if he were judging me.

  “Berys,” I said quietly, saluting one about to die.

  “You’re that pup Vilkas,” he said calmly, drawing his power around him. The blue of the Healer’s aura was gone entirely; that which surrounded him now was a black cloud, through which he could barely be seen. “You should have taken the horses. You could have been imprisoned and died with all your friends back in Verfaren.”

  “I have sworn myself your enemy,” I said. In the full flow of my power, looking at him was like looking at a patch of red-shot darkness distorting the world. “For all the evil you have loosed upon the world, for all the murders, for all the corruption of that which was worthy, death is too small a price.”

  “Then you can pay it,” he said, and sent the full brunt of his malice against me, to sear my soul and rend my body.

  I was surprised at his strength, but not nearly as surprised as he was at mine.

  For that first moment it was a battle of raw power against raw power. The battle of a bully grown proud, believing that he possesses the greatest strength, striking at one he knows cannot fight back. The battle of a coward. He expected me to fall before him, helpless. He expected me to die.

  ‘Tour pride has ever been your weakness,” I said quietly, as I deflected his strike. It was harder to do than I had thought. Perhaps my own power was not infinite.

  As long as it was greater than his, I was not concerned.

  Varien

  I joined my mind to Shikrar’s from the moment his true name was used against him. There were no words left to say between us, but I was there with him for every breath. He was never alone.

  I fought beside Maran, Rella, and Jamie to keep Berys away from Lanen as Idai arrived, flaming Rakshasa as she came, to land beside the broken body of Shikrar. Kedra was behind her by only a wingtip. Their arrival worried Berys enough that, for the moment, he backed off. He left his Rakshasa to continue the fight; Idai swiftly despatched a score or more of them while Kedra moved carefully to stand beside his father.

  Jamie and Rella were having trouble with the demons. Maran was much better at fighting them, but Lanen had smeared her dagger with her half-Kantri blood and was doing best of all, especially as Aral was now at her side. Vilkas seemed to be well in command of the Lord of the Sixth Hell. I trusted them all to the Winds and the Lady and turned back to my dying soulfriend.

  Shikrar’s mind began to relax, as the pain left him and he realised that his time was come. “Kedra, my son,” he said, his mind-voice soft but clear.

  “I am here, my father,” said Kedra calmly. “Be at ease.”

  “Farewell, my dearest son. The Winds blow ever kindly on you and those you love.”

  Kedra’s eyes never left his fathers. His strength humbled me. “I love you, my father,” he replied, his mindvoice calm and clear. “Rest upon the Winds, and know that you will live always in our memory, Hadretikantishikrar.”

  I breathed again. It was well that the last time Shikrar heard his true name, it was spoken with love. I was grateful that he could not see any longer, for the great hissing tears wrung in agony from Kedra’s eyes would break a heart of stone.

  “AkhorP Idai?” Shikrar called weakly. We who had known him longest, through all the years.

  “Here, my friend,” I replied quietly, and “Here, Shikrar,” she said. I knew that oceans of grief awaited me, a thousand years deep and broad as all time yawning to swallow me up, but as yet I stood on the shore.

  “Fight on,” he said, and died.

  I could not speak aloud, so in truespeech I sang, “Sleep on the Winds, Hadretikantishikrar,” honouring him with his true name as he passed from us. Leaning forward, my hands on his faceplate, I closed my eyes and gendy went to touch his soulgem with my own one last time, in token of the depth of our lifelong friendship.

  To my horror I felt his soulgem move under mine. My eyes snapped open, my bones turned to water, and I saw the brilliant ruby fall to the earth. I could not stop the movement I had begun, and my own soulgem touched the place where Shikrar’s had been.

  And I fell, and fell, and fell forever.

  Lanen

  That happened which could not happen.

  I saw Varien lean forward to touch Shikrar’s soulgem, saw Shikrar’s red gem come loose and fall to earth, saw bright emerald touch the hollow where it had lain—and saw Varien fall into Shikrar’s body, as a man falls into a grave, and be swallowed up. The great body that lay before us shuddered along its length, once, then lay still.

  What in the name of all heaven was happening?

  “Varien!” I screamed idiotically, turning my back on Berys. “Goddess! Varien! Varien!”

  Then the green soulgem, resting in the hollow where a soulgem should be, began to glow. From a tiny gleam in the depths, as a light rising through deep water, it brightened and flowed until it filled all the space in Shikrar’s faceplate. The light grew brighter yet, green as clear emerald, green as leaves in deep summer, bathing all that vast body in its radiance. The dark bronze of Shikrar’s face did not look so dark as it had. Under the green light, just around the blazing soulgem, it seemed much lighter—almost—

  Silver.

  I laboured to breathe as I watched, for miracles, good or ill, are not easy to bear. Starting from the slight silver stain around his soulgem, the dark bronze of Shikrar’s hide was washed in a coating of silver, sweeping ever more swiftly from nose to tail. Where the green and silver touched the great wounds Shikrar had borne, light flared as flesh and blood and bone were healed. The terrible broken wings blazed green and silver and were made whole. The neck bone came to its right place with a snap very little less terrible than that which had broken it.

  It all took little more than the blink of an eye, and when all was done—Akor lay before us, but not Akor. He was the size of Shikrar, and all his body glowed yet fire-bright with emerald radiance.

  Then he opened his eyes.

  Varien/Khordeshkhistriakhor

  I woke as from a long sl
eep, instantly aware, myself again after some dream of another life. I stood and stumbled, as one who has not moved for some time. I flexed my wings, glad to find that they were not as stiff as I had feared. Only then did I look about me.

  My beloved Lanen stood staring up at me, her eyes huge, her mouth slack. She—she looked terrified. Astounded.

  Desolate.

  “Akhor?” said a voice, quietly, behind me. I turned to see Idai gazing up at me, her eyes like Lanen’s full of fear and wonder.

  Wait—Idai gazing up?

  I reared onto my back legs and stared down at Idai, and far, far down at my own Lanen. Her lips moved, but it was not the voice of the body I heard. It was the voice of her mind, soft and dry as death, in motionless agony, and so terribly alone.

  “Akor. You are Kordeshkistriakor once more. Sweet Shia, no!”

  And then she cried out in her desolation, a scream of pain torn from her as though her heart had been wrenched from her breast. She fell to her knees and hid her face from me.

  We were parted once more, as I had never thought to be parted from her again in life. Parted forever.

  Sorrow fell before fury.

  I never wanted this.

  Wrath rose in me then, fire unquenchable, and I looked up to where the battle raged. I did not try to understand. There was no time to mourn Shikrar, to mourn anything. With a heart blazing with death and fury, I leapt into the sky and trumpeted a challenge to the Black Dragon, not nearly so huge now as it had seemed. I flew twice as fast as ever I had flown before, I flew as one gone mad, and I felt light as a birds feather. I swear the Winds blew solely to bear me up.