by Tanya Huff
From his vantage point at the Plateau’s edge, Mikhail ground his teeth in rage. He couldn’t think of a thing that would do any good. Maneuvering was next to impossible, almost the entire army fought one on one and far too many men fought those they had defeated once already.
“Milord,” gasped a courier, riding up on a lathered and blood-flecked horse, “they’re breaking through to the south. Aliston is falling back. The duke asks you send him reinforcements.”
Mikhail scanned the Plateau. An arm of the Melacian army had curved around, forcing the Ardhans to fight on two fronts, the east and the south. Up against the living dead, the southern front was falling back. Much farther and the Melacians would be behind the Ardhan lines.
“Get through to the Duke of Hale,” Mikhail barked. “Tell him to regroup his cavalry and get over there as fast as he can.”
“Yes, sir!” And with a weary salute, the courier was gone.
Mikhail doubted even Hale’s cavalry would be fast enough to reach Aliston before the line was breached, but meanwhile there was something he could do. The need for a tactician was over. He drew his great black sword, whirled it once around his head to hear it sing, and set his heels to his horse’s sides. The beast leaped forward, as glad to be moving as its master was. They pounded down the hill and flung themselves into the battle.
Aliston’s weary men rallied as Mikhail hit the Melacian line like ten men not one. The dwarf-made sword moved so swiftly it looked like a black flame and flesh and blood and bone went flying from everywhere it struck. The dead began to die again.
It was almost enough.
Then Mikhail’s horse was cut out from under him, disemboweled by the dying blow of one of Melac’s captains. He jumped clear and continued to carve his way forward, his height and strength giving him an advantage over the foe that even the loss of the horse couldn’t totally remove. But numbers began to tell and for every man he cut down it seemed another two rose up to fill the place. Soon he was stopped and, back to back with Aliston, surrounded by corpses and twice corpses, the two warriors fought to hold what he had regained.
Although he was covered in blood and dripping with gore, Crystal knew her stepfather had less need of help than anyone else still fighting. As much as she wanted to blast an area of safety around him, she forced herself to look away and do what she could for those who needed it more. She had discovered that, although most of her attention was needed to hold back Kraydak in the heavens, she could still manipulate small areas on the ground.
The angle of a sword blow, that would surely have separated head from shoulders had it connected, changed slightly in the air and slid off the edge of a shield instead.
A Melacian stepped on a rock which rolled slightly and sent him flying.
An archer with a direct line of sight to the Duke of Hale drew back her bow and put an arrow into the eye of a comrade.
The barbs of a Melacian spear hooked on an Elite’s heavy armor and while trying to free it, the spearman himself was speared.
A craggy-faced young man with brows that drew a black line across his forehead slipped on another’s blood and fell jarringly hard to the ground. As he lay gasping for breath, one of the undead loomed suddenly over him, spear raised to strike. Whispering a good-bye to his wife and child, for he knew he was on his way to Lord Death, he watched in amazement as the stitches holding the creature’s spear arm to his body came unraveled and arm and spear fell harmlessly to the ground. Even the undead managed to look slightly surprised.
“I kept my promise,” Crystal told a breeze, and then sent it to tell a young woman with honey-colored curls.
Kraydak’s power threw itself at her barrier in waves. With each strike, she could feel her defenses wearing away, crumbling under the subtleties of Kraydak’s attacks and her own terror of the walking dead which she still fought to control. She feared this would be her last battle, hers and Ardhan’s. The army couldn’t beat the undead without the help she was unable to give. Her fists were clenched at her sides, sweat plastered her tunic to her breasts, and her hair flapped lifelessly in the wind. Her ears began to ring.
She began to hear horns.
Surely that couldn’t be in her head.
It wasn’t.
“To war!” called out the War Horn of Riven. “To war!” And out of the forest to the south streamed the men of Riven, the duke leading the charge with the Horn to his lips. He blew again.
All through the Ardhan army, hearts lifted at the sound and men and women found the strength to fight a moment longer.
“TO WAR!” Then the duke put aside the Horn, drew his sword, and the Riven warriors threw themselves at the backs of the Melacians who had almost broken through to the south.
The call of the Horn went through Crystal like a ray of light. She drank it in, gathered it up, and threw it as hard as she could at Kraydak’s might. Which wavered but held. She added her joy in Riven’s arrival, the hope that rose in every breast, and the love of the farmer’s young wife. Kraydak’s attack crumbled and the setting sun burned red and gold through the fleeing clouds.
At the touch of the sunlight, the undead paused and then, like puppets with cut strings, they collapsed to the ground. Riven’s men soon drove the remaining Melacian soldiers into a full retreat while the Ardhan army leaned on their weapons and cheered.
Fewer people than usual gathered outside the queen’s pavilion that evening. Lorn had died with an arrow in his throat. Cei was in surgery with a spear wound in his belly; his fat had saved his life. Hale would not leave his men, for few of their horses had survived and in Hale a horse was regarded with as much tenderness as a child.
At Mikhail’s approach, Tayer forgot queenly dignity and threw herself on him regardless of the blood which stained her hands and gown a lurid red. An embarrassed Riven was welcomed with much back-slapping, his lateness forgotten in the perfect timing of his arrival.
Crystal collapsed on a camp stool and begun stuffing herself with meat tarts in an attempt to fill the emptiness that clawed at her from within. She had come very close to using every last bit of power. Belkar came and stood beside her, his face gray beneath the dirt and blood.
“Have you seen Bryon lately,” he asked, “have you seen my son?”
Crystal’s face blanched and the remaining color drained from her eyes. “No,” she said, realization dawning. “Not for hours.”
They looked at each other and then both turned toward the battlefield. Was he out there? Did he lie staring up at the stars too wounded to move, bleeding, dying? Had he already gone to Lord Death?
“I’d know if he were dead,” Crystal whispered, listening to the pain rising from the wounded and trying find Bryon’s within it. “I’d know.”
“Better dead than out there,” rumbled the duke. “Mother knows how long until they find them all.”
The thunder of approaching hoofbeats distracted them and they glanced up from their fears.
“Why the long faces? Didn’t we win?”
“Bryon!”
Bryon smiled wearily. The joy in Crystal’s voice and the welcome in her eyes made the whole wretched days almost worthwhile.
Crystal bounded to her feet, the meat tarts flying unheeded to the ground. Relief and something more flooded the places where power had been expended. “We feared you’d been killed.”
“Not hardly. Not a scratch on me.” He slapped at his armor with disgust. It looked a great deal like he’d spent the afternoon swimming in an abattoir. “All this blood belongs to somebody else. Several dozen somebodies, as a matter of fact.” He kicked a foot free of its stirrup, but before he could lift his leg clear of the saddle, a blue bolt arced down from the sky and smashed him to the ground. Screaming in terror, his horse bolted.
“NO!”
The world stopped while Crystal threw herself down at Bryon’s side, but he was already beyond any h
elp she could give. He tried to grin, and as he died she saw herself reflected in his eyes.
SIXTEEN
The roaring in her ears drowned out the normal sounds of the Ardhan camp as Crystal knelt at Bryon’s side, cradling his head in her lap, her eyes closed and dry. She knew the Duke of Belkar stood behind her, tears cutting channels through the grime on his face, and she felt his grief more clearly than her own. She wasn’t sure it was grief she felt.
A single beam of moonlight cut through the gathering darkness, rested briefly on Bryon’s still body and then was trapped in the silver net of Crystal’s hair. When she finally stood, it rose with her. She brushed by Belkar, not seeing him, and strode down the path to the battlefield.
“Crystal,” Tayer called, but Mikhail put his arm around her and shook his head.
“I don’t think she can hear you, my love.”
“But she shouldn’t be alone.” Tayer wiped her eyes with a square of lace and linen pulled from her sleeve.
I’m afraid she’ll always be alone, Mikhail thought, but all he said was, “No, she shouldn’t.”
They followed their daughter down the path, each resting a hand gently on Belkar’s shoulder as they passed the old man who stood silently mourning for his son. When they reached the battlefield, Crystal already stood on her outcropping of rock, arms raised to the moon.
As they watched, her hair lifted and wove patterns in the air, gathering in the light and absorbing it. Her eyes were pools so deep that the green appeared black. She stood unmoving, a sculpture of white marble rather than living flesh and her beauty had never been more terrible. She looked so little like their daughter that Tayer and Mikhail suddenly found themselves more afraid of her than for her.
If Kraydak had thought to paralyze her with grief, he had made a grave mistake.
She knew what she was feeling now. She was furious. No matter that her own power had been depleted; there were other sources and her anger would act as focus for them.
Without warning, she ignited in a glorious blaze of silver fire. Every leaf, every twig, every blade of grass in the surrounding area stood out in sharp relief against their own tiny and impenetrable black shadows. Tayer and Mikhail staggered back, nearly blinded by the intensity. Behind them, they heard the rest of the army cautiously approaching, drawn like moths to the flame. The men and women carrying the wounded from the battlefield favored the wizard with a startled glance, then, giving thanks for the light which made their job easier, hurried to finish before it went out.
When the light of the wizard outshone the light of the moon, Crystal called. The mountains answered. The sound was so wild and inhuman that many of those who heard it fell to their knees in terror, fingers stuffed in their ears in a hopeless attempt to block it out. They sang together for a moment, the wizard and the earth, and then Crystal clenched her fingers into fists.
The song of the mountain ceased, replaced by a rumbling roar—rock, torn from its rest and hurtling earthward. The Melacian army was camped in the shelter of the mountains. Their screams could be heard all the way across the Plateau.
A blue bolt arced down from the heavens, but Crystal almost contemptuously swatted it aside. It was closely followed by a second and a third. The fourth she grabbed and held and threw it back the way it had come. There was no fifth bolt.
She clenched her fists again.
With a tortured scream, an entire cliff face sheared away and plummeted down on the Melacian camp.
Mikhail staggered up to his daughter, tears running from his burning eyes. Thus must the wizards of old have looked at the height of their powers, proud and distant and not the least bit human.
“Crystal!” He clutched at her arm and was surprised to find it icy cold. “Enough! You’ve done enough!”
She shrugged free of his grasp with such ease that Mikhail wasn’t sure she even knew he’d been there. Her seemingly gentle motion flung him back and off his feet. Through slitted eyes, he saw a small form moving past him and up to face the wizard. “Tayer, no,” he began and then realized that it wasn’t his wife.
Her eyes squinted nearly closed against the glare, Kly pulled back her arm and punched the wizard as hard as she could in the stomach. She had intended a slap in the face but had discovered to her chagrin that she wasn’t tall enough.
Crystal’s gaze snapped back from the distance and she dropped it to the young woman’s face. When their eyes met, Kly found the light no longer blinded her and she stared back fearlessly, not even trying to escape as she fell into the darkness. As she felt herself and all she was, probed, examined, and absorbed, the darkness lightened and grew green. When she returned to herself, the wizard looked down at her with eyes that glowed the deeper green of summer leaves.
“It wasn’t because I loved him,” Crystal explained, as much to herself as to Kly, her voice deathly calm. “It was because I never got the chance to find out.”
Kly nodded. “I know,” she said.
And because Kly understood, Crystal sighed and the light went out.
* * *
Kraydak’s servants were used to the blue bolts that blazed out from the top of the tower. They knew that with each bolt went death and destruction for their master’s enemies. They had never before seen one come back.
“Master?” He edged his twisted body around the door and peered fearfully into the room. He had not been called and the punishment for entering unbidden was severe, but the returning bolt had shaken the tower and he was sure he had heard his master cry out in pain.
“Master?”
There, against the far wall.
The servant scrambled farther into the wizard’s sanctuary. The door swung silently shut behind him and he whimpered low in his throat. It was too late to turn back. He forced abused limbs into motion and shuffled painfully across the carpet toward the blue and gold bundle on the floor.
A thin trickle of blood ran from Kraydak’s nose, streaking the sculptured beauty of his face. His eyes were closed and his head twisted back at an awkward angle, but the golden chest still rose and fell: he lived.
With a gnarled finger, the servant gently touched his master’s blood. He stared at the scarlet stain for a moment then brought the finger to his lips. It tasted no different from his own.
Deep in the prison of his mind, the man he had once been woke and screamed, “Kill him! If he can be hurt, he can be killed! Kill him! You will never have this chance again!”
The servant awkwardly wiped the blood from Kraydak’s face. He had learned long ago that it hurt much less to ignore the voices in his head. He would wait and his master would wake and he would be told what to do. Even now the wizard’s eyes were opening.
Blue fires. Searing. Burning. Consuming. Killing.
The inner voice died first, then the servant’s body spasmed and collapsed at his master’s feet.
Kraydak kicked the broken thing aside and staggered to the inner room where he threw himself down on the marble bench.
“That wizard-child is lucky beyond belief,” he snarled, checking the lump on the back of his head. “She dares to throw my power back at me! At me, Kraydak!” He winced as he probed the sore spot, his eyes glowed briefly, and the pain was gone.
“You have hidden depths, wizardling,” he continued in a softer voice—a voice the servant would have recognized with terror had he been alive to hear it. “You destroyed my armies and you caused me pain.” Twice now she’d hurt him, and that was beyond even his ability to forgive. “Of course, the army will be replaced, and while that game continues, we will play a new game, you and I. I will call you to my side and you will learn about pain.” He reached down and stroked the skinning knife that lay on the bench beside him.
* * *
“Bryon was right.” Crystal struggled to keep her voice steady and matter of fact. It held an edge, she knew, but none of the hysteria she had feared woul
d appear the moment she opened her mouth. She’d spent the night, trembling in exhaustion and reaction, alone in her tent, not even her mother daring to force an entry. The earth sang quiet songs to her, filling the darkness with comfort, and by morning she had calmed herself. When she entered the queen’s pavilion, and met the eyes of the council members, she knew no one would ever call her princess again.
“Bryon was right about what, dear?” Tayer asked kindly.
Crystal knew they humored her, but she didn’t care. She saw the fear in the glances of the soldiers and didn’t care about that either. Kraydak had also been right. Care about someone and you only get hurt. She wasn’t going to care anymore.
“He said I couldn’t fight Kraydak alone. That someday I’d have to ask for help.”
“We’ll do what we can,” Mikhail told her, but wondered what sort of help mere mortals could give to a seventeen-year-old girl who could call to the earth and have it answer.
The wizard shook her head. “What can you do?” she asked bluntly. “What can any of us do? Last night my anger gave me strength, but I can’t be angry all the time.” She walked to the tent flap and looked out at the sunshine. The wind brought her the sound of metal on rock, the pitiful remnants of the Melacian army digging out their camp. For an instant, she reached out and touched the power she’d called the night before. It stirred and she backed quickly away from a seduction more dangerous than any Kraydak could attempt. Without her rage as focus she knew she lacked the skill to control the forces her power, small in comparison, could release.
The council exchanged worried glances and Belkar rubbed a hand over red and puffy eyes. They had buried his son with the dawn.
“Then what’s left?” he sighed.
Crystal turned to him and her expression was more human than it had been at any time since Bryon had died. Even in her anger, she had realized his loss had been the greater one; he was an old man, he would have no more sons. “The Doom of the Ancient Wizards,” she said almost gently. “The dragons.”