by Hal Emerson
Surprised, she spun, crouching; she searched the battlefield, but saw no trace of the Imperial Prince, the Fourth Child of the Empress. She did, however, see thousands of other figures moving through the night, striving against each other in the bright flash of lightning that split the sky so close that crashing thunder came directly on its heels, barely an instant later. True night had fallen now, and with it had come a thunderstorm the likes of which the Empire hadn’t seen in years. Rain fell in sheets, drenching them all and turning the already treacherous field of ash and soot and blood into an unspeakable quagmire. The only man-made light now came from brazier lit along the Wall, the high Black Wall of Banelyn that had stood un-taken for four hundred years as a symbol of the Empress’ glory and might. The Wall that now protected Her enemies from the army of Dysuna, Her Child. Lorna was one of the Kindred who had been born outside the Empire, born in a humble home to Eldorian miners south of the Kindred capital of Vale. Growing up she had never thought to see such sights … she had never thought of the Empire at all.
Not until that slip of a boy with red eyes came and convinced me to take on active duty.
The words of the Ashandel oath, taken during the ceremony before the Elders, rang through her head as they always did in times like these.
I swear to protect the Kindred, and to safe-guard the Eshendai that is entrusted to my care. I swear that I will shadow him, I will shepherd him, and I will guide him through all that might do him harm. Through the night, I watch, through the day, I wait, and through the years, I stand fast. I am the sword that cuts the shadows, and the shield that gleams in darkness.
Lorna made her way toward the distant gates where Leah and the others were headed, scanning the area around her.
Where is Dysuna?
The Wolf had sought out Davydd, had marked him on the battlefield as soon as she’d seen the burnt half of his face that showed he had helped kill Tiffenal, and in doing so inherited the Fox Talisman.
She and Tiffenal are twins. I know that much to be true.
The Wolf and the Fox were known throughout the realm as the only two Children who truly cared for one another. Never, in all their years of strife against the other Children, in all their time of shifting alliances, had they been on opposite sides of a conflict. To the contrary – it was rumored that they removed themselves from all plots that hurt the other. They had been born seconds apart, and ever since had been inseparable.
She will stop at nothing to avenge her brother. The Wolf Talisman is the Talisman of endurance and loyalty – it will compel her to take revenge, even if she wasn’t intent on it already.
The Imperial army was charging again, and Lorna saw them engage with the edges of the retreating Exiled Kindred. Time was short – whatever Leah had in mind better happen soon.
Another jagged spear of energy cracked across the sky, and in the brilliant flash that followed, Lorna saw a figure cloaked in gray plate armor, with a helm that bore the face of a weeping woman. She was at least fifty yards ahead – and had only turned back briefly in order to slay an attacker, before continuing on her path.
The Wolf was making for the Wall.
Lorna looked up at where she was headed, and realized Dysuna must have caught sight of the fleeing form of Leah; she was making her way through the crashing Kindred and Imperial armies toward what remained of the Formaux Gate. More lightning came, and Lorna saw too now that the Kindred were shifting and regrouping like waves that had crashed over unyielding rock. The force that had come from Formaux, the one that she, Davydd, and Autmaran commanded, had cut through the Imperials, killing three times their number, but it was hardly enough. The Empire’s forces were regrouping, and they still outnumbered the Exiled Kindred. The Exiles were following Leah, and now Autmaran as well – Lorna could see his bald head and bright scarlet cape in the intermittent flashes of thunder. They were both shepherding Kindred toward the now-open gate as they protected the wounded form of Davydd. It looked as though the gate had been staved in by enormous force – and if Lorna wasn’t mistaken, there was at least one Daemon still there, fighting with a huge bear of a man with a sword that rippled and shone in the night.
Tomaz killed one of them – with luck, he’ll bring the other down as well.
The lay of the land accessed, Lorna hefted her axe and broke into a steady loping run, her eyes on the form of Dysuna. She circled to the left, using the angle with the Wall to close the distance: the Wolf was too fast for her to catch head-on; her only hope was to come at her from the side.
Fear flashed through her as thunder rolled and shouted her onward; she wished for the thousandth time she’d never left Eldoras.
That boy needed protection. He still does. And there are worse ways to die.
Dysuna killed another man, this time one of her own soldiers who had fallen into her and slowed her down. She still bore her two long daggers, longer and thicker than Leah’s. The blades flashed and cut, never missing, always finding their target; the arms that bore them never tired, the legs that propelled the body never faltered, and with each man and woman that fell beneath the gleaming steel, the gray markings along the Wolf’s neck and hands grew brighter. She seemed to pull something vital from the cries of the Kindred, something that infused her with malevolent drive.
And as she advanced, as men died before her, her gray hunter’s eyes cast around continuously, locking again and again, unerring as a compass needle, on the distant form of Davydd.
Lorna fended off a blow from an Imperial soldier, and carried on, not even bothering to strike back. Her path was set – already Dysuna was gaining on her quarry, and if Lorna wasn’t in place soon, the Wolf would pass her and the opening would be lost.
As she ran, she felt a calm determination settle over her, directly at odds with the heavy anxiety she always felt before battle. It was the calm that came from knowing the outcome – the calm that came from knowing she would die if she faced Dysuna alone. But she had to. She had sworn to protect the boy, who looked so much like the one she’d lost.
I won’t lose this one.
The distance began to close – their paths, Lorna along the edge of the fighting and Dysuna through the middle, were set to meet. The gap between them narrowed, Lorna careful to stay a single step behind until the last instant. Her precaution paid off: Dysuna didn’t look over, didn’t see the approaching Ashandel; the helm she wore narrowed her vision, and Lorna was perfectly hidden from sight.
Their paths crossed, and lightning flared. Lorna lowered her head and leapt straight into Dysuna’s side. Her huge bulk crashed into the smaller woman, and the force of the blow carried the Wolf off her path, sending them both sprawling across the filthy ground.
Lorna’s momentum carried her over and off of Dysuna, and as she rolled forward she grabbed the haft of her battle-axe and raised it, readying herself for an all-out attack. She was glad she did – no sooner had she fallen into a ready stance than Dysuna came to her feet as well and attacked with a shriek of anger. Lorna used her height and her axe to distance herself from the Wolf, who tried to close the distance so that she could use her daggers. They both knew that as soon as Dysuna got inside the bigger woman’s reach, the fight was over.
Lorna was good. As an axe fighter, she might even be considered great. But Dysuna had lived for hundreds of years and trained under the best fighters the Empire had to offer, and the disparity between them soon became glaringly obvious. Lorna swung her axe back and forth only trying to protect herself from the Wolf’s attacks – she was able to gain no ground, only give it. She had to keep between Dysuna and the Formaux Gate, and to do that she could only move side to side and back. Her goal was not to defeat her opponent – that was impossible. Her goal was to survive long enough to ensure Davydd’s escape.
And as minutes passed and Dysuna was unable to beat her way through Lorna, her attacks became more vicious; she was so intent on getting beyond her, that the Ashandel even managed to score a hit – a huge upward swing that cleft her
opponent’s breastplate in twain, leaving the metal sliced open like a cooked lobster shell. The axe had even cut the skin below the armor, but Lorna felt no elation as she saw the wound. She knew the tales of the Wolf Talisman, and even before the wound began to shine with a gray light and heal on its own, she knew this was no victory, not even a temporary one.
The cut only enraged Dysuna further – and when she came at Lorna once more, this time the Ashandel found herself a constant step behind. It was as though the Wolf was speeding up, her blows coming faster than should have been possible. But Lorna had expected this too – the endurance was only half of what the Talisman drew from the men and women Dysuna killed. Speed was what made her truly deadly, and she was drawing on whatever stores she had gathered.
A rider-less horse screamed and went running past, buffeting Lorna in the process. She was forced to spin off and disengage, just for a split second, and in that time she saw that something had happened at the gate. The Kindred had made the retreat, and drawn the Imperials there, where they were all making a final stand. Davydd and Leah were nowhere to be seen – they had made the safety of the Wall.
Good.
The single thought spread warmth through her, a satisfaction that she had done all she could do to help. But Dysuna was on her again in the next instant, and that thought was the last she’d ever have. She was alone now, surrounded by an Imperial Army while every friendly soldier had retreated. Arrows still flew from the distant Wall, but those were not nearly enough to keep her safe. As the Wolf’s daggers finally succeeded in tearing her axe out of her hands and forcing her to the ground, she did not flinch, nor did she look away. Dysuna pulled off her helm and threw it to the side before approaching Lorna for the final time.
“I don’t know why you chose to make this stand,” she rasped, her voice a deep growling sound that seemed to come from the pit of her stomach only to force its way through a clenched, raw throat.
She raised a dagger and stared into Lorna’s eyes.
“But no one defeats the Children.”
The dagger gleamed in a flash of lightning, and Lorna’s eyes slid peacefully shut.
But the stabbing pain and the numbing release never came. Instead, she was thrown violently to the side as something rushed past her. Her eyes shot open, and she found herself only an arm’s length away from her fallen axe. She grabbed the weapon, fighting through confusion.
She spun to her feet, weapon once more in hand, only to stop short. A man had interposed himself between them with such violence that he had not only thrown Lorna to the ground, but Dysuna as well. The Wolf lay sprawled in the mud, a long gash ripped across her face.
Her breathing ragged and her thoughts disoriented, Lorna gritted her teeth and forced her eyes to focus. The man was tall, and he wore only the tattered, ripped remnants of a black cloak and some kind of black, ornamental armor. He towered over them both, standing nearly as tall as Tomaz – was it Tomaz?
But even as she thought the question, she knew the answer was ‘no.’ This man radiated feral danger like a wild beast, and a halo surrounded him that seemed to drink in the little light there was. That darkness seemed to feed off the carnage around them, pulsing like a fresh, bleeding sore, repulsing Lorna and making her sick to her stomach. Even the rain that still fell in sheets around them veered away from him at the last moment, as if the water did not wish to be polluted by his touch. Lorna took an involuntary step back, feeling like she wanted to retch. The man turned at her movement, his gaze impaling her like a spike through her gut, holding her in place. Her hand spasmed, and her axe fell to the ground.
It was Raven, the Prince of the Veil, who stood there, looking down at her, and fear struck her heart and made it skip its beat. He was not who he should have been – something had changed in him, something had broken or corroded away, leaving a hole behind that opened onto a pit of horrors. His eyes were terrible; they had turned his face into a mask of insanity. Lorna stared up at him – up, how am I staring up? He must be eight feet tall! How is that possible? – and found herself unable to move, unable even to think of fleeing.
But Dysuna was not caught in his gaze. She ran at him, and without even looking he dodged her blow and grabbed her by the throat. The Wolf’s eyes bulged in surprise, completely taken off guard.
The hand began to squeeze.
Dysuna caught at the hand, ripping at his grip, snarling at him, but all he did was watch her. She tore at his fingers, bloodying both him and her, reached for his eyes but came up short, kicked out to try and strike his knee, pulled her arms up in a saw-like motion that should have broken his elbow – but all the while the smiling mask plastered on the Prince’s face never altered.
And as the moment lengthened, and Raven’s hand continued to close about her throat and she began to choke, the anger in her eyes disappeared and was replaced with fear. Her motions became more desperate, and suddenly she was tearing at her own neck, trying to pull herself away, trying to rip herself away even if it meant leaving flesh behind in his grasp, but it was all to no avail. Her face began to turn blue from lack of air, and even the Talisman markings on her bare feet and hands took on the pale, wan color of dying moonlight.
At the last second something caught his eye and he looked down; his eyes fixated on Lorna’s axe lying beside him. A shiver passed over his face and he reached out a booted foot in its direction. Lorna tried to move forward to stop him – the axe was Valerium, if he tried to handle it he’d be burned, maybe even knocked unconscious –
His foot slipped under the weapon easily, and with a quick flick of his toes, the weapon was up and in his free hand. His fingers closed and curled around the haft of the axe and nothing happened. No, that wasn’t true – the Valerium didn’t throw him back, but it did react. It was as if it the haft had been struck against a rock, or another piece of metal: a shower of sparks rained down from the axe, running through the Prince’s fingers. Lorna felt something deep inside her lurch, and the axe head broke off and fell to the ground, where it lay smoking.
Uncomprehending, Lorna looked back to the Prince and saw that he was holding a jagged splinter of wood that had made up part of the weapon’s haft. The Valerium in the axe head and metal reinforcing the wood had repulsed him – and fallen to the ground in a strange, smoking ruin. He grinned again, his teeth gleaming white in the darkness, and turned back to his sister.
With a simple twisting thrust he rammed the wooden stake into and through her right eye. Dysuna went limp, a look of shock and disbelief the last expression trapped on her face, but she didn’t die. Her arms and legs began to flail, the Talisman still holding her together, still keeping her alive. Raven chuckled, a sound like insects crawling inside a rotted wall, and he grabbed her head in both hands and simply ripped it off her neck.
Lorna watched in disbelief. A flash of light cracked across the battlefield, and the beautiful, flowing gray lines of the Wolf Talisman winked out. Raven stepped back and dropped the pieces of his sister, watching her body fall to the blood-soaked ground. Cries of disbelief and dismay sounded from around them, and only then did Lorna realize that a group of soldiers, likely all of those nearby, had gathered around to watch Dysuna. Some of them cried out now in horror, others in rage. The former fled, and the latter attacked, their weapons crying out in a chorus of shrieking metal that echoed the rage of their masters.
Raven met them, laughing.
Chapter Six: Commander of the Gate
The Formaux Gate had been ripped from its proper place, and now lay shattered in pieces about them. Tomaz had done his best to defeat the Daemons, but this time had been unable to do so on his own. It was only when Autmaran and Leah arrived with a squad of Rangers bearing Valerium weapons that the final beast had been put down, but by that time it was too late. The battering ram had done it’s work on the gate, and what it hadn’t destroyed the Daemons had succeeded in tearing away.
And if it hadn’t been torn down, we would be trapped outside the city.
“Into the city!” he shouted to his men, repeating the words over and over. “Into the city! Go! Into the city! We fight them from behind the Wall!”
He saw Leah Goldwyn, the Eshendai Rogue partnered with the Ashandel Tomaz Banier, leading a group of Kindred with a wounded man at their center. As they shifted in their stride, a glint of unmistakable gold caught his eye and he knew immediately who it was. Autmaran gritted his teeth and hurried them past him.
Goldwyn always said luck only gets you so far.
“Archers!” he shouted to the men at the top of the Wall, but none of them could hear him. His voice was hoarse from all the shouting he’d done already, and between the thunder, the rain, and the thrice-damned war, it seemed a miracle anyone could hear him at all.
“You!” he called out to a random soldier in the Kindred green and silver. “Get to the top of the Wall; tell them Commander Autmaran wants them to fire on anything that moves. We’re all inside; shoot and keep shooting until there’s nothing left!”
“Sir!” She saluted and ran.
“Sir?” another voice asked.
“What?” he snapped, focusing on the source of the question – a young man, dressed in the green, black and gold of a Ranger.
“We have reports that the Prince of the Veil is still out there,” he said. “The enemy attacked us over the secret stair we used to invade the city, and the men we sent to plug the hole … we had a runner from them not long ago that said the soldiers they relieved were in the company of the Prince until he ran ahead of them. They lost him, but they saw him go over the Wall.”
The report made no sense to Autmaran, but there was no reason for the man to lie. There was a chance they had been seeing shadows – when men knew Children were part of a battle, a stray cat could become a Daemon through word of mouth. In either case, it was too late to do anything about it – if it was true, there was no way to track the Prince, and if it wasn’t, then there was no need to worry about it in the first place. He nodded to the man.