Ashtes had stopped screaming.
Henele was trapped beneath his fallen horse. Its head was gone. Two coldwarg were on him, one with its jaws clamped around each arm. They were pulling, shaking their heads and growling, like puppies with a toy. Henele should have been screaming, but he made no sound, and from that Ciradhel knew he was already dead.
They were all dead.
All but him.
Why?
He looked around.
The surviving coldwarg had broken off their attack to take up the pursuit of the others again.
And the marauders that had followed the pack had arrived.
“Nice puppies, to save one for Dalak,” the frost-giant said, giggling nastily, a high-pitched sound that sat ill with the giant’s size and bulk. “You go on,” he said to the others. “This one’s mine.”
Ciradhel used those precious moments to assess the enemy, on the faint chance he would ever be able to make a report.
There were a full dozen ice-trolls, all wearing Talismans to protect them against the sun, for they were creatures of night and caves. Their skin was the pale blue of pack ice, and they wore nothing more than a narrow loincloth, whether male or female, for they needed—nor wanted—no protection from the cold. Around their necks they wore elaborate collars of bones taken from their dead enemies, and carried bags which contained their hunting implements. Their main weapon was a bone atlatl, a notched rod with which they could launch polished bone shafts with deadly force and skill.
There were twice their number of frost-giants in the band, and they were formidable foes. The shortest of them was twice Ciradhel’s height. They had hair the color of frost, and pale eyes, and—unlike some of their cousins—no need of protection from the sun. Frost-giants were notable smiths and metalworkers, and all the giants wore articulated plate armor, well-padded with fur against the cold. But despite their ability at crafting swords, the frost-giants’ preferred weapon was the club, and it was a club that Dalak unlimbered now, swinging it back and forth as he smiled at Ciradhel.
The others grumbled at being denied a chance to watch the fun, but Dalak seemed to be their leader, and after a few moments of indecision they complied, lumbering off after the coldwarg with stupefying speed.
“Come, little Elf. I promise I’ll be gentle,” Dalak rumbled. “And you will reach the Cold Hells long before most of your friends.”
“And I shall wish the same for you,” Ciradhel said politely. He urged Jilka forward.
Dalak had superior reach, but Ciradhel and Jilka were faster. They were equally matched, and Ciradhel began to hope he might win. At the very least, every moment he could delay Dalak left the marauders without their leader.
But suddenly he felt a rushing presence above him, and a burning pain in his shoulders as great talons seized him, shearing through his armor as if it were silk.
Something lifted him from his saddle.
He cried out.
Dalak stepped forward, swinging his club with all his strength. It hit the side of Jilka’s head, and Ciradhel heard her neck snap.
Then Dalak reached up and grabbed him by the ankle. There was a tearing pain, a shrill soundless cry that lanced through Ciradhel’s head, and suddenly he lay upon the ground, looking up at the frost-giant.
Dalak put his boot on Ciradhel’s chest.
“Say good-bye to the Light, little Elf,” Dalak said, raising his club again.
And then Ciradhel knew nothing more.
—«♦»—
THE seven double-burdened warhorses ran over the snow in the direction of the Crowned Horns. None of the Knights knew what they fled from, but no one was foolish enough to disregard Calmeren’s warning, and all of them had heard the howling.
The unicorns were far ahead, springing over the snow at their fastest pace, one that no horse could match. Athonere hoped they and their precious cargo could reach the safety of the fortress. He cursed the fell weather. If the day had been clear, the sentries would have been able to see them. They might even have been able to see what lay behind the fleeing party.
But even if that had been true, none of them could have expected assistance from those within the citadel. The defenders would not have dared to come out, lest this be a trap, a ruse to lure them away from the children they guarded.
Just then Athonere saw a flash of movement through the veils of blowing snow, as a sinuous rill of silver fur flowed over the snow, easily passing the galloping horses.
They seemed to be monstrous misshapen wolves. Some of them were bleeding from fresh sword cuts, and several had the stumps of Elven arrows protruding from their necks and shoulders, but despite the blood that starred the snow in their wake, they moved with terrifying fleetness.
No. Not wolves. Coldwarg.
Athonere risked a glance behind him—and saw, over his passenger’s shoulder, a host of squat bluish creatures running toward them, moving nearly as fast as the galloping horses. Without slowing, they began to hurl objects toward the mounted Knights.
The woman clinging to Athonere’s back screamed. She thrashed frantically for a moment, then fell from the saddle before he could catch her.
One of the horses beside Athonere grunted heavily and went down, its hind legs tangled in a contraption of stones and leather cord. The force of its fall spilled both the Knight and his passenger into the snow with stunning force.
Athonere reined in, turning back. His passenger was lying in the snow, three shafts protruding from her back, dead. Screams—Elven and animal—told him that more ice-troll shafts were finding their mark. Their only safety lay in attack, lest more of their charges be slaughtered as they fled.
He drew his sword and charged into the mob of ice-trolls.
“To me! To me!” he shouted.
But the ice-trolls refused to stand and fight. They scampered back and forth across the hard-packed snow, calling mocking taunts in an unknown tongue, trying to lure the knights off the trail and into the drifts. And always came the deadly volleys of hard-flung arrows. Though the Knights returned fire with their own bows—those who had not given them to arm the surviving caravan drivers—they missed more often than not, for the ice-trolls were fast-moving and hard to see, and to stand still long enough to take aim was to become an attractive target.
“They’re waiting for something,” Luamzir said grimly. She’d recovered from her fall, though Perta had not been as fortunate. Merisashendiel’s nurse had had no armor to protect her, and lay dead in the snow. And though Luamzir had cut the leathern cords from Panorak’s legs, the animal was dead lame, barely able to stand, much less run.
“We dare not run—and they will not fight,” Athonere said grimly. If only it would stop snowing…
Suddenly the ground began to shake. A moment more and the frost-giants were upon them.
At least the children are safe, Athonere thought. Neither trolls nor giants could outrun a unicorn.
—«♦»—
THE seven unicorns ran steadily through the blowing snow, Calmeren in the lead.
Suddenly there was a high shrill wailing that made her head hurt. She sprang sideways, crouching and staggering as something swooped down out of the sky and passed low above her head. She heard the sound of claws grate against Rhavelmo’s armor, and Hieretsur screamed.
“They’re here!” Calmeren cried, the stench of the Enemy in her nostrils, and the other unicorns wheeled and stood, searching for the foe. There were shadowy shapes in the sky, difficult to see through the blowing snow, wheeling over them like a flock of carrion birds.
“No!” Rhavelmo vaulted down from the saddle and pushed Hieretsur forward. “Go! Run!”
Calmeren gave Rhavelmo one agonized glance, and sprang forward again.
Rhavelmo unlimbered her bow and shot a dozen arrows into the sky. It was a difficult mark, but her aim was true. One of the creatures fell to earth—a monstrous bat, its body as large as a man’s, its fur and its wings as white as the snow itself. It thrashed in its d
eath agonies, red eyes gleaming with mad hatred.
All around her, the Knights were quickly dismounting. It was the best chance they could give the unicorns carrying the children and Lairamo, because the children must be saved at all costs.
—«♦»—
“YOU must be strong now, Prince Sandalon. Hold tight to Queverian’s saddle and don’t let go, whatever you do,” Dainelel said quickly.
The boy nodded, too frightened to speak.
“Take care of him, my love,” he said to Queverian, a tremor in his voice.
“I will,” the unicorn said, and Sandalon had no time to say anything more, for she was off, speeding across the snow, with death flying ever nearer overhead.
—«♦»—
CALMEREN had barely hit her stride again when more of the bat-things began to dive upon her, slashing at her face, and, worse, at the precious burden she carried. They stank of Taint and carrion, and try as she might, she could not escape them. She found herself turning away from the Crowned Horns, fighting to keep from being driven into the deep snow away from the trail.
None of the others fared any better. The younger children cried out in fear as the monstrous bats swooped down through the storm, snatching at them.
She had nearly made up her mind to make a dash back the way she had come when the coldwarg pack arrived.
And they were not alone.
Appearing out of the storm like ghosts were a host of cloaked and hooded figures, their white garb rendering them nearly invisible against the snow. At first she thought they were Elves come to their rescue, then she knew they were not. All carried long spears.
“Do what you must!” she cried to the others. “But run!”
A coldwarg leaped at her. She reared to meet its charge, praying that Hieretsur could hold on. She thrust her horn into the wolf-thing’s belly and shook her head savagely, flinging its dying body aside.
Teeth raked her unarmored flank, and she spun and kicked at the new foe. A yelp told her that her sharp hooves had connected.
Then leathery wings enfolded her head, blinding her. Enormous wings battered at her with punishing force, and she felt Hieretsur’s weight leave her saddle. She could hear baby Kalania wailing in terror and pain. She felt sharp claws scrabbling at her throat and chest, shearing through her armored collar, and raking into the flesh beneath. She shook her head savagely, and felt her horn slide into the leather of its wing, but these were not creatures of Dark Magic to die at the touch of a unicorn’s horn.
Blindly and desperately she fought, hearing screams all around her, and the yelps and howls of the coldwarg.
At last she managed to drag the monster beneath her hooves to trample it.
The children—where are the children?
She heard faint screams overhead. Looking up, she saw two of the bat-creatures soaring away, bodies struggling in their claws.
The snow was red with blood. The other unicorns, some dead, some mortally wounded, lay on the snow. The coldwarg were quarreling over the bodies.
The cloaked figures moved through the carnage, checking for survivors and gathering up fallen weapons.
At the moment, no one was looking at her.
Calmeren moved, silently as only a unicorn could, away from the battlefield. When she was sure she was concealed by the storm she began to run with utter determination, agony lancing through her with every step.
Sentarshadeen must be warned. Whatever the cost.
—«♦»—
WHEN Idalia had brought the rains safely to the Elven Lands with the Wild Magic, there had been, as always, a price. It had been a high one, and a hard one to accept, but she had weighed the cost in lives and pain if she did not, and made her bargain.
The price for the power to save the Nine Cities had been her life—but it seemed that the Gods were slow to collect.
She had been surprised to awaken from her working trance at all, and had spent a sennight in the House of Leaf and Star, recovering from the heavy demands the magic had placed upon her body. Each day had been a gift, and an odd surprise, but she had come to realize that Gods’ time was not the same as mortals’. They had accepted her bargain, and would collect upon it in Their own good time. But she knew that every hour she lived now was borrowed.
When Kellen had returned from the Barrier, and she had healed him, Idalia had almost grown used to that, but then she received another unsettling reminder of how much things had changed. When she summoned up the power to heal her brother, no personal price was asked of her… and there was always a price to the Wildmage over and above the personal power expended.
But no longer. Wildmagery still drained her personal energy, just as it always had, but now no additional obligation was set upon her when she did her work, as if all prices had already been paid.
Perhaps they had. Perhaps accepting the greatest price she could pay had negated the need to pay any other. Ever.
As much as possible, she tried to forget the choice she had made, trying to live in the present moment, as the Elves did. When she was not with Jermayan, she went where she was needed in Sentarshadeen, or worked steadily at creating a store of items that would be useful later, when Shadow Mountain showed its hand at last. Tarnkappa were the most obvious of these; cloaks that would conceal all sight, sound, and scent of the wearer from enemy detection. Such things would be useful for spies and scouts.
But each one took sennights to complete, and she had other things to do as well; the distillation of medicines that only a Wildmage could make. The Elves were master herbalists, and she had learned many of the recipes she used from them, but even their most potent cures for Taint and Shadowed poison were stronger when infused with a Wildmage’s power.
No one questioned the obsessive haste with which she worked. The Elves thought all humans rushed around anyway. Only Kellen would have noticed anything out of the ordinary in her behavior, and he was away from dawn until well after dusk these days, engrossed in learning all that his Elven Masters could teach him about the Way of the Sword.
Gone was the gawky unsure boy who had ridden into her forest clearing half a year ago on Shalkan’s back, half-dead of his wounds. Gone even was the uncertain half-trained young Wildmage who had set out with Jermayan to destroy the Barrier. No one would ever call Kellen Tavadon clumsy again, in or out of armor. And now that he had accepted his Knight-Mage gifts, there was an assurance, a maturity to him that simply hadn’t been there before.
And had he stayed in Armethalieh, there never would have been that assurance. Not with the way Lycaehn Tavadon tried to break his spirit! Idalia thought with a rare flash of spitefulness.
Idalia’s happiest hours of all were spent with Jermayan in his home. Every hour—every moment—was a gift that might not come again.
And certainly would not last.
—«♦»—
THE temperature had been dropping for the last sennight, and the morning frosts and fogs had been growing heavier. To complicate matters, though the rain had lessened recently, it had never really stopped. It had turned to sleet instead, so that everything became covered with an increasingly-thick shell of ice. Beautiful, but treacherous. Even the simplest journey became fraught with unexpected peril, and the newest article of outdoor wear was cleat-bottomed sabatons to strap over one’s boots for the navigation of the ice-covered streets. Crews went out at intervals, day and night, to use simple, minor magics to break the ice from the tree branches, lest the branches themselves snap under the weight of the ice.
With all the ice, it was no longer possible for Kellen to work with Deyishene in the afternoons, as the practice-ground had become a solid sheet of ice, too slippery to use. Master Belesharon said he would be able to resume his practice once the snows came, for snow provided a less treacherous footing than ice, but at the moment, Kellen’s afternoons were spent with extra sword practice.
It had also become necessary to begin laying out fodder for the horses, since the meadow grass was fast being covered b
y the ice. But neither activity took as much of his time as working with Deyishene had.
It gave him a lot of time to think about other things.
—«♦»—
ONE afternoon he left the House of Sword and Shield early, and went home to change into his best clothes. He intended to go to the House of Leaf and Star and ask a favor of Ashaniel—if she would see him. And since he was going to ask a favor, it only made sense to look as if he really meant to approach the Queen with the greatest of respect.
To Light A Candle ou(tom-2 Page 18