For another hour, Alethia poured over the note, trying to decipher enough of the writing to confirm her guess, but she was not successful. Finally she gave up. She put some more wood on the fire, rolled herself in the remains of her cloak and one of the blankets, and fell asleep.
She woke early the next morning. The fire was nothing but ashes, and she had to rekindle it from scratch. She ate sparingly, then took a burning branch from the fire to light her way to the inner cave, where she filled her nearly empty water-bottles from the spring. She made sure the horse was well provided for and then sat down to think.
The situation was hardly promising. She was lost in the Kathkari, severely wounded, with few remaining provisions and surrounded by hostile magic. Of course, she did have some talent for magic herself and a ring with some rather odd properties. And the Crown of Alkyra. Alethia grinned at the incongruity, then sobered. She had to get to Coldwell with the Crown, and soon. The Crown and the Gifts could be used to bind the Shadow-born; if Alethia could reach the army in time, perhaps the Veldatha could find the other gifts and use their power as it had been used in the Wars of Binding.
There was no way for her to find Har and the others. By this time they would surely have given her up for dead, and if she had not had the firestone they would have been right. She had no idea where Coldwell Pass was; the mountains were totally unfamiliar to her. Traveling south was her best hope, she decided, provided she could keep a straight path. Even if she could not find her way out of the mountains immediately, if she went south she must eventually reach the River Selyr that flowed through Brenn.
Alethia spent the early part of the morning packing the saddlebags and hoisting them onto the horse. Her arm was somewhat better, though still painful, and she wondered if the Crown had some sort of healing power. Even so, she had to rest frequently, and it was early afternoon before everything was secured to her satisfaction.
As soon as she was finished, Alethia left. The weather did not seem quite as cold, though it was still gloomy; but the torn cloak did not offer much protection. Alethia wrapped herself in one of the blankets and put the cloak on over it.
Her progress was slow. Alethia was torn between the need for haste and the fear of losing her way even more completely, or of being injured again. She was acutely conscious of the fact that the return of the Crown of Alkyra, and possibly the future of the country itself, depended on her safe arrival. On the other hand, she had the disquieting suspicion that the Shadow-born might know where the four lost Gifts were hidden, and she feared what might happen if they reached Coldwell before her.
There was little she could do to speed her journey; she could not even be entirely certain she was heading in the right direction. So she fretted whenever she was forced to retrace her steps, or to go around when the path seemed treacherous or unstable. Once at least her caution saved her life; a rock ledge collapsed onto the path ahead moments after she had turned away from the icy trail to seek safer footing. After that, she redoubled her watchfulness.
Alethia traveled for two days without finding any sign of the Wyrwood. It occurred to her several times that she could try to use the firestone to find a safe path to Coldwell, but the ever more frequent glimpses of the black power-web of the Shadow-born hovering over her made her reluctant to attempt it. Furthermore, she was not sure enough of the spell to try using magic except as a last resort.
By the third morning, cold and tired, Alethia decided to risk the firestone, in spite of the drain that she expected and her terror of detection by the Shadow-born. This time she was more cautious, and not so desperate, and the spell took far more time than it had during the storm.
When she had shaped the spell to her own satisfaction, Alethia looked up. No picture appeared in the air, and she looked around, a little puzzled. There was still nothing to be seen. Alethia moved her hand in a frustrated gesture, and the firestone flashed. She moved her hand again, more slowly and deliberately. The stone’s glow brightened and dimmed again as she swung it in an arc in front of her. The brightest point of the arc seemed to be a little to the left of the direction she had been traveling in.
Reassured, Alethia set off in the new direction. By mid-morning, she had found a pathway that had clearly been traveled recently, and she struck out along it. She made good progress now that she had a clear direction and good footing, and though she met no one that day she fell asleep confident that the next day’s ride would bring her to some more familiar area.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Since dawn, Maurin had crouched behind the rockpile, watching the far end of the pass. He was cold and stiff, and he was not alone in his discomfort. Behind him he heard a muffled curse as one of the other men shifted, trying to find some part of his anatomy that was not already sore from the hours of waiting. Someone cuffed the offender back into silence, and the waiting continued.
Maurin looked toward the western end of the pass and tensed. The Lithmern were a grey river flowing into the narrow funnel of the mountains. Only a little further, Maurin thought. Only a little longer and it begins. Cautiously he signalled to the main mass of troops and cavalry, hidden behind the low ridge that he stood on. He was luckier than they; at least he could see the enemy approaching instead of waiting in ignorance, dependent on a signal from above.
For the hundredth time, Maurin checked his armor and weapons. All about him others were doing the same, shifting awkwardly to avoid sending a tell-tale gleam or clink down to the floor of the pass. Beside him a grizzled veteran grinned.
“Aye, you take proper care, lad,” the man said. “Some of them, now, they’ll be crow meat for not checking right.” He spat into the snow.
The younger man eyed the worn leather sewn with metal rings that the other man wore and his eyebrows went up. “Are you sure that you are as well prepared as they are?” he asked, nodding toward a group of Marhal’s men in chain.
“It’s good enough for me, lad, and has been these many years,” the veteran said. “Those staves with the blades on them can’t get through the rings, and I can move a bit faster without all that extra weight. You’ll see. Lithmern, bah!” He spat again. Maurin grinned and they touched clenched fists before the other man disappeared to find his place in the line that was slowly forming along the ridge.
The Lithmern army had almost reached the ridge. Maurin was light-headed with anxiety, with eagerness, with tension, with a confusing welter of familiar emotions that made the blood sing in his veins. The long wait was forgotten; these last few minutes were harder than the hours had been.
From the other side of the pass a horn sounded. Almost as one the men rose and charged down at the Lithmern, while the cavalry rode out from the concealing ridge and into the front of the Lithmern column. Behind the Shee riders, the foot soldiers of Alkyra closed their ranks and advanced.
There was a roar as the two sides met. The front part of the Lithmern column was halted, at least for the moment, and the soldiers further back milled about in confusion, unable to see what was happening in front of them. From concealed positions along the tops of the cliffs, the Wyrds rained arrows down on the exposed ranks of Lithmern. Then, from the rear of the column, there was a ripple of movement, and the soldiers shrank away as the Shadow-born advanced.
On dead black horses with madness in their eyes, fifteen shapes of darkness and shadow rode forward. Their forms continuously shifted around the edges; even the enveloping cloaks they wore could not hide it. To stare too long on those fifteen creatures made of nothing-at-all invited madness. They rode into Coldwell Pass at a slow, steady walk like a funeral march. In the center of the pass, just in front of the Alkyran lines, they stopped.
And the Shee sprang their trap.
There was a shivering, and a tremor ran through the pass itself. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then, high above the Shadow-born, a mile-high slab of the rock wall began to crumble. With deceptive slowness, the avalanche came on, gathering rock, snow and speed as it cam
e. There were screams of terror and a moment of mass confusion as half the Lithmern tried to turn back, out of the way of the deadly mass of rock.
One of the Shadow-born raised an arm, and the army stood motionless, bound in their places. His companions did not move, but about them the air grew suddenly dark and heavy. The avalanche continued, its roar drowning out all other noise. It reached the edge of the cliff and poured over it toward the floor of the pass.
The dark ring around the Shadow-born expanded rapidly. It met the leading edge of the falling wall of ice and rock fifteen feet above the heads of the Lithmern army, and held. Stone piled up above the barrier, and the first rocks were ground to a powder by the pressure from the rest of the mass. The shadow-wall darkened further in response, but still it held.
The last echoes of the avalanche died away, leaving both armies staring incredulously. For half a mile or more, the west end of the ravine was covered by an impossible bridge, a tunnel made of tons of rock and snow resting on darkness. Below it, the Lithmern army stood unharmed, save for those who had been trampled in the brief panic.
The Shadow-born hissed an order in Lithran and lowered its arm. The Lithmern shuddered and began to move again. Some of them looked upwards uneasily, but none quite dared to defy the creatures they had raised to serve them. The Shadow-born gestured again, and the Lithmern surged forward with a roar.
The Alkyrans and their allies groaned in despair. The pass was narrow enough that they could hold the Lithmern for awhile despite their smaller numbers. The Wyrd bowmen could pick off the massed Lithmern easily from their positions on the clifftops, but there were still far too many, even without the Shadow-born standing, motionless as statues, in the center of the pass.
A wave of hopelessness swept over Maurin even as he fought. So many, he thought, how can there be so many? Even without the Shadow-born to help them they can destroy us.
Suddenly the whole struggle seemed pointless. Maurin looked hopelessly from the thinning Alkyran ranks to the Lithmern, milling like grey worms in the shadow of the tons of rock suspended above them. More and more of the attackers were passing through the uneasy tunnel of rock and magic, and the invading army began to push the Alkyrans back, until they reached the narrowest part of the pass.
There the defenders held, but it was only a temporary delay. Suddenly a cry of fear went up. The Shadow-born were moving forward at last, and darkness flowed before them in a flood.
Before it reached the Alkyran lines, the wave of shadow slowed, as though something hampered it, and Maurin guessed that battle between the Veldatha and the Shadow-born was joined at last. The Shadow-born halted, and the darkness began to creep forward once more. Inch by inch it drew nearer to the Alkyrans.
The fighting came almost to a standstill. Silence fell; behind Maurin someone sobbed in terror, but he did not turn to look. Like a bird watching a snake, he stared at the shadowy border that wavered, now, only a few feet before him. Even as he watched, it gained another inch, another six. Maurin drew a shuddering breath and clutched his sword in a hand slippery with sweat.
Coruscating light flared in front of him, and for a moment Maurin was blind. He almost screamed; was this the purpose of the shadow? Behind him he heard a ragged cheer; it was not to be feared, then. He shook his head and his vision began to clear.
The Shadow-born sat unmoving, but their spell of darkness had moved back almost half the distance between them and the Alkyrans. Little darts of fire flashed across the boundary, making a net of light that held back the darkness. Behind the Shadow-born, the rest of the Lithmern had stopped advancing and were moving uncertainly.
For a few moments, time seemed to stop. The Shadow-born, motionless on their great black horses, did not gain any more ground, but they did not lose any either. Then one of the figures signaled, and the Lithmern came forward again. They stopped short of the interface between shadow and clear air, and Maurin looked at them in dismay.
They covered the canyon floor from cliff to cliff in an unbroken mass stretching back nearly to the mouth of the pass; half the army was still inside the tunnel formed by the avalanche and the Shadow-born’s spell. As he looked, the veil of shadow shivered and broke through the restraining net of light. It began to advance once more, steadily this time. The Lithmern army came behind it, moving forward at the direction of the Shadow-born. Maurin was beyond terror; he felt almost calm as he waited for the wall to reach him. His last thought before it touched him was a vague curiosity.
Cold, darkness and despair froze him where he stood. In the moment the spell swept over him, Maurin saw the loss of everything he ever loved, felt again the guilt of every mistake he had ever made and every wrong he had ever done or imagined. He saw his dimly remembered mother dying painfully in his arms. He saw Alethia screaming in terror amid the blizzard, dying slowly of thirst and exhaustion in the Kathkari because he had not found her. He saw Har hacked to pieces because he was not there to help his friend; he saw Traders from the vanished caravans dying in torment because he had not searched for them.
Maurin bowed his head in misery and self-condemnation. Just in front of him a grinning Lithmern soldier was advancing to the kill; very well, he would not resist. Death was all he deserved. The Lithmern’s sword swung up and wavered mistily before him…
Alethia awoke early. Though it was still cold and gloomy, she was much more hopeful. Her arm was healing, and she knew she travelled in the right direction. She started off as soon as she finished eating the last of her food. She had been hoarding it carefully, but she was certain that she would find someone before nightfall who could replenish her supplies at least.
The ground rose slowly. A few hours of hard riding brought her to a ragged cliff above a maze of rockpiles, and she began to wonder whether she really was travelling in the right direction. Then, ahead of her, she heard a roar. Looking up, she saw a piece of one of the mountains go sliding away. Without stopping to think, Alethia dug her heels into the horse’s sides.
The animal broke into a trot, then a gallop, and suddenly the battlefield was in sight. Alethia pulled her horse to a halt atop a low ridge that commanded a good view. She slid out of the saddle and looked down; she had no doubts that she had found Coldwell Pass.
The Alkyran army was drawn up at the foot of the ridge. Facing them, the Lithmern were emerging from the shelter of a tunnel of some sort. Alethia saw the blackness at its edges and flinched away. Only then did she see the Shadow-born themselves.
Alethia froze. Without realizing it, her hands clutched at the bulky package that contained the Crown of Alkyra, and spell-sight hit her like a wall. The ravine was dark with power. She felt the fear and pain of the men below, and suddenly realized that the Shadow-born were drawing it in, feeding on it. That is why they are so still, she thought numbly. They are feeding.
She tore her eyes away to look for the Veldatha; somehow she thought she still might reach them before the Shadow-born began their attack. The wizards were not hard to find; to her spell-sight they were a white blaze against the shadows. For a moment Alethia felt more confident; then her heart sank as she saw how small was their fire compared to the mass of darkness that was the Shadow-born. She started to remount, but even as she did she felt the Shadow-born begin their attack.
Power swept out from the creatures in a wave. The Veldatha flame met it, slowed it, but could not stop it. Alethia felt the terror of the troops below her, felt the way the dark spell fed on their fear. Then her spell-sight saw a weakness in the Shadow-born spell.
For a moment she hesitated, torn between fear of detection and fear for her friends, family and home. Then she threw all her power against the shadow-spell. Light flared as her force struck, and the shadow gave ground. Alethia pressed harder, searching for more weak spots, but the Shadow-born recovered quickly.
The spell-sight gave her an advantage, and she held them. Not alone; the Veldatha were still fighting, too, and they added their power to hers as they realized what had happened. She cou
ld see the weak spots that the wizards could only sense dimly, and she formed a wall of lightning to keep back the Shadow-born.
The creatures of darkness stopped moving and motioned the Lithmern forward. As the army surged around them, they drew more power from it. The Shadow-born reached out, and Alethia realized with a spasm of fear that she had been right; the creatures knew that the Shield, the Cup, the Sword and the Staff were somewhere in Coldwell, and they were searching for the added sources of power. Quickly, Alethia moved to block them, but the effort stretched her power too thin, and the shadows moved forward once more.
The spell reached the edge of the Alkyran army. Alethia reeled under the wave of guilt and terror and misery. For a moment she was shocked out of the linkage of power, and in that moment she saw Maurin, tall and stern, standing with his head bowed before a Lithmern soldier, about to be cut in two.
“No!” Alethia screamed, and with the instincts of desperation she raised her hands and jammed the Crown of Alkyra on her own head.
Time stopped. The world swam before her eyes as the full power of the Crown coursed through her. The mountains themselves seemed transparent; the armies below were insubstantial ghosts, frozen in mid-motion. Only the power of the Veldatha and the Shadow-born was real and tangible. As if in a dream, Alethia reached out and once more summoned the power of the Veldatha to her.
It came into her in a burst of fire. She turned toward the Shadow-born, and saw clearly on them the mark of the bindings that had held them for three thousand years. She felt a moment’s doubt; even with such power, could she replace them? Once more, she reached out.
A feeling of warmth crept through her. Shapes of fire began to form in the air in front of her, and another power rose in her like a flood tide, making her very bones ache with joy. The Gifts of Alkyra had been summoned through the power of the Crown!
[Lyra 01] - Shadow Magic Page 20