by DAVID B. COE
And then there was the second thing, more alarming even than Glyn and Kedar’s silence. Early this afternoon, as he had been resting by a small stream eating a light lunch, he noticed that the luminescent yellow crystal given to him by Sartol had stopped glowing. Suddenly. Without explanation. It had been fine the night before, the last time Calbyr checked it. But now it just looked like a piece of glass, colorless and dim. He didn’t know for certain what this meant, but he had an idea. And if he was right, it was bad. Very bad.
First Glyn and Kedar, now Sartol. Who would be next? For the first time since their arrival in Tobyn-Ser, Calbyr found himself wondering if it might be time to head back to the Nal. They had accomplished a good deal here. Quite possibly, they had already set in motion the process that would lead to the Order’s downfall. Possibly. But not definitely. Calbyr shook his head and grinned ruefully. He knew himself too well: he had never in his life left a job unfinished, and he was not about to start now, not with what promised to be the biggest payoff of his career waiting for him at the end of it. Whatever might have happened to Glyn, Kedar, and the Child of Amarid, he decided, could be overcome. He had been in tighter spots before, and had always come out all right; better than all right, if truth be told. He quickened his pace slightly, suddenly anxious to reach the village. Perhaps, if he got there soon enough, he would not have to wait until tomorrow night.
It began innocently enough, with an unexpected gust of wind that swept through the forest, rustling the boughs above him. This gust, however, did not crest and then recede as a normal one would. Instead, it continued to mount, growing into a tempest that raced among the trees with a high, keening sound, like a cornered animal might make as it tasted the inevitability of its own death. Harder and harder it blew, until Calbyr thought that it would tear the trees from the soil and scatter Leora’s Forest across Tobyn-Ser. But it was not the rush of air that stopped him in the middle of the path. Rather, it was the light. Faint at first, shimmering with the color of the moon and stars, but growing ever brighter as it closed in on him from all directions, tightening like a noose. Then, suddenly, the silvery light flared with blinding radiance and Calbyr felt himself being enveloped in a strange, deathly cold embrace. After the bright flash, it took him a moment to realize that the moonlight had vanished, to be replaced by an utter blackness that obscured everything, even the glow of his crimson stone. Only the feel of his weapon within the rigid grip of his fingers, and the ever-present weight of the synthetic ebony bird on his shoulder told him that he still possessed these things. He tried to breathe but could not. He felt terror begin to rise within him like a wild creature, and he moved instantly to quell it. And then, as the realization came to him that this must be sorcery, he heard a voice. Or rather, he felt a voice within his mind, a voice he knew.I am undone! Sartol told him somehow.Avenge me,Calbyr! Kill Baden for me! Kill them all! And, even as the cold clung to him, and his lungs began to burn for breath, he placed his thumb over the button on his thrower, and prepared himself for whatever he would meet.
“Guard yourselves! They are coming! And they can fight you!”
It actually took a moment for Niall to grasp the meaning of the Wolf-Master’s words. It all seemed to change so quickly: at first, there was a beam of silver incandescence that flowed from Phelan’s ceryll to Jaryd’s, where it scattered like light through a prism, enveloping the young Hawk-Mage in a glimmering spiral, and arced up gloriously into the dark sky and away to the west. Then, for a time, there was silence, save for the wind that swirled around them. Jaryd and the Wolf-Master stood motionless, like statues carved from moonlight and ice, and, though Niall understood little of what he saw, he sensed the presence of countless others, a procession of souls moving slowly, peacefully through the hollow. Until, abruptly, the tableau was shattered by Phelan’s howl of shock and rage and Jaryd’s cry of anguish, as Sartol, reaching back across death’s threshold, destroyed all that they had strived to accomplish here on the spur.
Initially, too shocked to do anything at all, none of them moved. But an instant later, Baden—of course it would be Baden—impelled them into action.
“Take cover!” he shouted, his voice barely carrying over the windstorm. “Go for the birds first; they’re deadly! But beware! Even after their familiars are destroyed, the outlanders will retain their power!”
As he spoke, the Owl-Master ducked behind one of the massive firs that stood nearby. The others did the same, Niall hunkering down in a small depression behind the huge trunk of a fallen tree, and Alayna leading Jaryd to a spot in back of a boulder before positioning herself by another fir.
“Wolf-Master!” Baden called. “Can you mute your presence? Our knowledge of the terrain will be more of an advantage if—”
He had time for no more, for in that moment, a brilliant burst of light pierced the darkness, blazing briefly like lightning before giving way once more to the night. At the same time, the wind suddenly subsided, and an eerie calm settled over the hollow. Niall, who had been forced to avert his eyes when the light flared, swung his gaze back to where the company had been standing a few moments ago. At first, he saw nothing. But as his eyes readjusted to the darkness, he realized that the mages were no longer alone. The outlanders had come. There were about a dozen of them—thirteen, he remembered Phelan saying—all of them dressed as he was in green cloaks, and all of them carrying staffs mounted with blood-red stones. And, as his eyes continued to adjust, he could make out the outlines of the immense black birds that perched on their shoulders.
For a split second longer, all remained still. Then a stream of orange mage-fire flew from Baden’s staff, forking at the last moment to catch two of the mechanical birds full in the chest. Blasts of purple and grey followed, as Alayna and Ursel also directed their fire at the black creatures, destroying two more of them. At the same time, Trahn hurled a bolt of power at one of the outlanders, hitting him in the head and killing him instantly. Niall leveled his staff at another of the invaders, but, this man, seeing what had happened to his companion, leapt to the side just in time. Still, Niall’s blow caught the outlander on the wrist, bringing a scream of pain from the man, and catapulting his weapon end over end into the woods.
All of this happened in a matter of a second or two, and, aside from Baden, who managed to destroy a third bird with another rush of sizzling orange flame, none of the mages had a chance to get off a second shot. One of the outlanders barked out a command in an alien tongue, and the strangers dove for cover in all directions. After that, Niall lost track of time. The night erupted with torrents of red light that crackled and writhed with deadly power. The mages answered with volleys of their own, or with shimmering curtains of power that shielded them from the crimson blasts. The air around them grew thick with the sound of wing beats, both natural and mechanical, and with the cries of the company’s hawks and owls. Dense, swirling smoke filled the hollow, fed by the trees and brush set ablaze by the fighting, and seeming to glow with the myriad colors of the battle—orange and brown, grey and purple, blue and maroon, and, of course, the enemy’s red. Niall found it increasingly difficult to keep track of who was who.
Only minutes into the battle, however, he did recognize that the company could not hold out indefinitely. The outlanders were well trained and well led. Though he could not interpret the shouted commands and responses that flew among the invaders, he quickly grasped their meaning. While initially the outlanders had taken cover in two tight clusters directly in front of where Niall crouched, they soon began to spread themselves out, creeping noiselessly through the undergrowth, and guarding one another with fierce salvos of red flame. Within moments, they had positioned themselves in a broad semicircle that threatened to outflank the mages. Worse, he could already sense that Nollstra was tiring; no doubt all the birds were fighting for their lives against the relentless creatures carried by the invaders. The mechanical birds were simply too numerous, too large, and too unnaturally swift. And, of course, as Nollstra grew weary, ex
pending more and more energy on her own desperate struggle for survival, Niall’s power waned; the laws governing the Mage-Craft were not about to bend to accommodate the company in their fight against this new enemy. Before long, all the mages would grow too weak to block the outlanders’ fire. Or, worse still, they would be rendered unbound and, thus, completely defenseless. In either case, the mages had to do something. Soon.
Niall heard Ursel cry out and, spinning in her direction, saw one of the dark birds as little more than a misty shadow swooping up through the smoke, away from the Hawk-Mage. Blood flowed freely from two parallel gashes over Ursel’s eye, but she seemed fine otherwise. Wasting no time, Niall twisted his body and threw a shaft of maroon flame at the retreating creature, hitting one of its wings. The bird veered abruptly into a tree and dropped to the ground in a fiery heap. But as it did, Niall felt a savage pain in his shoulder and, wrenching himself in the other direction, watched another of the creatures soar off, his own blood staining its knifelike talons. Beams of blue and orange light flew toward the creature but missed, passing harmlessly into the night. Niall felt blood soaking into his cloak from the throbbing wound, but he did not dare expend Nollstra’s strength trying to heal himself.
A burst of red power slammed into the fallen trunk in front of him, sending a fountain of glowing embers and charred wood chips into the air. Instinctively, Niall ducked, the sharp movement tearing a gasp of pain from him. And, as he lay among the fir needles and mosses, his eyes closed as the wave of pain slowly receded, Niall did the math in his head. Again. And, again, the numbers seemed hopelessly uneven. Six of the mechanical birds destroyed now; one of the outlanders killed and another injured. Leaving seven of the giant creatures and eleven armed men against a company of six mages and their familiars.
And one spirit. For in that instant, Niall heard Phelan’s voice rumble through the hollow, above the crackling of the flames and the cries of the mages’ birds.
“Hold, enemies of Amarid!” the Wolf-Master cried out, as silver light suddenly brightened the forest. “I am Phelan, the Wolf-Master! And I have come to avenge the land!”
The crimson bursts from the outlanders’ weapons abruptly ceased, although the birds continued their battle overhead. Cautiously, Niall peered out over the massive log and through the smoke to see Phelan and Kalba stepping forward into the hollow. It had to be a ruse. Just a short while before, Phelan had admitted to the company that he was powerless to help them. “I cannot interact with your world in any meaningful way,” he had said. In which case—
The outlanders turned to face the spirit, leveling their weapons at him.
“Now!”Phelan bellowed.
And, as red flame leapt from the invaders’ weapons toward the Wolf-Master and the great animal that stood beside him, twisting and hissing like serpents, and passing through them both as if they weren’t there, all six mages stepped out into the open and hurled glowing spears of mage-fire at the men who had come to conquer Tobyn-Ser. Seven of them perished before the others realized that they had been deceived. Three of them then fled into the woods, followed by two of the mechanical birds. Eight of them now dead, three running away, another too injured to move or fight. Leaving one.
Niall knew before he looked; he sensed it, and he surprised himself with how calm he felt. Turning his gaze just slightly to the left, he had time to register the small glowing point of red that seemed to be approaching him. He had time to realize that this, in reality, was not a point at all, but rather a stream of flame aimed directly at his head. He even had time to make out the thin white scar that ran across the cheekbone and down into the light beard of the sandy-haired man who had launched this attack. But he understood immediately that he did not have enough time to shield himself from the blow.
Somewhere behind him Jaryd cried out, but already Niall was trying the one thing that remained. He could not avoid the flame, nor could he block it. But if he turned toward it, into it, he might be able to take it on the shoulder instead of the head. It wasn’t much of a chance—even if the blast hit him in the shoulder, it would probably do enough damage to kill him—but it was something. It was all he had left.
Even as he threw his body forward and to the side, though, he knew that this would not be enough. Twenty years ago it would have worked. Maybe even ten years ago. But he was an old man now. Wiser than he had been, it was true, and newly reawakened to his own power and passion for living. But old. Too old. A decade of grief and apathy had taken its toll. He closed his eyes rather than watch. And then, his mind exploding with white light and a sound like thunder and the pounding surf, Niall felt the fire crash into his neck and jaw, felt it spin him around like a child’s top and hammer him into the ground. For a moment, there was excruciating pain, and then, there was no feeling at all, which was more pleasant, but more frightening as well. He opened his eyes and saw that Jaryd was there above him, and Alayna, both of them with tears rolling down their cheeks. After a few seconds, Baden knelt down also, grim-faced and pale.
“Get them!” Niall shouted at the mages. At least that’s what he attempted to say. But his jaw was gone and they hadn’t understood. Baden was saying something. Niall could see his mouth moving, but he heard only a rush of impenetrable noise, as if there were boulders moving inside his head. He tried to tell them again to go after the outlanders, but it was no use. Besides, by this time they were gone, and only Vardis was there, kneeling beside him, smiling that wondrous, inscrutable smile. He didn’t know how she had gotten there, but really, it didn’t matter. He had been waiting for her so very long. Somehow he could hear her telling him to rest now. To close his eyes and rest. And he said her name, just once, but as clear as a ceryll. And then he closed his eyes, embracing the blackness as he would his one love.
Calbyr had not wanted it to come to this. Obviously, he would have preferred to continue with the attacks and follow through on their original plan. But that was not to be. And, if they had to face the mages eventually, this seemed as good a situation as he could have envisioned. From what he could tell, through the smoke and the confusion, there were only five or six of them against his entire crew. Or what was left of it. Yarit, of course, was dead, and Calbyr was certain now that Glyn and Kedar had either been captured or killed as well. The mages’ initial volley had killed Keegan, and had taken out several birds. Auley had been hurt, badly, and he did not appear to be capable of fighting. Overall, though, they still had the mages and their birds outnumbered. Moreover, given the terrain, he had no doubt that his men could prevail in a firefight; this was what they had been trained to do, this was what they were best at. Already they had established a crossfire, pinning down the mages, who obviously had little experience with this sort of combat. The synthetic birds were doing their job as well, engaging the mages’ hawks and owls in what had become, for the live birds, a desperate battle for survival. Sartol had instructed him on a number of occasions to go for the birds first if he and his crew ever did battle with members of the Order.
“Use those creatures of yours to attack the familiars,” the Owl-Master had said, “then go after the mages. As the birds weaken, so does the magic; kill the bird, and the mage is yours.” Calbyr had listened carefully, expecting that, at some point, he would use this tactic on Sartol. It was funny how things worked out.
For a while at least, Sartol’s counsel proved sound, and the fight appeared to be going their way. But Calbyr and his men were a long, long way from Lon-Ser, and the Child of Amarid had never offered any suggestions for fighting ghosts. In truth, Calbyr and his men would never have heeded such advice anyway. There was no more room in the violent, uncompromising culture of the Nal for belief in ghosts than there was for superstition. Thus, he could hardly fault his men for falling for the Wolf-Master’s ploy. For just a moment, he even allowed himself to be taken in. It was only when he saw the mages step out from their hiding places, their staffs aimed at his men, that he realized what had happened. He almost shouted a warning then. Perhaps he
should have. They were his men, after all. He had brought them here; he would be responsible for their deaths. But, by that time, it was too late. And he probably would have died for the effort.
Instead, like the three men who managed to avoid the mage-fire, he decided to flee. But not before he took care of two items. First, he had time enough to kill one of the mages: I owe Sartol that much, he thought, surprising himself with the sentiment. And though he didn’t know who any of them were, he assumed, from the voice he had heard just before his arrival at this place, that the one called Baden was here. Baden was an Owl-Master, he remembered, and an older man. There were only two here who matched that description, and so he guessed. And he fired, never pausing to find out if he had guessed correctly. After that, he just barely had time enough to take care of the second thing.
Turning his gaze from the fallen mage to Auley, he found the injured breaklaw already watching him, his dark eyes wide but composed. Auley was a good man: clever, discreet, careful without being squeamish. But he was helpless now—his wrist looked terrible: blackened and bloody, a jagged piece of white bone where his hand should have been. And while Calbyr could do nothing about any others the mages might later capture, he could keep this man from having to give anything away. Probably, Auley would have done what had to be done. But strange things happened to men when they were in captivity: their behavior changed, grew unpredictable. And Calbyr couldn’t afford to take any chances. He and Auley stared at each other for a moment, and then the injured break-law nodded, once. A good man, Calbyr thought again, as he pressed the button on his thrower and watched the red flame spurt into Auley’s chest.