Valley of Embers (The Landkist Saga Book 1)

by Steven Kelliher

  “A Landkist seeking to enter my mind!” the beast roared. It sounded manic as the storm it created. “This is not the world of dream, you retch. You escaped last time. Now you lay broken and scattered. Your power is nothing to us.”

  “Our power …”

  Iyana turned her challenging stare from the maelstrom to her teacher, who struggled to speak. She laid a hand on her cheek and nearly recoiled for the shock of pain she felt. She anchored herself to it, tried to ease it. But there was too much to take. She wept.

  Still, Ninyeva breathed a little easier, her voice growing more solid. Iyana pulled her head from the mud, cradling her like a babe.

  “Our power,” Ninyeva croaked, eyes unseeing, “is a gift.”

  The great break swung toward them, making Iyana flinch. Tears streamed down her face as the White Crest laughed its maniacal laugh.

  “A gift,” it mocked, words popping like logs in a hearth. “We brought magic to the World. You and yours are nothing but leeches.”

  “You took it,” Ninyeva said through a sigh. “It belongs to a World of which you are no longer part.”

  At first, Iyana took it for a grimace of pain, but Ninyeva smiled a strained smile and the Sage’s lightning eyes widened once more. The Faey Mother’s eyes were blank, but she stared directly into the storm.

  “Your keep lies unprotected, fool,” she said, laughing a witch’s laugh. “Your Dark Hearts will be cured, and then yours will be the only one that remains in this Valley. Soon enough, that will be cured as well. Burned away. Ash on your own winds.”

  The storm reared back and unfurled great wings of debris.

  “Your Ember hero is still a day’s march from my keep,” it gloated, but there was an edge. “I threw the other from the tallest peak with the hands of one who called him ally. Your sister,” its eyes blinked toward Iyana, its victory infecting her to the marrow, “sits in chains. The woodsman,” it continued, “I shattered his head on the back of a stone. His bones will bleach in the sun you will never see again.”

  Ninyeva smiled.

  “He lives.”

  And Iyana knew that Ninyeva could see him even now. Nathen Swell, alive against all hope and reason.

  The beast roared and made as if to take off, its form shimmering in the spray it sent up.

  “Tu’Ren!” Ninyeva screamed.

  Iyana saw only white like the brightest snow and felt the wash of heat as the First Keeper leapt over them, trails of swirling gold curling in his wake. He slammed into the avian head and their meeting split the atmosphere with a crash not unlike thunder. Although insubstantial, the White Crest roared as Tu’Ren sunk his burning blade home, bringing the storm down in a shower that only flew in one direction.

  The Sage gathered itself and hurled its energy back at the Ember, but Tu’Ren Kadeh stood his ground, the wind seeming to feed the flames of his blade.

  Iyana was forced to squeeze her eyes shut tight against the clash, and soon the crackle of lightning, the roar of flame and the howl of the wind faded like a memory. The hounds still cried in the distance, and she could now here the echoes of shouts along the walls, bowstrings twanging like harps as the Dark Kind came at them.

  She opened her eyes to see the closed lids of Ninyeva, curled in her drenched lap like a sleeping child. Rusul stood on unsteady legs and moved off, swaying like a tree in the breeze. Men, women and children emerged from the shadows of broken frames and leaning piles.

  Ahead, Tu’Ren knelt in the mud, his great back heaving with long pulls, smoking sword hissing in the rain beside him and causing a puddle to froth and boil. When he turned toward her, she saw tears mixing with the rain.

  “I tried,” Iyana said, holding herself just above the surface.

  Tu’Ren rose with a groan and moved to her. All signs of the Sage had passed.

  “We all did,” he said, laying a hot hand on her thin shoulder that warmed her to the bone.

  “He’s gone.”

  “Back to his roost,” Tu’Ren said. “Whatever she did,” he looked down at Ninyeva, “it rattled him enough for me to strike.”

  “He is weak now. He spent too much energy coming here.”

  “We gave them what chance we could.”

  Iyana nodded, wiping the droplets from Ninyeva’s face.

  “Now let’s hope they do the same for us,” Iyana said.

  The horns went up again along the walls, calling the First Keeper to his brazier. A scout screamed down the road from the north, waving a torch and bellowing.

  “First Keeper! You father requests your presence immediately.”

  The scout looked at the chaos along the lane that was now a causeway and blinked like a dog.

  Tu’Ren lifted Ninyeva’s prone form and stood to face him. Iyana’s thoughts turned to Linn, sitting alone in the dungeon of a Sage’s keep, her closest hero a woodsman whose head had been dashed upon the mountaintop.

  Linn woke in the cold and damp, feeling the moss-covered stones beneath her.

  She was cold. She was tired. And everything hurt.

  The Sage wearing Larren’s skin had fled and left his shell behind, and the sudden fury of his passing had drawn her from the depths of unconsciousness.

  He was heading for Last Lake, she knew. For Ninyeva. For the leaders of the Emberfolk. He was heading for Iyana, and there was nothing Linn could do about it. She would outlive them all in spite of her every foolhardy effort to get herself killed in the mountains.

  Once her eyes adjusted to the gloom, Linn was somewhat surprised to see that her cell was barely a cell at all—more an old wine cellar, broken crates long since rotted to sludge. The barred door was missing most of its bars, and those that remained looked as though a light breeze might crumble them to dust.

  She may as well have been at the bottom of the River F’Rust, for all the good it did her. Just at the edge of sight, through the toothy bars and across the dank hall, two red eyes glowed dully in the gloom.

  The White Crest was gone and Larren had once more become the shell for a Sentinel, a ghoulish hound set to preside over the damsel in distress.

  How strange it seemed to Linn. She had spent most of her life fighting the denizens of the World Apart, but never their Captains. When she was a girl, they told her the Sentinels would never come through unless the Eastern Dark returned. How sickening, that it was a Sage they thought to be their own that had set the beasts on them.

  Linn spat, and she could see the hint of a smirk pulling at the edges.

  She pulled herself up against the wall, hugging her knees in a futile effort to gather what warmth remained in blood and bone.

  For a spell, she assumed the Sentinel was staring at her; perhaps it was, but it was also looking through her, its focus away. She saw those ruby reds pulsing with an odd cadence, a rhythm that matched the beating of drums she had felt since waking. The walls thrummed with it, and the air around her—sticky with age and rot—buzzed on the edge of an explosion.

  She looked back at the Sentinel. With each passing hour, it looked less like the Second Keeper of Last Lake. Iyana had told her of the White Crest’s corruption. She had told her of the Dark Hearts. With each pulse of those red orbs, she became more certain they were beneath her, buried in the deep stores of the keep. She wondered if Larren Holspahr still lived in some way, if he was present for what his hands had wrought against Kaya, Baas, Jenk and Nathen—all those foolish enough to follow her.

  Linn considered making a run for it, but where would she go?

  It was then that her heart, strong as it was, truly broke. It was then that Linn realized she only wanted to run so she could die in the company of those she loved. In a delirium forged by a mixture of pain, exhaustion and starvation, she cried, not caring that the demon watched her from its shadows.

  Perhaps Kole would arrive in time to bury her, or else to add his bones to hers. Perhaps he was already dead. All told, Linn thought it might be better that way. She did not want to see the look on his face when he rea
lized he had been right all along. No matter the reason, it was clear that their Sage was now the same as all the rest.

  Even after Iyana had told her the truth of it, she had clung to a false hope. How ironic, that Linn—ever the pragmatic soldier—would be proven so naïve.

  A small laugh escaped her chest and the Sentinel twitched.

  She was so tired.

  But she was a Ve’Ran.

  “Do you take pleasure in being the Sage’s dog? Even your master has a master.”

  Her voice sounded strange to her ears in this alien place, cutting through the constant drone from below. There was a crinkle along Larren’s brow, but the Sentinel made no move.

  “Do you have any power of your own? Or must your kind steal all they have?”

  Now the Sentinel leaned forward, teeth bared in a wolf’s false smile.

  “Have you no voice?”

  “Aye,” it said, and though Larren’s throat made the sound, there was an odd croaking that was macabre to listen to. It was as if the spirit was unused to the machinery within.

  “You are a slave,” Linn said. “A slave with no shell of your own.”

  A frown. It had worked those out well enough.

  Linn clutched the sharp stone she had secreted in from the yard, the edge digging into the heel of her hand. She had thought to use it on herself, and then she saw Iyana’s face, her lips forming a tight line, green eyes framed in the pout she knew so well.

  Linn’s thoughts turned.

  Could a well-placed throw do what an Ember like Jenk Ganmeer could not?

  “You are nothing,” Linn said, not having to reach to call up the disgust she felt as close as the damp.

  “I am,” it hissed.

  “Tell me,” she said, ignoring it. “Where did you go when your master took the shell you’re wearing.”

  Confusion replaced anger and the creature leaned back, face working.

  “Where were you when the White Crest had him?” Linn pressed.

  “Apart,” it said sharply.

  “You don’t belong here,” she said. “You are nothing. You belong nowhere. You are less than the rot in this cell.”

  The creature growled and Linn gripped the stone tight enough to bleach her knuckles white. She could feel the heat pouring from Larren’s body even from this distance.

  “I am—

  “Nothing,” Linn said, settling back in her corner and partially closing her lids, though she kept vigilant, taking in every detail, the obsidian throbbing as she tensed.

  The darkness was dispelled as tongues of flame crept from Larren’s torn leather.

  “Your power is a loan,” Linn said, shielding her eyes as if annoyed. “Your debt will be called in soon enough, and you will return to nothing.”

  “After,” it was seething, boiling. “After I tear you apart. We are darkness. We are many, and we are powerful.”

  “No,” she said, opening her eyes and looking at the imposter with all the hate she could muster. “You are nothing. You are from nowhere. And once the Sage is through with you, you will return to nothing. You will be displaced yolk.”

  “The White Crest is ours,” it hissed. “There are no strings but those that bind him.”

  “Then he is as much a slave as you,” Linn said evenly.

  She was certain the Sentinel would leap upon her and rend her limb from limb then. It leaned forward, teeth flashing and flames sprouting on Larren’s skin, something she had never seen an Ember do. The demon was destroying its mortal coil. She felt the drumming intensify, the vibrations running up her spine and setting the bones to click like plates.

  As quickly as its anger had boiled over, it cooled, the Sentinel settling back, flames withdrawing like snakes in a burrow. It flashed a smile at her, red eyes wide and manic.

  “If he takes this one, I will find another,” it said, grinning sickly at her, head tilting.

  Linn felt sick at the thought of the Sentinel taking her, but she turned the acid to a liquid fire that welled in her stomach before infusing her breast. A stretched calm fell over her. Her fingers relaxed around the stone before closing back on the myriad grooves she had quested from her dexterous study in the dark.

  “I think I’d rather die,” she said, her muscles flaring painfully to life as she brought the lever of her arm forward to throw. The Sentinel’s eyes widened, red bulbs sparking as it caught the movement.

  A scream that sounded like one of the silver lions from the Untamed Hills cut through the dark, freezing Linn mid-throw. The demon whipped Larren’s head around as the echoes crashed and cascaded around them, bouncing off the low ceiling and sinking into the floor.

  Now was her chance. Linn tensed to throw again, but before she could, the Sentinel darted into the murk, leaving her as it haunted the darkness for whatever beast had wandered in.

  From the left, soft footfalls could be heard, and Linn was sure the beast had brought company. She cursed, settling in a tense crouch.

  When it entered her view, she hesitated for a moment, and she was glad she did. The sight before her was no lion, nor was it another demon from the World Apart. Blood caked light hair, turning it pink, and one eye was crusted over with fresh scabs. His shirt hung in tatters, and his feet were cut and bleeding into the stagnant pools.

  “Nathen,” Linn whispered, dropping the stone with a clatter that echoed as if from the bottom of a well. In the distance, the Sentinel shrieked, enraged at its lost quarry or aware of the ruse.

  Nathen, wounded and woozy as he was, exploded into action, smashing down the rusted bars and snatching Linn by the wrist. He dragged her out into the low hall and they took off at as close to a run as they were able. After a few strides, it was Linn doing the dragging, each corridor growing brighter with the promise of the sun.

  The cries of the Sentinel drove them on like hares before a hound.

  “How?” Linn asked, nearly breathless, but Nathen was in no state to answer. He kept his head low and trudged on.

  They came to a cross section with a sheer wall in front, and the panic set in.

  “I’ve had enough of tunnels,” Linn cursed, whipping her head around. “Do you remember how you came in?”

  “There,” he said, pointing weakly down the right hall.

  Now that she looked closer, Linn thought it looked brighter down that way. She made as if to move when something prickled at the back of her neck, the steady cadence filling the air around them like a broth. The dark engine called to her, beckoning with intent, its bass hypnotic.

  “Linn,” Nathen said, pulling at her.

  “We must go down,” she said, earning a look of disbelief.

  Linn grabbed a hold of him by both shoulders.

  “Whatever is feeding these beasts,” she said, “it’s in the keep. It’s below. It could be the key.”

  Nathen did not look convinced, but another shriek pierced the gloom, this one sounding much closer than the last.

  “Nathen, we have to try.”

  A short nod and they were off, the darkness growing thick around them. It was the sort of dark that was more than the absence of light; this darkness was something made.

  Linn hoped it could be unmade.

  There was a spiral stair, broken and crumbling from neglect. They followed it down, and the deeper they got, the slower they moved, as if something repelled them.

  “The smell,” Nathen wheezed, holding a hand over his nose and mouth to keep from gagging.

  A scent like rotting meat hit Linn. The air was thick and humid, full of decay. The stones along the walls glistened with sweat and they navigated by touch, feeling their way down the slick.

  The beating of drums grew deafening as they rounded another bend, the floor smoothing out as they reached the bottom. The darkness gave way to a red tinge, which set the floor to glitter like the ruby eyes of vipers. Great pillars loomed overhead, set into rows under a vaulted ceiling lost in the fog.

  Linn felt dizzy. She rubbed at her temples as she m
oved forward. Nathen slouched, his broad shoulders leaning crooked.

  A scream and Linn was sure the Sentinel had found them, until she saw Nathen collapse in a writhing heap. She ran to him, but the sound hit her next, buckling her in stride. She buried her ears in her hands and chanced a look. There, past a bare alter on the back wall, great slabs of meat lurched and bled in the shadows.

  They were black with red blotches, which glowed molten in light of their own making. They were harbingers of death. Linn could feel their hunger and their hate.

  She tried to turn it back on them.

  Linn clutched the stone she had carried like a lifeline, gained her shaking feet and let fly. It pierced the center mass and an alien roar reverberated in her skull. A great geyser of red-black blood spewed forth, coating the nearest pillar in its stinking mess.

  As the first bubbled and died, Linn felt the others turning their attention toward her. She spun and clutched the shaft of an iron sconce set into the stone and ripped it free from rusted hinges. That, too, flew straight, piercing the second heart. She could see they were hearts, now, and the second roar brought her to her knees, though another scream of agony from the halls above flooded her legs with need.

  She cast about for another weapon, but the third had her in its sight and drilled a hollow of pain between her eyes that drove all thought from her. She fell a long way, and the moist stones greeted her arrival warmly. She saw lights dancing at the edges and fought the black that came for her.

  “No!”

  The drilling receded like a wave, leaving behind a well of aching that made it difficult to think, let alone move. But move she did, craning her neck to see.

  Nathen had pulled her makeshift spear from the one and plunged it into the other. He drove it down with all the strength he could bring to bear, his feet sliding back in the spray, face coated and spitting. He yelled over the roar that must have been splitting his skull, and the heart groaned its last and stilled.

  The deed done, Nathen turned and walked to Linn with ungainly strides. He looked like carrion.