When Darkness Falls

by Mercedes Lackey

  Perhaps they could take Cilarnen with them when they went.

  He knew the boy rested now in the care of the High Mage Healers. The spell that had raised the Wards of the City had cost him dearly, though his father swore that he would live and heal. Cilarnen had spoken of the High Mages as great Healers, and even Idalia did not have many ill things to say of them, save that they were reckless and arrogant. In Jermayan’s opinion, those were bad enough things to say of any Healer, save that she said one thing more.

  That they took away inconvenient memories.

  The Elves lived long, longer than any of the other Children of the Light. More than any, they were the sum of their memories. To destroy—to remove—a person’s memories, yet leave them alive, not knowing what they had lost, was a transgression so black that Jermayan could barely imagine it. Yet it was an act the Mageborn of Armethalieh performed as a matter of course. Both Kellen and Cilarnen had lost memories—their past—beyond recovery, changing the people they might have been.

  Jermayan only prayed that the High Mages would not meddle so again with Cilarnen while he lay helpless in their hands.

  Idalia stood quietly in the center of the High Mages as they moved about her, casting their spell. Jermayan felt nothing. He did not expect to. Perhaps he was still an Elven Mage, though he lacked all ability to work any magic, but it did not matter: Elven Magery would be as blind to the High Magick as any High Mage was to the workings of the Wild Magic. The spell being raised before him, no matter how powerful it was, was something he could neither sense nor feel. All he could sense was the passage of time, moving inexorably toward midnight, and the sound of the storm that battered the City. Even the sound of the battle he knew to be raging outside the City walls was muted, hushed to silence by the restored City Wards.

  Suddenly there was a flare of light, startling him.

  The Mages reeled back, staggering and falling.

  He pushed through them.

  Idalia was gone. In her place, crouched upon the floor, lay the naked form of a haggard old man. He was filthy and disheveled, his mad eyes staring about him in terror. He drooled in fear.

  Suddenly Jermayan realized what she had done.

  She had not called her father to her.

  She had substituted herself for him.

  He ran from the chamber, shouting for Ancaladar.

  IT was nearly midnight.

  He was tired.

  He could not afford to be tired.

  Lightning crackled across the sky in a nearly-constant display now, more of it natural than belonging to any High Mage spell.

  He had sensed the High Mages die, one by one.

  Less than a third of the Allied Army remained alive.

  Above the battlefield, the Starry Hunt rode, lending their strength to the battle. The eldritch Riders struck down as many of the foe as did their mortal comrades in arms, and still it was not enough.

  The Endarkened were coming in force.

  But now it was time.

  The Demon Prince himself was taking the field at last.

  “Shalkan!” Kellen shouted. He vaulted from Valdien’s back, slipped as he found himself thigh-deep in mud. Staggered.

  Saw radiance come galloping toward him across the battlefield.

  His first friend. His comrade.

  With him now, at the end.

  He threw himself into Shalkan’s saddle—sometime, during the past hours, someone had helped Shalkan into his gear.

  He drew Light At The Heart of the Mountain and Shalkan leaped forward.

  There was no need for words.

  ZYPERIS saw the Knight-Mage come riding toward him on the white unicorn. He snarled in anger and lust. A unicorn! But the pain would be worth it. He would kill them both, do what his Queen, mother, and lover had been too shortsighted to do.

  Then he would destroy the City.

  He spread his wings and launched himself forward.

  THE Demon towered above them, nearly eight feet tall in its glittering black armor. Its scarlet wings were spread wide, and Its sword flared with black light.

  It threw back its head and howled.

  Water Mind.

  The most dangerous gift of a Knight-Mage. To move through the currents of a battle like a fish through water, to be able to fight beyond exhaustion.

  To fight at the top of his strength until he died.

  Kellen leaped from Shalkan’s saddle. The unicorn spun away, moving as if he were Kellen’s reflection. The Demon hesitated, seeing two targets where there had been only one a moment before.

  Kellen feinted, drawing the Demon’s attention. It attacked him. Kellen slipped away.

  The utter calm of Water Mind enfolded him. He was no longer Kellen. Shalkan was no longer Shalkan. The Demon was no longer a Demon. The three of them were partners in a dance, all moving as the Wild Magic willed.

  Kellen was at peace. Utter peace.

  All was as it was meant to be.

  This was the moment he had been reaching toward from the moment he first drew breath.

  Shalkan struck. The Demon howled in fury and in pain.

  Kellen did not know why he was here. His sword could not slay the Demon. Any cuts his blade made would instantly heal.

  He only knew that this was where he must be. Here. Now.

  The Demon Prince turned on Shalkan. Kellen struck. His blade sliced deep.

  He could not kill, but he could wound, and the wounds were painful ones, angering the Demon Prince.

  Turn and cut.

  There were only seconds before It chose to ignore one of them and kill the other.

  It did not matter.

  IDALIA opened her eyes.

  The blade flashed down.

  Struck.

  Savilla’s mouth opened in a scream of horror and despair.

  SUDDENLY the sky was filled with light. Light everywhere, and Kellen was filled with an uprush of Power so great it made him scream, ripping him from Water Mind with the force of a sudden drench of ice water. It was the power he had felt at the Black Cairn, but a hundred, a thousand, times stronger, and this power held nothing of the Dark. Only Light. It filled him, filled the blade in his hands, filled Shalkan, filled everything he could sense save the black Void before him.

  He struck, plunging the radiance in his hands into the Darkness before him. He felt the Light fountain through him, filling the Darkness, filling the Void, obliterating it as utterly as sunlight destroys shadow.

  Blinding him.

  There was a scream. He heard it with more than his ears. He seemed to hear it with every sinew of his body. It stopped his breath; it seemed to stop his heart, just for a moment.

  And in the midst of that light, he heard the echoing thunder of celestial hooves, as the Starry Hunt, the work for which it had been summoned complete, swept across the battlefield one last time …

  And was gone.

  When he could see again, when he could breathe …

  The Demon Prince was gone as well.

  Gone.

  “Dead,” Shalkan said. “Get up. We have a chance now.”

  Kellen dragged himself to his feet, using Shalkan’s saddle as a brace. He’d been on his hands and knees in the mud; by the time he was on his feet, the unicorn was coated liberally—even more liberally—with mud as well.

  But he hadn’t dropped his sword.

  Kellen flung his leg over Shalkan’s back.

  “Come on,” Kellen said. “I need to find a horse.”

  “You’re welcome,” Shalkan said.

  JERMAYAN flung himself onto Ancaladar’s back and the great dragon leaped from the walls into the storm.

  “The stones!” Jermayan shouted. “We must get to the stones!”

  He clung tightly to the saddle. He had not used the straps. There was no time.

  Idalia had substituted herself for the sacrifice.

  In midair Jermayan felt the tide of magic reach him, as vast and overwhelming as a crashing ocean wave. It filled hi
m, filled Ancaladar, restoring all that had been taken from them, and more.

  He had the power to destroy those who had taken his love, his life, from him, and he used it.

  VESTAKIA had been beneath the walls of the City, among the supply wagons. The proximity of so many Demons was constant agony, but like everyone else among the Allies, she had a job to do.

  She and several others—cooks and wagon drivers, laundresses and carpenters—those who could neither fight nor heal—took charge of getting the Allied wounded into the City. If they could make it to the rear of their own lines, Vestakia and the others would bring them the rest of the way. Carrying them if they had to. Guiding them through the rain-lashed night to the safety of Armethalieh’s walls if they could still walk.

  Often someone went inside with one of the injured.

  Vestakia never did. She did not dare. Just as she had not dared to take her rightful place among the Healers within the City walls.

  The Armethaliehans would only see her appearance, not who she was.

  But this, too, was vital work, for many wounded would have died at the edge of the battlefield without the help of Vestakia and the others to get them to safe haven.

  She was certain that this wasn’t what Kellen had intended for her to be doing. Kellen had expected her to find someplace safe to hide until the battle was over, Vestakia suspected. She knew he thought she had already done more than enough.

  Well, so had everyone here. Jermayan. Idalia. Cilarnen. Kellen himself. Not to mention hundreds of people whose names she didn’t even know. She would not ask for special treatment, though right now all she wanted to do was lie right down in the cold mud and sleep until everything was decided, one way or the other.

  In her mind Vestakia could feel her father—so close now!—and feel his certainty of victory. The fear he had felt before was gone, replaced by lust. Not even to kill, but to destroy, to obliterate.

  To taint.

  Suddenly there was a rush of air above her head.

  She looked up.

  Ancaladar leaped from the walls of the City in a rush of wings.

  She was staring after him in confusion when the world dissolved in light.

  It was as if in that one brief moment Vestakia was a child again, warm and safe and loved. Held in her mother’s arms, too young to understand the curse of her Demon appearance, too young to understand the tragic price Virgivet had paid to win Vestakia her human soul. All her pain and weariness was gone, washed away by the light.

  And when it faded, the touch of her father’s mind was gone as well.

  Gone.

  Vestakia stood in the cold mud, gasping in surprise and wonder. She touched her own face with trembling fingers, as if to assure herself she was still real.

  He was gone.

  She was certain of it.

  It was as if a poison-filled wound had suddenly been healed. Even the memories of what she had gained from the Demon Prince’s thoughts were dim and fading quickly, as if it had suddenly become impossible even to think of him.

  Then a sudden gust of cold wind sprayed her face with rain, and a shout from the battlefield recalled her to herself.

  There was still work to do.

  There would be time later for joy.

  SAVILLA stood over the Stone of Sacrifice, the broken blade in her hands. She looked down at the body of the small mortal female.

  All her plans, ruined.

  All around her the proud Endarkened groveled upon the ground, writhing and whimpering in pain. The bolt of pure Light that had been released when she had plunged the knife down had killed half of them where they stood, and weakened the rest nearly to the point of death, draining them of power and magic. They moaned and cried like lost children, their howls of agony rising above the howling of the storm.

  Only she stood unscathed.

  He Who Is had been sealed away from the world more thoroughly than ever before. Any who dared attempt to call him across the Veil again would be met with the fury of a cheated god.

  Even his beloved perfect children.

  She shrieked her anger and despair to the sky, her body vibrating with the agony of the backlash of the spell. But she would not yield. How could this have happened? How?

  “Kill them all!” she howled.

  Her Court, not understanding—yet—what had happened, cowered back from her wrath. She reached for the nearest body, dragging the Endarkened to his feet. His yellow eyes were clouded with pain; his wings drooped limply. She dug her talons into his throat, wishing it was Zyperis’s. Black blood oozed around her fingers, and the Endarkened whined.

  “Go,” she growled, her yellow eyes burning into his with the force of her rage. “Kill the Lightborn.”

  A few of them moved—too slowly!—to obey.

  “Queen Savilla!”

  She looked up.

  There was a dragon in the sky.

  Something to kill.

  She spread her wings.

  JERMAYAN saw the Demon Queen below him, saw Idalia’s lifeless body spread upon the flat stone.

  A bolt of golden fire leaped from his hand toward the Demon Queen.

  Shields flared around her as she countered his attack, and he saw her smile, anticipating victory.

  But he did not falter.

  Change and change, as the Demon Queen’s shield passed up and down the harmonics of magic, attempting to turn itself from a defense to an attack. But each time she changed her shield, Jermayan changed his attack, occupying all her energy with countering him. She had to devote all of her power to her defense;there was nothing left over for her to mount an attack in turn. She spread her wings and vaulted into the sky; to attack, to evade; it did not matter. Ancaladar danced upon the storm like a hawk. Wherever she went, he followed.

  And at last—very quickly, in the end—her defenses fell.

  The Demon Queen, Leader of the Endarkened, ignited in a flare of light. She was consumed utterly, beyond any possibility of rebirth.

  When her acolytes upon the ground saw that, they began to run.

  Jermayan and Ancaladar followed.

  HE didn’t even know the name of his horse. He’d found it running loose on the battlefield, and he’d needed a horse.

  But the tide of battle was turning.

  His Command Staff was dead or scattered. Redhelwar was on his left flank, pulling the remains of the Centaurs together, trying to get them into some kind of order. He’d ordered Belepherial to look for the unicorns. Some of the Enemy was running, and he wanted the unicorns to follow.

  If any of them were left.

  A Coldwarg—alone, wounded, but still dangerous—staggered toward him. Its back was stickered with Elven arrows, and foam drooled from its jaws, but it gathered itself to leap. His mare swung sideways, staggering a little with exhaustion, and Kellen struck, ending the beast’s life.

  They’d held.

  It was after midnight. The world was still here.

  The Wards were back in place around Armethalieh.

  It was time now to take the Delfier Shrine.

  IT was dawn by the time Kellen and his force reached the Standing Stones.

  The storm had passed. The sun had risen. The sky was bright and clear.

  He’d left two-thirds of the surviving army under Redhelwar to guard the City and gone on toward the Place of Sacrifice. All they were doing now was hunting down what remained of the Demon Prince’s army. They’d seen very few of the Enemy, and only in small groups; easy to kill. They took no prisoners, left no one alive.

  Vestakia was still alive, safe among the supply wagons. He’d had a report.

  The Elven Knights moved at a slow walk. They had been fighting since noon of the previous day, and both Elves and horses were exhausted.

  The long heavy rain had washed away all trace of snow. There’d been a ground fog earlier, but as the sun had risen it had lifted, and now only a thin mist remained. Visibility was limited, but not too bad. The mist leeched color from the wor
ld—not that there had been much to begin with. The ground was black with mud and ash. The trees were black with char. The air was white. Only the sky was blue.

  But it was a blue sky Kellen had not been certain he would live to see yesterday.

  They had met the Demon Army and broken it completely.

  Their own force had been nearly destroyed. Less than a quarter of those who had begun the fight still lived. But they had faced an army twice their size—Demons, Coldwarg, Deathwings, creatures out of Kellen’s darkest nightmares—and held. Had killed everything that came at them until the few—the very few—survivors had run.

  They had kept He Who Is from entering the world.

  Armethalieh was safe.

  He hoped they’d be grateful, and wondered if they would be. Or if they’d still think this was some sort of complicated Wildmage plot. Probably, Kellen thought tiredly, since everyone Armethalieh had sent to the battle was dead.

  Well, my friends are dead, too.

  Riasen. Menecherel. None of the Unicorn Knights had survived the night’s battle.

  He’d finally gotten a report.

  Keirasti. He would miss her calm wisdom, her rough humor.

  Isinwen. Reyezeyt. None of his own troop had survived the battle. He had been in command of all, and had made the Enemy pay as high a price for every life he had been forced to spend as he could, but they had still died.

  Wirance. Catreg. The Demons had known that the Wildmages posed the greatest threat to them. They had fought savagely to reach them across the battlefield. And for their part, the Wildmages had spent their lives—not recklessly, but with full intention and a kind of joy, knowing that their lives were a gift they gave to their comrades in arms, a gift to the future, a gift to hope.

  But they were still dead, and he would miss them.

  He would miss them all. No victory could sweeten the bitterness of that loss, only soften its horror.