The Outstretched Shadow

by Mercedes Lackey

  He’d been a little surprised in the beginning to find an Elven Knight so expert at such homely tasks, but as Shalkan reminded him, Jermayan hadn’t always been an Elven Knight. He’d begun as an apprentice, doing even more lowly tasks. And even in a city as beautiful as Sentarshadeen, garbage had to be hauled away and manure composted for the gardens Kellen had admired so much.

  Maybe so, Kellen agreed. But it was still hard to imagine the stately and graceful Elves doing any of those things, even though he’d seen Morusil pulling weeds and Iletel up to his elbows in mud—or potter’s clay, anyway.

  Though—at least when Jermayan managed to get past his guard and land an especially stinging blow—it was nice to imagine there’d once been a time when Jermayan had been getting hit that hard on a regular basis.

  TO Kellen’s secret relief—if you could call it relief, to see such disquieting things—they saw enough signs of the Barrier’s influence along their way to assure them that they were definitely on the right track. One day it had been strange tall structures of mud, as if wasps had built giant nests upon the ground. Jermayan told Kellen that these were termite hills, and that the nest-builders were creatures that rightly belonged to the deserts of the far south.

  Another day they had seen a flock of starlings flying far overhead in an intricate unnatural pattern that had gone on for as long as the riders had been able to see them. Starlings normally flew in a pattern that looked, from a distance, like a thick, billowing ribbon going from horizon to horizon, as they left their daytime foraging ground to seek the groves of trees where they would perch overnight in such numbers that they outnumbered the leaves of the trees. This flock still looked like a ribbon, but a ribbon that was looping in on itself until the loops formed a multipetaled flower, and the birds flew the loops over and over and over again. There were birds lying exhausted on the ground under the flock, and more dropped out of the sky even as they passed.

  TODAY they rode through the bottom of a narrow gorge. On either side, sheer granite walls rose straight up; the only way out was straight ahead, through a dense birch forest. The ground underfoot was thick with fallen yellow leaves. None of them was very happy about their route, and it was not one that Kellen would have freely chosen, but there didn’t seem to be any other way, not if they were to keep to anything at all like their proper course northward.

  Suddenly a flash of blue on the ground off to his right caught his eye. Kellen looked toward it. One of the drifts of leaves at the base of the trees was … blue?

  “Look there,” Kellen said, pointing. “I’m going to go check that. That’s not right.”

  Shalkan stopped, and Kellen dismounted, with far more grace and assurance than he’d exhibited even a few days previously. He walked toward the strange blue leaves, drawing his sword as he did—the gesture was almost second nature by now. Behind him, Jermayan was dismounting as well, telling Valdien to stand.

  When he reached the pile at the base of the tree, Kellen prodded it with the tip of his sword.

  Not leaves.

  Butterflies.

  Dead butterflies, blue ones, hundreds of them. They’d flocked here, drawn somehow by the Barrier’s power—did butterflies flock, or swarm?—and frozen to death in the harsh northern autumn. He sighed, depressed by the senseless destruction of so much innocent beauty.

  “Kellen!”

  He whirled at Jermayan’s anguished cry, and stared in shock.

  Running toward them was a mob of men and Centaurs with swords and clubs.

  How … ?

  Kellen stifled the automatic question. There would be time for questions later—if they survived. He summoned his battle-mind and ran toward the enemy.

  He was closest to the group; they reached him—or he reached them—before Shalkan and Jermayan had taken more than a step or two.

  Around him, the double-sight overlaid every one of the attackers; he fell into the fighting-trance without effort, and he met the attack of the nearest with no more thought than he had to put into taking a step forward. He had no shield, and his helmet was on Shalkan’s saddle; that didn’t matter. He automatically adjusted his defense to deal with those handicaps.

  Jermayan hadn’t had time to get his helm and shield either. And their opponents did have helmets, and shields that could turn or even stop a sword, and had the weight of numbers on their side as well. But they were facing an Elven Knight and a Knight-Mage, and their skills and their shields were not enough to protect them. Kellen knew that, bone-deep, blood-deep, and gave no more thought to it than that.

  Kellen heard the slam of metal upon metal as Jermayan engaged his foe just behind him, and knew from the shouts and cries of pain just beyond Jermayan that Shalkan and Valdien were attacking as well. Good, he thought, then shut out all distraction to focus on his own battle.

  He chose his target—a man wearing a shaggy bearskin vest with a chainmail shirt beneath. On his head he wore a close-fitting round helmet with a flat nosepiece, and carried a small round shield on his forearm, but his only heavy armor was a steel collar and shoulder guards. He smiled when he saw Kellen, and in that smile Kellen could almost read his thoughts—bright surcoat—fancy armor—no helmet—only a boy—easy prey.

  Step and slash, Kellen told himself.

  This was different from facing Jermayan in the practice ring. It was almost harder, because his enemy kept backing away, searching for an opening that Kellen wasn’t willing to give him, all the while making wild swipes with his sword that had no chance of connecting. After a few seconds, Kellen realized that he needed to lure the man into attacking in order to finish him. He set up an easy patter of parry-right, strike-left, and parry-right, taking his parries farther and farther out away from the proper defensive line, and waited for the man to spot it and think he had found the weakness in his opponent’s defenses.

  As he’d hoped, the man rushed him, sword held foolishly high. Kellen stepped inside his opponent’s swing with ease, felt the man’s forearm jar harmlessly against his shoulder, grabbed the sword-arm with his left hand, and brought his own blade down on his foe’s undefended shoulder with all his strength.

  This time he did not turn his blade when he struck.

  The razor edge of Elven steel slipped in between the steel shoulder guard and the steel neck-collar of his enemy’s armor, sinking through bearskin vest, chain armor, flesh, and bone, to sever his attacker’s arm cleanly at the joint.

  The man reeled back, his torso spraying dark blood from severed arteries. He screamed in horror, pain, and shock, falling to his knees in a pool of spreading blood, groping after the limb that was no longer there before he fell over entirely.

  Kellen dropped the arm he still held as if it had burned his hand, abruptly shocked out of his battle-trance. The man’s screams of pain razored through him and he stood staring stupidly at the blood, and the dying man.

  This was no game, no wondertale. It wasn’t a practice session. This wasn’t like the bloodless destruction of the stone Hounds. This was noisy and messy and real. He’d killed a man.

  One moment he’d been alive, with a wife perhaps, or a sweetheart, siblings, parents. The next, he was dead.

  And Kellen had killed him.

  Then Jermayan jumped in front of him, shoving him back just as one of the Centaurs swept a spiked mace down just where Kellen’s unprotected head would have been. Jermayan blocked, but the blow had caught him off-balance. The mace slammed into Jermayan’s ribs, just where the jointed Elven armor was weakest, and Jermayan fell, crumpling awkwardly to the ground, his coiled black hair spilling free around him in a sudden untidy tangle.

  No!

  Kellen snapped back into full warrior mode again. Anger spilled around him, but did not touch him. He forgot everything but his training and his purpose. He stepped over Jermayan’s body—always advance—and forced the Centaur back, away from Jermayan. It reared, striking at Kellen with metal-shod forehooves, and Kellen showed no mercy, crippling it swiftly and then moving in
for the kill.

  This time he did not stop, did not hesitate for a single instant. When the Centaur was dead he turned, looking for other attackers.

  The other Centaur was already down, its belly open in a spill of glistening entrails. Four left, all human. They spread out, trying to keep an eye on Kellen and Shalkan at the same time.

  He thought he heard a groan from Jermayan, and rage filled him again; before it could interfere with the battle-trance, he seized it, fed it into the trance, and felt it nourish his muscles with new strength, give a sharper focus to his vision.

  Kellen circled around, giving them the choice of facing either him or Shalkan, knowing they’d see him as the greater threat—or the easier prey. The possible attacks all converged into one as he moved, the ghost-images coalescing into a single path for each man. They’d try to attack him all together, hoping he’d get rattled and careless.

  But he wouldn’t.

  He backed up—Jermayan had also taught him that, to retreat as gracefully and as easily as to advance—leading them away from the bodies and the blood, onto surer footing. Away from Jermayan.

  They tried to rush him all at once, but to attack in a group took training, and they only got in each other’s way, while the ghost-images told him the best way to move to ensure that they tangled with each other. In the space of a breath, he struck while they were still trying to sort themselves out, one after another.

  You could dance in Elven armor—a dance of death. Kellen moved now as if he wore nothing more than his Wildwood buckskins.

  Cut high. Sidekick. Parry on the spin and cut low, parry high. Two were killed outright at the end of that pattern. High, low, high, rush, hilt to the chin, thrust. That one he wounded and Shalkan rushed in from the side and finished him. Kellen left his sword in the body and sidekicked the last attacker into Shalkan’s path, and Shalkan killed that man by himself, standing over the body with a look of grim satisfaction, horn and hooves dyed scarlet with blood.

  It was over. The entire battle had taken less time than the warm-up to a practice session.

  Kellen fell out of his trance, and blinked, staring around himself. He wasn’t winded, not even close, but he took the moment to breathe deeply, watching the bodies for any sign of movement, for another thing that Jermayan had warned him of was that an enemy might merely pretend death in order to take the supposed victor unawares—or attack in two groups, holding back half his strength.

  But as he watched, Shalkan moved among the bodies, testing for signs of life, then raised his head, looking in every direction, testing the air. When he was done, the unicorn shook his head silently. There were no survivors, and no further threat.

  Kellen reclaimed his sword. It was bloody from hilt to point, blood dripping from the quillons and the end, as wet as if he’d dipped it into a vat of the stuff. His surcoat was sodden with blood. He shook his head to clear it, feeling as though he were half-asleep, dazed, but knew he did not have the luxury of sinking to his knees and resting as his body suddenly urged him to do. There were urgent matters to attend to and no time for either panic or self-reproach.

  Jermayan.

  Still carrying his sword—there was no way he could sheathe it in its present condition—he hurried quickly back to his fallen friend and knelt beside him.

  To Kellen’s enormous relief, the Elven Knight still lived, though he was unconscious from his wound. Blood was seeping steadily through the armor, soaking the edges of the gash in the dark blue surcoat. His breathing was shallow, and his face was far paler than usual, nearly as white as shell-clay.

  For one moment, Kellen felt a blinding flare of panic—what should he do? What could he do?

  But as soon as it had come, it was gone. He knew what to do. He had to heal Jermayan with his magic. Fortunately, Idalia had taught him enough of the Healing spells to manage that. It was a simple spell, but costly—and with Jermayan unconscious, he couldn’t ask him to share the cost. Kellen would have to pay the entire price.

  Unless …?

  He glanced up at Shalkan hopefully, but the unicorn shook his head.

  “I can’t,” the unicorn said, shaking his head unhappily. “I’m sorry, Kellen. He’s not a virgin.”

  So it was all up to him alone. And when it was over, Kellen would be laboring under some sort of new responsibility or geas, as the Wild Magic exacted its payment—and it was barely possible that this price might be something that ran counter to his current mission. On the other hand, if Idalia ever found out that Kellen had let Jermayan take the blow meant for him, and then let him die afterward when he could have saved him, he knew she’d kill him. Twice.

  He quickly stripped off Jermayan’s surcoat, trying to be as gentle as possible. The armor followed, though it was like trying to peel a crawfish out of its shell. At least he could see the pieces of the armor and their fastenings, which was more than he could do when he was taking off his own. Then he lifted the padded undertunic to get a look at the wound. He bit down hard on a pang of nausea as he discovered he had to pull the undertunic out of Jermayan’s side: the Centaur’s mace had been spiked; there were deep punctures in the flesh, and Kellen suspected broken ribs besides. A serious wound, but not as bad as the gash in the surcoat had suggested. One of the spikes must have caught in the fabric and torn it.

  I can’t cast a circle on bloodstained ground… . He looked around for a clean place to cast his circle, then, as gently as possible, eased Jermayan onto his own cloak and dragged him there. The Elven Knight groaned in pain, but did not rouse to consciousness.

  Since he was not as good a Wildmage as Idalia, there were things Kellen would need to cast the Healing Spell, and thanks to Idalia, he had them with him. Kellen covered Jermayan with his bloodstained surcoat for warmth, then went to Lily and rummaged through her packs, looking for knives, bandages, waterskins, and the leaves and herbs he would need.

  The mule was skittish and upset, disturbed by all the blood and trying to pull away. But she was tied securely to Valdien’s saddle, and Valdien—trained to war—stood steadily. Kellen was grateful; he didn’t have the time to soothe her fears or try to catch her if she bolted. Jermayan needed help now, before he bled to death.

  He took the jar of allheal as well. Jermayan had said it was really only useful for minor abrasions, but there was a lot of bruising involved in the wound. He wasn’t sure how far he’d be able to heal Jermayan, and he wanted all the help he could get.

  In a way, though, he was glad that he had something to concentrate on besides what he’d just done. If he thought about all those dead bodies—

  So he wouldn’t think about them.

  “Can you find us somewhere to camp?” Kellen asked Shalkan as he gathered what he was going to need. “Someplace not too near here—with water?”

  He still didn’t know who’d attacked them, or why—whether they were just common hill-bandits, or something more sinister—and he still didn’t have the luxury of waiting around to find out. And even though they’d killed all of them, that didn’t mean they didn’t have friends who might come looking for them, and even tomorrow would be too soon for that.

  “I’ll take care of it,” the unicorn promised, trotting off.

  His arms filled with supplies, Kellen hurried back to Jermayan. He took off his own armored gauntlets and drew a circle around them both with his dagger. Then he built his fire of bits of dried twigs and charcoal from his packs on a patch of earth scraped bare of leaves. When the charcoal had kindled, he sat cross-legged on the ground beside the Elf, and closed his eyes to assume the spell-trance that was so like, and yet unlike, the battle-trance.

  Taking his knife he cut a few strands of Jermayan’s hair, then added a bit of his own. He curled the strands into a tight lock, then touched them to the blood from Jermayan’s wound, remembering what Idalia had done to heal the unicorn colt.

  Cautiously, he ran his thumb along the knife blade, wincing as the flesh parted easily. Quickly, he added his own blood to the spell, a
nd dropped the small bundle into the fire, along with the dried leaves of willow, ash, and yew for good measure, burned them along with three drops of his own blood.

  Still in that dispassionate state, he closed his eyes again and gathered his own power in a knot around his heart, slowly pushing it outward until it met the physical barrier of the scribed circle with a faint sensation of resistance.

  Grant me the strength to heal my friend, he promised the Powers, and I will pay the price for the healing.

  It was done. Now all that was left was to await their answer and hear their price.

  He opened his eyes, held in the calm, still center of the trance, to see the faintly glowing dome of his protections above them. He knew he’d done all that he could do with his Wildmagery, and that the rest was up to the Gods, so Kellen began cleaning and bandaging Jermayan’s wound as well as he could, wiping the still-oozing blood away with a dampened cloth, applying allheal to the bruised flesh, making a thick linen pad to place over the ugly wound in Jermayan’s side.

  Kellen wasn’t sure how extensive the healing would be—or if he would be granted one at all, after having killed so many men—but the one thing he was certain of was that the Wild Magic didn’t look favorably on those who tried to use it as a replacement for everyday common sense.

  Suddenly, as he worked, he had an abrupt sense of heatless force pressing down on him, as if giant hands, impossibly heavy, were thrusting down on his shoulders. He felt Power flow through his hands into Jermayan’s flesh, and all around him the golden summer sunlight went brilliantly green, as if he’d suddenly been plunged into the heart of an emerald.

  He felt the Power flood into him, strong and sweet, intoxicating, and he lost himself in it, forgetting everything, simply being, and knowing that beneath his hands, the wounds were closing, blood ceasing to leak from the damaged veins, flesh knitting.

  And from somewhere within him there came a voice:

  You will know what you must do when the time comes.