The Outstretched Shadow

by Mercedes Lackey

  Or maybe she counted on Jermayan to tell me the truth; counted on me being brave enough to face it. She had put plenty of challenges in his path before, and reckoned on his being able to meet them.

  But she could so easily be wrong. She didn’t know him! Not really. She didn’t know how often he failed or messed things up.

  He couldn’t afford to worry about things like this—it was too late to change things, and he couldn’t unlearn what he knew—but somehow he couldn’t stop himself from constantly poking at the problem, as if it were a sore tooth. The whole thing was just too big and too complicated, made worse by the fact that the more he learned about the Demons, the more formidable an enemy they seemed to be. No matter how much confidence Jermayan seemed to have in Kellen’s emerging powers as a Knight-Mage and Wildmage, Kellen didn’t have the same confidence, not down where it counted. He knew how many mistakes he’d already made in seventeen short years of life, and now, with so many lives resting on him making all the right choices, he didn’t feel any smarter than he had when his choices didn’t matter to anybody but him. He’d already almost gotten Jermayan killed once.

  All it took was one wrong move.

  Just one.

  THOUGH Jermayan had been reluctant to talk about Shadow Mountain and the Great War initially, as they rode that day through lands he could have never seen—for Kellen now knew that Jermayan, old as he was from Kellen’s standpoint, had been born centuries after the War was over—the Elven Knight spoke of those ancient events as if he had indeed been present at that last great battle between the forces of Life and those of Darkness.

  So vivid were his descriptions as he pointed out the landmarks of the conflict that had shaped Kellen’s world that it almost began to seem to Kellen as well that he could see the armies marshaled upon the battlefield: humans, Elves, and Centaurs in their gleaming armor, the swift and terrible unicorn cavalry, their bright horns flashing in the sunlight. Overhead, dragons wheeled and soared in the sky, their scales glittering radiantly—red and green, gold and blue and black—and the air seethed with elemental forces, as sylphs and salamanders awaited the bidding of their comrades and allies.

  And arrayed against them, the terrible forces of the Endarkened and their slaves: the Darkmages, the duergar and goblins and trolls, protected from the sunlight fatal to their kind by the magic of the Endarkened—a protection that might be withdrawn at any moment, should the Endarkened need their power for other things.

  “Across that valley—there—in the distance—is a place once called The Field of Sorrows. I do not know if it has a name now. There, the army of Countess Karissa of Avoret was utterly destroyed.” Jermayan’s eyes were shadowed with sorrow, as if the tragedy had taken place a decade ago, instead of millennia. “Ten thousand warriors, the flower of human pride and knighthood, were gathered there to do battle, and not one of them escaped alive. It was the first great human loss of the War … you had underestimated the barbarity of the enemy you faced until then, I think, and thought they would fight by the civilized code of human men. But they gave no quarter, slaughtering the wounded, those who had surrendered, the servants and children who rode with the army … all. Not even the supply oxen were left alive, and when our army arrived, too late to aid you, the battlefield was a lake of blood too vast to sink into the earth.”

  Kellen blinked, trying to picture it and failing utterly. It was just too horrible to get his mind wrapped around. And this was the enemy they would have to confront!

  “When the Count came and saw the place where his daughter had died, he swore that he would not rest until the power of the Endarkened was broken forever and the treachery that had slain his daughter was avenged; that if he must defy Death himself to allow this to come to pass, he would find a way. He was a great Wildmage; how his story ends, the histories do not say, but it was through his tireless efforts that the human kingdoms fought at our side staunchly through all the dark days of the War, though the Endarkened tried constantly to make a separate treaty of peace with you. They would willingly have promised you anything to withdraw from battle, knowing that they would turn on you later once they had achieved victory over us.”

  How many humans failed to listen to the Count, Kellen wondered. How many thought that a separate peace could be achieved, and been betrayed? There must have been some, or the rest would never have known that Demonic promises were lies.

  “But here is a happier tale, if any story from those days can be said to be a happy one,” Jermayan went on, pointing into the far distance. “See there, that mountain pass?”

  Kellen strained his vision—he suspected Elven eyesight was better than human—and in the distance he could just barely make out a notch between two mountains that might be the pass Jermayan spoke of.

  “That is Vel-al-Amion, where The Seven held back the entire army of the Endarkened for three days, until Cirandeiron Istemion and King Damek could arrive. Their names have been lost to history, and so they would have wished it to be, remembered only as The Seven, comrades in life and death, who did what could not be done, and so saved us all.”

  “How could you forget them if they were Elves?” Kellen asked, since if he’d learned one thing in his time in Sentarshadeen, it was that Elves had very long memories, and kept excruciatingly accurate records of their families and genealogies.

  “The Seven were not Elves, not all of them,” Jermayan corrected him crisply. “They were of all the races that fought against the Endarkened. And they were not warriors at all, but scouts, sent out to patrol in advance of the army to learn the disposition of enemy forces and to report back.”

  Not warriors? Then how could they ever have held against a host of Demons?

  “But this time, knowing what they knew, seeing what they had seen, they dared not. They knew the Endarkened host must come through Vel-al-Amion, and so they retreated to that pass, sending messages to their commanders, messages that they could only hope would reach them, knowing they would never know if word had gotten through in time. And when all the hosts of Darkness and foul magic descended upon Vel-al-Amion, the Demon army found its way barred by seven scouts who would not yield the pass.”

  Kellen found himself profoundly stirred by this tale. Only scouts! Yet they had done what needed to be done, against far longer odds than those he and Jermayan faced, against the Endarkened in all their strength, not the weakened creatures hiding in Shadow Mountain. If they could do it …

  “No one knows what happened there, though there are many ballads of their bravery. I believe that when the Endarkened saw The Seven could not be easily brushed aside, they tried to tempt The Seven to join their own forces, for that is ever the way of Demons.”

  Suddenly Kellen could picture it in his mind, the vast host behind the leaders, the Endarkened leaders offering—what? It would have had to be more than just their lives. It would have to be everything all of them had ever wanted: love, power, riches, fame, everything …

  “But that, too, will have failed,” Jermayan said, his voice filled with awe, “and then, surely, the wrath of the Endarkened commander must have been overweening. Yet The Seven held Vel-al-Amion, and the Endarkened army could not advance through it while their way was barred.”

  “But how?” Kellen asked wonderingly. “If they were just scouts, how could they have held?”

  “There is much we will never know,” Jermayan admitted simply. “It was a miracle, and The Seven gave their lives in payment to the Gods that had answered their prayers for that miracle. What is certain is that reinforcements arrived in time to catch the Endarkened army while it was bottled up in the pass. ‘Then blew the silver horns of the army of Cirandeiron Istemion, then roared the mighty drums of King Damek; brazen and argent marched the human and Elven armies across the bridge of their hallowed dead to engage the foe …’ or so the bards would have it. The Allied armies hurt the enemy badly enough to force them to retreat, and the War went on. The bodies of The Seven were never recovered. Yet if they had not he
ld the pass long enough for the Allies to get there …” Jermayan shrugged eloquently, and said nothing more.

  But Kellen thought about that story long and hard as they rode, and he wondered—if it had been him, would he have had the courage to stand?

  THEY made an early camp, unwilling to push the tired animals any farther over such difficult terrain. There was no possibility of finding any place that was sheltered, but at least they’d found someplace flat, a stony hilltop with a spectacular view of the barren sweep of parched hills and the mountains beyond. If they could not be comfortable, Kellen consoled himself, at least no one could possibly sneak up on them.

  Not for the first time today, Kellen wondered if they’d overshot the mark or taken a wrong turn. He soothed his apprehension with the promise that he’d do a Finding Spell in the morning before they set off. That would quickly set them on the right path again. True, Idalia had warned him against that sort of thing except in a dire emergency, but—

  —but by now their presence here in the Lost Lands couldn’t be a secret anymore.

  He’d done pretty major Healing Magic on Jermayan, and even though he’d done it within the protection of his circle, some of the power had to have leaked out. And he knew, deep down inside, that at least one of the attacks on them had come from the hands, if not of the Endarkened themselves, at least from their creatures. And since they’d be moving immediately, it wouldn’t draw the enemy to their position.

  But the moment he made the decision, doubt set in. What price would the Finding Spell exact? What if paying it ran counter to his current mission? What if it was something he couldn’t—or didn’t want to—do?

  What if it was the first in the series of mistakes that would set him on the path to becoming a Darkmage? What if it conflicted with the price he had yet to pay for Jermayan’s healing? Every time he thought of doing magic, things just got more complicated! No wonder the ancient Mages had come up with High Magick, which—

  Which has its own prices, and is paid for with stolen energy.

  So that wasn’t an answer, either.

  He performed his part of the chores of setting up camp in a haze compounded of equal parts of exhaustion and preoccupation. Jermayan helped him dig out and collect several melon-sized stones to build a fire-ring, both to protect their fire and to conserve its heat.

  “No practice tonight, I think. We’re both tired. And I think you’ll know what to do when the time comes.”

  The Elven-Knight’s words were an unintentional echo of the message Kellen had received from the Wild Magic during the last spell he’d cast, the message he still didn’t understand. Remembering that unfulfilled obligation only worried him more. What would the true cost of Jermayan’s healing end up being? Would it turn out in the end to have been better for Sentarshadeen if Kellen had let Jermayan die? But how could he ever have faced them—Idalia—Shalkan—himself—if he had?

  “Ah—all right, if you think that’s best,” Kellen muttered. “I think I’m going to take a look around. Stretch my legs while there’s still light.”

  “Be careful,” Jermayan warned, but Kellen could tell from his tone that the Elven Knight wasn’t really worried. Nothing could approach them unseen up here.

  Kellen changed out of his armor into the spare set of clothes and boots he’d brought. Wrapping his cloak tightly around him and belting on his sword—an act that seemed like second nature to him by now—he walked off.

  He didn’t plan to go far—not even out of sight of the camp—but he’d been telling the truth about wanting to stretch his legs. Spending a day on horseback—or on unicorn-back—was still a kind of sitting, and not the restful kind, either. His legs ached with something that was not quite a cramp, and felt restless, as if they would twitch nervously if he didn’t given them the exercise they craved. Strange, how you could be so tired and yet parts of you still needed more activity to settle down … .

  The hilltop was covered with the same sort of dry scanty grass that they’d seen elsewhere; both Valdien and the mule were grazing meditatively. In places the granite beneath showed through, and if that weren’t enough, there were occasional horse-sized (and larger) boulders strewn about, as if someone had been using the hilltop for a target a long time ago.

  Considering what Jermayan had told him about what sort of thing had gone on around here, maybe someone had. This would be a natural place to make a stand.

  He was keeping one eye on the camp, intending to walk a wide circle around it, when he saw the stele.

  At first he thought it was just another boulder, albeit a tall and narrow one. Perhaps snow and rain had sheered part of it away, giving it that tall and narrow shape.

  But no. When he got closer, he realized that it had been carved into that shape deliberately, and centuries of wind and weather had softened its shape until it looked like one of the natural boulders.

  He came closer. There was writing on it—at least, he thought it must be writing, though the even rows of symbols were wholly unfamiliar.

  There was one thing about the stele that was all-too understandable, however, though seeing it came as a complete and utter shock. Carved near the bottom was the glowering, horned, and fanged countenance of a Demon.

  “Jermayan!”

  Kellen’s shout brought the Elven Knight at a run, sword drawn, with Shalkan close behind. Kellen pointed; he was very proud when his hand didn’t shake.

  Too much.

  “Ah.” The confusion and alarm eased from Jermayan’s face. He peered at the inscription on the stone. “It is a marker, commemorating a great battle fought here, of an Allied triumph over the Demons.”

  Kellen stared around. Suddenly the empty hilltop seemed somehow populated, as if the armies that had once engaged here had not left.

  Maybe they haven’t. If any place should be haunted, it ought to be a place like this one.

  “Of course, in those days this place had a different aspect,” Jermayan reminded him, as if guessing the direction of Kellen’s thoughts. “But come. We will eat, and consider what route we may take on the morrow.”

  Jermayan turned and walked away. Kellen gazed after him. Jermayan seemed awfully calm about standing in the middle of an ancient battlefield, a place where Demons had actually set foot. He glanced at Shalkan, but for once the unicorn’s expression was unreadable.

  Grand. Making camp among the ghosts. I hope at least some of them are friendly.

  “I guess we’d better go back,” Kellen muttered. He cast a last look at the stele, and followed Jermayan.

  Though there was not to be a sparring match that evening, that didn’t save Kellen from a long lecture on the theory of combat, which was, in its way, just as helpful as actual physical practice. There was more to battle than hitting the enemy with a sword, he was coming to discover, just as there was more to magic than casting the most powerful spell you could manage. Just as knowing what spell would produce the best result with the least expenditure of personal power was important for a Wildmage, so, for a Knight (or a Knight-Mage), was being able to make your foe do what you wanted—flee or die—with the least risk to yourself and your allies.

  “Glory and honor are important,” Jermayan said sternly, “but they are not the most important things in the life of a knight. He must always keep his ultimate goal in his mind, and be prepared to sacrifice all other things to that goal. Perhaps even his honor, should such a choice be forced upon him.”

  Kellen nodded, but he knew his own choices weren’t so simple. A Wildmage’s personal honor involved always paying the price of his magic, no matter what that price might be. And to refuse to pay that price, as he had learned from Jermayan, would lead a Wildmage down the path of corruption, and into the service of the Demons of Shadow Mountain.

  Kellen had the horrible suspicion that what that meant was that eventually a Wildmage would inevitably be called upon to betray one loyalty for another, and he didn’t like that thought very much at all. Betray a friend who trusted you for
the greater good? Betray a trust to keep a greater one? Betray a secret to save another? But try as he might, he couldn’t see any way around it … if the need to do so ever came up.

  Maybe it wouldn’t.

  He hoped it wouldn’t.

  How could he do that and ever feel clean again?

  But the unpaid price of Jermayan’s healing hung over his head, like a sharp sword suspended by the thinnest of threads, and all Kellen could do was worry about a potential disaster he could see no way to avert.

  How did Idalia live with this sort of thing hanging over her all the time? How did other Knight-Mages?

  How would he? Or would trying to resolve all the conflicts someday drive him mad?

  Eventually their small fire burned low, and it was time for sleep. Despite the whirl of worries and fears chasing each other around and around inside his head, when Kellen laid himself down, weariness had its own way with him.

  Will-he, nill-he, he slept.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Visions of the Past

  HE WAS AWAKENED by the ring of swords against armor. Kellen threw himself out of his bedroll, staring around himself wildly. Beside the fire, Valdien and Jermayan still slept, undisturbed. Even Shalkan dozed unconcernedly.

  “Kellen! They’re breaking through!”

  Someone was shouting his name. But even as Kellen looked in the direction of the call, he realized it was not him they were summoning. Or at least not the Kellen of here-and-now.

  He saw with the strange doubling of Othersight, but instead of single objects, or a simple overlay of lines and symbols, as it usually was, this time it was as if he saw into a whole other world. All around him an army was gathered, beautiful and terrifying, and as in a dream, somehow the moment he saw a thing, he understood everything about it, as if he were seeing it and reading about it in a book at the same time. Part of him knew he hadn’t moved at all, that he still lay asleep in his blankets, and did not stand upon the hillside, gazing into the sun.