The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Gallen, I do not expect Vanyel to have to defend you from this Krebain,” Starwind said patiently. “He could never be a match for a blood-bound Adept, and I would not expect it of him. I expect him to have to deal with some of this renegade’s creatures at worst. My thought is that the three of us shall find Krebain and deal with him—and that when his control over his slaves is gone, some of them may think to attack here. I see no reason why, among you, you folk and Vanyel could not defend yourselves against such lesser dangers. Does that content you?”

  It didn’t—that was obvious. But it was all that Headman Gallen was going to get, and he well knew it. Vanyel attempted to put himself into the mindset of a warleader. He didn’t feel particularly successful at it.

  “Van, see what you can do about organizing these folk,” Savil said quietly. “You know most of those old ballads by heart, and there’s lots of good advice in them; that’s why we make you learn them. I don’t want you to try anything more than a token defense if something does come at you that you can’t handle. Just call Yfandes for help and delay things as long as you can. For the rest—the creatures they’ve described are strong, but not particularly bright. Barricades across the road and fire should keep most of them at bay. You took that queen colddrake; remember that. You can take just about anything else except this Krebain himself so long as it isn’t a small army.”

  Vanyel gulped, and tried to look competent and brave. This is what it all comes down to, doesn’t it? This is what I have to do; I have to, like ’Lendel said. Because these people need me. “Yes, Aunt,” he said carefully. “Barricades and fire.”

  Savil looked worried and preoccupied. “Do your best, lad. Remember that ‘voice’ I used to stop you and ’Lendel fighting? It makes people listen; goes right to their guts. Imitate that if you can.” She mounted Kellan from the porch; Starwind took Yfandes’ saddle, but Moondance hesitated a moment before taking the pillion behind him.

  “Vanyel, ke’chara, remember what I told you about the nodes. Use them. There are—” He paused, and his eyes unfocused for a moment. “There are three that I can sense that you should be able to use. I wish you could reach the valley-node as we can, but I think it is beyond your strength for now. None of the three nearby are as strong as the valley-node, but taken together they should serve.” He took Vanyel’s face between his hands and kissed him on the forehead. “Gods be with you, youngling. With fortune, this will be no more than an interesting exercise for you.”

  He mounted behind Starwind, and the crowd of villagers parted to let them through. Vanyel watched them vanish into the darkness with a heavy heart.

  • • •

  If he hadn’t been so frightened himself, he’d have lost his temper a dozen times over. He had to keep explaining to these people, time and time again, exactly what he wanted of them and why he wanted it—and would turn his back on one group, thinking that he had finally gotten through to them, only to return to find they’d abandoned the project and were staring apprehensively off into the darkness.

  It wasn’t that they were stupid; it was that they were so completely without hope. They couldn’t see any chance of holding off anything, and so they had abandoned any thought of being able to do so. After all, their best efforts hadn’t done anything but get folks killed. Vanyel, who was counting on them to be as much protection for him as he would be for them, was nearly frantic. It took hours before he was finally able to get them going under their own power.

  Then there was the matter of defense.

  When dawn came and he asked for their weaponry, he got as ill-used and motley an assortment of near-junk as he’d ever seen, and there wasn’t a one of them who knew how to use any of it. These were farmers born and farmers bred; most of them off lands held of lords or mage-lords who were bound to protect them. The k’Treva had bartered protection for made-stuffs and foodstuffs, and they had never thought they’d need to raise a blade in their own defense.

  So Vanyel was faced with the task of showing rank amateurs the way of the sword. Forget teaching them point-work; forget the finer points of defense. In the end he padded them to the eyebrows and set them to bashing at each other. Teach them to hold something long and poke with it, or hold something heavy and smash with it—and if it was something with an edge, hope that the edge, rather than the flat, connected.

  By the second day of this he was tired to the bone, half-mad with frustration, and frantic with the fear he dared not show. So when Veth, Gallen’s half-grown son, came at him wide open for the hundredth time, he lost his temper completely and hit him with a full force blow he had not consciously intended to deliver. And tried to pull it too late to do any good.

  He knocked the boy halfway across the square.

  Veth landed sprawled on his back—and didn’t move—

  And Vanyel’s heart stopped—

  And in his mind he saw—Jervis—standing over him—

  Oh, gods!

  Vanyel’s sword went flying; his helm followed it as he ran to kneel at Veth’s side in the cold dust of the square.

  Oh, gods—oh, gods—I’ve done to him what Jervis did to me. Oh, please, gods, please don’t let me have hurt him—

  He unlaced the boy’s helm and pulled it off; about then Veth blinked up at him and started to sit up of himself, and Vanyel nearly cried with relief.

  “Veth—please, Veth, I’m sorry, I—I lost my temper—I didn’t mean it—”

  The boy looked at him with bewilderment. “Eh, Master Van, I be all right. I been kicked by our old mule worse nor this—just let me get a bit of a drink, eh?”

  Vanyel sagged back on his heels, shutting his eyes against the harsh sunlight, limp with relief. The boy got gingerly to his feet.

  Oh, gods. I—I’m as bad as Jervis. I’m worse than Jervis; I know better. Oh, gods—

  “Vanyel, young sir—”

  He looked up; it was Reva, Veth’s mother, her tired face anxious. He winced, and waited for her to give him the tongue-lashing he deserved.

  It didn’t come. “If you’ll forgive me for being an interfering old hen,” she said, with a little quirk of her mouth, “I think you’ve about worn yourself into uselessness, young sir. I know you haven’t eaten since last night. Now here—”

  She offered him her hand; astounded, he took it, and to his utter befuddlement she hauled him to his feet. “Now,” she put one arm around his shoulders, the other about Veth’s. “I think it’s time you both got a bit of food in you. The time it takes to eat won’t make Veth a better fighter, nor you a better teacher.” She hugged them both, as if they were both her sons, then released them.

  The words he had thrown into Withen’s face—was it only a year ago?—came back to shame him further.

  “Let every man that must go to battle fight within his talents, and not be forced to any one school.”

  I’ve been treating them exactly the way Jervis treated me. Forcing them to use things they don’t know, to go outside of their talents. I am a complete and incompetent fool.

  Vanyel blushed. And stammered. “I—I’m no kind of a teacher, Mistress Reva, or I’d not have chosen what I did to teach.” He raised his voice so the rest of those practicing in the square could hear him. “This is getting us nowhere. It’s like you trying to teach me to—to plow and spin, for a Midsummer contest a week away. We haven’t the time, and I’m a fool. Now, please, what are your real weapons? Any of you know the use of bow? Or sling? Boar-spear, maybe?”

  It was not his imagination; there were looks of real relief all across the square—and the beginnings of smiles.

  But in the end, all his preparations were in vain.

  • • •

  The villagers willing to fight were on the barricades; there were really only two blockades—there was only one road going through the village, and it led directly through the pounded-dirt square. The square itself was fairl
y defensible now; not even a colddrake would have been able to get past the buildings. The folk too frightened or unable to defend themselves had faded away into the shadows as they did every night to scatter and hide in the cellars and attics of the buildings around the square. Headman Gallen had by now come to the conclusion that Vanyel knew something of what he was about; he and two or three of the other folk not too cowed to take a stand (including the old herb-witch, who took a dim view of this young upstart wizard taking over her village) were having a hasty conference with Vanyel on supplies—when a surge of Gate-energy invoked practically under Vanyel’s nose knocked him to his knees and very nearly knocked him out.

  The only thing that saved him from unconsciousness this time was that he was completely under shield. He found himself gasping for breath, and completely disoriented for a moment. His eyes had flashing lights in front of them, and he shook his head to try and clear it. That was a mistake; his head reacted poorly to the abrupt movement.

  He could hardly think, much less see. Gods—what in—

  “What do we have here?”

  The clear, musical tenor voice sounded amused—and Vanyel froze. The voice carried clearly; the petrified silence in the square was as deep as the Nine Pits.

  He looked up when his eyes cleared, and found that all he could see were the backs of people. The members of his erstwhile war-council were standing huddled together as if to keep him hidden in the shadows behind them. Vanyel got hold of the splintery side of the storehouse and pulled himself cautiously to his feet, ducking his head behind Gallen’s and standing on tiptoe to peek over the shoulders of the men in front of him. His gut went cold when he saw the flamboyantly dressed stranger in the middle of the cleared square.

  This could only be the wizard Krebain.

  The torches falling from the hands of the stunned villagers were unneeded; the wizard had brought his own mage-light with him. It hung over his head, a tiny green-yellow sun. People were slowly backing away until they ran into the walls and the barricades, leaving the stranger standing in arrogant isolation in the exact center of the dusty square.

  The wizard was a gaudy sight. He wore scarlet and gold; skin-tight breeches, close-cut gold-embroidered velvet tunic, scarlet cloak with cloth-of-gold lining. Even his boots and velvet gloves were scarlet. He had a scarlet helm that was more than half mask, ornamented with a preposterous crest of a rampant dragon in gold. With one hand on his hip, he tapped at his chin with a gloved finger as he turned to survey the people surrounding the square.

  “A rebellion—I do believe this is a rebellion! How droll!” He laughed; it had a nasty sound to it.

  He was graceful, slim, and very tall. White-blond hair tumbled from beneath the helm in wavy, shining cascades. What could be seen of his face was like elegantly sculptured marble. Vanyel found himself caught by the wizard’s sheer charismatic beauty. None of the villagers had said anything about that.

  Vanyel felt almost sick. Evil such as had been described to him shouldn’t be—beautiful!

  But then he thought, Artificial—that really is what he is. He’s changed himself, I’m sure of it, like—painting his face, only more so. If I had a lot of power and didn’t care how I used it, I suppose I’d make myself beautiful, too.

  “I wonder what could have roused you worms to think to stand against me?” Krebain mused aloud. “None of you had half an ounce of courage before this. But then—none of you smelled of the mage-born before this, either, other than that foolish old witch of yours over there.” He smiled slyly. “I think I detect a stranger among you—hmm? Now where have you hidden him?”

  Ice crawled up Vanyel’s spine. All they have to do is point a finger at me—and even if they don’t, if I call Yfandes for help, he’ll know where I am. Oh, gods, can I hide? I can’t challenge him! They can’t expect it of me—I’m no match for him!

  But to his surprise, not a single one of those remaining in the square answered the wizard’s question. In fact, the men standing in front of Vanyel moved closer together, as if to shield him from the wizard’s chance sight.

  The wizard’s voice sharpened with impatience. “I grow weary, curs. Where is the stranger I sensed?”

  Silence.

  Except for the herb-witch, who whispered back at Vanyel, with the merest breath—“Stay quiet, boy. You’re no fit opponent for him, and we know it. Won’t do any of us any good for you to get caught, and he just may take us apart for spite even if he gets you. Maybe if he gets bored, he’ll go away.”

  “I said, I want to know where the stranger is.” The wizard looked about him, both hands on his hips now, and anger in his pose. “Very well. I see it’s time you learned another lesson.” He turned slightly, so that he was staring right at the group clustered in front of Vanyel, and raised his left hand. “You—Gallen.” He made a little summoning motion. “Come here. . . .”

  Gallen made a staggering step, then another. He was fighting the wizard with his will, but losing. Sweat popped out all over his brow, and he made a whimpering noise in the back of his throat.

  Behind him, the group closed ranks, still shielding Vanyel from view. Before him, the wizard grinned sadistically. “You really haven’t a hope of fighting me, you know,” he said pleasantly. “It’s like a babe challenging an armed warrior. Come along, there’s a good dog.”

  Gallen ran the last few steps, coming to a trembling halt at the wizard’s side. Krebain strolled around him, looking him over carefully. The mage-light followed in faithful attendance above his head. “Let’s see—I believe you have a wife.” He swept his gaze over the rest of the villagers. “Yes, indeed—and there she is. Reva—my goodness. A would-be sword-lady, are you? Come here, my dear.”

  He crooked his finger, and dusky Reva stumbled out of the group at the barricade on the west road, still clutching her improvised pike of a knife strapped to the end of a staff. Her face was strained, white—and a mask of despair.

  Krebain shook his head. “Really, my dear, you have no use for a weapon like that. Take it from her, Gallen.”

  Gallen did not move; sweat poured down his face, glistening in the mage-light.

  “I said, take it.” Krebain’s voice sharpened with command, and Gallen’s gnarled hands slowly reached forward to take the pike from his wife.

  “Now—just rest the point of that wicked little knife on her stomach, why don’t you.” Gallen his face reflecting his agony, lowered the pike until the point of the blade touched his wife’s stomach. He whimpered again as Krebain’s will made him brace it. Krebain’s smile grew broader. “Of course, Reva, it would be very painful if you were to walk forward just now—”

  Vanyel couldn’t bear it. He gathered what little there was of his courage, and shouted, his voice breaking.

  “Stop it!”

  He pushed his protectors aside and walked out from behind them to stand in the open, a pace or two in front of them.

  And in the moment when Krebain turned to face him, licking his lips, he Mindcalled with all his strength—

  :Yfandes! The mage—he’s here! ’Fandes—:

  “That’s enough, child.”

  Vanyel felt a barrier close down around the village, a barrier that allowed no thought to escape, and no further call for help.

  He raised his chin with the same bleak defiance that had served him against his father.

  “Let them alone, wizard,” he said, his voice trembling despite his efforts to keep it steady. He could feel sweat trickling coldly down the back of his neck, and his mouth was dry and sour with fear. “I’m the one you wanted.”

  Krebain made a dismissing gesture, and Reva and Gallen staggered as his hold over them was released. Gallen threw down the pike and seized her shoulders, and together they melted into the crowd at Krebain’s back.

  “Come where I can see you,” the wizard said, mildly.

  Vanyel walked, with slow a
nd hesitant steps, into the area where the mage-light was striking.

  “What a pleasant surprise—”

  Unless Krebain was feigning it—which was possible—he was surprised.

  And—pleased.

  If Vanyel could keep him in that mood, maybe he could keep them all safe a little longer. He began to feel a tiny stirring of hope.

  “What a truly pleasant surprise. My would-be enemy is a beautiful young man. What is your name, lovely one?”

  Vanyel saw no reason not to answer him. If nothing else—if Yfandes had heard him, he’d be buying time for help to arrive. He allowed himself a moment to hope a little more, then replied, “Vanyel Ashkevron.”

  “Vanyel—I do not believe this—Vanyel Ashkevron?” The wizard laughed, throwing back his head. “What a joke! What a magnificent jest! I come a-hunting you, and you walk unarmed into my very hand!”

  Vanyel shook his head, bewildered.

  The wizard grinned. “Dear, lovely boy. You have enemies, you know, enemies with no appreciation of beauty and a great deal of coin to spend. Wester Leshara holds you to blame for the death of his cousin Evan, didn’t you know that? He sent me an additional commission to deal with you as I had with young Staven Frelennye. I had thought to attend to my own pursuits a while here, then deal with you at my leisure, allowing matters to cool first. But—now I don’t know that I am going to oblige him by killing you. Not when you turn out to be so very beautiful. Come closer, would you?”

  Vanyel felt no magical coercion, which rather surprised him. “If you don’t mind,” he said carefully, “I’d really rather not.”

  This time Krebain’s smile held a hint of real humor. “Then I shall have to come to you, beautiful Vanyel.”

  He paced gracefully across the pounded dirt of the village square, taking each step as though he walked on a carpet of petals strewn especially for his benefit. The mage-light continued to follow him faithfully. He strolled around Vanyel as he had walked around Gallen, but his expression this time was less cruelly cheerful and more acquisitive. His path was an inward-turning spiral, with Vanyel as the center, so that he completed his circuit facing Vanyel and less than a handspan away. He reached out with one crimson-gloved hand, ignoring the presence of everyone in the square as if he and Vanyel were alone together, and laid it along Vanyel’s cheek. Vanyel looked steadily into his blue-black eyes within the shadowed eyeholes of the helm-mask and did not flinch away. Those eyes were the first indication he had seen that the wizard was something other than human. Those dark and frightening eyes were slitted like a cat’s—and under the velvet of the glove, Vanyel could feel something very sharp and talonlike resting on his cheek.