“Lord Elseth,” Evayne said, her lips almost pressed to his ear, “this is not the Sacred Hunt.”
He lowered the spear.
And then, sudden and swift, he raised it with a guttural cry of anger and denial. The Sacred Hunt had already claimed its victim. He did not have to stand by; he would not stand by to watch and linger like a helpless child, afraid to raise hand or weapon.
He called the trance early, and it came to him with an ease that it never had. The light became bright and exact, the darkness hard and well-defined. Around him, like mist or fog, the floating whispers of the foreign Lords tweaked his ears. He saw Ashfel, proud and alert, saw through Salas’ eyes, caught more keenly the scent of the Mother’s hearth.
Grabbing his horn, he winded it, long and loud—but he called only the ground hunt, and not the great one.
The lowing of the horn reverberated throughout the hall, louder even than the sounds of combat. Before it died into stillness, the eyes of the demon lord sought the eyes of the Hunter Lord.
Recognition.
• • •
The nature of the battle changed in that moment. Unlooked for, unrecognizable until the instant the horn was winded, the miserable Hunter Lord had revealed himself—carrying, in his folly, the single item that was a threat to the Lord of the Hells.
Karathis had been in the Hells when the Horn was first taken, but he knew it on sight, and knew further that no simple spell, whether born of wild magics or darkness, could destroy it; the Horn’s destruction was not his intent. But the human bearer’s was.
Could he but retrieve the horn and retreat, the war was theirs to win at leisure. Gathering his power, he struck the ground with sword and flame-touched invocation. The rock shattered and melted beneath the human’s feet, fanning upward in a spray of heavy liquid.
But his target had already moved. Cursing, Karathis raised his blade as the beast roared and struck.
• • •
Gilliam pushed the trance to its limits, taking the speed and the strength that it had to offer and using them. The demon was faster than any quarry that he had ever hunted—and no quarry had proved so dangerous except the Hunter’s Death. The shaft of the spear felt too thin as he turned it in his hands, gripping it tightly.
The ground buckled beneath his boots; he felt it break as he rolled to the left, gaining his feet without a backward glance. This time, he did not stand for long; the spear became a vaulting pole as he thrust himself up from the rock a second—less—before it, too, splintered.
As he landed, he heard the demon snarl in pain, and his lips folded up in a vicious smile. Espere could strike where Gilliam could only flee; she could stand upon the demon’s summoned fire just as easily as the demon himself.
The smile dimmed quickly.
For as Gilliam looked hurriedly around, he realized what the demon’s intent was. The ground, inch by inch, was becoming a red and white patch of heated, melted rock—rock upon which Gilliam could not stand, let alone fight.
• • •
Sor na Shannen’s hands were slick with blood, and she stared down at the liquid with both distaste and fascination. Of the kin, she was a subtle creature, and her torments were not of the body, but of the mind and spirit. To kill in such a physical fashion, when her victim was helpless and waiting, was almost anathema to her. It did not show, however; the altars were blooded quickly and efficiently.
The Allasakari presided over some of the slaughter—a point of contention among the kin, but one that would be addressed later—and Isladar stood at the foot of the Gateway that had been so long in opening, kneeling so close to the tentacles that the God anchored himself to the world with that if he moved a hair’s breadth, he might be devoured. He did not move.
Above the arch that opened into the void and the darkness, the keystone glowed a pale green, pulsing like an irregular heartbeat. Not a living creature, save for the Allasakari, remained in the coliseum. Those who had been kept in the pens for the weeks to come were led out in herds, driven to the arms of the kin and the Allasakari, dedicated to the darkness, and destroyed by it.
But would they be enough?
“Lord,” Isladar said as the earth trembled beneath the coliseum, “all life and all light that can be found in your city has been offered to you. The Gate, we will hold while we can, but your ancient enemy stalks the streets of the city.”
The darkness turned in on itself in a twisting convulsion, and then it grew still for the first time in decades.
Be prepared, it said.
Isladar watched in utter stillness and silence, as the darkness began to coalesce. Above it, the keystone began to dim.
• • •
“What is that fool doing?”
Evayne, staring at the patchwork the demon lord made of the stone floor, made no response to Meralonne’s incredulity.
“The beast is weakened,” Kallandras said, in her stead. “Perhaps he thought to help.”
“Why thank you.” The mage’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “That much is obvious. I merely hoped that the mysterious Evayne could tell me—tell us—that the young man’s ability matches his intent.” He drew upon pipe smoke as if it were necessary breath, and then blew it out in a huff. Teeth clamped together, he handed the pipe to the bard. “Take care of her,” he told the younger man, as he gritted his teeth.
It was Evayne’s turn to stare. “What—what are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? Your powers of observation have obviously dimmed over the decades.” Again, he grimaced; the expression of pain didn’t stop him from summoning his sword. It was slow to come, but when it did, it glittered in his hand like sharp, cold ice.
“Meralonne, this is not your fight.”
“No?” Of all things, he laughed. “Evayne, it is not for the student to choose the master’s battles.”
“I am not your student, nor have I been for—”
“Evayne.”
“What?” She did not turn to look at Kallandras, but she acknowledged his interruption.
“If Lord Elseth dies, who will wind the Horn? And if the Horn is not winded, who will face the God?”
For the first time, he saw the older Evayne angered as she turned to face him; her eyes flashed and hardened into something as cold as Meralonne’s sword. “I have lived my life in this cause,” she said though clenched teeth. “Do you think to remind me—”
The demon roared in agony.
As one, the three looked up to see Gilliam, Lord Elseth, dangling from the haft of a spear buried halfway into the demon’s back. Buffeted by the thrashing of powerful wings, he clung blindly. His struggling body cast a shadow above the fires that rippled and stretched as if to reach him; to fall was death.
“Meralonne,” Kallandras said urgently, surprising himself. “Can you save him?”
But Evayne said only, “What of the Spear and the Horn?”
The mage had no chance to answer, whether by word or deed, for as the demon struggled with the weight at his back, the beast struck, great jaws snapping so quickly they could be heard more easily than seen.
In a moment, the demon’s cries were cut off as the beast’s teeth worked their way into his throat.
“It seems,” the mage said softly, “that this discussion is at an end.”
• • •
It was too soon. Another two months would still be too early—but form would be easier for the Lord to assume, and the Gate easier to breach. Sor na Shannen felt the rumbling grow stronger beneath her feet. There was nothing she could do to stop it, and nothing she could do to bring her Lord closer to the plane; she looked inward instead.
Centuries ago, her name littered about for the idle and the foolish, she had been summoned to the plane by a young, long dead mageling. He was naive enough to believe the words of a demon, and talented en
ough to be able to teach her to manipulate the magic of the form; she had learned much from him before she had finally emptied the font of both his knowledge and his life.
It was Sor na Shannen who discovered Bredan’s presence. It was Sor na Shannen—succubus, not demon lord—who had made her way to the Allasakari, and thence, to the meager and ill-protected Priesthood of Bredan’s ignorant followers. It was Sor na Shannen who had in glory and power taken the Spear of the Hunter, and the Horn. Because it was Sor na Shannen who understood that if Bredan could somehow, in some way, walk the plane, so, too, could Allasakar.
If Allasakar began his ascent, Bredan would notice. If Bredan could notice, Bredan would interfere. Oh, it had taken years to understand most of the customs of the intricate and futile Hunt—and even now, she did not understand why Bredan chose not to feed upon the surrounding countryside to maintain his power and his sentience. But she knew that Allasakar would have no such difficulty.
It was a mark of genius, really, to destroy the priesthood. Ignorance descended upon the enemy’s followers in a generation or two. And Bredan? The God was barely intelligible. The kill that he took was enough to keep him from being claimed by the wildness, no more.
She had visited the forest. Sought the crippled God.
Her first mistake.
But her name had still lingered upon the mortal plane, and her plan, interrupted, still flourished. Licking her wounds, hiding in the Hells under the guise of mere succubus and not demon-mage, she had waited. And waited.
Davash AMarkham, member of the Order of Knowledge, finally dabbled in the dark arts, and on his twenty-eighth summoning, managed to reconstruct her name from forbidden scribblings and ancient texts. He was an older man, and quite a powerful one, but he mistook her, as so many did, for a mere succubus. Within six months, she had her freedom from all but the most tenuous of control. Two years later, having learned what he could teach, she summoned Karathis, offering Davash—and his master, Lord Cordufar—as fitting sacrifice.
Karathis had almost destroyed her then and there. But her Lord protected her, and in the end, a Duke of the Hells was forced into an alliance with—as he called her—one of the least of its demon lords.
For almost four decades she had labored upon this plane—labored as a servitor to the Lord of the Hells, and not as a free demon seeking the momentary pleasure of flesh and form, the idle torment of those who have not yet chosen.
She was the architect of Allasakar’s return.
Or she would be, once he crossed the threshold. And what might she ask for then? A return of the ancient, wild days, replete with shadow and suffering, with mystery and the magic of the unknown. Her lips were dry as she watched the arch in silence.
The keystone began to flicker.
When its light was dimmed completely, the door between the Hells and the world of the free would finally be pried open wide enough—and for long enough—that the Lord of the Hells could step across the threshold to claim the world as his dominion without the interference of the rest of his brethren.
• • •
“Master Gilliam,” a voice said softly.
Gilliam looked up into a shadowed light to see the familiar face of a healer. Recognizing him, he relaxed and turned away.
In his arms, Espere stirred. She lifted her head a moment, and strands of matted hair clung to his leathers, wet and sticky where blood had not quite dried. Tensing, he watched her eyelids; they flickered but did not open. He did not know what she felt, could barely guess; she was no longer his. Yet they were not free of each other. If she was not part of his pack, she was part of his responsibility, and he claimed her for Elseth with a sense of quiet, fierce pride.
“Master Gilliam.” The healer, Dantallon, spoke again, his tone strangely gentle. “The Kings are waiting.”
Let them wait, he thought, but to his surprise, he looked up.
Dantallon’s eyes were an unusual color. “Let me take her,” he said softly, gazing down at Espere. “If she’ll be safe anywhere—” He stopped, straightened his shoulders, and looked carefully at the man who sat upon the ground cradling an unconscious god-born girl. “I give you my word that I will watch over her.”
Gilliam’s arms tightened; he bowed his head a moment, resting dark hair against dark hair, filling his lungs with the scent of sweat and blood and ash. “You’ll take care of her?”
“While I have breath,” was the grave reply. Dantallon was not a large man, nor a particularly well-muscled one, but he was strong enough. To be a healer, to take the talent one was born to and temper it, to give everything that one was, and when that failed, still find something left to give—that took a strength that Stephen of Elseth had barely understood, and Gilliam of Elseth had not. Until now.
Quietly, Gilliam gained his feet, balancing Espere’s body against his chest and the crook of both arms. Dantallon’s sleeves were rolled up and buttoned to the edge of his plain shoulder seams, and his arms were stained with blood. Their hands met a moment as Espere passed from one to the other. Of the two, it was the healer’s that was the surer grip. He smiled, his brown eyes ringed with lack of sleep and hollowed with care.
Espere stiffened and raised her head; Gilliam tensed, prepared to take her back should she wake and call. But she did neither; instead, her expression relaxed into something that was almost a smile. Dantallon shifted automatically, juggling her weight so that her head rested beneath the point of his chin.
“We both have our battles to fight,” he told the Hunter Lord. “I envy you your prowess, Master Gilliam. It is upon your shoulders that the fate of the Empire rides. Do not envy me.”
Oh, the vision of the healer was sharp.
Gilliam stood, feeling a mixture of comfort and, yes, curse him, envy.
“The Kings,” the healer said, turning from him.
Lifting the Spear and girding himself once again with his sword, Gilliam of Elseth called his pack and strode toward the Kings of this foreign land. His leathers were singed, but miraculously whole, and the three burns across the length of his legs had been tended to by Dantallon himself. Gilliam would accept no other’s intrusion.
The Hunter Lord returned to the Hunt; it enfolded his vision once again, drew him into its purpose.
Espere would not Hunt further with him this day, and perhaps that was best; after all, what kind of a Lord would force his liege to kill her father?
• • •
The mages had cooled the rock, but the once fine floor now resembled a fallow field after first thaw. The army began to pick its way across the uneven ground, avoiding the wells of unnatural shadow that lingered where the demon had fallen. Of the demon itself, no other trace remained.
The order of march altered as the shadows grew stronger; the Exalted joined the Kings, followed by their priestly attendants. Their braziers now burned bright, and the chanting of the Priests, low and even, filled the halls. This was their battle hymn; there would be no other. The darkness was so pervasive it demanded silence from those that walked toward it.
The landscape changed abruptly; the halls ended, as they had once before. But this time, there was no turning back or turning aside. Earth hemmed them in, tight in places and loose in others; above them, wooden joists, great beams or rock wet with mildew and time.
No normal formations, these.
Meralonne, arm bound tight to his chest, walked the tunnels in quiet thought.
“Meralonne?” Sigurne’s voice, soothing in its ordinariness.
“Look,” he said, pointing to the earthen formation above their heads. “Roots. There.”
She nodded. “I noticed. But the tunnel walls, the roof, the ground—none of these have weathered time in any normal fashion. I fear the power that sank the city did not foresee such . . . resistance.”
He shook his head. “No.”
Her plain eyes were almost cutting a
s she cast a sidelong glance in his direction. “What power sank the city, and when?”
“It was never made clear,” he replied neutrally. “Do you feel it?”
“Yes.” It was as close as Sigurne would come to acknowledging the darkness. Her eyes sought the earthen roof once more, as she lifted a lamp aloft. “Are we walking on an upward slope?”
“A gradual one.”
They drew closer to air and sky, closer to Averalaan. The thought should have been comforting. “How long?”
“Sigurne, this may surprise you, but Vexusa was not my specialty of study.”
She smiled as smoke eddied up in a slow moving cloud. “Everything is your specialty of study, Meralonne. Give me an educated opinion.”
“Very well, but I won’t be found at fault if I prove incorrect.” He paused a moment, lighting dried leaves with a flicker of personal flame. “I would say that we are not fifteen minutes away from the main thoroughfare of the city.”
• • •
Like a falcon loosed to sky in search of earthbound quarry, Kallandras could suddenly see. Imposed upon the rocky twisted wall that was this tunnel’s surface, flickering as if it were the fire of a glass lamp in a gale, a vision of the dead came to him. His dead; the brothers that he had left.
“Kallandras?”
They lay stretched and broken in numbers too great to count, heaped like scraps of peel and core—the unwanted portion of a meal. Pressed thickly together by weight, he could discern among these corpses no face, no mark, no uniform.
“Kallandras?”
The vision altered as he searched; he could not hold it long.
• • •
The stretch of Kallandras’ mouth, the intensity of his gaze, the way his shoulders curled in told Evayne more than she wanted to know and less than she needed. “Kallandras,” she said for the third time.
“They’re in the coliseum.”
She didn’t ask who, and as someone—she thought perhaps the ATerafin—began to, she lifted a slender hand, demanding, by gesture, silence.
“We’re too late,” he continued, his voice a curious blend of flat monotone and earnest desire. “The prisoners are dead. They’ve slaughtered them all.”
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