“Stay here, then!”
“Oh, darlings, I'd adore that. But ...” He waved a helpless hand. “What would the troop do without me? They would be simply lest, the poor dears. Ta-ta, darlings!”
Fun was fun, but once they were safely out of sight of the city walls, the party was of one mind, searching until they’d found a small pool screened by a grove of trees. Kevin practically threw himself from his mule and gladly stripped off his girlish finery, scrubbing and scrubbing till he’d washed every last trace of paint and powder from his face.
“Ugh. Can’t see how women can stand wearing all that stuff.”
“Frankly, neither can I!” Lydia straightened, shaking out her damp black hair and tousling the curls dry with her hands. “I mean, I like looking nice as much as any other woman.” She winked at Kevin. “You should see me when I dress up pretty! But all that stuff I was wearing just now made me feel like I was carrying a prison around with me!”
In the middle of strapping on her sword, she paused, looking out over the lake, eyebrows raised. “My, isn’t that a pleasant sight!”
Naitachal, some distance away, had stripped to the waist to wash off the last of the disguising powder. His body was inhumanly slim and graceful but undeniably male, smooth muscles rippling and dark skin gleaming with every move. Realizing the others were watching him, he disappeared into the bushes, emerging shrouded once more in his black cloak. And now every trace of frivolity was gone.
It’s almost as though he was drunk before, and now he’s sober again, Kevin thought.
Maybe that wasn’t so bizarre an idea. After all, for a Dark Elf, a necromancer used to a grim world of sorcery and death, being suddenly thrown into the middle of so much vibrant, busy life really must have been intoxicating!
As the bardling retrieved his lute from the pile of dancing girls’ gear, he heard Naitachal mutter:
“Powers, I’m glad that’s over.”
“I thought you were enjoying yourself.” Eliathanis’ voice was cool with disapproval.
Naitachal glanced sharply at the White Elf—”Up to a point. One moment more, though, and I think I would have thrown up.”
“From fright?” Kevin asked in disbelief.
“Hardly!” The Dark Elf gave him a fierce little grin. “From a surfeit of sugar!”
Chapter XV
As the party rode up the gentle slope from the river plain in which Westerin lay, Kevin suddenly reined in his mule. “Lydia, if we have to retrace all our steps back to Count Volmar’s castle, we’re going to waste too much time.”
“Agreed. Besides, I don’t want to risk going through that gorge again, either; one ambush is more than enough, thank you.” The woman hesitated, chewing thoughtfully on her lip. “I do know a much shorter route. The only thing is ... well—.. let’s put it this way:
anybody have any objections about riding through a battlefield?”
“A what?”
“An ancient one. I’m not even sure what the whole thing was all about, it happened so long ago. Shouldn’t be anything left to bother us.” She shot an uneasy glance at the Dark Elf. “Unless, of course, someone tries to disturb things.”
Naitachal’s eyes glinted coldly. “ I am not in the habit of rousing that which should not be roused. Lead on.”
Kevin struggled against the urge to keep looking over his shoulder. This was ridiculous! An easy ride, a nice, bright, sunny day, a smooth, grassy meadow stretching out before him without any obstructions at all and a splendid array of mountains in the distance there was not the slightest thing to fear.
Then why oh why was his mind insisting on sending these constant thrills of nervousness through him?
“Naitachal,” the bardling asked uneasily. “Is this ... was this ...”
“The battlefield?” The Dark Elf’s voice sounded strained and distant. “Yes ... you would sense that, too, wouldn’t you. Bard-to-be that you are? So many lives lost, human and Other ... I can feel their auras even now, calling to me ....”
“Well, don’t answer them!” Lydia snapped, and Naitachal blinked like someone suddenly shaken from a dream.
“No,” he said, and then more confidently, “no!”
But as they rode on across the meadow, the others could see shudders racking his slender frame. The Dark Elf was plainly fighting some terrible inner battle of his own, struggling against all the long, cruel years of childhood conditioning screaming at him, You are a creature of the Darkness! Leave the light behind you!
Unexpectedly, Eliathanis brought his mule alongside. “Take my hand,” he said softly.
“What—”
“Take it. Hold fast. Yes, like that. Think of sunlight, Naitachal. Think of life and joy. They are the only realities here.”
Kevin saw the White Elf wince with the force of Naitachal’s desperate grasp—But Eliathanis refused to let go, as though willing peace into the Dark Elf through that link.
And little by little the tension left Naitachal’s body. He shuddered one last time, then released the White Elf’s hand, looking at Eliathanis in confusion.
“Thank you,” the Dark Elf said after a moment. “I hardly expected you to wish to help me, but—thank you.”
“Ah. Well.” Eliathanis flushed, embarrassed by his own kindness. “I... didn’t want you rousing anything undead against us.”
“I wouldn’t willingly.” Then Naitachal added, very softly, “But it was a near thing.”
Alatan, sorcerer, necromancer, paced impatiently back and forth on the ramparts of his small, square keep, glancing now and then out over the smooth, treeless expanse of meadow without really seeing it. He was alone up there, the only living being in all the keep, alone save for a few silent, soulless aides.
“Damn her!” he hissed.
And damn him for a fool for ever letting himself be forced to be responsible to her! So much time had passed without a word from her. He’d almost let himself believe the rumors that the sorceress was dead, or so far from here that she’d forgotten all about him and the debt he owed her: the debt of his life.
Oh no. She hadn’t forgotten. All at once there had come that summons, and with it the infuriating knowledge that he still wasn’t free, any more than he’d been free so many years ago ... when the peasants had caught him weak from the aftereffects of a failed spell, had caught him and condemned him to death by fire——.
The sorcerer stopped short, black cloak swirling about him. Unbidden, his mind conjured up the hardwood stake as clearly as though it were with him now instead of far in the past, the stake and the chains pressing him cruelly back against it, his hands bound so he couldn’t gesture, his mouth sealed with a wooden gag so he couldn’t call out the slightest spell, and the flames crackling at the wood beneath him, the heat already starting to eat at his feet, his legs ...
Alatan spat out a savage curse, forcing his mind back to the present. It was done, he was safe, and he should have banished such ridiculous memories long ago!
The sorcerer resumed his angry pacing. What nonsense this was! He had seen and done and summoned horrors enough during his career, horrors that would have sent any other man screaming—aye, and he’d seen many of those horrors do him homage, too. He would not act like some raw boy haunted by his own mind!
Ah, no. Fear wasn’t the problem. What truly rankled, what stayed in his mind after all this rime was having to admit chat for all his Power, he hadn’t been able to do a thing to save himself. Oh no, if Carlotta hadn’t chanced to see what was happening, chose stupid, fearful peasants would have won and he would be ashes in the wind, spirit lost in the Outer Dark. If she hadn’t seen, and thought, and realized what a fine tool was about to be lost—
“Damn her,” Alatan repeated aloud, but by now most of the anger was gone from his voice. A tool he was, and a tool he would remain till the debt of his life was repaid. No successful sorcerer survived by denying What Must Be. And he dare not fail.
Grimly resigned, Alatan went down from the ramparts
to his private chambers, to a dark room crowded with sorcerous implements. A few careful Words of Power sparked a silver-rimmed scrying mirror into life.
Alatan focused his will, bringing into sharp focus an image of the boy, the bardling, and those with whom he rode—A woman ... a warrior by the lithe look other ... and quite human. He smiled coldly. No threat there. The others ... The sorcerer’s mouth tightened. A White Elf, that one, but again, a warrior, not a mage. And again, no threat to him. But that other Figure, draped all in black ... Alatan frowned and leaned forward, staring. Whoever, whatever was shrouded under that cloak knew at least enough to block anything more than this casual scan.
You may yet be trouble, my mysterious friend.
And then again, there might not be any trouble at all. For look at the direction in which they rode! Tensing in sudden predatory delight, hardly believing his good fortune, the sorcerer urged them. Further, ride just a little further ....
With a sharp crack! the mirror shattered. Alatan sprang back in shock, dodging shards of glass. No doubt about it: that black-dad figure was another sorcerer! No, no, more than that: the stranger could only be a necromancer. No one else could have forced his spell back on itself so powerfully.
Alatan’s laugh was sharp as the glass. So, now! It had been long and long rill he’d found an enemy worthy of combat! Burning with eagerness, the sorcerer sprang to his feet. calling for his undead servants, and hurried down to the meadow below, to the field of battle-once-was and battle-yet-to-be.
Naitachal straightened as sharply in the saddle as though he’d been slapped. Eyes blazing with sudden sorcerous force, he gestured imperiously, shouting out savage, alien Words that tore at Kevin’s ears and sent the mules shying wildly.
“Naitachal!” Lydia yelped, struggling to keep her seat. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Reining in his own panicky, curvetting mule, the Dark Elf said shortly, “Someone was spying on us. Through sorcery. I turned his spell back upon him.”
Eliathanis tensed. “Then it wasn’t my imagination just now. I really did sense ... something.” His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. “Do you know who the sorcerer is, or where?”
“Who, no. Where: nearby. But I’ve shattered his scrying tool.”
“That’s not going to be the end of it.”
“I doubt it.” Naitachal glanced sharply about, a predator hunting elusive prey. “The sooner we are dear of this battle-field-that-was, the bettor.”
And then the earth shook. Kevin’s mule screamed in terror, rearing up so violently the bardling went flying. He twisted frantically in mid-air, landing with a jolt on his feet, lute smacking him in the side, noting out of the corner of his eye that only Naitachal had managed to keep his seat and staring as the meadow writhed, tearing itself apart. Out of the shattered earth rose:
No. That’s not possible, his mind insisted, over and over.
Climbing up into the land of the living were the long-dead, the skeletons of humans and Others, the fallen victims of that now-forgotten battle returned, fleshless skulls grinning, fleshless hands gripping swords and axes. Sightless sockets stared blankly at the horrified living.
Behind them, wrapped in a cloak as black as that worn by Naitachal stood a figure who could only be the necromancer who’d dragged them forth. All Kevin could see of the face under the dark hood were a gray beard—proof the man at least was human—and fierce, pitiless gray eyes: sorcerous eyes. In the man’s hand a wooden staff topped with a serpentine carving crackled with blue-white force.
To his right, the bardling heard Naitachal let out his breath in a long hiss. “So ...” the Dark Elf said softly. “I thought as much.”
He flung himself from his frantic mule, slapping it out of the way of his magic. “Get out of here, all of you.”
Eliathanis’ sword glinted in his hand. “Are you mad? We can’t leave you here alone!”
“You can’t fight what isn’t alive! Get out of here!”
But it was already too late. The other sorcerer thrust out his staff, and the undead army charged.
“You shall no;!” With that, Naitachal shouted out fierce, ugly, commanding Words in the harsh language of sorcery, hurling his arms up in denial. The skeletal enemy stumbled back from the force of his will—but behind them, the human necromancer cast up his own arms, staff raised, shouting out his own dark spell. Kevin, near-Bard that he was, saw the psychic flames of sorcery that blazed out from both foes, crashing together in a shower of blinding, blue-white sparks. He heard Naitachal gasp at the impact, but the Dark Elf’s will held firm.
So, unfortunately, did that of the human foe.
But as the sorcerers stood locked in their savage, silent battle, both lost their hold on the skeletal warriors. They, empty things that they were, followed the only command they had received, and resumed their interrupted charge.
“Look out!” Lydia cried. “Here they come!”
Kevin gripped his sword as tightly as he could, trying not to let it shake in his hand. Powers, Powers, how do you hurt a skeleton?
All at once, the arch of sorcery vanished with a roar of whirling air. Naitachal shouted out new Words of command, the sound alien, hating, the essence of Dark Elf necromancy. The Words enfolding the undead bending them to his will. For a moment the deadly things hesitated, caught, quivering with the strain.
Then, slowly, they turned to threaten the human necromancer instead. His eyes widened in shock, and for a moment Kevin thought the man was going to break from sheer surprise. But after that startled moment, the gray eyes blazed up in renewed fury. The necromancer thrust out his staff with such force the undead reeled and fell back—only to be caught anew in the net of Naitachal’s Power.
“Th-they’re fighting each other!” the bardling gasped. “They’re fighting their own battle all over again!”
Well and good, but not all the skeletal army had found foes. Some of them came spilling up towards the living. Lydia loosed an arrow—but it passed harmlessly through a fleshless rib cage.
“Damn!”
“Try for their joints,” Eliathanis said grimly. “Cut those apart, and the creatures cannot move.”
Kevin didn’t have time to worry about it. He just barely had a chance to put his lute aside before a skeleton headed right towards him, axe raised. The bardling could have sworn that fleshless grin had sentient malice behind it—
Can’t parry an axe with a sword. But an axeman can’t be as quick as a swordsman; once he’s swung, it has to take him a moment to recover, and—Now!
As the axe came whistling down, Kevin threw himself to one side, slashing out sideways with his sword. He missed the knee joint, the blade clanging harmlessly off bone. But at least the impact staggered the skeleton slightly; it might be an undead thing, but it was still subject to the force of gravity! Kevin swung again, hoping to knock it over completely, but to his horror, a skeletal hand shot out and closed on the blade.
Of course, of course, he—it—doesn’t have any fingers to get cut!
The thing was far, far stronger than anything mortal. Kevin struggled helplessly with it, clutching the sword hilt with both hands—only to have the skeleton, still grinning its inane grin, begin reeling him in, bony hand over hand up the blade. If he kept holding onto the hilt, Kevin realized, he was going to be dragged into the skeleton’s reach.
So he suddenly let go. To his relief, the skeleton, which had been braced against his weight, went right over backwards. Kevin kicked it as hard as he could, and heard ribs crack, but the thing was already climbing back to its feet, apparently unhurt.
And it’s still got my sword and its axe!
Now, what?
The bardling backed away, looking about for a branch, a rock, anything he could use as a weapon. He found a rock, all right: he stepped on it, and the treacherous thing turned under his foot, sending him sprawling.
As the skeleton lunged down at him, Kevin did the only thing he could think of: he caught t
he bony arms, and kicked his legs up with all his force, just as he had with the swordsman back in Westerin. To his amazed wonder, he sent the skeleton sailing neatly over his head, to land with a satisfying crash. It lost his sword in the fall, and the bardling snatched up the weapon, hacking and hacking at the undead thing before it could rise till he’d cut right through its skeletal neck. The skeleton collapsed in a bony heap.
I —laid it! I won!
Fierce with triumph, the bardling looked about to see how everyone else was faring. Lydia and Eliathanis were surrounded, fighting back to back, skeletal hands snatching at them from all sides, while Tich’ki, swearing savagely, tried in vain to ward off the undead with her spear.
I’ve got to help them before—
A bony hand closed with painful force about his ankle. Headless or not, the skeleton was still very much animated.
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