Even if they managed to get Meliandri back to her people, without the Queen’s direct orders she wouldn’t receive adequate care. If Meliandri died, he and Sarai would be branded murderers under Elven law. Extenuating circumstances had no bearing in an elf justicar’s mind. A person’s failure to preserve Elven life when possible was considered equal to being a killer. Pureblood elves were few, and elf women rarely brought even two children into the world during her millennium long life. Given the scarcity of births, death carried tremendous significance.
One thing he knew for certain, it was bad—very bad.
“She comes with us,” the Queen snapped. “Tie her on the horse.”
Laramis sighed, nodded, and gathered up the limp form of the elf healer. Bannor assisted the paladin as they arranged her in the saddle. She flopped like a rag-doll, no stiffness at all in her limbs. The only way Bannor knew she remained alive came from the warmth of her flesh. Touching the undead woman made Bannor’s skin crawl. Her eyes never blinked.
Neither he nor the blond man spoke, they relied on gestures instead. It wasn’t a time for talk.
“Wren,” the Queen said. “Take point. Laramis, you and Bannor take rear-guard. I’ll lead Meliandri’s horse. Single file, assume there are enemy around.”
Bannor glanced at Laramis. The man shrugged and nodded. They mounted up. His horse jumped and sidestepped nervously underneath him, and it took a while to get the animal calmed down.
With Wren in the lead they made straight for the formation they’d earlier identified as Honig’s fist. Bannor had never been across the border into Malan, but traders frequently described tales of the Grimaldi basin and the huge stone massif overlooking it. One of the larger Elven communities named Surn lay at the northern end of the valley.
A capricious breeze accompanied the hot sun, blowing icy cold one moment, then warm the next. The potent smell of dry scrub kicked up by the horse’s hooves made his eyes water. Worse yet, his nose ran incessantly because of the change in altitude and temperature. He spent half the time honking and wiping. The change affected Laramis, too, and they suffered together in comradely misery.
The elves didn’t experience as much problem with the temperature and altitude as they did the scrub. When Sarai glanced back at him every so often, he noticed her eyes looked red and puffy. The land lay open to the sky, and the trees around them came in many varieties and ages. Bugs buzzed and birds flew. Despite the war and people dying, nature continued business as usual. To him, it demonstrated the unyielding continuity of the universe; no matter what, life went on, with or without you.
The granite gray promontory grew larger as they wound their way along ridge-tops, ducked through shallow ravines, and skirted dense stands of black scalebark and needleleaf. The sure-footed thickmanes took all the varied terrain in stride. The sturdy animals moved at a steady pace, never seeming to tire.
Bannor’s thighs soon ached from straddling the broad animal. Periodically, he needed to kneel or sit sidesaddle to give his legs a rest. Sarai and the others regularly did the same.
As they topped a high ridge, he glanced south, and his stomach tightened.
“Hold up!” He called.
Wren reined in and they all stared at him. Laramis pulled his horse around to face the same direction. Together they gazed at the dark black spire that wavered over the landscape like a funnel cloud. Though the dark shape still lay ten leagues away, he sensed its immensity. A rip in the sky that opened into another reality.
“The gate,” Kalindinai said.
“It’s so big,” Sarai said.
Wren guided her horse back to the main group. “I can see ripples of force spilling out from it all across the landscape. That thing must be a thousand paces across.”
“And a league high,” muttered Laramis.
“How can we possibly shut such a monster?” Bannor asked.
The Queen’s skin had turned pale, but her violet eyes burned bright. “We’ll find a way.”
“I don’t know,” Wren said. She ran a hand through her blonde hair. Her blue eyes were wide. Bannor didn’t often see Wren show fear. “There’s enough power surging through that portal to turn the world inside out. Shut that gate wrong, and half the continent might get sucked in before it’s closed.”
“We have to take that chance,” the Queen growled. “The alternative is letting all of Hades spill into Sharikaar.”
Bannor glanced at Sarai at the same time her eyes searched out his. He maneuvered his horse toward hers, and they pulled close enough to join hands.
His mate’s palm felt damp, and her hand trembled. To talk about their mission was one thing, but seeing the immensity of what they must overcome cast their task in a new light. The gods had ripped a hole in space big enough that a dozen legions could march through side by side. The sheer size of that pillar of darkness dwarfed anything he conjured in his mind. If Hecate had such power, how could they hope to defeat her?
He closed his eyes. If she could create such a monstrosity, what might she be able to do with his power added to hers? The idea sent a shiver through him.
If they didn’t shut the gate, Hecate would annihilate Sharikaar. The armies of Malan, Corwin, and Ivaneth would drown beneath a sea of creatures spewing out of the gate like a black tide.
Staring across the verdant landscape, Bannor recalled the scorched and decimated world that he saw when he and Hecate met in his dream. If they didn’t stop her, these lands and the people in them would become like that—nothing but cinders. He grew sick inside thinking of it. As he stared at the ebony line extending into the sky, he saw how it resembled a titanic knife. A blade that would stab into the heart of his world and rip it asunder. Even if he ran, she would destroy everything to spite him. A goddess didn’t make idle threats.
“Are you well, my one?” Sarai asked.
He swallowed, met her eyes and forced a smile. “I will survive.”
She gave his hand a squeeze. “We can get through this—I know we can.”
Her voice soothed Bannor, and filled him with warmth. If he had nothing else but her in his life, he would feel complete. Thinking of being forced to live without her, made his heart pound. More than once, the avatars had tried to separate them. If he didn’t find a way to drive Hecate off Titaan, she would eventually claim one of them.
He put his other hand on top of hers. He must defeat the avatars, not only for his security, but also for Sarai and everyone threatened by these creatures. He’d scampered like a long-ear before the hounds for too long. If he kept running, he’d get cornered. By then, it might be too late to fight back.
The Queen was right. Strike back while the enemy still believes you are defensive. His brother had died in a trench, running from the warriors of the North. In his own battle with the dark forces, they’d fought a retreating battle barely two steps ahead of destruction.
No more.
He’d learned from his encounter with Meliandri. He now knew more of the powers of the avatars and the limits of his Garmtur. The avatars wanted him so badly that they would take chances they might not otherwise take. He’d have to capitalize on that and give them more than they planned for.
He couldn’t match the power of a god, but as he stared out at the flux lines spiraling into the heart of the black spire, he realized that power might not be what he needed.
He focused on Sarai’s violet eyes and put his other hand on top of hers.
What he needed—was right here.
***
They rode in the giant shadow of Honig’s fist, the fading light of the setting sun casting spidery silhouettes off the trees and outcrops. The jagged profile of the western mountains where he and the others had lived stood out against an amber and orange streaked horizon. Over the peaks, charcoal colored thunderclouds boiled like a witch’s brew. For some reason, the scene seemed familiar, as if he’d viewed it before.
North of them, gray sheets of rain cast a haze over the steppes of the Malanian highlands. Gus
ts of cold damp air hissed through the ravines and whistled in the brush. Coveys of trilling birds rushed across the trail along with the occasional scampering of a long-ear.
The squall heading toward them promised to be even more violent than the one they had weathered six days ago. Half a day’s ride away, another storm, in the form of the avatar’s army, was mustering to surge across the land. Even now, Hecate’s demons might be on the move, burning and desecrating the landscape.
Seeing the gate from the hilltop had struck another silence over the group. No doubt, each person speculated about what lay ahead. Though he tried not to worry himself with pessimistic expectations, he knew he shouldn’t try to fool himself, either. They faced a task that might take one or all their lives to accomplish.
He’d kept silent about the patterns he saw in the flux lines leading into the black spire. The instinctive grasp of patterns the Garmtur gave Bannor let him perceive an instability in the magical power feeding the gate. Yet, even after long pondering he still couldn’t verbally describe that vulnerability. How could they take advantage of a weakness he couldn’t explain?
“The town of Silvanshire lies less than a league down the trail,” the Queen said. “We shall break for the night there.”
From the head of the procession, Wren peered back. The savant’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t say anything. After a moment, she focused her attention back on the trail.
Laramis cleared his throat. “Matradomma,” he said. “Are you certain that’s wise? Mightn’t that cause us trouble? Three members of the royal family here, unannounced. What will the folk think?”
Kalindinai didn’t look back. She pulled the lead on Meliandri’s horse tighter. The animal snorted and tossed its head. “Are you questioning Our judgment, Lord De’Falcone?”
The paladin gritted his teeth. “No Matradomma, I merely wish to understand.”
The Queen urged her horse faster with the black rod she used. “No further appraisal of this matter is necessary. Press on.”
Sarai glanced back at Bannor then traded a look with her sister. “Mother,” she said in a low tone. “I understand what they’re saying—”
“As do We, daughter,” Kalindinai growled.
Sarai let out a breath and shut up. The tone the Queen used made a spark of anger rush through Bannor. He pushed the emotion down, knowing that the Queen was still mourning her friend, and lashing out at everyone in her grief.
The group spent the remainder of the descent into the Grimaldi basin in an uneasy silence. Laramis rode with a stony expression like a man who’d been pushed into a corner where he didn’t want to be. Janai and Sarai rode close to one another with concerned looks on their faces. Ahead of the group, Wren rode slumped in the saddle as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders.
Two-thirds of a bell passed before the lights of the town came into view. The runoff from a small spring paralleled the trail, and Bannor found the gurgling of the water a welcome sound in the void of conversation. From the reeds along the creek, the baritone croak of a pond-leaper almost jolted him out of the saddle. A chorus of chirp bugs added to the background of noise.
As the buildings of the hamlet hove into view, a sense of danger impinged on him. Even this close to nightfall, there should be movement in and around the village. An odd smell came to his nostrils, acrid and heavy. The horses snorted and tossed their heads obviously responding to the odor.
Wren reined her thickmane to a stop. The Queen pulled up short beside her, and Bannor saw their heads turning to scan the area. Sarai halted ahead of him, and he pulled alongside.
Her glowing eyes were narrow and her face tight. “Something’s wrong.”
He nodded.
* * *
The wind hummed in his ears, and his heart thudded in his chest. A terrible ache in the pit of his stomach told him what they would find in streets of Silvanshire.
I hate being rushed, it disallows the use of finesse and making sure a murder is performed with the appropriate amount of style and misdirection…
—From the Dedriad, ‘musings of an immortal’
Chapter Fifty-Eight
« ^ »
Bannor dismounted, axe in hand. The acrid smell and the unnatural stillness in Silvanshire made the skin on the back of his neck tingle. Light shone in several of the hamlet’s dozen or so buildings, but nowhere did he see movement. In the distance, the chirping of bugs was audible, but within the town itself-silence.
Sarai came around the back of her horse, a sword in her fist. Glowing eyes narrowed, she studied the area.
Janai held the reins of her mother’s horse and Meliandri’s while the Queen moved forward. Wren and Laramis ranged ahead.
Bannor pulled on Sarai’s sleeve and pointed to the center of town. She nodded and fell in step beside him.
They stopped by the first yard. A low hedge surrounded the white-wood cottage with large shuddered windows. A brick path led to an enameled darkwood entry and threshold. A wreath of goldentassel hung on the door, the elven sign for welcome. A window box filled with blooming starflowers hung askew from its moorings. One side had been splintered and humus and wood fragments scattered across the stoop. An uprooted stem and its bright white blossom lay smashed amid the debris.
An icy gust made his flesh crawl. His heart skipped a beat, and he glanced at Sarai. She wore a stony expression, all the lines of her face pulled into a frown.
Together they eased to the steps. Broad gouges like those left by fingernails creased the door. Set apart, two sets of crimson streaks trailed off one side of the porch. It appeared someone had groped for purchase with bloody hands while being dragged.
Sarai picked up the mangled flower. Bright red specks dotted the petals. Her hand trembled as she closed her fingers on the bloom. Taking a breath, she went the direction indicated by the red lines. Here and there across the yard, hunks of soil were ripped out. The trail led to a trampled section of the hedge.
Sarai moved with determined strides, her body taut as a bowstring. Bannor stayed at her shoulder. A chilling sense of doom gripped his chest. Perhaps less than a tenday ago children had been playing in the street, and a close-knit community of happy villagers had gone about their everyday business. Now, the streets felt defiled and barren, and a malignant taint hung in the air.
They traced the signs to a ring of seven crimsonwood and slatestone dwellings with high peaked roofs. The pattern of the homes was that of a meshtiqua, a traditional elven domicile where several generations of a single family lived. Steps led to a silverwood gate that opened into the common yard shared by the houses.
As they prepared to enter, the wind shifted. A noxious stench hit Bannor like a hard punch. Tears came to his eyes and his stomach tightened. He recoiled a step. Sarai halted, then convulsed.
The sound of boots on rock made Bannor turn. The Queen strode toward them from another part of the village. The pungent smell of death halted her as if she’d struck a wall. After a moment, she forged ahead as though wading against a current.
The woman’s expression looked so stiff her face could have been a mask. Her lips barely moved when she spoke. “Have you been inside yet?”
Bannor shook his head.
She started forward, and Sarai took her arm. Kalindinai stared at her daughter’s hand. She raised her chin.
Kalindinai pried Sarai’s fingers off her arm and strode for the gate. Bannor followed. He had no desire to see what lay inside, but he knew the Queen shouldn’t see it alone.
The gate opened abruptly and Laramis stepped out with a handkerchief tied around his nose and mouth. Even in the darkness, Bannor saw the pallor of the man’s skin. He closed the gate, and put his back to it. Laramis let out a breath and his muscular frame quivered.
The Queen stepped up to him.
“Milady, there is nothing inside you wish to see.” Bannor heard a tremor in Laramis’s usually strident voice. Whatever lay within must be a horrible beyond words.
“Move asi
de, Lord De’Falcone. These are my subjects.”
The Queen gripped his arm to push him aside.
The paladin stood his ground. He pulled the scarf from around his face, and then took her shoulders in his hands. “Milady, please trust me.” When he said the word ‘please’ he gave the Queen’s shoulders a shake. Bannor heard a near hysterical note in his voice. “No good can come of seeing what’s within.”
Wren stepped off the porch of nearby meshtiqua house. She moved as though in a daze. Every moment or so she shook her head. The savant stopped by Sarai and leaned against her. Bannor saw tears on the woman’s face glistening in the starlight.
“What’s in there?” Sarai asked.
The savant shook her head again. “It’s—the whole town.” Her voice wavered. “Lord’s—they—”
“What?!” The Queen demanded.
“Flayed them,” Wren cleared her throat. “Stripped off their skin. Bastards—” She put a forearm across her face. “Gutted and piled like wood. Even the children. Lords. Nothing we can do. Nothing.” The despondency and shock in Wren’s voice made chills go through him. Skinned them? Children?
Wren staggered back in the direction of the horses. The Queen looked after her then to the gate guarded by Laramis.
Laramis’ voice startled him. “Bannor, there is one thing you must see.” The hard tone in the man’s voice made Bannor meet his gaze. Laramis’ blue eyes looked glassy, but his face looked as stern as he’d ever seen it. “Inside, there is—” the man balled his hands into fists. “I am sorry,” he said the words as though in anguish. “You need to see it.”
The Queen glanced from Laramis to Bannor.
“Matradomma,” Laramis said. “It is worse even than Wren says. Come with me back to the horses. I must—” A tear trickled down his cheek. His voice caught. “I must get my sanctifications and say a prayer over these souls.”
Sarai came forward and took her mother’s arm. For a moment, it looked as if the Queen would fight both of them. Something, perhaps the tears on the paladin’s face convinced her to relent. She allowed herself to be led away by Sarai and the blond man.
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