Blood of the Falcon, Volume 2 (The Falcons Saga)

by Ellyn, Court

Blue sparks arced between Thorn’s fingers, tingled along his skin. He brought his hands together in a resounding clap. Lighting lanced from the roiling clouds, searing the wind and fissuring the stones of the towers. But he missed his target again and swore. He’d be lucky if he didn’t bring the lightning down on his own head or those of his people. So difficult to control, the wind, clouds, and lightning. He could direct the bolts where to fall, but they didn’t want to obey. Below, the armies had separated, swords and pikes still, shields raised over helms, as if the storm were something as easily fended off as arrows. Doubtless, Thorn would receive grief for his trouble, but his quiver was empty, damn it, and the White Falcon was so close.

  When the brilliance of the lightning cleared from his eyes, Shadryk was gone. Had the lightning struck him after all? Had he fled the roof?

  Lowering his arms, Thorn let the clouds dissipate. The south wind swept them north, shredding them into harmless wisps. One objective, at least, was accomplished: the garrison archers did not return to the wall. Not one arrow harried Leshan’s second charge. The tide of men roared and pushed and bled below the castle gates. Orderlies and squires rushed into the melee to pull out the wounded. The infantry in Haezeldale green shifted back toward the ford, but Lord Jaeron led his cavalry in a tight charge and shoved Leshan’s rough riders and Ilswythe’s knights back again. At least, that’s what Thorn’s untrained eye perceived from the rooftop. Goddess knew who had the upper hand.

  A stone the size of a chicken’s egg sailed past Thorn’s nose. A line of Haezeldale pikemen reared back fists filled with round river rocks. A second squad ran for the town hall’s door. Grief, indeed. Thorn started to laugh at these frightened, angry men facing the sorcerer with stones.

  “Get out of there!” shouted Davhin atop the chandler’s roof. “They’re coming up.”

  Thorn ducked a pair of rocks, ran down the slope, and launched himself over the alley. The Evaronnans dropped through the holes in the roof. Davhin told him, “We’re pulling back for new orders. You staying?”

  The windows of the town hall rattled as Haezeldale men raced up the stairs. They would rush the chandler’s shop when they didn’t find the avedra. “I almost had Shadryk. Think I’ll find another roof in case he shows up again.”

  Davhin dropped through roof and herded his archers into the street while Thorn surveyed the surrounding buildings. He needed to take up position closer to the river. Rock throwers and archers wouldn’t see him if he wrapped himself inside the Veil. Better, he could wait outside the castle gate and slip in when it opened to admit Shadryk’s host, as it must come nightfall. Not long now. The sun sat heavily on the pregnant bellies of the Shadow Mounds.

  As though the sun turned suddenly to ice, a chill shuddered through him. A sinking dread seeped along his bones. It was the same dread he’d felt in Helwende when he realized he’d been poisoned and knew he was going to die. Weak in the knees, he nearly lost his balance. He dropped hard to the broken roof tiles and clutched the ridgepole with all the strength in his hands. Cold, so cold, like a corpse’s bloodless fingers wrapping about his throat. A hiss of laughter, as of dry leaves blown by winter winds, rattled past his ear. Oh, Mother’s mercy, not now. Where is it?

  “Massster is—good to ussss,” hissed a voice, somewhere on the roof with him. No, it was far away, a breath barely heard. “The Exiled of the—bright children—gives usss—a great light.”

  Crawling to the eave, Thorn peered down at the highway. Amid rushing, bleeding men and screaming, dying horses, stood a creature that looked more like a man than a shadow. And yet its leprous white flesh appeared to have been torn to pieces and stitched roughly back together with grotesque carelessness. Red, jagged scars crisscrossed the pale gaunt face. The flesh across one cheek was pulled too tight while the other sagged; the nose was off-center, the lips twisted. The primitive hide jerkin and tanned leather leggings, cross-gartered in ancient fashion, seemed as disheveled and carelessly patched. Wild black hair hung heavily past broad warrior’s shoulders. This passed as the shadow’s disguise when it walked among humans? How many ages had it worn this same skin? Had any race of man or Elari been so tall and lean? As predatory as the creature looked, it carried no weapons. Even the largest, bloodiest blade would terrify Thorn less than those eyes. Black as fathomless holes, they ignored the churning tide of men and stared up at Thorn, as singularly focused as the lion on the hunt. Thin strands of light coiled up from the bodies of the dying and vanished inside those eyes, lifelights devoured as night devours hope.

  Crooked lips spread in a grin, revealing teeth filed to points. The man whose body the demon had stolen had not been a gentle creature. “The great light—will ssssatisfy. But Massster says—there isss—more.”

  Lothiar was dead! Aerdria had seen it in the waters of her pool. And she herself had helped banish the rágazeth back to the Abyss. If the demon could return on its own, Thorn had no hope of escaping it. “Come get me then!” he shouted over the din of battle. “Get it over with!” He gripped the edge of the slate tiles and didn’t realize they were cutting deep until his fingers were wet.

  The demon’s laughter sapped Thorn’s courage even as it tried to surface. “Great light’s hands—are empty,” it taunted. “Where is the—bright ssstaff?”

  The staff? After its experience with Zellel’s staff, of course the demon feared it. Is that why it hadn’t attacked all these weeks, because Thorn had kept the staff close? When he took up his bow, he’d left it with Sarvana in its saddle sheath. The rágazeth must’ve been waiting and watching for this very moment.

  Why, then, did it stand in the middle of the bloodshed, making no move to attack? Those predatory eyes glanced eastward along the highway, back toward the reserves and Kelyn’s command position. “Massster says there are—two,” it rasped. “Yessss. Torment is our—wine. We will make—great lights—writhe.”

  Kelyn? Why? “No!” Thorn shouted. “Me! Not him.”

  In a voice that was suddenly and terrifyingly human, the demon said, “How fast can you run?” It sprang away on long legs, its wild hair a ragged black banner behind it.

  Thorn dropped to the balcony and leapt over the banister, rolling when he hit the ground, as the dranithion had taught him. Racing up the highway with all the fear and rage inside him, he fell precious steps behind. The demon ran with preternatural speed. The ancient garments and stolen flesh sloughed off in pieces until only the shadow was left. It darted left and right, high and low as it flew, as if by its nature it was unable to fly in a straight line.

  “Kelyn!” Thorn shouted as he neared the command hill. Could he not see the shadow coming for him? Like in his nightmares, Thorn couldn’t run fast enough. “Kelyn, run!”

  Confused, the commanders in reserve looked to one another. Rhorek emerged from the stand of ash, pointing. And Kelyn, the fool, stepped forward, too curious to obey the order blindly, his hands out in a questioning gesture. Too late did his eyes rise and see the shadow falling upon him. His upturned face reflected an instant of recognition and terror before a shadow-hand dived into his chest and ripped out his lifelight.

  Thorn staggered, his fingers clawing at a blade of pain deep in his chest.

  Atop the hill, Kelyn’s body collapsed in a heap. With cries of dismay, Rhorek and Davhin fell to their knees, trying to revive him. Eliad abandoned Sarvana and hurried to his foster-lord, little mouth open, eyes unable to believe that the War Commander lay dead in the middle of the road.

  The shadow rose swiftly skyward, dragging a halo of light away with it. Thorn leapt, but his grasp passed through Kelyn’s lifelight and he tumbled to the ground beside Kelyn’s body, empty-handed. He cried out in despair.

  “What did you do? We’re ruined!” cried Rhorek, cradling Kelyn’s head. Dilated blue eyes rolled back. Unable to bear the sight of it, Rhorek covered those sightless eyes with his hand.

  Thorn seized Eliad by the front of his tabard. “My staff! Hurry!”

  The boy scurried away, but wh
at good would the staff do now? Even if Thorn were able to scatter the shadow with amplified light, how could he bring back Kelyn’s soul? What if there was another way? Thorn had only read about spirit travel; only the most accomplished avedrin had dared try it and few of them had returned to record their discoveries. Most became lost in the unknown beyond Flesh and Veil.

  Imagination, will, execution. With a searing pain like a thousand needles embedding in his skin, his chest, his eyes, Thorn hurled his lifelight from his body.

  The trees, the highway, the castle, the rounded hills, the tattered clouds, all became transparent, intangible, marginal. Scores of lights ascended from a hollow place on his left, where humanity slew itself in a rush of impalpable water. High above, spanning the dome of the sky, a greater light of unspeakable purity—the Light—drew the smaller lights into herself.

  One dark spot stained the Mother-Father’s bosom. The shadow spiraled and darted toward a hole that yawned wider, wider, like a mouth eager to drink. Inside the hole, Thorn saw only empty blackness. If the rágazeth won through, his captives would never come out again.

  Kelyn fought his captor; bright hands and bright feet pummeled the twisting, formless shadow. A great arm coiled around him like the body of a serpent, holding him fast.

  Finding Thorn following, the rágazeth hissed with laughter. “Yesss. Come, great light. She—will not have you. We will feassst.”

  Kelyn reached down a hand. Thorn caught it, but still they rose, the three of them together, and the black tear in the Light sped closer. Glancing down at a ghost-like, immaterial sweep of land, Thorn realized his mistake. The books warned the spirit traveler, ‘Do not cast yourself entirely free. Keep a foothold in the Flesh or find yourself tossed like a ship in a squall.’ So soon did thoughts of flesh feel foreign. But remembering, Thorn dropped anchor, stretching his lifelight downward, rooting it in the seafloor of his body.

  The rágazeth and its captives stopped rising. It protested with a dog-like snarl while wisps of its shadow-body reached for the doorway. Mimicking Thorn’s own voice, it said, “There will be nothing left of him to save when we are finished.”

  “Let him go! Take me instead.”

  “Why,” hissed the shadow, “when the wine tastes so fine?”

  Thorn kicked at the darkness that held his brother and cried out in helplessness.

  When half your soul is torn out, with what do you fill the void? Hadn’t he asked himself that once in his despair, as he sought a new name? Light, there must be a light. Roaring, Thorn swept his free hand and loosed a bolt of sun-bright fire through the middle of the shadow. The rágazeth screeched and, for an instant, shrank. Thorn loosed a second bolt. The black coil ensnaring Kelyn tore in two. He was free. Both of them, free. Following the thin golden thread of his lifelight, Thorn raced down, down toward the gray insubstantial world of Flesh, dragging his brother by the hand.

  A shriek of rage pursued them. The rágazeth was not ready to give up. Would it ever give up? Thorn flung Kelyn’s lifelight toward ghostly bodies drifting across the expanse of gray ground, then turned to intercept the demon. His lifelight alone would have to satisfy …

  Kelyn sucked in a chestful of air. His fingers dug at the agony of his heart shuddering back into motion. A boy’s shrill voice pierced his ear, “M’ lord! We were sure you were dead. Both of you!”

  Filling half the sky, Rhorek’s face was as bloodless as a corpse. “What in the Goddess’ name was that thing?”

  Kelyn struggled to sit up. Half a dozen hands helped him. His brother knelt as his side, hands curled into fists on his thighs, green-rimmed eyes staring sightlessly at the ground. Except for his upright posture, Eliad was right to think him dead, too. Then an eyebrow twitched toward a frown, and a fist. He was fighting the shadow, Kelyn realized. “Ah, brother,” he said, “don’t let it take you.”

  No sword could lend him aid. Nor the staff resting across Eliad’s knees. So helpless. All Kelyn could do was watch and wait and hope.

  And down the hill near the river? Men screamed and steel sang. Kelyn didn’t care. The war, the crown, the whole bloody country could fall to pieces before he’d give up waiting on his brother to come back.

  Someone, somewhere still cared, however. “Put on his helmet,” he heard. Rhorek, he thought it was. “They mustn’t think he’s fallen.”

  Thorn’s eyes clamped shut, and his jaw clenched tight. Overhead, all Kelyn could see was a flat sky turning lavender against the sunset. What the hell was happening up there?

  “M’ lord, look!” cried Eliad.

  Under the sweat trickling down Thorn’s face, his skin began to glow …

  Fathomless eyes drank Thorn’s lifelight. They did not glisten, those eyes, except with the light they stole. Thread by thread, bright shreds of his soul unraveled, coiled deep into those eyes and vanished forever. His ability to fight shrank quickly as the rágazeth devoured his awareness and his will. Don’t let it take you. A familiar voice shuddered along the cord that secured him to his body, like a note shudders from a harp string.

  Whisked high again toward the doorway to the Abyss, Thorn kicked and twisted feebly. He managed to conjure another bolt of fire, but the shadow’s formless body changed shape, evading it.

  How to fight something that was, in essence, nothing? How to destroy chaos? He remembered lines of the Elaran Song of Creation:

  Without the word, there is silence;

  Without order, chaos reigns.

  By imposing order on chaos, the Mother-Father birthed the world and banished the demons to the darkness of the void. In the same way, a word does not exist unless a mouth speaks and gives it birth. An absence given shape.

  Thorn plunged a hand into the heart of the shadow and spoke a word: “Eshel.” Fire. With that deep, instinctual avedra part of his brain, he latched onto the pools of emptiness, gathered them together like memories in a box, words on a page, and began to set them in order.

  The rágazeth roared when it felt something begin to fill up the emptiness. Flame, hot and golden, spread out from Thorn’s hand and along the twisting, billowing wisps of darkness. The insatiable eyes drank from the new source of light, even as the rágazeth fought to free itself from Thorn’s grip. Shadow-arms rose to shield its hungry gaze, but those arms, too, became flame. The eyes had no refuge left, and the rágazeth no choice but to cannibalize upon itself. Shrieking in hatred, it cursed Thorn in a language never recorded by man, but the curse was empty, and at last even its eyes succumbed, turning into waves of fire.

  With nothing now feeding on his lifelight, Thorn’s strength returned. He reversed the energies. Fire chilled to shards of smoke-dark ice, then melted into clouds of water that fell as rain toward the gray world of ghosts below …

  The glow emanating from Thorn’s body grew so bright that Kelyn had to turn away his eyes. Eliad, Rhorek, Davhin and the rest backed away, hands shielding their faces. Like them, Kelyn feared that his brother might burn up inside, and lightning come dancing from his skin and kill them all. But he stayed at Thorn’s side, holding onto his fists and dabbing away the blood that welled through Thorn’s fingers as the nails cut the skin.

  The glow began to subside. Kelyn could bear to look at Thorn’s face again. And his hair. Four golden streaks, like rays of light, reached back from his brow and stretched bright fingers down his back.

  Overhead, a star danced among the purple banners of cloud. Almost as soon as Kelyn noticed it, the star winked out. In its place, a dark, heavy wisp of fog grew rapidly.

  “M’ lord?” Eliad said shakily, face turned skyward. “Should I get your shield?”

  Only then did Kelyn realize that the fog wasn’t expanding; it was falling.

  “Shields!” cried Davhin. His archers raised their bucklers. The Falcon Guard dived over the king, raising a shell-like dome. Kelyn covered Thorn with his arms as best he could. The rain slapped the ground all at once, stinging exposed skin like acid. The leaves of the ash trees sizzled and fell from the branche
s. The grass, new with spring, withered and turned brown. In later days, neither sheep nor kine would graze near the fork in the highway, nor take shelter under the stand of dead trees. Herders and townspeople came to call the space of barren ground the Demon Ring.

  Sitting back on his heels, Kelyn saw that the bright halo was gone, as was the pearlescent glamour that Thorn had cast upon his skin to make himself look other than human. The green upon his eyelids remained, the product of someone else’s magic.

  But he did not waken. The pulse in his throat felt weak and rapid under Kelyn’s fingers, and his skin was chill and damp.

  “Don’t leave me, Thorn,” he whispered. “Kieryn? Brother? Please. I have too much to pay for.”

  Thorn’s fists relaxed, blood-smeared fingers uncurling, and a wistful smile, soft and serene, slowly transformed his face. Kelyn gave his shoulder a shake, but he didn’t respond. What the hell was keeping him?

  Light everywhere. Pure, beautiful, soft golden light all around him. He reached out a hand to touch it and shuddered with joy. Propelling himself deeper into the light, he forgot about pain and sorrow, and longed only for more of the light, more of the unspoiled happiness welling up inside him. A certainty of being loved, no conditions attached, warmed him from the inside out. He laughed, throwing out his arms to embrace the light in return. Had there ever been anything else?

  A pair of broad wings swept clear of the light, shimmering silver flesh, then veered away. Avárithen, Thorn thought, and tried to keep up, but the dragon retreated too fast for him to catch.

  A presence drew near. Thorn paused in his headlong flight through the light and looked for a face, a form, to emerge. He heard only a voice. “Kieryn Dathiel,” it said, somehow neither male nor female, but made of notes that sang of eternity. Ah, the quieting peace that washed over him. “This is not your time, beloved.”

  No! He wanted to stay, to pull up anchor and cast himself free, to feel clean and unburdened in the Mother-Father’s arms forever.