Into the Dark Lands

by Michelle Sagara

  She nodded grimly.

  Go back? Carla’s fingers signaled.

  Not yet, Erin’s replied. Numbers.

  She picked up her pace, knowing that she would lose the silence that she was known for, but knowing that it wouldn’t make any difference.

  Carla stopped only once more, and Erin waited as the older woman strung her bow and pulled an arrow from her quiver. Then they advanced again, seeking the source of the growing sound, moving this time with more caution toward those that might see than those that might hear.

  They quickly reached the outer edge of the valley and, through the last of the trees, saw what they most feared seeing.

  Beryon Field was on fire—and no normal fire, either.

  Some five feet from the last of the trees, they knelt with their eyes above tall brush that tickled their cheeks. Neither noticed.

  Backs of warriors lined the edge of the gray rocky fields that stretched out for some miles. Some were wounded; Erin feared mortally so from the quantity of blood. Links of chain showed through torn strips of gray—and glinting in green light, Erin could see the circles.

  It was obvious that they were fighting a defensive battle, but Erin couldn’t name the position. Still, she thought she recognized the insignia of at least one fighter. These were Elliath warriors; Shorla’s unit.

  The attackers wore uniforms that Erin was also familiar with: the black of the Swords of Malthan. Limned in red, they moved forward, striking their way into the retreating wall of Lernari.

  Numbers? Carla signaled.

  They were high. At best guess, Erin thought three hundred, maybe three hundred and twenty-five, at least two to one in enemy favor.

  She considered the odds carefully and started to turn toward Carla when a flash of light caught her attention.

  Not green light, this, but white. She heard a chorus of screams, and for an instant saw the banner of Darek of Cormont’s unit outlined in the glow.

  That light heralded the presence of the Sarillar of Elliath, caught in the midst of enemy soldiers.

  The import of greater numbers fell away as Erin responded to the call of the blood, light against the darkness. Raising her own arms high, she summoned almost all of her personal power. It shot upward in a flare of light that sent a ripple through the enemy, so bright was its call.

  Carla caught her arm as the last of the power left her. “What have you done? Our unit can’t hope to win against these numbers. You’ve cut off a safe retreat!”

  “What choice do we have?” Erin shouted over the clashing of swords and the crackle of magic. “The Sarillar is cornered on the field!” In a single, clean motion she was on her feet, blade out and readied.

  Carla released her and unsheathed her own sword. There was nothing to be gained now in argument—Telvar would see the light and he would know what it meant; he would lead the unit to the battle without further delay. She opened her mouth to order Erin to stay, then clamped it shut before the words had started to form.

  Blood-call. Light-call. Damn you, Erin. Later she might remember how little choice the inexperienced had against the Sarillar’s call—if she survived. Her sword came out as she watched Erin.

  Already the power that had not gone into the flare gathered round the younger woman like a mantle. Carla had seen the flare—it was more than she herself could have called. And Erin still had the power to cloak herself so. The older woman shook her head.

  If only she could ward . . . Carla followed Erin onto the field, leaving the sparse shield wall of tangled growth and shadow behind her. Four years had not been enough to dim the memory of Erin’s display at Karana.

  Erin raised her sword and ran to join Shorla’s unit.

  “Elliath!” she cried, in a voice so loud that it might have been the call of the horns.

  She fought like one frenzied. She had always been known for her speed, but no one, not even Telvar, could have predicted just how devastating that speed could be.

  Light flashed anew on the field, the Sarillar’s call. Erin began to cut a path toward it. She felt the way her sword swept cleanly through living—and dying—flesh, felt the pain that she caused come echoing to the part of her that was healer and not warrior. It was not as strong as the urgency that drove her to try to reach Line Cormont’s unit.

  She whirled around to see those fighting by her side continue their retreat and she almost snarled.

  “The Sarillar!” she shouted, whirling her blade.

  She heard another voice bark an order, and the unit continued to retreat.

  She could not.

  No warrior, no matter how good, can face five to one odds. And the good warrior values prudence.

  Her thought, but Telvar’s words, as she saw the line pull further back. She took a step toward them without dropping her defense, and the Sarillar’s light flared again.

  This time she could see the angry crackle of red that followed it.

  The field seemed to melt away. She could see the Sarillar clearly; he was bleeding from multiple wounds but still stood tall, facing his true adversaries: five men, dressed not in armor, but long, black robes, red arms stretched toward the Sarillar.

  She knew she should follow the defensive line of retreat. She knew it, but could not do it. Telvar’s voice faded into the whisper of an unimportant past as she raised her blade anew. Light danced down it, swirling in the marks of its maker and the blood of her enemies.

  And she fought as she had never fought, stumbling over stones and bodies alike, the landscape unfamiliar. Fought as the Sarillar’s light grew weaker, and weaker again. Fought as the sea of enemy troops, with their faint taint of darkness, closed in around her.

  Here she learned the truth of Telvar’s words. The light armor she wore was no match for the blades that struck against her body, leaving their signature in her flesh. As soon as one man fell, another stepped in to take his place.

  She cried out once in fury as the light of the Sarillar—the light of Elliath—burned into the night sky. And once, in pain, as steel found her forearm. Her blade fell away from her as she dropped to her knees, automatically clutching the nearly severed limb.

  Frantically she brought forth her power to try to still the bleeding, but even as the green warmth touched her, she felt the point of a sword enter her back.

  In agony, she staggered forward; saw another sword raised to strike.

  No!

  No!

  Lernan!

  For the second time in her life, Erin touched the Hand of God.

  Power flowed into her, a power so sudden and so brilliant, that even the nonblooded could see it.

  The second sword never found its mark.

  Great-grandchild.

  Bright Heart. She shut her eyes as the wound that marred her body began to close.

  You stand too close to Lady Death. You have called; I have come.

  Her eyes snapped open as she stood once again, reborn in the fires of God, mortality overshadowed by the Light.

  She could sense the presence of her line-mates as the ragged retreat of Shorla’s unit suddenly halted. Such was the strength of her contact with God, that she could wake the sleeping fires in even the weakest of the Lernari, where the Sarillar’s power alone could not.

  She called upon the white-fire, and it swept across the field like a wave, bringing succor to the Lernari, and pain—or death—to the Malanthi.

  It wasn’t enough. Over the screams she could hear the shouts of surprise melt into shouts of determination. The nonblooded were, indeed, upon the field of battle. They could see her power; they could feel the fan of warmth the Light provided—but it couldn’t burn at a darkness that was not part of their blood.

  Still she retrieved her sword and walked forward, wielding it as a brand of light. It swung without hesitation, leaving an afterimage where it cut through the air.

  An arrow struck her, and she removed it even as the wound began to close. Shorla’s unit surged forward behind the path she had cut.
She nodded and forgot them; at this moment there were only two things on the field that she was fully aware of: the Sarillar and the priests. And the Sarillar’s light was waning beneath the storm of red.

  “Sarillar!” she cried, and he turned.

  His robes were red, the circle that adorned them only a broken line. Something struck him, and he staggered.

  “Elliath!” he shouted, but his voice was weak, an echo of its former strength. His light flared again, surrounding his body like a halo, or a shroud.

  Erin began to run forward. He fell to one knee, righted himself, and looked across at her, blue eyes dimming in the ragged scars of his face.

  “No!”

  Even as she shouted, she saw his form begin to alter. She knew she couldn’t reach him in time—all the power in the world couldn’t give her that skill. And she knew the ward he made with God; it was the same, measure for measure, as the one she herself had made.

  But Andin the Sarillar was not a healer; not in that did the strength of his blood lie. The power that he called now could not be used to save him. He had chosen—could still choose—Gallin’s death. The power that gathered in his fallen body burned away what little life remained; and for an instant, no more, Andin was as the First: an imperfect vessel for pure Light.

  “Elliath!” he cried anew.

  And the very land rose up in response, breaking beneath the feet of the nonblooded to form the perfect grave.

  She drew upon her own power then, drew it and aimed it outward at the priests. She was shaking with anger, and the anger gave her purpose; if the ward with God could not save the Sarillar, she could at least make the priests of the Enemy pay for his loss.

  Her fire stretched out across the sky, a lethal, gleaming bridge. It left her empty, only Erin, third of Telvar of Elliath, without the hand of God beneath her.

  But that was enough to hear the screaming; enough to see the red wards splinter like glass beneath the sudden onslaught of the Bright Heart.

  And when she finally turned away, the field was no longer a field—but it was silent.

  Telvar’s unit arrived a few minutes later, to walk carefully across the newly turned earth, clearing away what little of the enemy force remained.

  It was Telvar himself who found his scout as she knelt beside the lifeless body of the Sarillar of Elliath. She had done what she could to lay him out in a semblance of rest or sleep, with grass as a pallet, stones as a pillow.

  “Erin,” he said, and she looked up. “There is still work to do yet; this is not the time for tears.”

  She shook her head, unable to stop them.

  “What better time?” she asked, the warmth of tears sliding hopelessly down her cheeks. “I—”

  “At the ceremony.” His voice was grim. “If at all.”

  Carla came to stand beside him.

  “I won’t be back for the ceremonies.” Erin’s hand gripped the Sarillar’s more tightly. “This is all the good-bye I get.”

  “Then do not waste it weeping. The Sarillar died a good death.” He looked out at the field, saw the bodies, half buried in the teeth of the ground, broken by rock and rubble. “And he made our enemies pay.”

  Belfas seemed to appear out of nowhere; he knelt beside Erin and slipped an awkward arm around her shoulder.

  “Erin?”

  She shook her head. “I tried. I tried, but I couldn’t save him. I had so much power, Belf.” She looked down at her hands. “I had so much power. But it wasn’t enough.”

  Carla whispered something to Telvar, and he looked down at Erin again, his expression softer.

  “I see,” he whispered back to his second. He shook his head and turned away. He, too, remembered Karana; he remembered the amount of raw power that Erin could contain, and use, without destroying herself.

  “The call of the blood, then.” He turned back to Erin and touched her almost gently on the shoulder. “We assemble the units in an hour, Erin. Meet us then.”

  She didn’t hear him, but Belfas nodded quietly. Telvar left them there together; he knew that Belfas wouldn’t be parted from his line-mate.

  chapter eight

  “What is going on?” Telvar’s fingers rapped against the surface of his desk gently—always a bad sign.

  Jethren shook his dark head, allowing his angular face to show his own confusion. That was often a dangerous thing when dealing with Telvar, but less dangerous than an out-and-out lie. At least, that was the wisdom of the temple initiates, and although Jethren wore the armor and surcoat of the unit, he would have been happier with the simple gray robes that he was used to.

  Telvar snorted and laid the dispatch down, where it curled above the small stack of papers that had already been placed there. Had any other hand signed it, he might have been tempted to ignore it altogether.

  “What is she thinking?”

  Jethren shook his head again.

  This time Telvar looked up, and his eyes locked with the younger man’s. “Tell me. Tell me what has happened in the last four weeks.”

  Although he suspected that Telvar already knew, he complied.

  “The Lady of Elliath began to conduct her interviews after the ceremonies of departure.”

  “I’m aware of this,” Telvar replied crisply. He had been pulled from his unit for two weeks of travel as one of the three candidates for the position of Sarillar and had only just arrived back at the front himself.

  “The three that she interviewed, she did not choose.”

  “None of the three?”

  “No, sir.” He hoped that Telvar was not one to covet such a title, as there was no arguing with the Lady.

  Telvar looked down at the document again. “And so she turns from the most experienced warriors of the line to one who is only a third? There is no precedent for this in line history. None.”

  Jethren sighed. “Telvar, we understand it no better than you do, yourself. But the tales of Karana, and if you must know, the battle of Beryon Field, have reached even our ears in the temple. Shorla herself said that she found it difficult to resist the call to battle that Erin, unknowing, invoked; Shorla fought. What Erin lacks in experience, she makes up for in her ability to wield God’s power.”

  Telvar smiled grimly. “She has to walk onto the end of a pointed sword to reach it. Do you understand? Her power may be great, but it cannot be counted on. In both of the cases mentioned she was lucky.” His fingers drummed against the makeshift table. “What is the Lady thinking?”

  “Who can know? But she hears the voice of God Himself, and we cannot question her word.”

  “Not and receive any answers, no,” He shrugged as Jethren’s jaw dropped two inches. “If she’s called for Erin, she’ll have Erin, then. Is she to travel with you?”

  Jethren nodded. “I have six others with me for guard. But Telvar, remember that it is only an interview. It need not be said that most of the temple initiates do not believe that Erin’s experience will prove up to the office.”

  “There’s that.” Telvar nodded gruffly. But there were so many strange circumstances connected with Erin that he took little comfort in Jethren’s words. Lady, he thought to himself, may you indeed know what you are doing.

  He sent for Erin.

  “But I don’t understand!” Erin said, as she crammed her belongings haphazardly into her pack. Her cheeks were flushed almost crimson against the white of tightened lips.

  Belfas pulled her spare suit out again and began to roll it up; from experience he knew that economy of size was an absolute necessity. That Erin had forgotten it spoke volumes.

  “She’s only requested an audience,” he said mildly as he tied the pack.

  “But why now?”

  “I don’t know.” He handed the pack to her and she yanked it onto her shoulders. “Why don’t you ask?”

  “Thanks a lot, Belf.” She loosened the straps, tightened them, then loosened them yet again—an awkward maneuver given that the pack was still attached to her shoulders. “I alread
y did.”

  “And?”

  “What do you think?” She snorted as she readjusted her sword. “They won’t tell me a thing!”

  “Maybe you don’t need to know. Maybe it’s information that could be used against us if you were ambushed.”

  “I hardly think we’ll be ambushed now. The office of the high priest of Malthan isn’t filled at the moment, and they usually don’t move without one.”

  It was true, which was why Belfas wasn’t too worried.

  “I just don’t understand why they’re calling me in. I mean, we don’t have a Sarillar—the front needs all the fighters it has! I should just refuse to go, that’s what I should do.” Her voice quavered on the last few words.

  “Erin.”

  “What?”

  “You’re one of the best in the unit; no one would argue that. Turn around.” She did, and he adjusted the straps of her pack so it hung properly. “But you are only one fighter. We’ll be fine.”

  She knew it was true—just one more fighter. She shook her head angrily to clear her eyes.

  “Come on. Telvar was back in sixteen days; I imagine you’ll be back in the same.” He hugged her, ignoring the fact that she kept herself quite stiff. “Don’t worry, okay?”

  She sighed and forced herself to relax. “All right. It’s just that—”

  “It doesn’t matter. The Lady’s called you home, and you have to go.”

  “It’s just that Telvar didn’t look pleased about it, either. I just keep wondering if I’ve done something wrong. Maybe he told her that I called in the unit at Beryon when I knew the numbers and odds were off. Maybe she’ll pull me from the front for it.”

  “Erin.” He gave her a gentle tug in the direction of the waiting horsemen. “The numbers and odds didn’t matter—you saw to that.”

  “Well, maybe it’s—”

  “Come on.”

  She sighed again, loudly, and let him drag her along. He was probably right; on things like this he often was.

  Jethren was waiting with his escort, six armored and armed men astride Lernari riding horses in silence. He looked tired but alert as he stood by the only two riderless horses, and he offered her a leg up.