“Hold it, Ackerson,” Rhenkin muttered to himself as he watched the men stagger backwards. “Damn it, hold the line!”
Satyrs surged forward with a bestial roar that reached even to Rhenkin’s ears and the flank buckled, and then broke. Men turned and fled as satyrs drove into their midst, bone knives flashing. The charge, when it came, was textbook perfect. Neat orderly cavalry rows arranged perpendicular to the front line and flowing down from the edges of the flank. Rhenkin nodded to himself in satisfaction as he saw the sabres flashing in the moonlight as the men charged. And then the realisation hit.
“Kennick,” he grabbed the man’s arm. “Send reserves to the right flank. Send them now!”
“Sabres,” he breathed. “You bloody fool, Ackerson.” The sabres were the preferred weapon of the Savarel cavalry, a swift slashing weapon. In many ways they epitomised the way the men were trained to fight. A lightning quick strike on a fast horse, sabres flashing, and then away before the enemy had a chance to gather themselves.
The problem was not the men, or the tactic Ackerson was employing, it was the sabres the men carried. Ackerson had dismissed the warning that steel weapons were useless against the fae. The weapons Rhenkin’s men carried were pure iron. Ugly, quick-forged weapons that had none of the grace of the steel swords they were used to. Iron was simply too brittle to forge into a sabre worth having and it certainly didn’t shine in the moonlight like that.
The charge faltered as it punched into the fae, the sabres slashing into fae and satyr and rebounding with little or no effect. Horses screamed as the bone knives of the satyr slashed into flanks and eyes, and then the men themselves were torn from their mounts.
“Sir!” Kennick cried out as Rhenkin rushed for the horses picketed beside the command tents.
Rhenkin ignored him and threw himself into the saddle, driving his boots into the startled beast’s flanks as he urged it towards Ackerson’s flank. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” He growled as he crouched low over the horse.
The captain staggered back as Rhenkin hurled himself out of the saddle. “You there, get those archers firing. Four sections in a constant volley, right into the breach.”
“Are you mad?” The captain burst out. “Those are our men out there! Who the hell are you anyway?”
Rhenkin grabbed the man by his mail shirt, hauling him close until their noses almost touched. “I am Lord High Marshal Rhenkin, now get those fucking archers moving!”
The captain paled, and then flushed before turning and barking orders. The men moved swiftly but Rhenkin knew it was too late. The fae were already deep into the ranks and the cavalry had been butchered. Arrows streaked overhead as the first of the volleys were lofted and blue fire exploded along the lines but Rhenkin winced at the screams. Some of them would be his own men.
The flank stabilized over time, forcing the fae back with sword and arrow but the losses were horrendous. Over half the reserves had already been committed and the lines had buckled twice more at the centre and the left flank. The moon was high in the sky now and the fires were barely necessary as the bright light shone over the battlefield.
A low moan of terror rose from the foremost elements of the army as Aelthen stepped up onto the mist that surrounded him, waving the fae behind him into the air. The hunt rose up in the same spiral that Rhenkin had first seen in Obair’s glade when the fae had burst free from the stones. He winced as they charged up and over heads of the foremost lines and plunged down into the ranks, hacking left and right before rising up into the skies again.
Arrows streaked after them but most fell short. Those than did make it close enough to threaten, exploded into splinters before they ever found flesh. Snarling in frustration Rhenkin turned his face away as Kennick pulled at his arm.
“Sir, look!” Rhenkin stifled a groan as he followed the lieutenant’s pointing finger and frowned. The fae host stretched out before him, extending so far that there were elements that hadn’t even entered the battle yet. On their flank though, something seemed to be happening. It was too far to make out any detail but the flashes of blue fire told their own tale.
“The Bjornmen?” Kennick asked.
Rhenkin shrugged and glanced up at the sky. The sight stole the words from his mouth and he gasped as he pointed himself. The moon had risen high over the horizon now but where it had been full, a dark stain now spread over the face of it. The most easterly edge was already as dark as the skies behind it and the darkness was increasing.
“What the…” Kennick managed but his words were lost in a roar of fury. Aelthen stood still in the air, glaring up at the moon. He raised his great spear high and screamed out his anger again. His eyes glowed, growing in intensity until they shone brighter than the bonfires. Then, with a thunderous inrushing of air, he vanished.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The clearing had fallen oddly silent. The rituals of the Wyrde were performed in silence and the only sounds were the faint footfalls of the two druids as they wove their steps about the stones. Ylsriss let Klöss take her hand and lead her to where Tristan, Gavin, and the scouts waited.
The wind was picking up, whipping leaves from the treetops and tossing them up into the moonlight.
“You managed to keep her in one piece then?” Klöss said as he grinned at the big man.
“What could harm her?” Tristan smiled but turned, frowning at a faint noise behind him.
“Problem?” Gavin asked but the man didn't answer.
The spear came out of the air, emerging from nothing as it passed into reality and thrust savagely at the Bjornman. Tristan was already moving, twisting one the side on instinct but the broad blade cut through leathers and flesh with ease until it skidded along his ribs.
Aelthen stepped forward, flinging Tristan aside as the air shimmered, falling from him like water as he emerged from the illusion.
“You pitiful creatures dare to attempt this?” he demanded in a powerful voice.
Tristan was the first to answer, picking himself up with rage burning in his eyes as he tore the axe from his back and rushed at the fae creature with a roar. Blood ran freely from the wound along his side but the man didn't seem to feel it. His eyes were wide and the scream unending as he struck at the creature in a savage fury.
Aelthen shifted away from the berserker, pushed back by the sheer fury of the assault. His spear moved with ease to block strikes that were little more than a blur but which left little time for a return stroke.
Gavin was the first to move in a battle that had lasted only moments, pulling daggers free and darting in behind the fight, crouching low and waiting for an opening. He moved smoothly, blades flashing as he struck but he may as well have been fighting smoke. Aelthen shifted out of his reach with ease, barely seeming to take his attention from Tristan and the axe.
The blow came from nowhere as Aelthen's rear hoof lashed out and caught the thief in the side of the head, hurling him across the clearing. The satyri lunged forward against the axe-wielder, becoming a blur of motion as his eyes flared. The spear caught Tristan squarely in the ribs, bursting through his chest as if his flesh offered no real resistance. Blood spattered over Klöss as Ylsriss screamed and they staggered back away from the sight.
“And is that all you offer?” Aelthen sneered, tearing the spear free of Tristan's body as the man dropped to the dirt.
The only answer was the hiss of an arrow as Halther let fly an ironhead. Aelthen barely seemed to notice as one hand came up and snatched the shaft out of the air. He turned his gaze to the scouts as they readied their own arrows and a cold smile spread over his face. The arrow splintered in his hand as his eyes flared, bathing his face in amber. Along the line men cried out as their bows shattered, thrusting jagged shards of wood into unprotected hands and wrists.
“This abomination ends here,” Aelthen declared, lifting the spear once more as he stepped towards the circle where Obair and Devin worked on.
The sword hissed as Klöss pulled it free of the
sheath, the sound itself calling out a challenge. Aelthen turned his head at the sound. “You also?” he asked in surprise. “You would pit yourself against me? Are you so eager to die, manling?” The satyri seemed almost incredulous, the shock reaching out to him from some place beyond his arrogance.
Klöss gave no answer, stepping away from Ylsriss and sinking back into the fighting stance Verig had spent so many years schooling him in. He raised the blackened blade of the sword above his head in a two handed grip and met the creature’s eyes in defiance. “Come then, fae.”
Aelthen inclined his antlered head in a nod as formal as any bow and raised the great spear again, shifting into a guard position. The strike was fast as Aelthen uncoiled like a whip, seeming to move from a relaxed posture into the strike without passing through any of the movements that should have been involved in between.
Klöss barely moved, adjusting the great sword less an inch and shifting his line so the strike slid down along the blade and extended out behind him. His slash was savage, passing under the spear and lashing out at a foreleg. Aelthen stepped aside, letting the blade pass him. The shock on his face made way for a grudging respect, and then the blades lashed out again.
Ylsriss ran past the pair as spear crashed into blade. Klöss moved with a grace she’d never seen from him as he flowed from stance to stance, his great black sword a blur in front of him. Aelthen held the spear as a staff, whistling the blade and haft about him with one hand and striking and blocking with both.
“Help him!” she screamed as she raced to Halther.
He looked past her, unseeing as he gazed at the creature in awe, eyes wide with adoration. She kicked at him but he didn’t even seem to feel it as he staggered to the side. Light flared behind her and she spun in shock as the stones of the circle burst into life. Glyphs that had been worn out of sight by aeons of rain and wind burned brighter than any flame as they flared along the length of the stones.
She shook her herself violently as Klöss grunted in pain, bringing her back to herself, as a slash caught him high on the arm, biting through his leathers. Halther didn’t react as she shoved at him, turning him around to reach for his quiver.
Aelthen thrust a palm forward into the air and Klöss suddenly rocketed away as if struck a hammer blow. The creature's eyes glowed brightly as a faint green mist began to rise from him, torn free in the glow of the stones.
Ylsriss screamed out Klöss’s name but he ignored her, heaving himself to his feet and edging closer to the stones as he sank back down into his stance.
“Impudent.” Aelthen sneered as contempt flowed over his features. He raised the spear again, ran ahead of her, and charged.
There was no way to block the strike. Aelthen was easily three times Klöss's weight and the blow would pass through him without even slowing. He ducked and rolled to one side, gasping in the green mist that seemed to surround the satyri as Aelthen passed him with less than an inch to spare.
The power rocked into him and Klöss gasped in shock as a flash of understanding hit. He breathed the mist in deeply, eyes flaring amber as he spun to block the blow he had somehow felt coming. His blow was slight, a backstroke that had been robbed of any real force by the strike he had parried. It caught Aelthen a glancing blow on the ribs below one great arm but the bellow of pain from the beast was deafening. The satyri staggered back, clutching at the wound with one hand as he stared at Klöss in shock and dismay. The shipmaster raised the black sword with a smile and Aelthen’s eyes widened as he looked from Klöss's glowing eyes to the blade, seeming to truly see it for the first time.
Klöss surged forward with a flurry of blows, drawing on the power that coursed through him. The blade felt like nothing in his hand and he wove it in combinations that he would never have even attempted normally. Aelthen staggered away from him, fear and confusion robbing his movements of any grace as he desperately fought to keep the black-iron blade from him.
Ylsriss didn’t hesitate. Hesitation would just have made her movements more obvious as she circled behind the creature. She raised the ironhead in one hand, grasping the shaft like the hilt of a dagger. Three quick racing steps brought her close enough and she rammed the arrow down, thrusting it deep between the ribs of the stag body beneath Aelthen’s human torso and feeling the shaft snap in her hand. “That's for my baby, you bastard!”
Blue fire gouted from the wound and Aelthen screamed, a shockingly human sound, as he turned and slammed the length of the spear against her, crashing her aside like a discarded toy. He ripped at the wound, ignoring Klöss, as he strove to tear the ironhead from his flesh.
It was almost too easy. This was no longer a fight, it was slaughter. Klöss raised the black-iron blade high and hacked. The sword sheared through flesh and bone, tasting blood, and then the iron blade met the Lady’s Gift.
The explosion tore through the glade, throwing Klöss through the air to crash into the stone circle, blasting the air from him as he slumped to the ground and lay still.
***
Devin worked in silence but it was a silence that was ignored. The ritual took his all, took his entire self, dulling his emotions as it stole him away from the world. Dimly he was aware of the surge of power that was rushing into the stones from Miriam, powering the ritual and opening the histories of the druids to him.
The steps of the ritual were almost second nature to him, implanted in his very consciousness by the knowledge buried in the stones. As he moved, forming glyphs with his steps, he mirrored his movements within his thoughts, forcing the sensations and his awareness of the moon through the channels he carved in his mind. Screams and shouts nagged at him from the edges of the clearing but it was a half-heard babble, unimportant and easy to ignore. Instead, the knowledge of the druids filled him, reaching out from the stones that surrounded him and pouring into him.
The histories of the druids stretched out before him, the lives and experiences of hundreds, if not thousands, of men and women passed into the stones at the moment they gave their lives to the Wyrde. He knew now that the Wyrde had always been a single soul, but that soul had never been trapped and held for all the ages. It had served, waiting until the next master was ready to pass on the task of the ritual to their apprentice. Death had never been an ending for these druids. It was merely the next stage in a task that only ended as their soul was released from the Wyrde, passing on to whatever lay beyond the veil as another took their place.
He could feel Obair, feel the ritual he wove about him, but it was powerless. It was like the old man was painting with water, the strokes sure and certain but holding no colour. What was the difference between them? Why could he feel this power and not the old man? He reached back through the histories, passing through lives in an instant as he sought answers.
The histories ended with the purges. Devin’s mind shot back to childhood memories of Samen’s tales at the first mention of King Caltus. His purges had succeeded in ways that that mad king could never have imagined. Though the druids had lived on the knowledge buried in the stones, of the hidden glyphs and how to access them, had been lost. The druids themselves had been reduced to simple caretakers, going through the motions of a ritual that none of them truly understood.
Devin flew back through lives, passing generations in an instant while his feet led him through the ritual, back to the very beginnings of the Wyrde, when mankind was fresh from the war with the fae and the desperate flight through the Worldtrails. The answer was right there, simple in its truth. The knowledge filled him with horror. Mankind was never meant to touch the power of the fae, mankind never could. Fae blood was needed to touch that power and it was the fae blood within him that worked them now.
Centuries of interbreeding with the fae had resulted in fae-born that were little different from mankind. For some, the fae heritage had thinned over countless generations. For others it ran true. That was why he had been able to feel the moon so easily. That was why he had been able to feel Miriam and the fae host as
they passed between the worlds. He hadn't been feeling the Wyrde at all. He had felt the passage of the fae through the Worldtrails. Obair must have a touch of fae blood, enough for him to push his ritual onwards but nothing close to what was needed to relight the fire that was the Wyrde. That would come from him.
He felt him then. As the realisation of what he was came to him he felt Obair moving through the histories. It was as if the rituals had themselves merged and formed a bridge allowing the old man to see what he himself had already discovered. He felt the shock of discovery and the old man moved with purpose, driving back through to the very forging of the Wyrde with a desperation that startled Devin even through his numbness.
Devin's mind fled then, pushing away the histories and rushing through the halls of his consciousness until his eyes snapped open and he saw the glade once more. His step faltered for the briefest moment as he saw the burning corpse of Aelthen and the crumpled forms scattered around the glade but he moved onward. The strands of power he wove were hollow, he saw that now. In many ways, little different to those woven by Obair. It was a vessel they created, needing only to be filled.
Obair lifted his head then, glancing at Devin as they reached the culmination. His steps wove glyphs ever closer to Miriam until he stopped beside the stone, waiting as Devin moved on.
He knelt then, reaching inside his robe. “You won't be alone, Miriam,” he said softly. “I understand it now. There's no need for you to be alone in this.”
Her eyes were wet as she reached to touch his face with her fingertips. “You're sure?
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