The Light of Kerrindryr (The War of Memory Cycle Book 1)

by Davis, H. Anthe

  A fleck of light, hawk-shaped, dipped from the sky toward the place where he stood. He sensed its intent like prey senses a raptor’s, but the sea surged around his feet and he knew that these were not waves, not just water—they were bark rasping its secret language, stone grating against stone, dense black ice jagged up against everything. A murderous landslide, a lahar, a living sea of tangled debris. The smell of salt and blood and thick loam invaded him, and the white fleck pulled from its stoop with a scream and ascended away fast.

  Abort, he heard the man in the room say.

  “Do not abort. Do you hear me? White Herald, acknowledge. Don’t tell me that stuff is out of his system, I dosed him constantly! Lerien, Throne’s sake, acknowledge!”

  No answer. The sea rose around him, swallowing the white room, and he watched branches break through the waves and broaden, spread, saw rocks pierce upward like the first rise of land from the water. Like the shore being reborn after the retreat of the tide.

  The tiny light spiraled up and vanished into the sky, leaving him alone.

  *****

  Lark halted in mid-order as a rush of air swept through the common room. For an instant she thought it was a shadowpath, but it had none of the sense of hollowness that those brought—the feeling that a door had suddenly been opened into some vast, dry space.

  This was not dry. It tasted like salt and wood and cold wet stone.

  And beast.

  A chill ran up her spine, and she looked from the bruisers she had been instructing to the drawn curtain of the alcove. A moment later, the curtain bulged and nearly snapped from its hooks as the stranger tumbled out.

  His face had gone pasty white, his eyes wild. On his feet again immediately, he pushed back the sides of his coat and Lark saw the daggers: one sheathed at his left hip, one bound horizontally at the small of his back. He clasped the hilts.

  “Get him,” she snapped to her men.

  They rushed forward, eager to bring pain down on this disruption to the business. Around the common room, all other conversation had ceased; dozens of eyes turned toward the brewing fight. Some had risen, wary. Others were laughing over their beers.

  The intruder’s blades came free just before the thugs fell upon him. Lark caught a glimpse of ruby light and wondered if her eyes were playing tricks.

  A splash of blood. A grunt, a high hoarse scream. Their backs were to her, their meaty arms swinging truncheons, but suddenly one of those arms flew free—a heavy limb in a tattered sleeve, the muscles still twitching as it hit the floor a yard from her feet.

  Lark skittered back, shocked and confused. Another spasm and the hand relaxed, releasing the truncheon from its grip. The man who had owned it howled once, then gurgled, and Lark looked up to see the tip of a seething red blade protruding from the rear of the man’s bald head.

  The blade did not retract, but swept sideways as the thug collapsed, opening his skull in a clean, easy slice. Blood flared after it, chasing and accumulating on the still-moving blade to make a sticky sheen that was absorbed into the black metal beneath. Brilliant crimson runes inscribed its full length, leaving bright contrails as it dove toward its next victim.

  It had a pulse. She felt it in her gut even from this distance. Her feet slid backward of their own accord.

  Beyond the fallen thug, the struggle became a dance. The seething blade led its wielder like a hound on a choke-chain; she saw it yank in the blond man’s grip, saw the flash of his gritted teeth and the tension in his arm as he controlled it. His left hand defended, the plain dagger held in a switched grip to block away truncheon strikes with the strength of the forearm behind it. He was small compared to the Shadow thugs, with a short reach, but though his dodges and parries moved him away from them, the burning blade always brought him back.

  Anything it touched, it sliced through. A truncheon-head, solid black-painted steel, spun away into the crowd.

  Others were rising from their seats. Swords slithered from sheaths; behind her, Lark heard the click of a crossbow being readied. Her backside bumped the edge of the bar and she gripped it hard, unable to look away.

  A red seam opened across the second thug’s face, the intruder’s blade flashing there then away in another spiraling spray of blood. For a moment it seemed no more than a scratch. Then the edges gaped, the bone-structure beneath it giving way. Shock registered in the thug’s eyes and he raised a hand toward his collapsing jaw. The intruder took that advantage and stabbed him through the sleeve and wrist and into the throat beyond, the strike limited only by the crossguard of the red blade.

  As the thug fell, choking, the others recoiled. They were veterans, Lark knew—survivors of the street wars that had solidified the Shadow’s control over this area years before. But this was something else.

  “Back down, all of you,” the intruder snapped. “I am the Crimson Hunter, and in the name of the Risen Phoenix Empire, I will—“

  He wrenched aside abruptly as a knife flew past his ear. All around, the Shadow Folk were on their feet, hefting clubs, blades, tankards—whatever was at hand. A little thrill ran through Lark at the sight. A Hunter had come into the Shadowland alone and tried to order them around. It was almost funny.

  The Hunter’s eyes narrowed. He took a step back from the crowd and touched his collar. “Bring the Light,” he rasped, and a small pin on his lapel flashed.

  With a snarl, one thug grabbed a chair and swung for his head. “Bring your own piking Light!”

  Lark saw the blade lash out, heard the kchunk as a chair leg flew free, but in that instant she saw something else. From the bar, she had a clear view of the open tavern door and the odd, heat-haze shimmer that had formed within it.

  Then the shimmer peeled away, revealing hands in mid-gesture before a bright red robe. She was the only one to cover her eyes.

  Even then, the blast of radiance stabbed through her eyelids and turned her inner world white. A cacophony of screams rose instantly—the shadowbloods suffering in the glare—and their volume and pure terror clamped her guts like a fist. In fear, she hauled herself over the bar, her feet sweeping forgotten mugs off to shatter on the floor.

  She heard Cayer cursing, close and fevered. Head down, she dared to open her eyes and at first saw only swimming afterimages. Then the floor wobbled into view, strewn with pottery shards and spilled liquor, lit from above by a flat, scorching glow. Her hands found the second crossbow under the bar, and the stringing hook.

  Imperial raid, Imperial raid! her mind shrieked. They all knew what to do, but from the sound of the continuing cries, the light had disoriented them too much to do it. Her teeth chattered as she struggled to pull the bowstring back, one foot jammed in the stirrup at its front. The shuff of armor, the sounds of heavy boots, of swords—of chanting, Shadow curse them, they had brought mages.

  The string clicked into place. She scrabbled under the bar for the bolts, found one, slotted it in its groove. I can do this, she told herself. It’s not my first raid.

  But they had always been warned before. By the guards in their pay, by the watchers on the street, by the general mood of the city. And there had rarely been bloodshed. Spittle and curses and bruises and jail, then jailbreaks, then a temporary increase in bribes and threats, but little more.

  Where were the warnings now?

  Clenching her teeth to keep them still, she swung the heavy crossbow up and dared to look over the edge of the bar. In future days, she would wish she had not.

  It was a massacre. Two mages flanked the door, one a massive ogre-blood in garish orange robes and the other a human in army Crimson, both weaving little spheres of light between their hands. The first burst of radiance had dissipated but its effects on the crowd still lingered: shadowbloods lay crumpled on the floor, screaming or retching or clawing at their faces, their eyes blind-white and their shadow-marks bleached to ashy bands. The unbloods were recovering, squinting, trying to drag their afflicted fellows out of the way or fight back, but the soldiers were making t
hat difficult.

  Ten, twenty… Lark lost track of the number of uniforms, Imperial Crimson and city green. Armored, shield-carrying and unafflicted by the light-blast, they cut through the fallen like scythes. Some had broken off to pull down the alcove curtains, and as she watched, the mages flung light-spheres to hover within and dispel any possible shadows.

  In the alcoves near the bar, she felt the sudden dry-air disturbance of shadowpaths opening. Reinforcements.

  “Imperial raid!” she screamed, her voice coming out high and strange through the tightness in her throat. “Two mages!”

  A crossbow bolt hissed past her head to shatter a bottle, spilling chana and glass across her back. She cursed and ducked down again, just registering the handful of soldiers taking up firing positions before the door. They’re finally here to clear us out, she thought. Oh Shadow. Oh Morgwi, why must you be off your throne again?

  Then that scent—that strange mix of brine and wood and glacial ice—washed over the edge of the bar, and with it came a wave of blackness, like a solid presence rising to blot out the sun. Only it was not there; the glare from the mage-lights had not dimmed, and the shadowbloods still screamed.

  It was inside. A cool shade drawn across the soul.

  She raised her head, eyes wide. For a moment all was still, all faces—even the blind ones—turned toward the thing emerging from the alcove.

  Black antlers, broad-spread and high enough that they threatened the rafters. A stony brow, a mane of jagged quills that spilled over shoulders plated in spiky, wood-knotted armor. Flesh like striated stone, covered in pelt and scale and vine; thickly muscled legs that jointed like a beast’s, terminating in deer-cloven hooves of sharp obsidian. Broad hands, knuckled with rocky protrusions, that clamped on the alcove frame hard enough to splinter the boards.

  It raised its heavy head, black cabochon eyes searching the melee, and Lark’s heart jumped to her throat. By its color she had thought it might be some new shadow-denizen, but she recognized the carven planes of its face. Not sullen or recalcitrant now, but flat, hard and murderous.

  Shadow’s heart, it’s Cob.

  Only one person moved: the Hunter. He bolted for the door.

  Lark took aim at his back and let fly. The sense of shade had stilled the shaking in her hands, and the bolt went true; it hit him just below the neck, between shoulderblade and spine. He staggered and gave a horrible cry.

  Then the paralysis that had held the crowd snapped. Soldiers wheeled toward the Cob-Beast and the black-clad Shadow Folk now spilling from the still-curtained alcoves.

  Lark struggled to restring the crossbow blindly, not wanting to look away. Another flare of light stung her eyes but the internal darkness seemed to dampen it. The new-arrived Shadow Folk simply cursed and laid into the soldiers with their long clubs.

  The black Beast’s attention followed the Hunter, crown of antlers slicing the air as it slowly turned. A soldier rushed up and slammed a sword across its body, and the weapon snapped audibly, the shards spinning away like gleaming knives. The Beast brought its broad fist around into the man’s face with a sickening crunch, and he fell, his helm caved in, his heels beating a spasmodic tattoo on the floor.

  Beside her, Cayer yanked up the hatch that led to the basement. Broken glass tinkled down into the dark. Others were scrambling over the bar—blinded shadowbloods, the terrified wait-staff, the few civilians who came in because the cook made great pie—and Cayer guided them to the ladder, still trying to blink his eyes clear of the first blast. His crossbow remained beside him, unfired.

  Another barrage of bolts flew from the soldiers’ line. Some shattered against the black Beast, and Lark heard others impact the front of the bar. She took another shot; the Hunter had swung past the mages and the door as if luring the Beast broadside to them, and for a moment he faced her. The bolt went straight for his throat, but his blade came up in a red blur and smacked it away.

  Too fast. And the Beast of wood and stone, the creature with Cob’s face, was slow.

  No, she thought as it lashed out again, sending a soldier through a table and into a support beam, it’s stalking. Its head was lowered, those sharp antlers angled threateningly. Beyond it, the crossbowmen frantically loaded another round, while the mages wove a net of orange-red light.

  The Hunter kept maneuvering, not even stumbling when he ripped the bolt from his own back. That act should have put any normal person on the floor, but he cast it aside with no reaction, only a slight foam of blood on his lips.

  The Beast rumbled suddenly, bent low to touch its long fingertips to the ground like a sprinter, and charged.

  Its hoofbeats shook the floorboards. The two mages flung their net as it passed, the bright light snapping around it from head to toe, and it nearly jerked them from their feet as its momentum hit the magic. They fisted their hands in the strands and fought for control, though, and the Beast’s charge slowed to a halt as the arcane cords pulled taut.

  A cry of dismay rose in Lark’s throat. Whatever the Beast was, it was fighting the Imperials, and if it went down—

  The Hunter rushed in and sank his blade through the arcane net without touching the cords. It buried hilt-deep into the black stone flesh, but when he tried to drag it sideways through the Beast’s gut, it grated nastily and barely budged. The Beast bared teeth like pebbles and forced its clawed fingers through the gaps, straining against the magic. As the arcane net sparked, the Hunter glanced up in alarm, then tried one more time to cut through the Beast’s flesh.

  The great antlered head shook. The black shoulders flexed, then heaved, stripes of muscle standing out in the stone of its arms. Around the Beast, the net dimmed and flickered, then tore apart like rotten rope.

  Freed energy backsurged toward its shapers. The ogrish mage made a flicking gesture to cast off the reins of the spell, but the other was too slow, and screamed as power arced up his arms and into his eyes. He collapsed at the ogre mage’s feet.

  Lark raised her crossbow, but had to duck again as something large flew toward the bar. It hit the front with a horrible crunch and a grunt of pain, and she realized as she peeked over that it was the Hunter. He rose awkwardly, his back to her, and from this close she saw in horror that there were white things crawling in the hole her first shot had punched into his shoulder. Maggots, she thought, but they were too thin, too fine, like thread. They were stitching him up.

  She heard another subtler crunch and realized that his broken arm had just set itself.

  Not just a Hunter. An Imperial abomination.

  Beyond him, approaching slowly, came the great black Beast.

  The seething blade had carved a line across its belly, but that line was sealing as smoothly as water. It bowed its head again, antler-points like a row of spears, and beneath them its eyes were wide pits, its lips drawn back in a malicious grin. Even worse than its polished-stone teeth was the empty black hollow of its mouth.

  The Hunter panted hard, his breath a bubbly rasp. Under the sea-surge of the Beast’s scent, Lark caught a whiff of him—blood, fear and poison. She raised the crossbow slowly, aiming at the base of his skull. One more moment…

  He whipped aside just as the Beast started its charge, and her shot embedded in the ceiling. Cursing, she fumbled for another bolt as she watched them run. The Hunter was fast, agile, compactly powerful under his ragged garments; the ease with which he vaulted tables, slipped through melee, dodged support beams and kept his balance on the slick of oil and alcohol would have astonished her at another time. Maybe drawn her admiration.

  But the Beast was right on his heels. With long thundering strides, it ran him down and swung heavy fists for his head. He dropped, rolled and skittered. Black hooves slammed into the places he had just been. Across a table, through a crowd the Hunter ran, and the Beast followed, mowing down those in its way with broad sweeps of its armored limbs.

  Only a few pockets of combat remained. As was their way, the Shadow Folk had hit and run, fighting to resc
ue their fellows and then escaping in the chaos through the remaining curtained alcoves. Beside her, Cayer sent the last of the refugees down the ladder.

  “Get gone,” he hissed, but she ignored him and set another bolt.

  The Hunter hit the ground again, beaten down. She saw him twist between the Beast’s legs, saw the hungry blade yank his hand forward to bury itself in the Beast’s knee. It went all the way through, tip punching out the back, and for the first time the Beast roared.

  The sound shook the tavern and dropped the soldiers to their knees. Lark’s fingers went slack, the crossbow tumbling from her grip, and it was all she could do to kneel down and cover her ears, but that did not help. She could feel it in her bones, like an avalanche roiling and thrashing her within it. As if she was caught in the very throat of the earth.

  Her eyes watered. The remaining lamps in the rafters rattled on their hooks. For a moment she thought they would fall—thought the whole roof would cave in—but then the bellow ended in a snarl that lifted every short hair on her body.

  She looked up.

  The Beast had the Hunter by the throat, but in turn the Hunter had sliced its arm open from wrist to elbow. The knee damage had sealed but there was another slit in the Beast’s gut, another in its chest, and the Hunter had planted a boot between the wounds and was stabbing furiously at the injured arm, face purple from the strain. Arterial blood cascaded out to meet his seething blade. The Beast’s good arm trembled in a bond of orange light.

  As the Hunter drew back the blade for another stab, the Beast gave a last growl and flung him at the mages. He bounced off an invisible wall and hit the ground in an unsteady crouch, gasping for air.

  “Bind him! Bind him!” the Hunter rasped.

  The orange light tried to wrap around the Beast, but the Beast tore the threads away with its bloody hand and they dissipated into nothing. Yet it retreated, back toward Lark, its heavy hooves scraping through the debris of the battle. The Shadow Folk were gone and the soldiers lined up three-deep at the door, swords out, shields out, shifting to defend the Hunter as he coughed wretchedly.