by Ru Emerson
“Galdan, brace me,” Ylia shouted out. They were still retreating, the Nedaoans moving inward, slowly being pushed toward the river. Lyiadd's seeming army did not appear to be stopped by water, as many evil things were, but neither did it make any effort to block Nedao on that side. But it did not need to: Lyiadd's Ylsans waited at rest across the river several lengths back from it.
Ylia still had the sword in her right hand, though there was nothing it could touch, but as Galdan looked at her, she brought out the horn. He shook his head hopelessly. “What do you think to bring, the Elders themselves? Even the Nasath are helpless against that!” A wave of his sword indicated the horde advancing on them.
“I must,” she replied grimly. “Lyiadd interrupted me, before I could tell you: I know this place.” It took a moment for him to understand. Fear and hope balanced in him, then, and without a word, he set his shoulder against hers. She closed her eyes and raised the horn to her lips.
The cry rang out across the valley, shattering the darkness directly over her head so she stood in a pool of sunlight, the horn glittering in her fingers. The cry echoed, struck the cliffs and came back at her again, multi-fold, echoed—and answered. The air was alive with horncry, suddenly; Lyiadd's voice tried to rise above it but he was shouted down by horns. The Ylsan army on their left rose as one man and began edging away from the water.
For there was something there, suddenly; something wrapped in a cloud, or a fog of its own, something that moved and shifted like folk beyond a warped and smeared window. Ylia set the horn in Galdan's hands and walked steadily through her own armed. She stopped at the water's edge, river lapping gently at her feet. There were things—movement—folk there. Trying to get through, trying to reach her. She sensed them, sensed something familiar, but could do no more than that. She could not touch whatever was there.
Galdan came up behind her. He managed to go a little further, but only ankle-deep in the chill water. He reached cautiously. His hand stopped as though he'd hit glass.
“Someone,” he whispered. “Someone help me.” The world around them had stopped; Lyiadd was throwing coils of night at them, but they were moving too slowly, as though underwater, and the army of seemings was milling just in front of the Nedaoan line. Ylia's eyes were held to the shifting wall before her; her hands sought Galdan's. A faint surge of Power washed over them; Nisana came from nowhere to leap onto Ylia's shoulder. “Help me!” Galdan's vision was going black, no trick of Lyiadd's, but the fierce drain on his Power; whatever was there was unable to get through, try though it might. And he could not reach it. His hands fell to his side, he tottered back a step into Bendesevorian.
“The horn.” Ylia brought it up, but the Nasath caught at her fingers and shook his head.
“No. Its purpose is done, it has called what aid it could, but its power is fading. If you cannot pull them through, then they cannot aid us.” He turned in surprise as Marhan shouldered roughly past him. The old Swordmaster's eyes were black, his jaw set, and the hand that caught hold of Ylia's was damp. She opened her mouth, closed it as he glared at her.
“Don't say it! Think I want this? I know what's there, don't ye sense it? What good's that magic of yours, if ye cannot tell?” She shook her head dumbly. “My King,” Marhan whispered. He was sweating freely, though the afternoon was cool. “Brandt is there. And others, those who never had—never got a good fight against that. Or the other one.” He gave her one last black look. “All ye could ever have asked of me, boy, and it comes to this!” He spat. "Magic!" And before she could protest, he took two long strides forward, his fingers still twisted around hers, and he shoved his other hand through the wall.
It collapsed like shattered ice. Horns hurt her ears. “Marhan,” she whispered in sudden agony, but he was nowhere in sight. And the Ylsans, if they were still there, were hidden from view by an army—white-clad, yellow-clad, so bright they burned the eye. Sun touched upon a hundred banners, and before all others were the Gyrfalcon of Brandt, and the Osprey and Ship of Shelagn.
Behind her, Nedaoans cried out in fear, and then in wonder as men or women once known to them passed through their line to attack Lyiadd's made armies. Men who had died on Koderra's walls, or who had ridden from her gates to die under Tehlatt axes, men from Teshmor and from Aresada. Tr'Harsen came there with his Narran ship-mates and the Merman's banner. Beside him were young men of Nedaoan mien but ancient arms: Merreven, Kildres his brother and their following. Ifney there, sword-sworn at his heels, those lost at the Battle of the High Ridges and those dead at the hands of Mathkkra since following him. Nasath were there; and Folk; an Yderra.
Before all went Brandt, and at his side, the Power playing in rainbows about her shoulders, Scythia. Just behind them came a man scarcely of man's age, his reddish beard neatly trimmed on a face of unearthly beauty. Ylia cried out as Brendan passed, and he turned for the least of moments. The woman with him did also. Somehow, she could never say later which of them moved first, but they stood, she and Galdan, Brendan and Shelagn, and Brendan's fingers were momentarily warm in hers, hard on his friend's shoulder.
Shelagn smiled, brought up her sword in salute. In a daze, Ylia matched the gesture. The twin blades touched; the pool of daylight around them widened until it took in much of the Nedaoan army. And then they were gone, again taking their place behind Brandt, moving swiftly against Lyiadd's creations.
Ylia pushed her way through after the last of them, worked her way across the Nedaoan line and found a knoll from which to watch the fighting. Galdan came with her; the Elite Guard formed a barrier around them. But Lyiadd's human armsmen were frozen by his command or by fear of his seemings—or by fear of the dead.
There was little to see at first; fog and darkness held wherever the created beings were, and it was only as they were slain or unmade that the black fogs faded. The sun was again visible and starting down from mid-day when Brandt's army encircled the last of Lyiadd's seemings and began to move in on them.
“Ah, no,” Marrita whispered. The oil clouded over, cleared briefly but went dark for good then. She pushed away from the bowl, stood. It took a great effort; suddenly, she was so very tired. It's gone against us from the first time he opposed that child. Then she brought him a dagger, and now she brings him the very dead. Her own mortality—until two nights ago, she had never thought about it. Now she saw little else, and she was so tired, it did not really matter. Lyiadd, though: She could not have him!
Lyiadd's generals were watching her from their corner. Tell them? No. She dared trust no one, just now; she sensed revolt in the City. These might not continue to serve, if they thought Lyiadd defeated.
“Wait,” she ordered, and by some magic of its own, her voice sounded cool, unconcerned. They looked reassured, she thought. “I am going to Lyiadd's aid—to help him finish them.”
“They are—?” Ayater began, hesitated. Perhaps not reassured after all.
“We will return shortly.” She hesitated. “If somehow we do not, if chance turns things wrong, I give you one last order. Fire the palace. Destroy Yslar.” They stared at her in silent fear. “Swear it!” she snapped. They knelt, bowed their heads in assent. Marrita caught up her cloak, threw it around her shoulders and vanished. Lyiadd's generals exchanged a wary look. Wait, it said.
“Look to the rear!” Levren's voice rose above the stunned whispers around her. “Archers, fall back, they're attacking!” The cry was taken up by a dozen other voices. Half the bow in the front lines turned and ran back through the huddled armed as, with a shout, the rearguard Ylsan army surged forward. They slowed as they found themselves facing a double line of Nedaoan bow, and their own line disintegrated when two-thirds of it fell dead. Others came across the river, filling in the gaps, pushing others forward ahead of them. A breath later, the Elite Guard came under attack from both sides.
But it was a last desperate attempt on Lyiadd's part. His mercenaries had either fled or fallen where they were when the wall that separated the dead from t
he living dissolved.
The seeming army was fading; Lyiadd flagging. A Zahg roared down the mountainside, wreathed in his black fogs, but Nasath surrounded it and easily unmade it.
The Elite Guard was hard beset for long moments: Ylia and Galdan fought shoulder to shoulder, Lennet braced with three of the guard against their backs. Shelagn's sword destroyed a Thullen and the three Ylsans controlling it. At that, the rest fled, and the guard quickly cut them down.
There were few of the dead left in the field; they were fading, vanishing as Lyiadd's armies dwindled, until only one small company remained below the crag where Lyiadd stood. Folk filled the air with a dazzle of light, unmaking the last of his fogs.
Fighting ceased. “Come down.” Ylia stood at the head of the armies, Nedao's banners, Brandt's, Shelagn's behind her, Galdan at her side.
“No.” Neither spoke above a whisper; in the sudden silence, it was all that was necessary. Lyiadd shimmered, but before he could bridge, Bendesevorian caught hold of his right arm, two others took his left. They brought him down to stand amid the banners. Lyiadd laughed grimly. “The next move is yours. What will it be? You dare not keep me alive, but you cannot kill me.”
“We can kill you. Know that. We will, if we must.” Bendesevorian spoke before Ylia or Galdan could. “But there is another way, for you and for her.” Lyiadd heard him, but his eyes remained locked on Ylia's. “Let us rearrange your thought and your woman's. We could do that for you. You may not care for yourself, but she would not need to die.” Whatever else he might have said went unsaid: Lyiadd's laughter drowned him.
“As though death mattered! Look at what stands with you, and tell me that death matters! But I will not go alone!” Sya'datha flared; the Nasath holding him cried out in pain and he leaped forward. Galdan brought his sword down but it slammed against Lyiadd's Power, dropping him to his hands and knees. His sword made two turns and quivered in the ground behind them; the blade was smoking. Lyiadd brushed past him, fingers raking Ylia's side where his blade had once cut. Sya'datha burned through her and she screamed in agony. Lyiadd laughed, lunged for her again.
A towering shriek ripped his concentration as something tangled in his feet and five needles drove into his knee; he stumbled, fought to right himself. Nisana scrambled out of the way as he fell.
Through a haze of burning agony, Ylia saw him go down. She staggered forward, brought the sword high over her head, two-handed. Galdan was back on his feet, hands gripping hers, his Power strengthening her arms and her will. She brought the blade down on the back of Lyiadd's unprotected neck with all two-fold strength in her.
The sword blazed, and those near her drew back in alarm as it slashed into the ground. Ylia started as something touched her foot, drew her breath in a faint scream as Lyiadd's head rolled past her toe and down the incline to stop at the water's edge. Blood soaked the grass. Her eyes closed, the sword dropped from nerveless fingers and she fell into Galdan's arms, but another scream echoed her cry, brought her eyes open, and she forced herself onto her feet again. Marrita. Marrita had come.
She dropped down to bury her face in Lyiadd's short red cloak. Ylia let Galdan take her weight. It hurt; everything hurt, and breathing was becoming difficult. Galdan's hands were warm, Nisana a warm pressure against her boot and then the cat's forefeet were hard on the muscle of her thigh as she sagged further and Galdan lowered her to the grass. The pain was spreading like fire, taking everything with it; she could not have remained sitting without Galdan's support. Keeping her eyes open, focusing them on Marrita—she had to. But it took all the concentration left in her.
“You! All of you! Was your fault, all of it!” Marrita's voice hurt her ears. “Laughing at him! You Nasath, withholding tree Power from him, until he must seek it himself! I—I could have—could have—” She was weeping too hard to go on. She wiped a hand across her eyes, careless of her appearance. One hand gripped Lyiadd's unresponsive hand. "You did this to him! But he killed you first with the Sya'datha, didn't he? You will not live long enough to gloat.” Ylia merely looked at her. She hurt too much to argue; Marrita had never been worth that. Something, though—she drew a breath, let the words out on it.
“For my son,” she whispered. Marrita laughed hysterically. “Son. Your son, his son. So stupid!” She brought dead fingers to her lips, let them fall limply to her lap, let her head fall back. A fireball of Baelfyr sent the onlookers in hasty retreat. Before anyone could intervene, there were two bodies encircled in flame. Galdan picked Ylia up and backed away with her.
If her hire were a retelling of the old tales, as she so often thought it, she would have died. Much that happened to her had happened to Shelagn, certainly. But much is never all; and Shelagn had not had my like. Or, more importantly, such a one as Galdan.
29
She lay on her cloak and Galdan's, Lennet's pack and cloak under her head. Someone had rigged a shelter over her to keep the sun off. Galdan's fingers stayed tight around hers, and now and again she managed to smile at him, but she could see he was not reassured, even through the pain that was blurring everything. She could hear weeping out there, among her Nedaoans, and Galdan's eyes were red. They think I am dying. Well—She felt a pang of grief—for him and for them. Nothing for herself. There was only pain for her.
Someone knelt beside the little shelter and another hand took hers from Galdan's; small as hers, callused. She opened her eyes to find dark blue ones staring into them. “Shelagn,” she whispered. “It hurts. I—I'm dying of it, aren't I?”
Shelagn shook her head. “No. You will not die, heir of mine. Be well. Be content. And live for a fullness of years. Bear your Galdan a strong son.”
“I—can't—”
“You will not die in this place. The Kabada will not deny you this one thing. You will not die of a child. A—” She smiled faintly. “A gift, Shelagn's gift. Think of it as that.” She set Ylia's fingers back in Galdan's, laid her hands on his shoulders. “She will not die, because you are neither AEldra nor Nasath. Your Power is nearer the thing his was, because it came from the Foessa. You can heal her, so.” Her eyes closed and her thought touched his. She stepped aside, and Ylia did not see her again. Brendan's hand touched her cheek. “Be well. Be content. And live for a fullness of years, first beloved,” he whispered. And to Galdan, as they embraced, “Care for her, my good friend.”
“Always,” Galdan replied. His voice was rough, and he stared after them through blurring eyes.
I can heal her. He could. And did.
“Ah, gods, beloved.” Ylia wiped tears from her face with a shaky hand and smiled up at him. “I thought I was dead.” She hugged him hard.
“Ouch! My ribs, I think I've a cracked one,” he protested, but his grip on her was at least as fierce. “Rest a while”
“No, help me up. I don't want anyone to think I did die.”
“They don't—”
“Seeing is better than hearing,” she insisted, and he finally laughed and dragged her out of the shelter and to her feet. At the sound of the heartfelt cheers that rang the valley, he smiled ruefully.
“So you were right again. Doesn't that bore you?”
“Nisana is the one always right, not me,” she retorted. Galdan wrapped an arm around her shoulders while she put one around his waist, and they walked through the companies of Nedaoans and their allies.
There were dead, particularly where the army of seemings had been; there were many wounded. But of the captured Ylsans who could heal, most were willing to help any of the injured. Bendesevorian and his fellows bridged the Ylsan prisoners to Yslar, then, for Geit to hold awaiting the new Sirdar's justice. The Sirdar's palace was already in their hands; the generals had surrendered it once they realized Lyiadd was dead; across the City, men were fleeing if they could, surrendering if trapped. Only Lyiadd had kept them together and he was gone. The Sea-Raider ships in deep water were gone; the ships in harbor readied, only waiting for the tide to run with it.
Levren had been bad
ly wounded. He had taken a sword through the arm, another low, and lost much blood before Lennet found him; Ylia sent them both back to the valley together, once the Bowmaster was healed and his frightened and weeping daughter calmed.
They found Marhan on the far side of the river, after the army of dead was gone. He lay on his side, on the grass, his eyes closed as though he slept, and there was no mark upon him. Galdan could have wept when they found him, remembering the Battle of the High Ridges, knowing this time there would be no return for the old Swordmaster. Ylia did weep for him, but she knew he would never thank her for that: He was with Brandt, now; magic no longer dogged his steps or warped his thought. But all Nedao would mourn him.
Nasath and Folk invaded the valley where Lyiadd had dwelt and the Lammior before him, to make certain before the end of that day that whatever Power had been left there could never again be used as Lyiadd had done. Bendesevorian went on to Nedao, to give folk there the news; others stayed behind to bridge the allied army back to the Bay of Nessea.
That night Narrans and Nedaoans alike danced through the hilly streets of Nalda, while the Folk played and danced among them.
Before they bridged home to Nedao the next morning, Ylia and Galdan went down to Nar's wharves. Most of the ships were already gone, but Fury lay against the docks, and Mal Brit Arren came down the plank to talk to them. “Give your Lord Corry a message for me. Tell him I am thinking on his notion, the idea he offered the night after the fight in the Bay, here. Tell him—perhaps, yes. Perhaps there will be trade for him and Nar, one day, silk and southern furs for other goods. Perhaps we will even occupy the City he offered us, and rebuild it in our own way.”
“Riddles,” Ylia said impatiently, but Brit Arren laughed.
“He will know! Tell him that whatever I decide, whatever my men decide, his ships are safe!”
“I will tell him that,” Ylia replied. Brit Arren turned to Galdan then, held out a hand. Galdan clasped it.