The Obsidian Mountain Trilogy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Since his Books had come to him as a young colt, he had followed the pattern of Tasks and Knowings set out for him by the Wild Magic. Though his race did not have the power to cast spells, the Great Herdsman taught that each had its place in the Great Cycle. And so his Knowings came to him, and he went where he was needed, doing what he could to set things into harmony with the Great Cycle. He had wide knowledge of the world, gained through years of travel, and if he did not have spellcraft to aid him, his knowledge of herbcraft—and the charms and potions given him by other Wildmages—were his to use.

  And—just as his greater brethren did—he paid the price of each Knowing with a Task.

  He had received his Knowing in Merryvale: to come to Stonehearth and be here to aid the human boy that he would find here. Perhaps the Knowing would unfold itself further once he had spent more time here. That the boy was unhappy it did not take a Wildmage to ken, but how a human boy had come to be so far from his own folk—and what Kardus’s part in taking the Herdsman’s Path might be—that he could not yet see.

  But one did not herd ducks by chasing them, that much Kardus did know.

  IT was no use. He was surrounded by them—Centaurs, Wildmages, and now something that managed to be an unholy combination of both. Excusing himself from the table as politely as he could—he no longer really had any appetite—Cilarnen left the feast.

  Everyone in Stonehearth—down to the foals born that spring—was in the square, so Cilarnen had the rest of the village to himself. All he really wanted was the chance to be by himself for a while, but it seemed he was to be denied even that, because he hadn’t wandered for very long before he saw someone else.

  It was another human, a silver-haired man, dressed all in white. His garments were fine, and if they were not familiar in style to Cilarnen’s eye, they were certainly more well cut and stylish than anything he’d seen on either the Centaurs or the human Wildmage. He must have come in with the Centaurs and found he had as little taste for the rustic feast as Cilarnen did.

  The stranger smiled mockingly, seeing Cilarnen. “So, Arch-Mage’s son Kellen, what a surprise to see you here. Have you tired of the Children of Leaf and Star and think to make your way back to the Golden City? You have nothing to return to now. Your father claims another as his son. He has given him the seat on the High Council that was to have been yours. And daily our foothold in the City grows stronger …”

  Cilarnen stared at the man in shock. The stranger thought he was Farmer Kellen. As if he looked anything like the Mad Farmboy!

  His shock—and denial—must have showed plainly on his face, for suddenly the stranger’s face contorted in a snarl of furious realization.

  And kept on twisting—

  It—abruptly Cilarnen could no longer think of the stranger as “he”—began to grow, its white clothes vanishing like smoke. Its skin turned as red as if blood had blossomed from every pore, and great curving horns sprouted from its forehead at the same time enormous bat-wings shot out from its back. It growled and lunged at him, as fast as a cat might pounce upon a mouse.

  If Cilarnen had not been Mageborn, he might have died in that instant. But if he did not have his Gift, he was at least used to seeing the impossible. He did not stand staring in disbelieving amazement. He turned and ran.

  He felt a stabbing pain behind his eyes—worse than any pain that had ever preceded it. It made him reel blindly into a wall—the second thing that saved him—but before he could catch his breath, the pain was gone, taking even the memory of pain with it.

  Fool! That thing isn’t done with you yet!

  He sensed the next attack seconds before it arrived, and in panic he acted without thinking, summoning up Mageshield to protect him.

  And it was there.

  Cilarnen and the Demon both stared at the dull violet shimmer that hung in the air between them in equal amazement. Then the monster smiled, showing Cilarnen a mouth full of long sharp white fangs.

  “Oh, Mage-man, I do so enjoy a challenge. Prepare your best spells. I’ll be back for you.”

  Spreading its hideous scarlet wings, it leaped into the air and vanished.

  Cilarnen slumped against the wall, panting as though he’d run at least a league. His Gift was back! He could feel it. And—maybe—the monster was gone. He could tell Grander—ask him what to do, what it had been …

  No. He knew what it had been.

  But that was impossible.

  Demons did not exist.

  His nurse had used to frighten him with tales of Demons. The walls of Armethalieh kept them out, but children—very bad children—called them in. And then they took bad children away into the Dark … and ate them. Demons had claws, and fangs, and long sharp teeth, and the horns and tails of beasts, and great bat-wings to fly over the walls with, and they were red with the blood of all the bad children they’d eaten.

  Cilarnen slumped against the wall in despair. He hadn’t thought about Demons in years. They weren’t mentioned in the Cosmology of the Light, though it mentioned the Lesser Races. They hadn’t been mentioned in his magickal studies, though those studies had covered the Elementals, the Lesser Races, the Embodiments of Magick, and the Illusory Creatures.

  Demons are a nursery tale, he told himself desperately. A Myth of Error.

  Then he heard the first screams. And over them, the Demon’s shrieks of laughter.

  “I wonder why he’s come?” Grander mused, looking down the table to where Kardus sat at the center of a group of rowdy apprentices. It was a great honor to host two Wildmages—and one of them the only Centaur Wildmage anyone had ever heard of, besides!—but he did wonder.

  “Perhaps because all of you are going,” Wirance suggested. “I shall be sure to see what I can do for him before we leave tomorrow.”

  “I admit he’s a useful fellow. Good to have on your side in a fight, too. Or when you don’t want to fight. I remember a time when—” Kindrius began.

  With an unearthly shriek, the Demon landed in the center of the table. The table collapsed beneath its weight, sending cups and platters flying everywhere.

  For a moment, there was absolute silence. Some of the Centaurs at the farther tables began slowly to edge away, trying not to be noticed, but the ones closest to the Demon were frozen in terror.

  “Mages everywhere,” it purred, staring at Wirance with hot yellow eyes. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

  Then it reached out, grabbing the nearest Centaur and yanking her toward it. It bit through her throat in one quick motion. She reeled back, choking and flailing as blood fountained from her ruined throat.

  Someone screamed, and suddenly everyone was screaming and shouting. The Demon sprang away, licking its chops, to land on the back of another Centaur, wrenching the Centaur’s head nearly off its shoulders before bounding away again.

  “To arms!” Kindrius bellowed to his men.

  “Get to your homes!” Grander shouted, equally loudly.

  What had been a happy celebration moments before was now a panicked herd of Centaurs that the Demon attacked at will. Though they had worn their armor, the Centaur warriors had not brought their weapons or shields to the feast. Some ran to fetch their arms; other armed themselves with what they could grab from the table and attacked the Demon.

  It was useless. The Demon turned on its attackers, its claws shearing through steel armor and leather padding as though it were the lightest linen. It seemed to delight in wounding and crippling rather than killing, and soon the screams of the injured were added to those of the merely terrified.

  And when it seemed that matters could get no worse, the Demon added magic to its attacks.

  It rose into the air and hovered, wings spread wide. It pointed, and everywhere it pointed, something exploded or burst into flame. Soon most of the houses around the square were in flaming ruins. It pointed at the well, and the housing dissolved in a spray of lethal stone shards. A great jet of water fountained into the sky, then water began flowing slowly over the
stones of the village square.

  They could not reach it with swords—not that swords had been able to cut its scarlet hide—but the Centaur warriors were armed now with spear and bow, and the archers began to fire from what cover they could find.

  None of the missiles found their mark. The Demon batted them all aside, laughing madly as if this were all great fun. Even Kardus’s arrows, which carried charms upon them, did not find their mark.

  WE will all die here, thought Wirance in despair. He crouched inside the doorway of one of the few houses that had so far escaped the Demon’s attention and watched with increasing fury as it slaughtered the Centaurs as easily as a wolf might destroy a nest of field mice.

  None of his spells were strong enough to defeat the Demon—he thought he might be able to hold it for a moment or two, if he could Cast successfully, but the Demon had marked him for its most dangerous enemy and broke each of his Castings before it was fully formed.

  There must be something! By the First Frost, I must think of something!

  CILARNEN could hear the sounds of the carnage even three streets away. The taste of his terror was sour in his throat. He had never been this frightened in his life. Not in the cell. Not looking at the Outlaw Hunt.

  He could get away. He had his Gift back. That would be useful somewhere else. He could get away. Not out the Main Gate—that would be blocked—but there was another gate. Maybe the Demon wouldn’t look for him. Maybe it would think it had already killed him. Maybe the Centaurs would kill it.

  Cilarnen got to his feet and started walking slowly toward the Little Gate.

  And stopped.

  No.

  These were his friends. They didn’t care who Cilarnen Volpiril was—they didn’t know a thing about House Volpiril, or the High Mages, or Armethalieh. They didn’t want anything from him. They were just his friends. They had helped him even though they didn’t have to.

  Maybe he couldn’t help them now. He didn’t know much about Demons—he hadn’t believed in Demons until a few minutes ago—and even if he did have his Gift, most of his spells were useless without the equipment to do a proper Working. He didn’t even have a wand, for Light’s sake!

  But there was one spell he didn’t need a Wand for, and he bet even Demons feared it.

  He hoped they did.

  He turned toward the Square and began to run.

  HE reached the edge of the square and stopped. He’d never seen—never imagined—a sight like the one which greeted him. Bodies were everywhere. The cobblestones were slick with fresh blood. The houses that bordered the square were in ruins, burning. The well had been smashed, and water was sluicing over the stones, making the footing treacherous.

  Cilarnen could see that the Wildmage kept trying to cast some kind of spell—he could actually see the energy—but the Demon kept breaking the spell before it could form. It could not strike the Wildmage, but others weren’t so lucky. Cilarnen saw flesh crisped to ash—and worse. Even while he gaped at the fight in shock and horror, he saw the Demon’s magic strike a young Centaur’s hindquarters, and watched the flesh turn black and fall away from the bone like hot fat.

  It should have made him sick. But somehow seeing what the Demon could do didn’t make him more afraid. It made him hard and still inside; more determined—and more angry —than he had ever felt before. He stepped away from the wall he’d been hiding against and out into the Square.

  Cilarnen raised his hand, summoning the power of the High Magick.

  And the Demon burst into flame.

  Burn! Cilarnen commanded, putting all his will into the demand, all his anger, all his fear. When he felt himself falter, he merely had to allow himself to see the dead and the dying scattered about the Square, and his fury welled up in him again. Never mind that a Mage was supposed to conduct all spell-casting in sublime detachment from everything and everyone; this rage gave him power he didn’t even know he had.

  He did not stop—a candle could not will itself to extinguish, but the Demon could—but willed Fire again and again—

  —until, suddenly, unfamiliar weakness drove him to his knees.

  And the Demon, its body charred and blackened, dropped from the sky.

  WIRANCE felt the tingle of unfamiliar magic, and suddenly the Demon burst into flames.

  For a moment he thought it was a trick, a trap, but then the Demon roared with pain, flailing wildly in the air as it sought to extinguish the flames that raced over its body.

  Wirance glanced toward the edge of the square, following the line of magic stretched across the sky, and saw a slender human youth pointing his hand at the Demon, his whole body rigid with concentration and fury.

  I don’t know what you’re doing, boy, but keep it up!

  Kardus hurried to Wirance’s side, forcing his way through the press of warriors. In his hands he held a thin length of shining white cord.

  “I think—” the Centaur Wildmage began.

  “Pray,” Wirance said grimly, and readied his spell.

  The Demon had stopped fighting now, and hung in the sky, a burning ember, its wings skeletal, its body ash and bones. But the moment the strange burning spell was lifted, it would begin to heal, and in moments it would be whole—and more savage than before.

  Wirance waited for the instant the light of the burning spell flickered out, then struck with his own. This time it held: the Demon’s body fell to the ground, surrounded by a white glow of Restraint.

  “Quickly!” Wirance shouted, his voice harsh. “I cannot hold this spell for long!”

  Kardus lunged forward, the rope of unicorn hair in his hands. He fell to his knees, looping it about the Demon’s neck, and jerked it tight. The seared Demonflesh crackled as the unicorn hair burned through it, shearing through the neck and windpipe, and with a crack the head rolled free.

  A moment later, the whole body dissolved into ash, and began to swirl away in the water.

  Silence.

  A terrible, heavy silence.

  “Is it dead?” someone asked hoarsely.

  “Yes,” Kardus said, lunging awkwardly to his feet. “The Demon is dead.”

  Then the moaning, the weeping, the agonized cries for help began.

  Wirance looked around. The village square resembled nothing so much as a slaughtering pen. In the cold, steam rose from the shattered bodies of the living and the cooling bodies of the dead, and the air was filled with smoke. He looked at Kardus. “We both have much work to do here. But we had best go find the boy first.”

  “His name is Cilarnen,” Kardus said. “He is my Task.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  At the Siege of Stonehearth

  CILARNEN HAD NOT gone far. He was too weak to stand, but he had crawled back around the corner of the building and was curled up against it, trying to shut out the sobbing and groans of the wounded. His eyes streamed tears. But he was not weeping. No, not he. Surely.

  “Cilarnen,” Wirance said, squatting down beside him, “are you hurt?”

  “It thought I was Kellen, you see,” Cilarnen explained—reasonably, he thought “And then it realized I wasn’t So it killed everybody. It tried to kill me first, but I still had my Gift. Lord Anigrel was supposed to take it, but he didn’t. That was wrong of him, wasn’t it? They’re supposed to take your Gift when they Banish you.”

  “We don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kardus said gently. “We know who Kellen Wildmage is. Kellen came from Armethalieh. Did you come from Armethalieh too?”

  “Yes,” Cilarnen said, sitting back and looking up at the two Wildmages. “I’m a Mage of Armethalieh. I was, anyway. An Entered Apprentice.”

  “And you used your Armethaliehan magic on the Demon?” Wirance asked.

  “I used Fire,” Cilarnen said, his voice thick with exhaustion, and with what was certainly not weeping. It was hard to form words. But now—now his vision was clearing at last, and—he was tired. So tired. He couldn’t even think, he was so tired. All he wanted to do was sle
ep. “Even an Apprentice can do that.”

  “I know nothing of Armethaliehan magic. How do you pay for your spells?” Wirance asked.

  Cilarnen stared at him in utterly exhausted irritation. There must be a thousand things that needed doing right now. Why was this man sitting here with him asking how the High Magick worked?

  “Pay? You don’t ‘pay’ for spells in the High Magick.” Something occurred to him in the back of his mind, something about the Talismans, but the thought flew away and escaped him.

  “All magic has a price, young Apprentice, and woe to your teachers that they did not teach you this. You have paid dearly for the spell you cast today, and now you must rest,” Wirance said.

  He put an arm under Cilarnen’s shoulders, and lifted him to his feet. Cilarnen staggered, the world reeling greyly around him. Despite himself, he clutched at Wirance for support.

  “It is as I said,” Wirance said implacably.

  Suddenly arguing with Wirance didn’t seem worthwhile any longer.

  “I will take him to a place where he may rest, then return to aid you,” Kardus said, putting his arm around Cilarnen. Cilarnen leaned against the Centaur gratefully.

  To his relief, they did not return to the square, but went back along the same back street he’d gone down not so long before. Kardus seemed to know Stonehearth as well as Cilarnen did.

  When they reached the place where Cilarnen had encountered the Demon, he flinched, as if it somehow might still be here.

  “It was here,” Cilarnen said shakily. “It looked human.”

  “They can appear in any guise they choose,” Kardus said.

  Suddenly the Demon’s words came back to him, as if he were hearing them at that very moment Not the part about Kellen. That was Kellen’s problem—and if Kellen really was a Wildmage, he wouldn’t care if Lycaelon had supplanted him or not. But the rest:

  And daily our foothold in the City grows stronger …

  Were there Demons in the City?