The Obsidian Mountain Trilogy

by Mercedes Lackey

  The ice-drake towered over him, rising as high as the tallest trees in the forest of Ysterialpoerin before arching its neck and beginning to lower itself slowly toward the snow.

  Kellen switched to battle-sight, but instead of the familiar overlay in glowing blue and red—showing him the creature’s attack-pattern, and where he might attack in turn—he saw nothing but the same queer fog that had surrounded the coldwarg when they’d been Demon-bespelled.

  “Kellen!” Isinwen shouted, rousing him from his daze. “Run!”

  He tried, but by now he was so cold that even to move was agony. He managed a few steps and fell, and knew that he couldn’t get up again.

  “You will learn to do that which you think you cannot do.” He could hear Master Belesharon’s words in his head. He tasted snow and blood from cold-cracked lips through the facepiece of his armor. He couldn’t run, but he could move. Clutching at his sword, he used it to lever himself to his feet again.

  Cold. Even the ice-drake’s presence was lethal. If he stayed here any longer, he would freeze to death.

  The ice-drake appeared in front of him, its chin landing in the snow with a soft thump. It opened its jaws. They were large enough, Kellen realized with a distant sense of astonishment, that he could just walk down its throat. But that obviously wasn’t what it had in mind.

  And there was no way he could get out of its way.

  Fire. I’ll summon fire, he thought desperately.

  But there was nothing here that would burn.

  Suddenly the ice-drake burst into flames. Its jaws snapped shut and it reared up, looking affronted. A ragged cheer went up from the Elves.

  Kellen stared, bewildered. Though every inch of its body was covered in flames—the snow all around it was melting—the fire seemed to have no effect on the monster itself at all.

  And then Jermayan and Ancaladar struck from above with all their might.

  The great black dragon stooped down out of the sky and seized the ice-drake just behind the head, as an eagle might seize a snake. With great pounding wingbeats, the dragon carried its far-from-helpless prey into the sky.

  Kellen almost fell, the relief of rescue was so intense; instead he forced himself to his feet and began to stagger through the slush. Isinwen met him halfway, and dragged him the rest of the way to the horses, boosting him into Firareth’s saddle.

  “Can you see it? Can you see Ancaladar? Kellen, tell us!” he demanded.

  Kellen shook his head to clear it, looking skyward.

  THEY’D barely arrived in time.

  Jermayan and Ancaladar had fought the Deathwings before, but never in such numbers, and this time their intent was clear—if they could not harm Ancaladar they would kill his Bonded, for the death of one meant the death of the other.

  And they could harm Ancaladar, for the dragon, though large, and fast, and possessed of a tough armored hide, was still flesh and bone and blood.

  Their fight carried them far from the mountains, far past Ysterialpoerin. For every one of the white-furred horrors slain by Ancaladar’s teeth and claws—or Jermayan’s sword and spells—two more seemed to take its place. When the creatures could find no other way to attack, they simply threw their bodies at the dragon and his rider, attempting to batter them from the sky by sheer force.

  But at last the sky was clear.

  “Where now?” Ancaladar asked. Jermayan could feel his Bonded’s weariness. It matched his own. But there was still work to be done; the fight was by no means over, not for them, and not for the army below and behind them.

  “Back toward the battlefield. Fly below the clouds. I want to be able to let Redhelwar know how the land lies between Ysterialpoerin and the cavern.”

  “Of course,” Ancaladar agreed, curving a wingtip in a gentle arcing descent.

  Ysterialpoerin was quiet, as was the camp. But then, running through the snow below, Ancaladar spotted a lone horseman riding at top speed through the snow in the direction of the city.

  “That’s Nironoshan. One of Kellen’s troop,” the dragon said.

  “Follow his tracks,” Jermayan ordered tersely. Kellen had sent his fastest rider as a messenger to Ysterialpoerin—but why?

  A few wingbeats later, he knew.

  The ice-drake reared up out of the earth, spraying rock and ice about it with the force of its exit, and then lowered itself to the snow, seeking food. The creatures would eat carrion, or the frozen victims of their radiated cold, but they preferred to stun their prey with their breath and swallow their paralyzed quarry before it died.

  Jermayan could see the remains of a battle on the snow below, and a handful of Elven Knights still alive.

  And Kellen, directly in the ice-drake’s path.

  Jermayan summoned Fire, enfolding the creature in flames. But to his dismay, it was not consumed. The flames coated it like a cloak. They annoyed it. But they did not harm it.

  The ice-drake reared back, lifting half its length from the snow and looking for its tormentor.

  And Ancaladar stooped upon it, seizing it behind the head, and dragged it into the sky, his mighty wings straining. The ice-drake hissed and thrashed, spewing clouds of poison vapor that were blown harmlessly away by the winds of the upper air before they reached Jermayan.

  As the white worm flailed, Jermayan tried spell after spell, before realizing that all of them were useless. No spell that he knew had the slightest effect on the creature. All he could do was use his spells to constantly heal the damage it was doing to both him and Ancaladar with its radiant cold, for as long as his strength held out. Beyond that, this was Ancaladar’s fight alone.

  The dragon raked the ice-drake’s body with his formidable hind talons. The ice-drake used its body like a whip, attempting to wrap itself around the dragon’s neck and break it, or strike his wings hard enough to break them.

  And no matter what, Ancaladar dared not let go of his grip on the ice-drake’s head.

  “THEY’RE fighting,” Kellen said, in response to Isinwen’s question. His battle-sight showed him the combatants, locked in struggle above the clouds. “Ancaladar will win,” he added, with a certainty he did not feel, “and then he and Jermayan can give you all the details.” He shook his head to clear it; there was still work to do. “Come on. Half the Shadowed Elves ran off when that thing came out of the ground. We need to find out where.”

  The others were as tired and nearly as battered by the cold as he was, and of the twenty who had ridden away from the main battle with him, five would never ride again.

  “The snow is fresh. Let me try,” Reyezeyt said.

  EXHAUSTION tugged at Jermayan, but he knew he dared not fail. A moment’s inattention to his spells, and both he and his Bonded would freeze to death. It would not matter which died first, for the other’s death would follow in a heartbeat.

  Ancaladar roared with pain and fury as the ice-drake slammed its muscular coils once more into his ribs. This time he was quick enough, darting his head down and to the side. His jaws sank into the ice-drake’s body with a sound like ice breaking on a frozen pond.

  For just an instant, the creature went still in agony. Jermayan could taste the foulness of its blood in his own mouth as well as the acid pain of burning cold. But in that instant, Ancaladar claimed the victory.

  He curled his hind talons upward, sinking them deep into the ice-drake’s body in an unbreakable grip. It was impossible for him to fly in such a contorted position, but he had flown very high during their battle; now he folded his wings back and simply fell, pulling at the struggling body in his grasp with claws and teeth.

  At last, the ice-drake … tore. Jermayan felt it die, felt the ancient and inimical energies fade, and felt Ancaladar’s surge of triumph at the same moment. Ancaladar’s jaws snapped shut—he quickly opened them again, spitting out fragments of flesh—and he straightened his body with a snap, letting the wind pull his wings open.

  The ground had been very close.

  Relief gave Jermayan new ene
rgy, and Ancaladar’s magic was a boundless well for him to draw from. He healed the damage—the last of the damage, for with the ice-drake dead, there would be no more—and sent up a silent prayer of gratitude to Leaf and Star that they had won. He let his own joy and relief spill out to Ancaladar, and felt the dragon share his own.

  Ancaladar circled low over the pit from which the ice-drake had emerged, and fastidiously dropped the pieces of the dead creature beside it. There was no blood—that had been spattered to the winds above—and the corpse was already softening in the quick dissolution of creatures of the Dark.

  Ancaladar landed, and walked over to the pit, peering down into it curiously.

  “I wonder where it leads?” he asked.

  “Nowhere we want to go,” Jermayan said grimly. “Nor do I think our enemies should have the use of it.”

  The Spell of Unmaking was one of the most complicated spells he knew—and one of the most dangerous, for it returned things to their original condition, and so must be used with great care. But Ancaladar had insisted that he practice it, over and over and over again, and now Jermayan had good reason to be grateful for his teacher’s stern determination.

  He cast it now, focusing upon the pit.

  Stone and earth and ice shivered; snow leaped up into the air; all caught in the dance of magic. A moment later, the pit was gone, sealed once more.

  “Now we return to the fight,” Jermayan said.

  “Yessss,” Ancaladar agreed, and Jermayan smiled, just a little, to feel the dragon’s strength return as they launched back into the sky.

  THE tracks of the Shadowed Elves led quickly into the trees and scattered, and then vanished altogether. Try as he might, Kellen could summon no vision of What-Had-Been to tell him where they’d gone, nor could Reyezeyt find any trace of them—not even the piles of ash that Shadow Mountain tended to leave of servants it was displeased with.

  But it shouldn’t be displeased with these servants, should it? They and the others had done exactly what they’d meant to—unleashed another Shadow-born monster to ravage the Elven lands. If Jermayan and Ancaladar couldn’t kill it …

  After at least an hour spent searching for a trail that didn’t exist, even Kellen was willing to give up.

  “Come on,” he said wearily. “We’d better report to Redhelwar. But I want to take a last look at the pit, first.” He paused a moment to try and find Jermayan and the dragon with his battle-sense, but even that was weakening as exhaustion claimed him.

  When they got there, Kellen received one of the few pleasant surprises of the night. The pit had been filled in—as if it had never been—and lying in the snow atop it were the two halves of the ice-drake.

  Like the Deathwings, it seemed to be decomposing with supernatural swiftness, and the destriers, well-trained though they were, flatly refused to approach the stinking remains.

  “At least we know who won,” Kellen said. I hope they’re both all right.

  They turned their horses back toward the cavern, bearing their dead and leading the now-masterless destriers.

  BY the time Kellen and the remains of his troop returned to the lines, the tide of battle had shifted firmly in the Elves’ favor. Belepheriel met them as they were coming in. The Elven Commander rode at the head of a full hundred; for all their numbers, still only a fraction of the troops under his command.

  “To see you gladdens my heart, Kellen Knight-Mage,” he said, as serenely as if there was not still fighting going on all around them.

  “And mine to see you, Belepheriel,” Kellen said, “though the news I bring makes ill-hearing.”

  “Jermayan and Ancaladar have returned, and told us of the ice-drake’s destruction,” the commander replied. “The battle goes well for us—there are only scattered knots of resistance from the enemy now, and our line holds firm. Jermayan has sealed the main entrance with ice, so they may not retreat, and by dawn the field will be ours.”

  “And I have failed,” Kellen said bitterly. “I lost the Shadowed Elves I was sent to find—they escaped, and I could find no trace of them. I sent Nironoshan to warn the city, but …”

  “And if you had not, Jermayan and Ancaladar would not have known to seek out the ice-drake, and we would have lost far more this night than the location of a few Shadowed Elves,” Belepheriel said reprovingly. “One warrior does not win the war, as Master Belesharon will surely have told you. Come. You have done your part, and now that I have found you, I have done mine. With the line secure, Redhelwar has ordered the Healers’ wagons brought up. You and your men need healing, rest, warmth, and tea. I will make your report to Redhelwar.”

  Kellen wanted to argue the point, but he was too tired, and far too cold—and he certainly owed his command and their mounts a rest. So he followed Belepheriel to the Healers’ encampment, a circle of wagons set up half a mile away from the lines.

  He was unsurprised to find Idalia there as well. She came out of the Healers’ Tent to view the new arrivals, took one look at him and ordered him into the Healers’ Tent.

  “But I’m not—” Kellen began.

  “Now.”

  Kellen sighed and obeyed “Go warm up,” he said to the others.

  It was bright inside the Healers’ Tent, and after so long outside, it seemed swelteringly hot. Frost formed on the exposed surface of Kellen’s armor and melted immediately.

  “Jermayan told me about the ice-drake. You know what they can do. Didn’t it occur to you that it was going to kill you? Take off your armor,” Idalia commanded.

  He blinked at her in confusion. “Well, yes, but, I—now?”

  “No, after the flesh has fallen from your bones with frost-burn,” Idalia said acidly.

  Kellen unhooked his cloak and dropped it to the floor of the tent, then pulled off his helmet. Idalia studied his face critically.

  “Not too bad,” she pronounced. “Come on—boots and gauntlets.”

  His hands and feet had been numb with cold before; the warmth of the tent made them ache now. Clumsily, he managed to get his gauntlets off, and barely remembered to keep his leather gloves on to remove his frost-cold sabatons and greaves—sitting down first on a wooden stool that Idalia impatiently indicated. At last his bare hands and feet were exposed.

  The skin was white with cold, but whatever horrible affliction Idalia was looking for, she didn’t find it. Nevertheless, she pulled a pot of salve from her apron pocket, knelt before him, and rubbed it into his feet briskly.

  It hurt.

  Kellen kept his mouth shut, though. She might think of something worse.

  When she was done with his feet, she did his hands—and that hurt even more. Then she wiped her hands clean, took a pot of something else entirely, and daubed it liberally over his face. That, at least, was pleasant—the thick salve smelled of honey and lanolin.

  “All right. You can armor up again. You were damned lucky,” Idalia said grudgingly. “I know you were warned about frost-burn.”

  “Well, yes,” Kellen admitted. Too long in the cold, and the flesh died on the bone, and then rotted if not seen to. The Healers had been very graphic about it. “But it’s not as if we had time to stop and build a fire.”

  Idalia grunted, reluctantly and wordlessly conceding his point.

  Kellen gratefully put his armor back on, and picked up his cloak. There were deep slashes in it from Shadowed Elf blades, but perhaps someone would be able to repair it later. He got to his feet.

  “Idalia, I lost track of Ciltesse and several of my other people earlier,” he said hesitantly. “Have you seen … ?”

  Idalia shook her head, compassion in her expression now. “I haven’t seen them. But I’m not the only Healer here. Someone else may have. Or they may not have been wounded at all. Check with the others.”

  Checking with the Healers might be a good idea, but as Kellen left the tent, two more Elves were brought in, one bleeding from a deep sword-cut, the other shaking from poison. Right now the Healers had enough to do.

>   He left the tent and passed behind the ring of wagons. The horse-lines were set up there, with lanterns illuminating large braziers heating the ever-present kettles of soup and tea. He quickly found the others.

  There’s bad news. He could tell that from Isinwen’s posture alone, as the Elven Knight stood huddled against the brazier’s heat, his helmet beneath his arm.

  “Tell me quickly,” Kellen said, coming up.

  “Ciltesse is dead,” Isinwen said. “I saw Jolia in the horse-lines, and I asked. Others—Valhile, Penerniel, Aldere—”

  “Gone to Leaf and Star,” Reyezeyt said softly.

  Kellen took a deep breath. He’d seen Ayihletevizi fall earlier tonight in the fighting: Lirgrinteko, Rirnas, Airiren … and those the Shadowed Elves had killed at the pit as well.

  He’d lost more than half his command tonight. Elves he’d ridden with, trained with, lived with. Trusted his life to.

  And sworn to keep safe.

  He bowed his head, feeling his throat swell with unsheddable tears.

  “Alakomentai,” Isinwen said gently, “it is not easy. But it happens, in war. You were not generous with our lives. You were our mayn against the enemy, first in every battle.”

  Mayn meant “shield” in the Old Tongue of the Elves. Kellen was not comforted. He took a deep breath.

  “If our losses were so heavy …” he began.

  “Ah. No. Do not fear that,” Reyezeyt said, sounding almost relieved at what he thought was the cause of Kellen’s distress. “The skirmishing units took the brunt of the enemy’s attack. We and the Mountainfolk took the heaviest losses, I hear. The army is still strong.”

  It was cold cheer, but it would have to do.

  “Come,” Kaldet urged. “Take tea. It is crude and simple stuff, but it will warm you.”

  Chapter Twenty-two