The Pillars of the World ta-1

by Anne Bishop

  The leader, the one who had dared sneer at the Lightbringer, was still up ahead. She let him stay ahead. He couldn’t outrun her hounds. But she also couldn’t let him reach the farmhouse she could see in the near distance.

  He wouldn’t. But being close to safety when she brought him down would hurt him even more.

  As Neall entered the kitchen, the manor house shuddered, rumbled. He felt the kitchen floor drop beneath his feet, giving him the strange sense that he was being flung into the air.

  Mother’s mercy, was the whole place going to cave in?

  “Ari,” he whispered. If the house was collapsing for some reason, she would be buried alive.

  He ran across the kitchen, yanked open the door that led to the cellar—and caught Ari before she could fall. With one arm around her waist, he hurried her across the kitchen and outside.

  He hesitated, then led her to Darcy and gave her a boost into the saddle. There wasn’t time to adjust the stirrups, so he placed her hands firmly on the saddle. “You just concentrate on staying with him. Let him do the rest. He’ll take care of you.”

  “Neall . . .”

  “Get her away from here.”

  Darcy spun, almost tossing Ari from the saddle. She regained her balance, and the gelding cantered away from the house.

  Too slow, Neall thought as he swung up on the mare. Too slow.

  As he urged the mare to follow Darcy, he heard shouts from the stables, saw some of the guards who had accompanied the Master Inquisitor running toward him.

  And he heard glass breaking.

  The manor house shuddered again.

  Adolfo stumbled into a table, his heart pounding fiercely.

  That witch. He should have gone to work on her as soon as he’d brought her here instead of giving her a little time alone to let fear soften her.

  Well, he could rectify that right now. Better yet, he would just slit her throat here and now and be done with it.

  The window behind him shattered, spraying glass across the room.

  As he stepped into the hall, Felston rushed to meet him.

  “That young bastard Neall is escaping with the witch!” Felston shouted. “He’s been trouble since the first day I allowed him to live here.”

  Adolfo ran to the front door, flung it open, then ran to the stables, Felston puffing along behind him.

  He skidded to a stop. A wild fury filled him as he watched two dark horses running across the fields.

  “Mount up,” Adolfo shouted. He pointed a finger at Felston. “If they’re riding in that direction, where are they heading?”

  “That way will take them to Ahern’s farm.”

  Adolfo swung around, pointed a finger at his Inquisitors. “You take half the guards and ride to the Old Place. They’re more likely to head for the woods where they can hide rather than being chased over open land. Get ahead of them. We’ll follow them. And they’ll be trapped between us. The rest of you men come with me.” He gave Felston a hard stare. “When we catch them, I’ll take care of both your problems.”

  Mounting his horse, he galloped after the witch and her foolish lover.

  Behind him, the manor house shook.

  The man wasn’t sneering now that her hounds stood in a snarling circle around him.

  “You can’t hurt me,” he said, his voice coming close to a whine. “I’m Royce, Baron Felston’s heir.”

  “I don’t care who you are,” Dianna said. “Where is Ari?”

  A nasty, but pouting, expression came over his face.

  “The Witch’s Hammer took care of her, just like he’s going to take care of you if you don’t let me go.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Dead! Dead dead dead. And he’ll kill you too. You’ll see.”

  “But you won’t.”

  She watched impassively while her hounds tore him apart. When she finally called them to her, she looked away from what remained of Baron Felston’s heir— and saw the dark smoke of a strong fire.

  “Lucian,” she whispered.

  She dug her heels into her mare’s sides and galloped toward the smoke, her hounds racing beside her.

  The good people of Ridgeley had been introduced to the Lightbringer’s wrath. Now let them meet the Huntress.

  Neall brought the dark mare to a stop that sat her back on her haunches. He vaulted off her back and ran to Darcy.

  “Neall, what are you doing?” Ari said, anxiously looking behind her. “They’re catching up.”

  He adjusted the left stirrup, then shoved her foot into it. “I know,” he said, ducking under Darcy’s head to adjust the right stirrup. “But you’re not a strong rider, and you need the stirrups to stay in the saddle at the speed we need to go.”

  “Neall . . . Maybe—”

  “Don’t say it.” He gave her such a sharp look, she flinched. “We’re in this together.”

  “Will we make it to Ahern’s?” Ari asked.

  Neall mounted the mare and shook his head. “Too much open land that way. We’ll head for Brightwood. We can lose them in the deeper part of the woods.” The Small Folk will see to that, he added silently, gathering the reins. “Just hang on, Ari. We’ll make it.”

  He glanced back. The riders coming from Felston’s estate were gaining too fast. “Let’s ride.”

  The mare and gelding leaped forward, racing for Brightwood.

  * * *

  As they crested a low, rolling hill, Morag spotted the two dark horses racing back toward Brightwood. And she saw the other riders who weren’t that far behind.

  The gray stallion stamped one foot and tossed his head.

  The dark horse danced, too fretful about not moving to stand still.

  “Can we reach them before those other riders do?” Morphia asked, curbing her own horse.

  “We’ll reach them,” Morag said. She gave the dark horse his head, letting him tear down the hill in pursuit of Ari and Neall. Morphia raced beside her.

  But the gray stallion veered away from them and headed straight for the other riders.

  May the Mother protect you, Ahern, Morag thought. Then she thought of nothing else but the two young people she desperately wanted to stay among the living.

  Adolfo clenched his hands, dragging on the reins enough to slow his horse. The guards passed him, heading straight for that gray stallion.

  Two black-haired women. One riding a dark horse. He had wanted to punish her for stealing from him, for killing his men. Now, seeing her, even at a distance, was more than enough. She reeked of magic. She reeked of death.

  The Gatherer.

  Despite the fear that had shivered through him every time he’d thought of her, he hadn’t really believed until now that she could do to him what she’d done to his nephew and courier. He’d been certain that he was powerful enough to stand against any of the Fae and win.

  But not against her. Who could stand against Death’s Mistress?

  A shout from one of the guards brought his attention back to the problem standing directly in their path.

  No ordinary horse would have run toward his guards instead of staying with the women and their horses. Which meant the gray was no ordinary horse. There was only one man at Ahern’s farm who was fully Fae and could shift into another shape, and that was Ahern himself.

  Adolfo chided himself for allowing the sight of the Gatherer to distract him and make him doubt his own strength, even for a moment. Despite her power, she was still only a female, still only a creature that had to be taught to submit to the masters of the world. He would find her weakness and use it to crush her. In the meantime, the horse Lord standing in his way needed to be taught a lesson.

  Before he could issue his orders, the gray stallion reared, bugling a challenge. Or, perhaps, a command.

  The other horses turned away, fighting bit and spur. When the stallion bugled again, they reared.

  Two of the guards, who were reaching for their crossbows, were thrown. One scrambled to his feet and grabbed his f
allen crossbow. The other didn’t move.

  As his horse’s forelegs touched the ground again, Adolfo kicked out of the stirrups and half fell out of the saddle, just managing to stagger out of reach before his horse’s back feet lashed out.

  Two more of the guards managed to grab their crossbows and get free of their saddles.

  “Kill him!” Adolfo shouted.

  The gray stallion reared.

  The guards took aim.

  A horse charged one of the guards, knocking against him at the same moment the quarrel left the crossbow. That spoiled the aim enough that the quarrel hit the stallion’s shoulder instead of his chest.

  But the other two guards hit the stallion’s exposed belly, and the quarrels sank deep.

  Screaming, the stallion whirled and galloped back toward the hill it had raced down a short while before.

  Adolfo shouted in triumph. Fae or not, no matter what his form, a belly wound was a fatal one. He watched the stallion struggle to reach the top of the hill.

  It doesn’t matter if you reach your farm or not, old man. You’re still going to die.

  For a moment, there was no sound but the harsh breathing of men and animals.

  Then the horses went mad.

  The glint of shoes in the sunlight as hooves lashed out. The thud of bodies hitting the earth.

  The horses galloped up the hill, following the dying gray stallion.

  Adolfo looked at the guards’ bodies. He sank to his knees. This shouldn’t have happened. He was the Witch’s Hammer. He was the powerful one. This shouldn’t have happened.

  “Master Adolfo?”

  One guard staggered to his feet, blood streaming from a wound in his head.

  “Are you hurt, Master Adolfo?”

  Adolfo started to shake. Couldn’t stop. This shouldn’t have happened. What were the Fae—any of the Fae—that they could thwart the will of men by controlling the four-legged beasts men used? But if men couldn’t command the beasts, how could they rid the world of magic and be the masters as they were meant to be?

  “Master Adolfo?”

  Adolfo forced himself to get to his feet. He mustn’t show weakness. If he did, they would never rid the world of the witches . . . and the Fae.

  “When the witch is gone, the magic will die,” Adolfo said carefully. “The magic will die, and there will be nothing that will make us afraid. We will be the masters.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  Adolfo looked at the bleeding guard, and his brown eyes burned with a queer light. “Good men were lost today, but not in vain. No, not in vain. We drove the witch and her foul lover into the trap, and the other Inquisitors will see that she pays for the pain she has brought.”

  The guard didn’t seem to be listening, wasn’t even looking at him. He wouldn’t allow other men to turn away from him, dismiss him. Not again. Never again. No man was going to turn away from him as his father had done. And any man who did would pay for it— as his father had done.

  Adolfo took a few steps to the side, bent to pick up one of the crossbows.

  Then the guard pointed. “Look! Smoke! Something’s burning.”

  Adolfo sighed, as another man might after being satisfied by a woman. “It’s the witch’s cottage. Royce and his friends went to burn it down so there would be no trace of her left to foul the land.”

  The guard slowly shook his head. “There’s too much smoke to be one cottage, master. And that’s coming from the direction of—” The guard turned and stared at him. “Ridgeley. It’s the village that’s burning.”

  Morag reined the dark horse to a stop.

  “Mother’s mercy, Neall,” she muttered as she scanned the woods. “How could you disappear so fast?”

  “Will we find them?” Morphia asked.

  “We’ll find them,” Morag replied grimly.

  They had to find Neall and Ari.

  Because Death was no longer whispering. Now, Death howled.

  Neall followed the broadest trail through the woods. They needed to go deeper into Brightwood, away from the trails where someone could easily track them. But he was worried about Ari. She knew these woods better than anyone, but she wasn’t a skilled rider and could be swept out of the saddle if she misjudged a low-hanging branch. Distance. Distance. They needed to put enough distance between themselves and their pursuers to catch their breath and decide where the best place would be to lay low for a little while.

  He cursed silently as he went down into a slight dip and saw the tree that had fallen across the trail. Not much room on the other side of it for a horse to land before the trail climbed again. He could have done it on Darcy, but he didn’t know the mare well enough to have that kind of confidence in her—and Ari certainly couldn’t make that jump.

  As he reined in and turned the mare, he heard Darcy’s angry challenge—and realized Ari was no longer right behind him.

  The mare charged back up to level ground just in time for Neall to see the men wearing black coats step onto the trail, blocking the gelding’s retreat.

  Movement just beyond the edge of the trail. Guards raising their crossbows. Aiming at Ari!

  “Look out!” Neall shouted.

  Darcy pivoted on his hind legs, half rearing as he turned. Most of the crossbow quarrels hit him in the chest and neck, but two of them found their intended target.

  Ari and Darcy both screamed as the gelding fell, throwing Ari out of the saddle. Blood reddened her tunic and trousers. When she tried to move, she cried out in pain.

  Neall threw himself off the mare’s back and ran toward Ari. “Leave her alone, you bastards!”

  Two guards took aim at him. Before they could fire, a look of stunned surprise came over their faces. They fell to the ground. So did the rest of the guards. And the black-coated Inquisitors.

  Neall stared at them for a moment, not sure that he believed what he saw.

  He stumbled over to Ari, knelt beside her.

  She raised her head, her eyes filled with pain. “Neall . . .”

  He pressed a hand gently to her shoulder to keep her from moving. The quarrels had gone through her, so at least he wouldn’t have to try to remove them here or have her endure riding with them still in her until he could get her to some kind of safety.

  Darcy’s labored breathing suddenly stopped.

  In that silence, Neall heard the quiet sound of a hoof against earth. He looked beyond the fallen men to the two women who watched him.

  “Morag,” he breathed. Watching them dismount, he thought about snatching up one of the crossbows, but he knew he couldn’t move fast enough to stop her. The dead men around him were proof of that.

  Leaping to his feet, he took a few steps forward, then planted himself in the middle of the trail, standing between her and Ari.

  “Morag,” Ari said. Her voice sounded so terribly weak.

  Neall tensed as the Gatherer approached him, but his eyes never left hers.

  “Step aside, Neall,” she said.

  He shook his head. “Death can’t be cheated, but sometimes a bargain can be struck.” He saw her surprise before she could mask it. “The others who are Death’s Servants have no choice about who they guide to the Shadowed Veil, but the Gatherer does. She can transfer one person’s strength to another. At least, that’s what the stories say.”

  “And if the stories are true?” Morag asked quietly.

  “Then take me. Give my life strength to Ari, and take me.”

  She gave him a queer look. “You would do that?”

  “No, Neall,” Ari pleaded. “Don’t give up your life.”

  He turned slowly and looked at her. “You are my life.” When he turned back to face Morag, she was watching Ari intently. Fear spiked through him, roughening his voice. “Will you trade? My life for hers.”

  She gave him another queer look, then held out her hand.

  He grabbed it, curled his fingers around it so she couldn’t let go.

  She gave him a tug that pulled him to one
side of the path at the same moment the other woman slipped around him and hurried toward Ari.

  He tried to pull away from her—and discovered she was stronger than he’d thought. So he just stood there, watching helplessly, as the other woman knelt beside Ari and gently brushed one hand over Ari’s head.

  Ari’s eyes closed. Her head sank to the ground.

  “You agreed to trade!” Neall said, feeling grief mingle with fury.

  “I made no bargain, Neall,” Morag said quietly. “Nor would I have. I see no shadows in her face. Let my sister do what she can.”

  “Sister?” He stared at the other black-haired woman, who was carefully lifting Ari’s tunic.

  “Morphia is the Sleep Sister, the Lady of Dreams.”

  How fitting that the Gatherer and the Sleep Sister were actually sisters.

  Morag released his hand and walked toward Ari. “She is hurt, and she is in pain, but Death is not waiting here for her, Neall.”

  “If Death had been waiting, would you have agreed to the bargain?” Neall asked, keeping pace with her.

  Morag was silent for a moment. Then she said, “I don’t know. No one has asked that of me until now.”

  “Then what’s happened to Ari?”

  Morphia looked up at him. “I gave her sleep so she would feel no pain.”

  Sinking to his knees, Neall forced himself to look at the wounds.

  “She bleeds, but the quarrels cut through nothing more than flesh.” She looked questioningly at Morag, who held one hand over Ari’s body.

  Morag nodded. “I don’t sense any damage inside her. Did you bring her saddlebags before the two of you ran?”

  “Yes,” Neall said.

  “Then bring them here, and some water as well.”

  As Neall stood up to do her bidding, he glanced at the dead men. Right now, it was better not to think too much about who Morag was.

  He would have traded, Morag thought as she waited for Neall to bring the saddlebags. Even without knowing whether it was truly needed, he would have traded his life for hers.

  Would any Fae male have cared so much that he would have tried to make that bargain? If necessary, he would fight for Clan and kin—and, perhaps, die in the fighting. But he wouldn’t go into that fight expecting to die. He would expect to live and benefit from his courage in the fight. But for a man to hand over his life, knowing he wouldn’t share in whatever would come after?