by Lou Hoffmann
Lucky took his hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, then looked at Thurlock. He knew the old man well enough to know by now that he had something planned.
“Don’t let me worry you, young man. It will be all right. For now, can I ask you to Look with the Sight once more, at those pillars of mist-shadow this time—tell me if you can sense anything within or behind them. I’m keen to try dispelling them, but it will be best if I know what I’m getting into.”
Lucky started to do as Thurlock asked, but he hesitated when he heard sounds coming from a distance. He couldn’t tell what the noises were, though he thought he heard loud human cries. Whatever it was, Thurlock heard it too.
“Wait,” the wizard said.
Just then, a soldier came over the rise and down through the brush and rocks at the fastest pace his horse—a sturdy-looking bay—could manage. “Sir,” he said, panting slightly. “Commander Han Shieth bids me inform you his patrol is under attack, about two miles east and north, near the tower ruins. I ride for the post to bring back the troops you—at the commander’s behest—ordered to the ready. There are warriors against us, sir, but also magic, and your help is requested.”
Thurlock had already whistled for Sherah, and she brought Zefrehl trotting alongside. “Yes,” he said to the messenger as he mounted up, with Lucky following suit. “Before you go, though….” He drew Sherah up next to the soldier and held his hand over the bay horse’s head while touching his staff to the man’s shoulder. He mumbled a few words Lucky couldn’t hear, much less understand, and then said decisively, “Swift and safe.”
The rider was gone in the space of a breath, and Thurlock turned Sherah. “Luccan,” he called out, as the horses started at a canter. “I wish I could send you back to the Hold for safety. I’m not sure you would be out of danger there, either, though. And I’m also not sure you would go.”
“No, Thurlock,” Lucky said. “I think I’m supposed to fight.”
“And you may be right. Probably, we’ll need you.”
Chapter Thirty: Wraith Warfare
THEY RODE across the low slopes of the hills to make the fastest ride, for there they could avoid strenuous climbs up and down, and also the trees and large stones that tended to congregate in the hollows between the rises. As they passed over territory not far from the Hold but never before seen by Lucky, he caught glimpses of landmarks and mysteries and fleetingly thought of K’ormahk. It would have given him useful perspective to fly over the terrain and see how it all fit together, but he was too busy riding hard and dreading what was ahead to dwell on the idea.
With the thought of K’ormahk, though, came also a mental picture of Rio’s smiling face, and though Lucky couldn’t have explained it, remembering him gave him an extra shot of courage. He had, after all, everything to lose, everything to save. Rio was but one part of it all, but in Lucky’s mind, Rio’s image became his personal banner to represent all he had to fight for—his family and friends, the Sisterhold, the Sunlands and his destined role as Suth Chiell, even the whole of Ethra, and maybe Earth as well.
They knew they’d drawn close when they could hear the sounds of the fight clearly. Oddly—or at least it seemed so to Lucky—the first roar of the clash had died down to a quieter hum, but now he could pluck out individual voices and separate sounds. The impact of sword on shield, the fierce cry of determined attack, the surprised shout of pain, a horse’s terrorized scream—even the snap of bowstrings and the whirr of arrows flying at speed to their target.
Dreadful sounds, each and all, but Lucky’s heartbeat picked up to a fast tattoo, and he felt the hot urgency of adrenaline rushing through his system. Fight, his body seemed to say, because flight is not an option here.
But he pulled Zefrehl up beside Sherah where Thurlock had stopped to listen, and pushed back the burning desire to ride wild-eyed straight into battle. Even as inexperienced as he was, he knew that for his efforts to help, he had to be working together with those on his side. The lone hero might look cool in a movie, but in reality, he was just as likely to die as succeed.
Thurlock pointed to a stand of oaks in full summer leaf atop the rise to their left. “Up there,” he said. “We’ll have a view, I think.”
They dismounted just before reaching the summit and kept within the shadow of the dark oaks as they found a vantage point. Below them, a small, bowl-shaped valley maybe the size of two football stadiums hosted a rolling battle, surging from side to side and up onto the lower slopes of the surrounding hills. To the east, a curtain of mist-shadow hung thick and wide across the hill, and a band of maybe a hundred warriors armed variously with bows or swords and a few with a strange weapon, half-ax, half-mace. Women and men alike wore distinctive deep blue tunics—apparently over armor, if bulk was any indication—and they moved with a quiet efficiency that reminded Lucky of Han.
Their faces, though, seemed curiously blank.
“Shilloah,” Thurlock said, contemplatively. “Mercenaries, often, but not without conscience, and magic users are not their favorite thing. I don’t understand why they’ve come to fight with….”
Your mother!
Thurlock didn’t say that—Lucky completed the wizard’s sentence in his own mind. And he knew the answer as to why the mercenaries were there.
Compulsion.
Lucky had seen Liliana, and now Thurlock apparently saw her too. She’d come over a hill in the northeast corner on her mount, a huge gray beast whose frenzied eyes were ringed with bloodred whites, and whose breath rose in plumes of steam as if the air where it stood was midwinter cold. Sitting atop the mount and surveying the battle—much as Lucky and Thurlock were doing from the opposite side, Liliana looked… beautiful!
The sight of his mother looking almost—almost—as he remembered her from his early childhood practically gutted him. But then she raised her sword, its ice-blue metal glinting sharply in the sun, and when she grinned, he was glad she apparently hadn’t seen him, for it reeked of malice. She put sharp heels to her horse’s flanks and thundered down the hill, descended behind the mist-shadow and seconds later rode out transformed, a wraith herself leading an army of wraiths in her electrified wake.
As the wraiths rushed down toward the floor of the cirque, the Shilloah fighters seemed struck by confusion, and they faltered. Some of them momentarily attempted to turn their swords upon them. It certainly was an ill-considered move on their part, for the wraith’s swords, though made of ethereal stuff, hissed through flesh like a hot knife through water.
“Luccan,” Thurlock said, drawing his attention away from the horrors on the valley floor. “Han and his company are on the northwestern rise, there.” He pointed. “We’ll take advantage of this disturbance in the battle and run straight across to them.”
“Okay,” Luccan said, and pulled Ciarrah from her sheath.
“No. No fighting yet. I will fly a shield from my staff as we ride—moving cover. Your job is to stay within it. You won’t be able to see it unless you engage the Sight, and I’m not sure that’s a good idea, just now. Keep your eyes on my staff, and stay immediately on Sherah’s heels, and you should be safe. Let’s go.”
Thurlock rode to the northern edge of the oak wood and raised his staff. Lucky brought Zefrehl in line behind Sherah.
“Now,” Thurlock said, and Sherah kicked off to a running start.
Lucky’s heart landed in his stomach as instantly the gap between Zef and Sherah widened to several lengths, but he wished them forward with all his heart—and the Key responded! The Wish took hold because Lucky’s mind wasn’t only on his own welfare, but on the hopes he’d pinned on Ciarrah and his still mostly untested magic. He believed he could help in this battle—believed he could help hold a net of safety over people who mattered to him. The Wish coursed through him and his sight went dark for an instant—a result of magical impact. When it cleared he was riding close on Thurlock’s tail. He knew he was inside the wizard’s shield, not because he could see it—he couldn’t—
but because he couldn’t feel the cold that rolled off the wraiths infesting the valley.
They gained the pine grove where Han had ensconced his small company of warriors, then made their way through a knot of swordfighters defending the hill against Shilloahns who’d made a run at them. So far, they were holding the line, but Lucky could see wraiths gathering at the foot of the hill, a horde of them beginning the climb all at once, and even Lucky understood the Sunlands soldiers wouldn’t be able to stand against them.
“Into the trees, Luccan,” Thurlock shouted over the din.
At the same moment, Han appeared before Zefrehl, grabbed her reins, and pulled her back into the shadows. Thurlock turned toward the wave of climbing wraiths and held his staff aloft. Face lifted skyward toward the noon-high sun, tall and magnificent in billowing white robes, he shouted the name of his god, “Behlishan!”
A clap like thunder sounded and the entire world disappeared for an instant in a golden brilliance. When it was possible to see again, the wraiths at the foot of the hill had disintegrated into a thin pile of smoking ash.
“Wow,” Lucky said to Han. “We’re saved, then, right?”
Han shook his head. “Not yet, lad. Go get the wizard before another wave of those things comes at us.”
Which cued Lucky to look at Thurlock, and then across the field to where the mist-shadow still hung. What he saw in both places was enough to make his heart do flips. Thurlock slumped in his saddle, and Sherah moved under him trying to keep him from falling off. And, though the mist-shadow seemed a little thinner, somehow, than it had seemed before, as Lucky watched it birthed another wave of the foul undead wraiths. Lucky moved quickly down the ten yards or so to Thurlock’s side, brought Zefrehl up shoulder to shoulder with Sherah and got an arm under the wizard to support him. The horses moved as one to bring them up into the trees, and Han came up on the other side of Sherah.
“Let go of him now, Luccan. I have him.”
Thurlock was conscious, but barely, and Han literally carried him to a safe place behind a mossy boulder. The additional Sunlands troops arrived then, coming down into the grove from the higher hill behind them.
Han shouted to everyone in general. “Someone get Thurlock some water and stay with him until he recovers.” Then he turned to the sergeant who led the newcomers. “Good to see you, Rohnsan. Good choice to come ’round the back way. Did you run into any opposition over there?”
“Only a couple outriders, sir. Shilloahns, whom we took care of. If you need a path for retreat, I think we could post some troops to keep the way safe.”
Han nodded. “Let’s do that, but by the gods I hope we don’t have to use it. Because if we do, the Hold is trouble. What do your numbers look like?”
“We’ve got eighty-three regulars, sir. Also forty reserves from around the Hold and another dozen from elsewhere who’d already come in answer to the call you put out. And then some of the locals, farmers and the like, heard about the trouble—”
“News travels fast, eh?” Han interjected.
“It does that, sir. Anyway, we’ve got perhaps a couple dozen of those irregulars, armed with everything from hayforks to slings.”
Han stood, hands on hips, and shook his head. “About what I expected, Sarge. But frankly, it’s not enough.”
Rohnsan’s face fell from grim to anxious. “Sir, I gathered all I could in a short time. I didn’t think it wise to wait.”
“Don’t misunderstand, Rohnsan. You did well.” Han sighed deeply. “Come look at the field and you’ll see what I mean. Then we’ll decide how best to deploy the people we have. Although, for starters, let’s use the locals for securing our escape, should we need it.”
The sergeant trotted over toward the knot of people he’d brought with him, and Lucky, who’d been standing slack-faced alternately listening to Han’s conversation and checking to see if Thurlock seemed to be coming around, followed Han to the place he’d chosen as a lookout for observing the troops. All around them, the battle continued. Sunlands archers took deadly aim on the mercenaries with ordinary arrows and sent an occasional flame arrow into a knot of wraiths. A single flame arrow, a magical thing, could take out a whole group of wraiths if they were close together. Below, Sunland’s swords flashed as the soldiers fought the heavily armored Shilloahns—effective, but they didn’t always win. Lucky quickly saw that too much Sunlands blood already stained the battleground.
And then another wave of wraiths emerged from the mist-shadow.
Through that dark curtain of evil, Lucky could barely make out now the shapes of Terrathian Primes, busy amid a bank of several of their machines—the ones the Echo had shown him, life-splitters. Next to each machine and hooked up to it by long tubes lay a writhing person, most but not all of them children. On the ground all around them lay the bodies they’d already drained and discarded.
Lucky opened his Sight. He Saw how the wraiths—tortured people who only wanted to finish dying—were made to pass through a field of… something, perhaps gases, or magic, or perhaps the stuff of Naught. Whatever it was, it was imbued with the sparking blue substance the Terrathians mined from the lives of the victims hooked to the machines. As the wraiths passed through, they changed. The gained form, and purpose, and when they finally emerged from the mist-shadow, they were single-minded, armed, and deadly.
Lucky let the Sight go. He looked to his uncle, wondering if he should explain what he’d Seen. But he saw Han giving directions to the sergeant while at the same time pulling arrows from his own quiver and shooting them with fatal accuracy into the enemy ranks. Han had clearly been down in the thick of battle at some time, for he was scratched and bruised and sweating and Chiell Shan was bloody to the hilt. His quiver was nearly empty, and his countenance was grave.
Up to that point, Lucky had been almost stupefied by the reality of battle. He’d wanted to fight, but without a clue as to how, he’d stood waiting for someone to tell him what to do. But watching the scene in the valley, watching his own people—innocent people who led good lives—die at the hands of monsters carved from death, watching his own, well-loved uncle grimly fight a battle he clearly doubted he could win, a cold fury came over Lucky. With it came sure knowledge of what he could do—what he must do.
What he would do. He wouldn’t ask permission.
Thurlock was stirring and perhaps he would regain his strength in time to do something that would turn the tide of battle, but Lucky wouldn’t wait for that. He held the one weapon sure to be able to cut down the wraiths. He drew Ciarrah, spoke to her, and lifted his sword of light to the sky as he ran down the hill, setting his rage loose on a battle cry he never would have believed could have come from his throat.
He heard Han call after him, but it was too late, and Han must have known it. He heard Han issue a string of orders to those around him, and deduced it must have been about covering fire, for arrows flew around him, finding targets in the Shilloahns nearby. But the wraiths were his to deal with, and he did.
Or rather, Ciarrah did. She led him, she danced with him, she engaged every wraith she met and they all fell, and soon her light had cut a swath out of the enemy ranks yards wide and five times as long. Lucky vaguely wondered if time was passing at all—he had no sense of it. His strength started to flag, but Ciarrah bolstered him and he kept fighting. He had the presence of mind to be thankful he left no bodies behind, and in a distant corner of his thoughts he comforted himself with the knowledge that he wasn’t killing—not at all. He was releasing the dead to their proper end.
People died around him, though. Shilloahns and Sunlandians, and when a few gun-wielding Earthborns came out of the mist-shadow, Sunlands arrows swiftly cut them down.
Chapter Thirty-One: The White
THE DAYS Henry spent at the gathering were some of the most anxious he’d ever known. Though Talon had apologized for the way he’d presented Henry to the elders and leaders, he hadn’t apologized for the demands he made, and later, when he’d shown Henry to a
place he could camp and explained the setup for food, water, and sanitation, he’d made it quite clear he expected Henry to do as asked.
Henry had been honest. “Talon, it took me years to learn to shift the way you saw me do it, and I learned from people who were my same species, my family. They’d learned from their ancestors. I don’t even know if it’s possible for people outside our line. I suspect it might be, but I don’t know how to teach it, and especially in a short time. And… I need to try to get back to where I was before I ended up here. It’s urgent.”
Talon sighed. “I don’t doubt you. I don’t know how I could help you with that last, but if I can, I will—after you help us. I know you think I’m an ass. I agree. Nevertheless. Get some rest and I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” He turned and started to walk away, then turned back. “And, uh, you will be watched, so stick around, right?”
Henry had been “asked” to join another meeting in the morning. After he, at Talon’s prompting, talked briefly about the shamanic way of shifting, the old snowy owl had spoken at length, summarizing what she and a few other elders had gleaned about the situation for shifters around the world, and boiling it down to a final statement. “Something is disturbing the web of all Earth’s life. Many sensitive species are affected, including humans, though they don’t notice it. But it seems we are more affected than others—perhaps because our numbers are small, but more likely because whatever it is in our genetic code that makes us what we are—shifters—is more vulnerable. It seems perhaps you have a way to bypass that by touching the web itself. You must teach us, Mr. George. It’s simply the right thing to do.”
He couldn’t argue with that.
While he still wanted to get back to his obligation to Han and the Sunlands in Ethra, he had no way of doing that. He had—despite being discreetly tailed by some of Talon’s people—investigated every nook and cranny in the immediate area looking for anything that might be a Portal of Naught. He hadn’t found anything, but then, he didn’t really know what to look for. And, although he resented the fact that he’d essentially been kidnapped and coerced into helping the people, the truth was he also wanted to help them.