Arrow turned to Saul. There was no amber in Priath’s eyes, just bottomless dark.
“Dying,” she answered, voice cool.
“A pity. He was useful.”
Arrow’s eyes narrowed as she watched Saul. He was too confident. The Gardener was dead. The tree was still standing. The poison destroyed. And yet he believed he had won. She had forgotten something. Or someone.
A trail of air crossed her face. There was no life in it. The heartland was gone. The source of Erith magic. The power that could defeat him. Nothing to stop Saul bringing the rest of his immense being out of the surjusi realm. No protections in place here. He had won.
Inside her, the well of power was shallow. Enough for a final blow. Her fingers tightened on the sword hilt. One final blow. It would have to be enough.
Behind her Arrow heard an uneasy murmur and turned to see Miach and Elias and a bare handful of warriors running to keep up with Iserat. He was moving. At last. Running towards her. Heading for the tree.
Heading for Saul.
Arrow was moving before she knew what she was doing, stepping forward, drawing Saul’s attention, Kester her shadow. She moved as fast as she could.
Saul saw Kester’s blade and lashed out, a concussive blow of amber power. Priath’s power. Kester was thrown, further than he should have been, out of reach, leaving Arrow to face Saul alone. She forced her body to move, to keep going. He was mere paces away and she ran as fast as her clumsy, heavy, stupid, body could take her.
She hit Priath’s body at full tilt, tumbling him over onto the ground, one hand grabbing his wrist and holding on as tightly as she could, so that her arm wrenched, pain exploding in her shoulder, when his greater weight came to rest and she kept moving.
No breath in her lungs. Heart thudding in her ears. Taste of copper in her mouth. Lip split where she had fallen.
She was on her front on the bare earth, her misaligned hand grasping Saul’s wrist. He was on his back, head twisted around at an odd angle so he could meet her eyes, pleased smile on his lips.
“You think you can save the tree? It will not help, you know. The bitch is finally gone.”
A warrior’s body flew over her head, hit the ground with a flat thump and stayed still. She looked around, scrabbling to get to her knees whilst holding on to Saul. There were still baelthras hunting the warriors.
And Iserat was still heading for the tree.
At the core of what was left of the cadres were the six. Back to back, weapons and magic ready. Ready to give their lives for the heartland. Again.
Only this time they were not facing an incursion and a fall to the surjusi realm.
This time the heartland was all but gone. There was no magic left for even the simplest of wards. They just had their weapons and their skills to defend against the oncoming threats.
And Iserat turned away from his fellows, drew a knife and opened one of his wrists with a calm, smooth movement, ignoring the shriek of denial from Onalla, the cry of protest from Ronath, the disbelief on Willan’s face, the shock and betrayal from Pateris and Yvan.
Iserat put his bleeding wrist into the open wound on the heartland’s tree, to the fading amber at its core, and slumped next to it, lifeblood pouring out.
As he bled, the tree quivered, leaves shivering overhead in the faintest of breezes. The soft warmth of summer. The cool of an autumn evening. The frost of winter. The first warmth of spring.
“No.” Saul did not shout. He did not need to.
They were kneeling face to face, Arrow still holding his wrist.
“She was dead. The bitch was gone. This was mine.”
“Never yours,” Arrow told him.
“It is not fair,” Saul said, somehow sounding petulant even with Priath’s voice. “There is life here.”
“And you will destroy it all,” she told him, tightening her grip on him. “You will eat everything up and it will be just like the surjusi realm.”
He blinked, eyes black, and snarled in fury.
He moved, producing a blade from somewhere, thrusting forward.
Something cold and hard shoved into her side. There was no pain. Just an uncomfortable sensation as it ground past her ribs, further in.
She glanced down, seeing a hilt sticking out. Something had ruptured inside. There was the oddest sensation in her chest.
She looked up, seeing Saul rising to his feet, free of her grasp, his eyes pure black, shape of Priath’s face distorted as the surjusi lord took greater hold. Nothing to stop him. The heartland was not dead, but nearly so. Too weak to fight the surjusi lord.
Her pulse was loud in her ears. Deafening. She could not hear anything else.
Everything slowed as she looked around. One final time.
Beyond Saul, the remains of the six were still defending the tree. And Iserat. Iserat’s body. His eyes were wide open, staring up at the sky, the core of the tree saturated with his blood.
And, shockingly, there were more figures moving in the shadows. Not Erith. Humans. A dozen, perhaps. Armed with automatic weapons. A pair of baelthras weaved between them, blood-spattered and shrieking in defiance.
Automatic gunfire cut through the baelthras’ screams. Wards rose. Faint and fading. The last of the warriors’ power. Bullets were getting through the warriors’ protections.
There were not enough of them left. Not enough to tackle two baelthras and the oncoming humans.
Still the warriors did not give up. The mages did not give up. The Prime was still moving, dealing death to his enemies, moving too fast for the humans to shoot him. Those warriors who could stand were fighting, Erith weapons against human technology. Archers let fly their last few arrows, warriors with spears and swords advanced, uniforms tearing with bullet strikes as wards failed.
It did not like enough. The unnatural army Saul had gathered were advancing. The Erith and the Prime were retreating. Slowly but surely.
To the end.
She had to use one hand to keep herself upright. Her vision was fading at the edges. The odd sensation in her chest was sharpening to pain. She could not feel her legs.
With her free hand, she scrabbled on the ground beside her, finding her own sword hilt, bringing it up, the edge blinding with power. The last power she had. The last little bit of bright as darkness took over her vision. The sword, as always, knew what was needed.
Even with the sword, she could not stand. Her legs would not obey her. Until there was a hand at each elbow. Startled, she looked to either side. Alisemea was to one side. Sir Messian to the other. They were both transparent, barely enough strength to hold her elbows. Still, they gave her enough. Enough to drag herself up, on shaking legs, sword moving.
The sword knew what was needed. It always did. It kept moving in one continuous movement. Saul half-turned back towards her, sneer on his face fading as he saw the bright edge of the blade coming towards him. Too fast even for him. The sword bit and kept going, severing Saul’s head from his neck, the words of the banishment spell spilling from her lips even as the blade burned with silver fury. One final blow. All her power poured out into that final spell.
She crumpled as Saul’s body fell, the head rolling across the ground. Priath’s body. Eyes fading from black as the life left the body. She heard and felt the shriek of fury as Saul was forced back to his own realm. There was nothing here for him to hold onto. His host was dead.
Arrow lay on her back, legs tangled, the sword still in her side, and stared up. The sky had been blue. It was grey now, black at the edges. There was warmth on her face. And wet. She was crying.
The ground shook. Another earthquake. No, that was running feet. Kester’s face above her. Kallish, blood-spattered and grim. Orlis, no amber left in his eyes, face wet as well.
She could not work out why they were all crying. She tried to speak. There was something pressing on her chest. She coughed, throat choked with liquid. Her lungs would not work, filling up with more of the liquid. Her vision was fading further t
o dark. The only clear thing was Kester’s face. She wanted to tell him not to cry. She wanted to tell him so many things. Her lips moved. No sound. The pressure on her chest was too great.
Beyond Kester, a familiar lady stood. Solid and real.
Alisemea smiled and held out a hand.
CHAPTER 28
Arrow got up, walked across the springy green grass and took her hand.
The lady held out her other hand and Iserat joined them. Behind the lady Sir Messian stood, leaning on his cane.
“My bright stars,” the lady said, voice choking. There were tears on her face, eyes blazing with amber. “You have done more than I could ask.”
“We did what was needed,” Arrow answered, somehow not surprised to hear Iserat echo the words.
Iserat was looking around in wonder, smile on his face. The clearing was bathed in blinding sunshine, the tree whole again, a canopy of green leaves overhead. The air was thick with magic, the heartland’s presence tickling Arrow’s skin.
“So, this is the afterlife,” he murmured, half to himself. His eyes were bright as he looked back at Arrow. “I like it.” He tilted his head past the lady. “But I do not know this gentleman.”
“Sir Messian,” Arrow answered. “The Taellaneth Steward.”
“Ah. You were indisposed when we passed through,” Iserat said, with a small bow of respect. Arrow choked on an inappropriate, welcome, laugh at the understatement. The Steward had so nearly died when Nuallan had attacked the Taellaneth. Even with Erith healers, his recovery would have been slow.
The Taellaneth Steward smiled, eyes brighter with amber than she had ever seen them. Alisemea smiled as well and turned her head, glancing at the Steward over her shoulder.
“Not quite. The Taellaneth has its own guardian now.”
Arrow remembered the Steward walking beside her in the Taellaneth corridor, on her way to the mirror room. No one else had seen him. And, now that she thought about it, he had not had a shadow. The Taellaneth had its own borders, jealously guarded from the human world. It made sense it would have its own spirit.
They were an odd pair, even though she knew that neither of them were real. Alisemea, the headstrong daughter of the Taellan elder. Sir Messian, the elderly Steward who was devoted to the Taellaneth.
Iserat was looking around again, still smiling. She found a bubble of laughter in her throat even as she cried. He did not deserve this end. An unimaginable time in the surjusi realm, holding to the oaths he had taken, the six keeping each other safe and sane. Only to die at the heartland’s tree when all magic had gone from the world and the surjusi lord had so nearly won.
Beyond the clearing, she could see a few figures moving, shadows in what looked like an endless forest. What the heartland must have looked like centuries before. Before the towers and the buildings and the politics and the infighting and the wars with the shifkin and the corruption of surjusi. When every part was saturated with magic. When it was simply a place of wonder.
Arrow shook her head slightly. The Erith heartland had never been a place of innocent joy. There had always been predators. There had always been struggles for power. With the Erith it all came as one package. The magic, the arrogance, the selfishness, and the beauty. And occasionally, if she was lucky, kindness and friendship and love.
The lady’s fingers tightened around Arrow’s hand, calling her attention back. The lady was crying again.
“Too many dead,” the lady said, sorrow in her voice drawing tears to Arrow’s eyes. “I cannot restore them. But I can do this.” She released her grip on their hands, put one hand on Arrow’s cheek, repeated the gesture for Iserat.
Nothing had hurt as much. Every single part of her was on fire. All she could see was white. All she heard was the roar of blood in her ears. There was no breath. No up. No down. Nothing apart from the white and the pain and the roar.
Someone was screaming in agony. Arrow wanted to reach out to that person and take their hand, let them know they were not alone.
The screaming continued. Her throat was raw.
With a shock she realised that she was the one screaming.
She clamped her jaw shut. All around was white. The roar had faded a bit. Enough to hear, very faintly, her name being called.
She came back to the world with a gasp that felt like it had broken her ribs, rolling on to her side and coughing. Her throat and lungs burned. She coughed again, bright red blood spattering onto the ground, and found she could breathe.
“Here, try this.” A familiar voice.
Something cool and metal was held to her mouth. A flask. Liquid coursed into her throat. Erith tea. She choked, stomach revolting, and spat the tea out.
“Try this.” A different voice, faintly familiar. Another metal flask. Something hot burned down her throat. Brandy. She swallowed, warmth spreading through her.
She came back to herself to find she was half-sitting, propped up against Kester, who was holding himself oddly.
“Broken ribs,” she diagnosed, voice hoarse. She had broken her ribs more than once.
“And his arm, too,” Orlis confirmed. He and Gilean were sitting nearby, cross-legged, leaning against each other.
“You saved us.” Another familiar voice, carrying a thread of something else in it.
She looked up to see Iserat standing before them. He was mired with battle, body in one piece, the brilliant spark of amber in his eyes showing the profound inner change. There was an outer change, too. A pattern had been sketched in amber along the side of his face, from his temple down the side of his cheek to his jaw. Intertwined curling leaves. The heartland’s symbol. Much larger and more elaborate than the symbol of the heartland’s favourite which she wore on her own face. The heartland had marked him.
Arrow took another sip of the brandy and handed the flask back to Onalla.
“I did not do much,” she contradicted Iserat, and struggled to her feet, Kester following.
The air was saturated with the scent of death. There were too many bodies lying around. And too few warriors standing.
Underneath the death, there was something more. A trickle of magic back in the world. She looked across at the tree, mouth opening in surprise. The tree was whole again. There was no sign of the wound made by the Gardener. Above the trunk, a few of the tree’s leaves had unfurled, bright green a sharp contrast to the awful scenes below the branches.
Too many dead. Arrow’s chest ached as she looked around. Far too many.
“The creatures? Humans?”
“Creatures left when the heartland returned. The humans are all dead,” Kallish told her. She had been crying, Arrow realised.
“Who fell?” she asked, throat closing. Too many, was the honest answer, but Kallish understood the question.
“Toras, Ximi, Geran. Xeveran.” Kallish’s voice cracked on the last.
Three of Kallish’s warriors, who Arrow had not known well. She heard the first three names with sorrow, recalling their faces, but Xeveran’s name sent a sharp pain through Arrow’s chest.
“I am sorry for your loss,” she said to Kallish, her own voice unsteady. “For all the loss,” she added, eyes travelling around the group. She was crying again, unashamed. Too many dead. The heartland was saved, magic slowly creeping back into the land. But the cost. The cost.
“Healers are on their way.” It was one of Miach’s cadre who spoke, his own face wet with tears, face hollowed out with grief and exhaustion.
Arrow looked around and her chest hurt again. Miach had lost most of his cadre. Elias had fared little better. All in service of the order she had given. Protect Iserat.
The six were more or less in one piece. A few spots of blood. They were all exhausted.
“Mages, too, I hope,” Gilean said, voice harsh. His eyes were on something towards the edge of the clearing. Arrow followed the line of his gaze and her chest tightened again.
Ferdith and what remained of his cadre were still standing. Motionless, weapons held in lim
p hands. Their gazes were fixed on some unseen point ahead, the blood-etched runes in their foreheads dull, no magic left in them. And yet the warriors could not move. Arrow did not need to move closer to know that the warrior’s eyes would be full of anger and grief.
“We cannot leave them like that,” Iserat said, voice heavy.
“Blood magic,” Arrow began, and had to stop and clear her throat before she could continue. “No taint. A cleansing. A reversal of the spell. They will be themselves again.”
“They will still carry echoes,” Gilean added, voice harsh. “Blood magic leaves an impression.”
Arrow looked at the warriors, unnaturally still amid the chaos, saw the blood on some of their weapons and the too-bright eyes. She remembered Ferdith’s evident pride in his assignment, the heartland’s symbol new and bright on his uniform, and her chest tightened again in sympathy.
“The Taellan are on their way. And more warriors.” This time it was one of Elias’ cadre who spoke, a young woman whose eyes were haunted by what she had seen, a great tear down one sleeve. It would be repaired, as would the skin under it, and she would, in time, bear the scar on her uniform with the same pride that other warriors bore theirs.
That was for the future, thought. Right now there was the odd stillness, the overwhelming scent of death, the blood-soaked ground underfoot. Victory.
CHAPTER 29
“What has happened here?” Eimille vel Falsen’s voice cut through the hush that had fallen. She picked her way through the dead, nose wrinkling in what looked like disgust, eyes going unerringly to Arrow as she came closer. “What have you done this time?”
It was all too familiar. Years of challenge from the Taellan, most often Seggerat. Arrow gave in to temptation and rolled her eyes. She heard choked laughs from some of the warriors, grief and fury finding release in childish humour.
“I demand answers,” the acting head of the Taellan went on, transferring her glare to everyone else around.
“No.” Arrow cut the lady off with no courtesy.
“How dare you?”
Taellaneth Complete Series Box Set Page 140