“Six,” Segnbora said, “at least.”
“We’ll count later,” Hasai said. He stretched his head up and emitted a sound that could be called a roar only by virtue of its volume. It sounded like a chorus of many trumpets blowing to the charge, and Segnbora had to cover her ears at the sound of it; a few rocks scattered around burst like holiday fireworks, startling even Dragons. The silence took a while falling, but succeeded at last.
“We are home,” Hasai said, the song coming down on the last note in a great chord of satisfaction. “But we have one last bout of nn’s’raihle to enact yet, with the One That gave us such trouble long ago. It killed our homeworld, and drove us out: it killed many a one of you, as you know in your own flesh: it killed Dahiric—” Many heads turned at that. “No,” Hasai said, “he is not here as you are. I have no reasons for you now: maybe we will have some before the end. But That One walks the fields not too far from here, and our human kin—our hosts once, but we must learn to think differently—fight against It to keep It from killing this world as well. I go to argue our case with It. Who comes with me?”
Segnbora prudently used the Fire to make herself deaf. It didn’t work entirely: the song of defiance and eager challenge that went up could be felt through the ground, and in the air, on the skin and in the body. More rocks shattered.
“Well enough,” Hasai said. “Sdaha, you had better put your wings on: we must make speed.”
With the others, she rose and flew.
FIFTEEN
Even the Goddess cannot change the past. But human beings can: and to that purpose created She them.
Charestics, 190
“Is this close enough?” Sunspark said as they came down on the hilltop.
“It’ll do,” Herewiss said, dismounting hurriedly. They stood together among the stones of Vintner’s Rise, the hill just across the river from Prydon. All down the slopes were many straggling lines and ranks of vinestocks of the green Jaraldit grape. Down at the bottom of the hill was the main Arlene army, three thousand strong, surging forward now to take the Darthenes while the warfetter still affected them. “At least here I don’t have to waste energy overcoming mere distance,” Herewiss said. He drew Khávrinen and sat down on the stones, trying to compose himself. It was difficult, through his fear: the part of him that usually could feel how things were with Lorn was frighteningly dark and silent. Just warfetter— he thought, trying to reassure himself. But that could be deadly even in short times, if the mind resisting it was vulnerable—
He gulped and started trying to calm his breathing. “All I need to do is disturb him and break the sorcery,” Herewiss said. “If I’m not conscious within a few minutes, move me well back from here: he might have a grip on me, but distance will break his, too.”
Sunspark looked at Herewiss, its expression still. “Go well,” it said.
I love you, too, Herewiss said to it, and closed his eyes, letting the Fire surround him.
***
It was dangerous, walking out of body with so little protection, but he was out of options, and out of time. Herewiss waited a moment to let the otherworld settle itself around him, and then looked around. To some extent, as usual, it mirrored the living world, but not entirely. A murky fog lay over everything, expressing a sorcery in action. And between Herewiss and the river, at the bottom of the dark fog, lay a long patch of forested country that was not there in the real world. He thought of his dream of the scythe, and the grim forest in it…. Herewiss willed himself down to the fringes of that forest.
The Road ran straight into it, vanishing in its shadows. Gloom lay under the branches of those trees, mostly ancient pines, tall, huge-trunked. It reminded Herewiss of the woods east and west of Barachael in the high south, below the snow line—except that those forests gave him none of the feeling of unease that this one did. There was a sense of enmity in these shadows, of old unexpressed angers. And, which he had expected, there was a sense of being watched. He knew who the watcher was, though. Herewiss held Khávrinen ready, and walked under the eaves of the forest.
He found as he headed inward that the trees were encroaching on the Road itself, shouldering the massive hexagonal paving-stones aside, cracking them with their roots. The surface grew humped and treacherous: the Road grew narrower. Yards ahead of Herewiss it pinched down to three feet wide or so, barely a track, and further ahead yet it seemed to end altogether—or it might still go on through the dark, but the trees crowded so closely together that there was no getting at it, no way to proceed but by squeezing between the trunks.
Some ways ahead of him there was a hint of paleness, where light came in: a clearing, possibly. Herewiss made for it, coming to the end of the Road and passing it, working his way slowly between the trunks of the huge, silent trees. It was hard going: the harsh bark scraped at him like teeth, his clothes caught on spines and snags, low branches whipped him in the face till his eyes smarted with it. All the while the gloom got deeper, despite the fact that he drew nearer to the light: and the gloom itself seemed to throb, a slow steady rhythm like a pulse. He could see a lightening of the air, up there ahead of him: a clearing it was, but no light came to it from above—even from here he could tell that the canopy of thickly wrestling branches was unbroken. The light came from within the clearing itself.
Herewiss worked his way through the trees with increasing difficulty. This was a symbol, he knew, of the sorcerous barriers that Rian had erected around his working: but there was nothing symbolic about the way the trees seemed to press more closely together when he was stuck between two of them, pushing the air out of his lungs and trying to trap him there. He kept having to drag himself out, gasping, tearing his clothes or his skin. And the temptation was constant: use the Fire on them, wither a few of them where they stand! But the impulse made him suspicious, and Herewiss restrained himself.
The clearing was close. He pushed between two last trees and was caught again, and tore himself free at last, panting for air: but not before the calm figure sitting in a chair in the middle of the clearing had opened its eyes and looked at him, with only mild surprise. Rian sat there in one of the old chairs Herewiss recognized from Freelorn’s bedroom: and in his hands he held a cubit-long piece of white wood, filigreed in silver. He rolled it between his hands, idly, while he watched Herewiss.
“I thought you might try this,” Rian said, his voice almost admiring. “It says much that you got this far: the other Rodmistresses who’ve tried have died of it.
“Nonetheless,” Rian said, and got not another word out, because Herewiss lifted Khávrinen and focused all his Fire through it, and put a bolt of it straight into the man’s brain.Rian froze expressionless as the Flame washed over him—and then laughed at Herewiss, not unkindly. “Come now,” he said, “this is my mind we’re in this time. I rule here, as you ruled in yours, however marginally—”
“This is not your mind,” Herewiss said, lowering Khávrinen and trying to think of something else that might work. “This is one of the overworlds, you know perfectly well—”
“But it’s in my Master’s mind now,” Rian said, “and so in mine. We are very nearly one. Just a little more power is needed to bring about His rebirth in the physical world.” Rian looked thoughtfully at Herewiss. “I wonder if that would do?”
He was looking at Khávrinen. Herewiss gripped it—
The sword was wrenched from him and went spinning off through the air, into Rian’s hands. Herewiss fell to his knees with a cry of pain, discovering that having your focus taken from you against your will felt much like having your heart ripped out. His own Fire still lived and bound Herewiss to his focus, but it was anguish feeling Khávrinen in that other’s hand—like feeling the sword of your sex held for idle examination in the hand of someone intent on your rape, or at least on your use. No Fire leapt about Khávrinen now; it was just gray steel with a faint blue sheen, a sword that in the thin pale light of the clearing looked clumsily made —
Herewiss kn
elt frozen there, held by Rian’s will. Whatever made me come straight into his place of power?! But the answer to that was plain. The Shadow was not above causing Its victims to act in accord with their own weaknesses: and his pride had been making trouble for Herewiss in his dealings with Rian since they first started. And he’s much stronger than he was before— “Khávrinen!” he whispered: but the sword was captive as he was, and could not come to him.
“It might do,” Rian said, musing. He leaned Khávrinen against the arm of his chair with as much regard as if it were a broomstick. “There’s a fair amount of Fire trapped in the steel just keeping it alive, and as long as you’re not touching it, it could be made amenable to use by another in no great time—”
Impossible! Herewiss thought—but to his own horror, he now wasn’t sure that Rian couldn’t do what he claimed. He struggled, but his body was not his own, and remained as still as so much stone. “You’ve also been thieving elsewhere, I see,” Herewiss gasped—at least he could still speak. “Where is Cillmod?”
Rian shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. When Lionhall fell, I managed to rescue the one piece that was worth keeping, since an Initiate needs this silly stick to be acknowledged as King. Cillmod hardly matters, now that there is an Initiate. Freelorn will do as well as King as any other brat of Héalhra’s blood, once his will is burnt out and he’s tamed to our use. No great work, that, once my Lord is reborn.”
Herewiss thought he couldn’t even shudder, and then found that he could, as Cillmod picked up Khávrinen again and bent his attention upon it. “Let’s see,” he said. Herewiss felt the draining start, as if the Fire and his soul were being pulled out of him in a thin, strong thread, cutting like wire, spinning, spinning away. That throbbing that Herewiss had felt started to quicken. It was visual, now, as well; the shadows under the trees getting shadowier with each beat, darkness gathering. A few more beats, just a very few more, and Herewiss was afraid he would hear a breath drawn, hear the voice speak which it would be final madness to hear. Khávrinen!! he cried in mind. But no answer came. The darkness deepened—
Until the whole clearing flushed with light, and the deepening twilight that had filled it suddenly became dawn, with a vengeance. In the middle of the clearing stood a column of fire, licking up into the canopy overhead, and heat washed over Herewiss.
Now, Sunspark said. You have someone of mine. I will have him back.
Rian laughed at Sunspark too, and though Herewiss could see nothing of his face through the pillar of wreathing flames, his voice did not now sound quite so assured as it had. “Oh,” he said to Herewiss, “it’s your pet. Didn’t it learn the last time—”
Herewiss grinned. Rian had met Sunspark in its physical shapes in the real world, and had half-confirmed what Herewiss had himself suspected—the habit of living in a shape, and much trying to be human, had left it less fiery, more physical. But this was the otherworld, and freed of form as it was here, Sunspark was another story entirely.
Find out, manling, it said, and leapt: not at him, but into the trees, streaking into the depths of them unhindered, a firestorm on the run. All the great boles kindled, and the shadows beneath them were forced back. Out and out Sunspark spiraled, until all that could be seen in any direction was the darker smoking red of heavy growth burning, and the brighter fire of needles and branches exploding into flame.Rian’s concentration broke as he saw his sorceries, both the warfetter and the dark birth he was assisting, threatened by this destruction. Herewiss staggered to his feet, held out his hands: Khávrinen tore itself from Rian’s grip and leapt into them. Sunspark came arrowing back into the clearing from behind Rian, and arched upward. Its blinding flames fell and wreathed about Rian with devouring force, and this time there was a scream, one quickly cut off.
Sunspark flowed away from the center of the clearing. Ashes drifted on the smoky, burning wind… nothing else.
Herewiss looked around at the inferno, the symbol of Rian’s sorcery going to pieces. That darkness, though, was unhurt, flowing among the burning trees: only the structure of the sorcery was destroyed. But it was enough for this moment. Let’s get out of here!
Well enough. It vanished. Herewiss clutched Khávrinen to him in relief and terror, and hurriedly took the long step backward into his body—
***
“Lorn, oh Lorn, get up,” someone was begging him. Freelorn rolled over and moaned, and his head hit a rock. He blinked at blinding light. His eyes were dry, and even closing them was agony: the light itself was terrible after the black silence he’d been in, but he wouldn’t have given it up for anything.
Blanis was trying to pull him up off the ground, and doing surprisingly well, for one so small. “Come on,” she was pleading with him, “hurry up, the Queen needs you!”
He managed to roll to his knees. “How long was it?” he said, and coughed: his throat was dry too.
Something shoved him hard in the side, so that he almost fell over. He clutched at what pushed him, but it was only Blackmane, nosing him worriedly, as he always did when Freelorn fell off, or down. Horses were not affected by warfetter spells: at the moment, Freelorn suspected this was simply because they were too stupid. “I’m all right,” he said, aggrieved, “keep your nosebag on!” Blanis helped him up, and Freelorn staggered: all his muscles were jumping with tics, a side effect of warfetter, probably. Better than the other side effect, which is being dead…. “What’s happening?”
“It was about twenty minutes,” Blanis said. “We’ve got about a thousand dead, or in coma. The rest are like you.”
“Oh, that’s just wonderful,” Freelorn said, and worked on remounting Blackmane through the dizziness from standing up suddenly. It took several tries.
Blanis was looking around her, confused. “Where is she? Oh—” She caught sight of the Lion banner, lying on the ground.
“Disappeared,” Freelorn said wearily. “She does that. Here, pick that up.” Blanis lifted up the banner, and Lorn shook his head as she offered it to him. “Sorry,” he said, “that’s going to be your job until we can find someone else to carry it. I’ve got something else to carry.” He unsheathed Hergótha. “Take the tack off her saddle. No, don’t try riding Steelsheen!—she’s a one-woman horse. Just turn her loose. She may get killed, but no Arlene will ride her, anyway.”
Blanis worked at Segnbora’s saddle breathlessly, while Steelsheen rolled her eyes and watched her suspiciously. “The Arlenes are moving,” Blanis said. “Herewiss did something again, the Queen doesn’t know what yet. Their main force is coming right at us.”
“Makes perfect sense,” Freelorn said. “They think we’re all lying on the ground, still, and ripe to have our throats cut. If I were the Queen, I’d tell my front lines to stay lying right where they are. With their pikes ready. And when the first riders come through—”
Blanis’s eyebrows went up at that, and her eyes went vague for a moment. “The Queen says you have a nasty mind,” she said then, “and she’ll give order for that. There are some pikes down that way, nearest the Road, and cavalry to support them around the bend at the wood at Lower Hetasb.”
“How far has the main army come?” Freelorn said.
Blanis was working on her own saddle now. “Their van is into the Ridings—their rear is still just passing the Vintners’ Rise. Our foremost cavalry is putting itself back together in a hurry, what there is of it.”
“How many?”
Blanis mounted up and started wrestling the Lion banner into place. “About nine hundred now,” she said. “Some of the rear cavalry group have come up to fill in.”
“I take it the groups that were in front of the main march of Arlenes are scattered all over this part of the world by now,” he said.
Blanis nodded as they started to canter northward. “That lightning… I really do want to meet your friend. Yes, they’re half of them about three miles north of Elsbede, and the other half somewhere south of Daharba on the near side, as far as we can tell. They’re runnin
g. And who would blame them?”
“Not me,” Freelorn said. He stood up in his stirrups as they went, to see a bit more. The Brightwood’s white banner was still up, and moving, far ahead and off to their right: between him and them, the Eagle banner rode, pushing down the road, much faster than the Brightwood levies were. Lorn looked at this, and said, “She wants us to hang back too?”
“For the moment.”
Other riders were gathering around them now, a crowd of muddy surcoats, bloody swords; but what stood out were the faces—some pained, some eager, some strangely cool. Freelorn held Hergótha up for them to see as he rode, and a kind of growl went up from the men and women who rode with him: appreciation, anticipation, anger. “Our turn now,” Freelorn said. The growl got louder.
They were running parallel with the road now, about two miles from the Arlid. Prydon was visible, silhouetted against the later afternoon light, the Sun declining to the south of it, its reddening light gilding the heights of Araf and Telgide and the other hills west of the southern townlands. The remains of the thunderclouds were blowing away northward to the Sea on the prevailing winds that blew this time of year: other more benign cloudcover was coming in behind and above them, long curdled streaks and mare’s-tails. The ground they rode now was badly chopped up with earlier engagements, and the bodies of people and horses lay about, making their own mounts snort and shy. Soon they would be into the eastern townlands, and the going would be worse yet: not this open meadowland, but hedgerows, fences, people’s houses—
Freelorn looked ahead and saw, on his left, the wood that comes curving down from the stony height of Esheh to within about half a mile of the Road. “There,” he said. “Is that where she wants us to brace this wing?”