Shadowfane

  Cold shocked his flesh. Clamped in the grip of Anskiere's wards, Jaric gasped, then cried aloud as chill bit into the tissue of his lungs. He called up fire to counter. But even as warmth answered his will, a starred pulse of light cancelled his effort. Weather sorcery closed like a fist mailed with winter, smothering flame into darkness. Jaric staggered backward into the red heat of the cavern. Frost spiked his hair and tunic. His hands were numb, unresponsive and whitened as bread dough. Ivainson rubbed his fingers. Shivering in discomfort as circulation returned, he contemplated the wards, and knew fear.

  Never had he imagined the Stormwarden's defences might be so strong.

  Determined, Jaric called forth a tendril of flame. Without touching the mist, he teased the wards with lesser powers until their structure radiated light; glittering ribbons of energy shot through quartz-blue bastions of ice. The consummate skill of the creator made Ivainson stumble in awe, for Anskiere had laid down unimaginably potent defences with the intricate geometry of snow-flakes; the new prison for frostwargs seemed clumsy and rough by comparison.

  At first Jaric despaired of finding weakness. But as he surveyed the wall, one portion of the pattern seemed dimmed, as if time and attrition had deteriorated the original spell. Ivainson refined his focus to a pinpoint, stepped up power, and rammed a cracking torrent of force against the gap.

  Sparks flew. Lines of fire struck ice, and craze marks spread outward with a twang like harpstrings snapping under tension. Then vision became dazzled by a tearing burst of light. Jaric shut his eyes. He braced himself hard against the backlash, as energy shed by the wards roared like a holocaust around him. But the ordeal of Firemastery had once been as terrible; he held firm, until the last of his strength ebbed from him and exhaustion unbound his control.

  Fire sputtered and died. Tear-blind and tired and swaying on his feet, Jaric surveyed the result of his effort. The disturbed glimmer of the wards revealed the barest indentation, floored with chunked ice, and churning with mist. Tentatively the Firelord extended his hand. Cold enclosed his flesh like a glove, but without its earlier, killing penetration. Anskiere's barrier was breached. But a long, arduous trial remained before help could reach the sorcerer. Stressed to the edge of collapse, Jaric set his shoulders against a warm cranny of rock. Though his heart ached and his hands stung with burns, he would rest, then try again.

  * * *

  The effects of the Dreamweaver's stay-spell did not release Deison Corley until well past nightfall on the day that Callinde made port. Bound at wrist and ankle with cord, he wakened sprawled on a moonlit expanse of carpet. Surrounded by smells of parchment, oil, and leather, and the sharper pungency of horsebridles left slung across the back of a brocade chair, he recognized the clutter of the Kielmark's personal study. The King of Pirates was absent; but the bonds, when Corley twisted, proved cruelly secure. Moonless's former captain shut his eyes then, overcome by failure. He had wished to avoid a return to Cliffhaven.

  An hour passed in misery, while the moon swung in the sky. The rectangle of light on the rug thinned to a sliver. Hooves clattered from the courtyard; shouts and a clangour of arms heralded the midnight change of the guard. But the clockwork routine of Cliffhaven's fortifications no longer carried the reassurance of home. Through the boisterous noise of the patrols, Corley heard the sound he dreaded most. The door latch lifted, and a soft, booted tread crossed the carpet.

  Always the Kielmark moved with astonishing grace for a man of his bulk. He lit no light. Neither did he stop where Corley could see him, but spoke from behind in a voice pitched low with anger. 'When a captain under my command loses six of my ships, and every living crewman aboard them, I expect him to return to deliver a report. What in Keithland gave you the idea you could act otherwise?'

  Corley said nothing. On the carpet, the sliver of light narrowed to a needle, then winked out as the lintel of the window eclipsed the moon. The room plunged into dark. Listless and dead inside, the captain heard but did not react to the incisive imprecations the Kielmark uttered against him.

  'By Kor, you're not listening,' said the Lord of Pirates. He lashed out with a kick that tumbled the captain's body across the rug. 'I've killed men for less.'

  Corley blinked. He lay limp as the Kielmark followed with stinging accusations, and then blows. Pain failed to rouse the captain's attention; but eventually he noticed that the hard, emotionless phrases were impersonal no longer.

  'What of the sister you lost honour defending at Morbrith?' The Kielmark spat in the hearth. 'Maybe she deserved what she got, or were you the one whose pleasure was interrupted in the dark?'

  Corley jerked against his bonds.

  The Kielmark laughed, very low in his throat. 'Tell me, was it your brat the girl went back to the hilltribes to hide? What else could be expected of a man who loses his command to demons, and then runs!'

  Anger claimed Corley. He yanked, suddenly wild to free his hands. The insults continued. The captain forgot that his tormentor was both friend and sovereign lord. Goaded to reasonless fury, he responded to a voice disembodied by darkness, soft footsteps that came and went, and hands that wantonly inflicted pain. Then suddenly, Corley felt steel lick his ankle. The restraining rope fell away. Savage with temper, he rolled to his feet. Another tug at his wrists freed his hands.

  'Come fight,' invited a whisper in the dark. 'We've a score to settle, over Moonless and six companies of men.'

  Steel gleamed in shadow, then vanished. Disturbed air grazed Corley's cheek as a knife whickered past his skin. The weapon thunked into the settle, but the captain had already moved, springing off his toes to grapple his enemy in the night-black confines of the room.

  His hands met air, then the hard edge of the table. A fist hammered into his side before Corley could recover balance. He staggered into a chair. Bit rings jangled. As his attacker lunged to throw him, the captain hooked a headstall. Harness whipped in an arc and connected; reins lashed flesh and wound taut, snaring his opponent. Corley pounced, answered by a grunt as he rammed solidly into muscle. Bits and buckles chinked as he grappled for a hold, missed, and received a second chop in the ribs. Then a hand caught his wrist and closed him in a wrestler's hold.

  Corley countered with a move intentionally painful. Rewarded by a gasp, he pressed his advantage, freed his hand, and tried a throw. But a booted foot kicked his ankle from under him. Metal clanked faintly in reproof as the captain twisted, caught bridle leather and shirt with both hands, and dragged his adversary down with him.

  The fighters struck floor with a force that left them winded. Entwined and struggling, neither seemed ready to retire. Carpet rucked under their exertions. Locked in single-minded conflict, they rolled the length and breadth of the chamber, while furnishings careened and toppled in their wake, glass ornaments and pearl veneer dashed to splinters against the tile.

  Corley panted. Bleeding from a dozen small gashes, he closed his fingers over his enemy's throat and tried to throttle his windpipe. But an animal heave of muscles hurled him up, back, and over. His shin smashed a fire iron, and a knee gouged his stomach. Breathless, dizzied, he recalled the settle, and the knife left imbedded in its oaken rail. He flung sideways, heard knuckles smack the hearthstone where his head had rested only the moment before. Then two strong legs clamped his thigh and dragged him down. Corley stretched and caught a billet of wood from the grate. He hammered until the hold loosened. His enemy snared his makeshift bludgeon and wrenched painfully away; but not before the captain closed his hand over the knife hilt.

  A curse sounded in darkness; his enemy realized he was armed. Corley showed his teeth in a savage grin of triumph; and the stakes turned from vicious to desperate. Tables crashed, and chests overturned. Broken furnishings alternately served as shield and encumbrance to a murderous thrust of steel. In time, Corley felt himself entangled in the same bridles he had hurled before in self-defence. He cut himself loose and drove forward. Darkness and luck favoured his lunge. The captain's fist closed in a mat
of curly hair. One lightning reaction brought the knife down. Inflamed by a reasonless lust to kill, Corley pressed steel and knuckles against the cords of his victim's throat.

  Yet even as he cut, the Kielmark's ruby torque grated under his hand. Deison Corley remembered: he fought a friend whose life was dear to him as a brother. Horror plunged ice through his heart. Wrenched by a queer, coughing cry, the captain snatched back his hand. He flung the knife into the grate, then braced his body for retaliation that never came. The man under his hands breathed in and out, short shallow breaths of exertion; neither blows nor speech arose in retribution.

  Wrung by reaction, Corley drew back, until no contact remained between himself and his Lord by the hearth. Damp with sweat and the blood of minor abrasions, the captain sat and haltingly began to recount the loss of five brigantines and the flagship under his command. His voice steadied as he progressed. Helped by darkness, and the fact that the Kielmark made no attempt to interrupt, Corley finished his report with ringing bitterness.

  'Lord, had Shadowfane's plot succeeded, I would have' - he paused, then forced the words - 'caused your murder. Luck alone spared us both. The Dark-dreamer's powers have no equal in Keithland. At any time, Kor's Accursed might claim my flesh as a weapon. Knowing that, did you think I'd risk Cliffhaven by coming back?'

  A bit chimed in the shadows. The Kielmark stirred; he sighed under the combined effects of discomfort and amusement, then said unequivocally, 'Yes. Because Cliffhaven is your home. And more than any other's in this warren of brigands, your loyalty is beyond question.' The King of Pirates heaved to his feet. 'Kor's grace! Have I got to stick my neck under your blade twice to convince you? In your right mind, or not, hot blood, or cold, you just proved you can't strike me down.' The Kielmark ended with a snort of arrogant irony. 'And if Shadowfane's demons send your husk or any shape-changed replica as assassin, they do so at their peril. Had you forgotten? My captains never die unavenged.'

  A striker snapped in the dark. Flame rose from the candle stub in a nearby wall sconce. Shirtless, blood-streaked, and clad in ripped leggings, the Lord of Cliffhaven turned from the light and extended his hand. 'Now get up. We have work ahead.'

  Corley noted the marks of his handiwork upon his sovereign's flesh. Then, embarrassed, he surveyed the shambled wreck of the study. 'You planned this.'

  A grunt answered his accusation. The Kielmark bent stiffly, unlatched a chest by the far wall, and drew forth studded crossbelts and a set of beautifully crafted throwing knives. 'Take these. Then find a whetstone. We have every crowned head in Keithland and the whole clutch of Alliance councilmen waiting in the great hall. That means a lot of nitpicking and a very lengthy council of war. Are you capable?'

  Corley rose and accepted the gift. He drew one of the daggers and tested the blade with the finger adjacent to the stub left mangled by the Karas. 'Dull,' he said thoughtfully, then curled a swollen lip. 'Next time I should remember that my sister's a hill chief's get. She settles her own scores, I've no doubt, with studded bracelets and weapons tempered in horse piss.'

  The Kielmark laughed with full-throated enthusiasm. 'Fine woman. Next time you duck orders, I'll ask her to thrash you.' Still smiling, he shoved Corley toward the door.

  * * *

  Disturbed in the depths of stasis, Anskiere dreamed, first of Elrinfaer's fair city, and then of storms and nightmare, and the terrible destruction wrought by the Mharg. Ivain's mad laughter echoed amid tumbled towers; then a fire-dance of sorcery slashed the dark. The Stormwarden's sleep thinned and broke. He had no chance to waken gradually. Roused to wet boots and a watery trickle of slush, he sensed disharmony like pain in his mind. A meddler had broached his wards. Flame had seared the patterning, torn gaping holes in a structure raised to confine frostwargs. Only one sorcerer in Keithland was capable of such feats.

  'Ivain!' Anskiere's anguished whisper dissolved, pattering echoes amid the sullen drip of water. Stung by ancient pain, the Stormwarden shook melted ice from his hair. He reached for his staff, determined to mend the damage to his defences. If frostwargs had escaped, he vowed he would silence the laughter of Elrinfaer's betrayer forever.

  The tunnels that led downward were still blocked, yet the barrier had lost its glassy hardness; Anskiere touched ice gone rotten with thaw. He worked his mastery without thought for stiffened joints or muscles long unused to movement. Hair coiled damp against his shoulders. Icicles snapped beneath his tread as he cleared the passage with deft decision. Yet though he listened, he heard no whistle of frostwargs; just the whisper of his breath and the shift of frost-shackled rock. Only a thin sheet of ice sealed the entrance to the lower caverns. Keenly alert for danger, Anskiere dissolved the last barrier and looked out.

  The mouth of the tunnel opened into a fiery glare of light. Squinting between drifts of fog, the Stormwarden glimpsed a cataclysmic vista of melted rock. He stepped forward, footfalls splashing through pooled water and floating shards of ice. Even in the wintry depths of the tunnel, the heat reddened his face. No frostwargs charged ravening to meet him, but their absence did not reassure. Fearful the creatures might already be released, Anskiere hurried his steps, then checked to discover a figure kneeling in his path.

  The man's tunic was charred almost to rags. Spark-singed hair fringed his knuckles, which were clenched, obscuring his face; but his identity was never in question, for the skin of both wrists was abraded with the burns that were the trademarks of a Firelord's power.

  Anskiere stiffened with a flash of antagonism. A halo of force flared active around the staff poised in his hands, and the slush underfoot hardened to frost with a crack like shattering crystal.

  Light touched the Firelord where he knelt. With a sharp breath of surprise he raised his head to see the scarecrow figure of the Stormwarden standing over him in the passage. 'Your Grace!' Startled, and showing signs of advanced exhaustion, he offered the courtesy due a prince. 'I have brought you the Keys to Elrinfaer.'

  Anskiere stared, ambivalent, into eyes that were deep and brown, yet lucid. The brightening aura of his staff lit hair that was not red but blond as grain at high summer. Memory returned. With a gasp, the Stormwarden separated past from present. 'Jaric?'

  The one who had once been a scribe's apprentice rose, grown now to a man and a sorcerer. He swayed unsteadily on his feet. But perception sharpened by Sathid-bond had already caught the spasm of distrust that flawed the Stormwarden's voice. 'You think me crazed as Ivain,' Jaric accused.

  Anskiere declined answer. 'What became of the frostwargs?'

  Ivainson gestured toward the sultry glow at his back. 'They are bound in fire and rock. With your help, I believe they could be permanently secured.'

  Still the Stormwarden did not speak. Wounded by his silence and afraid to guess at its cause, Jaric lifted a hand to his neck. He snapped the thong that hung there with a swift jerk and extended a small leather pouch. 'There will never be another betrayal like Elrinfaer.'

  'You cannot promise that. Time is measured in ages, and blood might tell.' Anskiere accepted the pouch and found it unaccountably heavy. He flicked the drawstring open. Inside lay the basalt block that secured the wards over the Mharg-demons at Elrinfaer, and also something more. With careful fingers the Stormwarden lifted two weighty, smoke-coloured jewels, faceted on a six-point axis, and cold as the arctic to his touch. He knew at once what he held. Jaric had given him the Sathid crystals that were the foundation of his mastery, presumably as a token of trust.

  Anskiere closed his hand. The stones clicked like dice as he flicked droplets of water from his cuffs. 'Why?'

  Jaric's expression revealed a flash of rare anger. 'Because I'm not my father.' His voice quieted almost to a whisper. 'I know no other way to convince you. With my powers under your control, perhaps you'll find your peace.'

  Anskiere dimmed the light of his staff. Cloaked in ambiguous shadow, he studied Ivainson's profile, lined blood-red in the glare from the cavern. Though resemblance to the sire was marked, details
differed; this nose was straighter, the mouth less full. Jaric stood shorter by a full three fingers. Such discrepancies gradually eased the antipathy Anskiere felt upon encountering another Firelord in the flesh. Still, he avoided revealing the depth of the uncertainties left seeded by Ivain; nor did he mention the crystals given over with the Keys to Elrinfaer. 'You are more powerful than your father,' the Stormwarden remarked at last.

  'That I doubt.' Jaric rubbed blistered wrists and grimaced. 'Your ice wards were too strong for me.'

  'No.' Anskiere twisted his staff. The looped brass top caught light like sparks on a spindle. 'You lack nothing but experience. Force flows through you like a river constantly passing. If you choose, you can refine your craft, and bind what energy you don't use to an object. Such reserves can be freed at need to craft a mightier ward.' Roughness eased from Anskiere's tone. 'But the particulars of a sorcerer's lore can wait. Ivain's debt is cancelled. At last you are free of obligation.'

  Jaric made a small movement in the darkness. 'Free? Neither of us is free, Your Grace. Kor's Accursed grew bold in your absence. Taen's brother, Emien, has gone the way of Merya Tathagres. He is now a servant of demons. In concert with a circle of Gierj, his dark dreams have conquered Morbrith.'

  Anskiere bent his head. Silver hair fanned over the fingers laced around his staff. Pain inflected Jaric's statement, a bitterness akin to his own scarred memories of Elrinfaer; unhappily the Stormwarden recalled: Morbrith keep had once been Jaric's home.

  Puddled water rippled as the Firelord shifted position. 'The Kielmark awaits at the fortress. He's gathered every crowned head in Keithland, and also the eminent of the Alliance for a council of war.'

  'We had better go, then.' The Stormwarden searched the son of his former antagonist and found only solid sincerity. 'Your treatment of the frostwargs must hold, temporarily. A breach in the borders won't wait.'