Lightfall, p.19
LightFall, page 19
My poleax suddenly didn’t seem anywhere near long enough, and Zik’s blanched face suggested he too was having horrible memories of Velderrey.
I nudged him a little more toward the center of our circle. “It’s daytime. They won’t attack.”
“For the lady they will,” he whispered.
Ah, I hadn’t considered that. And speaking of light… “Ani,” I said. “Never mind the arrows. Where is your candle?”
I didn’t ask about her blood.
She lowered her trigger finger long enough to pat at the pocket of her skirt. “Here. But I shouldn’t call the horde without the dragon ready to slay.”
While Vreas had Ormonde’s bone whistle—and seemingly a wish to not use it.
But that reluctance would evaporate when the horde descended on us…wouldn’t it? While I’d seen clear enough that the prince had no admirers or even allies in the High Keep, certainly our liking for our lives would surpass their aversion.
With his massive war scythe canting outward from his braced boot, the marshal should have been a sight to calm the nerves. But the mountains beyond him were bigger yet, and lurking somewhere in those rocks were monsters indifferent to the threat of death.
And what if he was right about Prince Aric betraying us?
Just as Dyania had done, I raised my gaze, but I went higher, searching the skies for black wings. Nothing.
Nothing… Again, that demonic hiss shivered down my spine.
No, if Prince Aric chose to betray us, he would tell us. I knew I was right about that as surely as I knew shopkeepers would shriek at me for borrowing and sometimes swallowing their unguarded wares.
Not that my conviction counted for anything, of course.
The hazy light of the winter sun cast cold shadows on the lee sides of the rocks and runt trees but didn’t provide concealment enough for encroaching demons. After that one scream, a tense hush held us, broken only by the restless wind.
Behind me, Zik muttered a curse I would never have imagined hearing from him. “Why doesn’t the marshal call the prince?”
I wondered, pointlessly, if the horde felt as betrayed by the dragon as we would by the prince if he turned on us.
Neh, my wondering had never gotten me out of a bad situation.
Ignoring Lisel’s hiss of consternation, I left our inner circle and crept toward Vreas on the outer edge of our defensive circle. “My lord marshal,” I said urgently. “Lady Dyania is ready to light the candle and shed her blood against the horde. You need only call the prince.”
He didn’t even look at me. “Captain Elaf, get this distraction out of my way.”
I wrinkled my nose at being called a distraction. Though of course I’d used that for my own good on more than one occasion. “Marshal Vreas, the haloria sent us here to fight. The numinlor herself set this task upon us. Please—”
The marshal’s glare glinted brighter than the cutting edge of the scythe. “But Kalima isn’t here, is she?”
With a grimace, the captain snatched at me. He was a sturdy, handsome fellow—much of a kind with Lisel’s late brother, actually—but he wasn’t half so good at snatching as Sevaare’s watch, so I evaded him deftly, skipping back toward the marshal. “True, very true, and yet remember too, His Illuminance King Mikhalthe told us—”
With a snarl, Vreas grabbed me—neh, he was much quicker than his captain—yanking me close to better stare down at me. “The king isn’t here right now either. I am. I am the one in charge of defending the Living Lands, I the one who calls for pikes or pyres—or princes. Not you.”
He started to thrust me away, but I clutched at the shaft of his scythe, swing around to the other side of him. “Oh, definitely not me. I’m no one, nothing,” I whined, one hand fisting in his coat as he shook me off his weapon. “But I still don’t want to die here. If you call Prince Aric, he will save us.”
With a curse almost as salty as Zik’s, he thrust me toward the captain. “Get rid of her,” he growled.
Since that sounded more menacing than I’d expected, I didn’t struggle as the captain dragged me away. He released me with a shove, sending me stumbling a few steps toward Lisel. “The marshal says keep your trash in your pocket,” he growled at her.
“Heyo,” I protested. “He didn’t say that at all.” Maybe he’d implied as much, but that wasn’t the same thing.
Elaf glowered at me and spun away.
“You’re going to enrage the marshal and get us all executed,” Imbril snapped.
“Not if the demons get us first.” I handed Lisel a small leather case.
Eyebrows raised, she opened it to reveal the white silkha—and the dusty bone nestled within.
“Oh,” Zik said. “Marshal Vreas gave you the dragon whistle so that we can call the prince.”
“Yes,” I said very seriously. “That is exactly what happened.”
“Feinan,” the lady groaned.
“He’s the one who seized me,” I complained. “So I snatched back.”
“What?” Zik tilted his head. “You stole it.”
I smiled at him. “Your heart is as pure as the lady’s aura.”
Lisel quickly stuffed the whistle out of sight. “I should take this back to him—”
Before I could point out how that would be awkward for all of us, Imbril pointed toward the peaks. “Whaaat… What is that?”
I told them the monster swallowed my arm. As if that was all it took.
~ Private writings of Ormonde
CHAPTER 14
LIKE SMALL PEBBLES falling from the stark Argonyx above us, dark shapes separated from the rocks—and as they surged closer, they got bigger. Much bigger.
“The horde comes,” Vreas called in a clear voice. “Hold fast, defenders of the Living Lands.”
Running fast made more sense to me.
Demons boiled down from the crags—shadows with shining teeth and malevolent eyes. The nighttime attack in Velderrey had been confusing and terrifying, monstrosities tearing through the cavalcade like nightmares in the dark. Now they were nightmares in the light.
In fascinated horror, I found myself searching for ones like those in the library—scaled and spiked and clawed, scabrous and mangy, flesh and fur and feathers hued like death—but every demon was distinct in its own terrible way.
Everyone is a thread in the weave of the world.
And every demon was a fatal flaw.
While I didn’t know all the specifics of demonic theology—it hadn’t seemed so important before when I figured hunger or headthumpers would get me first—even I knew that demons were twisted, failed reflections of auric energy. Everything that was noble and vibrant and beautiful in pure auras was rotted and putrefied in demons. That evil hungered endlessly for what it wasn’t—and would pollute everything it touched.
But the horde didn’t immediately overrun us. Instead, dozens of demons split around the edges of the vale, well back from the bristling points of the marshal’s guard. They encircled our circle and I wondered who was better at this strategy. Unless we could fly our way out.
“Summon the prince,” I whispered harshly. “Why are we waiting?”
Lisel shook her head. “The marshal said to wait.”
No, he’d actually said he wouldn’t summon the prince at all, out of a hate and fear that while perhaps not completely unjustified was certainly not helpful. We were going to be massacred in the bottom of this bowl because she wanted the praise of the father who’d rejected her than in her own preservation.
I pivoted to Dyania. “Lady—”
But her eyes were widening in shock—for once, not at me. Her dark-light gaze was focused past me toward the mountains.
I spun around.
He was standing atop a cracked boulder, a crimson cape billowing around him. A curved sword, like a crescent moon, swung from his gloved fist, the blade so long that, even as tall as he was, the point hung below his boots braced on the edge of rough stone. The moon-curved metal glowed faintly, not a reflection of the indifferent daylight but some secret inner illumination. The hood on the cape covered his face, and with the gloves and boots also red, he appeared bathed in blood.
This wasn’t a demon.
He stood beyond them, dreadful and dire. A demon master.
The faintest shock—not even breath, more like the little hairs on everyone’s body prickled at once—swept around our huddled circle.
“The Dragon Prince,” Captain Elaf muttered. “Damn him to the dark.”
No. He might be a prince far above me, but I couldn’t have misjudged him so badly. Also, Aric wouldn’t deign to pose in red.
The terrifying presence on the boulder shoved back his hood.
For a heartbeat, I thought I was wrong and the Dragon Prince stood above us with the horde fawning at his feet. Then I blinked, and the illusion faded. But I understood why my eye had been confused.
The lordly figure, tall and lean, standing above us was like the vivid twin of the Dragon Prince, a sinister reflection in a pool of molten silver and gore. Long, flowing hair of argent-white rippled past the red hood and down over his shoulders. The pale locks caught on the restless breeze and drifted like spider silk, a-glitter in the faltering sunlight. His sharp, elegant features looked cut from crystal, flawless. But his eyes…
His eyes were abyssal voids of midnight black where no light had ever shone or ever would. I found myself pitching forward, as if falling into that bottomless night. But I’d faced temptations that were traps before, and I pulled myself up short.
“Who are you, who stands with the horde?” Vreas called. Did anyone else hear the tremor in his words? For our sakes, I hoped not. “Name yourself.”
“My name? I have no need of a name, not when I stand alone.” His voice rang like a bell, clear and bright. “But for the sake of your hopeless prayers, you may scream out Claeve.”
Even Orton, the first time he discovered that I’d borrowed from him, hadn’t promised such arrogant, offhand brutality. I slanted a quick glance at Imbril and Dyania to see if the name meant anything to them. But their expressions were as shocked and frightened as I supposed mine was.
“By the authority of His Illuminance King Mikhalthe l’Thine, ruler of the Living Lands, I order you to remand yourself to our custody.” The marshal’s words rang with impressive authority. Not that such orders had ever impelled me to give myself up, and I doubted they’d be any more effective on a man who stood above demons, but I appreciated the attempt.
From the laugh that pealed across the vale like the chill wind, inescapable and piercing, it seemed Claeve was not as impressed as I. “You have no power beyond your walls, and your king even less. At least you are the one who stands here against me.” The arc of his smile held the perfect, scintillating symmetry of a rainbow—and the sharp cruelty of his curved sword. “I will issue no counter commands to you and yours, but I invite you to step out of that frightened circle and join me, be free.” He opened his unsworded hand in an elegant gesture and the surrounding demons faded back.
Vreas scoffed. “Join your demons in death?”
Claeve’s gloved fist closed. “Your death is here regardless,” he said with a dispassion worse than menace. “But with me, your aura will shine on as no’Invari.”
Though no one within our fortified circle moved, I nevertheless felt a shudder in our combined resolution. Even I, who never listened to anyone, much less believed them, felt the ring of truth in his claim.
I edged closer to Lisel. “Use the whistle. Summon Prince Aric. Now.”
Her body was so stiff I thought she’d swallowed her pike. “It’s not my place. Fei, I can’t.”
With a muttered curse filthier than anything Vreas or Zik had ever dreamed of, I dug my hand into her pocket and rummaged around with none of my usual nimble dexterity. Maybe no one else trusted the Dragon Prince—and maybe I didn’t either—but I wasn’t going to die for their misgivings.
“Feinan, no.” But her reach for me was halfhearted. No one here grabbed like Sevaare’s watch, and a rush of wry wistfulness countered some of my panic.
I scuttled back to Dyania, waving the bone like a very tiny, dull, dusty sword. “My lady—”
A torrent of fire roared over the rocks, drowning my words.
For a heartbeat, I was frozen, Ormonde’s whistle almost dropping from my hand. Had the dragon come before our call?
But the fire was belching from within our circle, aimed at Claeve’s boulder.
“More oil,” Vreas bellowed. “Spin harder!”
It wasn’t like the festive fireworks I’d glimpsed a few times in the courtyard of Sevaare’s nobles with delicate sparkles in all the hues, nor even the bold, steady blaze of a torchiere. This was just a gout of raw flame, and white as a silkha pendant.
The device, about the size of one of the yaxen, had been was strapped to the bed of a wagon. A snaking conduit led from a huge canister cradled in a separate wagon. The fire erupted from the nozzle spewed out in gusts, powered by two guards spinning a large wheel to drive the pressure.
“A flamecaster,” Lisel said. “I’d heard about this, but I didn’t realize they had one ready for use.”
Now I understood why the marshal thought he could avoid calling the Dragon Prince; it seemed the king and his advisors had all sorts of grand schemes. The realization that my little library group wasn’t on its own should have been reassuring. But even as I watched, the demons slyly evaded the awkward spurting fire. Could we ever overcome an enemy that had challenged us for so long?
But Marshal Vreas had been aiming at Claeve, and if that one was human—or at least more human than demon—maybe we had a chance.
Vreas held up his fist, and the wheel guards stopped spinning. As soon as they did, the fire guttered out.
Sitting in a puddle of melt, the boulder was scorched and empty.
“You could have just said no.”
The mocking drawl came from the opposite side of the circle, and all of us whirled around as one in a way that would’ve made for amusing theater if we weren’t now facing Claeve, charging toward us with that moonglow sword, the crimson cloak billowing behind him
My fist tightened on the bone whistle—and just as quickly loosened lest I crush it to even more dust. I’d told the marshal and then Lisel to summon the prince, but now I hesitated. We’d seen him decimate the Velderrey horde, but how would he fare against this silver twin?
If our circle was overrun, it would be a tragedy, in my very personal opinion, but if the Dragon Prince fell here, so fell the Living Lands.
For the first time I truly understood Dyania’s dilemma. Except it wasn’t a dilemma; the moment of our deaths might be the only thing we could choose.
Claeve’s rallying cry was answered from a hundred demonic throats of different sizes and configurations, blending into a malign yet strangely harmonious orchestra. Like a hundred dulcichordias, erratically tuned but striving toward one melody: our doom.
Vreas’s circle of guards held bravely, their polearms and long swords keeping the horde at bay while delivering terrible wounds as the flamecaster belched more fire. Except, in the light of day, I learned that demons don’t die. Spitted, they screamed. Hacked, they writhed and thrashed. Slashed apart into gruesome pieces, they thrashed and writhed and screamed some more, leaving revolting trails of tarry goo as they kept reaching for us.
But they did not die.
Now, too late, I understood the dragon’s awful power.
Without the dragon to devour the stolen auras of the demons, sucking away the animating force that imitated life, there was no way to end this attack.
As terrifying as that thought was, even more horrific was the realization that this was what happened to auras torn from people by the demons: endless pain and undying suffering, a scream that never ended.
The fire weapon at least turned them into smaller lumps of immobile charcoal, staining the melting snow, when the guards could aim the flame long enough to let the fire burn. But it took multiple soldiers to pin a demon in place, to douse it in so much oil that the fire might reduce it to ash. Even as we fought, the massive canister of oil ran dry, and though one of the biggest guards tipped it on end, no more flames emerged. The marshal and his men couldn’t do this alone.
The demons screamed again—glee, I thought, at the taste of victory snagged in their fangs.
“Last chance,” Claeve called out. Unlike Prince Aric’s rasping growl, the demon master’s voice might’ve belonged to any of my clever street-wise brethren, his timbre as silver and flowing as his hair.
One of the guardsmen who’d wielded the flamecaster and now had only a pike, stumbled to the edge of the circle. With shrieks of anticipation, three spindly, spidery demons leaped for him.
“Spare me, master,” he cried back.
But the demons tore him apart, and if his aura kept shining as Claeve promised, it wasn’t apparent through the resulting spew of blood and gristle.
I clutched Ormonde’s whistle to my chest. We didn’t have a choice.
Dyania grabbed my elbow. “Feinan, no. It’s too late.”
But it wasn’t. We still had a chance. Just because everyone else hated and feared the Dragon Prince didn’t mean I had to die for their distrust.
Where the guardsman had fallen, a dozen demons boiled over an upturned chariot, their talons scratching and clawing. My muscles seized as if they were already tearing into me. More cries of pain and terror as other points along our circle fell.
A huge demon, bigger than any I’d seen or any depicted in the library, vaulted over the flamecaster wagon and galloped toward us. Blackened tusks, dripping with viscera, jutted forward at an angle meant only to rend and tear. And its array of multi-faceted eyes, like those of a monstrous bug, were all fixed on the lady.
Something more horrible and inexplicable than anything I’d seen so far happened: I jumped in front of the demon.
As if I was possessed by something beyond my control, demonic in its own way, or so it seemed to me, I spread my arms wide. What had happened to my poleax?
