Into the Dark Lands (17 page)

But not enough; the red-fire moved slowly, but it moved nonetheless—moved toward the nonhuman blood of Line Elliath, to consume it, to destroy it.

Four against one, they waged their motionless battle, with one lone person on the periphery of their tableau.

She noted the straining, pale faces of her line-mates, but the face of the enemy was obscured by darkness, the same darkness that had shrouded the face and form of the one other Servant of Darkness she had ever seen.

She froze for a moment, her grip on her sword so tight that it hurt.
Was it you? Was it
you?

She knew that she couldn't afford to let the sudden rage that she felt take her completely. Knew it, but couldn't stop it. Nor could her companions, too caught in the battle for their lives to notice her fleeting form as it circumvented them in the shadows.

Fear? She felt none.

She saw only the darkness, felt only the black, bitter anger that had come to replace
her.

I'm
warrior trained. I know how to die.

I know how to kill.

She raised her double-edged sword as she approached the shadow. Raised it high above her head, as she had done one other time, in defiance of the darkness, in the wake of the dead.

If she could not have the True Ward, she would have the Greater. One hand danced a stilted jitter across the air. If she could not have God's power, she would have her own. Light—pale green, but nonetheless bright—cascaded up her sword. And Bright Heart, if she could not have her mother, she would have this, the arc of her glowing blade, its whistle keening through the suddenly stifling air.

Not from this quarter did the enemy perceive a threat. But still a claw of darkness, much like a badly burned hand, shot through the air, flying upward to meet the solid steel of Erin's sword.

For a moment she was twelve again, but this time there was no Kandor, no warrior-priests with the strength of their True Wards, no rescue. There was a death here, a better death than her mother had died.

The truth of Telvar's many words was proven as the nightwalker's hand slashed the blade down to one side and rose for Erin's throat. But even the touch of the meager light she had summoned seemed to anger it.

“Your blood, half-breed,” it demanded.

Erin only smiled. “Take it.” She wrenched back, using the distance as the only leverage she had. “Take it, then!” She raised her sword.

And then Telvar's keening blade also came in. The hand that had reached for Erin swung round to fend off Telvar. The darkness that shrouded the face glowed suddenly red, and the weaponsmaster bit back a cry and stumbled, gesturing.

But it had been only a flicker; the Servant had not the time for much more, and the cost of his fire was high.

Carla danced in, her speed the equal of Erin's, but her strength the greater. No green fire touched her blade, but rather a white one; the purity of the power of adulthood. The Bright Heart, weakened by his Gifting, had nonetheless come to her call.

And this strike found its mark even as the Servant's eyes flared in shadow again. Carla felt the red-power that swirled around her like a whip, but she held herself in, her hand not leaving the blade that was buried in the nightwalker's dark side.

Erin struck, also, as she had been denied the chance to do once before. She felt her sword connect and nearly dropped it as darkness crawled up to meet her hands.

There was another white flash as Kredan found room to enter the fray; yet another as Telvar found his feet and battled on in spite of his injury. His face would bear a new scar from this battle; it was bleeding profusely.

The Servant's cries grew louder and more frenzied as it parried those blows it could, but each contact with the wards affected it. It began to move more slowly, and the red stopped flashing from its eyes. The warriors of Elliath attacked the more intently for their renewed hope.

Silver and gray encircled the darkness, driving light to the shadow that had blistered the ground. At the last that darkness uttered one long howl, staggered back, and . . . unraveled.

A chill lingered in the air as they stared at their blades, but the winds soon blew it away.

“Well done, Erin,” Telvar said softly, as he sheathed his sword. He looked up at the Grandfather wearily. “Did you feel it, Serdon?”

The Grandfather nodded quietly. “The Lady must have drawn more power from the Gifting than we thought possible; our wards have never been so weak.”

“Let us hope, then, that Andin has been as successful as we have. Come; we must return to the Lady.”

He turned and walked away, and after a few moments, his line-mates followed, each in the privacy of his or her own silence.

Erin felt drained. For the second time in her life she had come face to face with the death a nightwalker offered; for the second time she could walk away. Even the bridge across the still chasm couldn't wake her fear; the darkness of the depths paled beside that of the Servant. As if in a dream, her feet padded lightly across it.

“Erin,” she heard the Grandfather say.

She looked at him blankly.

“The Servant will not walk again in these lands. Perhaps I have been wrong; perhaps there is a place for you on the field of battle.”

The light in the sky had dimmed much during their encounter; either the Lady had triumphed, or her power was weakening. Erin saw the dull glow of red across the horizon, and a shudder returned her fully to reality. The Lady's power was waning.

By silent consensus, they ran the rest of the way to the broken wall.

Only when they were near it did Erin hear the familiar sound of hoofbeats. Her eyes widened and she looked across at Telvar.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Horses,” she whispered. “Many.”

“Serdon?”

The Grandfather shook his head. “I can't hear them yet, but Erin is—no, wait.” He closed his eyes and then his head sank. “Horses.”

Telvar listened, and after a few seconds the sound became clear to his ears as well. “Damn them,” he said softly as he estimated numbers. “We've been here too long.”

He strode along the ruins of the wall until he found Belfas, still crouched partially behind cover, still watching.

“We did it, Belf,” Erin told him.

Belfas looked back, breaking his concentration for the first time. He smiled, but wearily. “I think the Lady is getting tired,” he told her softly. “But so is the enemy.”

“Not all of the enemy,” Telvar replied. From his back he took a simple longbow and busied himself stringing it.

“What do you—”

“There are horses coming,” Erin answered before he could finish asking his question.

The Grandfather nodded. “Malanthi.”

“Let us hope it is only Malanthi,” Telvar added as he pulled an arrow. “Andin can deal with the half-blooded.”

“And if they are nonblooded?”

Silence.

Erin stood stiffly, her hand upon her sword. To fight normal humans, she could count on sword skill and speed alone. Only now did she
feel
the truth of all the lessons she had been taught; Light affected the Dark; Dark the Light. In the gray nonblooded, the normal mortals, there was not enough Darkness for her meager light to touch and affect. She was faster, yes; she healed more quickly, saw more keenly, heard more clearly, and aged more slowly—but her power was not enough to hurt them. Only the Lady and the Sarillar carried enough of the Light within them to affect the minor Darkness inherent in the gray.

Belfas stretched and began to reach for his weapon.

“Not yet, Belfas,” Telvar told him. “Even in this, we need you to watch; we must identify those on the field if we survive it. If I'm to guess, I would say that the Malanthi here rank high, both in power and station.”

So saying, he stepped out.

The Lady of Elliath still hovered above the ground and, seeing her, it was impossible to believe that her power waned.

“She fights the Third of the Enemy,” the Grandfather said softly. “We know where the First is, and the Second comes to the mortal lands but seldom. No other could stand so long against her.”

He brushed a hand across his forehead. “Come, Carla, Kredan, be ready. The horses are driven at a gallop; they will be upon us soon.

“Do not look yet for help from the Lady's quarter.”

Then he, too, stepped out. Once again he called upon his ward, and once again the light of the Bright Heart filled him.

Erin bit her lip. In the distance she could see clearly the first rank of riders. There were perhaps forty, but they were armored well; glinting gorges stood above dark surcoats. She could make out the flag of the Enemy; red against the blackness. They were the priests and Swords of the Dark Heart. A low, loud sound came rushing toward the walls of Karana: the horns of the Enemy.

If there were foot soldiers, they came at too great a distance to be seen by even her eyes.

She pulled her shield from across her back and gripped it tightly.

Carla, longbow readied, went to stand behind Telvar. Once again, she mirrored the master's stance perfectly; it was easy to see why she had long been considered the best of his students.

Erin had not had the strength to wield the longbow; she had no way of taking advantage of the distance that lay between the Malanthi and her line-mates. She had to wait until the charge came to them, so she lingered near the wall.

A crackle split the air.

Red-fire sprang to life around the Lady's feet as Erin gave a muffled gasp.

From where she stood, she could see the highest tongues of flame make contact with the Lady's unadorned feet. She watched as the Lady's head shot back, revealing the tight arch of her pale throat. There should have been screaming, but the Lady was eerily silent.

Something hurtled past Erin, nearly knocking her over. As she regained her balance, she caught a glimpse of student browns and heard a raw shout.

“No!”

The Grandfather's hand caught her shoulder as she started to lunge forward after the running figure.

“No,” he said tersely, then shouted, “Belfas!”

But Belfas didn't appear to hear the Grandfather's call. He ran, unerring, to where the Lady twisted in pain, his arms already outstretched as if to pull her from the grip of the fire.

Shaking her head slowly from side to side, Erin watched him. Ten feet from the Lady. Five.

His hands stretched upward to try to catch the Lady's. They never made it. The red-fire that hovered upon the ground turned suddenly toward him and flared up. Student browns were consumed
by the Dark Heart's fire. Belfas screamed, dragging his hands downward, as if to put it out.

“Ward!” Erin screamed. “Ward, damn you!”

The fire burned upward to lick at the twisted visage of Belfas's face.

Erin tore herself free of the Grandfather's grip and began to run forward as well. She heard his shout and ignored it, just as Belfas had, and for just the same reason.

No!
She saw the fire suddenly stretch out a finger toward her, and she kept on running.
No! You've taken everything else—you won't have him!
She barely had time to see the flame coil like a serpent and spring up.

Contact.

Later she would understand why Belfas, nearly consumed, was unable to make his ward to stave off the fire. But at the time, all she could feel was the pain that seared the
insides
of her skin. Momentum carried her forward when nothing else could, as she grabbed at her arms, trying ineffectively to put the fire out.

She tried to open her eyes and realized that they were open. She felt a scream tear itself out of her throat; all she could hear was the sharp hiss and crackle of the red-fire that sought to burn her very blood away.

Of the two encircled by fire, Erin was the more powerful—and therefore the more vulnerable. Her knees gave way beneath her and she collapsed entirely into the fire's embrace.

But she felt no fear, perhaps because the pain was too overwhelming, or perhaps because a part of her knew that even this was less horrible than what her mother had suffered.

Her mother. By a Servant's hand her mother had taken so long to retreat into death. By a Servant's hand, so would she.

And so would Belfas.

“Belfas!”
She screamed as she remembered why she had walked into this terrible redness. She tried to struggle upward, but she could not move; the memory had come too late. Too late.

I've failed,
she thought wildly.
I've failed again.

Bright Heart, why? Lernan!

The name echoed in her mind as she called it. But instead of growing weaker, it took on strength until her entire body seemed to resound with the feel of its urgency and its despair. And as it did, the pain within her retreated like a wave on the shore of her body. In its place came a gentle warmth that would not be denied. She opened her eyes and struggled to her knees even as the feeling built.

Looking down at her shaking hands, she saw a pale light that brightened as she watched. The red-fire still surrounded her, still touched her pale skin—but it caused no pain as it crashed against the barrier of white and fell away.

In wild desperation she lurched to her feet. Only three steps and she could touch the prone body that lay in an eddy of flame. Two. One.

Her hands, shaking, plunged into the fire that covered Belfas's back. With a strength that she never guessed she could have, she yanked him to his feet, wrapping her arms around him and holding him as tightly against her light as she could.

Come on. Come on, Belf.
He felt so still and hot. She drew upon the light within her, pushing it out to envelop her linemate.