Into the Dark Lands (6 page)

“Anyone?” He snorted in disgust. “Very well. Skill at arms is important in defense of the line. I shall take that as the given in the hopes that even one of you will attain some skill in the future.” He lowered his weapon.

Erin relaxed slightly, but she still kept her stance.

“There will be times when this skill avails you nothing.” He looked up for a moment, beyond their youthful heads, and closed his eyes—as much a sign of sorrow as he permitted himself. “The enemy may have greater numbers than our scouts could see. A nightwalker may roam abroad among the corps of the Malanthi fighters. You do know what a nightwalker is?” A child barely able to talk could answer that question, but Telvar's glare made it clear where he placed the intelligence of his students.

“A Servant of the Enemy,” Korallis volunteered.

“True.” Clearly Telvar was not impressed. “And why do you call them nightwalkers?”

“ 'Cause they walk at night,” Allantir broke in. “They can't
walk during the day. And when they're walking, they're feeding on the death-pain and unwillingly given lifeblood of those that they kill. I hear it takes a long time for their victims to die, worse than in blood ceremonies of the Enemy.”

“Well, it appears you can learn something after all. You had better listen to what I say now. You
will
learn this.

“Against such a power, you cannot prevail. Do you understand this? Only on two occasions have the Servants of the Enemy ever been caught by Lernari fire, and on each, they were feeding on the lifeblood of the taken. They will not feed among our warriors; the cost and risk is too high. Do not attempt to be heroic should you see or sense a nightwalker. Understood?”

Nods all around.

He closed his eyes again. Shook his head wearily.

“If you can escape, you are to do so. But if you cannot . . . that is what we begin to learn today.”

He wheeled suddenly, lunging at Erin.

She blocked, dodging to the side as he had taught her; taking advantage of size and speed rather than brute strength.

This time, when he met her eyes, he nodded briefly. One never let one's guard down around Telvar. Never.

“Erin. You have some skill in blood-power. Call forth light.”

She frowned, an expression not lost on her master.

“You can call forth light at your age, can't you?”

Bristling, she bent to put the sword down.

He attacked, the ferocity of the strike forcing a whistle from the breeze. She had enough time for a feeble block, but the impact tossed her off her feet. By luck alone, she managed to keep her grip on her sword.

“Again.” But this time he began to circle her, his intent clear.

This isn't fair!
She watched him warily, her concentration on his attack alone. She had managed, over the years, to call light without the necessity of broad gestures, exchanging the width of full circle for the dance of two fingers. But she still had to clear her mind and
think
on it.

“Light, Erin. Now.” On the last word, he swung.

She leaped lightly off the ground, avoiding the sweep of his left foot. Her blade forced his own to the side.

In anger, she returned his attack, desperately searching for an opening. Unlike Telvar, she was indirect in her attempts, dancing to the side and feinting, striking for lower thigh or upper shoulder cuts. He warded off each attack very coolly.

It was hard not to succumb to the same trap that had taken Kredan. She ignored his taunting command to summon forth power and poured her energy into thoughtful attack.

Then, out of nowhere, a brilliant light flared in the quad. It took her by surprise; it was strong enough to be almost white. Normal eyes could have seen it. She backed away to the periphery of the fighting circle, her sword at an awkward angle—but still in her hands.

A muted exclamation of surprise touched the air.

“You see, Erin. It can be done. You may rejoin the class.”

Feeling humiliated, she put her sword away and stood stiffly behind most of her line-mates.

“This, this is what you must learn: the ability to use your blood-power when it appears that you are unable to concentrate. There is a risk; when fighting an opponent of greater skill, you will most certainly be killed.”

Kredan raised a hand; Telvar nodded.

“Then why take the risk, sir?”

Telvar smiled bitterly. “There are times when no risk is involved.” He saw the quizzical looks on their faces as they watched him. He had seen it many times, on faces that now lay beneath the shallow earth.

“If you are taken, or captured. If you fall into the hands of the Malanthi or the nightwalkers.”

Someone else raised a hand.

“You just said that we can't hope to win against a walker, sir.”

“No. All you can hope for is a clean death.”

Silence. Always this uneasy silence. Telvar dearly wished that his pupils were adult, but at that age there was too little he could teach them in skill at arms.

Clearing his throat, he continued.

“I will teach you how to summon a clean death for yourself if the need arises. You will feel no pain, or little of it, should any attempt to use you for the dark ceremonies. Nightwalkers will have little or no satisfaction should they personally destroy you; there will be no pain to feed on; no fear.”

May you learn this well, students. May you keep enough wit to use it
. Unbidden, his dead returned to haunt him, their faces frozen in the rictus of agony.
The Servants walk. You
will
learn.

“This is the warrior-gift. This is what all warriors must know.”

“Where on Earth did you get that bruise?”

Erin reached gingerly for the milk jug, “Lesson,” she murmured.

“Lesson?” Katalaan placed a large, covered dish on the center of the table. Her hands, callused and strong, apparently didn't notice how hot it was. Erin wondered if
she'd
feel the scorching heat less as she got older. She doubted it.

She placed the jug on the table and went back to the kitchen for plates and cutlery.

“What kind of lesson?” Kat's question followed her.

“Sword.” Erin smiled tentatively, although her jaw hurt. “I relaxed too much.”

“And that's how they discipline relaxation? No wonder I've trouble tearing you away from your book!” This time Katalaan chuckled, although her eyes never left the purpled side of Erin's face. “I'd have been happy if my own son had half your determination.”

Erin nodded. She'd heard this many times, but had discovered that Katalaan didn't like to be asked about this son. Instead, she began to talk about history lessons, as Kat was happy with those. They sat and began to eat, after Kat had said a “proper” thanks.

It was nice to have her there. She wasn't a mother, true, and she wasn't of the lines, but she was a friend.

Not as good a friend as Belf, of course, but pretty close.

 

“Owl”

“Belfas, you let your guard down again!”

“Sorry.” He clearly wasn't. He limped, with exaggeration, to one side of the grassy slope near the quiet market circle and sat down heavily, tossing the sword from one sweaty palm to the other.

“Belf, it's important. Do you think the enemy is going to care—”

“We've got enough real enemies. We don't need to pretend. Can't we practice something else?”

“You said you wanted me to teach you what Telvar's teaching us.” Erin sighed. At times Belfas was fast, and his parrying better than hers.

“I said no bruises.”

“All right.” She put the weapon down.

“It isn't like I'm not already taking lessons.”

“Not from Telvar.”

He grimaced.
And I used to want to. Thank the Bright Heart
I wasn't chosen.
He put his sword down happily and sank into the grass.

“Belfas!”

“Erin!” He looked up, shading his eyes from the sun. “This is supposed to be a day of rest.”

“We agreed.”

He groaned and forced himself into a sitting position. “Erin, I can summon light. I can perform the Lesser Ward and the Greater Ward. I can find my way back home from anywhere blindfolded. What else do you want?”

“I—”

Half-maliciously, he added, “And I can also walk memory.” 

“Your father's blood.” But she frowned; she'd tried it secretly several times, but her memory wasn't any better than one without the blood. In fact, if you asked most people, they often said it was worse.

“Sorry. I didn't mean that.” And he genuinely was sorry. Erin could be impossible, but she was still his best friend. He just couldn't understand why she always had to be so perfect—and worse still, why she always tried to make him perfect.

“Doesn't matter. You've got it, I don't.” Her eyes became quite businesslike, and Belfas groaned. She'd thought of something else.

“Fire.”

This time he did sit up. “Fire?
White-fire?
Are you crazy? That's war-skill, Erin. They don't teach that until we become adult.”

“They don't teach us enough until we become adult. But I'm sure we can learn it. I mean, you've started memory walking, and they don't really teach that until we're adult. Besides, I'm eleven summers, you're twelve. We're bound to be adult soon. We can just start early.”

He hated that phrase.

As he watched her brow pucker in concentration, he wondered briefly why he hadn't found a more sensible best friend yet.

 

“Word from the front?” Serdon, Grandfather of Line Elliath, looked up from a desk littered with papers—each important, each urgent, and most unanswered as of yet. The windows of his study showed sundown was near, but years of discipline kept him at a pretense of work, even when his mind wasn't on it.

Latham nodded quietly, walking into the study itself to take
one of four vacant seats. He looked up at the flat, plain ceiling and stretched his neck, pushing his cowl aside. “Pallen's just arrived, Grandfather. He's taking a moment with his daughter; he'll be in shortly.”

The Grandfather smiled and shuffled his chair around to face his visitor's. “Not if I know his daughter. But come, what word?”

“As much as we may both have disagreed with Kerlinda, she seems to be doing her work well; our casualties on the front have lessened dramatically, although apparently she's ridden three horses into ground. She's been traveling with the companies, but she goes where she's needed.”

“Worried?”

Latham nodded. “But I do that frequently.”

The Grandfather frowned.

We both worry, Latham, and we both have good reason. She drives herself harshly. I wonder if she sees the faces of the saved at all—or if she dwells only on the dead.
But even that was not the greatest worry. He ran a gray-sleeved arm over his forehead and closed his eyes a moment.

“She isn't warrior-trained. Not truly.”

Latham was grateful to the Grandfather for putting into words the fear that not even he would voice. But having said it, what else was left?

“The Lady will be pleased.”

Latham watched the Grandfather closely for a moment.

Will she?
He wondered.
Kerlinda
is her youngest
.

 

Telvar swung low, pulling his shield back.

Erin jumped up, feeling the wood of the blade skim the bottom of her boots. She landed to the side as his shield came forward, missing her.

They had been fighting for fifteen minutes—each one, like this, strenuous and exhausting. He was pleased; she could tell this because he drew the energy—from where, she didn't know—to step up his attack. He'd not yet managed to connect.

She parried well, but dodging was more effective; twice the sheer strength of his blow had almost unbalanced her. Unfortunately, dodging required more energy. She bit her lower lip. She was going to lose this one. Then again, she always did against Telvar.

He feinted low; she began to jump to the side when he shifted the direction of his sword in midswing.

The sound of wood against bone was unmistakable.

Against any other opponent, she would have cried out in pain. This was Telvar. She bit her tongue, tasting the tang of salt in her mouth.

She kept fighting, but less smoothly now, and much more defensively. The pain was bad.

She tried to concentrate around it, adjusting her movement to favor her injured side. Just as she would have to do if she fought a real enemy.