The Guardian (35 page)

We paced fast along the corridor, down the winding stairs.

“With bows? Kill them at long range?”

“They move fast and are
very
hard to kill. The only sure way is to take off the head.”

“So it’s swordwork?”

She nodded.

“And your … helpers?” I gestured at the shadows that danced in agitation around us, like the colors of flickering candles thrown by flame against recalcitrant walls.

“They cannot. They’ve no … Oh, Gailard, by all the gods, I’m frightened. Do these creatures find Ellyn, then all’s lost!”

“They’ll not,” I said, “while I live. But you stay back. Let me deal with them.”

She laughed then: a short, disturbing bark devoid of humor.

“Not even you can defeat five of these things.”

I scowled, my pride dented.

She said, “You don’t understand. But you will.”

And I did as the drawbridge lowered and we went out to face our attackers.

They looked like men, somewhat. They wore the delineaments of men; they stood on two legs and they wore armor. All bore swords and carried bucklers, half helms settled over tangled hair, vambraces and greaves warding their forearms and legs. When I looked closer at them, I saw their faces were a kind of amalgamation of hound and human, with unnaturally long jaws that sprouted unnaturally long teeth, and their eyes were red, and long sticky streamers of saliva hung from their mouths, as if the anticipation of their goal produced the kind of ecstasy I’d seen in rabid hunting dogs.

I was suddenly aware that the birds had stopped singing. I felt afraid, for there was something about these creatures I could not define—save that they seemed to give off a scent of death, as if that was all they knew and nothing would stand in the way of their desire to destroy. I saw that they were hugely muscled, and I doubted, now, that I could defeat them alone. Nor wanted Shara to face them, for I could not believe that, without help of the magic she’d not use, she could face them in honest combat.

But I was a Highlander, and our attack has always been the charge: so I charged.

Shara shouted that I not, but I ignored her. I screamed a battle shout and swung my sword. I came at the midmost of them—and felt my blade deflected as easily as I’d swat aside a fly. I cut at the creature’s head—and saw the thing duck and bring its own blade around in a sweeping arc that would have taken my legs away had I not been quick enough to jump and dart back. A thundering blow landed against my buckler and I felt my arm numbed. I backed away, defensive behind my shield. The creatures grinned and closed on me.

I parried and cut, and fought harder than I’d ever done. This was worse than the Darach Pass. I could not believe their strength or speed, and I was driven back. What cuts I delivered were ignored. I saw blood spurt from them, but they paid it no heed—as if pain meant nothing to them—and I found myself entirely on the defensive, seeking only to survive their attack. Thinking that I could not, and that Shara must die and these foul things go on to find Ellyn and slay her.

I found renewed vigor in that fear and fought the harder, but still they forced me back. It was like waving a sword at a thunderstorm, and all I could do was retreat. A blade swept toward my head and I ducked under its swing, slashing my sword at exposed legs that avoided my blow with an agility that belonged more to a dancing dog than any human being. An edge landed against my helm, another against my side, and I was knocked down. I wondered if I was cut; surely I felt a warmth on my ribs and a terrible loss of breath. I curled, raising my buckler.

Then Shara was at my side, her shield raised above me, her sword sweeping defensive arcs over my head. I staggered to my feet and for a while we traded blows. Mostly, we held our bucklers high and retreated.

We were driven back toward the drawbridge, and all we could do was defend ourselves.

My skull ached and I felt a weakness in my legs. There was a wetness puddling in my boots and a sapping pain in my side. I knew then that I was cut deep. I felt my strength deserting me, and a horrid fear crept into my mind.

I heard Shara cry, “Gailard, we must fall back!”

Fall back? What else were we doing? We could do nothing else under this assault. But to where? The broch? Surely they’d conquer that, even was the drawbridge raised they’d find a way over the walls.

I shook my head. Why was my sight so clouded, why did these abominations swing and shudder before my eyes like darting fish seen through murky water? I swung my blade and shouted a useless battle cry. I felt bereft of hope, and all my efforts to keep Ellyn safe lost under the dread assault of Nestor’s creatures.

S
trange dreams woke Ellyn. Clawed hands tore away her bedding and scrabbled at her body. Hot breath gusted over her face and she felt her flesh torn, heard horrid laughter. She moaned, and tugged the sheets closer, but that did no good and she opened her eyes to a grey early morning that was silent of birdsong and filled with … She was not sure. Could not know—save that something was horribly wrong.

She sat up, wondering.

Tea steamed beside her bed—but Shara had explained that. A bath steamed, scented—but Shara had explained that, too.

The shadow-memories of the castle’s builders danced silent attendance, agitated … frightened, she thought.

She rose, memories of her dreaming urging her to speed—to forget her usual bath, but only dress.

Why in battle kit? She could not say—only trust her instincts, and belt on a real sword and follow the dancing shadows.

Her first thought was to hammer on Gailard’s door, but the shadows beckoned her past that, and she trusted them. The gods knew, she’d come to trust the Vachyn sorceress and the ghosts that served her, so she followed them … down winding corridors all filled with grey light and panic
to the outer yard, where the drawbridge lay down and a battle went on.

She saw Gailard staggering back, blood on him. She could smell it, thanks to Shara’s tutelage. He was sore hurt, but he still swung his sword. And Shara—she could sense the woman’s fear that Gailard not die, or she, or Ellyn … but …

There was no hope; the attack was too strong.

From only five?

Ellyn remembered Gailard slaying bandits … Save, these were something else … not human. Too strong, empowered by magic. She watched the trading of blows and saw her protectors driven back in defeat. Soon—Gailard had taught her the tactics and strategy of battle—the five must overcome the two, and enter the broch, and …

She knew them then for the hunters Shara had warned of—created by Vachyn magic, powerful beyond belief, and linked by their foul creation to Nestor. Their sole purpose was to slay her as Nestor had commanded them, that Talan own Chaldor complete.

Shara had warned her against using her talent to defeat them—that such usage must alert the sorcerer to her presence even in this valley and, did she survive the hunters, send warriors to find her. Warned her that she must wait to avenge her slain parents and claim their throne. She had accepted the strictures—the gods knew, she’d not spoken of what Shara taught her even to Gailard.

But now?

Now she saw Gailard and Shara harried back by monstrous creatures that emanated a palpable sense of foul magics. She remembered all Shara had taught her, and forgot all the strictures, and summoned up that power and sent it against the creatures.

S
hara gasped and fell back as the power struck; Gailard flinched, sensing the magical storm pass by him.

Suddenly, there was a black cloud above the canyon, from which bolts of lightning lanced in precise shafts.
The hunters screamed and were crisped like trees struck by lightning, burned and toppled in an instant. Ashes drifted, settling in grim grey patterns, brighter where the metal of swords and shields and armor were melded to the ground.

Behind the thunderclaps, Shara screamed, “No!”

And Ellyn frowned her confusion.

Had she not saved them?

I
n Chorym, where he sat in the Palace that had once belonged to Andur and Ryadne, Nestor squeezed a glass so hard it broke in his hand.

Talan Kedassian stared in surprise at his hired sorcerer, suddenly afraid.

Nestor glanced at his bleeding palm and forced a smile.

“My hunters have found her.”

“And?” Talan asked. “Is she dead?”

“No; perhaps.” Nestor picked fragments of crystal from his hand. Blood spilled over the table. “I …” He winced. “Cannot be sure.”

Egor Dival studied the Vachyn’s discomfort with obvious satisfaction and asked mildly, “Why not?”

“Because …” Nestor grimaced as he plucked more fragments from his sharded palm. “There’s …” He hesitated. “My hunters are slain.”

“And Ellyn?”

“I don’t know.” The Vachyn picked the final fragment from his hand and sealed the wounds with silent magic. “But I know where she is, if she lives.”

Talan asked, “Where?” eagerly.

“In the Styge,” Nestor said. “Across the Barrens.”

Egor Dival laughed. “And shall she come out from the Styge and raise an army to defeat us? Or is she trapped there?” He turned to Talan. “Shall I send our army there? To the Styge, across the Barrens, across the Highlands?”

Talan looked confused, glancing from one to the other. “I don’t know. Should we?”

“It would be a wasted venture,” Dival answered. “That would be a war easily lost.”

“Save Ellyn’s alive,” Nestor said.

“You promised your hunters would find her and kill her,” Dival said with some satisfaction. “And there’d be no succession.”

The Vachyn scowled angrily. “Even so, she’s revealed herself now.”

“And much good it does us.” Dival laughed bitterly and rose, crossing to a table where maps lay. He spread one chart, beckoning the others to his side, stabbing fingers at the parchment. “Chorym, here; the Styge, here. A long way, no?”

Nestor went on scowling. His mind spun with the loss of that aetheric linkage—five lives of his making so abruptly gone.

“Do you send more of your hunters, how long shall it take them?” Dival asked the Vachyn, not waiting on a reply, but addressing himself now to Talan. “And do I send men, how long shall it take them?” He scowled as he answered his own question: “Too long! By the time either can reach the Styge, the quarry shall be gone.”

Talan gestured that he explain.

“The hunters found them and are now destroyed. Likely, therefore, Ellyn lives still—and knows that she was found. Even does she not comprehend properly, Gailard will—and he’ll be long gone before either hunters or an army can reach the Styge.” He swept a hand across the great expanse of the Barrens and the Highlands. “They could be anywhere!”

“I can send out more hunters,” Nestor protested.

“Five were enough, you said.” Dival’s response was harsh. “But those five are dead. How many more shall you send? And how long shall it take them to find her again? Spring’s on us—shall we spend another season here, waiting?”

Talan looked from one to the other. “So what shall we do?”

“Seeking her would be like seeking a needle in a haystack, whether Nestor’s hunters or a thousand men are sent.” Dival turned to his king, which presented his back to the Vachyn. “But there’s another way.”

“Which is?” Talan pounced on hope like a cat on a mouse.

“The clans are warring,” Dival said. “Pawl tells me that Eryk has chased the Dur into the Barrens—”

“Is this of any interest?” Nestor interrupted. “The squabblings of petty clan chiefs? Let Ellyn come out and I’ll have her.”

Dival moved a little, just enough that his back remained toward the Vachyn as he spoke to Talan.

“I’ll send a fast rider to Pawl,” Dival said patiently, “and have Eryk patrol our borders. His clansmen are more likely to find both Ellyn and Gailard—and slay them both. That would save the deployment of our army and”—this with a backwards glance at Nestor—“the sending of useless hunters. Think on it—is Ellyn to claim the throne, she must cross the Highlands, so it’s more than likely Eryk shall find her. Let him do our work for us, eh?”

Talan smiled. “Yes,” he said, “that’s a fine plan. But no promises of gold! Men, a place in my court—but no more.”

“I’ll see it’s done,” Dival said.

“Y
ou’re sure you’re fit?”

“I’m sure.” Nassim favored Kerid with a glare. “I took a few cuts, no more. And see what those cuts have won us.”

He gestured at the harbor and Kerid nodded, grinning now. Boats floated there, kitted for war, ten times the number of his original fleet—indeed, almost every boat Mother Hel laid claim to that she did not need for trade. Most were sleek, low-lying warboats; others were merchantmen rebuilt for battle, with catapults and arbalests newly mounted
on their decks; some were little more than cutters. But all could fight—and should.

“It was worth it.”

“Perhaps I should have let them slay me.” Nassim directed a stream of liquid tobacco onto the cobbles. “Think what that might have got you.”

Kerid looked a moment thoughtful, as if he seriously contemplated the notion, then clapped his friend on the shoulder and shook his head. “No; I think I’d sooner have you in command of the
Ryadne.”

Nassim winced under the weight of the friendly blow, and grinned back even as he cut a fresh plug. “So now we truly go to war.”

“Now the Mother’s truly on our side,” Kerid replied. “The gods know, my friend, I’d sooner you’d not been hurt, but …”

“It swayed Mother Hel,” Nassim finished for him. “You realize we’re making history here? Hel’s Town has never taken sides before, but now … By all the gods, I doubt the river’s ever seen such a fleet! We can sweep Talan’s navy aside and bottle him in Chaldor. He’ll not be able to cross the Durrakym …”

“Which may not be so good a thing.”

Both men started as Mother Hel came up behind them. She was afoot, her carriage waiting at the perimeter of the harbour, the bearers crouched panting in the traces. She raised her skirts, glancing in distaste at the puddles of tobacco spread around Nassim’s feet.

Kerid bowed. “Why not?”

“Is all I’ve heard of Talan Kedassian true, then he’s not one to linger. Is all I’ve heard true, he might wish to return to Danant and leave Egor Dival in Chaldor.”