Guardians of the Lost (54 page)

“How long can the Wyred keep that up?” Arim asked, his voice rasping, his throat raw. He finally managed to pry loose the Grandmother's fingers.

“Depends on how many are spell-casting,” Damra replied. “Several hours, perhaps. Not much longer.”

“Still, that gives you time to reach the other side safely,” said Arim.

“Yes, but we should not—” Damra stopped speaking. She'd just realized what he'd said.

Tearing a long strip of cloth from his shirt, Arim wound it around his nose and mouth.

“Arim, you can't go back out there,” Damra said, appalled. “You heard the Wyred. There are thousands of those monsters—”

Arim's eyes gleamed. “I'm not a fool, Damra,” he said, his voice muffled. “I don't plan to fight unless I have to. I'll slip away in the confusion, return to my home. I must bring word of this to my Queen. This war is not just among the elves.”

“Arim,” said Damra softly, shifting to elven, “you cannot do this. You will be throwing away your life. You cannot hope to win through—”

“I must try, Damra,” said Arim quietly. “I must try. Give Griffith my warmest affection. The Mother and Father guard you.”

“Arim,” she began, but saw that arguing would be useless. She clasped her friend's hands, gave him a kiss on both cheeks. “The ancestors watch over you, Arim.”

He turned to Jessan, whose face was gray with pain, and the two pecwae, who were staring at him in dismay.

“Where do you think you're going?” the Grandmother demanded.

“Back to my homeland,” Arim said. “Someday, you will go back safely to yours. That is my dearest wish for each of you. Jessan, you are a valiant warrior. More than that, you have taught me the wisdom of the gods. If I had followed the thinking of my head and sent you and the blood knife away, we would all be dead now.”

“I count you my friend. If you come to Trevenici lands,” said Jessan, “you will be an honored guest in my house.”

Arim bowed, touched. The gift of his friendship is the greatest gift a Trevenici has to bestow. Arim turned to Bashae.

“The gods chose well. You have proven a brave and true bearer.”

“Thank you, Arim,” said Bashae. That seemed so inadequate, but he didn't know what else to say. Certainly not the words in his heart, that were words of tears and ill omen.

“Take this, if you're set on going,” said the Grandmother. Rummaging around in the pack that hung from the agate-eyed stick, she drew forth a turquoise.

“But that's one of your protection stones,” Arim protested. “I couldn't take that.”

“Twenty-seven, twenty-six, what's the difference?” the Grandmother said, pressing it into Arim's hand and folding his fingers around it. “You're going to need it more than I will.”

Arim touched the stone reverently to his lips, clasped it tightly in his hand. “May the gods walk at your side with their arms around you.”

Drawing his sword, he gave them a graceful wave and, before any of them could say another word, he ran back out of the Portal. He was immediately lost to sight in the shifting sands.

“What will happen to him?” Bashae asked. He stared intently out the Portal, hoping to catch a final glimpse of his friend.

When Damra failed to respond, Bashae looked directly at her. “He's going to die, isn't he? He doesn't have a chance. They'll catch him and kill him.”

“No, they won't,” Damra said, trying to sound reassuring. “Arim the Kite Maker is strong and cunning. Someday I will tell you a story of how he survived far worse peril than this.”

“He will be safe,” said the Grandmother, supremely confident. “I gave him my stone.”

“Your stone, Grandmother?” said Bashae, suddenly troubled. “But you still have eight more, right? Nine for me and nine for Jessan and nine for you?”

The Grandmother chortled. “Hah! As if I needed nine protecting stones. There were thirteen for you and thirteen for him”—she jabbed her finger at Jessan—“and one for me. And I didn't really need it. He does.” She gave an abrupt nod in the direction Arim had taken. “Foolhardy, that one,” she said softly. “But he means well.

“And I won't hear another word about it,” the Grandmother snapped, glowering at Bashae. She shifted the glower to Damra. “Shouldn't we be going? Or are we going to stand here and talk all day?”

“Yes, we should be going,” said Damra, dispirited. She did not have much faith in the turquoise stone. “We have only a few hours to reach our destination before we find that army on our heels.”

“Where are we anyway? A cave?” The Grandmother sniffed. “Doesn't smell like a cave.”

“We are inside one of the magical Portals,” Damra replied, shepherding her brood down the path.

The Grandmother's eyes widened. “A Portal,” she repeated to herself in Twithil. She raised the agate-eyed stick. “Take a good look, boys. You won't see the like again.”

“I can help your hand now,” said Bashae to Jessan. “I can't set the bones, but I can ease the pain. We'll have to do this while we walk, so try to hold steady.”

Jessan cradled his injured hand, while Bashae removed some green and red stones from his pouch. Carefully, muttering to himself, Bashae placed the bloodstones in the palm of Jessan's broken hand.

“Does that feel better?” he asked, eyeing it with the air of an expert. “Look, the swelling's going down. I'll set the bones when we stop for the night. Try not to move it, if you can.”

“It does feel better,” Jessan said. “Thanks.” He paused a moment, then he said, almost shyly, “I have my adult name. It came to me when I fought the Vrykyl.”

“Do you?” Bashae asked, pleased for his friend. “What is it?”

“Defender,” said Jessan gruffly.

“It's kind of plain,” Bashae said, disappointed. “Not like Chop-Their-Heads or Ale Guzzler. Do you think you might get a better one? Something a little more exciting?”

Jessan shook his head. “I like this one.”

“Well, all right. Should I call you Defender from now on instead of Jessan? It might take some getting used to.”

“Not yet. The tribe has to decide if it is suitable.”

“Good,” Bashae said, relieved. “In the meantime, keep a look-out for another name, just in case.”

Jessan didn't say anything to dash Bashae's hopes. Jessan knew he'd found his name. What he had to do now was to live up to it. He looked down at the bone knife, still at his side. The knife had saved his life and nearly cost him his life. Involuntarily, his hand closed over the hilt and he felt once again the blade stabbing through the armor of the Vrykyl. He felt the knife squirm in his hand, felt the white hot fury of the Vrykyl. He felt his own life begin to seep away, flowing through the bone knife to fill the Vrykyl's awful emptiness.

Jessan shuddered, a shudder that began in his bowels and spread throughout his body. He was sorry he remembered it and in that moment he knew that he would never forget. Every time he looked at the blood knife, he would hear the Vrykyl's words,
The curse stays with you. As do I
.

Damra pushed them mercilessly, permitting only the briefest halts for rest and to try to hear what was going on behind them.

Hearing nothing, she urged them on.

 

The Portal's defenders still held, but they would not hold it for long. The illusions ended. The Wyred fought their own battles in the
Inner Ring. The elves had abandoned the gate, retreating back into the towers that stood in the Outer Ring. Once inside, the elves retracted the walkways that led from the towers to the walls and sealed up the doors that were located some six feet above ground level.

The elves who were holed up in the towers gained a brief respite. The taan did not immediately attack them. Lyall could not figure out why, at first, then the answer was obvious. The enemy commander had them trapped like rats. He had no need to bother with them. They could do him no harm. He held the Outer Ring and he sent his troops pouring through the gate and into the Inner Ring. Elven archers manned the murder holes, fired at the creatures as they moved past in a solid mass, thousands of them. The elves might hit one or two or twenty, but what was that? Like trying to drink the ocean dry a drop at a time. The archers were running short of arrows and Lyall ordered them to cease fire. They'd need what remained for the final assault.

He understood the enemy's plan clearly. Move the main body through the Portal. Leave behind a small force to mop up.

Lyall sat with his back against the wall, an apt pose, he thought to himself. He was wounded, but then so was every elf in the tower. The floor was slippery with their blood. He watched one warrior die before his eyes. The soldier made no sound, he did not groan, did not speak. Lyall hadn't even known the man was wounded until he looked over and saw the dead man's eyes frozen in his head.

“Sir!” One of the men roused him. “You should come see this.”

Lyall rose stiffly to his feet, grimacing in pain, and limped over to the slit in the wall.

The warrior pointed. Several of the taan had broken away from the main body of the army and were walking toward the tower. They did not wear armor, but were clad in black robes. Some sort of strange ceremonial headgear covered their hideous faces.

“Shoot them,” said Lyall immediately. “Don't let them come near.”

He stepped back to allow the archers to come forward. The elves fired their precious arrows, taking their time, hoping to make every shot tell.

One taan shaman reached up a taloned hand and caught an arrow in mid-flight, plucked it out of the air. An arrow struck another taan in the chest, only to disappear in a flash of fire. The elves continued firing and an archer hit her mark. A shaman fell backward, clutching at an arrow in his throat, strangling on his own blood.

“An argent to the archer!” called out Lyall.

The elves cheered, but the cheering didn't last long. The surviving shamans paid no attention to their fallen comrade. Halting their advance, they raised their voices in an eerie-sounding wail. The elves increased their fire in order to try to stop the spell-casting, but had little success. The creatures were oblivious to the arrows, oblivious to the danger. One took an arrow in the thigh, but never missed a beat.

The elves waited tensely for the spell—earthquake, cracks in the stone, walls turning to mud. Such were the magic spells humans used.

Nothing happened.

The elves began to laugh. One said it reminded him of children playing at being wizards. Another said it reminded him of lizards playing at being wizards and that drew an even bigger laugh. Lyall smiled, but he did not join in the mirth. These creatures, hideous and bestial as they might appear, were in deadly earnest. There was a malevolent intelligence in the voices and in the eyes that was truly frightening.

Lyall felt a sudden tightness in his chest, as if he couldn't get enough air. He drew in a deep breath and was forced to work at it. He had to struggle to draw in another. Around him, his soldiers gasped for breath. They stared at him and at each other with dawning horror in their eyes.

The magic was sucking the air from the tower.

Lyall's chest burned. Starbursts stung his eyes. His soldiers slumped to the floor. Hoping to find air, Lyall staggered toward one of the slit windows. He could not make it. He sank to his knees. Pressing his hands against his chest, he gasped, panic-stricken, for the air he knew would not come.

“I hope it has been worth it…” was the last thought in his mind.

Several miles distant, high on a hilltop that overlooked the Portal, a thousand elven foot soldiers and a hundred mounted knights stood at the ready, watching, waiting. The elves wore armor that had been dipped in black paint. They carried a banner draped in black cloth. The trappings of the knights' horses were black. Their swords were sheathed in black, their spears and arrows were tipped in black. Soldiers and officers wore masks of black silk over their faces. Their hands were wrapped in black, their boots muffled in black. Theirs was a ghostly force, aligned with night's shadows. Those few taan scouts who had stumbled upon them were terrified, for to them it seemed that the darkness came to life.

The taan called out, “Hrl'Kenk, Hrl'Kenk,” naming their ancient god of darkness. The elves had no knowledge of that, nor did they care what the taan said. The elves made short work of the creatures, ended the taans' cries by slitting their throats.

The elves had an excellent view of the Portal, of the fall of the Portal. They had a good view of the immense army of taan that poured into the Portal, their numbers so vast that they were beyond counting. The elves watched the enemy kill the pitiful few elves left to defend it. They watched the taan establish their defenses, then form into orderly ranks and march through the Portal. This took hours and by the time the last few started marching through the battered gate, dusk had fallen.

Smug in victory, General Gurske had not given any thought to attempting to repair that gate.

The elven officer, a young man, but already tested and proven in battle, smiled to see the great iron doors hanging off their hinges.

“So Grandfather said it would happen.” His voice was grim. He did not take his eyes from the Portal.

“Do we ride?” asked his lieutenant. She found it hard to watch brave men die, even those who belonged to the House of her enemy.

“Not yet, but soon,” said the commander. “We will let the main body of the army get well inside the Portal first.”

“How many has he left to guard it, do you suppose?” the lieutenant asked.

“Not many,” said the commander. “A few hundred. No more. All humans.”

“Are you certain?” The lieutenant was skeptical. “We have heard that this Dagnarus is an able commander. Surely he would leave a large number to defend his only means of retreat.”