Sword of Shadows (29 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

Drostan walked the length
of their hastily constructed fortification, illuminated by shifting torchlight. The night air was heavy and still. The soldiers stood tense, breath shallow and bodies restless. Above them, a band of misty white stars divided the black firmament. Far below, the unseen Tarba River cut through the steep gorge with a muffled roar.

“Any sign of our scouts?” he asked when he reached the far end.

Theoryn, a long-faced man with sober eyes, shook his head. “No. Gaeorg and Eldor have not returned.”

Drostan grunted his displeasure. The two mage warriors were young and able, recently recruited from the province of Selen. They had departed at sunset, assuming the shape of Dusky Owl.

“They’ve been recognized,” the old knight said.

“They are not long delayed.” Theoryn’s tone was one of hope rather than argument. “The Syrnte have not detected any of the others in recent days. Why should these two be caught now?”

“The Syrnte have been holding Faelon’s Ridge with but one regiment of soldiers. Now, things are different.”

Earlier that day, the invading army had emerged from the heart of Moehn and made its vast camp at the head of the pass. Drostan’s blood had run cold upon hearing his scouts report the numbers. He had sent messengers at once to Rhiemsaven, knowing his small contingent would soon lose their tenuous hold and be forced to surrender the valley below.

“Call all the men to arms. I want two more scouts sent half way up the pass at once, no further than—”

A flare of jade light illuminated Theoryn’s scarred features. Startled, both men looked toward the head of the pass, where a curtain of fire was wrapping around Faelon’s Ridge. Undulating shafts of amethyst and malachite caressed the night sky, drawing in a vortex of lightning-tipped clouds.

The trees stopped shifting.

The voice of the river was extinguished.

Drostan’s hackles rose as a cold wisp of the Underworld wrapped tight around his gut. He unsheathed his sword and drew a breath to alert the men, but no sound fell from his lips. Along the length of the abatis, the soldiers of Moisehén stood frozen, entranced by the display of otherworldly magic.

A deafening scream sounded from the high ridge, sending the forest into mayhem. Birds flew squawking from their sleepy perches. Fawns hidden in glades bawled for their mothers. Trees creaked and groaned as if death were being drawn up in excruciating threads through their roots.

Drostan’s men covered their ears and cried out. Many fell to their knees or stumbled, confused and oblivious to the weapons at their sides, to the duty in their hearts.

“Order!” Drostan roared. “Order, I say! To arms!”

The mage warriors were the first to recover their senses. They rallied the men, casting wards to deaden the impact of the unearthly howls. Those posted on the flanks set the crystal heads of their staffs aglow and gathered nascent, multi-colored flames in their palms. Some shapeshifted into wolves and slipped silently into the forest on either end of the abatis, where trees clung to a treacherously steep grade.

The soldiers that remained jostled each other as they formed ranks, until all stood with swords drawn and faces alert, eyes shining in the torchlight, gazes fixed on the shadowy road.

Silence returned, as portentous as the screams that had invoked chaos moments before. At the head of the pass, the eerie curtain of fire persisted. Trees began to rattle and shiver. An icy mist that rose off the ground.

Drostan drew a deep breath, anchoring his spirit to the heart of the mountain.

Ekahtu.
Sepuenem al melan dumae, Erehai abnahm al shue.

The earth trembled as if under the charge of a thousand horses. Drostan scanned the area below Faelon’s Ridge, but all was shrouded in darkness. Every sound, every instinct indicated the Syrnte were fast approaching, yet there was no sign of torches.

“Mages,” he called. “
Aen ehaen!
”

The warriors sent forth amber arcs that ignited shrubs and trees, illuminating the road some thirty paces ahead. High branches roared in protest, leaves and needles hissed as the fire converted them into floating ash.

“
Rehoernem enem
!”

Before the blazing trees could be brought down, a horde of Naether Demons leapt out of the darkness ahead. The monsters rushed the abatis and cleared it with a single leap, long limbs outstretched as they barreled into the center of Drostan’s line.

Men scattered in terror while their companions were captured and rent limb from limb. The demons attacked with nightmarish ferocity, black claws eclipsing the light of the burning trees.

Drostan ducked as a demon passed over him, landed, and spun around. The beast reared with luminescent arms outstretched and sliced at the knight’s head. Drostan evaded the blow and charged forward, sweeping low with his sword. The blade sank into the belly as if swallowed by viscous fluid. The creature cried out and stumbled back, arms flailing while shadows oozed from the wound.

As the knight watched, aghast, the beast recovered, its flesh becoming whole.

Again, the Naether Demon charged. Drostan sprang to one side, his sword connecting with the demon’s shoulder and severing its arm. With a piercing howl the creature tumbled away, leaving the amputated limb convulsing at Drostan’s feet.

Naeom anthae!

White flames sprang from Drostan’s palm and consumed the ebony-clawed arm. The knight sprang upon the crippled beast, striking at head and limbs, scattering the pieces, and igniting them with magic.

“Dismember them with steel!” He shouted to the mage warriors nearby. “Burn the remains.”

Word spread. Drostan moved among his men, urging them on as they hacked and flamed their enemy. With growing confidence they gained ground, until a second pack of Naether Demons leapt over the abatis, bringing a fresh wave of terror.

The largest fell upon Drostan, pounding him into the ground, slicing open armor and ripping apart the flesh exposed. The knight cried out as pain seared through his torso. The sword was knocked from his grasp.

Invoking a ward, Drostan managed to crawl out from under the beast. He clawed a path over roots and leaf litter, but the protection did not hold. Frigid claws drove deep into Drostan’s thighs. The creature dragged the knight off the ground and flung him against a large trunk.

Stunned, Drostan fell to the ground. Gasps of air burned through his ribs. He forced himself to his feet, leaning against the old tree. Blood ran hot down his back and legs. Violent tremors coursed through him. The Naether Demon sprang.

Ehekahtu, faeom dumae! 

Power thundered from his core, throwing the Naether Demon off its feet. Drostan sank to his knees, dizzy from the force of his spell and the rapid loss of blood.
The forest wavered on the edge of his awareness.

The Naether Demon recovered its footing to confront him again.
Beyond it, all semblance of order had disintegrated. Dozens of men lay dead. A handful of mage warriors yet stood their ground. Others screamed in torment as the demons tore open their breasts and consumed their hearts with bloody vigor.

Already they were overwhelmed, and Drostan had no way of knowing how many more of these beasts the Syrnte held in waiting.

“Retreat!” The knight’s voice was hoarse, but it carried over the chaos and was echoed by the few remaining men. “To the valley, and from there to Rhiemsaven!”

Soldiers fled on foot or horse. Mage warriors brought down the last of the burning trees and called upon the shape of Owl to make their escape.

Only Drostan remained, his legs too weak to run, his magic all but spent.

A Naether Demon crouched in front of Drostan, rocking with patient rhythm. In its cavernous maw, Drostan saw the desolate depths of its Underworld prison, a realm of spent magic and slow decay. More of its kind flocked around him, death glowing in the black pits of their eyes.

Ambling forward, the Naether Demon pinned the knight to the trunk by his throat. Drostan’s breath was choked away in a knot of unrelenting pain.
Shadows ripped through his vision.
The beast stripped off his breastplate, trembling with a malevolent and hungry purr.

Drostan closed his eyes and reached into the heart of the old tree at his back.

Ehekaht, naeom enem.

The Gods responded. Tendrils of the oak’s powerful spirit slipped into Drostan’s veins, replenishing the breath he was being denied. As the demon’s icy claw scored his breast, Drostan became one with the forest. His flesh did not open but was transformed into a rugged layer of bark. His trunk expanded, trapping the Naether Demon’s claws and swallowing its arm.

The beast howled piteously as it struggled to escape.

Drostan’s branches grew, twisted, groaned, and fell upon the Naether Demons, entangling them in a net of woody vines, lifting them toward the unforgiving heavens, until the tree shuddered and faltered under the weight of so much death. Living wood turned black. Limbs withered and failed. The trunk split with a thunderous crack. The ancient oak fell, crown roaring down through the canopy and onto the road, where it crashed into the blazing trees left behind. Branches and leaves ignited in an instant, consuming the demons in their fiery grasp.

As the wide trunk crackled and steamed, Drostan’s spirit slipped from the oak. On the other side of the abyss, he heard the call of his brothers and sisters, beck
oning him toward a place where weary warriors could at last find their rest.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The Syrnte marched triumphant
into the Valley of Aerunden under a blue sky feathered with white clouds. Banners of scarlet and gold snapped in the wind, filling the narrow plain with color and movement.

The men were in good humor. They had suffered few casualties these past weeks, and Rishona’s power over the Naether Demons had seduced them into an illusion of indestructibility. They shared laughter and ribald jokes as tents and pickets were raised, and bowed in reverence whenever the San’iloman passed among them.

Despite the happy mood of her army, Rishona rode with a subdued spirit. The last time she had entered Aerunden, her hopes for the crown of Moisehén had disintegrated. After Ernan’s defeat, Mechnes had taken her back to the lands of the Syrnte, to what had seemed certain death.

Now, here she stood again, her army greater than ever. The Gods had given her a second chance. For this, she was grateful. Beyond this valley waited the precious mines of Selkynsen, the iron hills of Moisehén, and the rivers of magic that ran beneath Selen. Victory was within her reach and with it, the crown of her murdered father.

A shiver ran through her shoulders.

Aerunden is the keeper of my destiny.
  

She heard the whisper of the Voices that Speak, but closed her mind to their murmurs, wary of what else they might say.

As twilight descended over the valley, Rishona, Mechnes, and their officers assembled at the summit of a low ridge on the southern edge of the valley. It was here that Rishona had first summoned a Naether Demon to consume the soul of the wizard Tzeremond; here that Eolyn had descended into the Underworld, and the Mage King after her. Rishona sensed the remnants of the portal they had left behind, like a cold draft at the entrance to a cave.

One more sacrifice, and our victory will be assured.

On a makeshift altar amidst scattered trees, the priestess Donatya gave offerings of thanks to the Gods of the Syrnte. Her song was shrill and harsh. She burned aromatic leaves and let the blood of small creatures that squealed in anguish.

Standing next to his men, Mechnes puffed out his cheeks and drummed his fingers on the hilt of his sword. He had no patience for the Gods, or anyone else who made him wait. Rishona could well imagine what he thought of Donatya’s butchered hymn. As if cognizant of Rishona’s attention, Mechnes’s gaze slid toward his niece and settled on her snow white gown.

She drew a quiet breath, accentuating of the rise and fall of her breasts. She had made certain to use a dress that would please him, one of sheer fabric that clung to her body. The provocative music of Adiana’s distress had been her uncle’s obsession of late, a fixation Rishona desperately needed to break.

His eyes narrowed, and he sent Rishona a vision of Adiana surrendering to her caress, their bodies undulating as one, their hair intertwined in ribbons of gold and ebony.

This was not the fantasy Rishona sought to inspire, but she allowed a smile to touch her lips and gave her uncle a quiet nod.

When at last they finished their devotions, twilight had deepened into a starless night. Rishona and Mechnees mounted their horses and processed down from the ridge, guards and officers falling into position around them. Wherever they passed they were greeted with shouts of adulation and victory.

Upon arriving at Rishona’s ample pavilion, the San’iloman dismissed all their attendants. Numerous candles infused with aromas of honey and jasmine cast a flickering light over her wide bed. Wind battered the tent, lifting the skirts of the canvas and sending short gusts of air swirling at their feet. Rishona’s dress rippled over her skin, and she arched slightly to enhance the effect.

Bidding her uncle to take a seat, the San’iloman lifted the sparkling veil that concealed her discolored face, lingering evidence of the bruises she had received at Mechnes’s hand in Moehn. She served him wine and food, her demeanor one of careful deference, her smile gracious and pleasing.

“Today we have come full circle.” Rishona removed her slippers and indulged him with a flash of her dark eyes. “Here in Aerunden, I watched Ernan meet his defeat and my brother perish. Now I have returned with you, Uncle. Your valor, your leadership, and your magnificent army. You brought us a great victory in Moehn. Soon victory will also be ours in Moisehén.”

“Our march through Moehn was little more than a pleasant outing for these men who call themselves soldiers.” Mechnes’s tone was sharp and sober. “The Mage King awaits us on the road to Rhiemsaven. With any luck, by tomorrow my scouts will tell us where. He will not surrender as easily as the useless lords of Moehn.”

“He is young and new to war. He will be no match for your cunning.”

“I am not such a fool as to underestimate him. Mark my words, Rishona, this royal progress you have so enjoyed is about to become a cruel and bloody campaign.”

“My Naether Demons will—”

“—make little difference at this point. They attack only at night. And they are disorganized, unreliable. They fight their own battles, not ours.”

“Their battle is our battle.”

“They are useful pets when they obey your command. But have you considered the possibility that one day they will not?”

Rishona stiffened. “Of course, Uncle. I am not such a fool, either. Donatya and I are prepared to send them back to their cold prison and close the door behind them forever. But so far, they have done everything I’ve asked them to do and without hesitation.”

“They have not killed the maga.”

Rishona drew a breath. She had anticipated this argument, and had considered how to turn it to her advantage.

“Twice they found her. Twice they failed,” she said. “Their failure was also mine. I sent the Naether Demons too soon; they did not have sufficient magic to defeat her. Now, they have grown in strength, but so has the maga. She has returned to the Mage King and has bound her magic to him. Even as we speak, the intertwining of their power is closing the breach between them and the Underworld. If the Naether Demons are to destroy them, we must strike soon. And with the most powerful magic available to us.”

Mechnes paused over his wine. “Are you saying they can slay the Mage King directly?”

“Oh yes.” Rishona picked up a plum, caressed it wth her lips, and bit thoughtfully into the juicy pulp. “But we must make the proper sacrifice.”

Mechnes’s chuckle carried a low menace.

Rishona did not waver beneath his gaze but stood, approached with a sinuous stride, and knelt at his feet. She pulled the pins from her dark hair so the ebony tresses tumbled over her shoulders. With a gentle touch she began removing his boots.

“You want Adiana,” he said.

“I do not want her, Uncle.” Rishona sat back on her heels, hands folded in her lap, eyes downcast so that her lashes would show dark against her cheeks. “Not only because she pleases you, but because I once called her friend. Would that the Gods had given me another path, but they did not. Adiana is the single richest vessel of magic that we took in the highlands of Moehn. The Naether Demons hunger for her more than any other. They assure me that with her, they can destroy the Mage King before we ever meet him in battle. And the maga as well, if she is at his side.”

Mechnes leaned forward, touched her chin with his fingers, and brought Rishona’s gaze to his. “You should not believe the promises of those beasts.”

She smiled and pressed her lips to his palm. “I do not trust them without reservation. I only tell you what the Naether Demons have told me. It is for you to decide, in your wisdom, whether to heed their words.”

Drawing close, Rishona ran her palms along his thighs. “I can say this: to this day they have not deceived me, and I have no reason to believe they are deceiving me now. We can claim our victory over the bodies of a thousand Syrnte soldiers. Or we can grant the Naether Demons this one small sacrifice, and be rid of the Mage King forever.”

She laid her head upon his lap and set to work on the lacings of his breeches. Rishona felt neither distaste nor desire, only the quiet conviction that this was the surest path to his favor.

Mechnes played idly with a lock of her hair and took a drink from his cup.

“You think to bewitch me,” he said. “Like you did that witless brother of yours. Like you did to half the court at Ech’nalahm.”

She slipped her fingers around his manhood and finding him ready and eager, began applying her practiced touch. “I would never pretend to bewitch you, Uncle. I wish only to please you, as you have always pleased me.”