Into the Dark Lands Read online

  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 ti
me, 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.

  “Belf,” she whispered. “Please.”

  The light grew, encircling him in bands so brilliant that she had to close her eyes yet again.

  He moved.

  She bit her lip, praying that it was his motion, and not her trembling, that she felt. “Belf?”

  He moved again, this time planting his elbow feebly into her side. Light or no, her eyes flew open. Even the tears that started to slide down her cheeks were glowing.

  She turned him around, supporting less and less of his weight as the power built in him as well.

  “You idiot.” She half shouted into his ear. “You b-bloody i-idiot.”

  She felt his lips move against her hair, and although she couldn’t hear a word he said, she knew it was an apology.

  Beyond the fire that still tried to cage them she could see the Lady of Elliath. Although the fire around her feet had not grown much closer, it still bit into her ankle. And if it caused Erin pain, who had only half the blood . . .

  Clutching Belfas tightly by the shoulder, she walked the last few steps and reached out to touch the Lady’s taut hand. She felt pain shoot into her palm for a moment, and then she dispelled it, as if it were a careless word that a friend had said in a moment of anger. She was glowing, she could see this beyond the red of the enemy light. Glowing, yet casting no shadow, she stood in the Hand of God. In that moment, although she could not see it, her eyes flashed the deep, living green of the Lady; and of the two, she was momentarily the stronger. No eye, mortal or blooded, would have easily been able to tell the two apart.

  This blood, this power, this was God’s—and wrapped in its warmth and its strength, there was nothing that she felt she could not do, nothing. She turned to look for a moment at Belfas and met his wide-eyed stare; she saw a reflection in his eyes of her face surrounded by strands of glowing hair that blazed a trail that the red-fire could not follow. Then she turned to look back at the Lady of Elliath, standing free now of the pain that had gripped her only moments before. The slim, immortal hand felt cool to the touch. If not for the pale color of the Lady’s hair, they might have been sisters at the dawn of the Awakening.

  And the Lady of Elliath knew fully, for the first time, Lernan’s Hope as it stood before her, cloaked in his fires.

  Standing in red-fire, with one hand on Belfas, and one hand on the Lady, Erin looked ahead into the dark horizon.

  The shadow was there, closer and larger than it had been. She smiled as the Lady suddenly returned her grip. From somewhere, she heard the faintest whisper touch her mind. Great-grandchild . . . But it was not the Lady’s voice; it was both deeper and stronger, for all its faintness, than Erin had ever heard before. She shook her head, and it was gone.

  A pillar of white fire rose from the ground, utterly destroying the red.

  The Lady of Elliath slid her hand free of her granddaughter’s.

  “Enough!” A ball of white-fire raced outward. It touched a red wall; touched it and crumbled it almost at the same moment.

  Erin had barely time to shout, “The horsemen!” at Belfas. He swiveled his head around, caught a glimpse of the cavalry, and lost it again as the white-fire spread out like a tidal wave.

  “Come to me, line-children! Come, and quickly!”

  From the left came Telvar, Kredan, Carla, and the Grandfather. From the right came the Sarillar, Evanyiri, Dannen, and Dorse.

  “Anders?” the Grandfather shouted.

  The Sarillar shook his head sharply.

  “Now,” the Lady said. “Step forward; we have done what we must.”

  She looked once, briefly, at her granddaughter before the scene shifted and the Gifting of Lernan once again sparkled dimly in an open clearing.

  They returned to the Great Hall in silence. Anders had fallen; a victim of the nightwalker that the Sarillar and his warriors had struggled to destroy. All others who had been chosen still walked—all but the Lady, who lay in a slumber from which none could wake her. Andin, the Sarillar, was the only one who had power enough to try, and when he failed, they carried her gently homeward.

  “She sleeps,” the Grandfather told the younger line-mates. “Were she . . . dead, she would not remain; she would pass from us like sunrise. Do not grieve.”

  He turned to look at Erin.

  “And you, Erin.” He bowed formally. “Your childhood is past; you have touched the Bright Heart’s hand and He has welcomed you.”

  He waited for Erin’s reaction, but she stood staring blankly past him. Shaking his head a little, he turned to leave.

  “Grandfather.”

  He stopped walking, but did not look back.

  “I touched the Bright Heart. I think I heard His voice.”

  His eyes widened, but she couldn’t know that, couldn’t know that the power of the Servants alone was strong enough to hear the words of the Bright Heart.

  “Why—why did he come to me?”

  “You were dying,” the Grandfather replied, thinking, you heard the voice of God, child. No, not truly child any longer. He saw again the image of her face as it had been just an hour ago, alive with the light of God. It was a wild thing, a terrible thing, and a sight of incredible beauty. I have presided over the initiation ceremonies many, many times. Never have I seen such power. No, not even in the days of his youth, so very long past. If only Erin could have made her ward in the natural way . . . He shook his head; best not to think on it too much. “You were dying,” he repeated softly.

  “So was my—so was she.”

  “Erin,” he said, turning to face her, “God comes as He is able; He listens for any sign from His children that He can hear. He came to you because your death-voice could reach Him. He did not aid your mother because
hers couldn’t.”

  “But she—”

  “She faced a Servant of the Enemy, one who could afford to turn all his power against that communication. We faced three, true—but those three could not silence us all because they had to contend with the Lady herself.”

  “Why didn’t the Lady—”

  “It wasn’t known until it was too late. And had it been . . . you have not touched God’s power before; you can not know how much our use of the Gifting weakened Him.

  “Erin, any adult faces death and accepts it when it comes to any warrior. You must learn to do this. Not all life can be the responsibility of any single man or woman.”

  He left her then, not wanting to diminish her achievement, but fearing his expression could do nothing else.

  Katalaan was waiting for her. Light flickered from beneath the curtains of the house they shared. It was near dawn, which meant that the baker’s stall would be empty for at least the half day. Erin was weary.

  She had left as a child. She returned now as a warrior, an adult.

  But as she opened the door to the house and its luminous shadows, she wondered for the first time if that would mean as much to Katalaan as it did to the lines.

  “Kat?” she whispered as she stood hesitantly in the entranceway.

  Lights touched the ceiling and flickered there as Katalaan stepped out of the small fire-room holding a lamp aloft. She closed her eyes for a moment and sagged against a wall.

  “Erin.”

  “I’ve made my ward, Kat,” Erin began. She could think of nothing else to say. “I’m an adult now.”

  The lamp was deposited on the stairs as Kat took two steps forward and put her arms tightly around Erin.

  “Blessed Bright Heart,” she whispered. “Thank you.” She stood there, shaking a moment. “Thank you for sending my daughter back.”

  “Kat?” Erin whispered.

  Katalaan only shook her head.

  “You’ve never called me that before.”

  “I never had to, Erin.” Tears streaked the old woman’s face; old tears, covered now by newer ones. “I don’t know how they can take this. I don’t know how the lines can send their children to war.”