Silverkin, page 32
Thealos became aware of the water-like magic halting, then sucking back towards him as if he were a sinkhole. The vastness of it he had just experienced—the distance it had gone in a single burst that lasted no longer than a blink. Rushing, churning, draining magic yanked its strings and the waters returned, rushing back to the Silverkin’s gleaming facets, rushing through Thealos as it was forced to obey the magic’s power.
Pain.
The pain of it started as little needle jabs all over his body. Every part of him experienced it, every pore of skin, every strand of hair. The pain came as a wall that made him cringe beneath its weight. The waters were laden with every kind of filth he could imagine. The purity of the waters were tainted now, sick and black and putrid. Every mote of Forbidden magic, every spark of desire to cavort with it—it all rushed through him in a crescendo of excruciating horror. He could not scream. He could not weep. The weight of it crushed him against the stones of the rotunda floor, his hand clenching the Silverkin until the facets cut his palm and fingers and made him bleed. And he could not let go. Sweet Vannier, how he wished he could let go! The weight of it increased, a solid wall of rock slamming down on him. He felt his arms break, his back break, his legs break under the strain of it. Still he could not scream.
He wanted to black out. He did not want to face the pain any more. A blizzard of memories choked and jolted him. Tannon’s band had cut and stabbed at him. But not even they had hurt him this much. His body was broken. He knew he would never walk, never practice the Way of Ice and Shadows. The knowledge would remain locked in his mind, awake but unused, for the rest of his life. Horror. His life would be a horror. No, the magic wouldn’t kill him. It would do much worse. It would let him live.
The flood of tainted waters ended abruptly as they settled back into the sapphire facets of the Silverkin. The pure blue stone was mottled with inky black, with shadowy forms that writhed inside it.
On the floor, in pain beyond anything he could describe, he understood the next truth. The evil was not destroyed—it was only imprisoned.
Thealos still could not scream. His lungs would not open.
He was dying after all.
Let it be soon. Let it be soon.
Chapter XXXIV
Allavin Devers clenched the rein straps so tightly he knew they’d leave marks on his palms. His stomach roiled from the bucking wind and the alerion’s reaction to it. The Kiran Thall gathered in a single line, their mounts skittish. It looked like a rippling black snake along the base of the hillside. The knights responded with three lines, outnumbering the mounted troops four to one. Yet the odds did not feel right to him. The Bandits were too confident, too eager to face a superior force.
Shearmur’s command banner flapped in the breeze as he rode down the lines, raising his shield. The knights hunkered down, blades and spears in the crook of stirrups and ready for action. Allavin knew they were going to be slaughtered. The agony of it tortured him. What would the king of Dos-Aralon do when he learned of it? What would the Dukes of Amberdian and Sypher say?
The front ranks of Kiran Thall started at a firm clop, riding leisurely to close the distance between them and the front ranks of the knights.
It’s over, he thought. Nothing can stop it now. He had hoped against reason that Thealos would make it to the Silverkin in time, but the opportunity was lost. The moment to prevent the devastation had passed. The victory would ring in the halls of don Rion’s palace like…
The alerion banked up, shrieking, arching its back so sharply that Allavin felt the straps strain as he was thrown back. He heard the alerion’s rider—Korane—curse in Silvan and then gasp. He jerked the reins and nearly took the alerion upside-down to bank low and dive.
“Do you hear it? Do you hear it?” Korane screamed. He pointed down to the city, lurching forward to jab the sky with his finger.
Allavin heard nothing, but what he saw made his heart soar.
The line of Kiran Thall crumbled. It was as if one of the Shae gods had thrown a waterlogged blanket across the valley floor in a heavy heap. Riders tumbled from their mounts. Others sagged in the saddles as if they had no strength to lift the reins. Horses nickered and shied, tossing their riders to the ground. It seemed to Allavin that something had struck them, a noise or sound or some commotion that sapped their will to fight.
The knights of Owen Draw, on the other hand, had no such impediment.
Allavin grinned as Shearmur spurred his roan and whoops and cheers raised high enough into the sky to reach his ears. The knights loosed like a flood of silver. Stamping geldings and screams of terror joined in counter-swells to the chorus of hooves and jangling harness. From his vantage on the alerion, Allavin could see it all. It was more than a rout. It was more than victory. It was the beginning of the end.
“What is it?” Allavin shouted to Korane. “What happened down there?”
“Silvan magic! The most glorious Silvan magic I’ve ever heard. It’s gone, my friend. The taint is gone!”
“Ballinaire! Where’s Ballinaire?”
The rider withdrew a whistle and blew it, signaling the other alerion riders. The great creatures circled around the base of the hill.
“There!”
Allavin saw it before the rider’s finger could point it. A knot of soldiers wearing the black and gold surrounded a white destrier and charged the line of Owen Draw. One of the other alerion let out an ear-splitting scree as Shearmur and his hosts surrounded the Bandit Leader. Allavin’s heart thumped in his chest and tears stung his eyes.
“Closer! Fly closer!” he begged.
The leading knights smashed into the front ranks of Ballinaire’s host. He heard the crunch and shudder, the scream of horses and steel. The white plume on Ballinaire’s helm wagged and jostled. He bent over in his saddle, clutching the reins, unable to even raise his weapon. Another horse barreled into his and Allavin watched him totter on the saddle, and then tip over the side.
The cheer that went up from the valley floor was deafening.
* * *
As Exeres struck the glaring Firekin orb with the Bloodstone, the jolt of Silvan magic crushed him from behind and shoved him face-first onto the tunnel floor. A hurricane of music swelled, sweet and piteous, permeating his skin pores and mingling with his blood. It was a pure fountain that washed away every mote of grime and filth. All of his guilt and shame dissolved. Every crevice that Miestri had stolen into was purged. Free. He was free! Truly free!
The cleansing of the magic brought tears to his eyes. All connection with Miestri and Mage had been severed.
I am clean.
He looked up and saw his filthy fist clutching the Bloodstone. Its magic pulsed calmly. It was cool now. He tasted the salt and dirt on his lips, yet despite his physical filthiness, he felt as if he’d bathed beneath a waterfall for days.
Justin moaned and choked.
Exeres saw him, his hands blistered and raw, and pity swelled in his heart.
Mage lay crumpled on the floor as well, unconscious.
The song of the magic came again and Exeres braced himself as it rushed through the tunnels a second time, draining back the way it had come. Even the hint of its power made his knees weak.
–Hurry to Thealos–
The voice resounded in his mind like a thunderclap. Leaving the broken shards of the Firekin orb, he made it to his feet and ran down the corridor, following the shrinking Silvan magic as it fled. Another pair of footfalls joined his and he glanced back to discover Justin keeping pace with him, his eyes red and swollen. He knew he needed to hurry. With aching knees, sun-burnt palms, and a searing thirst, he ran down the tunnel hall, praying that he would get there in time.
Before the Silverkin’s magic crushed Thealos to death.
* * *
The human soldiers fled.
Xenon lurched against the wall of the tunnel, his body pained and bloody. Three dozen of the Kiran Thall lay strewn across the tunnel floor, heaped on each other, but they had claimed the two quaeres in return. Heartsick, he watched the soldiers stagger and flee as the Silvan magic swamped them with its power. Tones of sublimity rushed from the depths of the tunnels. The soldiers collapsed as if some huge scythe had cut a swath through them. Xenon whirled as the stone barrier vanished, dissolved into nothingness by the power of the Silverkin.
He stared at the empty dark tunnel beyond and his chest constricted with pain. Quickfellow had found the magic, but he had been too slow. Too banned slow! Flitting memories surged from his mind—the lives of the quaeres engulfing him fled, leaving him alone in the stillness and shadows. Silvan magic had prevailed over Forbidden. As it always would.
Rage filled the void left by the magic of the Wolfsmen blades.
He rushed into the midst of the fleeing Bandits, hacking and scything with a leaf-blade in each hand. It was Quickfellow’s fault! He had led them into Ballinaire’s trap. Soldiers screamed and pleaded, tossing down their weapons, but Xenon had no mercy for them. What mercy had they shown? What quarter had been offered to his men? None. They deserved this Ravinjon.
The training of a lifetime firmed up in his mind, each stroke bringing a man down. It was too easy. Some tried to run from him, but he caught them, the magic of the Silvan weapons masking his pain and fatigue. Something wet sprayed in his eyes and he wiped it away, seeing the crimson streak left on his sleeve.
He did not stop, not even after he’d cleared the main tunnel entrance and the sunlight stabbed his eyes. They would kill him eventually, he knew. Better to die in honor than to be the last Wolfsman standing. Some would question his courage. Some would question that he survived alone among his men.
Better that Quickfellow should die as well.
The wasp of a thought hovered in his mind.
His vision cleared and he saw the steel-sheathed knights hedging the Bandit soldiers in their retreat. Hooves flailed, men and beasts grunted and screamed. The sickness and horrors of war meant nothing to him. He had seen it before, had seen it throughout the tunnels. There was nowhere to flee to. Standing like a statue, he paused at the mouth of the cave and watched the scene unfold, slowing to a perfect stillness—a singularity of a moment.
Then he heard it, the Silvan war trumpets sounding to the south. The Shae army had arrived at last! Glorious sounds! The humans would not be victorious alone, would not carve their scraps out of the honor the Shae alone deserved.
The magic failed him. The blazing blue of the twin blades winked out, leaving him to his natural strength. He collapsed to the ground, exhausted beyond all his training.
Yet that thought still danced in his mind.
Better that Quickfellow should die as well.
* * *
Flent slammed the haft of the Silvan axe into the Bandit officer’s stomach and the man crumpled and went down. He kicked his chin and then stepped over the body as he cleared his way through the tunnels beneath Landmoor. Soldiers were frantic, leaderless, terrified.
Most of the torches that once lined the walls had been seized, but he did not need them to pick out his way in the dark. The crooked floors, the aisles and crossroads—each one passed as he hurried deeper into the bowels of the city. Something had happened. Some magic had come and made everyone crazy. The shouts of the Shae army still lingered in his ears. They were coming up the hillside to storm the city. Just like the tide rising off the docks of Sol. The waves would lap over the dock rungs and submerge the pillars. Nothing could stop it.
Another cluster of cowering Bandits huddled in the dark. He did not bother with them. Thealos needed his help. And ban it, he would be there to help him! Echoes throbbed, running this way and that. He focused on the main tunnel corridor, knowing what was at the end.
The corridor ended abruptly, spiking two directions. Which way to go? He started down the one and saw the dead remains of Shae Wolfsmen and Kiran Thall. Part of his heart went cold. Those Wolfsmen were supposed to be protecting Thealos. Was he among the dead?
Voice echoes whispered from behind and he turned, recognizing Stasy’s. He mopped the sweat from his forehead and sighed with relief.
Until he heard the sharp hiss of her fear.
“What are you doing! Get away from him! Xenon!”
The Wolfsman’s voice was low and thick. “I said stop, priest! Let him die. He came here knowing this. It’s the price the magic required of him. Let it happen!”
“Don’t touch him! If you think I’m going to stand here…”
“Another word from you, human, and they’ll find you with the dead as well.”
The shaft went down about forty paces before reaching a jut of sculpted stone pillars shaped like proud alerion. Torchlight shone from within the chamber beyond, wavering and dancing.
“I’m a Zerite, Xenon. I’m not going to let him die either. Not when I can save him.”
“You are a half-breed. An abomination.” Hacking coughs sounded. “Stand aside. Or you will fall as well.”
Justin said something in Silvan, but his voice was pleading…worried.
Flent crept around the corner of the pillars, gripping the Silvan axe to his chest. In an instant, he took it all in. Justin stood near Ticastasy, holding two torches as the only light. She knelt by Thealos’ still body, which was slumped on his stomach, arms and legs at odd angles. Flent only saw the thatch of his dirty blond hair—he could not see his face. Exeres had shadows under his eyes, his clothes torn and filthy. Cuts and bruises covered his face, but he stared at Xenon coldly, a red stone clutched in his hand.
“I said stand aside,” Xenon hissed.
The Wolfsman sagged against the inner wall of the chamber, two Silvan swords in his hands. Flent noticed the bloodied footprints for the first time.
“No,” Exeres said.
“No,” Ticastasy said.
Xenon pushed away from the wall.
“He must die. He’s supposed to die.”
Ticastasy brought up her knife.
Flent felt the urge to whirl the axe at Xenon’s back. To loose the magic that would destroy him utterly. But he stanched that urge. He wasn’t supposed to use it like that, not against a person.
“Let him die,” Xenon pleaded. Then he straightened. “So be it then. It is Ravinjon.”
Flent was close enough now. He saw Exeres’ little nod.
He hit Xenon with the haft of his axe as hard as he could.
The Wolfsman tottered on his feet, dropping both blades. Sagging to his knees, he clutched the back of his head. He turned, saw Flent, and pitched forward, trying to grab one of his fallen weapons.
Flent stared down at him as his eyes clouded over. “No.”
The smile Stasy gave him reminded him of all those years in Sol. “Ban it, girl, you’re the filthiest thing I’ve ever seen. Hello, Exeres. Justin. How’s Thealos faring?”
He stepped around and looked at Thealos’ face.
His heart stopped.
“By the gods,” he whispered.
* * *
Tsyrke Phollen was a dead man. He could hear the sound of it keening through the tunnels. Mage’s weight against him had them both hobbled. But the old man could hardly walk, his face as gray and milky as the Shoreland fog. His breath came in deep wheezes.
“Banned way to die, Mage.” He adjusted his grip, surprised the old man’s bones weighed as much as they did. “Banned way to die.”
Mage said nothing, saving each breath to make his next step.
“I guess it was bound to happen eventually,” Tsyrke went on. “The Wolfsmen are starting the banned Ravinjon. They’ll kill every last one of us. Every last soldier. Every last cook. Everyone who was part of the Rebellion.”
He remembered the stories of how his grandfather had died, his army trapped and killed to the last man. It was the way of the Shae. When they declared a Ravinjon, they killed everyone. Even the women and children of the soldiers. Ruthless, yes. But it was part of their teachings. To stamp out every last ember of rebellion and revolt. Tsyrke’s grandfather had been hacked down by a quaere of Crimson Wolfsmen and then strung up on a rope and hung for others to see. Had he been there, even as a babe, he would have been killed as well.
When the Shae threatened a Ravinjon, it meant their patience had run out at last. No more bartering or negotiating. No more offers to a Pax. It was their final consequence, their last resort.
That’s why he knew he was a dead man.
Where could they run? The cloaks Mage had prepared for them to escape with would be gone, banished by the Silvan magic that had stripped Mage of all his powers. He no longer had the Bloodstone, the Druid magic, that would have still worked instead. No, they were stripped of all their tricks and defenses. The Shae would be reaching the city by now. The knights as well. They already knew about the tunnels and their army would be watching for the desperate Bandit soldiers trying to escape certain death.
“It’s been a good fight,” he said. “You’ve been a friend through it all. Wish I could have taken her with me away from this place. Wish it could have ended some other way.” He was talking to himself, his failures looming before him like mountains. Was this pointless giddiness how his grandfather had felt before he died? “Ban it. Wish it could have ended differently.”
He heard voices behind him in the tunnels. Shae voices? It sounded like it.
“Sooner than I thought,” he muttered. “Well, old friend. I guess that barter who sold me the homestead in Ishtol found himself a rich deal. He can sell it twice now. Banned pity. She would have loved it. It had such a good view of the mountains.”
Talking to say something. To say anything. How many more breaths did he have left? How many would he kill before they brought him down?
A feeling shuddered down his back and a cold pit opened up in his stomach.
“Hold here,” he whispered to Mage and leaned him against the wall. The Sorian’s eyes were glazed. Stunned—he was too stunned still to even speak. He had been like that since Tsyrke found him collapsed on the tunnel floor, wheezing.
