Lady Warhawk, page 30
part #4 of Zygradon Chronicles Series
We have succeeded, Meghianna said. We have locked ourselves in with the enemy, and the rest of the World is safe. The Estall guard and guide us now. We need his help more than ever.
Guard those in Quenlaque, he said. Until we know who has magic and who has no imbrose, no one is safe.
He looked out across the plain and choked on a mixture of laughter and tears and nausea. The black haze had left the enemy soldiers. Many lay unmoving on the ground, deprived of strength by the sudden draining of power from the Threads. How many of them, Mrillis wondered, were animated dead bodies? How many were dupes of the Nameless One, perhaps even puppets, deprived of their wills, and now set free?
The Valors were the first to move, letting out a harsh battle cry that was partly surprise. They had been warned, and those with the strongest imbrose had chosen to ride out, wagering with themselves that when the levels of power dropped in the World, they would still have some magic to use in battle. They surged forward as one body, spreading out to create a wall six men deep, racing toward the enemy soldiers.
Mrillis watched, his heart and breath catching in his chest, as nearly every mobile enemy soldier turned and ran, fleeing to the forest and south, to the Nameless One's territory.
* * * *
"It's like reducing a very loud army of musicians down to a small troop," Meghianna said. "It's amazing what a drastic change there is in the feeling, the sound of magic running throughout the World. And rather startling that there was all that... Not noise, but that's the only word I can think of. All that background noise, that I didn't even realize was there, until it was taken away."
"Yes, but is that a good thing, or a bad thing?" Athrar said. He slouched in his chair at the council table, looking more weary than any young man his age had any right to look.
And yet Mrillis sensed the young king felt more at peace than he had in years. There was something to be said for fatherhood, he supposed. Twenty days now, Ynfara and Emrillian had been in Quenlaque, and every afternoon Athrar took time away from his duties to play with his daughter, and every night he put her to bed with a story and slept with his wife in his arms.
There was some healing and restoration that even the strongest magic could not accomplish, to match the food for heart and soul that Athrar had now. Mrillis was glad for him, for all three of them.
"A very good thing," Deyral said. "Ironic as it might seem to those who are not so versed in the music and discord among the Threads. It makes our task of finding the Nameless One much simpler. Where he is, where his blood magic dominates, is a silence that, on closer examination, is dissonance. Without the background sounds and feelings of the Threads full of power, it is much easier to sense that silence--because, ironically again, it is not silence at all."
"It buzzes," Meghianna said. "Like flies on a bloated corpse. We can hear where Edrout and Megassa lead their troops, and we can feel where the Nameless One and his armies head."
"Two solid masses now?" Athrar sat up. "No more ragged fringes? Our marauders have frightened them into unity. Safety in numbers." He nodded, his smile growing grimmer, wider, fiercer. "Where are they?"
He rested both hands on Braenlicach, which lay sheathed across the table in front of him. The sword glowed, black and red streaks among the acidic blue of power. Lycen, sitting at his right hand, raised his head from the stacks of scrolls and tablets and single sheets of parchment holding scouting reports. The two adopted brothers' gazes met and locked, and they nodded in understanding.
Mrillis saw Meghianna stiffen, watching the two young men. The color left her cheeks, and grim resolve settled over her as well. He ached for her, and the sacrifice she might be called upon to make before this major offensive was over.
"Meggi..." Athrar sighed. "I want you to take Ynfara and Emmi away from Quenlaque. Take Ilianora and Garad with them."
"But--"
"Garad said Emmi had nightmares during her nap the last three days," Lycen said, reaching out to rest his hand on hers. "She had a nosebleed yesterday."
"Megassa is trying again, isn't she?" Meghianna whispered. She nodded. "You think she'll try to bind to Emmi and kill her again. Of course. Distract us... She'll expect us to take Emmi to the Stronghold to protect her."
"When you changed the protective spells around the Vale of Bo'Lantier and the tunnel, you essentially cut it off from all the rest of the World, yes?" Athrar said. "Will that be a better hiding place even than the Stronghold?"
"Much better," Mrillis said. "I have already detected a shifting in time around Lygroes. The world moves on ahead of us. By the halfway point into the tunnel, it will be as if Emrillian and everyone with her no longer exists."
"Then make it so," Athrar said. "Take them tonight." He managed a twitch of his lips. "And if we don't survive, I want it recorded that Lycen is regent for the throne, and his sons after him, to stand with Emrillian and ensure the crown rests on her head someday, and Braenlicach is put into her hands."
* * * *
Mrillis rode out to the middle of a plain already scoured empty and scarred by dozens of battles fought with magic and fire. It was rutted by rain and hooves and wagon wheels, poisoned by blood. Mrillis knew the Nameless One would come here, the signs were too clear. He suspected his ancient foe considered this a trap, but just who would the trap catch and crush today?
The strongest enchanters of Wynystrys rode with Mrillis, staying hidden in the tree line among the much-reduced numbers of Valors who still retained their imbrose. Mrillis fed them energy through the Threads, fed to him by the Zygradon--wherever it still lay hidden. He supposed that if he survived this battle, the next step would be to hunt down the Zygradon. Or would there really be a need? With the Nameless One finally destroyed--and that was the only outcome of this coming confrontation--the bowl of power would be safer than it had ever been.
No matter how this last battle turned out, Emrillian would be safe. Mrillis found great comfort in that. He wished he could convince Meghianna to stay with Ynfara and Emrillian, once she had them safely settled in the waystop halfway through the tunnel under the sea. She insisted on coming back to stand with Athrar.
"And to clean up the mess you three make," she had added, before she left the council chamber to awaken Ynfara and Emrillian for their journey. "I've always been cleaning up after messy, rambunctious boys, one way or another."
"I'm sorry, Mother." Lycen's voice cracked a little with fatigue. "We'll try to do better."
"You're too old to mend your ways." She had laughed, tears in her eyes. "Just see that my grandson learns better."
Then she had turned and left. Mrillis smiled now into the darkness before dawn, feeling the stirring of questing tendrils of non-magic, anti-magic, and knew the Nameless One was reaching blindly through the torn, dead landscape, preparing for battle.
The sensation of nothingness thickened around him, making it harder to detect the signs of life in the few animals in the forest far on the edges of this tormented plain. He wondered if the Nameless One knew how much easier it had become to detect his non-magic, his anti-magic, now that so much power had been drained away.
Somewhere along the coast, the ground shuddered from Edrout and Megassa's combined magical attacks, as they attempted to break through the dome enclosing Lygroes. Athrar prepared his forces for one massive battle. Lycen stood with him, partners as they had always been, since the day Mrillis brought a sleepy, dazed three-year-old Athrar to Meghianna's inn.
If I can ask for anything more this morning, as all the World is about to change, he prayed, do not separate the brothers, blessed Estall. Let them grow old together, watching each other's grandchildren and great-grandchildren, remembering their days of glory and laughing about the stupidity of battle. Let my boys grow old.
Then the faint glow of pre-dawn silver on the far horizon turned black, writhing like a blanket of carrion beetles across a liquefying corpse. Mrillis planted his feet in the scarred rock and reached with hands and feet, both mental and physical, to brace himself. He cloaked himself with layers of Threads, tightly woven, mimicking the dome in the sky. To the physical eye, he was just a stooped old man, shivering a little in the pre-dawn chill.
Sixty years ago, Mrillis had ridden out alone, cloaked in rage and loss and grief, prepared to do battle with his best friend in vengeance for the lives of Ceera and Emrillian, and the women who had died in Triska's plague. The battle had taken a year, with time twisted and knotted and stretched around the two combatants.
He swore this battle would take only a moment. He could wait for the Nameless One to come to him. He had all the time in the world.
Ready, lad? he called through the single Thread that connected him with Athrar.
The Nameless One only understood taking, not giving--demanding and threatening, not asking. It would never occur to him that Athrar would willingly send Braenlicach into the hands of another. That would be their secret weapon, the surprise that would turn the tide of the battle.
And hopefully Edrout would not realize that the sword had left Athrar's hands.
A tendril of blackness rolled out of the forest. It shimmered and grew silvery, streaked with black. Then it solidified and a young man emerged, richly dressed, glimmering with gold and rubies. Black hair, solid black eyes, wide shoulders, with the build of the finest horse soldier the Warhawk's most elite forces could ever have produced.
Of course, Mrillis thought. Why wouldn't he create for himself the most perfect body possible? Is that how he seduced Megassa, to father Edrout on her? Or did he play on her pride and feelings of being abused and punished for crimes she never committed?
"Give me the Threads," the man said. His voice was deep and rich, warm, as friendly as the smile that lit his handsome, neatly bearded face.
"Blood magic makes it impossible for you to touch any Threads. Have you forgotten that, in all your centuries of life?" Mrillis kept his voice and face calm, almost uninterested. Mocking the enemy would not be wise, even now, with the end so near.
"You have the root of all the Threads of the World anchored in you. The root will let me touch them all and command them all. Give me the root... And all you hold dear will be allowed to live."
"My Lady Le'esha taught me to withstand that sort of threat years ago." Mrillis fought a flicker of panic. If he had learned anything about the Nameless One's tactics, the ancient enemy of the World never made an offer, never made a threat, unless he thought himself perfectly capable of following through.
"My love, destroy the girl-child," the Nameless One said, and his voice grew hollow and echoed, so Mrillis could hear it traveling over hundreds of leagues.
Emrillian cried out through the Threads, her voice echoing from the tunnel under the sea. Mrillis caught his breath, bracing himself, holding onto the assurance that the child was out of their enemy's grasp. Then he realized that was only the sound of the little girl in a nightmare. That wasn't the cry of terror that had echoed across the land the night Megassa tried to drown Emrillian and Athrar in their own blood. Megassa couldn't reach her, but Emrillian reacted to the destructive intent.
The Nameless One staggered forward one step. A boy's voice joined his as he roared, cursing--and Megassa shrieked, fury and pain and terror making her voice crack and then fail, until terror was the last sound before she faded into nothingness.
The Nameless One turned his young, handsome face to Mrillis, confusion making him almost pitiable.
Now, lad, Mrillis called, and held out his hand.
From a promontory overlooking the sea, with Quenlaque north of him and Edrout's gathered forces south of him, Athrar wrapped ten Threads around Braenlicach and pulled back, like a boy using a toy catapult, to fling the sword to Mrillis.
The sword blazed to life as it appeared in the enchanter's hand and he swung with all his strength and purpose. The blade stretched out, wreathed in fire, filling the dark, scarred plain with blinding brilliance. Tongues of flame wrapped around the Nameless One and he went to his knees, staggered by the onslaught.
Mrillis covered fifty paces of distance with a single step and swung again, arching the blade up and over, so it came down hard on the man now kneeling at his feet. He brought it down so it went through the Nameless One's back and out his chest, and the blade went into the scarred, bare rock.
Blackness harder and more solid than diamonds exploded out from the Nameless One as he shuddered and cried out in one last, violent, furious, agonized shout. Blood gushed from the entry and exit points, scorching and sizzling against Braenlicach. Mrillis felt all the power of the world pour through his body, draining him dry.
He felt, just for a moment, the Nameless One reaching for the Threads that converged in a solid cable in his chest. Just for a moment, he feared he had given control of the World into his enemy's hands by coming so close to him.
Then those hands fell still. Mrillis went to his knees, still holding onto Braenlicach, and collapsed across the disintegrating body of his enemy. It occurred to him, as exhaustion stole his awareness, that his hands were locked around the sword, just as they had been after that long-ago battle with Endor.
There was something he was supposed to do with the sword, now that the enemy was dead and gone for good. If only he could remember what it was.
Then blackness--comforting, friendly, weary blackness, warm and soft--wrapped around his mind and body.
* * * *
Meghianna muttered every curse she had ever heard from the Warhawk's soldiers as she urged her borrowed horse through the maelstrom of battling soldiers. Where was Megassa? She had felt the strike her sister sent to strangle the life from Emrillian. Megassa had opened herself to the Threads, to broadcast the child's death-throes and torment those who loved her.
Taking Emrillian outside of the dome protecting Lygroes had worked just as Athrar had hoped, and Megassa's killing magic had rebounded on her. Meghianna fought the tears of fury and guilt as she struggled through leagues of battle-wearied, numb men who kept fighting because there was nothing else to do but fight, and scrabbled through the Threads for the last trace of her sister.
Megassa was dying. Despite all she had done, the abominations she had perpetrated, the crimes she had committed and the vows she had broken, Meghianna couldn't let her sister die alone. If she didn't offer mercy and forgiveness, Meghianna knew she betrayed all she had been brought up to believe in. Efrin would want her to forgive her sister. For her father, if no one else, she would do it.
She felt Edrout's insanity blooming, reinforced by the poisonous power the Nameless One had invested in his son by his great-granddaughter. Megassa's death had set the boy off on a vengeance quest that would not end until either he was destroyed or he had annihilated all those who stood against him. With the Nameless One gone, Edrout held all the power of the evil family.
There! That smoking place up ahead was a likely spot.
Meghianna shuddered as she reined her horse to a stop, imagining all the power that had bounced back at Megassa, burning her body and her imbrose. After all the years of being unable to use her imbrose, she hadn't learned, wasn't strong enough to handle the power the Nameless One had placed in her hands.
"Nalla always did say you needed to learn moderation," Meghianna whispered. The very air smelled of burned meat and rotting blood and the metallic tang of pain and death.
She found Megassa, shriveled and curled into a fetal ball, barely clothed in rags, her hands blackened by fire that was part physical and part mental, and her hair burned away. The power had drained her, making her a crone. She shuddered as if with cold, as wisps of smoke still rose up from her burned flesh.
"Oh, Megs..." Meghianna choked on sobs and went to her knees, reaching out with healing Threads to dull the pain.
Megassa flinched. She didn't open her eyes. Her head was such an odd contrast of leathery skin and swollen flesh, perhaps she couldn't open her eyes. Or worse, she didn't have any eyes left under those swollen, seeping lids.
"He'll destroy you, too," she rasped, barely moving her lips. Blood trickled out with drool.
"The Nameless One is destroyed. Mrillis took Braenlicach and killed him, just like he did with Endor."
"My boy will win. How can Athrar fight without the sword?" She laughed, choking when a gush of blood forced her mouth open. A massive spasm wrenched her body, and she lay still.
"Athrar..." Meghianna shuddered, as she realized she hadn't felt the sword travel back to Athrar. Mrillis, give me the sword. Athrar needs it.
The only response she had was a rumbling in the ground under her feet as more of Lygroes shuddered and fell into the sea, torn by the massive battles raging along the coastline.
* * * *
Meghianna rode toward Athrar, gathering up his scattered soldiers, while her mind reached across the leagues toward Mrillis. She nearly wept when she found the enchanter, his life essence drained to a whisper. She remembered what Efrin had told her, what Mrillis had written in his journals, when he thought that by taking Braenlicach to do battle against Endor, he had exposed the first Athrar and his family to the enemy's attack. That hadn't been true then, and it wasn't true now.
Meghianna swore it would not be true.
She squeezed all the power she could from the limp, drained Threads for leagues around Mrillis, rousing him mercilessly when she knew he most needed to sleep. She felt the sword, trapped in his stiff, scorched, aching hands. She felt the struggle in his soul, the need to move, to act, to send the sword back to Athrar, but it was a silent prisoner buried deep inside his unconscious body.
"Mother!" Lycen seemed to leap up from the torn ground, reaching to grab the reins of Meghianna's horse. He was bloody and filthy and sweaty and he had lost his helmet somewhere in the battle. Other than bruises and the signs of crackling exhaustion, she thought he was unharmed. He wore the blood of the men he had killed. She nearly wept as that realization broke through her concentration.
