Authors: Robin W Bailey
Telric caught her meaning. “They must know,” he suggested. “They're afraid and hiding.”
“But who warned them?” she countered. “It's supposed to be a surprise attack.”
Her companion raised an eyebrow. “We found out.”
His words were not lost on her. She rubbed her chin, considering. Every hair on her head tingled with the wrongness of what she saw. Had Illstar warned them? She scoffed at that. Not a farmer among them would have had coin enough to pay his price.
“Gods!” her friend screamed suddenly. “What in all your nine hells is that?” Then, in a much lower, sober voice, he added, “I laughed at your talk of sorcerers.”
Beyond Soushane, an immense pillar of fire shot roaring into the sky. It writhed, twisted among the clouds, splintering and taking new shape. It burned with a terrible, shining intensity, feeding on nothing, burning just the same.
It reflected strangely on the rugged clouds, turning the heavens into a shifting tapestry of crimson and shadows.
“A hand!” Telric croaked. “A hand to smite Soushane!”
It was true. The fire coalesced, transformed, and took its final shape, a huge and horrible hand that flexed and curled unholy fingers. It moved malevolently, reaching for the city, trailing smoke and sparks. It poised for an instant above Soushane. Then, it smashed down.
Rivers of flame swept through the streets, swelling outward, igniting anything that could bum. Wooden dwellings exploded in red-orange fireballs, scattering sparks and brands that settled on the rooftops of other buildings, spreading the destruction. The demonic hand was no more, but the arcane fire raced with heartbeat quickness through every lane and back alley.
At last, the doors of houses and shops flew open. Armed troops ran screaming with terror into the streets, beating fire from scarlet cloaks and plumed helms, fleeing like panicked rodents. The flames that burned all around lit up their faces, illumined their fear.
“The garrison,” Frost cried. “They got here before us!”
The townspeople streamed out behind the soldiers, women with children in their arms, men sheltering their wives with blankets or curtains.
Stable doors sprang open. Mounted cavalry poured into the streets. Fire-panicked steeds trampled anyone in their path, crushing child or soldier indiscriminately. Wails and shrieking, sounds of agony and despair lifted from the town, mingled with the roaring of the flames, the collapse of stone and lumber.
All the while the rebels waited, watching. Then, as one mighty voice they gave a triumphant shout. Brandishing torches, they spurred their mounts and charged toward helpless Soushane.
“Kel!” The name tore from Frost's throat. Dread and fury churned within her, fear of the power she had witnessed, red rage for her merciless son. She drove her horse toward the rebels, toward Soushane, cursing the seed that ever gave Kel life.
The rebels hit the town with terrible force, flinging torches through doors and windows, using them as fiery clubs on the nearest townsman or soldier. As soon as a rebel let go his torch, he drew his sword. The flames reflected redly on the glittering steel edges.
The screams and crying were terrible to hear: frightened people, wounded people, dying people. Over that rose the crash of charging horses, the clash of metal on metal, the tear of flesh and the snap of bone. And over it all the crackling of the fire. It brought back all the horrors of all the wars Frost had ever seen. She tried and failed to shut her mind to it; her soul cringed. Hell had claimed this little piece of earth.
She steered her mount through the tumult, searching for one face. Without warning the horse leaped sideways and wheeled as a burning wall collapsed beside her. She heard a child's scream too late to help. The fiery timbers crushed the life from a father and his young son. Her horse snorted as it stamped in protest and fear. The heat of the flames seared her face and the backs of her hands. She fought the reins, striving to control the beast.
Barely in time, she saw the sword whistling toward her head. She ducked, spurred her horse in a tight circle, and freed her own blade. Her foe glared at her, and her heart nearly stopped. Human eyes gleamed with battle lust behind a skull mask. But it was more than a mask. Firelight shone on the dull white bone, revealing the jagged crown where the braincase had been sawed away. She raised her sword to counter his next blow with the gut-wrenching knowledge that she had hesitated too long.
It never struck. Another horse rammed into the rear of the rebel's mount; half a length of steel slid into his ribs, and he fell backward with a muffled cry, tumbled from his saddle, and sprawled in the street. His own horse trampled him as it ran off.
She had nearly forgotten Telric, but there was no chance to thank him. The fighting swirled around them, sweeping them apart.
The garrison soldiers had found some measure of courage at last. They began to fight back with a fury. But the skull-faced rebels renewed their press, smashing at anyone who did not wear their black jerkins and hideous death masks.
She found herself in an unpleasant position. With neither the mask nor the scarlet cloak of a soldier, both sides regarded her as the enemy. A shadow crossed the edge of her vision. She crouched suddenly in her saddle, twisted, and raked her blade through the middle of a Keled regular. His face warped with pain as he spilled from his horse.
Frost stared, numbed, the fire and the battle momentarily forgotten. Blood oozed down her blade, dripped on her hand as she lifted it.
It had happened so quickly, without thought. She gazed down at the dead man. Her hand trembled, and the trembling spread upward through her arm and all through her.
Then she let out a breath and drew another one, getting control of herself. She hadn't come to fight, but to find her son. She kicked her horse forward, skirting the thick of the combat, avoiding engagement, searching the rebels' faces.
Even through the skull masks she would know his eyes.
But what the raging light of the fire revealed sickened her. Never in her youthful years had she avoided battle this way. There had been no timeâor she had never taken timeâto observe and study the horror of it. But now she
saw
the men who fought and died. The range of their expressions appalled her. The terror in the eyes, the hatred; the grim set of mouths or the gnashing teeth; the narrowed lids that flashed suddenly wide; the grunting and the sighing and the wheezing.
It was madness, unreasoning and ugly, devoid of purpose.
The sky exploded with a series of rapid flashes. Thunder shivered the air with resounding force. Instants later, a sharp rain needled earthward, hissing as it joined the fire. Swiftly, the streets turned to mud.
It made no difference to either side. Rebel and garrison regulars hacked at each other, cut each other down while the rain and the fire made twisted, demented shadows that nipped at their heels like demons.
Frost wiped the water that collected on her face, at the verge of laughter or tears.
Then, she spied him. She wasn't sure how she knew him. The battle raged like a barrier determined to keep them apart, and he wore the same skull face as his followers. But she knew.
The sky lit up with another jagged bolt, and it framed him for her eyes. She called his name, but Kel didn't hear. He leaned from horseback and plunged his sword through a soldier's throat.
“Kel!” she shouted over the din.
Thunder was her only answer.
She spurred her horse toward him, knocking aside an unwary rebel who stumbled into her path. After months of seeking, she had found her son. She dared not pause or take her eyes away for fear of losing him again.
She was witness, then, when a soldier leaped and caught Kel's arm and dragged him from his saddle into the mud. Her son's sword went flying away as the two of them disappeared, scrambling in the furious tumult of clashing bodies.
She screamed, heart hammering, unable to reach his side.
Then, as if all the hells had opened, a soul-freezing shriek rose over the other noises. Sudden fear took a bite of her heart. All through the streets the fighting stopped as that horrific sound strained to a higher pitch and abruptly ceased.
Frost knew the sound. Gooseflesh rippled on her arms; a chilling tingle crawled up her spine. A circle widened around her son as he rose from the mud. Warriors lowered their weapons, uncertain. An instant's pause, and the shrieking returned. It poured from the mouth of the man at Kel's feet, a man already dead.
A desperate stillness fell over Soushane's streets, interrupted only by the thunder, the pelting rain, and the hissing fire.
Kel laughed, a dry, hysterical sound like the breaking of old bones. From the heart of his dispatched foe he bent and plucked a dagger and held it high for everyone to see. He shook with his mirth.
It was a small weapon, but the flames and the lightning reflected brilliantly on its silveriness. It shone in his fist like an arcane jewel.
Demonfang!
Something deep in her soul called out to the blade even as she remembered its curse:
Once drawn it must taste blood, either your enemy's or your own!
It was far more than it appeared, far more than any common dagger. She had possessed it, experienced its power, felt it move like something alive in her hand, felt its hunger.
She shouted again to her son, but her voice was drowned as Demonfang's shrieking began anew. It was a malevolent sound, the lamentations of souls in torment, and every warrior cringed away as they realized it was the blade itself that screamed. It filled their ears, blasted their courage.
“Sheathe it!” But her shout was insignificant, overwhelmed by Demonfang's strident fury. For long years it had lain buried on
Sha-Nakare,
forgotten and silent.
Starved,
she thought, but that was only fright worming through her. Still, it was free again, and it proclaimed the fact with a vengeance. The shrill anger of its cries tremored through her head.
“You fool!” she cried, fighting to control her horse. It stamped and bucked, as if sensing Demonfang's power. She feared for her son. Kel didn't know what he held in his hand. “Sheathe it, quickly!”
Sheathe it he did. Kel jumped upon the closest soldier and thrust the blade with all his strength through the Keled's breast. Demonfang squealed with glee, then went silent, satiated for the moment. A heartbeat passed, and the soldier's mouth opened. Not with his own voice did he scream, but with the dagger's.
The garrison's courage shattered. The battle turned to a rout as the rebels recovered and sprang on their foes. The skull faces did a relentless, bloody work, moving like wolves among rabbits.
The clouds erupted with red lightning, and bolts boiled across the sky until the heavens blazed as brightly as Soushane.
“You fool, you fool!” Frost shouted, forcing her mount through the battle, intent upon reaching her son.
Then, the world spun crazily. A burning beam fell across her path, throwing up smoke and sparks. Her horse shied, reared, slipped in the mud, and teetered backward. Too late, she tried to jump clear, but her foot caught in the stirrup. The beast's weight crashed on top of her, and fire and lightning were smothered by an engulfing wave of darkness.
She woke slowly, clawing her way toward consciousness. The acrid smell of smoke filled her nostrils. Cool mud pressed against her face. She was soaked to the skin, though she could feel the heat of the fires. The flames had burned low, but they still crackled with hungry avarice. A constant drum boomed in the back of her head. She moaned softly, tried to sit up. Pain shot through her right shoulder and down into her breast. After several attempts, she managed to right herself.
The fighting was over. Bodies lay everywhere, rebel and Keled side by side. She wiped a hand over her eyes to clear her vision but only smeared her face with mud. There was no sign of any townspeople. Either they were all dead or hiding out on the steppes.
Kel had not even noticed her. She had come so far only to fail. It was her own fault, though. She should have waded into the thick of the fighting, as she would have in her youth. He would have noticed her then. Instead, she had hugged the walls and shadows, avoided the conflict. Why should he have noticed her?
She cursed herself, driving a fist against the shoulder where her pain was greatest, fitting punishment. She'd proven Soushane's citizens weren't the only ones who knew how to hide! She had just managed to hide in the battle itself.
Now Kel was gone once more, and her chance was lost.
She struggled to her feet and looked around. Despite the heavy rain, the fires still burned. By morning, nothing would be left of Soushane but a few pitiful, smoking ruins. She remembered the terrible hand of flame that had smitten the town. The sorcerer's fire had done a merciless work.
Oroladian.
The name floated unbidden into her thoughts. Perhaps she hadn't failed at everything, after all. Suspicions had been confirmed, at least. Only a sorcerer could have obtained Demonfang and given it to her son. Only a sorcerer could have conjured that fiery apparition. Frost felt for the thong about her neck and for the leather bag with its sad content. Her mouth set in a grim, tight line.
Oroladian.
The sorcerer had Kimon's soul. Only her husband had shared the secret of Demonfang's resting place. That made the sorcerer Kimon's murderer as well.
Oroladian.
She knew her enemy now. There was suddenly a focus for all the anger and hatred that boiled within her. There was purpose to her life again. To free her husband's soul, to free her son from a vile influence, to kill Oroladian.
A horse whinnied in pain, a wounded beast that lay on its side in the mud, thrashing uselessly. A deep sword gash in its belly oozed dark blood. She glanced around for her own mount. It was gone, of course. She imagined some wide-eyed, frightened Keled clinging to its back, running for the end of the earth.
And off it,
she prayed, cursing the faithless animal.