[Lanen Kaelar 03] - Redeeming the Lost (10 page)

The soulgems of the Lost were not flickering,
as they had for so many centuries. They were blazing.

The soulless creatures surged towards me. Had
we been of a size, I had surely been overwhelmed, but I am the Eldest and thus
the largest of the Kantri. They were like so many younglings.

I was uncertain of what to do next when a cry
of pain drew my attention.

It was Maran.

I had ignored the rising heat at my back until
that big dragon opened that damned golden egg. In the instant I felt as if my
back were on fire. I threw my pack from my back and turned to stare at it.

The leather was burning. In a circle.

In moments the Farseer was revealed, a globe
of smoky glass about the size of a small melon. I gingerly moved my hand
towards it, expecting extreme heat—but there was nothing. I touched it, picked
it up: no heat at all.

When I looked up, the Farseer in both hands, I
was confronted by a sea of blank faces. The little dull dragons, though they
stayed in a circle around the big dragon—was he called Shikar, something like
that?—they were staring at me now.

“Hells’ teeth, what’s in that dirty great
golden bowl?” I asked anyone who would listen.

And there at my elbow, with several other
people, was the silver-haired man my Lanen had married, telling me swiftly
about those he called the Lost.

As he spoke, as I forced myself to listen and
to ignore the fact that I still didn’t know his name, something chimed in my
memory. I had studied the disciplines of the Lady—at one time I thought I’d
have to become a Servant to escape the demons—but I couldn’t remember.
Something about balance.

As if he read my mind, the tall young lad with
the silly beard stepped forward. “By the Goddess, it just might be,” he said,
his eyes alight with possibility. “The Lost were dragons transformed by the
Demonlord, a man who sold his true name and his very soul to demons. It took
all three races together to create the Lost. Perhaps…”

“Perhaps it will take all three to restore
them,” said the silver one, his glorious voice deep and resonant and full of a
wild hope. His eyes were gleaming and he was shaking with excitement, and I
have to admit I caught some of it. “Come, Maran, perhaps your Raksha-taint will
serve us after all!” he cried, pulling me with him into the middle of that
uncanny circle of creatures. “You as well, Vilkas,” he cried, and the tall lad
followed.

As I came close to Shikrar the beasts started
fluttering their wings again, a dry rattle that sent a shiver down my back.

“Shikrar, put them down,” I said quietly. “Vilkas
thinks—it might be—we may be able to do it, Shikrar, at last. Restore the Lost.”

“What must I do, Akhor?” he asked softly,
laying the cask on the grass at his feet. His control was extraordinary. His
voice hardly trembled at all.

“Lift out a single soulgem,” I said, my eyes
never leaving the beast-eyes that stared intently at the three of us. Shikrar
reverently picked up a blazing violet gem. A single creature stepped forward—it
happened to be the nearest—and lowered its head. There in the faceplate was a
shallow depression. I took the soul-gem from Shikrar and, shaking, placed it in
the hollow.

Nothing. The creature did not move.

“All three, Varien,” said Vilkas quietly. “All
three.”

I took Maran’s hand and Shikrar’s talon and
brought them together to touch the gem.

Nothing.

“I may stink of the things, but I’m not a real
demon,” said Maran quietly. “This was made by them.” She lifted the Farseer to
touch the soulgem, but she had overbalanced. It slipped from her fingers. All
three of us—Shikrar, Maran, and I—moved to catch it at once, and were all
touching it at the same time.

Upon the instant a great blaze of light
streamed from the Farseer, dazzling even in daylight. I tried to let go of it
and could not, and neither could the others. When I thought to look, I realised
that the Hollow One still stood before us, unmoving, soulgem in place.

What was there to lose?

“Together, then. Touch the Farseer to the
soulgem,” I said. It took but a tiny movement from us all—a little
farther—contact.

The soulgem caught a portion of the Farseer’s
blaze. There was a grotesque sizzle like fat in a fire, and the creature
stepped back. Its eyes were wide, surprise warring with furious joy for just an
instant—and it changed. I had never understood why that simple word was so
important in the tale of the Demonlord until I saw it happen.

In reverse.

In an instant.

Light and colour spread out from the soulgem,
flowing swift as flame over the creature, first changing that rusty black
faceplate to one of bright iron, then extending the full length of the
beast—which was a great deal more length than it had before. In moments,
impossibly, there stood before us a full-grown adult of the Kantrishakrim,
dazed, blinking in the daylight, astounded.

Shikrar, eyes wide, somehow managed to croak, “Welcome,
Lady. I hight Shikrar of the line of Issdra. Who art thou?”

“Treshak. I hight Treshak,” she managed, and
cried out in agony.

Idai hurried up to her. “Lady, what ails you?
What may be done for you?”

“Not me,” she moaned. “Help them. The rest of
them. Free them, quickly, in the name of the Winds!”

And so we did. As the three of us were yet
bound to the Farseer, Vilkas drew forth the soulgems and held them in place
while we touched the Farseer to each in turn.

I had dreamed of this moment for many long
years. Our people had striven to restore the Lost since they had been torn from
life by the Demonlord. In the thousands of years since, there had been endless
debate about the flicker of the soulgems. Were the Lost in some way still alive
and aware? Were they tormented by demons? Would any of them still be sane if we
did manage to bring them back after long ages of whatever imprisonment they
endured?

It seemed in the end to depend on the
individual.

Many, blessedly, were largely undamaged. Their
imprisonment had seemed Httle more than a long, uneasy Weh sleep, and they
simply awoke in their new bodies with little sense of the passage of time.

Some had been aware for part of the time,
crying out, feeling trapped in some desperate place. They said that they had
drifted in and out of consciousness. They thought perhaps several tens of years
had passed while they were ensorcelled. Somehow they had managed to cling to
hope, but they were furiously angry.

The first of these to be released saw Gedri
standing before it and drew in a breath of Fire. I cried out to Shikrar, who
managed to deflect the blast upwards. We did not condemn him—the last thing he
recalled clearly was a treacherous Gedri, the Demonlord, who had stolen his
life from him. He was taken away by the Kantri to a part of the field far from
the Gedri, where he was told as gendy as possible what had happened in the
intervening time.

Vilkas took a moment to warn Rella, Will, and
the Healers to move out of sight until all could be explained to the confused souls.
They disappeared in the direction of the Dragons Head, an inn hard by the
field.

There were a few, though, who wrung our hearts
from us. A score of souls found themselves in the green world, cried out in
agony, and threw themselves into death.

It is rare that a child of the Kantri will
willingly choose death, but we can do so if the pain of life is too great. It
is very simple. There is a—a something in the base of the throat. The nearest
that humans can understand would be a flint. It would be as if you filled a
room with oil-soaked straw, threw in a lighted match, and closed the door.

When we die, in the natural course of things,
the fire within is released from our control and we burn to ash very quickly.
This was even faster. The first of the Lost who chose death passed to the Winds
in less time than it had taken for its new form to appear. Shikrar, his voice
trembling, asked Vilkas to collect the soul-gem and bring it to him: when he
saw it clearly, he heaved a deep sigh of relief. It was small and dull. The
poor trapped soul was released to death at last, and could rest.

It took nearly five hours to restore them all.
We were exhausted by the end, but we had no choice—the Farseer clung, blazing,
to our hands, until the last of the Lost was restored. The moment all was
accomplished, the thing dropped to the grass, dark and lifeless.

Shikrar, Maran and I followed in much the same
fashion.

What a fine chance! I had only just sent along
a Rikti spy to report on what the damned dragons were doing, and behold, what
piece of news it has brought me! If I understand it aright, it appears that
those whom the Demonlord had thought destroyed have been restored. How very
resourceful of them.

So, the number of my enemies is doubled. And
these new creatures were created by the Demonlord, whose imminent arrival will
doubtless rouse them to fury and to the foolishness of acting in anger.

How interesting. It will be useful to see how
he deals with them.

On the whole, I believe that I am pleased.
What fun would all this be if it were too simple?

Marik has confirmed the Rikti’s report. How
kind of him to keep me informed, and how charming that the damage the dragons
inflicted upon him has allowed him to hear the thoughts of those two creatures.
Shikrar and Akor. Altogether delightful.

I was uncertain as to when I would unleash all
those lovely healers of Mariks. There they sit, so demure in House of Gundar
trade establishments throughout the four Kingdoms of Kolmar, no sign of their
slightly suspect allegiance. And I never coerced one; they have come to us of
their own free will. Ah, how easily the lust for power corrupts.

It is astounding how many folk are unhappy with
the power they have, and how willing they are to take part in something they
know to be wrong. Just a little corruption at first, a fortnight to try out the
new power available to them before they must choose. Nearly all, having become
accustomed to the greater level of power in those few days of the trial, are
seduced by the good they can do.

They are under no illusions. Even the most
ignorant village Healer knows perfectly well that power is either the gift of
the Lady or the price of the Raksbi. Barely one in a hundred has had the moral
courage to resist. Barely one in ten of those has refused entirely. After all,
it is such a little price. A lock of hair. Not much to ask. Hair grows back.

And now they are there in their hundreds, all
over Kolmar, ready to my hand. When I activate the link, those who have
submitted to this will be, swiftly and simply, taken over by a demon. They will
retain half their natural power for the demons to make use of—and demons are
very good at making use of power—and half the power of every single Healer who
has made this pact will flow into my hands, to do with as I will. Once I set
them in motion, with the simplest of rituals, they will go forth and take the
darkness with them. Slaying patients, destroying crops, burning homes—whatever
the demon fancies.

If I send them out before the Demonlord
arrives, they will cause extra chaos: a nice distraction. If after, they will
give my foes yet more to worry about, piled upon already burdened hearts and
minds. Both are attractive—hmmm.

Chaos, I think. I should just have time for
the ritual this evening before my treat.

As for the Demonlord himself—that Black Dragon
is damnably slow. I feel every beat of its wings and it is exhausting. Just as
well that I have the body of a young man now; I do not believe that my old self
would have had the pure strength to bear it.

I have already accomplished the impossible, of
course. The fools I am surrounded by should bow down and worship at my feet.
They have no idea—but ah, they will learn. Very, very soon.

I, Berys—no. No, I need hide no longer. I,
Malior, only living Demon-Master of the Sixth Hell, have performed the greatest
work of my life but these few days past. It has taken me many long years, much
learning, much sacrifice, and quite a bit of blood—some of it even mine—but at
last I have summoned the Demon-lord, he who gave up his name for all time in
exchange for power. Five thousand years ago, before he faced the great dragons
in battle, he performed the spell of the Distant Heart. His own beating heart
was removed from his chest, placed safely in a box of gold, silver, and lead,
and taken by the Rakshasa to a far distant place where none would ever find it
and he would live forever.

He was no fool. When he started destroying the
True Dragons, thus fulfilling the deepest desire of his soul, they fought back.
The spells and demon-protections he had established kept him alive for some
little while, and half the dragons died that day, they say. However, they
finally managed to exact vengeance by destroying his body. It is written that
he laughed even as his body was burnt to a cinder, and no one knew why.