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Death comes where it will. Death.
A moment later, flames erupted from the torches the sorcerers bore into a massive wall of fire, and the boiling conflagration washed over the foremost trolls before they hit the front line. The sorceress could make out the dark forms of the massive beasts writhing within the inferno, and their piteous wails carried far as they screamed their agony. The sorcerers kept up their barrier of fire, and it seemed to hold back the onrushing foe. But then, vast power surged somewhere in the distance. From further up the slope, behind the advancing Torrlonder army, a blinding flash exploded and
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Sequara kept her focus on Dayraven as the smoke dissipated in the rain. His presence grew stronger, somewhere far off to her left. Looking up, she tugged Duke Anarad’s sleeve and said, “I sense him. This way.”
Dayraven’s shoulder felt bruised, but it moved fine, and there was no blood. He thanked the Dweorg Bur in his mind for the strong mail. Adding his recent training under Orvandil and Ludecan to all the sparring over the years with his father and Imharr, he remembered his lessons and defended himself with caution. Imharr, on the other hand, wielded Wreaker with fire in his veins.
He lost awareness of the battle raging around him. Muting the screams and clashing of weapons, his attention lurched and focused on the man dying before him. Remote from his own body, he found that his sword hand still grasped Sweothol. In a mechanical, unconscious motion, he withdrew the blade from the man’s chest with a tug. The Caergilese warrior’s thick blood gushed out. His eyes, bulging with knowledge of his end, stared into Dayraven’s.
Death. Horror of not being. One’s story cut short. The rending agony of never embracing loved ones again. Eternal stillness and darkness. All of it pierced Dayraven and became his own thoughts, took over his mind until he became the man. The soldier of Caergilion reached out blindly and withered to the earth. Dayraven withered with him, sharing the final memories flooding the man’s mind as if they were his.
The slope behind him was littered with bodies. At least nine men of the Mercenary Company of Etinstone lay dead or writhing alongside a score of Caergilion’s lifeless or dying soldiers. He held his breath and scanned the carnage for his friend.
Dayraven collapsed to his knees, dropping Sweothol in the mud and clutching his neck while his life flowed between his fingers. He could not speak. Salty blood filled his mouth, and his tongue was thick and clumsy. Brond blurred and swam, merging into the vast shadows of the elf-shard. The battle faded. I’m sorry, Grandmother. Sorry I couldn’t help you, Imharr. Father. Ebba. Oh gods, it’s coming.
Around the tall supreme priest a flash of bright blue split the sky. Its crack tore the air, and many of the guards fell to their knees and covered their ears as the light bleached their wincing faces. Hot, jagged bolts of energy sprang to life around Bledla, hissing and writhing like snakes, branching into forked tendrils that sought outward. A huge column of lightning-like wizard’s fire erupted from his outstretched hands, plummeting toward the battle raging beneath him.
The rain quenched the fire, and Dalan’s charred mouth and eyes gaped wide with momentary agony before death.
King Malruan had witnessed his most powerful sorcerer’s death. The stench of burnt hair and flesh hung thick in the air.
A puca leapt at his face, but the king’s sword carved it in half from shoulder to ass before it landed, spraying blood and sending the two halves slumping to the ground.
Steel clanged, sending vibrations up Malruan’s arm as his sword flew from his weak grasp. The Torrlonders surrounded him. He screamed defiance in a fuzzy and faraway voice. They closed in and thrust their blades, shearing through mail and flesh. Sharp, hot pain entered his body from multiple places, and a gasp rushed from his lungs. His face tilted upward. The grey sky brightened to whiteness for a moment before all went dark.
Her words froze in her throat as an enormous flash of light and boom like thunder shattered the battlefield somewhere behind them. All their heads jerked toward the source of the almakhti, the wizard’s fire. Masses of bodies churned in the distance, and smoke rose among them.
The strange woman examined his bloody neck, from which a trickle of red still ran, and then she put her cheek over his mouth. The roars of trolls and aglaks and the screeches of pucas punctuated the din of the receding battle, but there was no one besides the dead or dying near the group huddled over Dayraven’s still form. Even the rain began to wane.
He sensed her. She was still far away, dim and small in the distance, but he knew her. Though he had not yet met her, he knew her. From the world of flesh and blood a vague sense of the features that came with the voice arose in him. Dark brown eyes and jet hair, high cheekbones and full lips, serious expression: All were more than familiar. They were somehow, in the mystery and wonder of this place beyond the world that contained his life, unbearably dear.
He extended himself toward her, and he started when they touched. A rush of dizzying energy filled him. They drew closer and coalesced. As they grasped each other in a tight, intimate embrace, their minds and their memories mingled, and their identities slipped until his thoughts and hers were indistinguishable. Together they willed to leave the light. Back to pain. To beauty, fear, desire.
The duke approached and put his hand on his Imharr’s shoulder. Tears brimmed in the man’s eyes. “Let me help you, son.” He murmured in his native tongue, “Longarr. Don baer di regoor gwae.” Recognition flooded Imharr. He looked in his uncle’s face for the first time in more than twenty years. Memories of a kind man he once adored and worshipped blossomed inside him. This man had far more grey in his beard, and he was stooped and wrinkled around the eyes, but there could be no doubt. A confusing array of emotions collided with his mind, none seeming to rise above the others to give him clarity.
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Imharr recognized the Dweorgs’ ancestral song of mourning. Gnorn was singing his brother back to their ancestors, causing Imharr to realize the enormous sacrifice of leaving Hlokk unburied. He hoped that, in Gnorn’s mind, the song alone could complete the ritual.
“No matter,” said Bledla. “We have important things to deal with now. We must enter the city soon and proclaim we will spare all who submit to the Way. And, of course, they must swear fealty to their new king.” Earconwald laughed while the grave supreme priest smiled. On top of the wind-swept hill they celebrated success, hailing the day as an auspicious beginning to the War of the Way.
The sorceress turned toward Imharr with no emotion on her face, pausing before she answered. “I entered what you would call his mind, or spirit, the energy that is Dayraven, by uniting with the balance of Oruma and Anghara dwelling in him. Once there, I asked his spirit to remain, asked the energy to stay in the body we know as Dayraven. It was possible only if his body could repair itself. His spirit had drifted far. It was a near thing.”
Sequara looked at the floor. “Yes, it is. All sorcery is dangerous, but what I did with Dayraven was especially so. Sorcery has driven many to madness, and some to early deaths. They lose the sense of themselves. But that’s why we train. That’s why a true sorcerer can have no attachments as most people do. And that’s why it’s important we make sure Dayraven is able to wield the gift that is in him.”
“It’s possible to wrest the trolls, aglaks, and pucas from the priests of the Way one at a time. However, the longer they’ve wielded power over the creatures, the more difficult it is to counter their spells. Before finishing, the battle would be over. Not only this, but the priests of the Way are powerful, especially Bledla. All of Malruan’s sorcerers perished while attempting to fight or take possession of the creatures, and the gift was not weak in them.”
Nalhad, the youngest of the three sorcerers, swallowed, the knob on his throat bobbing up then down. Old Howan raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips as he fidgeted with the sleeve of his robe. Arlech frowned beneath his hooked nose, licked his lips, and blinked. None of them said a word.
You face not only an army with three or four times more soldiers than you have in your entire kingdom, but sorcery that will overwhelm anything you bring against it. I felt Bledla’s power while I was there, and I’ve sensed such depths in only one other: Dayraven of the Mark.”
King Balch frowned and shook his head. “The eastern kingdoms will mostlike be indifferent to our fate. Only when the danger comes to their doorsteps will they act. That’s human nature, Lady Sequara. Nevertheless, I wish you luck. We’ll keep Torrlond at bay as long as we can.”
“I am Captain Nothelm of Torrlond. It’s my honor to command His Majesty’s personal guards. My lord, King Earconwald, sent me to bear the following message to you: We offer peace. If you wish to avoid bloodshed, surrender to King Earconwald, and he’ll allow you to live under the following terms: Your realm shall become Torrlond’s dukedom, owing Torrlond allegiance as well as yearly tribute. You will remain as King Earconwald’s duke and vassal, and you will come to your liege lord’s aid when required against his foes. Also, according to Edan’s righteous will, you and every member of your realm
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“Everyone’s time comes. I’ll greet my fate.”
“Mae dwarion hinol.” Queen Rona straightened in her chair, and everyone around the table turned to her. “If doom is at hand, then we go to it with pride.” She switched to the Northern Tongue and spoke it with a lilting Ondunic accent. “My lord, you said what was needful. Long ago, our ancestors, the Riodarae, fled their homes and died in great numbers rather than submit to outsiders, and they founded Adanon. When those outsiders came again and shattered our kingdom to form Caergilion, our ancestors never gave up fighting. We are no less determined than those who came before us to live
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Duke Anarad stood up. “Your people are with you, your Majesty. We’ll lay down our lives for our rightful king and queen and for our kingdom.” He glanced at Imharr as he continued, “We are of Adanon, and our lives belong to it.”
When their cries ceased, Balch gave instructions to his nobles to gather their troops with the greatest speed. An excited discussion of their desperate strategy followed. Sequara listened but said nothing. This would not be her battle, at least not in the near term. As the conversation washed over her, she was already thinking about how she would travel with Dayraven.
All a man can do is face what comes with as much heart as he can muster. And I’ll face it with the joy of knowing you’re alive. Wherever you go, make the best of it, and live with courage.”
The younger man swallowed. “I’ll remain here and fight by your side as your son, and as a son of Adanon.”
“I’m not sure what you mean to imply,” she said after a long pause. “But if you think I’ve formed some sort of attachment to Dayraven, I assure you such a thing is impossible. I’m wed to my kingdom. No heir or heiress to Asdralad’s throne indulges in friendships, love, or family. According to our traditions, our people’s rulers are sorcerers devoted only to the kingdom. A friend or lover or child would be a distraction, a weakness that others could exploit. Such ties interfere with the ability to make clear, detached decisions for the welfare of the kingdom and with insight into the balance of
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“I laugh because it gives me hope. A Thjoth and a Dweorg of the Fyrnhowes traveling in one another’s company.” He turned to Sequara and said, “If these two can work together, perhaps you’ll have luck uniting the kingdoms of Eormenlond against Torrlond.”
They left the room. Imharr went last and, after one final glance at his friend, shut the door behind him. In the hallway he closed his eyes and whispered, “Farewell, my brother.”
Zeal lit up Bledla’s face, his eyes wide and his teeth clenched behind a tight smile. “Your Majesty, it is time. If you will consent, I believe we should unleash our greatest weapons against our foes before the arrival of our main army. Let us give these Adanese a taste of Edan’s power. In the darkness of night we’ll visit death upon them, and they will learn humility. When our forces arrive in Palahon, the Adanese will beg for forgiveness, and the kingdoms of Eormenlond will tremble when they hear of Adanon’s fate.”
While the soldiers’ triumphant cries continued, Bledla sent out the barest thought and allowed a grim smile to creep onto his face. A moment later, a new sound tore through the army’s din: the distant but vast shriek of some monstrous beast that morphed into a depthless roar like huge boulders grinding together in an earth-trembling avalanche. Silence seized Torrlond’s army while Bledla’s smile hardened.
