Chalice 2 - Dream Stone (56 page)

The skraelings were not immune to its frigid
bite either. They flinched with the same horror as any other living
creature when the dread stuff brushed against them. Yet ’twas their
lord who had unleashed the smoke. Caerlon was his name. Treilo had
brought the information back from Rastaban, learned from skraeling
deserters.

Mychael started around the headland toward
Dripshank Well and met the returning Kings Wood elves.

“Ho, Mychael,” the man in the lead hailed
him. ’Twas Kenric, one of the trackers. Like most of the Kings Wood
elves, he was heavier built than the Quicken-tree and carried a yew
longbow nearly as tall as himself. His hair was still dark, framing
a face with broad cheekbones, a square chin, and a once broken
nose. For one so young, his gaze was surprisingly shrewd. The Kings
Wood tunics were varying shades of brown, with Kenric’s being a
rich russet color.

“Kenric,” Mychael called back. “We are to the
Wall.”

Kenric nodded and turned to his troop,
gesturing to the rope and wood-slat bridge the Red-leaf had made,
connecting the shore of the damson cliffs to the eastern part of
the Wall. The Red-leaf lived in the trees in the northern forests
and used their ropes and abundance of wood to make walkways in the
sky, bridging one arboreal abode to the next. They had strung a
good many such bridges in the last two days: a bridge behind the
falls at Lanbarrdein, another from the
pryf
nest to the top
of the damson cliffs. They had bridged a canyon that opened up
below Dripshank Well.

Mychael brought up the rear as the troop
filed onto the bridge, falling in step with the Kings Wood
trackers. A rough-hewn bunch and seasoned warriors, they expected
nothing from him except that he would fight, which suited him well.
The Kings Wood clan lived closer to Men than the other
tylwyth
teg
. He thought mayhaps that was why Llyr had put them under
his command. His position among the other elfin lords was not so
simple.

He had once been their hope, but that hope
had died. There were no dragons coming to Mor Sarff, and he was not
the Dragonlord to answer the Daur’s call. Two days of pitched
battle had brought no sign of Ddrei Goch and Ddrei Glas. He was
alone, except for the growing darkness. ’Twas the only truth he’d
brought out of the ice cave, that the darkness was a black death
and he had been born to fight it—but alone, not with the dragons by
his side as he’d thought.

In the fight with the skraelings and the
Dockalfar, his blade had been blooded, aye, but not as it had
appeared in his vision. He had killed a good many of the enemy, and
as he had not been wounded, neither had many of the Liosalfar who
had fought with him. Behind his blade they were as safe as was
possible in a close fight.

’Twas that knowledge and the battle itself
that sustained him, and where Llyr sent him, he would go, until the
end came—and his end was coming. He sensed it with every breath. He
had failed to call the dragons to him, and for that weakness he
would die. He smelled as much of death as did the vile smoke
arising from Kryscaven. The elf-maid had said Death had been in the
ice cave, and she’d been right. ’Twas the touch of death’s darkness
that he’d carried out of the Dangoes. ’Twas impending death that
had frosted his hair and turned his blood cold.

Halfway across the bridge, he noted a rise in
the wind. The waves capped below him, showing violet in the
dreamstone light. The scent of salt strengthened, brought in from
the Irish Sea down a long, dark channel. In front of him, Kenric
stopped and looked to the west. The wind rippled along the
tracker’s tunic.

The Kings Wood elf stood perfectly still, his
eyes closed, until a fresh gust came up and caused the bridge to
sway. His eyes opened as he reached for the rope railing.

“What is it?” Mychael asked, grabbing hold of
the rope as well.

“
Sín
,” Kenric said. “There’s a storm
on the open water.”

“Can a storm from the Irish Sea reach this
far?”

“This one will,” the tracker said with grim
surety, and continued across the bridge.

Mychael looked to the west and lifted his
face into the quickening breeze. Aye, ’twas there aright.
Sín
, a storm.

He again turned his gaze to the sands. Llynya
was watching him from where she sat next to Shay. She made no sign
of acknowledgment, but her gaze was steady on him.

Sparks rose on the wind from the Liosalfar
fire, sheeting upward in a glittering cascade, yet through the
fiery veil, through the shadows and the chaos of soldiers
traversing the sand, Mychael could see her clearly. She was the
aetheling, and where the Liosalfar’s hope had died in him, it had
been reborn in her.

Camp rumors had her drawing a magic sword out
of the mother rock and saving them all. She was a good fighter, but
he didn’t think she could fight the growing darkness and prevail,
and in his heart he knew she couldn’t call the dragons and bring
them to heel.

He let his gaze drift downward to her arm.
Blood dampened the bandage. The easier battle had not yet been won,
the one against Caerlon and the skraelings and the great Troll King
riding out the waves on his barge, his skulls clinking in the
breeze, and she was already wounded.

Nay, they should not have put the burden of
victory on her. For as he had failed, so would she. As he would
die...

He stopped the thought with a violent curse
and walked on, turning his attention back to the Wall.

~ ~ ~

Llynya watched Mychael cross the bridge and
climb to the trail on the other side. His was a ghostly figure
among the Kings Wood elves. She’d given up crying, but the ache in
her heart threatened to break her. Verily, it increased in strength
and pain every time she caught sight of him, and if too many hours
passed without her seeing him, the pain turned to panic.

He’d fought on every front of the last three
battles, his sword singing a death song to the skraelings. The
Liosalfar followed him when ordered by Llyr, but not without
caution. His troops had suffered the fewest losses, true, but he
himself was marked for death. Some said he was of the half-dead
already, his skin showing the grave.

Sweat trickled down the side of her face, and
she wiped at it with the back of her hand. Though a cooling wind
had picked up off the sea, she was suffering from heat. The
exertion of battle, she was sure, though no one else around her
looked as feverish as she felt, and they’d all fought hard.

She took another swig from the Red-leaf
flask, her gaze following Mychael on the Magia Wall. She’d lost him
in the Dangoes. The last words he’d spoken to her had been on the
causeway, and they’d been as strangers since. He would look at her
as he’d just done, but no more often than any other warrior on Mor
Sarff. They were all looking to her as the aetheling since they’d
seen the way it was with him, their failing Dragonlord.

The Red-leaf brew cooled her throat, but not
her brow, and she wiped at it again with her good arm. The other
arm hurt terribly, making her wonder if the skraeling blade that
had cut her had been poisoned. More than likely ’twas just the
filth of the sword’s edge causing the wound to burn.

Her last hope to save Mychael had been
Ailfinn, but Shay had dashed it. Ailfinn was not coming, and in
truth ’twould be a miracle if the mage could save herself and her
company.

Another, deeper pain flared in her chest. She
had lost Mychael, and there was no time to mourn. No time.

Tucking a strand of hair up into her braids,
she looked across the beach to the gates of time, the tunnels
leading to the Weir Gate. The wind was visibly moving over the
sand, picking up in force and speed, feathering the grains and in
places spiraling them up into the air. The clothes of the dead
soldiers were fluttering and snapping, giving them the odd illusion
of life. Trig had ordered the tunnels kept sealed, but she knew how
to open the one that had held Bedwyr, and one was all she needed.
When Mychael died, she was going down the wormhole.

A day back, she’d yet been holding on to the
strange hope of taking Mychael’s body to the Dangoes, if the worst
befell him and naught else was to be done. She’d thought to seal
him in the ice next to Rhayne, praying the white hound could
protect him from the ice-bones and the demon darkness of Dharkkum,
and praying the ice would hold him until he could live again. But
the foul billows of smoke massing in the south made going back to
the Dangoes impossible.

Nay, she’d lost him on all counts.

A great roar from the Troll King’s barge had
the hairs rising on her nape. All around her, the Liosalfar cast
surreptitious glances her way. ’Twas her blood the Troll King was
calling for, but he would be denied by the wormhole. She brought
the flask to her lips for another cooling swallow.

Aye, he would be denied.

M
adron stood on a
little used trail on the northeast boundary of the
pryf
nest, her cloak wrapped around her against the driving rain,
watching Naas on the trail below. Sounds of “
Khardeen
”
carried to her on the wind, along with the clash of swords and
thunder rumbling against the vault of the Serpent Sea. Her father
had told her of such storms beneath the earth, but she’d never seen
one. ’Twas a daunting sight. Lightning skittered across the walls
and ceiling, crawling over the rock. The thunder went on
interminably, echoing back and forth.

Corvus and Snit flanked her on either side,
and they, too, were watching the white-eyed crone chant into the
dark, using a song-charm to lure an ancient beast up out of the
deep. Madron smelled the old worm before she saw him. His was the
darkest scent of the earth distilled down to its most potent
essence: rich loam and batholithic stone, must and decay. The smell
rolled over them like a wave, and beside her, Corvus hissed on an
indrawn breath and took a step back. Snit moved closer to her,
taking a handful of her sodden skirt for courage.

When the old worm himself glided into view,
Snit would have broken and run, if not for the man’s hand snatching
him by the scruff of the neck.

“ ’Tis the crusher, I tell ye.” The little
man squirmed, trying to break free. “He’ll grind yer bones into
dust inside yer skin. I’ve seen ’im do it, I have.”

“Hush,” Madron commanded. “We are not here to
be crushed.”

“Then why call ’im?” Snit asked.

“To churn the worms,” she answered, not
taking her eyes off Naas.

“... vessel of matter and thought, of the
eternal mystery and miracle of life, death,” the old woman intoned,
her voice rising and falling through the rain with the rhythm of
the final words to be spoken. “Circling, ever circling and being
coiled round and warmed by a great serpent devouring its own
tail... held in the grip of wisdom. Lightning of the cosmos! Sword
of the gods! One is All—
Ouroboros!
” She called out the name,
and the gargantuan worm, gnarled and scarred by immemorial time,
picked up speed, the last of it coming out of its deep hole beyond
the Magia Wall, while its faceless head made for the gates of
time.

Well pleased, Naas looked at the group above
her and signaled for them to follow. She smelled the blood of
battle. Far more ominous, she smelled the smoke of Dharkkum through
the fury of the storm. Time was running short. She would be done
with the traveler.

He’d been unexpected, and a less likely
carrier she could hardly have conjured herself, a criminal with a
violent past. But he was here, and he wanted to be there, and
betwixt and between the two was an immeasurable expanse over which
he could carry the books. For certes she couldn’t drop them down
the hole on their own. Even if Corvus died, his corpse would land
in the right place, in the right time, which suited her needs well
enough, and the needs of those she would help, the White Ladies. Of
course, she was also certain that since they had gone to the
trouble of sending him here, the White Ladies most probably did not
want him back there.

Men, she thought with a hmmph, a means to an
end, a means to an end. Such was the rule. Still, she didn’t envy
him the journey.

They followed the dirt trail down to the
north base of the damson cliffs. The old worm had his own entrance
into the inner core, though few dared to take it. Naas was one who
did and herded her flock before her into its dank depths. They came
out into a rough-edged tunnel and followed it to the first
intersecting passageway of luminescent green and heliotrope, one of
the gates.

Once inside the headland, the old worm began
moving at an alarming speed, barreling through the crudely bored
tunnel that circled through and connected the shimmering gates.
Naas quickly ushered the others into the large cavern at the heart
of the cliffs.

Corvus wiped the rain from his eyes, scarcely
believing what he was seeing, or that he was seeing it. The
wormhole lay before him, far more immense than anything he had
imagined, a gaping abyss alive with chain lightning and the
writhing swirl of
prifarym
. He moved closer and the
lightning crackled, bluish white and purple sparks soaring toward
the domed ceiling.

A memory flashed in his mind, and icy fear
gripped him. He’d longed for this moment, hardly dreaming it would
ever come to pass, and now he could think only of the horror of
what he would do.

The worms in the upper nest had amazed him,
their greenish black bodies wet with slime and smelling of the
earth. But he sensed a difference here with the worms of the weir,
and most definitely with the great beast sliding through the outer
ring. These were the time worms.

“Eat yer salt,” the old woman commanded,
coming up behind him and shoving a bag at him.