Authors: Dennis McKiernan
City of Jade (8 page)
The silver form of Hunter slashed among the Vulgs, and the entire pack of the virulent black beasts veered toward the Draega and leapt upon him in a slashing, howling swarm. Elven archers flew arrows at the pony-sized dark creatures, killing some. Yet others were too close to Hunter to risk loosing a shaft at them. But then the spells of the Animists filled the Vulgs with dread, just as the Hèlsteeds had been, and they, too, fled away, even as Hunter, his jaws locked upon the nape of another of the beasts, broke the spine of the creature. And the Silver Wolf stood snarling amid slain Vulgs, their throats torn out and necks broken. But then the Draega sped back to the Elven ranks, where once again Bair emerged from a darkness and took his flanged mace in hand.
Leading the onrushing Rûpt army, ponderous Trolls, swinging their massive warbars, with arrows simply shattering against their skin, thudded toward the now-closing ranks of the Free Folk.
Gildor stepped to the fore and drew his sword, Bale, and the weapon’s blade-jewel blazed with scarlet werelight as if to ignite the length of steel, for Foul Folk were nigh. Preternaturally sharp-edged, the sword had been forged long past in the House of Aurinor in the Duellin for use in the Great War. Yet Gildor’s wielding of Bale at the Iron Tower proved to be even more critical in the Winter War than in the War of the Ban, for the weapon was deadly to Trollkind in spite of their stonelike hides.
Others took up their weapons as well—swords, maces, spears, flails. And as the yowling Spaunen hurtled up the slope toward the army, Aravan took up his spear and glanced at it and said, “Elven-forged thou art and worthy, yet would that thee were Krystallopŷr, but it is gone into the Abyss, taking its with it, and so thou and I must do.” And he lowered the point of the weapon to meet the oncoming foe.
The howling wave of Rûcks and Hlôks and Ogrus smashed into the Elven files, and, roaring, the Trolls swung their great bars to left and right. Elves met the Spawn head-on, swords riving, spears stabbing, shields bashing. And they danced back or ducked under cumbersome but lethal swings of the Troll weaponry, yet not all, for the dreadful warbars struck among them, felling many. And even as Rûcks and Hlôks rushed by him, Gildor waited until the huge iron rod of the Troll before him swept past, and then he stepped forward and, with a two-handed swing, drove Bale through and across the Ogru’s gut and out the other side, and with his steaming entrails spilling forth and to the ground, the Troll gazed down in disbelief, and then fell forward dead. But with Rûcks and Hlôks following in their wake, other of these monstrous foes waded in among the allies, flailing, slaughtering, crushing; they alone could devastate the Elven army. Grimly, Aravan stabbed and slashed with his spear, hacking his way through Spawn and toward one of the Trolls, yet even as Aravan neared, the behemoth espied him and, snarling, turned his way and raised his massive warbar to smash down upon this puny being, the Troll’s gaze wide in triumph. But in that moment, an arrow sprang forth from the eye of the monster, and as the Ogru crashed down, its brain pierced by the shaft, Aravan glanced aside to see Silverleaf fitting an arrow to his silver-handled white-bone bow while turning to seek yet another one of these dreadful creatures, rampaging among the allies. And as a shrieking Hlôk charged at a group of Magekind, only to be skewered by Vail and fall dead at Alamar’s feet, the Mage looked away from the parapets above and down at the slain Hlôk. Then his gaze swept across the roiling battlefield to see the Ogrus laying waste to the Elven host.
“Dicere!”
evoked Alamar, casting a spell, then shouted “Fedor! Bremar! Cadir!” and called other names as well. And in spite of the uproar of battle—the screams and bellows and cries—those he named heard his spell-cast voice. “Trolls! Trolls! We must deal with the Trolls!” And the Ogrus were met by flame, as Mages took precious moments from their own bitter struggle to hurl bolts of fire at the behemoths, their greasy hide garments to burst ablaze. Shrieking in fear, the monsters fled, flinging away their weapons and ripping and rending their burning clothing from themselves, for fire they feared, and away they ran, now pursued by spectral flames cast by Illusionists; they did not flee back toward the fortress, but bolted toward the distant crags instead.
“Dicere!”
evoked Alamar, casting a spell, then shouted “Fedor! Bremar! Cadir!” and called other names as well. And in spite of the uproar of battle—the screams and bellows and cries—those he named heard his spell-cast voice. “Trolls! Trolls! We must deal with the Trolls!” And the Ogrus were met by flame, as Mages took precious moments from their own bitter struggle to hurl bolts of fire at the behemoths, their greasy hide garments to burst ablaze. Shrieking in fear, the monsters fled, flinging away their weapons and ripping and rending their burning clothing from themselves, for fire they feared, and away they ran, now pursued by spectral flames cast by Illusionists; they did not flee back toward the fortress, but bolted toward the distant crags instead.
Even so, with Magekind distracted by having to deal with the Trolls, lethal blasts and bolts of the dark Wizards fell among the allies and took a grim toll. Swiftly, Alamar and his Elementalists and Sorcerers again took the fight to the battlements above, hurling lightning and fire or exploding the stone of the shielding crenels.
As the Trolls fled from the ranks of Elves and Mages and ran among the Spawn and away, and as Ghûls afoot fell down, killed by silver-headed arrows, the nerve of the Rûcks and Hlôks broke, and they bolted away screaming, most back through the broken gate in the outer wall and across the killing grounds and around the far side of the bastion, though some scrambled into the fortress itself.
Even as the Spawn fled back through the allied ranks, Elven swords rived and spears stabbed and Bair’s mace crushed many who sought escape.
As the last of the foe fled down the slope, arrows felling many as they ran, Gildor wiped Bale’s length clean of Rûpt ichor and sheathed the blade again, and the Elves stood ready, though the foe was now gone. But still the Mage-versus-Black-Mage fight went on, as water battled flame, and dark, whirling winds came roaring out of the mountains to be met by howling air twisting counter; hailstones and sleet hammered down from the skies amid lightning and thunder and upheavals of land and exploding stone. Mages were slain, and Elvenkind fell, and Black Mages died in spite of their glut of , for there simply were too many casters opposing them, Mages of greater skills.
And as the arcane battle raged, Healers moved among the wounded, and they snatched many back from the brink of death, but others they could not save.
Yet finally all of the occult resistance from the battlements ceased, as the last of the dark Wizards fell.
Now the Elven army charged the fortress, the gates yawning open before them.
But the Foul Folk were fled out the rear postern and away, and the Elves came into an abandoned stronghold, but for a few quailing Rûpt, and these were quickly dispatched.
When a count of the dead was taken, nearly a thousand Spawn had been slain, fully half by arrows on the battleground, most of the rest by allied steel.
Yet four hundred ninety-eight of Elvenkind had fallen, some to the Trolls, some to Rûcks and Hlôks, but most to the dark Wizards’ castings. And on Adonar and Mithgar and even among those on Neddra, Elves grieved, for they had received the death redes of those whose lives had been quenched . . . death redes, a unique Elven gift, both a curse and a blessing of Elvenkind, a final good-bye from a slain Elf that somehow winged to a loved one. Though the ways between the Planes were now restored, not even when they were sundered had they prevented such messages from reaching the intended. And for an Elf to die was particularly grievous, for no matter the count of a given Elf’s years, it was but a single step along an endless life.
Thirty-two of Magekind were also slain: no school had been spared. But Aylis and Alamar yet lived, much to Aravan’s relief.
Though they had been but twelve Black Mages, they had been devastating, given their glut of . Had there been more of them, the fight could well have gone the other way. Yet in the final tally only eleven slain dark Wizards were accounted for. The Necromancer with the black hair down to his hips was not among the bodies found.
8
Flight
DARK DESIGNS
WINTERDAY, 5E1010
[THE FINAL YEAR OF THE FIFTH ERA]
WINTERDAY, 5E1010
[THE FINAL YEAR OF THE FIFTH ERA]
Through a long and low and narrow tunnel a Black Mage fled, dreadfully shaken by the unexpected attack upon the fortress. Until the moment the aethyric intruder—the disembodied spy—had been discovered, not one of the dark Wizards had known that an appalling force of Elves and Mages was on Neddra to assail the bastion; yet the dead Hlôk the Necromancer had raised had told all. And although the Wizard could have used his occult arts to send slain Drik and Ghok and Oghi back into the fray, when the battle had begun and the Necromancer had seen the skills and force of the opposing Magekind and the prowess of the Elven army, the dark Wizard had known it would be hopeless. His fears had been borne out by the onslaught, and he quickly saw that nought could be done to keep the fortress from falling into the hands of the foe, and so he had fled in the confusion of battle. Yet just before the fight had begun, he had glimpsed the one who had slain his god, had seen the murderer in the fore of the Dolhs: Aravan, killer of Gyphon.
Aravan and his ilk had upset all of the Necromancer’s plans, not only by killing his god, thus ruining the Black Mage’s certainty of dominion over a significant part of Mithgar, but also on this very night had interrupted the conclave of Black Mages, where the Necromancer had fully expected to be elected the very first leader of the first
Siniihi apo Thætheha
—Covenant of Twelve—of dark Wizardkind.
Siniihi apo Thætheha
—Covenant of Twelve—of dark Wizardkind.
Someday, someday, that Dolh would suffer vengeance; someday Aravan would meet his doom, or so again swore Nunde the Necromancer, even as he fled down the long escape tunnel, running for his very life.
9
Trickery
BOSKYDELLS
WINTERDAY, 5E1010
[THE FINAL YEAR OF THE FIFTH ERA]
WINTERDAY, 5E1010
[THE FINAL YEAR OF THE FIFTH ERA]
As the snow blew and a chill wind rattled the sides of the barn, with cold air drifting in through the cracks, Pipper ran up the long slant of the rope tied between the first stall and the hayloft above the far end. Binkton, not needing to look at the five balls he kept in the air, their graceful arcs crisscrossing and not colliding, watched as his cousin made the ascent.
“Well and good, Binkton,” said Uncle Arley. “Give them over and we’ll revisit your sleight-of-hand skills.”
Binkton waited until Pipper reached the top and alighted on the loft and turned and bowed to an imaginary audience below. Then, one after another, Binkton let fly the balls to Arley, the eld buccan gracefully catching each of the colored spheres and dropping them into the box at hand.
Pipper then slid down the length of the line and backflipped to the floor planks just ere reaching the end.
As Pipper stepped over to watch, Arley said, “ ’Tis claimed the hand is quicker than the eye, yet I say, not so. Instead, the art of successful legerdemain is twofold: distraction and a stealthy touch, like so.—Oops!” Arley dropped a fetter that fell with a clang, and both Binkton and his uncle bent down to pick it up. As the stripling rose with the irons in hand, Arley said, “Thank you, bucco,” and he took the shackles while at the same time giving over to Binkton the lad’s own belt.
Pipper laughed and clapped and said, “Nicely done, Uncle.”
Somewhat embarrassed, Binkton scowled as he rethreaded the belt through the loops on his breeks.
“Now, since there are two of you,” said the eld buccan, “the filcher can slip the taken object to the other, and, when accosted, the filcher can show he hasn’t got it.”
Arley then demonstrated how this was done, this time using Pipper as the dupe.
For the next candlemark or so, uncle and nephews practiced this form of trickery, until Arley seemed satisfied that they had got it right; then they moved on to other sleights of hand.
Time after time, Arley put the striplings through their paces, as he had been doing ever since they had come to him, or so it seemed. With both sets of parents lost in the raid upon Stonehill some four years back, he had inherited these two rascals, being their only remaining kin, and a granduncle at that. It was when he had shown them a few of his skills that they had insisted on learning all he knew, after which, they maintained, they would see the world.
Oh, well, perhaps someday they would, yet Arley hoped it would be in different and less perilous circumstances from those in which he had done.
And so, he set out to teach them all he knew of the picking of locks and pockets, of misdirection and stealth and guile, of walking upon ropes and swinging through the air and other feats of aerial skill, of trickery and sleights of hand, and of making something seem other than it was.
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