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Authors: Michelle Sagara West

Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3) (28 page)

BOOK: Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3)
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Erin cursed again; she felt the folding of the earth and knew that the Karnar had seen to it that the wagons, at least, could make no passage back. She felt red-fire in the ground beneath her feet, a distant pain, and protected herself from it with the power of Line Elliath. Green light shimmered on the surface of her skin as white light struggled to fruition.
She knew what had to be done, and knew—again and always—that she could not be the one to do it. Daring the edge of the road and the hill that was forming out of snow and twisting dirt, she gazed out at the enemy.
Not one armed man had made any move toward them. They waited the outcome of their Karnar’s attack. Just as she would have done, had their positions been reversed.
 
Darin reached down for the simple dagger he carried as the ground attempted to prevent his action. Snow, like white earth, split and separated; trees loomed above like crippled limbs. He thought of tire—but not the flames of Trethar’s magic.
Darin.
Shaking, he righted himself, thinking of priests and the Dark Heart and slavery-whispers of death and the fear of it. Bethany’s voice was an urgent harmony to his gestures, as the knife came free.. He hesitated a moment, and then it came back: the True Ward.
He missed his palm, the first time. He tried to tell himself that it was the cold that caused the trembling, not the fear that the ward required. A distant scream of panic lit up like an aural flare; it lingered so close to his ears that he might have voiced it.
And then his blood, steaming slightly, graced the snow; he felt the sting of cold steel before he dropped the knife. He wouldn’t find it again, he was certain of that. It didn’t matter.
His hands crossed his chest in the Circle. His eyes grew green and bright and shining; he couldn’t see them, and Renar, who could, could not appreciate the first sign of God’s grace and the hope that it brought.
Darin felt Lernan’s power as it flowed beneath his skin and raised his hands high before he realized that he didn’t know what to do with it.
Initiate.
When had Bethany fallen? He didn’t remember dropping her, and he began to scramble around at his feet as the ground threatened to shift again.
Bethany?
Take me up.
I can’t! I—
“Patriarch.” Darin jumped back in surprise, and Renar shoved Bethany’s cold, smooth form into his hands. “You were looking for this?”
He didn’t take the time to offer thanks.
Now. Touch the ground, Darin. Touch it. You will know what to do
—
and I will help. This man is Kamari; his power is, I think, greater than yours.
Darin touched the ground; snow melted against his hands, but he didn’t notice the cold; against the barrier of his fingers, he felt red-fire
snap.
 
Erin felt it, too. Her ears, attuned to the red and the white in a way that even Darin’s would never be, heard the distant roar of power as the two blood-magics clashed beneath her feet. She dropped her head a moment, realizing what must have happened; her lips moved in a prayer of thanks before she raised her eyes to scan the northern road. Now, the enemy would have to come to them.
 
Erliss felt it the moment it hit. The ground, which had seemed an extension of his will and his desire, suddenly fought back, pushing the fingers of the Dark Heart’s power away. He had expected it—he told himself this as he bent himself to the task.
“Lord?”
Through gritted teeth, he shook his head, his lips turned up in a silent snarl. The Swords watched and waited his command.
 
“Darin?”
“Not now.”
Renar touched his shoulder. “Darin,” he said, softly but no less urgently, “we have to know—will the roads hold?”
We? Darin looked up and saw one of the House Bordaril guards standing stiff at Renar’s side. His face was bruised, and a trickle of blood trailed down his jaw, drying in the cool wind. “I don’t—I don’t know. I think so.”
Renar and Captain Jenkins exchanged a look. Jenkins nodded grimly. “We’ll start a retreat. Can you move?”
“No,” Darin replied, struggling with the word.
“Guard his back, then,” the Bordaril captain said. “You’ll know when to move.”
“I will,” Renar answered softly. He settled back against a lopsided tree and watched as the wind made moving shadows of low-hanging branches.
 
“Lord!”
Erliss glanced up; sweat beaded his forehead although the air was biting in its chill. His eyes, red, shone with God’s power; the Sword that had interrupted him so urgently fought the urge to take a step back. Erliss said nothing.
“You asked to be informed of the enemy disposition. They’re retreating.”
Erliss bent his power—his will—to the road; he felt the white shields of his ancient enemy give without breaking. Frustrated, he almost lashed out with the Dark Heart’s granted magic—but he held himself in long enough to let the Sword’s words penetrate.
He had two choices: He could continue to contest the stone and frozen dirt that he had hoped to use to achieve a painless victory—or he could order his Swords, and the guards of Vanellon, into combat. He had always been taught not to choose in haste—but here, he had no choice.
 
Darin suddenly collapsed into the snow. The movement was so sudden and so complete that it caught Renar unaware; before he could cross the scant distance between them, Darin looked up, shaking snow from his face.
“It’s gone,” he said.
“What’s gone?”
“The red. It’s gone.”
Renar clapped him on the back and caught his jacket to prevent him from sprawling, again, in the uneven snow.
“No,” Darin said, grabbing the thief’s wrists, “you don’t understand. I didn’t do it—it just stopped.”
“Just stopped?” Renar’s eyes narrowed, and then widened. He turned lightly in the snow and vanished over a newly created
hill’s shelf. Darin had time to collect Bethany and gain his feet before Renar returned.
“It’s time to retreat,” Renar said quietly. “No—not that way. Off the road, Darin.”
“But what about Erin?”
“Now,” Renar said urgently. “The Lady can take care of herself.”
 
Erin heard the horses scant seconds before she saw them. She didn’t take the time to warn Captain Jenkins, Hamin, or Hildy—she didn’t need to. Hamin’s brief curse, and Jenkin’s obscenity, made it perfectly clear that they, too, could see their danger.
“They’ll pay for this,” Jenkins whispered, just before he began to bark out orders to his men.
“Great,” Hamin replied. “They’ll pay. But we won’t be around to see it.”
“Haminl” Hildy’s voice sounded.
Hamin turned, half in guilt. “Yes?”
“We don’t need a chief morale officer, dear. Luke, pay attention to the roads. Where are Robert and Darin?”
“Someplace safer than here.”
Erin might have complained about the chatter, but even over it, Luke and Hamin were in motion. More of Hildy’s guards came to the fore, to stand loosely beside their Bordaril counterparts.
“Ma’am?”
She shook herself as a younger, crested soldier spoke. “Yes?” She responded.
“You’d best get behind the line. We’re fighting in retreat, but you and Hildy can probably get clear.”
The absurdity of having a guard of any house defend her—possibly die for her—made Erin wince. The world had grown strange and impossible in the past three centuries.
“Ma’am?”
She looked down at her blade—the bright sword that the Lady of Elliath had crafted for Gallin’s use. “No,” she said softly. “I don’t think that would be wise.”
“Dear?” Hildy’s voice was sharper than the young guard’s.
I’m sorry, Hildy,
Erin thought, as she turned her back on the merchant’s unspoken command and joined Hamin and Luke,
but this is the life I know best. And these are the enemies I’ve always fought.
“Hildy, dammit! Get
out
of here!”
 
The wagons were pushed into the road’s center; they formed an awkward and easily moved barricade behind which Hildy’s men—and Erin—grouped. The horses that carried the charge this far began to slow in their pace. Foot soldiers would not be far behind.
Erin cast a small orb of light past the range of her vision. Seconds later, it guttered like a candle in a storm. She cursed.
“Lady?”
“Karnar’s here,” she replied, without looking up to see who had interrupted her concentration. A word that was easily less genteel than her own moved back through the ranks like a wave. She spun to see Hamin’s pale face. “He’s mine, if he’s anyone’s. Trust him to me.”
So saying, she pulled back her shield arm, dropped her shield, and gestured in a wide, doubled arc. Her blade caught the light and reflected it back tenfold.
Hamin stopped, caught by the hard angle of her jaw and the long, thick line of the braid that cut her back. Her skin was pale, and her eyes were hard, almost metallic, as they shone green. Something about her was familiar—something about her reminded him of Marantine.
When the pillar of white-fire suddenly leapt to life beyond the wagon barrier, he suddenly stopped breathing, caught in the hints and shadows of the memories of his youth.
“The Church,” he said softly, eyes wide. “It’s not the king they’re after—it’s you they want.”
She didn’t reply. But a scream did—followed by an eerie, lambent red that enveloped the treetops, a counter to her first strike.
“Mine,” she whispered again, softly, as she bent to retrieve her shield. No one gainsaid her.
 
Renar cursed softly; the words formed a cloud of mist, rather than sound. In the snow, under the clear and cloudless skies, two sets of tracks made obvious both their retreat and their direction.
This alone would not have caused his consternation. The
quarrel that had lodged three feet to the right, still quivering in the sudden silence, did. It was very unlike either the Swords or the house forces to use something as simple and inelegant as a crossbow. It was very unlike either to stop and track two people who had obviously deserted before a major battle.
But of course there had to be exceptions. He tried very hard not to dwell on the reasons for those. His hands were cold as he fumbled for a weapon that lent itself to throwing. They were colder when he readied it and peered out from behind the tree he had chosen for cover. He couldn’t see Darin at all and couldn’t afford to take the time for more than a cursory glance.
Ah. There—the branches were quivering counter to the breeze.
 
The wagons, of course, stopped no one for long; Vanellon soldiery and their Church counterparts came streaming in on the flanks, green and gold, black and red.
“Lady!” Hamin shouted. His tone made clear what he wanted to say; time deprived him of the chance to be more clear.
Dispassionately, she wondered how competent Hildy’s men were. And then she had no time to wonder, for which she was almost thankful. The black and the red were upon her, and were it not for the intangible weight of experience, she might have been sixteen again, starting out fresh and untried in the summer fields of Elliath.
Remember: This is for real. You cannot step out of a circle and be safe; you cannot call the fight. The time for games is past.
Telvar. The man who had had the teaching, and the command, of her early skills. His words came back, as they almost always did in battle.
But, she thought as she parried the first strike of the day, he was wrong. It was very like a game—and each contestant, each combatant, bore the marks of his training; the style, the attack and defense, of past masters, and of past warriors. Here, on fields of dirt and snow, or wheat or forest or plain, they would test, and be tested—and those that won, lived.
If some part of her was dimly aware that life was more than simple survival, she forgot it; she denied it. Light blazed down the lines of her face, calling the Swords to battle.
And all there witnessed the terrible grandeur, the icy beauty,
that Erin herself could never know and never see—the vision of the Sarillorn of Elliath upon the field of blood-war.
 
Before Renar could even aim, the tree erupted in a skein of fire and smoke. He heard screams that died slowly; winter bark crackled and blackened in harmony. The dagger that he held found its sheath as he sagged briefly against his own tree and closed his eyes.
Fire came again; he saw it reflected around the shadows at his feet, and felt its heat at his back. He heard another tree wither and die beneath the screams of burned flesh. He counted softly to himself, and when he heard the fifth tree fall, he peered out into the lengthening, unnatural silence.
“Old man?” he whispered softly.
There was no answer. He listened, and caught the sound of heaving breath, a single person’s. He waited; nothing happened. “Old man?” Quietly, he stepped out and began to scan the forest.
He saw only Darin. “Boy?”
Darin turned slowly at the sound of his voice. “Yes?”
Renar started to ask about Trethar, and then stopped, seeing the pallor of Darin’s face. Seeing—and suddenly understanding. He stepped forward, unmindful of snow and blackened ash and caught Darin’s shoulders.
“You didn’t have to—” His voice caught and broke. He saw a young man before him, his only connection to childhood a dearth of years. “I was supposed to guard your back, remember?”
“You take orders from House Bordaril?”
“No.” Stung, Renar let his hands fall to the sides. Darin turned away, searching the smoking ruins of human bodies and dead trees. Searching, miding—and remembering.
“You don’t like to kill any more than I do,” Darin said quietly, drawing Bethany to his chest as if to gain security from her. “You can’t do it for me. I’m—I’m the patriarch.”
BOOK: Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3)
8.69Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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