The Heir of Night (55 page)

Malian shouted defiance, snatching up the water bags that were lying near her feet and hurling them at the Night Mare. The demon growled as the bags smacked hard against its muzzle and exposed fangs; the miasma thickened and surged forward. At the same time, a harsh scream echoed Malian’s defiance from above and a great falcon hurtled out of the sky, straight into the Night Mare’s face. Powerful pinions beat at the serpent mane, and talons raked the opaque eyes.

The Night Mare growled, drawing back, and the watching warriors cursed and reached for their bows. One of them took aim at the falcon as it wheeled, circling to come
in again. “No!” Kalan shouted. He ran forward, throwing his rock with desperate strength. It flew across the creek, smacking into the bowman’s elbow, and the arrow went awry. The visored helm turned in Kalan’s direction and the riders began to advance, joining the fight.

The Night Mare lunged, trying to spring clear of the water as Malian stooped for rocks of her own. The falcon shot past Kalan and closed with the demon again, but it was far from an even contest. The gray miasma swirled, reaching to entrap the bird, which strained to break free, evading a vicious snap from the fanged jaws and narrowly avoiding a flung javelin as it strove for height. Kalan looked around for another weapon as the hawk beat clear, knowing it was only a matter of time before arrows or the Darkswarm javelins found one or all of them. On the riverbank, the Night Mare’s tendrils of smoke and shadow were beginning to curl around Malian, following her every time she twisted aside or backed away.

The falcon shrilled its battle cry above their heads, banking steeply as it turned to attack for a third time. Malian screamed, struggling against the Night Mare’s power, while beneath them the earth rippled and then shook. The warriors’ horses plunged, shying in fear as the air above the creek bed tore apart and two great gray horses came striding through. “Over here!” screamed Kalan. “Tarathan! Jehane! We’re here!”

Tarathan’s horse plunged through the creek and rammed the Night Mare’s near shoulder, knocking it sideways. The Night Mare roared but the gray horse was already turning, charging the mounted warriors while Jehane Mor confronted the Swarm demon. The ground continued to undulate as the baleful head swung toward the second herald; gore from the falcon’s talons oozed from one opaque eye. The gray miasma swept away from Malian and toward Jehane Mor, only to recoil from an invisible wall. It banked, trying to roll around the obstruction, but was pushed back onto the Night Mare.

Kalan crouched to pick up more rocks, his gaze darting back to Tarathan. The herald had loosed an arrow that punched through armor as though it were cloth, tumbling the nearest Darkswarm warrior out of the saddle, then dropped from his own saddle to hang by one leg while he shot another arrow from beneath his horse’s neck. A second warrior reeled, pierced through the shoulder, and his horse shied, colliding with the riderless mount so that both scrabbled to keep their footing on the still-rippling earth. A crack ran along the ground and all the Darkswarm horses neighed wildly, struggling against their riders’ hold. One warrior loosed an arrow, but his horse’s plunge sent it clear of Tarathan, whose own mount closed the intervening gap in a burst of speed; the herald swung himself upright and struck at the bowman with one of his swords.

The rider collapsed sideways off his horse, while the warrior beyond him wrenched his struggling mount around and away. He pulled Nhairin’s reluctant messenger horse along with him, the steward still silent and unmoving on its back—but the warrior with the shoulder wound had recovered control of his mount and drawn his sword. He charged Tarathan and the herald blocked his strike. The ensuing struggle was brief and fierce, ending with the Darkswarm warrior lying motionless, facedown on the edge of the creek.

Further out in the ford, Jehane Mor and the Night Mare were locked in a struggle where smoke and shadow were pushing hard against an invisible wall. Kalan moved toward Malian across the undulating ground, struggling to keep his balance as the shingle slid out from beneath his feet. Just as he reached her, the smoke and shadow rolled forward as though it had gained an advantage. Jehane Mor’s hands rose in denial and the miasma was driven back, but not so far back as before.

The herald’s expression was concentrated, her eyes narrowed, and her horse barely avoided the fire dart that shot at them from the smoke. The Night Mare sprang forward, its clawed feet and serpent mane extended, its jaws stretched
wide. Jehane Mor twisted in the saddle, lifting her arms in an abrupt gesture, and the air between her hands spiraled into a funnel that pushed the Night Mare back—but for the first time since the day tore open, the creek bed between Malian and the demon lay unprotected. The creature howled and sprang sideways, a tremendous jump toward Kalan and Malian, and disappeared.

“Shield!” There was no remoteness in Jehane Mor’s voice now and Kalan acted instinctively, slamming a mental wall around himself and Malian. He felt the Night Mare’s flare of psychic rage as its unseen attack was thwarted, but it remained invisible. “Stealth hunter,” whispered Kalan. “The Nine save us!” He focused on where the Night Mare had last been seen, straining all his senses to pierce the wall of daylight, but could detect nothing.

Jehane Mor’s horse stepped out of the water, its ears flat and nostrils distended as it tried to smell out its adversary, but the rotten-meat stench had vanished with the demon. Tarathan, too, was urging his horse through the creek as Malian fumbled amongst the stones, straightening with the old pot helm in her hands. She jammed the helmet down on her head as Kalan’s stretched senses caught something at last, the slightest bending in the light or whisper over stone. Air and rocks exploded outward as a force lunged through his shield barrier and Malian staggered back, sitting down hard on the rocky ground. The Night Mare rematerialized in midleap—and Malian’s arms flew up, flame pouring from her hands.

The fire blast caught the Night Mare in the air and hurled it backward, roaring and twisting, before it reared skyward, its clawed forefeet raking at the sky. Yet even as it bellowed the gray miasma swirled thickly, smothering the fire.

“Nine!” cried Kalan. “It’s going to recover from that! It’s going to attack again!” Malian was already back on her feet and Kalan tried to rebuild his shield, to hold the Night Mare at bay. Tarathan was advancing, an arrow notched to his bow, but Kalan doubted that the herald could succeed where
Malian’s wildfire had failed. Kalan groaned, trying to think of something, anything that he could do.

The ground cracked, a report like winter ice shattering, and one of the fractures beneath the Night Mare yawned apart. The predator dropped into the gap, its roar becoming a scream that echoed and reverberated between the hillsides as an updraft rolled it off balance, sucking the demon further into the earth. Kalan covered his ears, not quite taking in what was happening—then realized that the fissure was still moving, splitting the earth on a line aimed directly at Malian. She seemed mesmerized by its approach, frozen in place.

Another scream rang out, clear and wild as the falcon swept down, beating Malian away from the crevice with its wings. She stumbled back and the falcon soared up and away; the crevice, Kalan saw, had stopped moving.

What now, he asked himself numbly, staring at the yawning gulf and the frantically struggling Night Mare. Only a few moments before it had been terrifying, unstoppable: Now it seemed impotent as a fly, caught in the web of some ancient and unforgiving spider. The edges of the earth began to close, first creeping, then inching toward each other, and finally rushing together. There was one last despairing howl from the Night Mare, still fighting to lift itself clear, before the earth snapped closed and the world was still again.

“Nine!” Kalan heard his voice crack with strain and relief. “What
was
that?”

Malian stumbled to a boulder and sat down. She was shaking, and her hands trembled badly as she lifted off the helm. “Whatever it was—an earthquake, the enmity of Jaransor—it very nearly took me as well. It would have, if not for the hawk.” She stopped, her teeth chattering together, and when she spoke again her voice was strained. “I pity any living creature a death like that.”

Tarathan slung his bow across his shoulder. “I did not think the Derai wasted compassion on their enemies.”

Malian lifted her drawn face to his. “It was very nearly my death, too. It was—terrible!”

Tarathan nodded. “It was,” he said, his tone gentler. “But terrible or not, the intervention was fortunate. Even the four of us together were no match for that one Swarm minion.”

“Five,” said Kalan. “I thought the falcon must be spying for our enemies, but it turned out to be a friend.”

“So it seems,” agreed Jehane Mor. “But we should not tarry here, for the one who fled has friends as well and will return with them.” She glanced at the sky. “There’s more snow on the way, too.”

“How can we go on while they have Nhairin?” Malian protested. “We must rescue her.” She frowned when Tarathan shook his head. “We can’t just abandon her to the Darkswarm!”

“You may be right to believe in her,” Jehane Mor said quietly, “but it was by no means clear to me that Nhairin was a prisoner.”

Kalan rubbed a hand across his hair. He had not noticed his wound during the fight against the Night Mare, but now it had begun to throb. “Malian,” he said, “you know that Nhairin tried to kill me yesterday. Today she’s with the Darkswarm warriors. You have to admit that doesn’t look good. Besides, Kyr would say that your first duty is to elude your enemies.”

Malian considered this, poking at the gravel with one booted toe. “I think it was the madness of Jaransor that took her yesterday, not treachery,” she said at last, but he sensed the cold current of her doubt. “How can I believe that Nhairin would betray me, when she has been a friend all my life?”

“Someone did,” Kalan said bluntly, then looked away from the desolation in Malian’s expression.

“Whatever the circumstances,” said Tarathan, “there is nothing we can do for Nhairin now. There are only four of us while your enemies are still many. We are in no position to attempt a rescue.”

Malian said nothing, just stared down at the battered helmet between her hands as Kalan began to pick up the
water bags. “I thought that was on your saddle,” he said, nodding at the helm.

She shook her head. “It was, but I took it off. I just wanted to look at it again, to feel it in my hands, so I put it down by the bags while I watered the horses. When the Night Mare went invisible I knew the helm was probably my only chance. As soon as I put it on,” she said softly, “I could see the demon. And I knew how to call the fire out of myself. The knowledge was just there, as though it was something I had always known.” She stood up slowly, her voice stronger now, but bitter, too. “It’s a recompense, I suppose, to set against losing our way, our companions, and now our horses.”

“But you are still alive. That is worth a great deal.” Jehane Mor took the water bags from Kalan and tied them behind the gray horses’ saddles. “Besides, I think we may find your horses soon enough. Once their first terror has passed they are unlikely to push very fast, or far, into unknown country. In the meantime, our horses will bear a double load easily enough.”

Kalan looked at the gray horses, really taking them in for the first time. “They are big, aren’t they? I’ve never seen anything like them before.”

Jehane Mor patted her mount’s neck. “They are Great Horses out of Emer, bred to wear armor and carry the Emerian knights into battle. They are very strong, and with armorless heralds on their backs, tireless as well.” She mounted and extended a hand down to Kalan, while Malian scrambled up behind Tarathan. Kalan caught her quick look up as the gray horses turned away from the ford, but although he, too, looked for the falcon, the sky remained as empty as the road ahead.

33

T
he day grew steadily colder as they rode, with snowflakes floating intermittently out of the iron sky, and although they kept watch behind them, there was no sign of immediate pursuit. Malian frowned as the spray from another small stream flew up in their faces. “Why did the Night Mare make itself visible at all,” she asked abruptly, “when it could have caught and killed us far more easily if it had stayed concealed?”

“I know why,” said Kalan. “Many Darkswarm magics can’t be sustained over running water. It had to relinquish its concealing spell to cross the creek.”

Malian shut her eyes, then opened them again. “So it was only our crossing over before we stopped that saved us.”

“It was almost pure luck,” Kalan agreed soberly. He slanted a look across at Tarathan. “I suppose you found us by seeking, but what I really want to know is how you got here? It was like the air just opened and out you came.”

“Some kind of portal,” said Malian. If she craned, she could just see the curve of Tarathan’s profile, but not his expression, so she looked at Jehane Mor instead. “I didn’t think you had that power.”