Victory Of The Hawk Part 8

None of her friends were hurt or slain, and that truly was a mercy of Djashtet. Yet when she and Alarrah came racing into the weapons bunker, none of them had time to acknowledge their coming.

Alarrah took one look at what the others were doing, then promptly seized a bow and elbowed Gerren out of the way. They shouted hot, furious-sounding Elvish at each other-but Gerren yielded his place at the window to her. Dolmerrath's leader came to her instead, carrying himself with too-careful precision, as if at any moment he might fall.

"Kirinil is dead, akres.h.i.+." She hated to put it into speech, for saying it aloud made it real, but she couldn't tell whether Alarrah had already told him. Gerren squeezed his eyes shut, his features twisting with anguish so sharp that her magic almost woke at the sight of it. "He gave his life trying to keep the Wards from coming down."

"I felt him go," Gerren rasped. He gave Faans.h.i.+ no time to wonder at his meaning, and instead seized her nearest shoulder, turning her to directly face him. "You're a s.h.i.+elder as well as a healer-it's what you did at the abbey. If there's any chance you can do it again, now is the time."

I don't know what I did. The protest had circled time and time again through her thoughts ever since she, Julian, Kirinil and Alarrah had escaped from Arlitham Abbey, and her only comfort had been the hope that surely they'd be safe in Dolmerrath. That surely, Djashtet in Her mercy would not allow them to be threatened again, or at least not for a little while.

In that instant Faans.h.i.+ froze, shaken by the terrible fear that perhaps the Lady of Time could not match the Anreulag's power. Or even worse, that perhaps She did not exist at all. Hadn't her sister told her the elves had fought among themselves over the same doubts about their Mother of Stars? And she was no priestess, no Djashtethi sage like her okinya had been. What claim could she make to wisdom on the nature of G.o.ds?

"Tembriel! Jannyn!" Alarrah screamed then, shocking Faans.h.i.+ out of that fear and into a more immediate one-the sight of her sister in a frenzy of anger and grief, lunging toward the low, barred door at the right end of the bunker. The other two elves intercepted her even as Gerren sprang to Alarrah's side. The humans were left to pause in that moment and cast looks of anguish at each other. Rab visibly winced, while Kestar and Celoren seemed unable to look in the direction of the elves and focused stoically instead on keeping weapons trained out the windows. Behind them, Ganniwer kept handing them ammunition, though not without a troubled glance toward their elven companions.

Only Julian turned his head long enough to spy Faans.h.i.+. He didn't shout at her, for he too was keeping a gun trained out the window, and she knew him well enough now to know he wouldn't divert his attention. But the look he shot her was searing, every bit as fierce as a shout, and oddly bracing. He wasn't surprised to see her. And that he could keep his attention on the task before him told her he trusted her to do the same.

She would have to worry later about the reality of Djashtet, and apologize to the Dawnmaiden in her next prayers-if she lived to see another dawn. Julian's reality was beyond doubt, and for him and the rest of her friends, she needed to step beyond her fear. And for all her doubt, she found herself praying in reflexive hope that what lessons her teacher had imparted to her would be enough.

Faans.h.i.+ closed her eyes and strove to reach out into the world around her as she'd done with Kirinil-but this time, on no one's strength but her own.

Not once at Lomhannor Hall or since her escape had she had the chance to learn to swim. Yet flinging her power out into the cliffs and caves of Dolmerrath without Kirinil there to guide her felt like she supposed swimming must, if you'd had but a single lesson and had to jump into the ocean from a burning s.h.i.+p. Sending out her magic wasn't hard, for it leaped at the chance of liberation.

Figuring out what to do with it was far more difficult.

Her senses swam and nearly revolted beneath the flood of impressions that swamped them, sensations far less personal than what she gleaned from the mind of anyone she healed, yet far greater in breadth and scope. This time, without Kirinil's guidance, she could barely make sense of the shape and flow of the land-but on the other hand, she almost staggered and fell beneath the echo of Kirinil's magic. It hadn't faded yet, not entirely. She could sense the resonance where the Wards had been, shredded remnants of magic that had been ripped apart by the maelstrom of power out on the cliff.

It felt like pain. And pain was a foe that she could conquer.

Without her looking, her hands found the support of the rock wall behind her. When her palms connected with the stone, she thought of how she'd pulled Kestar and Julian to her in Arlitham Abbey, s.h.i.+elding them with her power. She could do nothing less for all of Dolmerrath, and if she could touch the remnants of Kirinil's magic, she could heal it. There was no time for hesitation or doubt. There was barely enough time for a prayer, and her doubt vanished in the light of faith that Djashtet would listen.

Dawnmaiden, Noonmother, Crone of Night, guide me.

The world went white around her as Faans.h.i.+'s power flared.

Chapter Eleven.

Dolmerrath, Kilmerry Province, Jeuchar 10, AC 1876 Julian hadn't admitted it to Faans.h.i.+ or even to Rab, but he still had nightmares that looked exactly like this: blinding light engulfing his entire world, an instant before searing his body to cinders. The girl had saved his life and given him back his missing eye and hand in the process-but a man didn't cheat death like that without consequences, and a deep, atavistic part of him howled when the Anreulag appeared out on the cliff. Not again.

But he had no time for fear, not even when Faans.h.i.+ came running to find them as he'd expected she would. Nor was there time to shout at her to take cover, for that howling part of him did have a point. Not again, indeed. This time he had more weapons at hand to make sure that searing fire never reached her, and fear or no fear, he was prepared to personally fire every bullet and arrow the elves had in their armory if that was what it took to keep Faans.h.i.+ safe.

Faans.h.i.+, however, rendered the entire question moot.

From her head to her feet she began to glow with a white-golden light so fierce and bright that it stung his eyes to try to look at her, never mind reach her. Nor could he see anything else, not Rab on his one side or Vaa.r.s.en and Valleford on his other, or even the musket he'd commandeered. Magic so strong that even he could feel it surged through the air, yet this time without the brutal simplicity of Kirinil's uncanny Ward-induced fright stabbing into the very center of his brain. This power was more raw, more pure, crackling over his skin without burning, and stirring something deep within his blood and bones. He knew this power. This was the magic that had reshaped him.

"Mother's Mercy," Rab breathed beside him. "What's she doing? Can she really fight off that?"

His partner latched onto his shoulder, and Julian blindly felt for his in reply, just to give himself an anchor in the dazzling, all-consuming light. "She did it once," he said. "She can do it again."

"Are you sure about that?"

"I am." That was Vaa.r.s.en on Julian's other side, his voice gone hoa.r.s.e and rough with wonder. "You didn't see what she did in the abbey. I did."

The ground shook, the latest in a cascade of tremors that drove aside all other thoughts. Julian pulled himself up to peer out through the window. Even without looking directly at Faans.h.i.+ it was hard to see, but he made out the chaotic swirl of energies turning ominously in their direction. And the figure at the heart of that storm, Her hands lifted in a gesture he'd come to know all too well.

He tried to yell a warning, and at least two of the elves shouted as well. As the Anreulag hurled a volley at the bunker, the explosion of rock and earth overpowered all their voices. Julian threw himself down, snapping up his hands to protect his skull. Yet nothing fell on him or any of the others, and in surprise, he snapped his head back up.

Faans.h.i.+'s light had not only held back the a.s.sault from the Anreulag, it sent the stone and soil flying outward. Deliverance from the threat of broken bones, however, meant only that now Julian had an unparalleled view of the Anreulag as She stalked closer to what was left of their shelter. As magic slammed into magic, the radiance diffused, turning everything strangely bright and clear. All at once Julian could see the others' shocked faces, and each and every sc.r.a.pe and bruise they'd all sustained. Whorls of dust and ash hung in the air, yet none of them obscured the s.h.i.+ning form of the girl who strode forward from the wall. Faans.h.i.+ stepped between Julian and Kestar, giving neither man time to intercept her before she pa.s.sed, and the Rook was left to exchange thunderstruck glances with Vaa.r.s.en in her wake.

"We don't want to fight you, akresha, but you're not welcome here. Please leave us in peace."

Her voice wasn't loud; it never was. But as the light was oddly clear, so too was the echo of Faans.h.i.+'s words. They resounded like chimes of gla.s.s against the rumbling, rusted snarl of the Anreulag's reply.

"You. I saw you before. You're not one of the Amatharinor. Who are you?"

Alarrah and Gerren scrambled up just behind Julian. Alarrah had risen, her bow drawn and ready, while Gerren crouched out of the line of fire. "The Moonwise," the steward whispered, all color draining from his face.

Faans.h.i.+ pressed her palms together and bowed, just as Julian had seen her do before. It should have been ridiculous now, and he couldn't quite stifle a choked bark of laughter-yet it was laughter born of pride, for the gesture was after all so very hers.

"My name is Faans.h.i.+, akresha. I am the daughter of Yamineh elif-Reshad Sarazen of Tantiulo, and of Jord Tanorel of the elves. Almighty Djashtet, the Lady of Time, has blessed me with magic, and in Djashtet's name I once more ask you to please leave us in peace."

All grew quiet as the two spoke. Those around Julian scarcely seemed to breathe, though he didn't miss that Gerren's guards had their own bows prepared, that Semai had appropriated the crossbow from the weapons chest, and that Lady Ganniwer was surrept.i.tiously pa.s.sing Vaa.r.s.en a reloaded pistol. No one spoke, nor made more than the slightest sounds of keeping their weapons at the ready. Even the sounds of fighting in the distance had faded, and Julian imagined that the Hawks and the elven scouts had also paused in their fighting to watch the confrontation unfolding between the Voice of the G.o.ds and the bravest young woman he'd ever known.

"I do not know Djashtet or Tantiulo," the Anreulag hissed. "I know only that you stand between me and Dalrannen's heir. Stand aside, daughter of Yamineh and Jord, or you and everything and everyone behind you will burn and crumble into the ocean waves."

Dalrannen's heir? Julian started and shot a glance at the elves, only to find all four stricken of expression-and staring fixedly at Kestar. With furrowed brow Vaa.r.s.en frowned back at him, but only fleetingly, for Faans.h.i.+ spoke again.

"And I don't know who Dalrannen's heir is, or what the Amatharinor are. But I do know that if you try to hurt these people I will protect and heal them. Healing is what Djashtet calls me to do." She took a few more steps forward, one hand lifting, as she stared with s.h.i.+ning eyes at the taller female before her. "And I can tell you need a healer. I'll help you if you promise to leave us alone."

Gasps sounded around Julian, and he s.h.i.+fted position, taking a hand off the musket to find one of his knives instead. Only when he grasped the hilt and drew did he realize the blade was in his right hand, the one Faans.h.i.+ had restored to him. It seems only right, he thought even as he called out, "Girl, what the nine h.e.l.ls are you doing?"

"I know pain when I see it, Julian!"

"She's right." This was from Alarrah, just behind him, in a voice choked with barely suppressed weeping. "Mother of Stars help us all, but she's right. I can sense it too."

d.a.m.ned if he could see it-the Anreulag, Her bone-white hair flying in magic-stirred disarray about Her gaunt features, didn't look to him like a being in pain. She looked like a being about to destroy them all, and with one well-aimed throw, he could plant his dagger between Her eyes. But Faans.h.i.+ was advancing, and now she was squarely in the line of fire between him and the others with ranged weapons. None of them could shoot without hitting her.

But to his surprise, the Voice of the G.o.ds, the pale specter whose coming was the nightmare of the elves and the bane of every soldier who'd ever fought in Tantiulo, actually flinched at Faans.h.i.+'s approach. "I need no healer, infant! I am powerful! I am strong!"

"Who did this to you, akresha?" Faans.h.i.+ neither slowed nor faltered, while the ambient brilliance in the air coalesced around her fingers in a crackling globe of white. From her it streamed toward the Anreulag, only to scatter in bursts against the power that the other was putting forth. "Who could have harmed the Voice of the G.o.ds?"

"Do not insult me with the name from my enslavers!"

The Anreulag's roar brought with it a new burst of power, and in the bunker, Julian and the others had to abruptly brace themselves against another tremor in the earth. Julian pressed himself against the remnants of the outer wall, gripped by blank astonishment he could see echoed in the others' faces.

Even Faans.h.i.+ paused for a moment, swaying before she regained her balance. At last she said, "Forgive me. I was a slave once. And if the man who was my master had forced me to live under another name, it would hurt me now to hear it. Is there another name I should call you?"

Horror bloomed across the Anreulag's gaunt features, widening Her eyes and making Her bare Her teeth in a snarl of fright. It escalated swiftly to an anguished, piercing scream, and then, with an eruption of force that flung Faans.h.i.+ backward, She vanished.

Julian scrambled out through the ruined wall to Faans.h.i.+'s crumpled form, ignoring all else-the cries of the others, the lessening of the power in the air, even the distant call of the horns of the scouts. Faans.h.i.+ was still glowing as he reached her and pulled her up into his arms. To his relief, she was conscious. Her eyes held far more lambent gold than green, but he didn't care what color they were, as long as they were alert and aware.

"Little eagle, you're going to drive me into apoplexy," he rasped as he hugged her close.

"She can't be a G.o.ddess, Julian, someone enslaved her," Faans.h.i.+ murmured, her voice thin, though she hugged him back with a rea.s.suring strength. "n.o.body can enslave a G.o.ddess."

"I heard. We all heard."

"What is she? Who is she? We have to find out who she is!"

The horns grew closer, along with the pounding of several horses' hooves. Voices cried out, in Elvish and in Adalonic, but none in that moment were vital enough to command his attention. Not a one demanded that he turn over Faans.h.i.+, and not a one could answer her question.

Vaa.r.s.en and Alarrah both came running, concern in their faces, and he could hardly begrudge Faans.h.i.+ the chance to embrace and rea.s.sure her sister.

It took far more will, however, to keep from grimacing as she embraced Vaa.r.s.en too.

Every muscle in Jekke's body ached. Her ears rang, and the world around her swam in a pain-ridden miasma of gray. She was no longer on her horse, though somehow she couldn't remember why, or what had happened to send her sprawling on the gravel-strewn earth.

All she could remember was that she'd been singing, lifting up her voice along with her weapons, as she and her comrades rode into battle against the elves. Then the G.o.ds' own light had erupted, and- Then she remembered. The Anreulag had come.

Jekke could still see Her, manifesting in Her glory on the cliff, and at first She'd wreaked Her havoc on the elven heathens, just as Captain Amarsaed had predicted She would. More than that, she dared not bring back to mind completely. She could smell the reek of burned flesh and spilled blood all around her, and the cries of men, women and horses, all dead or dying, still a.s.saulted her ears.

The report from Dareli was true. Mercy of the Mother, it was true, the Anreulag has turned against us. We're all going to die.

Except that, for whatever reason, the G.o.ds had allowed the Voice's sacred fire to pa.s.s her by. She lay crumpled on the ground in pain, an agony that stalked her somewhere beyond the veil of gray detachment across her senses, but one clear thought did penetrate her haze. She, Jekke Yerredes, was alive. Her face was already wet with tears, itching and sticky with dirt and most likely blood. Yet she couldn't seem to move her hand up to wipe her eyes, and so she cried unstintingly, in shock and misery. She could find no comfort in it, not when she'd lost not only Bron but also their captain, and G.o.ds only knew how many more of their force had fallen.

Unaccountably, even through her tears, her vision began to clear. Enough that she could see two blurred figures stepping into view on either side of her, each bearing muskets, and each clad in livery she'd never seen before.

"Tell the akresha," one of them said. "This one's still breathing. That makes nine all told among the Hawks."

"I'll go make the report and make sure a place is set aside for the wounded."

Jekke couldn't make out their faces. Both were speaking Adalonic, but akresha was a Tantiu word, and that made no sense at all. Who were these people if not elves?

Only as consciousness left her did she think of the insurgents they'd left behind in Shalridan, and she had no time to wonder how the rebels had caught up with them before she sank into dreams of blood and fire.

No one, least of all Gerren, had the heart to stop Alarrah from bolting out across the open windswept ground to where Faans.h.i.+ had fallen. He watched the older healer embrace the younger, and the two human men, Julian and Kestar Vaa.r.s.en, studiously avoiding each other's eyes as Faans.h.i.+ hugged both of them as well. Then Faans.h.i.+ followed Alarrah to the place where Tembriel and Jannyn had fallen, and it gave Gerren some small comfort to see Tembriel moving feebly once she was bathed in healing light. He made no move to stop the rest of the humans from venturing forth in Julian and Kestar's wake and seeing what they could do to help, for he was sure any survivors out on the field of battle would need whatever aid they could provide.

"Talnor, go back down to the stable caverns and see if the horses and those who watch over them are well." With the humans moving ahead out of earshot, he slipped back into their own language. Gerren was fluent in Adalonic, but its syllables never felt right on his tongue, and he needed what meager comfort the cadences of Elisiyanne could offer. "Gyllerah, go with him and then search the caverns to see if anyone else remains who didn't make it out on the boats."

"Sir," Talnor said, "what did she mean by calling the human 'Dalrannen's heir'?"

"Later," Gerren snapped. They couldn't talk about it, not here, not yet. Kestar Vaa.r.s.en was already suspicious of his strange status as Riniel Radmynn's great-grandson, but this was something else altogether-something which Gerren, as one of the few historians left among their people, recognized in rising dread. "We need to concern ourselves with the living. Then the dead."

Gyllerah spoke, even more reluctantly than Talnor had done, her voice roughened with exhaustion and grief. "But sir...your brother."

Gerren slammed his eyes shut for a moment, just barely managing not to shout at his guards, and only with an effort did he finally answer. "Go to Kirinil's quarters, if the pa.s.sages are still clear after the pounding Dolmerrath just took. Find his body and make certain he is ready to be laid to rest, in honor, with the others we've lost today."

He couldn't bring himself to look at either of them or say anything more, and after a moment, he felt the slight breeze of their pa.s.sing as they slipped on noiseless feet back down the stairs. Not until they were gone did he draw in a deep breath and open his eyes once more, and he lifted his head to survey what lay before him.

The scouts were beginning to limp out of the woods, some on foot, some leading horses that looked as tired and as harried as they. Alarrah and Faans.h.i.+ ran ahead to meet them, and in short order he could see the two females moving through the trees. Faans.h.i.+'s power once more lit the day, but this time without the incredible force she'd released against the Anreulag. This was a light of healing, not of defense against one with the power of a G.o.ddess.

She's not one of the Moonwise. But if she'd lived in the days before Astllerame fell, she would have been.

Moving more slowly, the humans spread out in the healers' wake. Lady Ganniwer and Celoren Valleford applied themselves to lending supportive shoulders to those who couldn't quite make it to Dolmerrath's shelter on their own, while the others started a search through the trees along paths pointed out by the tired gestures of the scouts.

Two of his people, though, picked up their pace as soon as they caught sight of him by the bunker's shattered wall. Despite their haggard faces they ran with purpose, and once they came close enough to speak, he recognized them. Nerior and his spouse Alanniel, two of the best warriors among the scouts, were both pale and disheveled. Their long dark hair was in disarray, and both were wounded, but neither gravely. Nerior's sleeve was sliced open upon an oozing bullet graze, and Alanniel bore a long bleeding scratch across her left cheek.

"Sir...most of the Hawks are dead," Nerior reported in a hoa.r.s.e and breathless voice. "We killed many, but the Anreulag felled even more."

"But another force has come," Alanniel added. Her eyes had gone flat and dull, but her tone was steadier than that of her partner's. "More humans. They came up from the south while we engaged the Hawks, and we never saw them coming because we were too distracted by the Anreulag. They call themselves the army of Nirrivy, and their messengers say their leader would like to speak with you."

Startled, Gerren asked, "Does their leader offer us a name?"

"She does, sir. Khamsin elif-Darim Sarazen, d.u.c.h.ess of Shalridan, of Nirrivy and Tantiulo."

The windswept expanse of an ocean cliff was almost the furthest thing from a southern desert that Khamsin could imagine. But when it was strewn with the bodies of the dead and dying, it began to look almost familiar-and when the stenches of blood and burning struck her nostrils, a part of her that had lain buried for twenty years stirred into sharp and acrid life. She remembered those smells. More important, she remembered how the earth had shaken in Tantiulo, and how the very air had turned to fire when the Anreulag walked among the soldiers of the Clans.

She remembered it so vividly that she issued the strictest of orders to hold her regiment back from engaging the Hawks when the Voice of the G.o.ds appeared, for it'd been all too clear that She was in no mood for mercy, or for making alliances with anyone foolish enough to come near to Her. Khamsin hadn't had to order her people twice. Indeed, she'd slipped a prayer of grat.i.tude to Djashtet that none of her people had bolted out of their formation.

Not that they were truly her people, not when she was the only Tantiu woman among a force of white-faced northerners. But she had married one of them, and their fort.i.tude made her proud to lead them now.

At her command, when the Anreulag disappeared, they moved forward to see what She'd left behind. Khamsin's soldiers found dozens of dead Hawks and nine live ones, though several of those were direly hurt. Dead elves also littered the bracken, but these had defenders, scouts in green and brown who narrowly missed shooting her anxious messengers before they could blurt out the words they'd been ordered to relay on her behalf.

But they'd taken her message, and come back with the news that the leader of the elves would allow her approach.

She left orders to the men and women who followed her to hold their camp, and took with her only Idrekke Sother and Cortland Grenham-the latter as Khamsin suspected she was about to find her missing young kinswoman at last, along with the fugitive Hawks and the a.s.sa.s.sins who'd infiltrated Lomhannor Hall. Father Grenham had given some of them shelter at his abbey, and thus had a greater chance than she of cajoling them to their cause. Likewise she elected to approach the elves on foot, for horses would speak too strongly of power to a people from whom her husband had once culled his slaves.

It took surprisingly little effort to find where the elves were congregating. She, Sother and Grenham had but to follow the trail of blasted ground, charred wood and shattered stone to the hole in the cliff top. They pa.s.sed any number of elves clad in green and gray and brown, occupied with the grim task of carrying slack bodies away from the field of battle. More elves in truth than Khamsin had seen since the war in Tantiulo, and she couldn't entirely suppress a s.h.i.+ver of nervousness at the weight of two dozen unreadable gazes turning to track her progress. The d.u.c.h.ess allowed none of that unease to reach her countenance, however, and Sother and Grenham took their cue from her. They walked without hesitation toward the remains of a wall of stone, before which several more elves and humans had gathered.

In the heart of that group, two figures with s.h.i.+ning hands were attending wounded fighters. Only then did Khamsin pause, for she recognized one of the healers. Her young kinswoman had changed her appearance since she'd fled Lomhannor Hall; she was wearing a strange mix of Tantiu and elven garb, with a green korfi around her head standing out in contrast with her simple s.h.i.+rtwaist and trousers. The golden-brown hands haloed in light, however, were unmistakable. Khamsin had seen those hands at work more than once, and the sight of them stopped her in her tracks.

If she were still at Lomhannor Hall, my husband might still be alive.

Her husband's escaped slave. Her dead sister's daughter.

Faans.h.i.+.

"That's her," Sister Sother murmured. "By the Allmother, she's healing them all."