Lady Warhawk (40 page)

The Nameless One would be prepared for Mrillis to call the sword to him, and would try
to deflect the weapon away, into Edrout's grasp. He would not be ready for the sword to be sent
away from the Warhawk's hands.

The towers of Quenlaque were visible, pennants flying in the stiff breeze off the water,
when the attack came. Mrillis felt a sudden change in pressure around him that didn't touch his
hair or cloak or the tall grass of the plain ahead of them. He turned to face its source and flung up
a wall of woven Threads that flashed bright and writhed visibly in the air--a diversion, as
Meghianna deployed the second part of their defensive tactic.

Shadowy shapes emerged from splits in the still, gray morning air, soldiers wrapped in
the telltale dark haze of Edrout's and Megassa's magic. They surged out of the cover of the trees
and their cloaking magic, aiming for the party of women. Their magic flared in black, oily bursts
as they fought Mrillis' wall of Threads, struggling to cut their way through.

Then they crashed, hard, against the wall of the tunnel of protection that led all the way
to Quenlaque's gates. Trumpets rang out in harsh challenge, and an army of Valors streamed out
from those same gates, splitting to go around the women and enclose them. Half the Valors kept
moving, racing out to meet the enemy, while the other half escorted the women into the safety of
the magic walls enclosing Quenlaque.

In his mind's eye, Mrillis saw Emrillian leap from her mother's saddle, into Athrar's
waiting arms, giggling and wriggling excitedly. It made him smile, and made his heart ache, to
imagine the little girl's delight at seeing her beloved papa. How many times had Athrar been able
to hold his wife and daughter in the few short years since Emrillian's birth? Seven, eight
times?

Emrillian knew her father because he spoke to her through the Threads every night
before she went to sleep, but that wasn't enough for Mrillis. He knew the ache of a father's arms,
unable to hold his child, deprived of the simple pleasure of going to sleep with his wife in his
arms. Echoes of prophecy pressed against Mrillis' heart, a heavy ache that bowed his shoulders.
He chose to lie to Athrar for the first time in the young king's life, and tell him yes, soon it would
be over, and his loved ones would be safe and with him at last.

You will pay for that lie, too,
Mrillis silently told his ancient enemy, yanking
his thoughts away from the family that was now safely within Quenlaque's walls. He doubled his
focus on the dark knot of thick, churning malevolence that had formed on the horizon, behind the
soldiers who surrounded the plain and the bubble of impenetrable magic enclosing
Quenlaque.

We are ready,
Meghianna called.

Brace yourself,
Mrillis said. He raised his hands, reaching with physical and
mental fingers for the trigger points they had woven into the sky-web. All their allies were ready
for the sudden draining of power from the very fabric of the World. They were ready in their
imaginations, but Mrillis feared the jolt, the change, the sudden draining of magic from the world
would startle many.

He hoped that their enemies were too dependent on
imbrose
and Thread magic,
and were ten times as startled.

"Estall, guard us. Let this sacrifice not be in vain," Mrillis said between gritted teeth. He
felt Meghianna's mental hands join his among the Threads. "Now!"

They pulled. Dull, oily rainbow ripples of power spread across the sky, flashes of muted
lightning that outlined the progress of the sky-web as it thickened and solidified and blocked out
all the rest of the world, so that all of Lygroes was enclosed in a dome that went down far into
the ground, through the bedrock, cutting the sea apart. The ground heaved like the waves of the
sea under Mrillis. He held tight to his horse, steadying the faithful beast with hands and legs and
mind, as three, four, five waves of reaction made the solid ground rise and fall like water.

Silence fell on the land. Mrillis held his breath, waiting for that first touch of wind.
What if they cut themselves off so completely from all the rest of the World that there was no air,
no sunlight, and they ultimately killed themselves?

A bird let out a few tentative notes. Mrillis relaxed the death grip of one hand, and
waited. Something rustled in the trees far to his left. He sent a questing tendril of thought through
the Threads, and found a rabbit peering from the roots of a massive, fallen tree. Another rustle
showed a few tree branches bobbing--then a touch of cool breeze on his sweaty forehead.

We have succeeded, Meghianna said.
We have locked ourselves in with the enemy,
and the rest of the World is safe. The Estall guard and guide us now. We need his help more than
ever.

Guard those in Quenlaque,
he said.
Until we know who has magic and who
has no
imbrose
, no one is safe.

He looked out across the plain and choked on a mixture of laughter and tears and
nausea. The black haze had left the enemy soldiers. Many lay unmoving on the ground, deprived
of strength by the sudden draining of power from the Threads. How many of them, Mrillis
wondered, were animated dead bodies? How many were dupes of the Nameless One, perhaps
even puppets, deprived of their wills, and now set free?

The Valors were the first to move, letting out a harsh battle cry that was partly surprise.
They had been warned, and those with the strongest
imbrose
had chosen to ride out,
wagering with themselves that when the levels of power dropped in the World, they would still
have some magic to use in battle. They surged forward as one body, spreading out to create a
wall six men deep, racing toward the enemy soldiers.

Mrillis watched, his heart and breath catching in his chest, as nearly every mobile enemy
soldier turned and ran, fleeing to the forest and south, to the Nameless One's territory.

* * * *

"It's like reducing a very loud army of musicians down to a small troop," Meghianna
said. "It's amazing what a drastic change there is in the feeling, the sound of magic running
throughout the World. And rather startling that there was all that... Not noise, but that's the only
word I can think of. All that background noise, that I didn't even realize was there, until it was
taken away."

"Yes, but is that a good thing, or a bad thing?" Athrar said. He slouched in his chair at
the council table, looking more weary than any young man his age had any right to look.

And yet Mrillis sensed the young king felt more at peace than he had in years. There
was something to be said for fatherhood, he supposed. Twenty days now, Ynfara and Emrillian
had been in Quenlaque, and every afternoon Athrar took time away from his duties to play with
his daughter, and every night he put her to bed with a story and slept with his wife in his
arms.

There was some healing and restoration that even the strongest magic could not
accomplish, to match the food for heart and soul that Athrar had now. Mrillis was glad for him,
for all three of them.

"A very good thing," Deyral said. "Ironic as it might seem to those who are not so
versed in the music and discord among the Threads. It makes our task of finding the Nameless
One much simpler. Where he is, where his blood magic dominates, is a silence that, on closer
examination, is dissonance. Without the background sounds and feelings of the Threads full of
power, it is much easier to sense that silence--because, ironically again, it is not silence at
all."

"It buzzes," Meghianna said. "Like flies on a bloated corpse. We can hear where Edrout
and Megassa lead their troops, and we can feel where the Nameless One and his armies
head."

"Two solid masses now?" Athrar sat up. "No more ragged fringes? Our marauders have
frightened them into unity. Safety in numbers." He nodded, his smile growing grimmer, wider,
fiercer. "Where are they?"

He rested both hands on Braenlicach, which lay sheathed across the table in front of
him. The sword glowed, black and red streaks among the acidic blue of power. Lycen, sitting at
his right hand, raised his head from the stacks of scrolls and tablets and single sheets of
parchment holding scouting reports. The two adopted brothers' gazes met and locked, and they
nodded in understanding.

Mrillis saw Meghianna stiffen, watching the two young men. The color left her cheeks,
and grim resolve settled over her as well. He ached for her, and the sacrifice she might be called
upon to make before this major offensive was over.

"Meggi..." Athrar sighed. "I want you to take Ynfara and Emmi away from Quenlaque.
Take Ilianora and Garad with them."

"But--"

"Garad said Emmi had nightmares during her nap the last three days," Lycen said,
reaching out to rest his hand on hers. "She had a nosebleed yesterday."

"Megassa is trying again, isn't she?" Meghianna whispered. She nodded. "You think
she'll try to bind to Emmi and kill her again. Of course. Distract us... She'll expect us to take
Emmi to the Stronghold to protect her."

"When you changed the protective spells around the Vale of Bo'Lantier and the tunnel,
you essentially cut it off from all the rest of the World, yes?" Athrar said. "Will that be a better
hiding place even than the Stronghold?"

"Much better," Mrillis said. "I have already detected a shifting in time around Lygroes.
The world moves on ahead of us. By the halfway point into the tunnel, it will be as if Emrillian
and everyone with her no longer exists."

"Then make it so," Athrar said. "Take them tonight." He managed a twitch of his lips.
"And if we don't survive, I want it recorded that Lycen is regent for the throne, and his sons after
him, to stand with Emrillian and ensure the crown rests on her head someday, and Braenlicach is
put into her hands."

* * * *

Mrillis rode out to the middle of a plain already scoured empty and scarred by dozens of
battles fought with magic and fire. It was rutted by rain and hooves and wagon wheels, poisoned
by blood. Mrillis knew the Nameless One would come here, the signs were too clear. He
suspected his ancient foe considered this a trap, but just who would the trap catch and crush
today?

The strongest enchanters of Wynystrys rode with Mrillis, staying hidden in the tree line
among the much-reduced numbers of Valors who still retained their
imbrose
. Mrillis fed
them energy through the Threads, fed to him by the Zygradon--wherever it still lay hidden. He
supposed that if he survived this battle, the next step would be to hunt down the Zygradon. Or
would there really be a need? With the Nameless One finally destroyed--and that was the only
outcome of this coming confrontation--the bowl of power would be safer than it had ever
been.

No matter how this last battle turned out, Emrillian would be safe. Mrillis found great
comfort in that. He wished he could convince Meghianna to stay with Ynfara and Emrillian,
once she had them safely settled in the waystop halfway through the tunnel under the sea. She
insisted on coming back to stand with Athrar.

"And to clean up the mess you three make," she had added, before she left the council
chamber to awaken Ynfara and Emrillian for their journey. "I've always been cleaning up after
messy, rambunctious boys, one way or another."

"I'm sorry, Mother." Lycen's voice cracked a little with fatigue. "We'll try to do
better."

"You're too old to mend your ways." She had laughed, tears in her eyes. "Just see that
my grandson learns better."

Then she had turned and left. Mrillis smiled now into the darkness before dawn, feeling
the stirring of questing tendrils of non-magic, anti-magic, and knew the Nameless One was
reaching blindly through the torn, dead landscape, preparing for battle.

The sensation of nothingness thickened around him, making it harder to detect the signs
of life in the few animals in the forest far on the edges of this tormented plain. He wondered if
the Nameless One knew how much easier it had become to detect his non-magic, his anti-magic,
now that so much power had been drained away.

Somewhere along the coast, the ground shuddered from Edrout and Megassa's combined
magical attacks, as they attempted to break through the dome enclosing Lygroes. Athrar prepared
his forces for one massive battle. Lycen stood with him, partners as they had always been, since
the day Mrillis brought a sleepy, dazed three-year-old Athrar to Meghianna's inn.

If I can ask for anything more this morning, as all the World is about to
change,
he prayed,
do not separate the brothers, blessed Estall. Let them grow old
together, watching each other's grandchildren and great-grandchildren, remembering their days
of glory and laughing about the stupidity of battle. Let my boys grow old.

Then the faint glow of pre-dawn silver on the far horizon turned black, writhing like a
blanket of carrion beetles across a liquefying corpse. Mrillis planted his feet in the scarred rock
and reached with hands and feet, both mental and physical, to brace himself. He cloaked himself
with layers of Threads, tightly woven, mimicking the dome in the sky. To the physical eye, he
was just a stooped old man, shivering a little in the pre-dawn chill.

Sixty years ago, Mrillis had ridden out alone, cloaked in rage and loss and grief,
prepared to do battle with his best friend in vengeance for the lives of Ceera and Emrillian, and
the women who had died in Triska's plague. The battle had taken a year, with time twisted and
knotted and stretched around the two combatants.

He swore this battle would take only a moment. He could wait for the Nameless One to
come to him. He had all the time in the world.

Ready, lad?
he called through the single Thread that connected him with
Athrar.

The Nameless One only understood taking, not giving--demanding and threatening, not
asking. It would never occur to him that Athrar would willingly send Braenlicach into the hands
of another. That would be their secret weapon, the surprise that would turn the tide of the
battle.