The Sacred Hunt Duology (102 page)

Had there been, Torvan would not have noticed it. His movements were stiff and jerky; his face had the appearance of thickness, of heaviness, that made it look as if he were wearing a mask.

A flesh mask.

Some of the Chosen cried out—those who were in a position to see what had happened. Swords, already drawn and blooded, were turned back, retreat was forgotten.

Not for the first time, Jewel understood just how special, and how honored, the Chosen felt in their service. For where they had shown no fear at the onslaught of the darkness and its terrible silence, their expressions now were those of open horror. Like Jewel, they were momentarily frozen and silent.

The silence dissolved in a roar that filled the hall with loss, with a keening wail that spoke of betrayal and failure so large that it made Jewel's guilt seem—for as long as the cry lingered—paltry. Torvan turned to face them, casting his sword and his dagger aside, arms wide, lips trembling.

And she saw his face.

She
saw
his face.

Shadow parted where the Hunter's Death tore it free from ground and alcove, from wall, mirror, and painting. But it did not give ground easily, and it did not give ground without making the gains of the great beast costly.

Had there been blood before the Hunt was called? Stephen couldn't remember it. The darkening splatters on his clothing were pale evidence; easily forgotten as he watched the progress of death itself across the width of the foyer.

Savaged bodies lay aground like shattered vessels. The hand of night was lifting, and Stephen could see, behind the roving frame of the beast, the clash of swords that were more magical than physical: Meralonne and Sor na Shannen. Light arced around them, in pale twists of different colors; light the offense, and
light the defense. On such stuff as this, he had first learned to read, to dream, to remember the glory of ages past.

He never, never wished to see it again.

For here, in this hall, power spoke with such savagery that the conflict behind it was almost forgotten. Where at first he thought the bodies in the wake of the called Hunt were due to the Hunter's Death, he realized now that they were also the casualty of the battle between the two mages. Neither mage seemed to care what cost they exacted from their surroundings; the columns that framed the southern halls had crushed two of the Allasakari in their fall.

He looked away with a lurch as Gilliam reached out to grab—and hold—his attention.

Saving only Sor na Shannen, there were no more of the enemy; the last had given up its feeble struggles with a screaming wail that made Stephen long for the silence the Hunter's Horn had destroyed. The great beast of the Sacred Hunt roared in triumph—and then it turned its wide, feral jaws to the retreating forces of The Terafin. To Gilliam, Espere, and Evayne.

To Stephen of Elseth.

“Call it off!” someone shouted. Stephen turned to see the ashen face of a lithe and lean guard. “We can't retreat—The Terafin's been injured. It's done what it was summoned for—call it off!”

He stared at her helplessly, and she repeated the words, loudly and slowly, as if she were speaking to an imbecile. What answer could he offer her?

“CALL IT OFF!”

Call off the breaking of the earth; call off the wail of the sea's retribution; call off the wind-tossed storms that ravaged the eastern plains, or the fires that claimed the forests, or the mountains that surrendered their snow in a rush that buried whole villages. Sooner that than the Hunter's Death.

“We don't—we don't control it,” he shouted back. “It's—you've got to flee!”

• • •

It wasn't like Rath.

With Rath, at first sight, she'd
known.
That knowledge drove her here, with what was left of her den under wing—to Torvan. To Torvan, who had carried Arann, dying, in from the streets where any other guard would've probably given them the heave. And that man was there—she knew it just as surely as she'd known that Rath was not.

Problem was that he wasn't alone. Something was in there with him.

“Don't kill him!” she shouted, and her voice reverberated in the clamor below. Too late—was it always to be too damned late? Lightning lanced down from the ceiling above, speeding unerringly by in a crackle of magical blue light.

Torvan didn't move; struck where he stood, he faltered, stumbled, and then righted himself. He looked up, scanning the mezzanine until he found what he
sought. Morretz. His lips turned up in the rictus of a smile, and Jewel knew that Torvan was still there—but whatever was in there with him had just gained a whole lot of ground.

“Stop it!” she shouted to the domicis. “Stop it—you're just making it worse!”

Lightning, called by the unseen other, lanced up from the floor, drawn in a circle of gesture and fire. Morretz leaped off the landing before the rails were made kindling and smoldering brass.

The Chosen closed.

As did Jewel.

• • •

She knew that her part was a small one. No one would listen to her, and she didn't blame them—or she wouldn't later when she was thinking clearly—but she had to do something, and she lit upon the only idea that made any sense. Carver.

It was easy enough to reach him; he hadn't a chance at getting past the armored men and women who were trying to reach The Terafin's body.

“Where is it?” she asked, as quietly as the noise allowed.

He jumped five feet and spun, daggers point out; relaxed a bit when he saw who it was. His face was pale beneath the darkness of his hair; wasn't hard to guess how much he wanted to toss the knives and run. But he hadn't. She caught his left forearm, squeezed it, and nodded, a weary smile dimpling her cheek. Carver and Duster had killed before they'd come to her den, but Carver hadn't killed since. She was suddenly glad, in the midst of this slaughter, that he wasn't going to have to start now. “Where is it?”

He reached into his shirt, pulled hard, and handed her the sheathed dagger. She was surprised at how heavy it was.

“It's not Torvan, is it?” Carver asked her.

“It's not just Torvan—but he's there. In there.”

He spit to the side. “What do you want us to do?”

“Nothing.” She unsheathed the knife. “Nothing at all. Just get the Hells out of the halls, and take everyone else with you.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Get out!” Lightly and quickly, weaving around the rigid bodies of moving men and women, she began to hunt her target.

• • •

Salas' brown coat was matted and sticky; his legs were cut, and blood clotted the wounds slowly. But he stood at his master's side, growling, his ears so far back against his skull they might as well have been missing. Connel, young and light on his feet, was limping. Hard to tell whether or not that meant a break. Stephen might have prayed to the Hunter God for better fortune, but he knew that right now, no one was listening.

Ashfel, the largest of the alaunts, iron-gray and iron-hard, stood in the front,
bristling. He knew the Hunter's Death, but he did not fear it; he was Gilliam's liege, and that was his only cause. Marrat's body lay where it had fallen beside him.

The beast roared, and Ashfel growled back, lips curled up over sharp, white teeth. Gilliam, sword blooded and readied, stepped forward. Espere whimpered, and Gilliam's jaw set in a tight, angry line.

He was trying to send her away. She refused to leave. And Stephen knew that Gilliam was dangerously close to the end of his reserves; he would not waste them on struggling with the wild one. The wild one.

She turned and roared at the beast; the beast pulled up on its hind legs and roared back. Stephen thought—for just a moment—that she might somehow be able to speak with the creature. Something flickered in its multicolored eyes; something that seemed almost intelligent.

Then it was gone, and the beast continued to stalk a quarry that barely moved.

• • •

Jewel.

She looked up at the sound of her voice, even though she knew at once that she would see no one calling.

Jewel.

No time for it; not now. Or maybe there was, curse it. The Chosen were determined to end this in their own way—and as fire lapped up from the ground to sizzle their legs, she wondered if she would have any chance to reach Torvan before she, he, and they perished.

Jewel, listen carefully. Raise your right arm if Torvan is of the kin. Raise your left if he is not.

Something about the voice was familiar. She couldn't place it. Didn't matter. She lifted both her arms in a quick sweep and then lowered them again.

In the silence of her private ear, the voice said something extremely curt and extremely rude. So it was odd that she would recognize his voice only then: He was Morretz, the domicis—the most trusted servant that The Terafin had.

“Morretz!” she shouted, hoping to catch his attention. “I need your help!”

Up ahead, the clanging of swords answered her. She shuddered because she knew that Torvan no longer carried one.

We don't have a choice. We have to kill him.

“We have a choice, curse it—get me
to
him!” The words had barely left her lips before she remembered the old Valley proverb that her mother's mother had often quoted after the end of her long and magical tales.
But be warned that you'll get what you ask for if you ask it of a mage
—
and it won't be what you expected, because the mage-born are like that.

Jewel had never thought to meet one mage-born.

When the ground peeled away from her feet, she was so shocked not even a
squeak came out of her mouth. Like a drunken bird attempting to wing its way to the safety of a familiar perch, she lurched in the air, spinning slightly as she tried to get a grasp on the events beneath her feet.

At your command
, the voice said.

Silence was her best weapon, and she kept it—but she promised herself that Morretz was going to get an earful when this was settled, one way or the other.

• • •

Stephen had never loved the dogs, not the way Gilliam had. It wouldn't have been possible, and besides, it was not one of his duties. But he did love Gilliam, and he knew that the dogs—those that remained alive—were the vessels that carried Gilliam's heart. Such as it was.

Although he knew it was foolish—knew that to approach a hound in pain was the act of a madman, or a Hunter—he grabbed Connel's small body, taking care to catch his head and confine his jaws. Connel twisted and whined, and then, miraculously, became still.

Ah. Gilliam.

Keep him quiet, Gil
, he thought, as he handed the dog to Evayne. She blanched and stumbled a bit, but righted herself, carrying the injured alaunt like the burden he was.

“What are you—”

“Take him. Leave. Now.”

“What about—”

“If I've earned the right to ask any boon of you, let it be this. Take the dog to the healerie.”

He turned, hoping she was safe.

The great beast was upon them.

• • •

The dagger began to glow. At first, Jewel thought it was reflected lamplight, but as she lurched and spun—held by some invisible string, rather than magically steady hands—it became clear that the fire was coming from within. The dagger was golden, and as she moved it seemed to drink light from the air, capturing it for its own use.

She prayed, as she flew—if flight it was—although she did not know the words or the ceremony that the dagger demanded. Beneath her hand were the joined symbols of the trinity; the dagger had been blessed at the highest altars of each of the three Churches in the Holy Isle. But the man who had accepted their blessing had also partaken of the sacraments of the three. She hadn't. Prayer would have to do, and if fervor counted in the fields above, the Gods would have no choice but to listen and acknowledge.

She positioned the dagger carefully, gripping its hilt tightly with both hands; no other choice of movement was given to her. Morretz was the fighter here; he
made all decisions except the thrust of the dagger itself. She wondered, briefly, why she hadn't thought to give him the knife—but as the strings were suddenly cut, as weight returned to her body, dragging it downward in a rush of air, she knew why.

The man that was, and was not, her friend, turned at the last moment, crying out in a language that she didn't understand—and, judging from the tone, just as well. He had time to react, he was so damned fast. His palm sprouted a blade of flame, and he slashed out at her.

No, not at her—at the dagger.

The heat of the flames seared her skin, singed her clothing—but the blade continued to fall, untouched by the magical attack. The pain was enough to jar her, but not enough to force her to forget what the purpose of
her
attack—not Morretz'—was.

Jewel's teeth pierced the skin of her lower lip—when the Hells had she started biting it?—as the dagger plunged into Torvan's left shoulder, slicing through chainlink and underpadding into the flesh below. Blood weltered up—blood and blackness, crimson and night.

She heard two things simultaneously: a grunt of pain and a scream of agony. Torvan stumbled and doubled over, scratching at his shoulder in a frenzy. More blood, and more shadow. But the blood that reached the ground beneath his metal-jointed knees remained as it was, wet and sticky; the shadow began to smoke.

“Chosen, in the name of The Terafin, stay your ground! Hold your arms!” Morretz' voice.

Pulling the blade back, Jewel crouched over Torvan's bent body, staring wide-eyed at the Chosen who were, once again, still and watchful. The dagger was no longer glowing; its fire was quenched in the cold darkness. They had, she thought, consumed each other.

“Jewel—what has happened?” It was Arrendas. Torvan's friend. White face framed by dark beard and halved by a thin, red line an inch below his eyes, he watched her warily.