The Sacred Hunt Duology (106 page)

A
twang
cut the silence, and a crack; Verrus Allamar smiled broadly as he glanced down at the quarrel in his right fist. With a twist of fingers, he snapped it in two and tossed it aside.

Devon cursed and lowered the crossbow; Kallandras felt a twinge of surprise; he hadn't noticed the older man arming himself with the weapon, and he was not given to missing much. Fire flared from Allamar's hands, singeing the wall where Devon wasn't.

Devon ATerafin could
move.

“It has started,” Allamar said, with a grin that was literally too wide for his face. “Shall we dispense with pretense?” He gestured in a wide arc, and his skin began to fall away, peeling down the sides of his face even as it burned. Throughout it all, his grin grew wider—and the teeth in his mouth more pronounced, more fanglike.

The men at his back and side, dressed in the two crowns above the crossed rod and staff, bore quiet witness to the transformation.

Devon swore as he gained the ground two inches from Kallandras. “Not one of those men are ours,” he said.

“Then we have our work cut out for us,” was his companion's inflectionless reply, “for there are seventy-seven of them.” He paused. Then, “ATerafin, what do you know of the
Allasakari
?”

Devon ATerafin's low, vicious curse was all the answer he needed.

• • •

The Kings' Swords regrouped in front of the doors to the Hall of Wise Counsel; there were forty of them now. Devon ATerafin joined them. Kallandras did not, for he was in need of shadow more than he feared it, and he was not trained to work with such obvious soldiers.

Meralonne, curse him, was nowhere to be found—and from the gathering darkness that centered upon Allamar—upon what had once been Allamar—he would be missed.

With hooks and grappling ropes, the enemy began to descend from the gallery; the two sets of stairs, delicate and narrow, were barely wide enough for one large man in good armor.

Their leader came as well, stepping out into midair and finding, in the thickening shadow, a platform that slowly descended. “We will kill you quickly, or we will kill you slowly,” the creature that had been Allamar said. “But this is the only chance you will have to choose. Choose swiftly.”

“Why have you come?” Devon asked, gaining what time he could.

Allamar's teeth flashed; it was clear that he understood the gambit. “Why, to kill the Kings, of course. The Queens are already dead.”

Silence, deep and profound.

Then: The clang of swords against shields in the dim hall, a metallic cry of despair.

“No quarter!” cried Verrus Sivari.

“No quarter?” Allamar replied, incredulous.
“No quarter?”
He lifted his arms, throwing them wide; fire flared like a fan from the arc he traced in the air.

There was no time to brace for the fire, but the men that Devon had chosen were fast enough to respond, raising shields in a line against magics that they did not understand. If Verrus Sivari had only a few seconds to speak—if he had the choice of only two words—he had chosen well. The men and women sworn to the service of the Crowns did not falter.

Not even when the fire splintered their shields.

Behind the Allasakari and their leader, the shadows grew, leeching the chamber of color, and then, of light. In a mockery of the uniforms they wore, the Allasakari paused in ugly salute and then drew their weapons—not swords, but
daggers. The blades did not glint or reflect light in any way; they were like pieces of the shadow itself, made hard and sharp.

“Your souls will feed our Lord,” Allamar said. “The first of many so reaved. Take them!”

“Bold,” a quiet voice said, “and as ever, a liar. We know well that the Gods alone may take such a sacrifice.”

“What is this?” Allamar looked into the galleries above. His eyes narrowed, and then he grinned broadly, for around the galleries, against each of three walls, was a thin line of shadowed figures. “Do you think to menace me?”

The reply seemed to come from all around, above and below; it was colder than the darkness of moonless winter in the northern wastes.
“Kevellar-arrensas
, I bind you by the power of the trinity made one. Your name, the Hells have surrendered.”

The creature cried out, and its followers shifted, shying like horses made nervous by sounds of unexpected battle.

“And no,” the voice continued, coming now from the center of each of the four chamber walls, “the darkness shall not take what we have labored to capture; this is
Averalaan Aramarelas
and when the Lord of Darkness himself walked upon this world, his city still fell before the trinity.”

The shadows that had filled the room ceased their upward struggle.

“Reymaris,” a deep voice said, as a man stepped forward into a light that had no source. He was dressed in the simple robes of the Church, and girded round with a single, sheathed sword; he wore a small shield strapped across his chest from shoulder to waist, but did not seek to ready it.

“Cormaris,” another said, and he, too, came forward, bearing the staff of his office.

“The Mother.” This third voice was the only voice that was tinged with regret, and yet the woman who spoke was stern in seeming. Her hair was golden, but drawn and bound tightly, and she wore a shift that would have been more appropriate on a well-muscled farmwife.

“Think you to bind me so close to the source of His power?” Allamar was incredulous, and yet beneath the scorn of his words was the first hint of doubt. “He stood against the trinity until the coming of the cursed rider—He has nothing to fear from you!” Once again, fire gouted from his fingertips.

“Forgive me, but I fear you misunderstand me. The trinity
is
the power that will bind you—but it is not the only power present.” The first voice to speak was also the last, yet no figure came to stand out of the darkness and the shadows. The demon's fire went out so suddenly it might never have been called. “For I represent the Covenant of Man—the Covenant and its maker.” The voice changed in tenor. “Lord of the Hells, bear witness: We are the sons and daughters of mankind, and these lands are ours. We have worked our lives against your dominion, and we
declare ourselves now. Behold!” And the shadows were devoured in an instant, snapping and shattering into a welter of light—and at that, no cold light, but the light of spring dawning, the light of summer day, the light of autumn's harvest. The light of the trinity.

“This is not possible!” the creature cried.

Night itself shrank from the Exalted as they stood at the edge of the gallery: East, South, and West. They looked down, the hidden power of their heritage unveiled for a moment as the creature named Kevellar-arrensas struggled against a binding not visible to the naked eye. But his struggle diminished as the binding grew; in the end, not even his eyes were free to move.

Bereft of the shadow and the demon that led them, the Allasakari did many things. Some fled toward the doors to the west, and some to the galleries; some drew weapons other than the daggers that had, with the shadow, evaporated; some formed up into a loose, defensive line; some attempted to draw upon the power of the God they worshiped, pulling out their ebon amulets and holding them aloft in angry defiance.

But they all died.

For in the galleries, behind the Exalted, waited the shadowed forms of the Astari. Masked and clothed in a uniform that was a simple, dark ash, they leveled crossbows—or longbows—and fired into the Allasakari below. No one spoke to stop the slaughter.

• • •

Devon waited until the last bowstring quivered into silence before he looked up at the gallery. The Exalted—the three!—stood as they had when they'd stepped forward; they were serene in expression, but to his eye pale, and all of their attention was focused upon their captive.

To either side of each of the Exalted, the Astari were putting up their weapons. A few left the gallery, no doubt to rummage among the dead and the dying to ensure that their work was finished.

Devon did not speak, but waited. The knives of the compact were sharp and quick—more merciful than their victims deserved. They rose and fell thrice in the lights, glinting; there was little struggle.

At last, a lone figure detached himself and came to where the Kings' Swords kept their vigil. He bowed, very low, to Verrus Sivari. “As you commanded,” he said softly. It was hard to place the voice, and hard to guess the age of its speaker; the Verrus did not bother to try.

“You knew of this in advance,” he said coldly, “and you passed no word to the Kings' Swords.”

“The Kings' Swords are not our responsibility,” the man replied, but smoothly and almost deferentially. “The Kings are. Between us, we have ensured their safety. Had there been time, we would have warned you.”

The Verrus said something rude, but not at all unprofessional; he had been, after all, a soldier. “You had the time to roust the Exalted,” he said coldly. “You had the time to inform us.”

“Although I owe you no explanation, Verrus, I will say this: The Exalted were ready and waiting for us;
we
did not go to
them.
Had that been necessary . . .” He shrugged; they both knew what the lost time would have meant.

There was a long pause before either man spoke again. When one did, it was the Verrus. “The Queens?”

“The Queens,” the Astari said, with infinitely more regret in his voice, “are also not our responsibility.”

Silence.

Verrus Sivari said nothing to the Astari. Instead he turned and began to give orders; there were few to give. His men left with haste in a grim and orderly silence that was punctuated only by the sound of armor moving. He led them.

Devon stayed behind. “The Queens?”

“There is fighting in their quarters,” was the quiet reply. “You did well.”

The ATerafin glanced at the bodies of the fallen, and then, at the solitary figure that remained standing in the room's center, a twisted statue that paid homage to the power of the Three. The demon.

“The Exalted had the foresight to bring a seer with them,” the Astari said softly, noting where his companion's glance strayed. “Together they will question the creature before they return him to his dominion.” The smile in the words could be heard but not seen; Devon was glad of it.

“You took a risk,” he told his leader.

“There are always risks,” was the soft reply.

Devon nodded absently as he looked the room over, and then smiled oddly. Kallandras was nowhere to be seen.

11th of Corvil, 410 A.A.
Royal Healerie

Princess Mirialyn sat in the healerie with a serene impatience that the healer, Dantallon, found far more frustrating than the usual argumentative demands that injured royalty—or worse, the injured Swords officers—usually displayed. It was clear that she wished to leave, and it was also clear that she took to heart his missive and remained abed, where disinfectants and feverweed could be readily administered by his overworked apprentices. She offered no resistance, but her eyes burned holes in the closed doors, and her people came and went, in and out, out and in, with the same annoying overpoliteness that their leader herself showed.

She had taken three wounds, and it was the last—an abdominal wound that had pierced the stomach wall—that had the best chance of causing her death; he
had tended it with the skill he could spare, but it was not severe enough to demand his full attention—not now, with so many close to death. The other two, a thigh wound and a grazing of the skull, were messy but easily dealt with by Cadrey and Lorrison.

The infirmary was lined with beds, and the overflow room with cots and bedrolls; three of The Ten had donated the services of their healers in the cause of the Crowns. They were sorely needed.

“Well, Miri,” Dantallon said gruffly, “I don't suppose this will teach you to wear proper armor.” The bandages beneath his hands were reddened, but the wound was clean and cool.

“No.” She stared at the wall, her eyes reflecting light that poured in through the unshuttered wide windows. “In two days, I may rise?”

“Two days, yes.”

“Thank you.” She turned as the door swung open, tensing slightly. The golden-haired, golden-tongued bard of the Queens' court sauntered in, lute in arms, hat askew.

Dantallon studied the younger man's gait, and then, as the songster drew close enough, the lines of his face, the color beneath his eyes. He remembered the last time he had tended Kallandras. As if aware of his appraisal, the bard bowed ironically, strumming the chords of a melody at once familiar and unknown.

“Healer Dantallon?” Cadrey was at his sleeve, his sleepless eyes darting in the direction of Verrus Sivari.

This
, Dantallon thought, as he turned away,
is why a Verrus is never supposed to see action.
And this was what he expected from the ACormaris. People in positions of responsibility did not look at near-death as a good excuse for dereliction of duty, and they usually thought of the interference of the healer-born with little more love than they did the injury that had brought them to the healer. Verrus Sivari, an able-bodied man with a razor-sharp mind, was unfortunately also a
doer.

“Verrus Sivari,” he began, as he nodded poor Lorrison away from the Verrus' side. “It's good to see you awake.”

“Don't start with me,” the Verrus replied shortly. “I've business to attend to, and I don't have the time to laze about like a mewling child with a scraped knee.”

“The report that has come from the Kings' Swords—and from the office of the Kings themselves—has indicated that you were instrumental in winning the battle in the Chamber of the Graces; my commendations.”

“Dantallon—”

“I have, however, taken the liberty of addressing the Kings personally about the nature of the injuries sustained by their officers in the battle.”