Sing a Graveyard Song, page 36
part #3 of Enclave Book Series
“I will be no help fighting Harroth tonight.”
“So, you said you were arrogant. Maybe the gods want you to learn that you alone can’t save us. Your power won’t destroy Harroth. Your damned cousin or maybe Magretha or maybe Raul will finally put a bullet in Harroth’s brain. But it won’t be you.”
Light glistened in her shadowed eyes. “Yes. Yes, Jaeger, I can see that. Those are lessons I need. I have tried, for years and years and years, to be the greatest wizard possible, just to feel I had importance.” Tears welled. “Six years old, I was six years old when I learned I had to have power, I had to use power to show my value.”
“What happened?”
“My parents died. My grandmother Letheina brought me into her household, made me part of her family, but—. My grandparents were busy with the clan and the Enclave. When I was nine, Grandmère became ArchClans, and then it was a struggle to get one minute, one small word of praise from her. She cared only for those who had magic and what they could do with it and why. Magic became my means to get her attention. And I so desperately needed her attention.”
“There was no one to mother you?”
“My tante Camisse tried, but she was only eight years my senior. And on my twelfth birthday they sent her to fight on the border.”
“So you were lonely.”
“I had my brother. I had my great uncle, my cousins, aunts and uncles, tutors and maids. A whole houseful of people.”
“But you were lonely, and you thought power was the answer. Your grandmother focused on it, so you emulated her.”
“She said I had great potential, Jaeger. Of course I emulated her. I adored her.”
“Your magic had potential. What about you?”
“I hoped to solve all her problems. Instead, I created more.”
“The gods shape our destiny, Alstera. Perhaps yours is not to mirror your grandmother but to stand as a pillar separate and distinct. A potent force of your own, not hers.”
“She is the ArchClans of the Enclave. Every wizard in Mont Nouris and the northern lands owes allegiance to her.”
“Are you not discovering the world’s breadth? Allegiance is not body and mind and spirit. And she will not live forever. If you wrap your potential in her, what will you do when she dies?” The tears spilled. He’d said enough. He backed up. “Damn, I’m shaky on my feet. I’ve got to get some rest. But you think on what I’ve said.”
“I will. You have re-set my balance. Go, rest. I must meditate if I have more power than a weakling child.”
He slept immediately, but in his dreams she cried.
Chapter 32 ~ Night of the Twenty-Fourth Day / Twenty-Third of Winter’s End
“Well dark and more,” the soldier-twin said, breaking Magretha’s concentration. “You will not finish the wards.”
She stopped weaving the link to the last ward. Reality flooded in, cold and dark, dangerously dark. The pool of lantern-light did not reach to the trees. Looming over them, Mother Hearth looked blacker than the night sky with its ghostly clouds and twinkling stars.
“How far to the chapel where we started?”
“Too far.” She shivered, reckoning how late it was. “Harroth, the death-walker, he might be well down the mountain by now.”
Alstera’s cousin radiated sturdy determination. He set the lantern between them and drew his sword. “Then we will let my brother and the others come to us. Ward yourself.”
“But you—.”
“I am sword-skilled. I will defend myself with this.” As he lifted the blade, the lantern light reflected eerily, like blood shimmering on the steel.
She released the linking ward and sensed the chain she’d built so carefully dissolve. Then she knelt to obey him.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Raul barged in without knocking. The feeble light of a single candle danced wildly from his entrance, and it took him precious seconds to sort the heavily shadowed room into sense. Jaeger, sitting up on the bed. Alstera, cross-legged on the floor, a candle in front of her, a gilt goblet in her hands.
“Magretha ain’t back.” His worry sharpened the words. “It’s full dark.”
“Did Allard return?” Alstera asked as she rose.
“Not him neither. Your cousin Ferrant don’t seem buzzed about it.”
“He has not faced Death Walking.” She pocketed the goblet. “Jaeger, what’s wrong?”
He’d swung his legs off the bed and there stopped, holding his head. “Harroth’s coming.” His voice was thick. “I can feel him close. He’s here. He’s already here.”
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Magretha and Allard stood back to back. The lantern at their feet kept the pool of light steady, but the darkness was smothering. “Can we not—please, can we not go back?”
“This monster you fight could get us from behind or from the side. Better to wait here until Ferrant comes. If you can call up levin-fire, I would do so now.”
“It didn’t stop him last night.”
“Because Alstera used blood-magic, and this monster is a creature of blood. Can you call up levin-fire without blood-magic, or will you let it take you?”
Stung, she sparked power, shaped it. She kept it hand-sized, for it crackled and sizzled and threatened to arc away from her hold. To control it, she had to call on the discipline Feldie had taught. The white light eclipsed the lantern’s yellow glow. It stretched far around them, glistening on the snow and slush, shining on the tree bark, and reflecting off a ghostly shape that glided to cover behind one of the thicker trunks.
“He’s here,” she hissed. “Behind that dead alder. See him?”
“Keep your position. I must step out and away to strike, but I will come back. Trust that, young Magretha.”
She believed him, but fear like a cold wind shivered over her and slunk into her pores.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Raul jammed the rod back into position on the musket. “Hurry, dammit!”
“Let us not go off half-cocked. You do not know where they are, much less if this creature is coming.”
“I know,” Jaeger said. “I can feel him. I can nearly see—.” His knees gave out, and he sagged against a cabinet.
“You are not strong enough.”
Jaeger ignored Ferrant and straightened. Alstera thrust a walking stick into his hands then yanked on a borrowed coat. “Go, Raul. We are coming, even if my cousin is not.”
“Dear Alstera, I never said I would not help you.”
Raul heard no more. He plunged out and up the side yard to the lane. He stopped there. Which way? To the chapel? To the valley road? Magretha could be fighting for her life, and he didn’t know how to find her.
“Take this.” Alstera shoved a lantern at him.
He took it then tried to give it back. “Look, I need to keep my hands free to load.”
“Have you not learned that muskets are useless? I cannot carry it.”
“Your cousin warned you, no blood-magic.”
“And I will obey. Go on, Raul.”
“Which way?”
Jaeger had reached them. “Straight across. And be wary. The death-walker ain’t far.”
And where that monster was, Magretha would be.
Raul led, although once they reached the allée, Ferrant pushed up to join him. He kept getting ahead, wanting to run, and having to be towed back to match Jaeger’s limping pace. They crossed the well square then threaded through more allées. Raul couldn’t believe little Alpage had so many backways. Then they reached the last house, passed the last garden. An eldritch light, white and bright, flashed across the field and by the verge of trees.
Magretha and Allard stood back to back within a smaller spill of lantern-light. Edging close, a dead-white man probed for a weakness. Harroth.
Ferrant swore. “I didn’t believe—.” When Raul started to run, the wizard grabbed his arm. The lantern jerked wildly. “Wait, you fool.”
Even as he spoke, Harroth dodged in. A macabre dance of step and counter-step. They parried each other’s moves, the swordsman with his blade glistening with the eldritch fire, the walking corpse that darted in and back. Allard lunged. Harroth darted aside then came back with a slash of his knife that opened the soldier’s arm from wrist to elbow. Allard snatched back, deftly keeping his balance as he fended off a second swipe encroaching his defense. His need to shield Magretha hampered his defense while Harroth rushed in with a manic strength that feared nothing. Allard’s guard broke. Experience saved him. He kicked Harroth’s leg. The death-walker stumbled on the slick ground, and he brought the sword back into position.
With a two-handed grasp on the knife, Harroth pressed in again. His speed and strength propelled the sword up, out of line, and Magretha staggered as Allard jolted into her. The men strove, strength matching strength. Then the swordsman shifted balance, the knife screeched as the sword edge ripped its length, and he shoved Harroth back.
The death-walker faked a lunge, slid in the slush, and ducked Allard’s wheeling slash. But he was close, too close for a good guard. As the sword came back, metal clashed on metal. The sword blade continued its oblique slant up and across. Harroth reached under his guard and stabbed. Allard doubled. The knife re-appeared, blood-gilded in the eerie light. “No!” Ferrant yelled. Power sparked like lightning.
Alstera grabbed his arm. “No! You are too far. You will miss.”
“Curse you.” He wrenched out of her hold. “He’s killing Allard.” He ran, the eldritch power cascading like water from the sphere he had quickened. Raul followed without hesitation.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Magretha sensed the body blow. When Allard had stepped away to strike, she obeyed his injunction to stay where she was, offering a solid back to center his battle. Looking over her shoulder, she saw blood spurt. The levin-fire blossomed in her hand, and she whirled to join the attack. But Allard and Harroth were too tangled.
The death-walker twisted the sword loose. She jumped aside as he whirled it. The steel glinted as it spun away. Then he turned back to Allard, who was trying to straighten. She heard yelling, cursing, knew help was coming. Harroth ignored it, and she remembered last night, when he’d forgotten the fight to fasten on Jaeger’s blood. He slashed a second time, viciously, and blood streaked the swordsman’s chest. Not deep but deep enough, for the blood leaked into the growing pool beneath the stained hands covering his belly. She screamed at Harroth, at Allard, but strength sapped out of the outlander. Harroth dug the knife into his neck, jerked Allard like a puppet, and his mouth clamped on the new wound.
Allard sagged. Harroth sank with him, intent only on the blood. Into her mind flashed Père Hals, the blood loss, the damage to his neck, the ebbing life-force, sucked away by something other than death. She screamed again and threw the levin-fire.
The sphere exploded over him. It knocked him back. He lost his grip, and Allard tumbled to the mushy ground. Magretha sparked another sphere and scrambled to shape it as the death-walker steadied himself. Allard groaned at her feet. She stepped over him, dangerously in Harroth’s reach as he came back. And she flung the second sphere.
The explosion rocked her. She fell over Allard. Her vision blacked.
Magretha blinked and shook her head. Her sight came back bleary, shimmering, but she could see Harroth reaching for her. His mouth bloody, his eyes black as Mother Hearth’s bulk. Allard’s blood on the knife that jabbed the air, trying to reach her first. She tried to scramble back but slipped and slid. She whimpered.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Raul passed Ferrant. They were close, so close, but when the glinting knife flashed toward Magretha, they were still too far. If he’d practiced his Air, the way Alstera had encouraged him on the road south, he would be able to help her. Instead, he hefted the musket that had done nothing the night before. Aiming carefully, he fired. And missed.
Ferrant didn’t.
The levin-fire exploded on Harroth’s head, knocking him sideways. Another sphere burst into the wizard’s hand. Raul didn’t wait for him for shape it. He darted past, skidded the last few feet, and got both hands on Magretha’s coat. He hauled back with a frenzy that nearly overbalanced him. She landed on Allard’s legs. He hauled back again and slid onto the mushy ground, but she was out of Harroth’s reach, safe for a breath.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Alstera gripped Jaeger’s arm. “Give me your knife.”
He didn’t question, didn’t remind her not to use blood-magic, just watched silently as she jerked the chalice out of her pocket. Dropping to her knees, she opened her hand for the knife. He slapped the hilt into her palm, and she cut her wrist across the binding tattoos. She dripped the blood into the chalice.
It came slow, so slow, but magic came with it, and she used the magic to speed the blood flow until she had an inch in the bowl. She lifted the chalice the way she remembered from the dream, looked into the gold bowl, and prayed the dream ran true. “First god, then fifth god, now forgotten. God of emptiness, god who fills, both and one together. Take this vessel, holy thine, nothing and everything, death and life combined. Take this blood of pure intent. Destroy he who drinks, of evil intent.”
Hastily conceived, badly worded, it would have to do. The levin-fire they shaped hadn’t worked. She prayed this levin-fire, in the god’s own vessel and not a shape of her making, she prayed this would destroy Harroth.
Jaeger steadied her as she stood, carefully holding the chalice, her gaze ensuring that she didn’t spill the blood she’d spelled. “What did you do?”
“I evoked chaos, the power that made him. Pray, Jaeger, pray that it does not give him more strength.”
The blood swirled in the chalice. Specks of energy sparked, glinted, died and were re-born, more and more of them, until tiny rivulets of levin-fire streaked the blood. She took a breath and walked into the feeble lantern-light.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
More levin-fire exploded.
Magretha sobbed. Raul screamed, “Kill it! Kill it, damn you!”
And Harroth climbed to his feet.
Ferrant sparked a sphere, then the energy arced out of his hand. “No,” he gasped. He looked at his fallen twin, not the death-walker. “No, Allard. No. You cannot die.” His levin-fire burst into sparks and dripped onto the ground, leaving only the lesser light of the lantern.
Harroth staggered toward them. By the third step he had worked erect. His hand came up, the knife glinting like red quicksilver. Raul looked for the musket but didn’t see where he’d flung it. He jerked to his knees, to his feet, and hauled Magretha further away. She was gasping something he couldn’t make out. He looked around for his musket, for the sword, for a limb, anything to use against Harroth.
Levin-fire sparked in her hand. She tried to stand but got tangled in her skirts.
Then Alstera stepped into the circle of light. She walked steadily toward Harroth. She cupped a gleaming chalice. The rich gold reflected like molten fire on her face.
And blood dripped from her wrist.
Her very slowness lured the death-walker. His head turned. He stared. Then he stopped advancing on Ferrant and his dead brother.
“Gods, blood-magic. He warned her.”
“Help me up, Raul,” Magretha whispered, as if her voice would distract Harroth. Raul didn’t think nothing would distract him, not with Alstera offering blood, powered blood at that.
Alstera stopped. With one hand she extended the chalice. Her chant dropped clearly into the silence. “Earth and air, water and fire. Blood and breath, flesh and bones. Sun and shadow, soil and stone.”
She started a second round of the sealing chant. Jaeger limped into position behind her. Magretha gripped Raul’s hand hard, then she loosed it.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Magretha didn’t know what Alstera was doing, but levin-fire alone hadn’t destroyed this monster that was Harroth. Not even the levin-fire of Alstera’s cousin, great wizard that he was. She reached Ferrant and kicked him deliberately to shock him out of his grief. He looked up, fire in his expression, and she pointed. Knowledge shuddered over him. He climbed to his feet.
Harroth had reached Alstera. He stood so close the chalice touched his dead-white chest. His knife-hand lifted, and the molten gilt that flickered over her face glinted on the wet blade. She finished the third round of the chant then said, “Harroth, Harroth, Harroth. Hear me, heed me, obey me.”
A shudder wracked him.
“Blood you need, blood you crave, blood you take. Blood made you, blood sustained you, blood destroys you.” She lifted the goblet a fraction, and Magretha recognized it from the altar niche in the chapel. The fifth god’s vessel, ever empty, never filled, waiting for the god’s potential. What had the wizard done? “Drink,” Alstera commanded. “Drink. Drink.”
Harroth’s free hand took the chalice. He lifted it to his bloody mouth then tipped it and swallowed.
“What has she done?” Ferrant muttered, but Magretha held her breath. She’d lost track of Raul, of her father, of Allard dead at her feet. She saw only Harroth drinking, the gulps working down his throat, and Alstera watching. She felt the drain of power, as if the earth herself opened her elemental energies and poured them into that never-draining chalice.
Then the chalice shrank visibly in his hand, shrinking with each swallow, the base oozing into itself, the stem becoming nothing, until only the bowl was left. Then that also shrank, melting into itself, melting to run into his mouth and down his throat.
Harroth screamed. He cringed as if his insides burned and screamed again, a rage that ripped up the mountainside and echoed across the valley. He clawed at his chest, at his belly, opening his flesh with the knife. No blood appeared, but sparks glinted on his dead flesh, growing, growing, like levin-fire before it was gathered and shaped.
He screamed and whipped toward Alstera. Jaeger hauled her out of reach of Harroth’s slashing knife. The wizard was chanting again, the words to seal him to his grave. Magretha joined her, trying to throw as much of her power as possible into the words.
