Valdemar 09 - [Mage Winds 01] - Winds of Fate Page 45

  A quick glance upward showed him nothing was aloft—nothing but what he expected. Two tiny specks, hardly large enough to be seen, circling overhead. Waiting. That would do.

  He set out a questing finger of Mage-Sight, looking for what might have been left behind with the gryphon young.

  A shimmering aura flickered about the lair in a delicate rainbow of protection. But beneath the shimmer—a brighter glow of power. The shields I knew of—yes—and something more—

  He paused; Looked, and Looked again, hardly able to believe his luck.

  They had left the artifact behind to guard the young ones! Its protections were unmistakable, and just the touch of them awoke avarice in his heart. The age—the power—woman‘s power, but there is little I cannot overcome and turn to my own use—I must have this thing. I must! And they have left it for my taking!

  Elation faded, replaced by cold caution. Perhaps the Outlanders would be that foolish, and even the gryphons—but would Darkwind? The boy was a canny player; surely he had left more protections behind than that, for all that he had renounced magic.

  Falconsbane Looked farther, deeper into the ruins than he had ever bothered before; looking for traps, for any hint of magic, even old, or apparently inactive magic. It was always possible that some ancient ward or guardian still existed here that Darkwind had left armed against him.

  But there were no signs of any such protections.

  He Looked farther still. He had assumed that they knew by now what he had done to the young ones. Was it possible, barely possible, that they did not know of his hand on the gryphlets? Had he overestimated their intelligence, their caution? Was it possible after all that they had been so caught up in what he had done to Starblade and Dawnfire that they had missed his sign and seal on their own young? Or could it be that the advent of the Outlanders had distracted them?

  No. No, that is why they left the artifact, I am sure of it. To protect the young against me. The shields are too obviously set against my power; even the shields of the artifact itself.

  Then, just when he thought perhaps he was searching in vain for further traps, he caught a hint of magic-energy, a tremor of power. Old magic.

  Very old magic.

  It was not active, but the presence of magic that ancient attracted his curiosity anyway. He had time to spare; such potentials were worth investigating. It was probably nothing; perhaps some long-abandoned shrine, or an ancient talisman, buried beneath a mound of rubble. It might be worth retrieving at some point, if only as a curiosity.

  He moved in for a closer Look, half-closing his eyes, his talons digging into the bark of the tree beside him as he concentrated.

  And he tore an entire section of bark from the tree trunk as his hand closed convulsively.

  A Gate!

  No. Yes. It couldn’t be. Not the site of a temporary Gate, but one of the rare, powerful, permanent Gates—

  No more than a handful of Adepts at the time of the Mage-Wars had ever constructed permanent Master Gates; they required endless patience, vast expenditures of energy that could have gone into constructing armies and weapons. Those few who had done so had made a network of such Gates, all tied into one another, criss crossing their little kingdoms. Urtho had been one of those; that was how the Kaled‘a’in had survived the downfall of his kingdom to become the Shin‘a’in and Tayledras—they had fled through the Gate at the heart of his citadel to one on the edge of the area. Possibly even this one. Falconsbane had never built one—not in any of his lifetimes. He’d known of the network Urtho had built, of course, but he had never once entertained the idea that even part of that network could still exist.

  A Gate, even a Master Gate, couldn’t have survived the Wars, or the years, could it? It simply wasn’t possible—

  Falconsbane could not ignore the proof of his own senses. It was possible. And the Gate had survived.

  The touch of it drove him wild with the desire to have it under his control. The node, the gryphons, the artifact, and now this—

  He had to have it. He would have it. Then he would excavate it, study it, learn how to set it—and use it, use it to penetrate to the remains of Urtho’s stronghold at the heart of the Plains. With a Gate like this one, he could bypass all the protections of the damned horse-lovers, get in, get what he wanted, and get out with no interference. He could go anywhere there was another permanent Gate, whether or not he knew the territory. He could construct temporary Gates no matter where he was and link into this one at any distance, once he keyed it into himself. Working that way would drain only a fraction of the energy of an ordinary Gate-spell from him. That was the deadly burden of Gating; the energy for the Gate came from the mage.

  Or from someone tied to the mage with the kind of bond as deep as a lifebond. Not many knew that a mage tied by a lifebond to another mage could feed his beloved with the energies needed to fuel the Gate-spell.

  Fewer knew what Falconsbane knew, that there was another bond as deep as a lifebond; the bond he built between himself and his victim when he made that victim an extension of himself.

  As deep as a lifebond; it had to be, to survive the endless struggle of his victims to be free. Built out of both pleasure and pain at the most primitive, instinctive levels, it made his servants need him more than they needed food, drink, sleep—

  That opened all their resources to him; to the point, if needed, that he could drain them to their death. He could use those resources to open the Gate and make it his in a way that no other Adept ever had.

  But first—he had to make the area his. And that meant retrieving and subverting the young gryphons, to open up the node to his use. Right now there didn’t appear to be anything in the way of that.

  He released the trunk of the tree, dropping bits of wood and bark as he shook his tingling hand, and stepped cautiously out into the sunlight.

  He kept to the shadows, still. There was no point in walking about in the open and alerting a perfectly ordinary guard. It was entirely possible that one or more of those tiresome scouts had been posted here, and Falconsbane had no intention of walking into one of them.

  Still, there seemed to be nothing at all blocking his way as he approached the site of the nest. Finally he straightened, and moved into the open, taking a deliberate pace or two forward before the young ones noticed him.

  They looked at him curiously, with their heads cocked to one side, as if they had never seen him before. He smiled with satisfaction.

  Good. The spell I cast before I left them, to cloud their memories, worked. They do not fear me, so they will not call for help until it is too late.

  “Hello, little ones,” he purred, and moved into the open. But then something fluttering on the ground caught his eye, and he stopped, suddenly wary.

  Flowers. Feathers. Rocks laid in deliberate patterns that teased his memory; he paused for a moment, frowning, as he tried to match pattern with memory.

  Then he recognized it for what it was.

  So that’s the plan, is it? He noted the position of the lone brown pinecone. I think not.

  He stood very still, listening for movement behind him. There—the scrape of leather on stone; the whisper of wood on wood, sliding.

  Oh, I think not, young fool.

  He whirled, both hands spread before him, and caught the white-clad young man full in the chest with the bolt of magic, before the Outlander could loose the arrow he had nocked to his bowstring.

  A second power-blast left Falconsbane’s hands before the first reached its target; this one aimed, not at the man, but at the horse behind him. The “horse” that radiated the same kind of power as some of those damned nomad shamans.

  The bow snapped, the arrow shattered, and the young man was blasted off his feet to land in an unconscious heap some distance away.

  The “horse” toppled like a fallen tree.

  Mornelithe smiled with great satisfaction. He had deliberately held back his strength when he recognized the Outlander clothing. He
wanted to—discuss a few things with this young man.

  But a feline shriek of pure rage tore through the air, startling him, and he turned again as Nyara—Nyara?—leapt upon him, teeth and talons bared, prepared to rip his throat out.

  He had no time for other than a purely instinctive reaction; he backhanded her with all his strength, catching her in mid-leap, and sending her flying across the clearing and into the two young gryphons. There was a squeal of outrage from the largest as Nyara landed atop it, and a squawl of fear from the smallest.

  But there was another attack coming—

  He drew his arms up in a defensive gesture, his powers massing around him in his shields as bolts of mage-energies blasted him from either side.

  “What’s he doing?” Elspeth whispered to Darkwind, as the Adept calling himself “Mornelithe Falconsbane” paused just outside the ambush zone. He was certainly everything that Darkwind and Nyara’s stories had painted him.

  Her very first sight of him had terrified her, despite having seen his daughter Nyara and fought his monsters, the things Darkwind called “Misbom,” and she had no idea why. Perhaps it was the fact that Falconsbane was so obviously once human, but had given up that humanity. Perhaps it was the cold and focused quality of his gaze. Perhaps it was simply what she knew of him. Darkwind had confided to her—and her only, perhaps because he trusted her, perhaps he thought these were things she in particular needed to hear—some of the horrors that Iceshadow had extracted from Starblade. Nyara wore a haunted look that made her certain—horrible as the idea was—that Falconsbane had visited some of those same torments on his own daughter.

  Yet what she knew of him was no worse than some of what she had learned concerning Ancar. Neither made for easy dreams ... but Falconsbane was nearer right now than Ancar.

  I might feel the same way about Ancar, if I ever see him.

  Falconsbane was surely the stuff of which nightmares were made; there was very little of the human left after all the changes he had wrought upon himself, but the effect he had created was of something warped, and not for the better. If one took a lynx, sculpted a perfect human body with a half-human face, then granted it an aura of power that was nothing like anything she had ever experienced before—it still would not be Mornelithe Falconsbane. He was sinister and beautiful, all at the same time, and Elspeth found herself shivering at the mere sight of him.

  He had simply appeared, some time after Vree’s cry of warning. She had not seen him approach; he was simply there, standing amid the rocks, looking down at the earth. “What is,he looking at?” she repeated, as Darkwind frowned.

  “I don‘t—shaeka!” he spat.

  She had no chance to ask him what was wrong; even as he rose to a half-crouch, Falconsbane whirled and dropped to one knee, arms outstretched, hands palm out. Elspeth’s stomach knotted with fear.

  Darkwind uttered a strangled cry and rose to his feet, flinging one hand protectively toward Skif.

  Too late. Elspeth choked on a cry of horror as Falconsbane’s bolt of magic struck Skif and threw him into the stones of a ruined wall.

  And too late for Cymry, as well; a second bolt struck her, dropping her where she stood like a stricken deer.

  Elspeth’s horrified “No!” was lost in the scream of pure hatred that tore the air like a jagged blade as Skif’s limp body dropped to the stones beyond Cymry’s.

  It was Nyara, leaping in defense of Skif, who attacked her father with the only weapons at her disposal; her claws and teeth, her face a snarling animal-mask of pain, anguish, and hatred.

  He intercepted her in mid-leap, and with a single blow of his powerful arm, flung her across the open space to land stunned atop the largest of the young gryphons.

  There was no time to wonder if Skif and Cymry survived ; no time even to think. She bottled her fear, her anger, though they made her want to run to her old friend’s side—or run and hide. The Hawkbrother had joined in combat with the Changechild Adept, and there was no turning back now. Elspeth joined her power to Darkwind‘s, feeding him with the raw energy she drew up from the node. He knew how to use it; she could only watch and learn—for when he tired, it would be her turn to strike. From the other side, lances of fire rained down on Falconsbane, power pouring from the outstretched claws of Treyvan, with his mate backing him as she backed Darkwind.

  For a moment, it was impossible to see the Adept beneath the double attack—and during that moment she dared to hope.

  But then, a shadow appeared amid the glare of power-then more than a shadow—then—

  Pain.

  She thought she cried out; she certainly fell back a pace or two and covered her eyes with her upraised arm, as Darkwind’s blast of power reflected back into their faces.

  When she blinked her tearing eyes clear, Falconsbane stood untouched, within a circle of scorched earth.

  Darkwind had taken the brunt of the blast on their side, as had Treyvan on the gryphons‘. Treyvan crouched with head hanging, panting; Darkwind was on his knees beside her, shaking his own head, dazed and unable to speak.

  Falconsbane ignored the rest and concentrated his cold gaze on her. Her stomach turned into a cold ball of ice. He smiled, and she stepped back another pace, her hand reaching for a sword she no longer wore, palms sweating, feeling the blood drain from her face.

  “Well,” he said, his voice full of amusement. “So you have some fight still. I will enjoy breaking you, Outlander.” His eyes narrowed, and his voice lowered to a seductive purr. “I will enjoy taking both your mind and your body—”

  “Not this day, ” called a high voice, in pure Shin‘a’in, from the ruins behind Falconsbane.

  Falconsbane’s head snapped around; Elspeth gathered her primitive, clumsy power just in case this was nothing more than a ruse.

  But there were people behind the Adept; perched atop rocks, peering from behind walls, an entire line of people. Black-clad, one and all, some veiled, some not, but all with the same cold, implacable purpose in their ice-blue eyes. And one and all with drawn bows pointed at Falconsbane’s heart.

  “Not this day, nor any other,” Darkwind coughed, struggling to his feet. Elspeth gave him a hand, and stood beside him, helping him balance. He did not look to be in any shape to enforce those brave words; he swayed as he stood, even with Elspeth’s unobtrusive support, and his face was drawn with pain.

  But there were all those arrows pointed at Falconsbane; surely they had him now—didn’t they?

  Or did they?

  After the first flash of surprise, Falconsbane straightened again and laughed, sending a chill down Elspeth’s back. “Do you think me so poor a player, then, to show all my counters before the game is over?”

  Elspeth did not even have a chance to wonder what he meant.

  She had no idea of where the thing came from, but suddenly it was dropping down out of the clouds—a huge, black, bat-winged creature that seemed big enough to swallow her whole and have room for Gwena afterward. It buffeted her with its wings, knocking her off her feet with a single blow, then slammed her into a rock—all the breath was driven out of her by the impact; her head snapped back against the stone, and she slid down it, seeing stars.

  She blacked out for a moment, but fought back from the dark abyss that threatened to swallow her consciousness. As she struggled back, shaking her head and swallowing the bile of nausea, Falconsbane laughed again.

  Her eyes cleared. That was when she saw that there were two of the things. One of them had Hydona trapped beneath it, its talons on her throat, ready to rip it out if she struggled. She looked out helplessly as the creature drew blood and looked expectantly at its master. Then Elspeth could only stare in horror—

  The other had Gwena in the same position.

  Darkwind lay in a heap just beyond her; eyes closed, unmoving. Treyvan faced the beast that had his mate with every feather and hair standing on end, kill-lust making him tremble. Muscles rippled as he restrained himself from attacking, and the stone beneath
his talons flaked away in little chips from the pressure of his claws.

  :Gwena—: she Sent.

  :Don‘t!: the Companion shot back. :Don’t move, don’t anger it!: Her mind-voice died to a whisper as the beast tightened its grip on her, and little beads of blood stained her white coat under its talons. :Don’t do anything. Please. :

  “Stalemate, I think?” Falconsbane said genially. The arrows of the Shin‘a’in did not waver, but neither did the archers loose them.

  “Well, then. In that case, I think I shall fetch what I came for. ”

  Hydona uttered a wail that was choked off by the brutal grip of the beast prisoning her. Treyvan seethed with rage, eyes burning with fury.

  “It is not yours, Changechild,” said one of the Shin‘a’in, in a hollow voice that sounded as if it came up from the depths of a well. “It was not made by you, it does not obey you; it is not yours. ”

  Falconsbane lifted an eyebrow. And half-turned to lash out with yet another bolt of power; this one aimed at the young gryphons, a flood of poisonous red.

  “NO!”

  The cry was torn from Elspeth’s throat—but from others as well. One of those others was free to act.

  Nyara leapt to her feet, her hands full of Need’s hilt, holding it between herself and her father. The bolt of power struck the blade instead of the young gryphons, and built with an ear-shattering wail as Need collected the blast—

  And changed it; from sickly red to burnished gold. Elspeth’s heart stopped as she watched, not fully understanding what was happening but fearing the worst. She heard Darkwind mutter something about “transmuting,” and then he trailed off into a stream of what she guessed to be incredulous Tayledras curses.

  Need split the sphere of power in two, one half enveloping each young gryphon, filling them with light. Falconsbane’s scream of rage drowned Elspeth’s gasp of joy, but it could not stop what was happening. The golden light burned away at a kind of shadow within the two youngsters—the shadows melted even as she watched, melted and evaporated, leaving them clean of its taint.