Mahra whips her head around, swifter than thought, and skewers the creature on the end of her horn. With a vicious shake, she sends it crashing to the street before her and crushes its bones beneath her hooves. Then she continues, faster than before. Her voice sings into my mind:I am with you,Vellara.You are not alone. I will not let you fall.
I pull myself straighter and look back at our other riders. Some of them are struggling, and hobgoblins harry their mounts. Pushing away fearful memories, I pour into my gods-gift, send the power ringing back into them. The soulfire of their licorneir brightens, and the riders take heart. I see Tassa’svaritarswinging, taking down three hobgoblins that dare try to swarm her. Halamar rides Miramenor close behind her and cuts down a hobgoblin that has leapt on her licorneir’s back. Even our most ancient warriors, elders long beyond their prime, defend themselves and each other, strengthened by the intense flow of magic from their licorneir. When the hobgoblins try to separate one of these from the rest, the others cut their way through, reclaim their war-brother, and ride on. We have not lost a single warrior by the time we burst from the city, out into the open space of ground before the citadel.
Once again my heart quells with an onrush of memories. The last time I stood here, clinging to the back of Sylcatha’s licorneir, a huge barrier spell stood between me and the citadel, invisible but pulsing with spellcraft. There is no barrier now, and the gate stands wide open as though to receive us. The light from the licorneir shines on the walls, driving back the heavy darkness of thevardimnar, which pours out from the top of the citadel.
The source,I think, craning my head and looking up that dizzying height. That must be where the source of the Rift is located, where the spell is wrought to open this world to the seventh hell. There istremendous power in that un-song, a power that is the equal and opposite of everything the licorneir stand for. And this fall of thevardimnarhas lasted far longer than usual. Every moment I hope for it to lift, and every moment it continues, a pulsing presence, pressing up against the boundaries of our light-song.
We must enter the citadel,I sing out to the warriors, who gather on either side of me, once more in formation.We must drive out the Miphates and close the Rift.
How it will be done, I cannot say. One step at a time, I suppose.
Mahra tosses her proud head and takes that first step, her children ready and eager to follow.
Before she can take another, the dead appear.
They are licorneir. Rotten flesh hangs from their skeletons, and the hollowed-out eye sockets are windows into gaping abyss. Their proud frames move with a jerking, ugly gait, all the grace and beauty of their lives vanished in defilement. Un-song ripples beneath their decayed flesh, pulses like liquid black ribbons out from their death wounds, replacing the brilliance of soulfire with its ultimate opposite.
They are ridden by the dead as well—not the soulless shamblers, but spirit-bound corpses infused with a lunatic re-creation of life. Their rotten faces are mad revelations of their equally rotten souls. The un-song which passes between them and their mounts is a mockery of the unity shared by Licornyn and licorneir in life. But there is power here—tremendous, dark power, which seethes inthe atmosphere. They belong in this place, as we do not. Children of thevardimnar.
They ride out through the gate. More than I imagined, greater numbers than ours. Shamblers follow at their heels, spiritless carcasses, shuffling their putrid limbs, without a thought in their heads, only the impulses planted there by their Miphates masters. Gasps and cries of dismay go up from among my riders, and their songs falter at the sight of loved ones among the dead. Trembling lips cry out names in despairing voices, and the light surrounding us dims.
I cannot help searching for Taar. I do not see him . . . and I don’t know if I am relieved.
Drawing a breath, I force myself to concentrate on the wavering strength of the licorneir song. Hell closes in, denser, hungrier. I cannot let it take us, not when we’ve come this far.
Throwing back my head, I sing out in a loud voice, both spirit and vocal: “Hold tight to your courage! Hold on to your love for those you have lost! It is for them we have ridden here, to liberate them from this evil spell.”
Mahra’s song moves through their hearts. The riders steel themselves, redoubling their own songs. Unmounted licorneir form up alongside the mounted, and we make a powerful front. Elydark stands on my right hand, Tassa and Halamar just to my left. I lean into their harmonies, know they are with me.
Raising my borrowedvaritarover my head, I give the command:“Vulmon, Licornyn!”
In the same instant our licorneir burst into motion, the dead surge forward to meet us. The un-song spewing from the warped licorneir hits the wall of our soulfire light. It breaks through in places, but does not shatter it, not completely. Nevertheless, I feel how unprepared we are for this fight. I grip the sword in my hand, convinced every lesson I ever received from Tassa has slipped my brain entirely.
Hold onto me,Vellara,Mahra sings into my mind.I know what to do.
I cling to her back and mane as she plunges into the fray. Mahra is more skilled at battle even than my Diira—an ancient being who has seen and survived more campaigns than I can fathom. She charges straight at the foremost undead licorneir, deftly avoids a blow from its horn, and drives her own horn straight through its skull. A burst of brilliant song—full of sorrow, for this dead thing was her child—overwhelms the un-song. The stench of rot in the air is replaced momentarily by the perfume of ilsevel blossoms and distant stars.
The undead licorneir disintegrates, its physical carcass nothing more than a cloud of glinting dust. Its rider tumbles to the ground, where Mahra makes short work of him as well. All I need do is hold tight, not lose my seat, and keep on singing. It is easier said than done in the midst of battle-frenzy. My physical voice cannot manage it, but my soul-song struggles on, daunted but undefeated.
More dead pour out of the citadel. With a terrible jolt in mygut, I realize that I know some of their faces. These were people who marched with Taar in the most recent campaign, warriors slain by the Shadow King and his trolls. They are fresher corpses, stronger and quicker than the other shamblers, and the sight of them once more threatens to undo our protective harmony.
One of our licorneir goes down, its song snuffed out and its rider with it. I scream at the pain of their loss, my own song struggling. Another rider falls, and I feel the hearttorn fire sear through his mount. I reach out, try to hold onto the beast, to pull it back into our uniting song, but its agony is tremendous. My own awareness is pulled too many ways, all while my body holds tight to Mahra, who tramples and impales the swarming dead. Despair threatens to pull me under its dark waves.
Suddenly a Licornyn battle cry ripples across the field. A different cry from the Rocaryn—deeper throated, wilder. A cry I have heard before, when the tribes of Licorna united for their last assault.
I turn my head toward the sound. Light . . . beyond our barrier of song, out in the darkness of thevardimnar.Pulsing soulfire light of approaching licorneir and riders, galloping toward us out from the city ruins. One great beast leads the way, an enormous mount, more than a match for the large, muscular figure which rides her.
“Sylcatha!”I cry, my voice a jolt of pure, triumphant joy.
Tarhyn Tribe has come to join our chorus.
33
TAAR
My dead eyes struggle to comprehend what takes place before me. Darkness whirls through the chamber, and a clamorous howling fills my ears, destroying all traces of anything that might once have been good, beautiful, or pure. I could easily believe I stand once more in hell, so thick is the atmosphere of evil permeating my tattered lungs.
Tremendous power rises from the pit—a raw energy unlike anything I’ve ever seen. More potent even than the song of the licorneir. The pit itself does not open to the lower levels of the citadel, but yawns wide into the landscape of Ashtari itself.
