Onoril stands on the brink of that hell, his head bent as though to receive the rising power. It catches his horn and coils around it, dousing his soulfire with its darkness as it pours from his head, down his neck, over his body. Writhing coils, like living virulium, encase the mighty being. But my fathersits astride his licorneir, his soul singing. That song, so strong and pulsing through the connection they share, provides an anchor which keeps Onoril’s essence stable, even as the great stallion performs this massive act of channeling.
As power coalesces in Onoril’s horn, he lifts his head, turning his black-flame eyes to where the ancient, withered form of the old man hangs suspended from the wall. Even as my father’s song burns in his heart, Onoril pours out that dark power in a stream, like so many writhing tongues. They spool out from his horn, shoot across the chamber, and strike the man in the chest.
Red lights burst around him. All the ugly tattoo marks seem to leap from his skin into the air, shining, brilliant things, intricate works ofnecroliphonspellcraft. Activated by the raw energy of the seventh hell, they twist and churn, manipulating reality.
The ancient thing begins to flesh out. Like a bladder inflated with water, that sack of skin and bones grows, swells, strengthens. He writhes and screams at the pain of the transformation, but thenecroliphonmagic works relentlessly, manipulating both time and space, thrusting back his extreme age and drawing forth a younger, stronger form. When the transformation is through, he stands in his bindings, panting hard, shuddering in pain. But the body is tall, strong, laced with muscle, filling out his robes, which strain at the seams.
Suddenly his limp hands clench into fists, and his arms strain. One after another, he breaks the ropes which hold him, as thoughthey were mere spider-silk threads. He steps away from the wall, looking down at his hands, sliding back the long sleeves of his robe to inspect the musculature of his arms.
“Well done, Thalor,” he says, speaking through his own mouth this time. His Miphato servant cowers against the wall, hiding his face from the open pit. “You’ve done excellent work this time.” With a shake of his shorn head, he turns to face the licorneir and its rider. “Keep it open,” he says. “I will need to access the virulium-force. Something tells me this princess won’t submit easily.”
Neither Onoril nor Thalor acknowledge him in any way. They are utterly concentrated on the task at hand, on keeping the Rift open while not letting the power overwhelm their song and break through into this realm completely. The whole tower shakes as though on the verge of collapse, and though I am dead, I am afraid.
I watch Morthiel go. He sweeps from the room without a word or a look either for me or Shanaera. We mean nothing to him, have no part to play in his plans. I realize I am crouching like the sniveling Miphato, pressed against the wall and holding tight to a pair of hands. Shanaera’s hands. She grips me fast, but when I turn my terrified gaze to her, she smiles, showing all her blackened teeth. How I loathe her in that moment—and yet I cannot bear to let her go.
Turning from her, I force myself to face my father and thatdreadful portal. Thalorkhir,luinarof the Licorna, has not aged a day since the last time I saw him. He has found a form of eternal youth and, in so doing, has ceased to heed the passage of time. His one desire is to delve deeper and deeper into this power he has discovered, pursuing the promise of immortality.
As though in echo, I hear Larongar’s voice once more in my head, taunting me:“Did you not know? Thalorkhir is at the heart of it all. Morthiel could not do what he has done without both the help and the blessing of the king. Without the power of that unicorn of his.”
All these years I’ve believed my father died in the first fall of thevardimnar.Never once did I suspect that he and Onoril were responsible for that first great explosion that destroyed our world. I still remember how, in the days leading up to what would be the end of Licorna, there would sometimes be strange ripples of darkness around the citadel. Were those instances of Thalor and Onoril attempting to open this very Rift? Did my father not realize the forces with which he was tampering? Or, in his pursuit of both power and knowledge, did he simply not care?
That first successful opening—it must have been overwhelming. No doubt Thalor and Onoril struggled to get it closed again, which is why it lasted so long. Long enough to wipe out most of our civilization, leaving behind only dead bodies and empty ruins.
I look at this man now, whom I have always imagined as avictim of Miphates’ manipulation. But he made his own choices. Even as he does now. And those choices led to the deaths of millions. Including his own wife. My mother.
Were my heart not already ripped apart, it would break now under the weight of this revelation.
I turn to Shanaera suddenly. “We have to stop this. We have to stop them both,” I shout, struggling to be heard over the roar of energy rising from that pit. “Will you help me?”
She smiles again. “I thought you’d never ask.”
34
ILSEVEL
Sylcatha and her warriors charge the field of battle, taking down the dead with great strokes of theirvaritars. The Tarhyn Tribe has not suffered the severe losses of the Rocaryn, and she leads a proud company of Licornyn riders into the fray. They do not hesitate to take down enemies, even those wearing the faces of friends and loved ones. It is grim work to be done, here under hell’s shadow, but they are not afraid to do it.
Sylcatha guides her own licorneir close to me. She does not seem surprised to see me mounted on Mahra; it’s as though she always expected this eventuality, somehow. She holds up her sword in swift salute.“Maelar,”she says, “we heard your song and set out to join you. Will you accept us into your chorus?”
I don’t know if she speaks the words out loud or sings them straight to my spirit. Either way, I respond with a smile andclasp her left hand. “Welcome, Chief Sylcatha,” I say, tears springing to my eyes. “I am glad to see you.”
She has no time for sentimentality, however. Releasing my hand, she turns her licorneir about and, uttering another battle cry, hurls herself at the nearest undead. Her powerful licorneir dodges the impaling horn of a dead beast, and Sylcatha’s sword cuts the head off its rider in a single, clean stroke.
I haven’t time to watch further. Mahra plunges on through the churning dead, her horn swift, her song unwavering. Now that these reinforcements have come, my heart lifts with hope.
But then the death mages appear.
They file out from the gate, led by one particularly tall man, who writhes with un-song energy, caught in a series of red spells, which seem to float about his person, vividly perceptible to my gods-gifted senses. There are sevennecroliphonwith him, and to each of these he sends out a steady pulse of power.
My eyes round in horror as I watch them open grimoires and begin to murmur the words of written spells, churning raw energy into enchantment. “No!” I cry, even as my soul screams to Mahra,We must stop them!
Before we can act, another rider charges—one of my own warriors, a young man, green and inexperienced, but brimming with courage and song. His licorneir carries him straight for the nearest mage, but before they come within reach of hisvaritar, a blast of red necroliphon magic strikes him in the chest. I watchin horror as his soul is yanked from his body, leaving it an empty carcass to fall beneath his licorneir’s feet. The licorneir screams, erupting invelrhoarflame. But before it can take vengeance on the murderer of its rider, another death mage hurls a spell, which swathes the mighty beast, snuffing out both life and song.
My mind goes still, numbed by sheer horror. But Mahra’s voice sings in the back of my head:They draw their power from their master. Without him, they are weak.
She’s right. If we’re to stop the seven, we must first take out the one. Him . . . Mage Artoris’s master. The man who suppressed my gods-gift all those years ago. Though I don’t know how it can be, for the man who pulled me from my coma all those years ago was withered and ancient, while this man is tall and broad and strong.
But I have no doubt in my mind: Morthiel has come down from the citadel to face us.
