As they probed, Faraday’s fingers persuaded living tissue to bind itself together, enticed and in some cases seduced blood vessels into retying and replenishing themselves. She muttered to herself as she worked, wordless sounds, encouraging murmurs. Yr could feel what was happening and she leaned back, looking first at Faraday’s face, then turning to share her amazement with Belial. She looked back down again. Already Faraday had dealt with the major wounds on Axis’ body and her fingers were now closing the lesser lacerations. Finally Faraday trembled, her face losing concentration, her eyes losing their power and returning to normal.
She looked up at Belial, her chestnut hair tumbling down over her shoulders, her face pale and bewildered. “What have I done?” she whispered. Belial leaned across Axis’ body and gripped her bloody hand. “You have saved his life,” he said quietly, “and for that I thank you.”
Axis took a deep breath and shuddered, and although his eyes remained closed his face was regaining some colour, relaxing away from death.
“What’s going on here? What piss-brained soldier ordered the gates open?” Borneheld had finally struggled down from the battlements, limping heavily. Didn’t they realise that the Skraelings could have staged a mass charge and broken through?
There was a knot of men gathered about by the stables and Borneheld thumped over, shouldering his way through. Axis lay unconscious on the ground, bloodied and torn clothes about him. Faraday knelt to one side of him, her hands tearing strips from her cloak to wrap about his wounds, while the maid, Yr, sat cradling the BattleAxe’s head in her lap.
“If those are the only wounds he has to show for the loss of Gorkentown then I would hazard to guess that he spent more time running than fighting,” the WarLord observed derisively. “Faraday, come. The servant can see to those bandages. You should not be demeaning yourself out here in the cold and mud.”
Faraday rose, her face drawn with the effort she had spent. “It is part of my duties as chatelaine of Gorkenfort to see to the wounded, Borneheld. And there are many more here for me to attend.” She turned towards another group of injured men lying a few paces away.
Borneheld’s fury returned in full force. “Who ordered the gates open?” he yelled.
Magariz opened his mouth, straightening his shoulders, as Faraday turned back to Borneheld. “I did, my husband,” she said quietly. “I was sickened at watching men die needlessly when we could shelter them in here.” Her eyes flickered to Magariz, daring him to contradict her. Magariz’s mouth hung open, appalled at the risk she took. Even though Faraday was Borneheld’s wife, in his present mood there was no telling what he would do to her.
Borneheld stared at his wife, furious with her. How dare she interfere with his orders! “You stupid…!” he started to shout, then stopped himself with a massive effort. He breathed heavily, the veins standing out on his forehead, struggling to bring his rage under control. If it had been anyone else Borneheld would have struck out. But Faraday was his wife and only a woman. She didn’t understand military matters or the danger that could have seethed through the gate when she ordered it open. She was upset by the battle about her. She…she had saved Axis’ life through her interference. “Do not meddle in matters beyond your concern!” Borneheld rasped finally. “Mop up the blood if you wish, but then go inside and sit by the fire where you belong. I don’t want your sentimentality endangering this fort again.”
He stared at her a full minute longer, then turned and stomped off towards the Keep. Faraday’s face and body relaxed in undisguised relief. Her eyes met Magariz’s briefly.
“You have won the respect and more from all here who witnessed what you did for the BattleAxe and what you just did for me,” he said quietly, his striking face intense with undefinable emotion. “I am humbled by your courage and awed by the power that you carry inside you. I am your servant.” He bowed jerkily, then turned to follow Borneheld into the Keep.
Faraday watched him for a moment, then turned to Belial. She leaned down to his forehead and touched him with her hands. “Let me help you,” she said.
51
THE LAKE OF LIFE
Jack stood still in the early morning air, the breeze ruffling his straight blond hair, his green eyes gazing intently to the north. He listened to the Song of the Earth Tree. Ordinary ears could not hear it, but to Jack’s Sentinel ears the music reverberated through the crisp morning air, filling his soul with consolation. Earth Tree was awake, and the Avarinheim would be denied a little longer to Gorgrael. His entire force would have to flow into Achar through the Gorken Pass.
Jack had left his pigs in a sheltered valley in the southern Urqhart hills while he had spent the past week trudging further north, seeking out the fifth Sentinel.
The Prophecy had recruited and then recreated only the five of them. Jack, the wanderer and the one who largely bore the weight of responsibility for their mission; Ogden and Veremund; Yr. And Zeherah. No-one had heard from Zeherah, felt Zeherah, for over two thousand years. It worried Jack. Since their creation they had largely stayed apart, happier not to congregate as five lest that in itself trigger the Prophecy. But their minds had touched even if hundreds of leagues had separated their bodies. All but Zeherah. She had vanished. If Jack could not find her in time for her to fulfil her assigned role in the Prophecy then all would be lost. She should have awakened and walked with the rest when Axis entered their lives.
Jack knew that Gorgrael had struck strongly the night before. Yuletide. Jack should have been able to feel the revitalised joy of the sun this morning as it rose. It had risen, but only half-heartedly, and winter retained its strong grip on the country north of the River Nordra. Jack feared in his heart that the Yuletide rites had not been completed. He could only hope that enough had been done for the sun to somehow struggle towards spring.
Tears sprang to his eyes as he contemplated the slaughter he had felt in the Earth Tree Grove. Each scream had torn at his soul. And yet…yet it had been worse at Gorkentown. Were Axis and Faraday still alive? He knew Yr, Ogden and Veremund were, for he could still feel them, and he could only hope that Axis had not perished along with so many of the others whose souls had passed him by throughout the night.
Jack had watched the dead as he sat through the river of the night. He had seen the Icarii, torn and some wingless; the Avar, shocked and bewildered; the mass of soldiers from Gorkentown, all wandering disconsolately through the night and along the River of Death towards the great Gate of the AfterLife. He had finally roused himself as the last of the soldiers killed in Gorkentown passed him by. At least Axis had not passed. There was still hope.
Jack stood on the southern face of HoldHard Pass in the Urqhart hills. The garrison of Sigholt sat on the northern face about a league away. While it stood there unviolated this morning, if Gorgrael moved through Ichtar then it might well be overrun if its ancient magic could not save it. But Jack’s eyes did not linger on Sigholt, even though it was one of the remaining three ancient Keeps of Tencendor left standing. Instead Jack’s eyes turned towards the wide basin at its foot, his eyes tracing the outlines of an ancient shoreline. There should have been a lake here. One of the four magical Lakes of Tencendor. Yet there was none. It was gone. And with it had gone Zeherah.
All the Sentinels had been tied in some way or another to the lakes. Yr with Grail Lake. Ogden and Veremund, inseparable, with Cauldron Lake. Himself with Fernbrake Lake, the Mother. And Zeherah with the Lake of Life, the most magical, some said, of all the Lakes. Sigholt had guarded its shores for millennia. Now it guarded nothing but a bowl of snow, and undoubtedly during summer held nothing but dust.
The Lake of Life had been drained—perhaps by one of the ghastly Dukes of Ichtar sometime during the past two thousand years. The Lake of Life was dead.
And the love of his life was dead with it, blown away with the dust that formed when the lake was drained. Zeherah. Jack bowed his head and wept. For the moment he did not mourn the Prophecy, but his own loss. Zeherah had, in a
nother existence, once been his wife.
All the Sentinels had once been members of the lost fourth race of Tencendor. The Charonites. The Ferrymen who plied their boats along the waterways of the UnderWorld.
52
THE EARTH TREE GROVE
“He will live, GoldFeather, but he will not fly for some time. See, these two wounds have cut deep into the flight muscles of his chest. They will need time to heal.” Barsarbe sighed, her face gaunt and ashen after the terrible night they had all endured. Those Banes left had spent the hours of the night tending to the wounded. “Once he gets back to the hot springs of Talon Spike he will heal faster and cleaner.”
“I thank you, Bane Barsarbe. You have done more than your best here this night.” said GoldFeather. Barsarbe had worked for over four hours on StarDrifter’s wounds, stitching the muscles back into place, sprinkling herbs into the deepest wounds to help fight infection and aid healing.
A small group huddled about StarDrifter as he lay under the Earth Tree. RavenCrest, his son FreeFall, EvenSong and Azhure. GoldFeather sat by her husband’s side, her face tight with worry. A few paces away stood a vigilant group of five of the Strike Force detailed by FarSight CutSpur to guard the Talon and his heir. RavenCrest and FreeFall had been forced by CutSpur to lift out of the grove the night before as the Skraelings attacked, and the Strike Force had kept them well out of the way until the danger was over.
EvenSong had saved GoldFeather. As the Skraelings attacked Pease, EvenSong had grabbed her mother and, through a supreme effort, lifted her to the tree tops. Although the Icarii were very strong, few could carry the weight of another into the air.
Now EvenSong sat to one side, watching Bane Barsarbe work on her father. She was a striking woman, with her uncle RavenCrest’s violet eyes and her father’s golden hair; like all Icarii women, she wore her curls cropped close to her skull. Her wingbacks were the same gold as her hair, and she dyed her underwings to match her eyes so that in the air she was all gold and violet. Now her wings were tucked in behind her, the muscles of her back and chest strained and aching. She and GoldFeather had huddled terrified in the tree tops of Earth Tree Grove, watching the massacre below them, too scared to cry out even when StarDrifter was attacked, knowing they could not help him.
EvenSong was shocked by the attack on the grove and her father and numbed by the news of her elder brother. She knew that her parents had lost a child early in their relationship, and that it caused them great and lasting sorrow. Now it seemed her brother lived. EvenSong, so used to being an only child, found it strange to consider that she had an elder brother somewhere, and one who had inherited StarDrifter’s powers. EvenSong knew StarDrifter had hoped she would inherit the mantle of Enchanter from him, but he had hid his disappointment well when it became apparent that the baby daughter Rivkah carried would wield no more magic than ordinary women. He loved his daughter nevertheless. But now her brother lived and would become an Enchanter, if StarDrifter could ever find him. EvenSong, always a little temperamental, was jealous.
EvenSong regarded Azhure with immense admiration and respect. As she and GoldFeather had huddled terrified in the trees Azhure had helped turn the tide of the battle, not to mention saving StarDrifter’s life. No-one else had managed to act with such decisive determination. EvenSong knew that many of the Strike Force had been shamed by Azhure’s actions. While they had hovered, screaming their frustration, she had somehow managed to rally those on the ground. There would be soul searching among the Crest-Leaders over the next days.
RavenCrest was furious, both with his own inability to act and with the Crest-Leaders’ impotence in the face of the Skraeling attack. What was the point, he had screamed earlier this morning as he had strutted about the grove before the assembled Strike Force, of having a Strike Force when his people died anyway? Was not the attack last night something they had trained for? But RavenCrest stopped short of totally humiliating his Strike Force and twelve Crest-Leaders. The Icarii, as the Avar, had lived in relatively peaceful isolation for so long that they had forgotten the skills necessary to repel and counterattack. RavenCrest knew he had to assume as much responsibility for the number of Icarii and Avar dead as anyone else.
RavenCrest, although he loved and respected his brother deeply, felt ashamed that it had been StarDrifter who had salvaged the House of SunSoar’s pride. In concert with the Avar, Bane Raum, he had managed to awaken the Earth Tree, and now she continued to sing over the grove and the entire northern Avarinheim. Her Song had repelled and destroyed the Skraeling attack. Still the price had been awful.
Many hundreds of Icarii and Avar had been killed, the Avar bearing the brunt of the attack because of their passivity and their inability to lift out of the grove. This evening the Icarii and Avar would build great funeral pyres in the lesser groves, commending their dead to the River of Death, the Avar praying that they reach the paths of the Sacred Grove while the Icarii prayed that their own would remember the Star Song so that their souls would eventually be reborn among the Stars themselves.
Azhure saw EvenSong watching her. She was fascinated by the Icarii woman and hoped she would have the chance to know her better. But for the moment there was too much sadness to contemplate new friendships. Fleat’s daughter Hogni had been killed by the Skraelings as well as Pease. At least Fleat had been well out of it, escorting the young children further south into the forest. Hopefully they had evaded attack. Despite the grateful and dignified thanks of the Icarii and Avar, Azhure felt more cast adrift than ever. Azhure lowered her eyes and studied her hands.
She wasn’t sure what she should do now. Pease had been her strongest tie with the Clan, and now she was gone. The memory of her desperate, pain-filled eyes, her hand stretched out to Azhure for help, would be with her for always. Azhure sat beneath the singing Earth Tree and stared at her hands, trying to clean the dried blood out from underneath her fingernails, thinking about her future.
“StarDrifter. Can you talk?” RavenCrest squatted down beside his brother.
StarDrifter held out his hand and his brother helped him sit up. Although Barsarbe had neatly stitched his wounds, his torso still looked appalling, and Azhure winced in sympathy as a moan escaped his lips. His face was drawn tight with suffering, his injuries now felt worse than when they had gaped open. Barsarbe had been forced to pull great handfuls of feathers from his wings in order to stitch the lacerations there, and StarDrifter’s Icarii vanity hurt almost as much as his wounds.
“Yes,” he said, hoping that his voice did not croak too much. “We need to talk, RavenCrest.”
RavenCrest was silent for a moment, looking thoughtfully at the ground, then he raised his proud head and stared StarDrifter in the eye. “How much damage did the Skraelings do, Enchanter?”
StarDrifter knew he was not asking about the physical damage. He took a deep breath, then flinched as his wounds screamed in agony at their misuse. “The damage was bad, yet it might have been worse, RavenCrest. We did not finish the Yuletide rites, but the SkraeBolds did not launch the attack until after the circle of fire was lit. The sun will be reborn, and has,” he said, his eyes briefly checking the sky. “But it will be weak as it grows towards the spring thaw. Perhaps too weak. The earth will have to struggle hard if it is to break through the covering of snow and ice. Brother, it could have been worse. If the circle of fire had not been lit we could be facing perpetual winter.”
RavenCrest nodded. “Gorgrael has gained ground.”
“But not as much as he had hoped for,” his son FreeFall said, standing behind his father. The young Icarii prince was starting to grow into his birthright, and over the past few years was admitted to all of his father’s councils and allowed to take on some of the daily tasks of the position he would one day inherit. FreeFall was considered by many to have the makings of a great Talon in him; unlike his father, he did not sometimes let his innate arrogance get in the way of making the right decision.
StarDrifter nodded at his brother and
nephew. “You are both right. Gorgrael had surely hoped for far more than what his SkraeBolds achieved. If they had done what he ordered then even now winter would be freezing over the Avarinheim, and I would be in the Destroyer’s clutches.”
GoldFeather, who had remained silent through this exchange, looked horrified. “What do you mean, ‘in the Destroyer’s clutches’?”
“I provoked the SkraeBold into attacking. I think that Gorgrael wanted me alive and brought to him,” StarDrifter replied.
“Why?” RavenCrest glanced briefly at FarSight CutSpur who had just wandered up to the group. “Why would Gorgrael want you alive?”
GoldFeather felt a shudder pass through StarDrifter as she supported his shoulders. “Because all Enchanters need their parent to teach them,” he said, his voice tight, “and Gorgrael, like it or not, is as much an Icarii Enchanter as is the StarMan.”
“I don’t understand,” said FreeFall. “If Gorgrael needs you to teach him, then how has he achieved so much power already?”
“As Barsarbe stitched my wounds I thought about that, long and hard.” StarDrifter grimaced. “It was one way to keep my mind from the pain. FreeFall, all Enchanters derive their power from the music of the Star Dance, the music that the Stars make as they dance through the heavens.” RavenCrest and FreeFall nodded. “But I think Gorgrael, to this point, has derived his power from somewhere else,” StarDrifter continued, turning to look slowly about the rest of the group. His eyes lingered momentarily on Azhure, sitting to one side, looking wan and dispirited. “I think that Gorgrael derives his power from the discord that also floats about between the stars. The disharmonies that are made when the Stars miss their step, when they crash one into the other, when they forget the Dance to the extent that they swell into great red giants and explode. There are two types of music among the Stars, my friends. The Star Dance is the loudest and it is the one that all Enchanters are taught to listen to and to derive their power from. But underlying the Star Dance is a subtle thread of discord, of disharmony, the dance that leads Stars to their death—a Dance of Death. Many Enchanters have feared that one day an Enchanter would learn to use that music as well. I think that one now has.”