[Lanen Kaelar 03] - Redeeming the Lost (31 page)

I stood beside Salera while the Healers made
their plans. We had begged the time from the dragons who had offered to carry
us. I knew in my bones that I had to be with Aral, that she would need me soon,
but oh! After all those years of missing her, I was loath to bid Salera
farewell so soon. Even to leave her side was hard.

“I tell you, we can manage with one just one
Healer with each of the little dragons,” insisted Mile—he always hated being
called Chalmik—to Vil and Aral as Jamie and Lanen were bidding each other
farewell. ‘Trust me, we all paid attention in Magister Pos-rik’s classes. That’s
how we survived the first attack in the Great Hall.” His voice grew lower and
grimmer. ‘Think of it as a test. Those of us still alive can deal with demons.”

“And what about the times when you can’t?”
replied Vilkas sternly. “Not all the Rikti respond to the same restraints. And
I am here to tell you that the creature that dwelt in Rathen was one of the
Rakshasa. They are a different problem altogether, and we know not how many
like him there may be.”

“How would you know?” said Mik, stung by the
implied criticism. “I’m sure you’re well up on theory, Vil, and you did well
enough today once the actual demon was gone”—Vilkas started to protest volubly,
which Mik ignored—“but I haven’t forgotten a thing about Posrik’s classes,”
said Mik, sneering. “You turned white as a sheet the one time we dealt with a
real demon. Damn near fainted.”

I would have smiled if I dared. Mik and Vilkas
always put on a great show of not being able to stand the other’s presence.
Idiots. And at such a time! Still, it made a kind of sense. The world they had
known was literally lying in ruins at their feet. Their old rivalry was
familiar, safe. Known.

Ah, and here came Aral, eyes snapping, to
puncture the raucous pride of the young men’s display. I was proud of her.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, can’t you two give it
a rest even now?” said Aral, exasperated, turning to Vilkas and frowning. “Vil,
you know Mik’s right, demons make you lose your reason. Don’t snarl at Mik just
because you—because you weren’t thinking straight last night. He survived. That
took skill.” Then she turned to Chalmik, who was beginning to look rather smug.

Ai, I thought, cringing. Mik, you’re an idiot.
For Shia’s sake, don’t smile at Vil’s discomfort! You ought to know Aral better
than that.

“And don’t you bloody well pick on Vilkas,”
she said, rounding on Mik and looking for all the world as if for two pins she’d
slap his face for him. I swear, you’d never believe such concentrated defensive
fury could exist in so small a frame.

“Leave it, Aral. I don’t need your help,”
growled Vilkas. She ignored him.

“He’s dealt with more demons in the last week
than you’ve ever seen in your life, including last night. We’ve been working
without cease since Berys murdered Magistra Erthik. Vil’s done things people
are going to write books about, if any of us get out alive. Back off.” The two
young lads exchanged a speaking look over her head, male commiseration over the
peculiar habits of the female, but she reached out and took each of them by the
arm. “No more classes, lads,” she said, her voice low and solemn. “No more
stupid rivalry. That world is gone. It’s all too bloody real now. We need to
stick together.”

“It’s not enough, Aral,” replied Mik, more
subdued now that she had forced him to let go his mask of scorn. “Vil’s right.
I know I can manage the little ones, but—I’m still learning to be a Healer. I’m
not gifted like you two, I’m just one of the crowd. I learned last night that I
can hold off demons, and I’ve a reasonable idea of how I managed it, but what
if I have to face a Healer with twice my strength?”

“There are only two ways to get rid of a
demon,” said Vilkas, starting to grin. He could see over Mik’s shoulder, of
course. “Run or have a dragon handy.”

“I can’t run very bloody fast,” grunted Mik.

“Then let us not depend on the strength of
your legs, Master Chalmik,” said a clear voice from close behind the young
Healer. He jumped a foot, and Aral howled with laughter as Salera stepped
forward.

“Forgive me, Master Chalmik,” Salera said. “Magister
Rikard said that I should speak with you regarding the partnerships we seek to
create.” She gazed into his eyes, her soulgem bright in the late afternoon sun.
“He suggested that I should work with you, setting up teams, planning our—our
strategy.” She sounded proud, though whether that stemmed from remembering the word
or being able to pronounce it, I was not certain. “I am willing if you are.”

Mik blinked. Knowing him, he was too touched
to speak. I knew only a little of his history, but from what I could recall
there was precious little of kindness in it, and less respect. You’ve caught
him on the hop, Salera, you clever soul, I thought. Well done, lass!

“She’s the leader of her people, Mik. You won’t
get a better offer this year,” said Aral, gently teasing.

“I’ve a feeling you may be right, Aral,”
declared Mik, finally allowing a slow grin to cross his face. “I’d be honoured,
Mistress Salera. Though I still think we need another Healer. I’m damned new at
this.”

“I have seen your heart, Chalmik of Durrum,”
she replied, “and others have told me of your kindness. You are not nearly so
limited as you choose to believe.”

Mik’s grin widened. “Very well, then,” he
said, raising his hand, palm out. Salera touched her palm with his. “As long as
you stop calling me Chalmik. That’s my dad’s name, it sounds like you’re
talking to my father. I’m just Mik.”

“Very well, Chustmik,” replied Salera as she
let out a great hiss. Mik jumped back several feet.

“It means she’s amused, lad,” I reassured him
as he caught his breath and let his heart slow back to normal.

Mik turned to me, annoyed. “And that’s another
thing. How in all the Hells do you know what that means?”

I ignored him, for the others were preparing
to leave. The time was come.

“Salera, my lass,” I began, but she was
already moving towards me. Despite the lack of expression on her bright face,
the young Healers all turned away. Salera did not speak at first and nor did I,
we simply gazed at one another for a moment—and then she bowed her head, like
any daughter wanting the kiss of benison from her father at parting. I leaned in
and touched my lips briefly to her brilliant blue soulgem, then threw my arms
about her great long neck.

“It’ll all come right, littling,” I said,
trying to keep my voice steady, the strange, spicy smell of her hide awakening
a hundred memories from when she was a kitling. “We’ve found each other after
all this time, haven’t we? We’ll manage it again when this is over.” She did
not reply, just rested her head against my back for a moment. “Your life is all
before you, and a great work awaits. I know you will do all things well,” I
said softly. “I trust—I know all will be—” I faltered for a moment, then moved
a little away and gazed deep into her eyes. “Salera, my heart’s daughter. I am
so very proud of you.”

There was a moment of utter stillness between
us, when we did not breathe and I’d swear our hearts didn’t beat, and for that
timeless moment there were only the two of us in all the world.

But time still flows, and we stood back from
one another—and the dratted creature got in the last word. “She does not know,
my father, but have patience,” she whispered to me. “Aral is very clever. She
will see you in time.”

She dropped her jaw and grinned at me, then
turned to walk slowly away with Chalmik.

It was time to go.

Before I could question Salera further about
this astounding ability the Lesser Kindred seemed to possess, Idai glanced up
and said, “Shikrar, behold, one comes from the west.” She sounded puzzled. “But
it flies in from the sea. Surely we are all here? It cannot be Nikis!”

“I cannot tell from—this range—” I replied as
my words began to falter. I felt a cold wind rising. That distant form cast a
shadow over my heart.

“May all the Winds preserve us,” whispered
Idai. I felt the shiver that trembled through her. “Shikrar, it cannot be!”

The shape was right for one of us, but this
creature was too high up and too far off and moved—oddly. It flew stupidly,
impossibly, vast black wings flapping like a crow even at that height, where it
should soar on the kindly winds. It looked to be twice my size and black as
night, and when it passed between me and the lowering sun I shivered from horns
to talons, and for that moment I felt as though my heart were turned to stone
and would never beat again. In that desolate silence one of the oldest legends
of our people whispered through my heart like the hiss of falling snow.

“When the Black Dragon comes, when the Eldest
of the Kantri falls from the sky, then will come the ending of the world.”

“May all the Winds preserve us,” repeated
Idai, shuddering, as the thing flew eastward out of sight. “This is an evil
day.”

“Shikrar!” cried two hundred voices in my
mind.

I was about to reply when a wave of sheer
hatred crashed over my mind, followed by a cry from voices I did not yet know.
A single word, shouted in fury by hundreds of minds and throats, as a mere ten
miles away the great cloud of the Restored rose into the air to give chase.

Demonlord!

A terrible shudder rippled across every soul
there in Timeths field when that vast black shape passed over. We had lost the
only home we had ever known, we had flown across the Great Sea for our very
survival, beyond hope the Lost were restored to themselves and to life the very
day we returned—and now when even we, even the Kantrishakrim, required rest and
time to think, the shadow of our ending swept over our heads a bare day after
we had arrived in Kolmar.

I saw Treshak look up when the shadow passed
over; saw her flick in an instant from the Attitude of Calm, which had finally
graced her after many long hours of talk and food and rest, into Fury. I
watched in amazement as she went in a single fluid movement from being at rest
to being airborne.

“Demonlord!” she screamed, aloud and in
truespeech, and a second and worse shudder took us all—but we who had returned
from the Isle of Exile watched in amazement as all the Dhrena-gan echoed that
cry and, rising up in a great cloud, flew after Treshak towards the distant
black figure.

And behind them, but gaining fast, my father
Shikrar.

Treshak was insane. She it was whose name was
most remembered of the Lost, for she was the first to be changed by the
De-monlord. Her fury, like a furnace when he murdered her mate Aidrishaan, had
made her first in the attack. This had happened five thousand winters and more
ago.

To Treshak, it was a raw wound made but two
days since.

Her grief, her fury, were unabated, and she
flew on her new-made wings straight towards Death. I shouted to her, sending
truespeech that could be heard halfway around the world, but she would not
listen. I cried out then to the rest of the Restored, commanding that none
should take away Treshak’s honour of the first attack. I knew my thoughts were
full of my fear of her death and I did nothing to conceal it. Perhaps that
would convince them where mere sense had no sway. It seemed to work, for they
broke off the pursuit and circled high, a great column rising in a spiral, all
eyes fixed below on Treshak.

As I bespoke them, I used every advantage of
size and strength I possessed to try to catch up with Treshak, but there was
not enough time. The Black Dragon was too near to her and I too far away. I had
barely passed the great mass of the Restored when she had come level with the
thing and dove at it from on high, screaming wordless defiance, talons
outstretched and mouth agape, to rend, to kill with a single strike.

It heard and turned its head over its
shoulder. It opened its jaws and a terrible sound came out, short unconnected
bursts of noise, as Treshak fell upon it. Just before she could strike, it
changed its flight angle, rolling and pulling up to face her, and spoke a
single word as it rose. The sound was sickening, and it was clearly in the
language of the Rakshasa. Dread took me. If this was in truth the Demonlord,
had it just uttered the word that created the Lost in the first place?

Were we all doomed?

Treshak flinched but was otherwise unaffected,
and hit the Black Dragon at an angle.

It all happened so quickly.

Because it had changed its orientation, her
trajectory took her straight at its underbelly. When she hit, she sank her
front talons and her upper fangs into its wing, striving to tear the membrane,
and let her momentum carry her back claws into what, on us, would be the soft
flesh just in front of the back legs.

Then she started to scream.

She could not free herself from it. Her front
talons and her fangs were embedded in the black wing, but it was not flesh.
Where her talons tore frantically at the surface, I saw a white-hot seething
mass, just before her forelegs disappeared into the creature. It was terrible.
Her screams redoubled, ringing hideously in my ears. It seemed that the thing
had caught hold of her body and was actively pulling her into itself as they
fell earthwards. It was plain that she could not get away, and I watched in
sick horror as she began to burn—but she denied it the final victory. She chose
of her own will the Swift Death, and cleansing Fire took her instantly from
within.