Authors: Vera Nazarian
While, at the same time, her right hand fumbled with the small thing at her waist, hidden away and sharp, that she had concealed for a moment such as this, a moment where she might have to fight her own self, her own doubt.
How sweet was this strange demon’s embrace. Unlike any she ever had, all-encompassing, and deep like the earth itself. So intoxicating and inevitable, that she involuntarily brought her hands up and around his neck, from behind, meanwhile drinking the ecstatic male breath from his lips, and her fingers insinuated into his tight curling locks of hair, holding him tight to her, close and tight, for the last time. . . .
She tasted him thus, as she plunged the small, sharp, deadly instrument, a tiny woman’s dagger, into the small of his neck, right below the skull, where he was bare of leather bindings, or helmet, where he would never have been touched otherwise, except by an intimate embrace.
She could feel his instant of tensing, the pause. His lips came away from her, and his eyes met hers with a look that did not accuse, but watched for an instant, unbelieving.
Then, blood gurgled at the corner of his mouth, blood that was black and human.
He sighed, like a demon child, and then released her. And with her, released his hold on the reins, slumping forward suddenly. The momentum of the mount rocked him backward, so he fell prone to the ground.
Somehow, she remained seated in the saddle atop his beast, while for several feet, Vorn’s body was dragged against the ground. Then, regaining control of her mind, she took the reins feverishly, and kicked forward, so that his body was freed of the stirrup and bindings. And as he fell away at last, she put the knuckles of her left hand to her mouth, and bit them, and then began to sob, wildly, horribly, as she had never wept before.
“
Bitch! Damn you . . .” she gasped between wrenching sobs.
The Regentrix wept, because she had killed her demon lover, her Enemy, her very need, her personal obsession. But even more so, she wept because she was now truly free, at last.
E
lasand had taken hold of a Qurthe battlesword with both hands, in a deadly grip. He had lost his shield some time ago, broken the slender blade of his longsword, and grabbed a dead man’s weapon that was closest to him.
His side was bleeding profusely, and he could already feel the languid stupor that was gathering, and soon would overwhelm him. And yet, he had to continue to stand, because two more enemy riders were bearing down on him.
“
My lord!”
He swung around, disoriented, squinting his eyes, and saw Ranhé riding toward him from the other direction, and behind her, several others of the Light Guild.
“
Hold on, only for a little longer, my lord!”
And then she was at his side, reining in her mount sharply, splattered with blood, but seemingly unhurt, while her own sword continued to burn a garish brilliant
yellow
.
“
I am surprised—at you—Ranhé—” he stuttered, looking up at her, breath catching in his throat. “That you still would fight for me.”
“
What else would I do?” she exclaimed angrily then, for the first time raising her voice at him.
“
But you are loyal to no one, you said—you said so to me once—you said—” He was raving, in delirium.
“
My lord, you are a rare fool! Is this any time to discuss loyalty? Watch out behind you!”
And as she spoke, he turned and then simultaneously ignited the Qurthe blade with
violet
brilliance—the sight of which managed to clear his mind just a little—and brought it up in a parry, to counter a blow from one of the dark warriors that had come upon him.
Ranhé immediately moved in to intercept, at the same time telling him to fall back, and she engaged the enemy soldier.
“
Vorn is down!” she cried out the bit of news to him, in between blows. “And the Guildmaster is nowhere to be seen! But Marihke has rallied a strike on the other side of the Markets, and the resistance forces seem to be making some headway there.”
He staggered, still reeling from the force of the parried blow, while from the other side came another enemy warrior, and then, more guildsmen appeared as their reinforcements.
But then a silence from behind them. All turned, involuntarily, pausing in their battle, even the Qurthe.
Like a parting sea, the Qurthe made way, retreating on both sides, allowing passage to a great beast and the one who sat in the ornate saddle, higher than all others.
Feale the Twilight One rode directly toward them, and all behind him, a tidal wave of absolute darkness, a thick wall of soldiers and warbeasts, all bearing down.
Ranhé cursed, then finished off the Qurthe with one final quick strike—he had hesitated also, looking at his approaching lord, and it cost him his life.
“
Get behind me, my lord!” she exclaimed then, and bent forward, her gloved hand outstretched to him. “Hurry! My horse can carry us both—”
“
No!” Elasand roared then, because blood sounded like a swell of an ocean in his temples. “No, get away from me! He is mine—go, save yourself, freewoman!”
“
Don’t be an idiot, you are about to pass out!” She grabbed hold of his shoulder, but he shrugged her off, with more remaining strength than she suspected, and then glanced in her direction with wild eyes.
“
Do you want to die, my lord? Is that it?” she screamed at him, furious, while cold began to gather within her.
The moment slowed, and she thought she saw his soul in that gaze.
Let me be,
his eyes said.
Let me do what I must
.
And brimming with that now overwhelming inner cold that may have been sorrow, or perhaps fear, she finally nodded in helpless acquiescence—for even now she could not deny him—and reining in her steed, moved aside and just behind him.
Thus, the wounded man stood alone before the Twilight One.
The first thing that happened was the disappearance of
violet
. Elasand’s sword, blazing one second with the brilliance of
color
, went dull and ordinary the next. Light had sputtered, like a blown-out candle, and was no more.
Overhead, the twilight sun.
All around, motionless gray air.
Elasand stood, blood draining away from his face, while dark seemed to grow into a mountain before him, and its source was the form—vaguely human—atop the warbeast. It, the darkness, curled into tendrils of fine vapor, and just spread, pouring outward into an aura, solidifying, and effectively blocking out all sun, whatever weak essence of it had been left.
And then the cloud of darkness continued to pour downward, and at him.
With a harsh cry, Lord Vaeste raised his sword, and focused all his remaining will into a memory. . . .
Laelith
.
Immediately, he was a human torch, igniting with
violet
fire. Fire ran throughout him, and continued outward, sweeping the sword blade, and then past, like a beam of perfect lightning, at the dark form of Feale atop his great beast.
Ranhé caught her breath. For an instant, it seemed the light would actually reach the Enemy, would touch him, burn him away into perfect oblivion.
But the Twilight One lifted his hand, and pointed a single finger. Black lightning, like an afterimage, a perfect antithesis, started from him and moved to intercept the
violet
light midway, and then, eating away at it, began to move back upon the still burning form of Elasand.
“
Feale!”
The sound of the name cut through the thickness of the air, and resounded with fear among the Qurthe. The black fire paused its advance, and hung like smoke in the air, at the boundary of Elasand’s
violet
form. The Twilight One turned slowly and looked at the one who had spoken.
The Guildmaster of the Light Guild was just behind Ranhé. He was alone, his blade bared and intact, and he sat calm and straight-backed in the saddle of his great ebony stallion.
“
Feale,” he repeated in a surprisingly quiet voice that managed to carry. “Leave this one be. It is not him you want, but myself. I rule the Light Guild.”
“
I have seen you before,” said the Twilight One, the hiss of a serpent.
“
Yes. You’ve seen me many times, but did not know me, even at Vaeste’s side. Remarkable, how blind and stupid you’ve been.”
A pause of silence, only the whispering slithering sound of the wind, a thickening of the air around them.
And then the Twilight One smiled. “You,” he said. “You are the one. Only, it doesn’t matter now. I will have all of you. All of you are here, at last.”
“
In that, you speak true, son of a bitch! We are here!”
Ranhé started, hearing the harsh voice of Marihke Sar and his crude outcry, and turning around, saw that flanking him rode all the remaining Masters of the Guild. They had come, out of nowhere, and had slowly infiltrated and passed the perimeter of the Qurthe forces, their light temporarily extinguished, to join the Guildmaster.
“
Now!” exclaimed Elasirr, and in that instant,
color
fire erupted all around, as each of the Masters ignited and released their light, directing it at the form of the Twilight One.
It was an absolute surprise attack, Ranhé realized, for even she had not known. However, she had enough presence of mind to join them.
Elasirr pointed his sword at the Enemy, and with a crackle of electricity, a bolt of
blue
radiance shot forward through him, and at the black cloud that stood around Feale. From behind him, simultaneously, came a rain of
orange
as Tegra Daqua, wearing light armor, spread her fingers and became a fountainhead of light. Giant
green
spheres erupted from the two Khirmoel, Baelinte and Erin, like comets, and fell upon the Enemy, while at the same time, Carliserall Lirr, who today was a slender woman, also wearing mail, sent forth a spinning funnel of
violet
wind, that rose high overhead in the shape of a twister and began descending upon the black form of the Enemy. More fireballs erupted, as Gilimas Prada bombarded the enemy with
orange
spinning spheres, and Cyanolis Vaeste followed up with
blue
strands of lightning that landed like ribbons to wind about the source of darkness. Nilmet, only a few steps away from Ranhé, began to pour forth a brilliant
yellow
, and Ranhé joined him, focusing upon his stream of light, so that it doubled, like a great rushing river, and fell with a crackle upon the Enemy. And Elasand, standing weakly, his form still engulfed in
violet
flames, joined their onslaught by forcing the light around him into an arrow of radiance that took flight and sailed at the darkness.
Their fireworks were spectacular, and lasted, it seemed, for several minutes.
Color
had engulfed the dull cloud around the form of Feale, and had turned the battlefield into a bright garish carnival of madness, beneath a weakling sun.
And yet, it was all laughable.
Ranhé noted—somewhere in the back of her mind, as one half of her awareness focused on the channeling of the energy—that the
color
light merely swept the outlines of darkness, raged, and yet could not penetrate. The form of the Twilight One remained unaffected, impossibly untouched.
And as their beautiful useless fires died away, they stood, drained, and looked with amazement upon the Enemy, who continued to smile down upon them.
“
Now,” said Feale. “You are all mine.”
And Ranhé understood suddenly what he meant. She was tired, drained of the inner force that had created
color
, and at the same time had served to maintain her inner clarity, her sense of reality and truth. And now—now that she had poured most of it outside herself, there was almost nothing left, nothing in her energy reserves to defend herself.
Nothing to maintain her sanity against the dark.
Feale lifted his right hand, and filled it with night. And then he brought it down upon them all, in the blink of an eye.
Cold. . . .
The psychic blow came down, being quite invisible, and yet quite physical, like a heavy giant palm crushing them against the earth. Seated in her saddle, Ranhé felt its sudden impact, felt herself being pressed down, and sensed the sudden debilitating loss in her own muscles, in the muscles of the horse underneath her.
From the corner of her eye, she saw how this same strike affected all of them, saw Tegra Daqua make a pained sound and fall forward, doubled over in her saddle. She saw Marihke grab his throat, as though an invisible hand was choking him, and Carliserall Lirr sway, barely able to stay seated.
Elasand fell. He lay silent, on his last strength, the outlines of his form still vaguely exuding
violet
.
And then it too dimmed. He lay, somehow vaguely conscious, still impossibly aware, through a haze of encroaching dark. Having hit the ground heavily, his chain mail now pressed at him from all sides, stifling him in bands of iron, crushing his very rib cage, as he felt the ground against his cheek, his own salty blood.
Only the Guildmaster appeared unaffected. He sat straight in his saddle, and watched the Guildsmen collapse all around him, and beyond, the motionless hypnotized Qurthe.