AllFreeNovel
Share Us
… had not a burning wreck of maddened snow-hag crashed into the great lich with a titanic, world-ending noise. I fell, Aeredh’s hand curling around the back of my head as he landed atop me with more grace than can be believed if not witnessed, meaning to shield me from both the great lich’s next attack and the sudden explosion of debris. There was no recoil of expended force echoing through my inner hallways, for it had taken all my strength to hold the flame.
I was simply empty and dazed, sprawled under an Elder as the Glass shredded to pieces around us.
Love Latecomers So
We are not great lords, it is true. But we live in the shadow of Tarnarya called Haergaril in the Old Tongue. Her strength runs through our bones, as does that of the Rivermother in our blood…
—Gwenlara the Golden, Lady of Aen Haergar
The lich and the hag tumbled away, and such was Daerith’s mastery of song that he pressed the attack, managing to gain a full draft of breath as the flaming mass skidded across the Glass’s icy floor. Another great crack-ravine yawned some distance from us, not terribly wide but riven deep, and the force of Daerith’s singing aided the mad struggles of the hag as it roasted from the inside out.
It must have been a terrible death.
They tumbled over the lip as the edges of the ice-hole shuddered, great chunks breaking free to follow lich and burning thing down. A ripple spread through the frozen floor of the Glass, as if the earth itself cringed at violation. Aeredh rolled aside, lunging upright, his own blade suddenly free and twinkling in the foggy gloaming. “Make for the trees!” he cried, the words weaving into the last of Daerith’s music, and almost before the sound died Arn was upon me, hauling me to my feet with no gentleness at all—the print of her fingers remained, dark-bruised, upon my arm for days afterward.
I did not care, for I was dazed and head-ringing, drained almost to transparency by the spending of vital force.
The Elder move swiftly when there is need, and myseidhr-bag jolted and banged against my hip as we ran along the rim of the ravine that had almost trapped us. Its deep cleft curved northward, tapering to a spear-point, and we could finally use a narrow bridge of solid land we had been aiming for, allowing some slim chance of escape.
Fog thickened, curds of freezing air clot-splashing in every direction. I do not know how the Northerners managed, but the Elder closed around Arn and me, bearing us along—Daerith staggered as he ran, his face twisted enough to show his great age for a few moments until he began to breathe in great bellows-gasps, the strain easing. A stitch sank vicious claws into my right side but my feet hardly touched the Glass all that last distance, for Aeredh had my right wrist and golden-haired Hadril was upon my other side, his arm about my waist, bearing me bodily at more-than-mortal speed.
We plunged out of mist and into powdery snowdrifts as black-bark firs rose upon either side, their embrace welcome after the endless swamp-bowl. Kieris and Kirilit bore Arn along, and she made no demur though a shieldmaid does not oft suffer a man to lay hands upon her in that fashion. Even in that state, however, she kept tight hold of her spear.
Behind us, the entire Glass reverberated with screaming. The hag’s death-struggles were terrible, and though it would take much more than that to kill one of the Seven—given strength beyond even their great ken by the Enemy himself—we could at least hope to slip from that particular lich’s notice while it dealt with anaelflame-maddened, dying hag and the collapse of an entire ice-ravine.
We had, albeit barely, survived the Glass.
Wild headlong flight sputtered to a halt amid tall columnar trunks; I collapsed to my knees in deep soft powder-snow and heaved. There was nothing but Elder draughts in my stomach to lose, and I did not manage to produce more than deep retching sounds as my bodyattempted to turn itself inside out. At least I retained enough control to keep from soiling myself at the other end.
It was a mercy I was grateful for, though only much later when I had time to truly think upon the battle.
Stragglers arrived around us—Daerith recovering quickly but propped half-bent against a tree while he did so, his elbows upon his knees as he struggled to breathe deeply enough, Kieris and Kirilit setting Arn upon her feet, their faces alight and their blue eyes blazing, Hadril and Yedras bearing a bleeding Soren, the Northerner cursing foully in a whispering monotone using both the southron speech and the Old Tongue by turns.
I heartily concurred.
Our remaining companions appeared one by one. Last of all, there were branch-snappings and thrashings; Efain appeared between the trees, hauling Eol. The Northern captain staggered, his sword-tip dragging and catching in undergrowth though he, like Arn, would never lose hold of his weapon even while unconscious; both men were covered with ice and Efain’s face was bloody. Eol was almost limp, his breath coming in wheezes, and if he had looked ill during the escape from Nithraen he looked outright deathly now, his eyelids fluttering and a strange pasty greyish tint to his skin.
Aeredh gave a swift glance, counting our companions. “How are we still alive?” he muttered, and caught himself, glancing at Daerith.
“Thealkuinelit it on fire.” The harpist coughed; his words were rough as a carpenter’s scrapestone used to shred softwood. “I begin to see why you love these latecomers so, my lord.”
Arn went to her knees next to me, her spear-butt sinking deep into a drift. “Sol,” she husked, and flung her free arm over my shoulders. “Are you…”
The heaving would not let me answer immediately. I finished my miserable cough-retching and gasped, my arms locked over my middle, swaying on my knees as melt trickled upward through mantle, my skirts, under-breeches, and woolen stockings to dab at my knees. “Arneior,” I finally moaned, grateful for her shelter. We made a wall against the wind, my shieldmaid and I, our combined shape more stable than either could ever hope to be alone. “I hate… the fishgutting… North.”
My shieldmaid let out a harsh, cawing chuckle. “On… onfire,” she gasped.
“Don’t… laugh.” I longed to spit, to clear my mouth. All I could taste was thick copper fear; at least the Elder draughts meant I produced no burning bile. “I could… think of… nothing else.”
We regained our breath in fits and starts, leaning against each other as if a riverboat had wrecked and cast us upon a sandbar. Soren’s shoulder was swiftly bound, both that wound and the gash across his ribs already healing, but his gaze rested anxiously upon his captain. Eol’s dark eyes glittered feverish under half-closed lids, and he was only semiconscious.
“Always he does this,” Efain muttered, holding his leader upright while pressing his palm hard against Eol’s shoulder. “He will not think of staying back.”
Gelad resheathed his blade with a sudden, angry movement. “’Tis his father’s doing. Tharos wishes his eldest dead, and Eol is a good son. He obeys as far as he can.”
“Cease.” Karas attempted to shake snow and freezing fragments from his hair; the leather wrapping had been knocked free. All of us, even the Elder, were crusted with gravelly ice. “Tharos is our lord too, my friend.”
“I swore my oath to one man, and it was not the Old Wolf.” Gelad was not willing to be hushed; his eyes blazed like my mother’s on those infrequent occasions when she is not merely irritated but outright angered.
