The Pillars Of The World (43 page)

Mother’s mercy, Dianna thought. Ari was in the hands of the witch killers. Morag had been right. Some of the Fae should have stayed here to keep watch and to protect. But . . .
Morag
had been here.
She
was the one who should have stayed instead of tearing off to Tir Alainn to embroil them all in what was most likely another silly argument about letting Ari leave Brightwood in order to marry that Neall. Now, because of
Morag
, this part of Tir Alainn was more at risk than ever.

“What is your business here?” Lucian said.

The man sneered again. “It’s daylight. What do you
think
we need torches for?” He paused. “You
do
know about fire, don’t you?”

Dianna shuddered. She was glad she couldn’t see Lucian’s face.

“Yes,” Lucian said softly. He looked at the cottage. “Fire warms.” He looked back at the men. “And. It.

Burns
.”

At that moment, the torches became balls of fire that engulfed the men holding them.

The other men stared at their companions for a moment, then turned and ran for the horses.

Screaming, the burning men tried to run after their friends, but only managed a few steps before they fell.

One of them rolled back and forth on the road, trying to smother the flames.

It will do you no good
, Dianna thought with fierce satisfaction.
That fire will burn as long as he
commands it to burn
.

The horses’ reins burst into flames, burning the hands of the men who held them. The terrified animals reared. The reins snapped, and the horses bolted before the other men could reach them.

A black stallion suddenly stood in the road where Lucian had been. Flames flickered through his mane and tail. Sparks leaped from his hooves. He charged down the road, straight toward the men who were now watching him with terrified eyes.

They threw themselves to the ground, rolling to escape his hooves.

He kept galloping down the road, heading for the village.

The men just stayed where they had fallen, watching him.

Dianna smiled viciously. It wasn’t over yet. She ran to the back of the cottage, mounted her pale mare, and signaled her shadow hounds to go around the other side of the cottage. She trotted out to the road just as the men were getting to their feet.

“You want a hunt?” she taunted. “Then we’ll hunt.”

Some of the men turned toward Brightwood, as if intending to flee into the woods. But the shadow hounds flowed around the cottage at that moment, and the men turned and ran in the other direction.

That was good. She didn’t want them touching Brightwood. And they wouldn’t. Not ever again.

She went back around the cottage so the mare wouldn’t have to walk between the burned bodies. She watched the fleeing men and smiled. Fear made feet swift. But not swift enough.

“Catch them,” she said.

The shadow hounds raced after the men. And the Huntress raced with them.

“Fetch the witch,” Adolfo told two of his guards. “It’s time to take care of Baron Felston’s problem.”

As Neall rode up to the manor house’s kitchen door, one of the men standing near the stables hurried to meet him.

“You’d best be gone, Neall,” he said. “You know you’re not welcome here.”

Neall dismounted, then looked at the man. The words had been sharp, but there was concern beneath them.

He smiled. “I’m going for good, Winn. I just wanted to leave a peace offering.” He tipped his head toward the mare.

Winn’s eyes widened. “How’d you manage to get one of Ahern’s special horses?”

“Let’s just say I bargained well.”

“She’s a beauty. I guess the baron won’t run you off until he’s got her locked in the stables.” The man looked at the saddlebags.

Neall tensed.

“The baron has guests,” Winn said slowly. “Not the sort of men you want looking in your direction, if you get my meaning.”

“I get your meaning.”

“When you leave here, you’d better ride fast.”

“I intend to.”

The man started to say something more but the frenzied barking coming from the kennels silenced him.

Then, “Mother’s tits! What’s wrong with
them
?” He hurried away.

“Stay here,” Neall told the horses.

He opened the kitchen door.

Ari leaned against the stone wall, next to the door. In one hand she held the spiked bridle. She had looked through the Master Inquisitor’s chest and had found other things that could be used as a weapon, but she couldn’t bear to touch them. She could barely stand holding the spiked bridle. The metal was filled with the pain of the ones who had worn it.

If only she had a stone that size that she could throw at whoever opened the door. If it hit him in the face or chest, it might knock him down long enough for her to get away.

Could she use her magic to will the spiked bridle to feel like stone? She closed her eyes, picturing it clearly. A man opening the door. Stones flying to strike him. Knocking him down.

As I will it, so mote it be.

The wall she leaned against shifted slightly, making a quiet grinding sound.

Her eyes snapped open. Before she could wonder if she’d actually felt something, she heard the scrape of a key in the lock.

Her heart pounding, Ari gripped the spiked bridle, ready to swing it at whoever walked through the door.

Stones flying. Stones flying. As I will it. . .

The door started to open.

The wall beside her exploded outward, the stones striking flesh.

Stunned, Ari stared through the hole in the wall at the two guards lying on the floor, their heads buried under stone.

She tossed the spiked bridle into the room, gingerly stepped over the man nearest the door, then stopped. She wasn’t the first person who had felt fear and pain in that small, dark room. From the moment the Black Coats had dragged her into that room, she had sensed the misery that had soaked into the stones over the years.

Pressing her hands against the stone wall on the other side of the door, she called the strength of the earth into her, let it flow through her to the stones.

“Bury this place,” she whispered, focusing her will on the room as she drew more and more of the earth’s strength into herself then channeled it into the stones. “Bury it deep so that no one will feel fear and pain here again. As I will it, so mote it be.”

The stones trembled beneath her hands.

Ari turned and ran for the stairs.

The shadow hounds pulled another man down. He squealed like a rabbit as one of the bitches sank her teeth into his neck and tore out his throat.

Dianna raced after the next one. Some of the hounds were ahead of her, keeping their quarry running across open land.

The leader, the one who had dared sneer at the Lightbringer, was still up ahead. She let him stay ahead.

He couldn’t outrun her hounds. But she also couldn’t let him reach the farmhouse she could see in the near distance.

He wouldn’t. But being close to safety when she brought him down would hurt him even more.

As Neall entered the kitchen, the manor house shuddered, rumbled. He felt the kitchen floor drop beneath his feet, giving him the strange sense that he was being flung into the air.

Mother’s mercy, was the whole place going to cave in?

“Ari,” he whispered. If the house was collapsing for some reason, she would be buried alive.

He ran across the kitchen, yanked open the door that led to the cellar—and caught Ari before she could fall. With one arm around her waist, he hurried her across the kitchen and outside.

He hesitated, then led her to Darcy and gave her a boost into the saddle. There wasn’t time to adjust the stirrups, so he placed her hands firmly on the saddle. “You just concentrate on staying with him. Let him do the rest. He’ll take care of you.”

“Neall . . .”

“Get her away from here.”

Darcy spun, almost tossing Ari from the saddle. She regained her balance, and the gelding cantered away from the house.

Too slow
, Neall thought as he swung up on the mare.
Too slow
.

As he urged the mare to follow Darcy, he heard shouts from the stables, saw some of the guards who had accompanied the Master Inquisitor running toward him.

And he heard glass breaking.

The manor house shuddered again.

Adolfo stumbled into a table, his heart pounding fiercely.

That
witch
. He should have gone to work on her as soon as he’d brought her here instead of giving her a little time alone to let fear soften her.

Well, he could rectify
that
right now. Better yet, he would just slit her throat here and now and be done with it.

The window behind him shattered, spraying glass across the room.

As he stepped into the hall, Felston rushed to meet him.

“That young bastard Neall is escaping with the witch!” Felston shouted. “He’s been trouble since the first day I allowed him to live here.”

Adolfo ran to the front door, flung it open, then ran to the stables, Felston puffing along behind him.

He skidded to a stop. A wild fury filled him as he watched two dark horses running across the fields.

“Mount up,” Adolfo shouted. He pointed a finger at Felston. “If they’re riding in that direction, where are they heading?”

“That way will take them to Ahern’s farm.”

Adolfo swung around, pointed a finger at his Inquisitors. “You take half the guards and ride to the Old Place. They’re more likely to head for the woods where they can hide rather than being chased over open land. Get ahead of them. We’ll follow them. And they’ll be trapped between us. The rest of you men come with me.” He gave Felston a hard stare. “When we catch them, I’ll take care of both your problems.”

Mounting his horse, he galloped after the witch and her foolish lover.

Behind him, the manor house shook.

The man wasn’t sneering now that her hounds stood in a snarling circle around him.

“You can’t hurt me,” he said, his voice coming close to a whine. “I’m Royce, Baron Felston’s heir.”

“I don’t care who you are,” Dianna said. “Where is Ari?”

A nasty, but pouting, expression came over his face.

“The Witch’s Hammer took care of her, just like he’s going to take care of you if you don’t let me go.”

“Where is she?”

“Dead! Dead dead dead. And he’ll kill you too. You’ll see.”

“But you won’t.”

She watched impassively while her hounds tore him apart. When she finally called them to her, she looked away from what remained of Baron Felston’s heir— and saw the dark smoke of a strong fire.

“Lucian,” she whispered.

She dug her heels into her mare’s sides and galloped toward the smoke, her hounds racing beside her.

The good people of Ridgeley had been introduced to the Lightbringer’s wrath. Now let them meet the Huntress.

Neall brought the dark mare to a stop that sat her back on her haunches. He vaulted off her back and ran to Darcy.

“Neall, what are you doing?” Ari said, anxiously looking behind her. “They’re catching up.”

He adjusted the left stirrup, then shoved her foot into it. “I know,” he said, ducking under Darcy’s head to adjust the right stirrup. “But you’re not a strong rider, and you need the stirrups to stay in the saddle at the speed we need to go.”

“Neall . . . Maybe—”

“Don’t say it.” He gave her such a sharp look, she flinched. “We’re in this together.”

“Will we make it to Ahern’s?” Ari asked.

Neall mounted the mare and shook his head. “Too much open land that way. We’ll head for Brightwood.

We can lose them in the deeper part of the woods.”
The Small Folk will see to that
, he added silently, gathering the reins. “Just hang on, Ari. We’ll make it.”

He glanced back. The riders coming from Felston’s estate were gaining too fast. “Let’s ride.”

The mare and gelding leaped forward, racing for Brightwood.

* * *

As they crested a low, rolling hill, Morag spotted the two dark horses racing back toward Brightwood. And she saw the other riders who weren’t that far behind.

The gray stallion stamped one foot and tossed his head.

The dark horse danced, too fretful about not moving to stand still.

“Can we reach them before those other riders do?” Morphia asked, curbing her own horse.

“We’ll reach them,” Morag said. She gave the dark horse his head, letting him tear down the hill in pursuit of Ari and Neall. Morphia raced beside her.

But the gray stallion veered away from them and headed straight for the other riders.

May the Mother protect you, Ahern
, Morag thought. Then she thought of nothing else but the two young people she desperately wanted to stay among the living.

Adolfo clenched his hands, dragging on the reins enough to slow his horse. The guards passed him, heading straight for that gray stallion.

Two black-haired women. One riding a dark horse. He had wanted to punish her for stealing from him, for killing his men. Now, seeing her, even at a distance, was more than enough. She reeked of magic.

She reeked of death.

The Gatherer.

Despite the fear that had shivered through him every time he’d thought of her, he hadn’t really believed until now that she could do to him what she’d done to his nephew and courier. He’d been certain that he was powerful enough to stand against any of the Fae and win.

But not against her. Who
could
stand against Death’s Mistress?

A shout from one of the guards brought his attention back to the problem standing directly in their path.

No ordinary horse would have run toward his guards instead of staying with the women and their horses.

Which meant the gray was no ordinary horse. There was only one man at Ahern’s farm who was fully Fae and could shift into another shape, and that was Ahern himself.

Adolfo chided himself for allowing the sight of the Gatherer to distract him and make him doubt his own strength, even for a moment. Despite her power, she was still only a female, still only a creature that had to be taught to submit to the masters of the world. He would find her weakness and use it to crush her. In the meantime, the horse Lord standing in his way needed to be taught a lesson.

Before he could issue his orders, the gray stallion reared, bugling a challenge. Or, perhaps, a command.

The other horses turned away, fighting bit and spur. When the stallion bugled again, they reared.

Two of the guards, who were reaching for their crossbows, were thrown. One scrambled to his feet and grabbed his fallen crossbow. The other didn’t move.

As his horse’s forelegs touched the ground again, Adolfo kicked out of the stirrups and half fell out of the saddle, just managing to stagger out of reach before his horse’s back feet lashed out.

Two more of the guards managed to grab their crossbows and get free of their saddles.

“
Kill him
!” Adolfo shouted.

The gray stallion reared.

The guards took aim.

A horse charged one of the guards, knocking against him at the same moment the quarrel left the crossbow. That spoiled the aim enough that the quarrel hit the stallion’s shoulder instead of his chest.

But the other two guards hit the stallion’s exposed belly, and the quarrels sank deep.

Screaming, the stallion whirled and galloped back toward the hill it had raced down a short while before.

Adolfo shouted in triumph. Fae or not, no matter what his form, a belly wound was a fatal one. He watched the stallion struggle to reach the top of the hill.

It doesn’t matter if you reach your farm or not, old man. You’re still going to die.

For a moment, there was no sound but the harsh breathing of men and animals.

Then the horses went mad.

The glint of shoes in the sunlight as hooves lashed out. The thud of bodies hitting the earth.

The horses galloped up the hill, following the dying gray stallion.

Adolfo looked at the guards’ bodies. He sank to his knees. This shouldn’t have happened.
He
was the Witch’s Hammer.
He
was the powerful one. This shouldn’t have happened.

“Master Adolfo?”

One guard staggered to his feet, blood streaming from a wound in his head.

“Are you hurt, Master Adolfo?”

Adolfo started to shake. Couldn’t stop. This shouldn’t have happened. What were the Fae—
any
of the Fae—that they could thwart the will of men by controlling the four-legged beasts men used? But if men couldn’t command the beasts, how could they rid the world of magic and be the masters as they were meant to be?

“Master Adolfo?”

Adolfo forced himself to get to his feet. He mustn’t show weakness. If he did, they would never rid the world of the witches . . . and the Fae.

“When the witch is gone, the magic will die,” Adolfo said carefully. “The magic will die, and there will be nothing that will make us afraid. We will be the masters.”

“Yes, Master.”

Adolfo looked at the bleeding guard, and his brown eyes burned with a queer light. “Good men were lost today, but not in vain. No, not in vain. We drove the witch and her foul lover into the trap, and the other Inquisitors will see that she pays for the pain she has brought.”

The guard didn’t seem to be listening, wasn’t even looking at him. He wouldn’t allow other men to turn away from him, dismiss him. Not again. Never again.
No
man was going to turn away from him as his father had done. And any man who did would pay for it— as his father had done.

Adolfo took a few steps to the side, bent to pick up one of the crossbows.

Then the guard pointed. “Look! Smoke! Something’s burning.”

Adolfo sighed, as another man might after being satisfied by a woman. “It’s the witch’s cottage. Royce and his friends went to burn it down so there would be no trace of her left to foul the land.”

The guard slowly shook his head. “There’s too much smoke to be one cottage, master. And that’s coming from the direction of—” The guard turned and stared at him. “Ridgeley. It’s the
village
that’s burning.”

Morag reined the dark horse to a stop.

“Mother’s mercy, Neall,” she muttered as she scanned the woods. “How could you disappear so fast?”

“Will we find them?” Morphia asked.

“We’ll find them,” Morag replied grimly.

They
had
to find Neall and Ari.

Because Death was no longer whispering. Now, Death howled.

Neall followed the broadest trail through the woods. They needed to go deeper into Brightwood, away from the trails where someone could easily track them. But he was worried about Ari. She knew these woods better than anyone, but she wasn’t a skilled rider and could be swept out of the saddle if she misjudged a low-hanging branch. Distance. Distance. They needed to put enough distance between themselves and their pursuers to catch their breath and decide where the best place would be to lay low for a little while.

He cursed silently as he went down into a slight dip and saw the tree that had fallen across the trail. Not much room on the other side of it for a horse to land before the trail climbed again. He could have done it on Darcy, but he didn’t know the mare well enough to have that kind of confidence in her—and Ari certainly couldn’t make that jump.

As he reined in and turned the mare, he heard Darcy’s angry challenge—and realized Ari was no longer right behind him.

The mare charged back up to level ground just in time for Neall to see the men wearing black coats step onto the trail, blocking the gelding’s retreat.

Movement just beyond the edge of the trail. Guards raising their crossbows. Aiming at Ari!

“Look out!” Neall shouted.

Darcy pivoted on his hind legs, half rearing as he turned. Most of the crossbow quarrels hit him in the chest and neck, but two of them found their intended target.

Ari and Darcy both screamed as the gelding fell, throwing Ari out of the saddle. Blood reddened her tunic and trousers. When she tried to move, she cried out in pain.

Neall threw himself off the mare’s back and ran toward Ari. “Leave her alone, you bastards!”

Two guards took aim at him. Before they could fire, a look of stunned surprise came over their faces.

They fell to the ground. So did the rest of the guards. And the black-coated Inquisitors.

Neall stared at them for a moment, not sure that he believed what he saw.

He stumbled over to Ari, knelt beside her.

She raised her head, her eyes filled with pain. “Neall . . .”

He pressed a hand gently to her shoulder to keep her from moving. The quarrels had gone through her, so at least he wouldn’t have to try to remove them here or have her endure riding with them still in her until he could get her to some kind of safety.

Darcy’s labored breathing suddenly stopped.

In that silence, Neall heard the quiet sound of a hoof against earth. He looked beyond the fallen men to the two women who watched him.

“Morag,” he breathed. Watching them dismount, he thought about snatching up one of the crossbows, but he knew he couldn’t move fast enough to stop her. The dead men around him were proof of that.

Leaping to his feet, he took a few steps forward, then planted himself in the middle of the trail, standing between her and Ari.

“Morag,” Ari said. Her voice sounded so terribly weak.

Neall tensed as the Gatherer approached him, but his eyes never left hers.

“Step aside, Neall,” she said.

He shook his head. “Death can’t be cheated, but sometimes a bargain can be struck.” He saw her surprise before she could mask it. “The others who are Death’s Servants have no choice about who they guide to the Shadowed Veil, but the Gatherer
does
. She can transfer one person’s strength to another.

At least, that’s what the stories say.”

“And if the stories are true?” Morag asked quietly.

“Then take me. Give my life strength to Ari, and take me.”

She gave him a queer look. “You would do that?”

“No, Neall,” Ari pleaded. “Don’t give up your life.”

He turned slowly and looked at her. “You are my life.” When he turned back to face Morag, she was watching Ari intently. Fear spiked through him, roughening his voice. “Will you trade? My life for hers.”

She gave him another queer look, then held out her hand.

He grabbed it, curled his fingers around it so she couldn’t let go.

She gave him a tug that pulled him to one side of the path at the same moment the other woman slipped around him and hurried toward Ari.

He tried to pull away from her—and discovered she was stronger than he’d thought. So he just stood there, watching helplessly, as the other woman knelt beside Ari and gently brushed one hand over Ari’s head.

Ari’s eyes closed. Her head sank to the ground.

“You agreed to trade!” Neall said, feeling grief mingle with fury.

“I made no bargain, Neall,” Morag said quietly. “Nor would I have. I see no shadows in her face. Let my sister do what she can.”

“Sister?” He stared at the other black-haired woman, who was carefully lifting Ari’s tunic.

“Morphia is the Sleep Sister, the Lady of Dreams.”

How fitting that the Gatherer and the Sleep Sister were actually sisters.

Morag released his hand and walked toward Ari. “She is hurt, and she is in pain, but Death is not waiting here for her, Neall.”

“If Death
had
been waiting, would you have agreed to the bargain?” Neall asked, keeping pace with her.

Morag was silent for a moment. Then she said, “I don’t know. No one has asked that of me until now.”

“Then what’s happened to Ari?”

Morphia looked up at him. “I gave her sleep so she would feel no pain.”

Sinking to his knees, Neall forced himself to look at the wounds.

“She bleeds, but the quarrels cut through nothing more than flesh.” She looked questioningly at Morag, who held one hand over Ari’s body.

Morag nodded. “I don’t sense any damage inside her. Did you bring her saddlebags before the two of you ran?”

“Yes,” Neall said.

“Then bring them here, and some water as well.”

As Neall stood up to do her bidding, he glanced at the dead men. Right now, it was better not to think too much about who Morag was.

He would have traded
, Morag thought as she waited for Neall to bring the saddlebags.
Even without
knowing whether it was truly needed, he would have traded his life for hers
.

Would any Fae male have cared so much that he would have tried to make that bargain? If necessary, he would fight for Clan and kin—and, perhaps, die in the fighting. But he wouldn’t go into that fight
expecting
to die. He would expect to live and benefit from his courage in the fight. But for a man to hand over his life, knowing he wouldn’t share in whatever would come after?