The Sacred Hunt Duology (119 page)

Evayne caught his shoulder as he stepped past her, unseeing; he started and brought his spear around, but the space was too cramped to bring it to bear, which was just as well. He knew what she wanted to say before she spoke; her lips moved as the Hunter's daughter roared in angry pain, drowning out sound and warning to underline her point.

This was not his battle.

There was no hunt here, no quarry that he, and his pack, could bring down. There was only ancient war. Stephen would have appreciated it. Or maybe not;
maybe he would have been terrified because he understood all of its ramifications. Probably both.

He could bring himself to feel neither.

Either Espere would fail and he would perish here, in flame so hot and final that he probably wouldn't have time to feel pain, or she would succeed, and he would be one step closer to the time when the Hunter could finally be summoned.

Unblinking, he watched as the demon and the beast circled each other. They were both, he realized, strangers to him. Neither spoke, although it wasn't clear to Gilliam that the Hunter's daughter could; such a serpentine head was not built for the nicety of speech.

He cringed when the demon's sword struck home; she roared. A whip of flame caught her tail and held it a moment, but it did not burn or singe the flesh. Cascading sparks of pure green light fanned across her skin, and where it struck rock and stone it exploded; she was unfazed. At his side, Gilliam heard Evayne murmur, and although the words were indistinct, the surprise beneath them was not.

But the demon was also scraped by fang and claw, and forced back by the strike of tail, the ridge of skull that was almost hornlike. There was no easy victor here, no sure victim; where Meralonne had been overmatched, the beast fought upon an even field. It was not to the demon's liking. Pressed, he called upon the shadow, and it came; he was close to the power of his Lord—closer than she to hers. His wings spread like the swan's—deceptively lovely, ultimately deadly. Borne by the undercurrent of the Lord of the Hells' power, he rose to take the advantage that height offered. The blade that fell against her upturned neck drew blood. Red blood.

But she was not alone.

The air grew cooler, and the shadows less; light, not sharp or harsh, but bright nonetheless, began to make headway in the long halls. Incense masked the stench of fiery death, and the strongest of the burning braziers filled the air with the scent of ash and a hint of cedar, the smell of fire in the hearth. Many were the months in Averalaan when that scent was foreign—but to Gilliam, Lord of the responsibility of Elseth, Hunter of the Breodanir, it was life; the winters were long.

I am Bredan's follower
, he thought, hating it less as he said it, over and over.
She is Bredan's daughter. We are the Breodani, we two.

He brought the spear up, shrugging Evayne's hand from his shoulder. Then he stopped, thinking,
I am a Hunter
. The Hunters chose their quarry and they felled it with their pack—or they failed—alone.

But was she a Hunter? He hesitated; the moment seemed long. The demon's blade fell again, finding its mark across her flank. Crimson followed in its wake.

“Lord Elseth,” Evayne said, her lips almost pressed to his ear, “this is not the Sacred Hunt.”

He lowered the spear.

And then, sudden and swift, he raised it with a guttural cry of anger and denial. The Sacred Hunt had already claimed its victim. He did not have to stand by; he
would not
stand by to watch and linger like a helpless child, afraid to raise hand or weapon.

He called the trance early, and it came to him with an ease that it never had. The light became bright and exact, the darkness hard and well-defined. Around him, like mist or fog, the floating whispers of the foreign Lords tweaked his ears. He saw Ashfel, proud and alert, saw through Salas' eyes, caught more keenly the scent of the Mother's hearth.

Grabbing his horn, he winded it, long and loud—but he called only the ground hunt, and not the great one.

The lowing of the horn reverberated throughout the hall, louder even than the sounds of combat. Before it died into stillness, the eyes of the demon lord sought the eyes of the Hunter Lord.

Recognition.

• • •

The nature of the battle changed in that moment. Unlooked for, unrecognizable until the instant the horn was winded, the miserable Hunter Lord had revealed himself—carrying, in his folly, the single item that was a threat to the Lord of the Hells.

Karathis had been in the Hells when the Horn was first taken, but he knew it on sight, and knew further that no simple spell, whether born of wild magics or darkness, could destroy it; the Horn's destruction was not his intent. But the human bearer's was.

Could he but retrieve the horn and retreat, the war was theirs to win at leisure. Gathering his power, he struck the ground with sword and flame-touched invocation. The rock shattered and melted beneath the human's feet, fanning upward in a spray of heavy liquid.

But his target had already moved. Cursing, Karathis raised his blade as the beast roared and struck.

• • •

Gilliam pushed the trance to its limits, taking the speed and the strength that it had to offer and using them. The demon was faster than any quarry that he had ever hunted—and no quarry had proved so dangerous except the Hunter's Death. The shaft of the spear felt too thin as he turned it in his hands, gripping it tightly.

The ground buckled beneath his boots; he felt it break as he rolled to the left, gaining his feet without a backward glance. This time, he did not stand for long; the spear became a vaulting pole as he thrust himself up from the rock a second—less—before it, too, splintered.

As he landed, he heard the demon snarl in pain, and his lips folded up in a
vicious smile. Espere could strike where Gilliam could only flee; she could stand upon the demon's summoned fire just as easily as the demon himself.

The smile dimmed quickly.

For as Gilliam looked hurriedly around, he realized what the demon's intent was. The ground, inch by inch, was becoming a red and white patch of heated, melted rock—rock upon which Gilliam could not stand, let alone fight.

• • •

Sor na Shannen's hands were slick with blood, and she stared down at the liquid with both distaste and fascination. Of the kin, she was a subtle creature, and her torments were not of the body, but of the mind and spirit. To kill in such a physical fashion, when her victim was helpless and waiting, was almost anathema to her. It did not show, however; the altars were blooded quickly and efficiently.

The Allasakari presided over some of the slaughter—a point of contention among the kin, but one that would be addressed later—and Isladar stood at the foot of the Gateway that had been so long in opening, kneeling so close to the tentacles that the God anchored himself to the world with that if he moved a hair's breadth, he might be devoured. He did not move.

Above the arch that opened into the void and the darkness, the keystone glowed a pale green, pulsing like an irregular heartbeat. Not a living creature, save for the Allasakari, remained in the coliseum. Those who had been kept in the pens for the weeks to come were led out in herds, driven to the arms of the kin and the Allasakari, dedicated to the darkness, and destroyed by it.

But would they be enough?

“Lord,” Isladar said as the earth trembled beneath the coliseum, “all life and all light that can be found in your city has been offered to you. The Gate, we will hold while we can, but your ancient enemy stalks the streets of the city.”

The darkness turned in on itself in a twisting convulsion, and then it grew still for the first time in decades.

Be prepared
, it said.

Isladar watched in utter stillness and silence, as the darkness began to coalesce. Above it, the keystone began to dim.

• • •

“What is that fool doing?”

Evayne, staring at the patchwork the demon lord made of the stone floor, made no response to Meralonne's incredulity.

“The beast is weakened,” Kallandras said, in her stead. “Perhaps he thought to help.”

“Why thank you.” The mage's voice was heavy with sarcasm. “That much is obvious. I merely hoped that the mysterious Evayne could tell me—tell us—that the young man's ability matches his intent.” He drew upon pipe smoke as if it were necessary breath, and then blew it out in a huff. Teeth clamped together, he
handed the pipe to the bard. “Take care of her,” he told the younger man, as he gritted his teeth.

It was Evayne's turn to stare. “What—what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I'm doing? Your powers of observation have obviously dimmed over the decades.” Again, he grimaced; the expression of pain didn't stop him from summoning his sword. It was slow to come, but when it did, it glittered in his hand like sharp, cold ice.

“Meralonne, this is not your fight.”

“No?” Of all things, he laughed. “Evayne, it is not for the student to choose the master's battles.”

“I am not your student, nor have I been for—”

“Evayne.”

“What?” She did not turn to look at Kallandras, but she acknowledged his interruption.

“If Lord Elseth dies, who will wind the Horn? And if the Horn is not winded, who will face the God?”

For the first time, he saw the older Evayne angered as she turned to face him; her eyes flashed and hardened into something as cold as Meralonne's sword. “I have lived my life in this cause,” she said though clenched teeth. “Do you think to remind me—”

The demon roared in agony.

As one, the three looked up to see Gilliam, Lord Elseth, dangling from the haft of a spear buried halfway into the demon's back. Buffeted by the thrashing of powerful wings, he clung blindly. His struggling body cast a shadow above the fires that rippled and stretched as if to reach him; to fall was death.

“Meralonne,” Kallandras said urgently, surprising himself. “Can you save him?”

But Evayne said only, “What of the Spear and the Horn?”

The mage had no chance to answer, whether by word or deed, for as the demon struggled with the weight at his back, the beast struck, great jaws snapping so quickly they could be heard more easily than seen.

In a moment, the demon's cries were cut off as the beast's teeth worked their way into his throat.

“It seems,” the mage said softly, “that this discussion is at an end.”

• • •

It was too soon. Another two months would still be too early—but form would be easier for the Lord to assume, and the Gate easier to breach. Sor na Shannen felt the rumbling grow stronger beneath her feet. There was nothing she could do to stop it, and nothing she could do to bring her Lord closer to the plane; she looked inward instead.

Centuries ago, her name littered about for the idle and the foolish, she had been summoned to the plane by a young, long dead mageling. He was naive
enough to believe the words of a demon, and talented enough to be able to teach her to manipulate the magic of the form; she had learned much from him before she had finally emptied the font of both his knowledge and his life.

It was Sor na Shannen who discovered Bredan's presence. It was Sor na Shannen—succubus, not demon lord—who had made her way to the Allasakari, and thence, to the meager and ill-protected Priesthood of Bredan's ignorant followers. It was Sor na Shannen who had in glory and power taken the Spear of the Hunter, and the Horn. Because it was Sor na Shannen who understood that if Bredan could somehow, in some way, walk the plane, so, too, could Allasakar.

If Allasakar began his ascent, Bredan would notice. If Bredan could notice, Bredan would interfere. Oh, it had taken years to understand most of the customs of the intricate and futile Hunt—and even now, she did not understand why Bredan chose not to feed upon the surrounding countryside to maintain his power and his sentience. But she knew that Allasakar would have no such difficulty.

It was a mark of genius, really, to destroy the priesthood. Ignorance descended upon the enemy's followers in a generation or two. And Bredan? The God was barely intelligible. The kill that he took was enough to keep him from being claimed by the wildness, no more.

She had visited the forest. Sought the crippled God.

Her first mistake.

But her name had still lingered upon the mortal plane, and her plan, interrupted, still flourished. Licking her wounds, hiding in the Hells under the guise of mere succubus and not demon-mage, she had waited. And waited.

Davash AMarkham, member of the Order of Knowledge, finally dabbled in the dark arts, and on his twenty-eighth summoning, managed to reconstruct her name from forbidden scribblings and ancient texts. He was an older man, and quite a powerful one, but he mistook her, as so many did, for a mere succubus. Within six months, she had her freedom from all but the most tenuous of control. Two years later, having learned what he could teach, she summoned Karathis, offering Davash—and his master, Lord Cordufar—as fitting sacrifice.

Karathis had almost destroyed her then and there. But her Lord protected her, and in the end, a Duke of the Hells was forced into an alliance with—as he called her—one of the least of its demon lords.

For almost four decades she had labored upon this plane—labored as a servitor to the Lord of the Hells, and not as a free demon seeking the momentary pleasure of flesh and form, the idle torment of those who have not yet chosen.

She was the architect of Allasakar's return.

Or she would be, once he crossed the threshold. And what might she ask for then? A return of the ancient, wild days, replete with shadow and suffering, with mystery and the magic of the unknown. Her lips were dry as she watched the arch in silence.

The keystone began to flicker.

When its light was dimmed completely, the door between the Hells and the world of the free would finally be pried open wide enough—and for long enough—that the Lord of the Hells could step across the threshold to claim the world as his dominion without the interference of the rest of his brethren.