Dhiammara

30 Lord of Nexis

D’arvan’s first view of the Phaerie city was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen in his life. Apart from a single night spent in the Vale with Eilin, and occasional pauses along the route to snatch a little sleep and rest the horses, he had been traveling continuously since the horrific attack on the Nightrunner stronghold. D’arvan simply could not get back fast enough.—Ever since that dreadful night, the carnage had haunted the Mage’s memory and disturbed his dreams. After the atrocities he had witnessed: the agony and bloodshed inflicted by human upon human—it was difficult to blame his father and the Phaerie so harshly as he once had done. Now, each day that Pendral continued to live and rejoice in the authority of the High Lordship, was an affront to the Mage. D’arvan would never have believed that such aggression was in his nature—but now that he had discovered it, he welcomed it. Maya and her friends at the garrison had been right all along.

There were some things existing in the world that only violence could put right.

D’arvan glanced across at Hargorn. Despite his grief over his old friend Dulsina and his concern for his companions who were missing, the veteran seemed to have stood the grueling ride surprisingly well. It had been his idea to round up a couple of the swift and sturdy Nightrunner ponies—otherwise, the Mage acknowledged, they might still have been walking this time next month.—Hargorn was gazing at the Phaerie city on its hill, his face wearing the same expression it had worn since leaving Wyvernesse—a sour, twisted mouth and the blackest of scowls. “Bloody daft idea,” he muttered. “If you ask me, it’s criminal.”

D’arvan smiled to himself. All the interminable length of the journey, the veteran had never hesitated to make his feelings clear on the idea of D’arvan using the Phaerie to attack Nexis and take over the city in the name of his father. His arguments all started with: that’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard, went on to: what kind of a feeble excuse is that? and: don’t expect the Nexians to thank you for it, and ended, glumly, with: well, I only hope Maya will be able to talk some bloody sense into you.

D’arvan had been content to let him grumble: Hargorn’s grousing was the most normal thing that had happened to him since—he could scarcely remember when.—Since he had first left Nexis with Maya, he supposed—about the time that Forral had been slain and this whole insane business had started.

The Mage’s wits snapped back to attention as the veteran’s usual litany of complaint broke off abruptly with: “Thara’s titties! What the bloody blazes is that?”

“You know perfectly well what it is, Hargorn,” the Mage said. “You saw Aurian flying with the Xandim back at Wyvernesse. My father has seen me approaching, that’s all, and sent an escort. You can ride back to the city in style.”

“I’d rather keep my fragging feet on the ground, thank you,” Hargorn muttered sourly. “But, I don’t suppose your bloody Phaerie will give me a choice.”

D’arvan shrugged. “You can ride all the way up that hill on your fat Nightrunner pony if you want to—I don’t suppose anyone will stop you.”

“No, not at all,” Hargorn said quickly. “I’d hate to think I was holding up your plans for the conquest of us mere Mortals.”

D’arvan was gratified to see Hargorn’s face light up, however, when the Phaerie steeds landed and Maya leapt to the ground from her perch behind the Forest Lord. He can’t possibly be as glad to see her as I am, D’arvan thought.—That one glimpse of her had soothed so much of the pain he had carried with him since Pendral’s attack. He couldn’t wait until they were alone—if only the news he had to impart to her had not been so tragic.

Maya scowled at him fiercely. “What the bloody blazes are you doing back here?” I thought you were supposed to be helping Aurian!”

D’arvan found himself grinning. Oh, how he had been looking forward to surprising her! “Hellorin and I worked something out between us before I left,” he told her. “He found a way to gift Aurian with the Old Magic so that she could get the Xandim to fly without me. It worked tremendously well—so I came back to you.”

The frown didn’t leave Maya’s face. “But what if she needs you? What if she needs the help of another Mage?”

“She has Chiamh,” D’arvan said firmly. “Maya, there was no way I ever intended to go off and abandon you here to carry our child alone. Now, I’ve done what I can for Aurian, and she’s more than happy that I come back to you—in fact she insisted.” He held out his hands to her. “In fact, if you’ll let me get into the palace, I have a whole collection of messages for you....”

“And what about me?” Hargorn demanded belligerently. “I haven’t seen the bloody woman for ten years, and I can’t get as much as a hello out of her.”

Maya made him an obscene gesture. “I see you haven’t changed much in ten years—you’re still as twist-faced and grouchy as ever.” With a laugh, she let go of D’arvan and ran to hug her old friend.

Hellorin looked on indulgently as Hargorn and Maya embraced. “Mortals,” he said, shaking his head.

D’arvan looked at his father coldly. “Speaking of Mortals,” he said, “how soon will we be ready to attack the city of Nexis?”

Hellorin shrugged. “Whenever you like. I have been making our preparations in your absence.”

“Good,” said D’arvan. “Let’s do it tomorrow night.”

Even on a stolen horse, it had taken Parric several cold, hungry, miserable days to travel overland from the coastal village of Easthaven to Nexis. He had amused himself along the way by imaging himself in the taproom of the Invisible Unicorn, and planning exactly what he was going to eat and drink when he finally found himself there. He only hoped that old hen Hebba would remember him—because he had no means of paying for anything.

Since the old river road from the east was blocked nowadays, Parric was forced to circle north and go round into the hills to reach the city. It was dusk when he finally turned onto the northern highway and looked down from the ridge at the smoking chimneys of Nexis.

The black-liveried guards at the gate almost made him wish he hadn’t bothered coming back at all. They were surly, suspicious—and clearly on the lookout for a bribe. Well, that was their hard luck. Parric explained to them, graphically and in no uncertain terms, that they were sadly mistaken if they thought he had money. He also informed them that, if they refused to let him in, he was going to camp right where he was outside the gates, and cook and eat his horse. By this time, he had worked himself into such a thoroughly bad temper that he meant every word of it. The guards took one look at his grim expression and admitted him at once.

There was a roaring fire in the taproom of the Unicorn, and Hebba and Sallana, the serving maid, were working at full stretch. The place was packed tight with a mass of bodies, and the heat and the noise were overwhelming. To the Cavalry-master, it was absolutely wonderful. Parric had to elbow his way determinedly through the throng of early evening drinkers, laborers mostly, who tended to call in for a glass or two of ale before going home for supper.

“Hebba!” he cried, when he finally managed to get within sight of her. “It’s me!”

Hebba’s expression turned glacial. “I remember you,” she said. “The vulgar one.”

As a joyous welcome it left a lot to be desired, but Parric was determined not to let it spoil his night. Years, it had been, since he had tasted a proper pint of ale in a genuine tavern, and he deserved it after everything he had been through: first the years of slavery in Hellorin’s city, then the dreadful massacre of the Nightrunners....

Only at that moment did Parric realize he had no idea whether this woman’s business partner was alive or dead. He was on the verge of blurting out the news of the bloodbath, when common sense prevailed. The Nightrunners were viewed by the authorities here as criminals. If it was seen that he knew what had happened, there would be awkward questions asked at the very least, and his most likely prospect was a quiet arrest and an unofficial execution.—No—difficult though it would be, he must keep his mouth shut, until Pendral was dead, at the very least. At the moment, the Cavalrymaster had no idea how he could accomplish the High Lord’s death, but he decided to wait until tomorrow to come up with a plan—just as soon as he had recovered from the headache he intended to earn himself tonight.

The evening went very much as the Cavalrymaster had planned. The hours flew by in a blur of good food, good ale, and later, when a few drinks had made him mellow, good company. Indeed, it seemed no time at all before everyone was going home. “Don’t leave,” said Parric, clutching at the sleeve of a burly mason. “Don’t everybody leave yet. Why, it’s still early. We’ve time for another ...”

“You most certainly do not.” Parric’s new friend had somehow turned into Hebba, who was standing in front of him with a broom in her hand and a truculent expression on her round, red face.

“But I’m Hargorn’s old friend,” the Cavalrymaster protested. “Old old friend

...”

“Hargorn would befriend any piece of human refuse that gave him a hard-luck tale—and besides, he isn’t here. You have me to deal with now. Go on, you—get you gone. Haven’t you got no home to go to?”

Parric made a valiant effort to stand up. “Actually,” he said, “I don’t—” and fell flat on his face.

The Cavalrymaster awakened with his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and a herd of wild horses stampeding through his head. Though it was pitch-dark, he conceded, after a moment, that the horse part could be right, at any rate—judging from the smell and his bed of prickly straw, he seemed to be in a stable somewhere.

How did I get here? Parric wondered. Great portions of the latter part of the evening had vanished from his memory. He still felt light-headed from the ale, so he judged that it was probably nowhere near morning yet. He staggered to his feet, driven by two urgent needs. The first was managed quite easily—he simply relieved himself in the opposite corner of the stable. The second was a little more complicated, but if he didn’t get a drink of water soon, he would perish.

Feeling his way along the rough, cobwebbed wall, Panic groped his way out of the building. He realized at once that Hebba was not as harsh as she had pretended to be—though she could well have thrown him out into the gutter, she had let him shelter, instead, in the stable of the inn. Once outside he could see quite clearly; the moon was high and almost full, cloaking the city, in cold blue light. The Cavalrymaster was glad of it—it showed him the revolting slick of dark slime around the inside of the horse trough. Luckily, there was also a pump nearby, so he could have his drink fresh and clear.

Parric rose from his haunches and wiped chilled hands on his tunic and his dripping face on his sleeve. Gods, but it was good to be back in Nexis! When he had been a captive of the Phaerie, he had honestly believed he would never see this place again. His breath smoking in the frosty midnight air, he turned to look out across the city. It was a view worth savoring. The Unicorn was situated on the same plateau as the Garrison, high on the north side of the valley. From here, he Could look down and see practically the whole of Nexis laid out before him, including the gracious colonnades of the Grand Arcade, the squat rotunda of the Guildhall, and the high promontory, once the home of the Magefolk, that cast a long shadow like a dark shrouded figure stretching right across the city.

At first Parric thought it was a result of all the drink. Spots before my eyes, he thought, rubbing them hard. Then he looked again, at the swirling skein of dark specks that rose like a swarm of bees above the Academy. There was something familiar ... Then he remembered, and his blood turned to pure ice in his veins. Someone had removed the time spells from the honors imprisoned down in those black vaults, and the Nihilim were swarming over Nexis.

Parric was not the only one who looked on, aghast, at the Death-Wraiths. High over the northern moors, about a league out of Nexis, the glittering throng of Phaerie warriors faltered in their flight, and halted, hovering in midair, to witness, with magically augmented vision, the dreadful sight of the Nihilim whirling in their mad dance of death above the city, then plunging down into the unprotected streets in search of their prey. Hellorin pulled up his mount beside D’arvan’s Xandim steed. “Do you know anything about this?” he demanded.

“You were the last one to talk to that Mage, the lady Eilin’s daughter—and she was the last one to venture beneath the Academy where the Wraiths were imprisoned. What has the wretched woman loosed upon us now?”

D’arvan clenched his fists tightly in the Xandim’s mane. “I can’t think how this can have happened. Aurian only freed that single Wraith—the one that snared poor Finbarr’s body. Mind you, it had certainly escaped from Wyvernesse when I left the place, so it might have found some way to free the others.”

“Folly. Pure folly!” Hellorin snorted. “Where was her brain when she set a Wraith free to inflict death and horror upon the world? I never heard of anything so ridiculous. Trust a meddling Mage to stir up trouble!”

“She had her reasons,” said D’arvan, “though I agree with you—in the light of this new development, it may have been a mistake. In any case, our chief concern is how this will affect our plans. I don’t really think that Nexis is a very healthy place to be tonight.”

“I think we should wait here for a while, and see what they do.” Maya spoke up from her place at D’arvan’s other side. “After all, we’re far enough away to see them coming and beat a hasty retreat if they start heading in this direction.”

“Who asked you, Mortal?”

“Sounds a good idea to me.” Hellorin and D’arvan spoke simultaneously, and turned to glare at one another.

“You forget, my Lord,” Maya said coldly to Hellorin, “that I’m not one of your empty-headed little chattels to be filled with Phaerie seed. I’m a warrior, and I used to be second-in-command of the Nexis Garrison. I know what I’m talking about.”

“Maya is right,” said D’arvan. “It would be folly to reject her advice just because she’s a Mortal.”

“Very well,” the Forest Lord answered offhandedly. “I daresay it would do no harm.”

Time passed, and the moon dipped down toward the horizon. Even at this distance, they could hear the screams from the beleaguered city. Maya turned to D’arvan. “I’m not so sure this was a good idea after all,” she said quietly. “It’s awful to have to stay here and listen to those poor folk ...”

“Look! Maya—look at that!”

The Death-Wraith were leaving Nexis. The great black swarm of them, like a whirlwind of autumn leaves, rose above the city and darkened the setting moon.—The swarm amassed itself into a tight knot above the Academy, and darted away at a tremendous speed toward the south.

“Seven bloody demons!” Maya breathed. “Do you think that was all of them? And where could they be going?”

“Yes, I think it was all of them,” D’arvan said. “They looked so purposeful.... Somehow I get the feeling we won’t be seeing them back in Nexis.. ..”

“It looked as though they only stopped to feed,” Hellorin put in.

That’s what I thought,” D’arvan mused. “And they’ve gone south. . . . You know what I think? I think they’ve gone in search of Aurian.”

“If that’s true, then may the Gods help her when those creatures find her,” said Maya somberly.

Hebba awakened to find the window open and a dark figure at the bottom of her bed. Before she could scream, the black silhouette swooped down on her.

“Shut up! Don’t scream!” A hand clamped itself firmly over her mouth, and her assailant began to talk very rapidly in a tense, hissing whisper. “It’s me, Parric, The Wraiths are back—we’re in dreadful danger. Don’t make a sound.—Pick up those blankets and come down with me to the cellar right now. Try to stay calm, for both our sakes. I’m going to take my hand away now—all right?”

Hebba nodded. As Parric took his hand away she took a deep breath to scream—and instantly the hand clamped back down again, tighter than before.

“Look here, you brainless old biddy—I’m not doing this for the good of my health. I’d have been long gone by now, had it not been for climbing all the way up here to save your neck. If you scream this time, I’ll be gone before you can take another breath—and you can fight off the Wraiths as best you can.”

This time, when the little man removed his hand, Hebba clenched her teeth tight to bottle up the scream that she could feel building inside her. With shaking hands she gathered up the blankets in a trailing bundle and followed Parric downstairs. He had his sword in his hand, but frankly, she didn’t think there was much point. She had seen the Wraiths at their deadly work the last time they had hit Nexis, and frankly, there was little good that swords—or anything else for that matter—could do against such creatures.

It was a nightmare getting down the steep, uneven cellar steps without a light, but Hebba knew better than to strike any kind of spark. Parric pulled the trapdoor shut behind them, and bolted it from the inside. “They may not think to look here,” he whispered. “They’ll have plenty of other prey outside.”

Hebba shuddered.

“Do you think I could have one of those blankets?” the Cavalrymaster asked plaintively. “We may as well make ourselves comfortable—it looks as though we’re going to be here all night.”

“Quick,” D’arvan cried, urging his Xandim steed into the air. “Ride now, while the Nihilim are still departing! Forward!” Following his gesture and his example, the ranks of the Phaerie surged upward, streaming out behind him like a glittering comet tail. Massing in the air, they went hurtling down toward the city.

Hellorin caught up, and drew his mount abreast of the Mage. “What in perdition do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. “I know I said that this is your campaign, but shouldn’t we wait until the Nihilim have gone?”

D’arvan shook his head. “They won’t be interested in us. Whatever they want, it’s in the south. If we’re quick, though, the Nexians will think we’ve driven them away!”

The Mage looked across at Maya. With her long black hair escaping its braid and streaming out behind her, and her eyes sparkling from the exhilaration of this wild ride, she looked like one of the battle-maids out of ancient legend.—When he caught her eye, however, her doubt was plain. “It’ll be all right, love,” he called to her. “We’ll make this as easy as we can, and in the end the Nexians will come to see that it’s better us than ...” He gave his father a sidelong glance.

“I suppose so,” Maya replied. “Well, if I’m to be the most hated woman in Nexis, I don’t see any sense in putting it off.”

“You won’t be,” D’arvan tried to reassure her. Then, they were above the city, and his words were drowned in the silvery clamor of Phaerie horns.

Even from the depths of the cellar, Parric could hear the pandemonium and panic in the streets outside. He shuddered, trying not to imagine what was going on out there. Hebba gave a wavering cry and hid her head beneath the blankets, trying not to hear. For some time, the Cavalrymaster listened, bleak-faced, to the jarring, whining buzz that the Nihilim emitted as they struck; to the sounds of running feet, and the dreadful screams of those who had not run fast enough. Then the harrowing noises stopped completely—and that, in its own way, was worse. What was happening up there? Was it safe to come out? Or had the Death-Wraiths slaughtered everyone on the streets, and were they now waiting to pick off the survivors one by one, as they emerged from hiding? Perhaps it would be safer to wait a while....

Then Parric heard another sound—the high, clear, vibrant notes of Phaerie horns, drawing rapidly closer. Parric’s curses were loud and inventive enough to bring Hebba out from under her blankets, bristling with indignation. In all the excitement and tragedies since he’d returned to Wyvernesse, he had forgotten D’arvan’s threat to attack the city. The Mage had not forgotten though—why, the bastard was already here!

“Stay here,” Parric ordered the astonished Hebba. “When I’m gone, bolt the trapdoor behind me again—and don’t open it for anyone unless you’re sure you know them and you’d trust them with your virtue, your money, and your life.”

And then he was gone, dashing up the cellar steps and leaving Hebba—luckily, speechless for once with indignation—behind him.

Lord Pendral was shaken from his wine-sodden slumbers by a timid servant.

“Lord, Lord, wake up! The Death-Wraiths are back!”

“What? How?” Pendral scrambled over the top of the skinny young girl, her breasts scarcely budding, who shared his bed that night. His feet had never touched the floor so fast in years. Roughly, he pushed the servant aside. “Get out of my way, you. I’ve got to hide!” He threw a furred cloak over his bedgown, and whisked, with a speed that belied his ponderous bulk, into his strongroom. The door of thick wood reinforced with iron bars slammed shut behind him. The servant and the girl were left looking at each other as there came a series of snicks, clicks, and squeaks from behind the door—the sound of keys turning in locks and bolts shooting into their sockets.

Suddenly the braying of horns swirled out across the night sky. The servant started, and rushed to peer out of the window, his hand pressed to his mouth in horror. The waif was scrambling into her clothes as fast as she could, her face astonishingly calm. The servant guessed that, having put up with Pendral’s more perverted entertainments for a night, the Phaerie would hold little fear for her. He looked at the thick, locked door of Pendral’s strongroom—he won’t be able to hear a thing in there, he thought—and then looked back at the girl. “Think we should tell him?”

She pulled a thin blouse across the bruises that covered her breasts and throat. “Nah.” For a moment, she looked as if she was about to spit. “Let the bastard find out for himself.”

The Phaerie spiraled down into what appeared to be an empty town. “Now remember,” D’arvan ordered his forces, reinforcing the message by mind-speech, “this time, we want as little violence and bloodshed as possible.”

He had an uneasy feeling that he was talking to himself.

D’arvan chose what he judged to be the most central spot, the roof of the Grand Arcade, and spoke to the Nexians, amplifying his voice by magic so that everyone would be able to hear. “Citizens of Nexis—you may leave your houses.—You are safe now. The Phaerie have driven the Wraiths away, and as long as we are here, they will trouble you no more. This is not a raid such as happened previously—we are simply taking over the rule of this city from the corrupt High Lord. We hope that Mortal and Phaerie will work together for the common good, and so long as you cooperate, no one will be hurt. With your goodwill, we can undo the damage inflicted by the Archmage, and make this city great once more.”

D’arvan finished his speech to a deathly silence. Then Hargorn, standing at Maya’s side, burst out into derisive laughter. “You expect them to believe that?” he hooted. It seemed that he was right. The streets remained dark and silent. No one came out to rejoice and proclaim D’arvan the savior of Nexis.

“There,” said Hellorin. “You were wrong—this proves it. We tried it your way—now we’ll give the Mortals the firm hand they need.” He turned to his assembled forces. “Very well—you all know the plan. Secure the Garrison and the Academy, institute patrols, fit collars to any troublemakers and we’ll transport them north. Meet any resistance with force. Go to it!”

“No!” D’arvan cried in horror. No one was listening. On the rooftop, he and Maya wept as they were forced to watch the subjugation of their city by flame and sword.

Eventually, the red sun rose through a heavy pall of smoke, illuminating the ravaged remains of the city. Groups of Phaerie were clearing out the last nests of resistors by the simple expedient of torching the buildings in which they hid.

“There.” Hellorin mounted his steed and turned to his son with a feral smile.

“Farewell, my son—I give you your city. Now that it has been conquered, it is yours to deal with as you please.” Without waiting for a reply, he spurred his horse skyward and headed back toward the north.

“That bastard,” Maya muttered thickly. “He meant to do this all the time.”

“And now we’ve got to deal with the wrack and ruin he’s left behind,” said D’arvan bitterly. “I’ve a good mind just to leave—head south, find Aurian.”

“No. No, D’arvan we can’t. Not now.” Maya’s face was set with grim determination. “If we run away from this, the Nexians will get Hellorin as overlord. We can’t do that to them. No, somehow we’ll have to stay here and try as best we can to put things right—preferably without getting torn to pieces along the way by the very folk we’re trying to protect.”

As the flames licked greedily at the walls and roof of Vannor’s old mansion, Parric turned his back on the conflagration, and walked away whistling, following the fleeing servants down the hill to the old river road. Almost as an afterthought, he flicked the burning stump of the torch away from him into the bushes. “Well, Pendral,” he said cheerfully, “I’d rather have had your head on a pole, but since you refused to come out . . .” He shrugged. “Ah well—in the end, I don’t suppose it makes a lot of difference, and at least I got to you before the Phaerie did.”

The streets of Nexis proved too much for his grimly cheerful mood. Parric darted from cover to cover, avoiding patrols of steel-eyed Phaerie and trying not to see the burnt-out shells of houses and the corpses that littered the streets. D’arvan’s promises hadn’t lasted very long, he thought bitterly.—At last he reached his goal—the Unicorn. In all conscience he knew he had better go and rescue Hebba out of the cellar...or the timid woman would be there until the sun turned cold. He was greatly surprised, therefore, to walk into the place and not only find it unscathed, but also to find Hebba sitting at one of the tables, making inroads into a large glass of brandy.

Having come all this way to rescue her, Parric was ablaze with indignation.

“Hey!” he said. “I thought I told you not to come out until you found—”

“Found someone I trusted, yes,” Hebba put in, “And there he is....”

Out of the back room, carrying another bottle of spirits, came Hargorn. Parric let out a whoop of delight. “I thought you were dead!” he cried.

“Not me.” Hargorn’s smile was thin and strained. “Though after what I’ve just witnessed, it would be a lot more restful.”

“Don’t you worry,” Parric told him. “We won’t let them get away with it. We’ve resisted tyrants before, you and me. Why, we can ...”

“No we can’t,” Hargorn said flatly. “The city is under Phaerie rule now, Parric—and there’s not a damned thing we can do about it. We have one choice—between D’arvan’s offer of cooperation and Hellorin’s brutality. Most Nexians don’t understand that yet—and I’m afraid we’re going to have to help convince them.”

Parric stared at him, aghast. “What? This time we support the tyrant?”

“Come on, Parric. D’arvan didn’t order the killing—you should know better.—That was Hellorin. D’arvan isn’t a tyrant really, and don’t forget that our Maya will be—I don’t know—queen, or something.” Hargorn shrugged. “Maybe you’ll feel better if you just call D’arvan a conqueror. But whatever you want to call him, it makes no difference—we no longer have a choice.”