Voice of the Lost

CHAPTER THREE

The ring which cloaked Medair from sight shattered into dust. That minor hurt was one of the few things she truly felt while the Horn of Farak shook the world. It loosed a clear, beautiful note, high and light, and Medair could well believe they heard it over all Farakkan. As penetrating as the dawn.

Her every fibre, body and soul, resonated with it. She wasn’t in pain, not really. She ached, felt as if her heart were being drawn from her breast, but the Horn’s power no longer stung her. When it dissolved into light and nothing, she realised she was weeping. The cry of the Horn went on, the single note joined by others, louder and stronger, a chorus which climbed until it seemed impossible that it could scale further heights. Then it stopped.

Into the silence, the stars fell.

"AlKier preserve us!" someone entreated, voice ragged. No-one fought; they had all stopped, enemies standing shoulder to shoulder, waiting to witness Farak’s judgment. Even the silver giants were still, helms tilted back to watch the pinpoints of light drop from above. All the mageglows on Ahrenrhen seemed to have been extinguished, and only the fire of the Southerners' weapons still competed with the falling heavens.

Not the stars, after all. They were still there, glinting in the night sky. That which answered the Horn’s summons proved to be oval, man-sized. There were tens of thousands of them, falling like snowflakes, a languid drift. The lowest layer halted roughly twelve feet above Medair’s position on Ahrenrhen. They were all prisms and facets: sunlight through dew-drops, rainbows on mist, stained glass slowly revolving.

One, dominated by sombre reds and midnight blue, descended lower than its fellows, and came to rest within touching distance of Medair. She stared at it, disarmed by unexpected beauty. Were these the warriors of Farak?

Then the figure changed, a form, a face, becoming visible within the multi-hued glow. Medair’s knees gave way, so she almost pitched off the parapet, and was saved by Cor-Ibis, once again trapping her hand in his and pulling her to less chancy ground. Her satchel slipped from her shoulder to tumble to the stair below, but Medair didn’t care. She was staring in horror and disbelief at the face of her Emperor.

Of all the possible consequences of using the Horn of Farak, this was the worst. Whether the dead were here to slay Ibisians or Southerners mattered little when weighed against the fact that her Emperor had been dragged from Farak’s rest to see the ruins of his Empire. To witness the depth of her betrayal. She bowed her head, unable to meet his bright gaze.

There was no right choice, messenger, said a voice. It did not sound like Grevain Corminevar’s. It had more of the Horn in it than any human throat. And no wrong decision.

She looked up hastily at the sound of a sword being drawn, and saw that the Emperor had grown more distinct, though he was still formed of nothing more than brilliantly coloured light. The sword was golden, and she had no doubt that it would slice more deeply than any weapon fashioned of base metal. Thousands upon thousands of jewelled warriors followed Grevain Corminevar’s lead, raising halberd and spear, sword and bow and dagger. The fire of the Southerners' weapons seemed weak in comparison, and the disparity in numbers was obvious. For every Southern attacker, there were two jewelled spirits hovering in the sky above Athere. It would be an impossibly glorious sight, if only these were not the souls of the dead, come to send others to the grave.

Without further words of either recrimination or absolution, the Emperor turned from Medair. The movement broke the nearest silver giant from its frozen stillness. With a drawn-out cry, the armoured figure swung a great sword stained with blood upward to cut across the spirit’s jewelled chest. To no effect.

Medair was barely able to follow the flicker of movement which was the whole of the Emperor’s response. The result was much clearer: a precise slash through the silver armour from the centre of its horned helm to the region of its belly. Dark blood spattered as the giant crashed to its knees, and a grey smoke drifted up from the wound. The creature’s life essences were boiling on contact with air.

Those nearest in the press atop Ahrenrhen cried out in pain, rubbing frantically at exposed flesh. As the cloud of vapour expanded, Cor-Ibis released another set-spell, still keeping firm hold of Medair. A breeze rose, blasting the vapour away and holding steady. Maintaining such a spell would drain his reserves quickly.

A Southern woman fetched up against Medair either by design or chance. She raised her sword, eyes huge with fear and hatred, but a woman shimmering in milk and turquoise cut her down before she had a chance to strike. Medair stared at the figure which had saved her, then tried to pull away from Cor-Ibis' hold.

"You recognised her?" the Keridahl asked as he fended off a stumbling Atherian. He could well have been seated at his own table, rather than straining to preserve a difficult spell in the midst of battle. His firm clasp of her hand tightened as she attempted to free herself again, then he shifted his hold to her upper arm by way of compromise.

"The Kend," Medair replied, abandoning her attempts to pull away, and ignoring any urge to clutch him in return. "The leader of Kier Ieskar’s army, Kend las Rittnar."

His eyes sought the turquoise woman, but the leader of Kier Ieskar’s armies was lost among the legion of dead.

"So they fight side by side."

"Dragged from their rest."

Cor-Ibis shook his head, but before he could reply, something at the head of the stair arrested his attention, and the spell-wind vanished. Medair saw that the Kierash, Islantar, had somehow found his way to the battle, and was standing undefended. Cor-Ibis let go of her arm, but before he could move to the heir’s side, it became obvious that there was no need. It was over.

The carnage was breath-taking.

Not a single Southerner was left standing on Ahrenrhen, and Medair did not doubt that the thousands who had so recently raised their voice in battle-chant beyond the wall were also lying in pools of their own blood. Medair had never imagined that the Horn would bring such a quick, decisive victory. So terribly one-sided.

She lifted wide, disbelieving eyes to the jewelled spirits. Most were rising slowly into the air. Only one remained, all brilliant red and blue. His bright gaze was fixed on the boy who wore the pale skin of a conqueror, but whose firm jaw revealed his Corminevar heritage.

Heal Palladium, said the Emperor. The ringing, unnatural notes of the Horn made the simple statement an order, a proclamation. It was all he said, before following the army of dead, up away from Athere. They were still beautiful: deadly jewels of light which rose with ever-increasing speed until they were lost among the stars.

Only Cor-Ibis' faint, steady glow remained. He reached out once more and touched Medair’s arm. She was not certain if he thought her in need of support, or simply wanted to keep her in reach. Before her eyes could adjust properly to starlight and Keridahl-glow, dozens of magelights were conjured all along the length of Ahrenrhen. The brighter illumination revealed that the stones of the wall were awash with blood. Spirals of noxious vapour continued to rise from the bodies of the fallen giants, and those nearest the fumes were the first to move, picking their way awkwardly across the corpses of enemies and allies.

"So many," someone said.

"An army able to defeat any other." The Kier, after a lingering glance at her son, crossed the slick stone to where Medair stood. "A more decisive battle than any could have expected. Again, Keris an Rynstar, I can only offer you my gratitude."

Medair just turned away. Unforgivably rude, but she could not face this woman’s thanks or the reason for them. She could not do anything but struggle to remain upright, for if she fell she would be kneeling in the blood of those for whom she had summoned death. She could smell it. The air was full of a thick iron tang, wet with it.

The Ibisians allowed her to stand alone, gazing up at the palace. She wanted to shut out their voices as well, but that was not so easy.

"We must stop these fumes," said a voice she didn’t know, and someone began to cast, voice muted. No more set-spells ready, it seemed, and no doubt reserves were low. The battle had so nearly gone the other way. Outnumbered and for once magically outmatched, the Ibisians would have crumbled and fallen under the onslaught. Burning swords inside the walls, Palladian White Snake blood running in the streets. Instead, Athere had lost a few hundred at most, and an entire army was dead. Because Medair had blown the Horn.

They were discussing funeral pyres behind her; ways to efficiently dispose of bodies. The corpses of men and women, of the army of Decians who had come to retake an Empire, and overthrow a thief. The conversation had an air of unreality, and more than one voice shook. Even Ibisians could not quite hide the horror that any sane person must feel at having witnessed death. Or perhaps they merely trembled at thoughts of their narrow escape, after they had been so nearly overwhelmed.

What had Estarion said? "A name of hope and honour. A name which made a promise." This was what she had set out to do, after all: defend Athere from invasion. Everything had changed, yet was still the same. But as with every decision Medair had made, she was left with a heavy load of consequence and hurt. She had used the Horn and thousands had died and she was not even certain it made any difference. Not to the deep, festering wound at the heart of an invaded land.

A familiar brown leather shape was pushed into her hands.

"I think you dropped this," Avahn said. He waited until her fingers had closed on the satchel before letting go. Medair looked down at the symbol of a role she could no longer claim as her own. Could she do nothing but betray the past? The Horn had drawn Medair’s own people back from the dead to fight beside Ibisians, to save Ibisians. No right choice, no wrong decision. That didn’t make it any better.

"There are some Southerners still alive," Avahn told her. "Among the wounded. And there are even small groups untouched outside the walls. It seems that if they dropped their weapons they were spared, though few enough did that. The smart ones are fleeing, but they’ll be rounded up soon enough."

He paused, perhaps waiting for a response, but Medair had gone to a place beyond words, where there was only blood, and her name.

"Riders to the east!" someone exclaimed sharply.

Avahn must be using a night-sight enchantment, since he seemed able to see through the gloom, peering into the distance. "Not riders, I should think," he murmured. "Keris N’Taive called them deskai, didn’t she? This, I want to see." He turned back to Medair. "Come down with me when the Kier greets these marvellous vassals for the first time. Else I will not be able to witness it."

"You’ve been given the job of looking after me," Medair said. Her voice was small, a thread.

"Just so. Come down, Medair. Refusal is not an option."

Resistance, at least, was too much effort. Medair allowed him to guide her down the stair and out Aerele Gate, all the time aware of walking through the blood of the people she had killed, stepping over outflung arms. Only the gloom made it possible to pass, hiding the faces of the men and women whose lives had been taken by the Horn.

There was a patch of clear grass, close enough to the Kier to listen, and reaching it Medair refused to go further. As more magelights were summoned she stared into the dark to have something to look at which was neither the Ibisians she had saved, nor the Farakkians lying still and bloody.

Those who approached were not riders, but a small army of riderless horses, most black or dark brown. As the main body slowed, a distinctive pale grey horse led a small detachment forward to the city. Each and every one of them trotted at least a foot above the ground, a fortunate thing considering the thousands of corpses.

Although the deskai bore no saddles or bridles, each of them had an odd arrangement of cloth and leather slung around their necks. The purpose of this burden became clear after the lead group had halted some thirty feet from the gate. They underwent a swift, writhing twist which was less than pleasant to watch and suddenly there were nine men and women instead. All were well over seven feet tall. Each made identical movements to tie apron-like garments around their not-inconsiderable waists. Their skin ranged from pink-pale to charcoal darker even than the people of the Farakkan’s south-west.

The grey had turned into a dark young woman with short-cropped white hair. Tanis Araina, Medair presumed.

"Ekarrel." The deskai leader was smiling in open relief as she executed a precise bow. "Praise to the Four, you are unharmed!"

"My thanks, Keris Araina," the Kier said. Nothing in Inelkar’s face betrayed that she had not met this woman before. But Keris Araina’s entire race hadn’t existed a day ago, and the Kier must be wondering what to say to her. This was now no more Inelkar’s world than it was Medair’s.

A touch on her arm drew her attention and she found the Kierash, under Cor-Ibis' escort, at her shoulder.

"Keris an Rynstar," the boy began. "I recognise that now is not the time, but I would like to speak with you, at your convenience."

Medair’s lips curved, though she doubted it was a cheerful expression. She needed only one more push to shame herself with hysteria.

"There’s so little to say, Kierash." She lifted one booted foot, drawing attention to the blood-grimed soles. "Would you ask me of Decia? Of the south I knew, so staunchly prepared to support the Emperor in war? Those Decians, Duchess Trienne, considered it a proud thing to die in battle for a cause in which they believed. Where is the pride in being cut down by an enemy you cannot wound? Do you want me to try and guess whether they felt their cause was just?" She had to stop, or she would shout at him.

"That is something I will do on my own," Islantar replied, with a gravity Medair would have thought unnatural in any Farakkian youth. "I would ask you of them, though. The Decians you knew, so different from those we deal with today. And the Ibis-lar you knew, who brought down the Empire. If I am–" For the first time the boy hesitated, pale lashes dropping. "If I am to heal the present, I must know the past."

"You will need more than knowledge for that," Medair said.

"Yes."

It was simple agreement. Islantar, raised to rule, probably had a better grasp of the problems he faced than she did. The question of what came next, of how thousands of dead Decians could possibly help ease long-nurtured hatred, hung between them. There was a long pause.

Cor-Ibis moved a hand sharply, and the air shook with a sudden concussion.

"Another gate?" Avahn turned, then his eyes went wide and disbelieving and he made a similar fending gesture. "But who?"

The Keridahl didn’t answer as the air about them thrummed, threatening to knock them from their feet. Some of the deskai began to run toward Medair’s location. A woman nearer to the wall shouted and even Islantar joined the effort to stave off gate after gate. The air blurred and seemed to twist. The scent of hot metal drowned out the stench of blood.

And then it was too much. Avahn stumbled. Bright light washed over them, then darkness, and Medair felt abruptly weightless. The ground shifted.