Read Online The Fall of Neskaya by Marion Zimmer Bradley - Free Book Online
Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley
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hands of the figure. Any moment now, the very walls of the shelter would catch fire, too.
Then he was held immobile, clasped in an embrace as unyielding as stone itself. A glass vial was forced between his teeth and liquid gushed into his mouth. He sputtered, swallowing a little but spitting more out. His stomach twisted sickly. Turning just in time, he vomited, heaving again and again until there was nothing more to come. His eyes watered, and acrid saliva filled his mouth.
He heard a voice, so low and resonant that he could catch only a phrase or two. “Holy St. Christopher . . . Bearer of Burdens . . . Protector of children . . . Into Thy care . . .”
He looked down at his hands and saw, as if the images were painted on layers of gauze, his hands, whole and unharmed, and his other hands, his dream hands. Bits of heat-blackened flesh clung to splintered bones. Pain shrilled along his nerves. And still the fire burned, eating through the muscles of his chest, his ribs, his heart. . . .
Evanda and Avarra, Aldones the Son of Light, even you, Zandru of the Forge—help me! Help me!
As if from an immense distance, a voice whispered through his mind. It reminded him of tiny silver bells, sweet and full of light. Who are you?
Who was he? For a panicked moment, he could not remember his name.
The fire! The blue fire! Help . . .
Hold fast, little brother. We will send help . . .
Though the voice faded into silence, though the words were few, a sense of immense calm flowed through Coryn. His muscles softened and grew heavy. His body sagged in Rafe’s arms, in some other, invisible arms. The blue flames flared once more, then receded. Finally, he slept. This time, no dreams came.
5
T he sour smell of vomit filled the little cave. Coryn rubbed gummy residue from his eyes and sat up, finding himself alone. The opening had been cleared away, except for drifted rubble, and the light outside shone clear and bright. Both the older man and the chervine were missing.
“Rafe?”
Where had he gone? Crept away in the night to save his own skin? No—the saddlebags of food and warm clothing were still in the cave.
At first, Coryn could barely recognize the landscape outside. Loose rocks, varying in size from boulders to pebbles, lay heaped with long-dead branches and trees torn from their moorings on the heights. Wetness gleamed like fresh-spilled blood in the slanting morning sun, pools and rivulets, even piles of quickly melting hailstones.
There was no way through the debris plugging the valley floor. Already, water had pooled upstream and every few minutes a tree branch would be dislodged to go swirling downriver. The reservoir kept rising, fed by the water draining off the hillsides.
The chervine stood downslope, browsing placidly on splintered branches which still bore fresh foliage. It whuffled a greeting as Coryn approached through the debris and streams. He patted the animal’s neck, checking for injuries. Low on the near foreleg, scraped skin and clotted blood marked a swollen joint.
Coryn left the chervine and climbed upslope for a better view. He couldn’t see much, even when he stepped up on the nearest large rockpile. Then he caught sight of a patch of brown hide marked with dark, almost black streaks, half-buried in a stack of heavy dark stones. He couldn’t tell which of the horses it was, as both of Rafe’s were bays. At least it wasn’t Dancer, who was a dun.
A breeze, ice-tipped, ruffled Coryn’s hair. He shivered and for an awful moment, the hillside seemed to ripple and heave. Acid rose in his throat. His knees wavered under him. He caught himself against the nearest rock, a waist-high boulder. When he closed his eyes, the swaying sensation intensified. He opened them and focused on the rock, the pattern of old weathering split by fresh, razor-sharp chipping. It felt solid under his hand. Gradually, his vision and his stomach steadied.
“Rafe?” He called. “Rafe!”
Coryn’s voice
Then he was held immobile, clasped in an embrace as unyielding as stone itself. A glass vial was forced between his teeth and liquid gushed into his mouth. He sputtered, swallowing a little but spitting more out. His stomach twisted sickly. Turning just in time, he vomited, heaving again and again until there was nothing more to come. His eyes watered, and acrid saliva filled his mouth.
He heard a voice, so low and resonant that he could catch only a phrase or two. “Holy St. Christopher . . . Bearer of Burdens . . . Protector of children . . . Into Thy care . . .”
He looked down at his hands and saw, as if the images were painted on layers of gauze, his hands, whole and unharmed, and his other hands, his dream hands. Bits of heat-blackened flesh clung to splintered bones. Pain shrilled along his nerves. And still the fire burned, eating through the muscles of his chest, his ribs, his heart. . . .
Evanda and Avarra, Aldones the Son of Light, even you, Zandru of the Forge—help me! Help me!
As if from an immense distance, a voice whispered through his mind. It reminded him of tiny silver bells, sweet and full of light. Who are you?
Who was he? For a panicked moment, he could not remember his name.
The fire! The blue fire! Help . . .
Hold fast, little brother. We will send help . . .
Though the voice faded into silence, though the words were few, a sense of immense calm flowed through Coryn. His muscles softened and grew heavy. His body sagged in Rafe’s arms, in some other, invisible arms. The blue flames flared once more, then receded. Finally, he slept. This time, no dreams came.
5
T he sour smell of vomit filled the little cave. Coryn rubbed gummy residue from his eyes and sat up, finding himself alone. The opening had been cleared away, except for drifted rubble, and the light outside shone clear and bright. Both the older man and the chervine were missing.
“Rafe?”
Where had he gone? Crept away in the night to save his own skin? No—the saddlebags of food and warm clothing were still in the cave.
At first, Coryn could barely recognize the landscape outside. Loose rocks, varying in size from boulders to pebbles, lay heaped with long-dead branches and trees torn from their moorings on the heights. Wetness gleamed like fresh-spilled blood in the slanting morning sun, pools and rivulets, even piles of quickly melting hailstones.
There was no way through the debris plugging the valley floor. Already, water had pooled upstream and every few minutes a tree branch would be dislodged to go swirling downriver. The reservoir kept rising, fed by the water draining off the hillsides.
The chervine stood downslope, browsing placidly on splintered branches which still bore fresh foliage. It whuffled a greeting as Coryn approached through the debris and streams. He patted the animal’s neck, checking for injuries. Low on the near foreleg, scraped skin and clotted blood marked a swollen joint.
Coryn left the chervine and climbed upslope for a better view. He couldn’t see much, even when he stepped up on the nearest large rockpile. Then he caught sight of a patch of brown hide marked with dark, almost black streaks, half-buried in a stack of heavy dark stones. He couldn’t tell which of the horses it was, as both of Rafe’s were bays. At least it wasn’t Dancer, who was a dun.
A breeze, ice-tipped, ruffled Coryn’s hair. He shivered and for an awful moment, the hillside seemed to ripple and heave. Acid rose in his throat. His knees wavered under him. He caught himself against the nearest rock, a waist-high boulder. When he closed his eyes, the swaying sensation intensified. He opened them and focused on the rock, the pattern of old weathering split by fresh, razor-sharp chipping. It felt solid under his hand. Gradually, his vision and his stomach steadied.
“Rafe?” He called. “Rafe!”
Coryn’s voice
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