Read Online Winterlands 4 - Dragonstar by Barbara Hambly - Free Book Online
Authors: Barbara Hambly
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covered their faces with their cloaks. The torches carried by the warriors who lined the city square burned smoky in the waning daylight. The priests outside the barrier stones were still as the uncarved rocks.
John watched as, one by one, each of the ten mages whose strength had forced the Sea-wights into the shining water at the Henge's center went into a brief convulsion, and died. As each died, faint light licked and glimmered along the edges of the encircling stones, seeming to leap from stone to stone like brightening fire. John said nothing, but he trembled as if he had witnessed a great battle. As indeed he had, he thought. A great battle's end, and victory at a price he wasn't sure he'd have had the courage to pay.
Then he was looking at the empty sands of morning, and the dust-devils that whirled and twisted where even the ruins had mostly perished.
The spells they put on the Henge permitted nothing to leave, said Corvin after a time. Not demons, and not the mages themselves. They wove their webs of spells upon the whole of the city, surrounding the Henge in an unbreakable Maze, and the magic that locked Henge and Maze they sourced in their own deaths. There is magic—tremendous power—in any human soul, that can be used when the soul dissolves in death. Greater magic still, if the soul be that of a mage.
Bugger, thought John. Grief for the lost mages pierced his heart as if he had truly seen their deaths and not merely a remembered echo ten centuries gone. As if they had been his friends, when he did not even know their names. Grief for knowledge that had been lost with those ten mages, knowledge that they had almost certainly lacked the time to pass along. The horrors he had seen in the other world, where demons had stalked their prey in the flooded streets, these seven men and three women had seen in their own world a thousand years ago. They'd given their lives to stop it, as he'd have given his life rather than call on the Demon Queen.
When the trouble started, he thought, they'd have had no time to teach their yellow-robed adepts anything but what they must know to do their own part in the spells of ward and mazery. No time to write anything down of all that other knowledge that had made up the length of their years.
Time is long, and words unsaid remain unsaid forever.
“How'd they get out, then?” John asked, determined not to let the dragon hear the sorrow in his voice. “Adromelech, an' Folcalor, an' the rest? I understand about the Dragonstar comin' back, an' the demons usin' it to source spells, but if the spells the mages put on the Henge an' the Maze are still that strong …”
The dragon turned his tassled head and regarded him in surprise tinged with impatience.
They did not escape, he said. Adromelech is still there, with the greater part of his demon horde. Did you think you were dealing with the full might of the Sea-wights, Dragonsbane? What you thought of as the Hell of the Sea-wights is only an enclave, to which Folcalor and his cohort escaped when the Star set for the last time. The gate of the true Hell still lies within the Henge. What else has Folcalor been waiting for these ten centuries but the chance to free his Arch-wight lord; the chance to take command of that Hell for himself?
John thought, Bugger.
All this time we've only been dealin'with the advance-guard.
God's grandmother …
“So to come to power over Adromelech”—he was astonished at how casual he sounded, through the dizziness of horrified shock—“to take true command—Folcalor has to break the Henge.”
Break the HENGE? The words were barely articulated, only the curling wave of the dragon's incredulous scorn. BREAK the HENGE? You speak like a human—think you that anything can break through the magics of ten mages' deaths, like a bumpkin kicking his way through a stable door? Folcalor is a fool.
“Folcalor had a good try at puttin' together the deaths an' souls of at least seven mages,”
John watched as, one by one, each of the ten mages whose strength had forced the Sea-wights into the shining water at the Henge's center went into a brief convulsion, and died. As each died, faint light licked and glimmered along the edges of the encircling stones, seeming to leap from stone to stone like brightening fire. John said nothing, but he trembled as if he had witnessed a great battle. As indeed he had, he thought. A great battle's end, and victory at a price he wasn't sure he'd have had the courage to pay.
Then he was looking at the empty sands of morning, and the dust-devils that whirled and twisted where even the ruins had mostly perished.
The spells they put on the Henge permitted nothing to leave, said Corvin after a time. Not demons, and not the mages themselves. They wove their webs of spells upon the whole of the city, surrounding the Henge in an unbreakable Maze, and the magic that locked Henge and Maze they sourced in their own deaths. There is magic—tremendous power—in any human soul, that can be used when the soul dissolves in death. Greater magic still, if the soul be that of a mage.
Bugger, thought John. Grief for the lost mages pierced his heart as if he had truly seen their deaths and not merely a remembered echo ten centuries gone. As if they had been his friends, when he did not even know their names. Grief for knowledge that had been lost with those ten mages, knowledge that they had almost certainly lacked the time to pass along. The horrors he had seen in the other world, where demons had stalked their prey in the flooded streets, these seven men and three women had seen in their own world a thousand years ago. They'd given their lives to stop it, as he'd have given his life rather than call on the Demon Queen.
When the trouble started, he thought, they'd have had no time to teach their yellow-robed adepts anything but what they must know to do their own part in the spells of ward and mazery. No time to write anything down of all that other knowledge that had made up the length of their years.
Time is long, and words unsaid remain unsaid forever.
“How'd they get out, then?” John asked, determined not to let the dragon hear the sorrow in his voice. “Adromelech, an' Folcalor, an' the rest? I understand about the Dragonstar comin' back, an' the demons usin' it to source spells, but if the spells the mages put on the Henge an' the Maze are still that strong …”
The dragon turned his tassled head and regarded him in surprise tinged with impatience.
They did not escape, he said. Adromelech is still there, with the greater part of his demon horde. Did you think you were dealing with the full might of the Sea-wights, Dragonsbane? What you thought of as the Hell of the Sea-wights is only an enclave, to which Folcalor and his cohort escaped when the Star set for the last time. The gate of the true Hell still lies within the Henge. What else has Folcalor been waiting for these ten centuries but the chance to free his Arch-wight lord; the chance to take command of that Hell for himself?
John thought, Bugger.
All this time we've only been dealin'with the advance-guard.
God's grandmother …
“So to come to power over Adromelech”—he was astonished at how casual he sounded, through the dizziness of horrified shock—“to take true command—Folcalor has to break the Henge.”
Break the HENGE? The words were barely articulated, only the curling wave of the dragon's incredulous scorn. BREAK the HENGE? You speak like a human—think you that anything can break through the magics of ten mages' deaths, like a bumpkin kicking his way through a stable door? Folcalor is a fool.
“Folcalor had a good try at puttin' together the deaths an' souls of at least seven mages,”
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