Andrea Höst: Voice of the Lost

Medair flinched in outright horror as it lunged, pushing aside friend and foe alike. Trapped by the press of battle against the parapet, she scrambled on top of the smooth stone, gripping the Horn by its braided cord. She could see Ileaha at the top of the nearest stair, fighting for her life against two Southerners.

Ileaha. Of two bloods, fiercely loyal to both Palladium and the Kier. There was no more perfect a person to use the Horn. Medair ran unsteadily along the parapet toward her.

Her footing slipped and she gripped a nearby Southerner’s shoulder for balance as the air shook from another gate formed, was dispersed, and was almost immediately replaced. There seemed no limit to Estarion’s gates. Southern warriors poured into Athere, both onto Ahrenrhen and in the streets below, and the top of the wall became almost impassable, more tightly packed than even the Kier’s throne room had been. Medair stopped dead, faced suddenly with three separate silver giants trying to plough their way through a field of flesh towards her.

"Oh, Great Lady!" she groaned aloud.

There was no time. The giant directly ahead of her had reached the inner edge of the wall and was thrusting its way to her position. Several Southerners and Ibisians, having no idea what the giants were chasing, began to turn in the same direction. Whatever the consequences of Medair using the Horn, it was surely better than the artefact falling in the hands of these metal-clad monsters.

Taking a deep breath, Medair clasped the Horn of Farak firmly in flinching hands, and set it to her lips.

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.