Mary Herbert - City of Sorcerers

“I learned that spell from you,” Rafnir whispered in her ear, and he showed her the diamond splinter under his wrist.

Kelene kissed him delightedly. Still holding his hand, she glanced at Bitorn. The priest was surrounded by archers and warriors who were sending a merciless barrage of arrows, spears, and lances at his lower body. Kelene hoped she had a minute or two to talk before he turned his attention back to the magic-wielders. “I have an idea,” she told her parents, explaining about her probe into Bitorn’s mind. “The Korg said the life-force is similar to magic. As long as people die, there is all the life-force Bitorn needs. But he can only use so much energy before he starts to tire.”

“He’s not showing much sign of that,” Rafnir said dryly.

“So let’s help him along,” Kelene cried. “If the life-force is similar enough to magic, maybe we could try drawing his strength out of him. Perhaps we could weaken him enough for the warriors to kill his body.” Gabria and Athlone looked at one another, their faces bright with understanding.

“Secen!” Athlone called to his old hearthguard nearby. “Tell Priest Ordan we need a distraction that will keep Bitorn’s attention for a short time, and have Lord Fiergan pull his men back.”

Secen obeyed with alacrity, working his way through the milling clanspeople to the priest of Sorh. The old man listened and nodded once across the space to Lord Athlone. A moment later a horn blew, signaling the warriors attacking Bitorn to fall back. A wide circle opened up around the huge man, and for the space of several moments the gathering fell quiet.

Bitorn stood in the center of the space. He was panting and bleeding from several gashes on his legs. He stared at the surrounding people with utter contempt.

Then, along the edge of the crowd, came the priests of Sorh from every clan. Robed in dark red and grim in visage, they formed a ring around the giant man. Ordan stood before Bitorn and raised his black staff to the sky. Softly at first and then louder, the priests began to chant a litany no one had heard in years.

Kelene heard Gabria gasp, “They’re stripping him of his priesthood!”

“They can do that?” Kelene asked, startled. A person’s holy calling was granted by the gods and was not usually taken away by men.

“Sometimes,” her mother replied. “In extreme cases.”

Bitorn recognized the ancient chant, too, and he stood still, scarcely believing what he was hearing. “No!” he bellowed. “You won’t do this to me!”

Athlone nodded to his family. Around them, the magic-wielders were all together at last. There were only sixteen left, and half of them were not fully trained. But they all knew how to attract power, and their determination made up for their lack of skill. As one, they focused their inherent talents on the priest and began to pull out his energy.

Bitorn did not recognize their ploy at first; he was too intent on the ring of priests and their inexorable chant. He raised his staff like a club and took a step toward Ordan. Suddenly he staggered. Only then did he realize what the magic-wielders were doing. Furiously he struggled to fight the drain on his power before he lost all control. He was successful at first and was able to back away from the group of magic-wielders. But he hadn’t gone more than a few steps when he put his hands to his head and swayed. He bellowed his fury, his angular face red and ugly with twisted hate.

Still the magic-wielders pulled at him, stripping him of the energy he had stolen from their own dying people. His gigantic body started to shrink.

Lord Fiergan, Lord Sha Tajan, and the other chiefs and warriors saw his growing weakness. They edged into the circle and sprang in to attack. A handful of Khulinin men feinted to the priest’s right. As he swung around to drive them off, Fiergan charged under his shadow. There was a bright flash of a sword, and Bitorn’s left knee collapsed under his weight.

The priest screamed, almost desperately, and struggled away from the Reidhar chief only to be blocked by Dangari spearmen. Archers crowded on his right, more sword-wielding warriors charged in behind him, and a solid mass of incensed clanspeople cut off any hope of escape.

Bitorn was almost back to his normal height when he turned to see Priest Ordan. Their eyes met, and the mask of hate and arrogance fell away from Bitorn’s face, leaving only terror behind. He stared in appeal at Ordan’s implacable expression, but the old Priest of Sorh only lifted a hand to his priests. The circle of men shouted in unison and pointed their staffs to the sky.

“Your priesthood is finished, Bitorn!” Ordan shouted. “You are no longer a servant of Lord Sorh. Prepare to meet your master. ”

A wail rose from Bitorn’s lips, and from the group of magic-wielders, Lord Athlone shouted, “Now!”

The clanspeople struck with a terrible vengeance. The warriors within striking distance swarmed over Bitorn’s body, hacking, slashing, and stabbing the priest to bloody shreds. He screamed once before his voice was cut off to a gagging wheeze and then to silence. His body sagged to the ground.

Satisfied, the men drew back from the corpse, but they had barely lowered their weapons when a red phosphorescence began to glow just above the priest’s remains.

Kelene’s fingers tightened over Rafnir’s arm, and the clanspeople stopped in midmotion. It was as the Korg had warned—they had killed Bitorn’s physical body, but they still had to control his soul. The wraith coalesced before their eyes, his tall form glowing with the sickly red light.

“You cannot be rid of me that easily,” he hissed.

At that moment the Hunnuli horses raised their heads, their ears pricked forward. Riders come! Eurus neighed.

The magic-wielders were startled. Riders?

A tremor shook the wraith, and he wavered as if blasted by a powerful gust of wind.

The young clanspeople heard it next—a muted pounding of hoofbeats from some far distance. The sound grew louder and more distinct, and soon everyone heard it. Heads turned, eyes searched, yet the noise had no direction or obvious source.

Ordan saw them first, five riders on pale horses coming out of a curtain of mist in the blue afternoon sky. “They come! They come!” he cried and flung himself prostrate to the ground.

The wraith screeched in terror.

Every face turned to the sky, and even though no living mortal had ever seen their forms, every single person there recognized the five riders. They had been described once by Valorian, who had ridden in their midst and returned to life.

They were the Harbingers, the messengers of Sorh who came to escort souls to the realm of the dead.

The clanspeople froze in their places. There was no sound in the camp except for a dull clang when Fiergan’s sword fell from his nerveless fingers.

Shining white in the sun, the Harbingers rode their shimmering steeds down the sky and came to a stop on the mortal earth just in front of Bitorn. They were huge, clothed like warriors in polished mail and armor. Brilliant helms covered their faces.

Bitorn quailed before the riders’ silent scrutiny.

“Know this!” one Harbinger spoke in a masculine voice that was rich and powerful. “The days of enmity are over. The gorthling’s curse that brought down Valorian’s children is finished!”

“No!” shrieked Bitorn in one last attempt to have his way. “They are evil. They are a profanity. They must not be allowed to live!”

The Harbinger lifted a finger. “Come. This time you cannot escape Lord Sorh.”

“No!” Bitorn screamed. He rose up to flee, but the white rider raised his hand. A bolt of shining energy flew from his palm and caught the wraith. The power wrapped around him like a rope and trapped his sickly red glow within a bond of white light.