Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

The wind chased them with hungry chilling hands, telling them that the moreacstrom was still coming.

Something moved at the edge of Keleios’ vision. She did not turn her head to follow the movement but whispered to the others that they were being trailed.

At least a dozen things moved like ghosts through the trees, too silent even for elves. Flashes of pale light began to wink through on either side, red, blue, and green. The colors seemed watered down, as if barely able to be seen.

Lothor said, “They are demon lights. No real harm in and of themselves, but they will report our movements and we cannot outrun them.”

“I know what they are, black healer. I’ve been here before.”

She doubled her pace and they moved to keep up, Lothor having an easier time than Tobin.

She gasped, trying not to lose too much air in talking. “There is a clearing near here where we can protect ourselves from the storm and whatever follows the lights.” As if conjured by her words, they broke through to a large clearing. It was bare of all vegetation and irregular in shape, but time was short. They wouldn’t find better. It looked as if it had been blasted clean. In the center of it lay a skeleton in elven chain mail with a sword still sheathed at its side. The bones were a bad omen, but there was no time to go else where. The wind felt like a real storm except for the stench; bits of bark and leaves filled the air.

The sickly lights hovered round the clearing, and Keleios fought an urge to strike at one. “Sorcery is quick but draining, and easily broken by the more powerful.”

Eroar spoke. “Yes, herb-witchery is best, I think, if we have the tools for it.”

The first howl floated long and lonely on the storm wind. An eerie chorus joined it until the night rang with baying.

“The hounds.”

Tobin asked, “What are you whispering, Lothor?”

“The howling, it is not dogs; it is the hounds of Verm.”

Keleios paled, “There is no time to finish an herb-witch circle. Master Eroar, if you will erect a sorcerous circle at the limit of the clearing, I will try to back it with an herb-witch one, but you’ll need to buy me time.”

Eroar stood, and with a sweep of both arms, a shield slipped over them.

She stared round the clearing; only bare rock showed—no ash, no anything. “Tobin, do you have a dagger?”

“Yes.” He unsheathed it and gave it to her. It was six inches of slim blade showing the Meltaanian urge to overdecorate on the carved hilt.

“What are you going to do with the dagger?”

“I will use blood for the symbols; you always have blood.”

He gripped her wrist. “But there is nothing to make the circle with. You would pass out long before you had enough blood for it.”

Lothor called, “Keleios.”

He was kneeling by the skeleton, the unsheathed long sword in his hands. He threw it to her, and she caught it hilt first. Tobin’s dagger clattered to the stone, and she gasped. The thing was powerful. Sheathed, she would never have seen it, but naked, it shone with a powerful enchantment. The runes on its hilt and blade were Vallerian. Keleios traced the runes, demon, pain, death, silver, elf, and suddenly she knew what sword she held. Ache silvestri, Aching Silver, a name half-elven and half-demon, and very appropriate. It could bring true death to higher demons. The thing pulsed in her hands, alive. Though it remained quiet, she knew it was almost too powerful to be used. It was hiding now, waiting for a moment of weakness so it could control. Keleios knew better. There would be no moment of weakness, if she were careful.

Lothor said, “I have my ax. I thought you could use it.”

She stared at the thing, transfixed. “Oh, yes, I can use it.”

“I will not need your dagger, Tobin, or blood for the circle.”

He bent and retrieved his weapon, but hesitated to ask about the sword. His own magic sense saw it for the power it was.

The baying came, and the wind rose, racing to see who would get to them first.

She gathered the sword belt and sheath and fitted them on her hips. She held the long sword, silver death, and spoke to it. “I am sorry to ill-use such a fine blade as yourself, but I need magic tonight, strong magic. Will you aid me?” It pulsed once in her hands, a dim throb, but it concurred.

She held it two-handed above her head and prayed to Urle to give strength to these two things of his art, enchanter and enchantment. The colors of the approaching storm played along the blade, and they seemed brighter in the reflected surface. Keleios plunged the blade downward to bite into the rock. With a metal scream and a shower of blue sparks, she and the sword Aching Silver began to carve a circle in the rock. Her chanting rose above the sounds of sword and rock. The circle closed, and it looked as if a thin line of fire had cut the ground. She stood uncertain, holding the blade just inches from her face. Steam rose from the blade into the cool wind. She sat in the center of the new circle, cross-legged, and drove the sword into the ground in front of her. The chant changed but remained constant. She was deep into magic and did not register the howling that came in over the twisted trees. She bent forward and sliced her arm cleanly on the sword. With blood she began the symbols. Two symbols were done when the howling erupted into the clearing. She forced memories down and continued. The spell was all important.

The first hound broke cover, pale as death. It had a naked human body covered with dirt and leaf mold. His mouth gapped open to howl skyward, exposing a horde of needlelike teeth. Fingernails like white razors clawed at the edge of the shielding. A dozen of them came sniffling and clawing around the clearing, howling in frustration. Parts of human bodies were tacked onto the hound form like grotesque jigsaw puzzles of flesh.

Lothor spoke quietly to Tobin. “Notice their claws and mouths have a yellowish cast to them, very faint over the white. It is a deadly poison to most.”

“To most?”

“Yes,” He seemed unwilling to elaborate, and Tobin let it go.

As Keleios traced the stick man in the dirt, she felt the pull of the sword like an invisible rope of power, a strengthening, a joining. Each mark of her finger traced a blue power, and the glow remained. She felt the sword’s eagerness to join its magic to hers. She knew the sword longed for union with an enchanter as all enchanters long for a great enchantment with which to share themselves.

The hounds had quieted and lay or sat around the clearing, waiting. The winds had died down, and the stench of death was vanishing with each breath of fresh wind.

From the trees stepped the Hound Master.

He stood over eight feet tall, covered in red scales, barrel-chested, with black talons on feet and hands. A necklace of gold links draped around his thick neck. Three stones were set in it—two red that shone like new blood and one black that reflected nothing. His face broke into a toothy grin, batlike ears curling ever so slightly. The demon bent and petted one of the hounds with a floppy red and white hound ear on one side and on the other a young boy’s face. “I apologize for being late. I had to reason with that mindless stinking cloud. This is too fine a catch for the storm to have.” He chuckled. “Prince Lothor, are you in favor or out of favor this season?”

“Well, Alharzor, my status is one of great debate this year.”

“Ahhh, someone has become ambitious, and I’ll wager it is Velen the Black.”

Lothor acknowledged it with a nod of his head.

“How do I know this, trapped on the godforsaken isle tending to the whims of a madwoman? Because he came here. He is very high in Verm’s eyes. Velen gives orders, and I listen.”