The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars 3)

Galla swarmed up around him; Blessing wailed again, and as he fought to move forward, to get out from under them, he saw what damage the griffin feathers did: they harmed the daimones not at all, but in some way they severed the bond that Anne had used to bind her servants to Earth. One by one, daimones darted away into the heavens, to vanish into the night sky. Freed from Anne.

That was what these intruders were here for: to free him from Anne.

He recognized the woman now; he had seen her in his dreams. Wind still battered her, but she, too, had taken an arrow and with it in her hand, head thrust into the wind and her hair streaming back like a banner behind her, she cut a way toward him. With each swipe more daimones tumbled free of the cord that bound them to Anne’s spells. It seemed to him that many of Anne’s servants flung themselves willingly into the whirlwind of their fellows as if in attack—and in defeat—they sought liberty.

He sheathed his sword and scrabbled for the arrows that had struck earth beside him. The griffin fletching cut into his palms, but he heeded it not. Let it not be said that he did not fight until his last breath. With stone-tipped arrows as his only weapon, he laid about himself furiously. The galla drew back, yet they did not flee. Could such creatures even know fear? Did cutting their earthly form cause them pain? Sundered, would their spirits drift endlessly like that of a fallen warrior who has lost his faith? They throbbed and swarmed around him, held back by the threat of griffin’s feathers, nothing more than that It took all his will not to lunge into them, only to hold them at bay. He could not expose Blessing to their touch again.

A pale form slid into the circle he had drawn around himself, the length of his reach with the arrows. He began to lash out; caught himself as he recognized her fluid figure. It was Jerna, writhing, her aetherical mouth twisting and distorting as she tried to communicate with him even as another force seemed to drag her away.

He struck, then, into her pale torso. A silver ribbon shredded into filaments and vanished, and at once Jerna flung herself on him. She coiled, all soothing coolness, over his shoulders and around the crying baby. Blessing’s sobs hiccuped to a stop, and for a moment, with the galla still hanging back, he had the unexpected leisure to survey the battlefield.

For a moment.

Anne stood by one of the stones, staff raised; daimones crowded her, their light forms throwing her stern figure into relief. He couldn’t see Liath, only a cloak of utter darkness where she had stood, as if the galla had consumed her entire being. Off to his right, Resuelto had halted at the trees, whose branches whipped and slashed in the gale. The galla had only retreated out of range of the griffin feathers. That stench of forge iron was the scent of blood taken from a thousand thousand victims; they were hunters, and they had not given up on their prey.

Distantly, he heard the thunder of an avalanche. Then the storm howled in, out of nowhere. The tempest drove him to his knees as the galla shuddered under those impossibly strong winds. The gale raged in his face until he could hear nothing and feel nothing but its scream. He could not even lift his head. The winds blew dirt into his gritted teeth, choked him with clots of dirt from the ground itself as though under Anne’s command the daimones meant to strip the Earth down to its bones. Not even the galla could advance into the maelstrom.

“Liath!” he cried, but he couldn’t hear his own voice above the screaming wind.

And she called fire.

Fire blossomed like wings over Liath’s head. The host of galla who had enveloped her were obliterated in the blaze, and he saw her in that instant: caught in the blaze, bow raised and drawn down on Anne, her expression so focused that she seemed unaware of anything else in the world. She seemed unaware that her fire had caught in the stones, leaped the gap as a great forest fire leaps from tree to tree like the hand of God. The blue haze that outlined those shrouded and half-seen marble walls, that traced the contours of the ebony gate through which the intruders had reached them, ignited into a scorching white blast of heat that singed his hair although he knelt many paces away.

“Sharatanga protect us!” The voice sounded unexpectedly loud, at his ear. A strong hand grabbed his arm and tugged him up. He looked into eyes as sharply green as emeralds: like his daughter’s eyes. Like his own eyes. “What manner of creature is she? Run, Son! Run! She is calling them through! No one can survive where they walk!”

High above, the stars themselves seemed to uncoil whips of light, like fiery arms reaching out. The bowl of the sky itself seemed to bulge downward, as if something were trying to get through. And then it found the gateway that had already been opened.

It flowered out of the ebony gate, a spirit with wings of flame and eyes as brilliant as knives. It had a form, of a kind, vast and terrible. Where its feet touched the earth, streams of fire raced away, igniting the grass. Where its gaze touched the great crowns of trees, the lush summer foliage simply whoofed into sheets of fire, like a sequence of torches set alight, and birds burst from the woods in a flurry of wings and flocked in panic toward the cliffs.

Impossibly, others crowded behind it, pressing out through the gateway into the tiny valley that seemed far too small to hold them all. The air became torrid, blushed with a golden haze rising off their coruscating bodies. The swarming galla simply flicked out of existence as if sucked away into a neighboring room. In their terror, the mules kicked over the corral gate and bolted.

Below, the timber hall burst into flame. He had a moment to grieve for Heribert’s fine creation before he heard screams, livestock panicking, the wails of the airy servants still caught by Anne’s bonds. The sheds kindled. Cattle and goats and pigs scattered into the darkness. Two human figures stumbled after them.

Incredibly, the tower went up in flames. Even the stone burned, and as he watched, two figures flung themselves from its confines, clutching their precious books to their chests. The luster of this incandescent fire shone even onto the towering cliffs around them, until he realized with horror that this was no reflection of the conflagration but only a continuation of it.

Even the mountains burned.

“Run, Son!” She yanked him on, but he dragged her to a halt. Standing, he was a good head taller. Her pony shoved against him, and reflexively he caught hold of its halter to hold it in place. Of her human servant there was no sign.

“Liath!” he cried, because he couldn’t see her in the face of their brilliance. He drew in air to call out again, but the heat of it scalded his lungs and he could not utter one word.

As they pressed forward, they cast from side to side, searching, and he realized that, here on Earth, they were blind. But they were not mute.

Their voice struck like a thunderclap.

“Where is the child?”

Then they found her.

Their wings unfurled in pitiless splendor as they launched themselves toward the heavens. The sound of their wings reverberated off the high mountain walls, a great, booming flood’s roar, and the night brightened until it shone with the heat of the noontide sun. He had to shut his eyes, had to shield them with a hand because even through his eyelids the light burned.

Then faded.

He opened his eyes to devastation. Fires smoldered and embers gleamed. Blackened trees cracked and shattered, branches dissolving into ash. He groped at his back, found Blessing’s beloved mat of curly hair. She stirred at his touch. A little hand closed on his finger, and she babbled something.

ntly, he heard the thunder of an avalanche. Then the storm howled in, out of nowhere. The tempest drove him to his knees as the galla shuddered under those impossibly strong winds. The gale raged in his face until he could hear nothing and feel nothing but its scream. He could not even lift his head. The winds blew dirt into his gritted teeth, choked him with clots of dirt from the ground itself as though under Anne’s command the daimones meant to strip the Earth down to its bones. Not even the galla could advance into the maelstrom.

“Liath!” he cried, but he couldn’t hear his own voice above the screaming wind.