A Dark Sacrifice Read online

  A Dark Sacrifice

  Book Two

  of the Rune of

  Unmaking

  Madeline Howard

  This book is dedicated

  to the memory of

  my dear mother,

  Eleanor Waller,

  who is much missed,

  and

  to the swordsmen, magicians,

  and sorceresses

  who helped create video magic

  in the winter of 2006,

  and

  to Jack and Ethan Johnsen,

  who came to us like a miracle

  in a dark time.

  Contents

  Synopsis—The Hidden Stars

  1

  Voices of ice giants, thundering, tremendous, boomed in the distance.

  2

  The doors of the central keep stood open at the…

  3

  The road was dusty, weary, and long, winding up one…

  4

  Reluctantly at first, Kivik’s refugees began to move indoors and…

  5

  The day everything changed began with an excited milling down…

  6

  It was a hot summer night on Phaôrax, and a…

  7

  All things were well ordered and well founded at the…

  8

  With savage glee, the barbarians tore the dead bird apart,…

  9

  They were a day and a half riding through the…

  10

  The city of Xanthipei in Mirizandi—gorgeous, corrupt, glamourous—baked in the…

  11

  The sun dipped behind the mountains, but King Ristil would…

  12

  For a night and a day they travelled at a…

  13

  Prince Cuillioc woke in the middle of the night with…

  14

  By dint of much clumsy maneuvering and a fair degree…

  15

  Sindérian was growing hardened to a swift mode of travel,…

  16

  Winloki stood on a low bluff overlooking the sea, watching…

  17

  The rescue party, muddy, disheartened, and weary after three days…

  18

  In Apharos on Phaôrax, the Empress surprised everyone by grieving…

  19

  For Winloki, Mistlewald was as another world. The land spoke…

  20

  The tumult and fury of the storm continued unabated. Flames…

  21

  The tunnel was so broad, four could ride abreast without…

  22

  The road Sindérian and her travelling companions followed was an…

  23

  Reluctantly, Sindérian and her companions gave up their horses and…

  24

  Blinded by the light, shaking with the shock of her…

  25

  When he died, they buried him deep. He had thought…

  26

  A second trip through the caverns, by the light of…

  27

  Leaves were falling in the woodlands and gusting across the…

  28

  Day after day, there was rioting in Apharos. Though guards…

  29

  The hour being well after midnight, Sindérian lay down to…

  30

  The dark hour before dawn found Sindérian on the outskirts…

  31

  Out of respect for Faolein’s grief, Ruan turned away. Feeling…

  Glossary

  Magic

  Chronology

  About the Author

  Other Books by Madeline Howard

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  SYNOPSIS—THE HIDDEN STARS

  Silüren uilédani amffüriandem—All things are changing under the moon.

  The first book of The Rune of Unmaking told of a world in a perilous state of flux. A century had passed since a disastrous conflict between the wizards of Alluinn and the mages of Otöi ended in their mutual destruction. The death of a thousand magicians sent a pulse of energy through the entire world of matter, altered the course of the moon, and ushered in an age of change and mutation. Two great empires, north and south, fell in a single hour, throwing the world into a state of anarchy that lasted for decades.

  And then, unlooked-for, came an era of peace and prosperity.

  Few guessed what was ahead when a new young queen was crowned on Phaôrax. Ouriána had ensnared her entire realm in webs of dark sorcery before even a shadow of a threat touched the minds of a new generation of wizards in their stronghold on the island of Leal. Proclaiming herself the Divine Incarnation of the Devouring Moon, she appointed twelve priests to perform her rites. They were men to begin with but magic twisted them; in their scarlet robes and changed appearance they came to be known as the Furiádhin, the Mutated Ones. From Ouriána’s great temple at Apharos the smoke of sacrifice rose to the heavens.

  Not content with being worshipped as a goddess in her own kingdom, Ouriána manufactured a claim to the vacant throne of the northern empire, declaring war on all who opposed her. Leading the opposition were the High King Réodan, on Thäerie, and the wizards of Leal.

  The war dragged on for years as Ouriána’s magician-priests led her armies to victory after victory. Those who resisted her had but one hope, an obscure prophecy that out of Ouriána’s own house and bloodline would come the one capable of overthrowing her rule and restoring peace. But the self-styled Empress-Goddess cast over her twin sister, Nimenoë, a curse to render her barren. For although Princess Nimenoë never joined Ouriána’s enemies, she could not be counted among the Empress’s friends.

  Despite the curse, Nimenoë eventually did conceive a daughter, though at the cost of her own life. Present at the birth on Thäerie were three wizards. Well aware that Ouriána would want the infant killed, they agreed that Éireamhóine, the more powerful of the three, should take the baby on a winter journey across the wide northern continent. Once he reached a place of safety, he would raise the child in secret, until she came of an age to fulfill the prophecy.

  But Ouriána, by means of her dark arts, had learned of the child’s birth and the wizard’s plan, and sent six Furiádhin in pursuit. High in the mountains of the Cadmin Aernan the priests did battle with Éireamhóine. That battle and its deadly consequences were felt by wizards and magicians across the world; everyone was convinced that Éireamhóine, Luenil the nursemaid, and the infant princess were dead.

  Nineteen years of resistance passed, but Ouriána’s victory seemed inevitable. In order to put heart into his allies and discuss new strategies, King Réodan summoned them to a council at the wizards’ Scholia on Leal.

  King Réodan’s council was electrified by the arrival of a wandering wizard who revealed that he had seen a young woman in the far northern kingdom of Skyrra who was undoubtedly the lost princess, the child of the prophecy. The Skyrrans knew her as Winloki, niece to their king, Ristil, but the wanderer was able to present convincing evidence that she was indeed Nimenöe’s daughter.

  In order to recover the princess, the council decided to send a secret embassy—an embassy so small it would never attract Ouriána’s attention—to inform her of her true name and destiny, and convince her to return to Thäerie. Present among them were Sindérian, a young healer, and Faolein, her father, a wizard of repute. They were joined by the half-Faey prince Ruan, among others.

  The travellers set sail, hoping to make most of their journey by sea, but after an attack by a water-dragon their ship was so badly damaged it was all she could do to limp into the nearest port—which happened to be in unfriendly territory. From that point on, perils beset their entire journey north. Fao
lein was bespelled out of his own body and into the form of a falcon. Thinking him dead, Ouriána set trap after trap for Sindérian, which the wizard’s daughter somehow always found a way to escape. Half convinced that someone or something more powerful was protecting the young healer, the Empress, in a rage of frustration at being thwarted where she had expected little resistance, wove a greater spell: an intricate curse called an aniffath. What made an aniffath so powerful—and insidious—was its ability to keep on growing and changing to suit the circumstances.

  Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away in Skyrra, King Ristil fought a war of his own against the barbarian Eisenlonders. His adopted niece, Winloki, ignorant of her own origins, had grown into a beautiful, headstrong young woman and a gifted healer. Her desire to use her skills on the battlefield had been continually thwarted by King Ristil’s determination to keep her safe at home. But Winloki was equally determined. Taking the place of another young healer, she secretly joined an army led by Ristil’s son Prince Kivik, who was heading east to unite with a larger force. By the time that Kivik and his kinsman Skerry (who had been betrothed to Winloki in a childhood pact) discovered her presence, it was too late and too dangerous to send her back.

  A clash with Eisenlonders soon taught Winloki that war was an uglier business than she had ever imagined. Kivik’s troops, unable to locate the armies of the King’s Marshalls, fought skirmish after skirmish, suffering great losses in doing so. It was beginning to look like the expedition was doomed.

  Seeking a safe haven, they arrive at Tirfang, only to discover that it is already occupied by refugees and besieged by ice giants and the bearlike Varjolükka. Breaking through the siege, Kivik and his people reached the fortress, but were then trapped inside. Only Winloki seemed to realize that.

  1

  Voices of ice giants, thundering, tremendous, boomed in the distance.

  Prince Kivik shivered and wrapped his patched green cloak more closely around him. The western sky had cleared, allowing the sun to shine out brightly, but a wicked, bitter wind blew down from higher peaks to the northeast. Gritting his teeth at the thought that this killing cold—unexpected, unseasonable—was likely to continue, he leaned across the pitted white stones of the parapet.

  From his present vantage point, high on the outer walls, he could see a wide swath of snowy ground below the fortress and before the gates, where the enormous footprints of giants and the bearlike Varjolükka coming and going were pressed deep into the drifts. And even though he could not see them, he knew that a host of fierce white bears and blue-haired giants would be somewhere very near, patrolling the valley floor just beyond the range of his vision, or lurking in pinewoods along the valley walls, maintaining this siege that kept him and his men confined inside the ancient fortified city like rats in a trap.

  Standing there with the wind lifting his light brown hair, King Ristil’s son felt a familiar rage and frustration building inside of him. Before him lay the muddy chaos of the snowy fields, littered with the frozen bodies of men, horses, and things that were neither beasts nor men, behind him a vast landscape of towers, spires, parapets, balconies, peaked roofs, and cupolas, all arrayed in a glittering, improbable armor of ice.

  Far in the distance, he spied a bright splash of color, green and gold, against the white glare of snow. For a moment he felt his spirits rise, thinking it might be some vanguard of his father’s armies. But as they advanced, growing ever sharper and brighter, Kivik could just make out the indistinct forms of five—no, six men riding their horses at breakneck speed down the throat of the valley. He felt his hopes sink, a cold lump begin to form in the pit of his stomach. These were his own scouts, sent out many hours earlier under cover of darkness.

  But what madness, he wondered, could have possessed them to return in broad daylight, when they risk being seen by the giants and the skinchangers? Then he saw what followed in pursuit: two of the Varjolükka, moving along at an incredible speed considering their ungainly, bearlike bodies, gradually narrowing the distance between them and the scouts.

  Turning sharply on his heel, Kivik moved swiftly toward the stairs, meaning to alert the men who minded the gates. He had descended only two or three steps when a murmur of voices and a rattling of chains down in the gatehouse told him that the guards had seen everything, were already preparing to throw the gates open. Realizing he had no other help to offer, he returned to his vantage point by the parapet, to watch the race and shout encouragement at the riders.

  As always, it disturbed him to see how the were-beasts moved: the way bones and muscles slid beneath the skin; the uncanny action of the limbs, apparently clumsy but deathly efficient, as if magic rather than sinew held everything together.

  On came the men, their green cloaks whipping in the wind; on plunged the frantic, wild-eyed steeds, their flanks gleaming with sweat. Only when they drew near enough for Kivik to see foam flying off their bits did he realize that at least two of the horses were not so much running as running away, terrified to the point of madness by the proximity of the Varjolükka. It would not take much to spook them into throwing their riders.

  “Hold on,” he whispered around a hard knot in his throat. “Hold on!”

  To his horror, a grey mare near the rear of the pack stumbled. By sheer force of will, it seemed, her rider just kept his seat, gripping with his knees while he fumbled for his sword. Before he could yank the blade more than halfway out of the scabbard the skinchangers were on him. Man and mare disappeared under a snarling pile of dirty white fur and bloody muzzles. The grey screamed once and then was silent.

  Kivik spotted his cousin Skerry (the one dark head among so many shades of blond) twisting around in his saddle to see what was happening. He began to rein in, as if to go back and render assistance, but a glimpse of the carnage was enough to convince him it was already too late. Skerry gave his sorrel gelding its head, and the big red horse flew across the field. Not far behind, the bear-men left what remained of the scout and his mare in a tumbled, bloody heap and went lurching after him.

  With a last desperate rush, Skerry and the others reached the gatehouse and disappeared inside, only moments before the iron gates slammed shut in the very teeth of the enraged Varjolükka. Rising up on their mighty hindquarters, the were-bears bayed their fury to the skies.

  A short time later, just long enough to cool down the horses and stable them in an alley of makeshift stalls in the outer bailey, the cousins met by the second gate.

  “Another man lost,” Skerry ground out between clenched teeth. With his red nose and wind-bitten ears, he looked every bit as chilly and miserable as Kivik felt.

  The Prince nodded wearily. The tally of his dead grew longer and longer as the days went by. Twice he had gathered together some of his hardiest fighters and attempted a sortie out through the main gate; twice he and his men were beaten back. Though the numbers each time seemed to favor him, the axes and war hammers of the giants, the immense strength of the were-bears, somehow prevailed. He and his band of stalwarts had been forced to retreat back through the gate, staggering under the weight of wounded and nearly lifeless comrades they carried in with them. Reckoning up his losses now, he found them much too great to justify a third attempt.

  Nor, Kivik decided, would there be any more scouting parties. “Even if we could break the siege,” he said, continuing the thought aloud, “even if we could, where would we go?

  “More to the point,” he added as he and Skerry left the windy outer ward for a smaller, more protected enclosure where the Prince and his officers had set up their tents, “what of the refugees who followed us here, the hundreds we found waiting for us when we arrived? Where can they look for safety if we leave them here undefended?”

  With a sigh of frustration, Kivik ran a hand through hair grown shaggy and unkempt. Now that the excitement was over, he was once more keenly aware of his own dirt and discomfort, of unwashed skin itching under steel byrnie and quilted padding, in places he could not reach to scratch. He
tried to remember the last time he had been warm enough, or clean, or had slept in a real bed. Between that time and this stood the memory of a thousand mischances and miscalculations, a thousand horrors.

  A wild, inhuman ululation came carried on the wind, raising the fine hairs at the back of his neck. As he paused to listen just outside the entrance to his tattered green pavilion, the sound echoed from ridge to ridge along the valley walls, then came back again, slightly altered and in a different key, from one of the high eastern peaks where clouds still gathered, black and swollen with snow.

  The giants are exchanging messages with their own kind farther up the mountain, he thought, all the blood in his veins rushing backward toward his heart. “What mischief are the creatures plotting now?”

  “I can’t imagine them trying to storm the walls while we still outnumber them,” answered Skerry, following him into the dank, ill-lit interior of the tent. “Though when their friends from Eisenlonde arrive, I think we should be prepared to defend our position.”

  “Defend this fortress which ought to be impregnable, yet somehow never is?”

  Skerry shrugged. “We needn’t hold it for very long. The hawks we sent out with messages, some of them will get through. And then it can be only a matter of days before your father comes with the army he’s been raising to relieve us.”

  But Kivik did not feel nearly so confident. When King Ristil would arrive was a matter of sheer conjecture, but the Eisenlonder barbarians, being so much closer, were certain to turn up first. Along with more of the ice giants and the bloody skinchangers, unless he was much mistaken.