Priestess of the White

landwalker, creeping over gently undulating grassland. The Pentadrian army reached the top of a low ridge on one side of a valley and stopped. The Circlians marched up the far side of the valley. They, too, halted.

The two armies were still.

Then a lone black-clad figure stepped forward from among the Pentadrians. Sunlight glinted off something hanging about his neck. Tryss noted the five white figures standing before the Circlian army. One moved forward.

The two met at the bottom of the valley.

How I wish I could hear that conversation, Tryss thought. Are they offering each other a chance to back off? Are they tossing threats and boasts of strength back and forth like children? This was supposed to be a religious war, he reminded himself. Perhaps they’re having a theological argument. He began to imagine how it might go.

“My gods are real.”

“No they’re not; mine are.”

“Yours aren’t real.”

“Are too!”

He choked back a laugh. I’m being silly now. This is serious. People are going to die.

All humor fled at that thought. As the two figures parted, Tryss’s stomach clenched again. He watched them rejoin their armies.

The distant sound of horns rang out. The Pentadrian army surged forward and the Circlians followed suit. As the roar of voices reached Tryss, Sirri’s whistle pierced the air. It was time for the Siyee to join the battle. As one, the Siyee dropped into a dive.

The two armies had not yet met, but Tryss could see the air in the valley twist and glow as magical attacks met magical shields. Strange tearing, shrieking noises reached him and the occasional boom sent a vibration through the air.

It must be deafening down there, he thought.

The black cloud spiralling above the Pentadrian army fragmented and rushed upward. Part of it sped toward Tryss. He forgot all else as the black birds drew rapidly closer. Whistling orders, he directed his flight to fly straight for them, then set his fingers firmly on the levers of his harness.

“Attack!”

The spring of his harness sang. He heard the twang of others. A swarm of darts enveloped the black birds. Tryss cheered as the creatures shrieked and fell. He gave the signal to veer aside, grinning as his people whooped with triumph and indulged in a few fancy acrobatic moves.

Then he heard a shriek of pain and his heart sank like a stone. He twisted around to see that some of the birds had survived and had latched onto the legs of one of the Siyee. Their weight was dragging her down and they were clawing along her trousers toward her wings.

Not sure what he could do but hoping he would think of something, Tryss dived toward her. He could hardly use his hands to remove the birds. Instead he clenched his teeth, folded his arms and barrelled into the girl’s legs. He heard squawks and a yell of surprise, and felt himself falling. Extending his arms, he caught the wind and turned back to see what had happened.

The Siyee woman was free. Her legs were bleeding. He could see a bird flying below them, unharmed but clearly stunned. Tryss quickly caught his blowpipe between his teeth, sucked in a dart and let it loose.

The bird gave a squawk of protest and surprise as it was hit. Tryss did not wait to observe the poison take effect. He looked up and called to his flight. They moved closer. Aside from scratches they were all alive and uninjured.

Relieved, he looked past them and caught his breath in dismay. The sky was full of Siyee and birds, some locked in savage struggles. As he watched he saw three Siyee fall.

He also saw that two other flights as well as his had managed to get past the deadly birds. They now flew above the battle. He remembered Sirri’s instructions.

“The birds will try to keep you occupied. Don’t let them distract you. Aim for their masters, the black priests and priestesses. They control the birds, so try to kill them first. Once their source of control is gone, the birds may become harmless.”

With an effort he turned away from the battle and called for his flight to follow him. They did not argue, but their expressions were grim. Tryss looked down at the Pentadrian army below and considered how he should best direct their first attack.

Blood was everywhere. The air was full of the spray and reek of it. Faces, clothes and swords were slick with it. The grass was no longer yellow, but an evil orange-red.

Another black-clad monster came. The soldier lifted his shield to block the attack and swung his sword. The motions were familiar and comfortable. Years of training finally proving to be useful. His sword was an extension of his arm. He felt his blade glide through flesh and shatter bone. It was a much more satisfying feeling than the resistant bounce of padded wood.

The Pentadrian dropped to his knees, gurgling as blood filled his lungs. A yank released the sword. A stab through the neck stilled the hand groping for a knife.

Sudden panting to his left. The soldier ducked and spun about, catching the attacker in the stomach. The man’s eyes bulged in surprise. Coward, attacking from behind. He left that one to die slowly.

A glance told him that the fighters around him were now mostly of his own side. He turned and searched for the enemy. A distant growling caught at his attention. Far to the right he saw Toren soldiers fall beneath impossibly large creatures. Vorns. He stared in disbelief, and turned to run.

Then his foot caught on something. He fell and landed face down and cursed into the mud. Heat seared his ears. He reached up to cover them. The touch of his muddy hands was wonderfully soothing, but it did not muffle what came next. Screaming. Unearthly screaming that just went on and on.

Something terrible had happened.

He lifted his head. Painfully dry, smoky air filled his lungs. It set him coughing. He dragged himself into a crouch and looked around.

The grass was gone... no, it had become shrivelled, blackened tussocks. Black shapes covered the ground. Some of them were moving. Twitching and writhing. The source of the screaming. He tasted bile as he realized what they were.

Men. The fighters he had been walking with a moment ago.

He hauled himself to his feet. At once he understood what had happened. The burned grass and dead - dying - men formed a long, wide line back toward the enemy. A sorcerer’s strike. Deadly magic.

No training could save a soldier from this.

He had been fortunate to have been at the edge of it. His armor and heavy clothing, and falling face down in the mud, had saved him, though his ears burned fiercely. Looking down, he saw the outstretched hand of the Pentadrian who had tripped him. The man’s face was charred as black as his clothes.

Setting his jaw, he picked up his sword, still warm from the strike, and started toward his less-fortunate comrades.

No link between Auraya and the other White had ever been this strong or complete.

They worked as one, their powers directed by Juran. It was surprisingly easy. There was no imposing of will. They simply opened their minds to him and followed his instructions. In return, he had four extra minds and pairs of eyes to call upon when making decisions, and four extra positions from which to attack.

It was proving to be an effective way to coordinate their efforts. And it was almost thrilling to work so smoothly with the others. No misunderstandings. No mistakes.

Yet they still had limitations. The enemy had already found Mairae’s, and at one point she had been forced to leave soldiers vulnerable in order to protect herself. Their deaths had distressed Mairae, and shocked them all, but their linked sense of purpose ensured they did not falter.

Rian, too, was struggling. Juran was constantly forced to intervene whenever one of the more powerful black