Lord's Fall (Elder Races #5)(51)

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He had summoned the Wyr as he raced toward a magical fire that destroyed the Elven Wood and lit the night sky for miles.

The Deus Machinae were only dangerous in proportion to the Power of those who wielded them. When they fell into the hands of those with little Power or no real understanding of what they possessed, the Machinae influenced the world in subtle ways.

The last time Dragos had seen a Machine was almost two hundred and forty years ago. Although he had not touched it, he was fairly certain it had been Hyperion’s, the god of Law. At the time it had appeared in the shape of a quill pen, and one of the most famous human lawmakers in American history had used it to sign the Declaration of Independence.

Now an Elf wielded one of the Machinae again. Only an ancient Elf with an affinity to the elements had the Power to use a Machine to such devastating effect on the environment, and he was NOT GOING TO LET THEM tear the Earth apart again.

The fire had killed the spirit of the Wood. He spared a thought for how that would sadden Pia, as he reached out to Monroe telepathically.

You will call Graydon, he said to the startled gargoyle. Tell him to halt the Games. The High Lord has been attacked, and the Elven Wood is broken. Graydon is to bring a hundred of our strongest, as fast as he can. As soon as you deliver that message, get your ass back to your unit.

Yes, sir, Monroe said. The gargoyle sounded much calmer than he had when he’d answered Pia’s cell phone. I’ll be right there.

Then Dragos raced toward the fiery horizon, willing Pia to be safe with every ounce of his energy. Even though he spoke to her telepathically, his world only settled into rightness when he laid eyes on her. She was bedraggled, sweaty and smeared with ash from the fire, but she was calm, and despite the streaks of blood on her clothing that caused his heart to pound in heavy slugs, she was unharmed.

Now as she looked up at him with such earnestness, he knew what was going on in her mind. She counted the cost of the Elves’ struggle in the lives they lost, and she responded to that loss out of compassion.

He did not share her compassion. As far as he was concerned, the Elves could keep killing each other until they wiped themselves off the face of the Earth. But she would always be finer than he was, and more generous.

His gaze shifted to Calondir. “My people will be here in just under two hours,” he said. “Accept our help or not as you choose. But you and I both know that you do not have the strength to confront another one of your ancients if he is wielding a Machine.”

He watched with interest as Calondir struggled. It was not his job to ease the High Lord’s path or make him feel better. He did not bother to point out to the Elf Lord that he had already summoned the Wyr because he was going after Amras Gaeleval whether Calondir accepted his help or not.

Like Constantine, he never pulled his punches.

“I accept,” Calondir said. Ferion and the other Elf stood beside the High Lord, their postures and expressions eloquent with bitterness and resentment, but they also clearly recognized the necessity for a Wyr alliance for they said nothing. Calondir told his two lords, “We will cross over when the Wyr have arrived.”

Just then two runners, a Wyr and an Elf, came back from the search party with a preliminary report. The loss of life was devastating but not a surprise. The big news was that much of the main building was still intact, as a group of Elves had banded together and used their combined Powers to slow the progression of the blaze.

“There are a lot of survivors,” said the Elven runner, who was a slender girl. She had a tear-streaked face and short, fluffy brown hair that was dyed blue at the tips. “There are many more alive than we had feared. Healers have set up a station in the main hall to tend to the wounded.”

The three Elven males’ expressions lightened. Calondir said, “Survivors, shelter and supplies. It is the first good news I have heard this whole gods-cursed night.”

The Wyr runner was one of the males, the magic user of Pia’s guards. He had tightly coiled muscles, strong, high cheekbones and restless dark eyes, and his spark of Power glowed steady and strong. Dragos was interested to note that the male did not look at him but at Pia when he spoke. “They also captured several of the attacking Elves and are holding them in a secured area, but they won’t let any of us near enough to examine them.”

Pia turned to Dragos quickly, who said, “I no longer sense the Machine in the area, so I assume Gaeleval crossed over to your Other land.”

“Yes,” Calondir said. “He took Beluviel and the others.”

“Now that he’s no longer present, I want to know how much of his beguilement has lingered on the captives,” said Dragos. That was just one of many questions to which he intended to find answers. He also still wanted to know how Gaeleval had traveled to reach the Elven demesne in the United States, and he was very interested in finding out what happened in Numenlaur before Gaeleval left. Dragos looked down at Pia. She was as filthy as all the others, and she was the most beautiful, most precious thing in the world to him. He told her, “But first, I want to make sure that you are clear of any influence. I do not like how he was able to enter your dreams.”

Her lips tightened and she nodded.

Calondir said nothing, either in acknowledgment of what Dragos had said or in negation. Instead the High Lord led the way through the decimated Wood to a building at the top of a waterfall. One side of the building was charred and shattered glass lay all around. Braziers lit the open area and bodies lined one end of the clearing, covered in blood-spotted sheets.