Swallowing Darkness - Laurell K. Hamilton [80]
How did I know about it? My father had made certain that I memorized the list of lost objects of power. It was a litany of what we had lost as a people, but now I realized that it was also a list of what we could recover.
The next figure held a spear that sparkled silver and white, almost as if it were made of some light-reflecting jewel. There were several spears of legend, and it wasn’t until she moved around us and offered it to Mistral that I was certain of its name. It was simply Lightning. It had never been Mistral’s spear. Once it had belonged to Taranis, the Thunderer, before he tried to be too human, and turned from what he was meant to be.
Mistral hesitated, then he wrapped his big hand around the spear’s shaft. It could only be wielded by a storm deity. To touch it without the ability to call lightning meant it would burn your hand, or burn you up. I’d forgotten that about the old weapons. Most of them had only one hand that could wield them safely. To all others, they were destruction.
The spear flared in an eye-searing whiteness that left me blinking with ruined vision. Then the spear was a silver shaft, less brilliant, less otherworldly. Mistral gazed at it as if it were something wondrous, which it was. He could call lightning to his hand, and with the spear, legend had it, he could call and direct storms.
The next skeletal bride went to Doyle. He had a sword of power, and two magical daggers that had been his for many years. But I had asked for us to be armed, not just to pick and choose. Of course, what lay in the figure’s hands didn’t look like a weapon. It was a curved instrument formed of the horn of some animal I was not familiar with. It was black, and I could feel the weight of ages spilling off of it. It had a strap so it could be worn across the body.
There was a yell, and the huge nightflyer that had been fighting Tarlach landed beside us. I had a moment to wonder where Tarlach was, but then the nightflyer, the would-be king of the sluagh, reached for what lay in the skeletal hands.
Doyle did not try to stop him. None of us did.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE NIGHTFLYER’S FOUR-FINGERED HAND WRAPPED AROUND the ancient horn. He smiled, a wide, fierce grin, and held it aloft. There were some shouts of approval, but most were silent, watching. They knew what it was. Did he?
He turned to us, still smiling, still triumphant, then his expression changed. Doubt went across those flattened features, then his eyes widened and he whispered, “No.”
Then he started to scream. He screamed, and shrieked, and the sound echoed in the chamber. He collapsed to the sand, the horn still in his grasp, as if he couldn’t let it go. He rolled on the ground, writhing and screaming. It destroyed his mind while we watched.
When he was still except for a few twitches, Doyle walked to him. He knelt and took the black horn out of the would-be king’s hand. The hand was limp, and did not fight to hold it now.
Doyle took the horn, and slipped the strap across his bare chest. He looked around at the assembled sluagh and spoke, his deep voice carrying. “It is the horn of the dark moon. The horn of the hunter. The horn of madness. It was mine once long ago. Only the huntsman of the wild hunt may touch it, and only when the magic of the hunt is upon him.”
Someone actually called out, “Then how do you hold it?”
“I am the huntsman. I am always the huntsman.” I wasn’t entirely certain that I understood what Doyle meant by that, but it seemed to satisfy the crowd. I could ask for more details later or not. He may have given the only answer he had.
There was one more skeletal lady on the stairs. She carried a cloak of feathers across