A Darkness at Sethanon (62 page)

Then into view
came a detachment of Keshian dog soldiers, running rapidly toward the
sound of battle. Jimmy looked at the magician and began to laugh as
tears started to run down his cheeks. “I guess that means
Hazara-Khan’s come to play, too?”

Kulgan smiled.
“He
happened
to be camped near Shamata. He claims it was
coincidence he was having dinner with the governor of Shamata when
Katala’s message to come to Stardock with the garrison arrived.
And of course the facts that he convinced the governor to let him
bring along some observers and that his people were ready to march
within an hour are also coincidence.”

“How many
observers?”

“Five
hundred, all armed to the teeth.”

“Arutha’s
going to die an unhappy man if he can’t get Abdur to admit
there is an Imperial Intelligence Corps.”

Kulgan said,
“But what I can’t fathom is how does he know what’s
going on at Stardock?”

Jimmy laughed a
genuinely amused laugh. He sniffed as his nose began to run and
smiled. “You must be joking. Half your magicians are Keshian.”
He sighed and sat back. “But there must be more to it, mustn’t
there?” He closed his eyes, and tears of fatigue again ran down
his face.

Kulgan said, “We
still haven’t found Murmandamus.” Kulgan looked to where
more Tsurani soldiers ran down the street. “Until we do, it’s
not over.”

>Arutha
ducked a savage slashing backhand blow and thrust in return, but the
moredhel jumped backward. Arutha’s breath came with difficulty,
for this was the most cunning and dangerous opponent he had ever
faced. He was incredibly strong and only slightly slower than Arutha.
Murmandamus bled from a half-dozen minor wounds, cuts which would
have weakened a normal opponent, but which seemed to bother him only
a little. Arutha gained no advantage, for the battle and this duel
were bringing him to the edge of exhaustion. It took all the Prince’s
skills and speed to stay alive. He had a limit on his ability to
fight, for he had to keep himself between Murmandamus and the two
sorcerers, who laboured over some mystic duty. The moredhel had no
such concern.

The duel had
fallen into a rhythm, each swordsman taking the measure of the other.
Now they moved almost in lockstep, each thrust answered with a parry,
each riposte with a disengage. Sweat poured off each and made hands
slippery, and the only sounds heard were the grunts of exertion. The
fight was coming to the stage where the first to make a mistake would
be the one to die.

Then a
shimmering filled the air to the left, and for an instant Arutha
glanced away, only catching himself at the last. But Murmandamus
didn’t remove his eyes from his opponent and seized the moment,
levelling a blow that skidded along the Prince’s ribs. Arutha
gasped in pain.

The moredhel
drew back to slash at Arutha’s head, and as his hand came
forward, it was brought crashing against an invisible barrier. The
moredhel’s eyes widened as Arutha staggered upright and thrust,
skewering Murmandamus through the stomach. The moredhel howled in a
dull ululation, staggered, then fell backward, pulling Arutha’s
sword from weakened fingers.

Arutha slumped
to the floor as two black-garbed men ran forward to grip him. They
hovered over the Prince. Arutha’s vision clouded and cleared,
focused and unfocused, until the room was stable again. He saw
Murmandamus smile, as the moredhel spoke in a menacing whisper. “I
am a thing of death, Lord of the West. I am ever the servant of
Darkness.” He laughed weakly and blood flowed down his chin, to
drip upon the dragon birthmark. “I am not what I seem. In my
death you accomplish your destruction.” He closed his eyes and
fell back, his death rattle filling the room. The two men in black
looked on as from Murmandamus’s body a strange keening sound
came. The figure on the stones puffed up, seeming to swell as if
suddenly inflated. Like an overripe pod, from forehead to crotch,
Murmandamus’s body ripped, revealing an inner body of green
scales. Thick black liquid and red blood, with clots of meat and
gouts of white pus, were spewn about the room as the green-scaled
body seemed to burst from within the husk that was Murmandamus,
flopping on the floor like a freshly landed fish. In this terrible
convulsion a leaping flame of bright red appeared, evil and filling
the hall with a stench of ages of decay. Then the flame vanished and
the universe opened around them.

Macros and Pug
staggered where they stood, each somehow aware of a change in the
fighting nearby. All their attentions were focused upon the place
between the universes where the aborning rift was beginning. Each
time a thrust came from the other universe, they answered with a
patch of energy. The battle had reached its peak a moment before, and
now the thrusts were weakening. But still there was danger, for Pug
and Macros were also exhausted. It would require the utmost
concentration to keep the rift between universes from opening. Then
pain exploded in their minds as a silver note, a shrieking whistle,
sounded a signal. From another quarter a different, unexpected attack
came, and Pug could not answer. A thing of captured lives, taken in
terrible death and held against this moment came flowing toward the
rift, dancing like a mad and stinking red flame. It struck the
barriers Pug had erected and shattered them. It tore open the rift
and somehow moved between Pug’s perceptions and the place where
the battle raged, obscuring his sense of what occurred there. Pug
felt slightly dazed. Then a warning cry from Macros re-focused his
attention on the rift, which now stood open. Pug worked frantically,
and from some deep hidden reservoir of strength he drew forth the
energy to grip the shredding fabric that held the universes apart.
The rift closed violently. Again came the thrust, and again Pug
barely held, but he held. Then from Macros came the warning,
Something got through
.

Something has
come through
, came the warning from Ryath.

Tomas leaped
down from the dragon’s back and waited behind the Lifestone. A
darkness grew within the hall, vast and powerful, a thing of
nightmare taking form. Then it stood forth. It was ebon, without
feature and definition, a being of hopelessness, and it was aware.
Its outline hinted at a man shape, but it bulked nearly as large as
Ryath. Its shadow wings spread, casting gloom about the hall like a
palpable black light, and about its head, like a crown, burned a
circle of flames, angry red-orange and seeming to cast no
illumination.

Tomas yelled to
Ryath, “It is a Dreadlord! Beware! It is a stealer of souls, an
eater of minds!”

But the dragon
bellowed in rage and attacked the monstrous thing of nightmare,
bringing its magic to play as well as talons and flame. Tomas started
forward, but a presence, another being entered this phase of time.

Tomas moved back
into the shadow while a figure he had never seen before, but one as
well known to him as Pug, emerged into the light of the gem. The
newcomer dodged away from the towering battle that rocked the hall.
With quick steps the figure moved toward the Lifestone.

Tomas appeared
out of shadow, standing over the stone so that he was now visible.
The figure halted, and a snarl of rage escaped.

Splendid in his
orange-and-black armour, the Lord of Tigers, Draken-Korin,”
confronted a vision beyond his understanding. The Valheru shouted,
“No! It is impossible! You cannot still live!”

Tomas spoke and
his voice was Ashen-Shugar’s. “So, you’ve come to
see it finished.”

With the snarl
of a tiger, lost in the shrieks and bellows of the larger battle in
the hall, the returned Dragon Lord drew his black sword and leaped
forward, and for the first time in his existence Tomas faced an enemy
with the power to truly destroy him.

The battle was
coming to an end as the host of Murmandamus streamed out of the city,
fleeing toward the Dim wood. The word of Murmandamus’s
disappearance had spread as if blown through Sethanon by a sudden
wind. Then, without warning, the Black Slayers, no matter where they
were, collapsed as if their lives had been sucked out of their
armour. This, along with the arrival of the Tsurani and the magicians
and reports of more armies on the horizon, had caused the attack to
falter and then fail. Chieftain after chieftain ordered his clans
away, quitting the battle. With leadership evaporating, the goblins
and trolls were slaughtered, until the still-larger invading army was
in complete rout.

Jimmy hurried
through the halls of the keep, looking among the dead and wounded for
anyone he knew. He dashed up the stairs to the wall overlooking the
killing ground and found a clot of Tsurani blocking the way. He
slipped through them and saw a chirurgeon from Landreth standing over
two bloody men who slumped against the wall. Amos had an arrow still
sticking from his side, but was grinning. Guy was covered in gore and
had a terrible-looking cut along his scalp. The cut had severed the
cord holding the patch over his eye, and the angry, empty red socket
could be seen. Amos laughed and almost choked. “Hey, boy. Good
to see you.” He looked about the wall. “Look at all these
little peacocks.” He waved one hand weakly at the brightly clad
Tsurani soldiers, who looked on with unreadable expressions. “Damn
me, but they’re the prettiest things I’ve ever seen.”

Then from below
came a grinding, followed by a soul-chilling thunderous roar, as if
some terrible host of madness was suddenly escaping from hell. Jimmy
looked around in startled wonder, and even the Tsurani exhibited
surprise. A trembling filled the keep as the walls began to shake.
“What’s that!” shouted Jimmy.

“I don’t
know, and I don’t plan on staying here to find out,” said
Guy. Gesturing to be helped to his feet, he took the outstretched
hand of a Tsurani warrior and got up. He motioned to what appeared a
Tsurani officer, who ordered men to pick up Amos. Guy said to Jimmy,
“Order whoever’s alive to evacuate the keep.” Then
the rolling motion below increased and he staggered, while the
howling sound grew in volume. “No, tell whoever’s alive
to evacuate the city.” Jimmy ran along the battlement, heading
for the stairs.

A
gain
the room trembled and shook.

Arutha listened,
clutching his bleeding side. It sounded a distant battle, with
titanic forces unleashed. He went to where Pug and Macros stood, with
the two black-robed magicians next to them. He sighed as he nodded to
them. “I am Prince Arutha,” he said.

Hochopepa and
Elgahar introduced themselves and Elgahar said, “These two are
undertaking to hold some power at bay. We must aid them.” The
two Black Robes placed their hands upon Macros’s and Pug’s
shoulders and closed their eyes. Arutha found he was alone again. He
looked toward the grotesque husk of Murmandamus slumped in the
corner. Crossing to where it lay, Arutha reached down and pulled his
sword from the serpent man. Arutha studied the slime-covered form of
the serpent priest and laughed bitterly. The reincarnated leader of
the moredhel nations was a Pantathian! It had all been a ruse - from
the centuries-old prophecy, to the marshalling of the moredhel and
their allies, to the assault upon Armengar and Sethanon. The
Pantathians had simply been using the moredhel, at the command of the
Dragon Lords, hoarding the magic of spent lives to reach the
Lifestone and use it. In all of it, the moredhel had been used more
cruelly than anyone else. It was an irony of heroic proportion.
Arutha was astonished by the realization, though he was too tired to
do more than weakly scan the room, as if looking for someone with
whom to share the revelation. Suddenly a rent appeared in the wall
with the small door, and gold, gems, and other treasures were spilled
upon the floor. In his fatigue, Arutha hardly wondered how this had
come to be, for he had heard no sound of masonry collapsing.

Arutha let his
sword point drop and turned to walk back to the magicians. Seeing no
exit from the vault, he sat upon the dais and watched the four
motionless spellcasters as they stood with hands joined. He examined
his wound and saw the blood flow had lessened. It was painful, but
not serious. He leaned back, getting as comfortable as possible, for
he could do nothing but wait.

Brickwork and
masonry were smashed to dust as Ryath’s tail drove through the
wall. With shrieks of pain and rage, the dragon worked her magic upon
the Dreadlord, while fang and talon inflicted injury. But the
Dreadlord struggled mightily and the dragon paid a heavy toll in
return.

Tomas lashed
out, keeping his body between the Lifestone and Draken-Korin. The
screaming, snarling Valheru had come at Tomas like the tiger on his
tabard. Tomas had not possessed the savage fury of his opponent since
the days of madness had been upon him during the Riftwar. But he was
a practised warrior and he kept his wits about him.

Draken-Korin
shouted, “You cannot deny us again, Ashen-Shugar. We are the
lords of this world. We must return.”

Tomas parried,
turning the blade away, then slashed out and was rewarded with a
shower of sparks as his blade hit Draken-Korin’s armour,
rending his tabard.

“You are a
decayed artifact of a former age. You are a thing that hasn’t
the wits to know you’re dead. You’d destroy all to win a
lifeless planet.”

Draken-Korin
swung a looping blow toward the head, but Tomas ducked and thrust,
and his sword point took the Valheru in the stomach. Draken-Korin
staggered back, and Tomas was upon him like a cat upon a rat. Blow
after blow rained down upon the Lord of Tigers and Tomas held the
upper hand.

“We shall
not be turned away,” screamed Draken-Korin and he redoubled his
fury, halting Tomas, then driving him back. In an instant there was a
shimmering, and where Draken-Korin had been, Alma-Lodaka now stood,
but her attack was no less fierce. “You underestimate us,
Father-Husband. We are all the Valheru, you are but one.” Then
the face and body changed, as one and another Valheru opposed Tomas.
Quickly they shifted, until a blur of faces appeared before Tomas.
Then Draken-Korin was back. “You see, I am a multitude, a
legion. We are power.”