Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (58 page)

           
Katya thrust her saber home into the
scabbard. After a moment's hesitation, Bracht put up his falchion.

           
It took trust to approach the bier
unarmed. Calandryll felt it as a palpable thing, real as the forms they wore in
this aethyric place, solid as the blade that weighted his belt. It was a
dependence on one another, a trust born of comradeship and acceptance, devoid
now of doubts, cemented with then- shared purpose, mistrust banished. It was
their shield as hostile magic blasted all about them, the sword that sundered
the defensive aura, allowing them to mount the catafalque, climb steps that
trembled under their determined feet, as if even in his dreaming, Tharn sensed
their coming and stirred, nervous.

           
Briefly the nimbus sought to halt
them, to drive them back. Calandryll felt the opposition, and denied it, aware
of their four pneumas linked as one, a single entity possessed now of a single
intent, that empowering the magic that resided in him, flooding him with
strength, just as, malign, Rhythamun and Anomius drew strength from the
dreaming god: they climbed resolute, joined in their ambition.

           
And reached the platform atop the
bier, the sarcophagus at its center, poor enough concealment as they crouched
and crept toward the book. Unholy light sparked about them, the scents of rot
and almonds combining miasmic, suffusing air that crackled with the unleashing
of sorcerous power. Rhythamun stood close now, but diverted by Anomius, so
intent on the battle he failed to see the hand that crept stealthy toward the
Arcanum . . .

           
. . . Seized the book and was gone.

           
From hand to hand it went,
Calandryll's the one that snatched it, passing it into Cennaire's keeping, she
to Katya, the Vanu woman on to Bracht, who held it close as they descended back
down the jet steps, those throbbing now, pulsating visibly, as if in rage.
Bracht gave the book to Katya, and she, an expression of distaste creasing her
tanned features, as though she must embrace a serpent, placed it secure beneath
the mail of her hauberk. They moved, still as one, a little way from the bier,
not yet confident of success, swords coming instinctive from scabbards.

           
Anomius became aware of them then,
and of the absence. His fleshy lips stretched in brief, triumphant smile, and
the cantrip he chanted faltered an instant.

           
Rhythamun saw the expression,
followed the sideways flicker of the watery eyes, and prodigious anger
overwhelmed his face. Calandryll saw death, and worse, in the furious violet
gaze and then the terrible light that struck Anomius.

           
The warlock was hurled from the
bier, sent crashing down the steps, perverted flame wrapping him in obscene
embrace. Tongues of black fire lapped at his robe, his flesh. He screamed,
struggling to his feet, the soiled black robe disintegrating so that he stood
naked, skin blackening) crisping charred under the dreadful attack. His mouth
opened and flame gouted from his throat. His eyes burst and more fire spouted
from the emptied sockets. His flesh was consumed and he stood a burning
skeleton, internal organs roasting, bursting. Then the bones, blackened,
collapsed, falling in a clattering pile that was soon dissolved by the awful
sable fire. Of Anomius nothing remained save a drifting cloud of inky smoke.

           
"My thanks for that diversion,
but now I'll have the book."

           
The questers turned to where
Rhythamun stood, a grimace of horrid triumph curling his lips. Veins throbbed
in his neck, his golden robe smoldered, down cheeks scorched by Anomius's magic
ran tears of blood, but confidence was an aura about him, and threatening
might. He came down from the catafalque, hands raised, weaving an intricate
pattern, beginning a cantrip. Calandryll cried, "No!" the
straightsword lifting.

           
Light flashed anew from Rhythamun, and
Calandryll felt himself lifted, flung clear, subjective time stretched out in
the instant, so that he saw Bracht and Katya hurled aside, to safety, as
Cennaire interposed herself between them and the blast the warlock sent to
destroy them. It washed over her, raven hair streaming. But she lived.
Calandryll heard Rhythamun curse,* Cennaire shout wild laughter and cry,
"That magic shaped to harm the living cannot affect me!"

           
Calandryll came to his feet even as
the mage commenced a fresh incantation, one that surely must consume Cennaire.
He was unsure whether his feet or his will alone sped him forward, only that he
stood before Rhythamun, and that he must strike before the spell was shaped.

           
The straightsword descended in a
terrible arc. It seemed slow to Calandryll. It seemed the gramarye must end
before steel struck, that Cennaire must be destroyed, the wizard take back the
Arcanum, raise Tharn. He saw Rhythamun's lips moving, the eyes that shifted to
focus on his face, anger and contempt mingled there. And the blade halted in a
numbing blast of thunder, lightning exploding where blessed steel and fell
magic collided.

           
He felt an awful shock run fiery
down the roadways of his nerves, the straightsword almost flung from agonized
fingers that trembled about the hilt. It seemed he clutched a rod of molten
metal that consumed his flesh, that he must let go the sword before it
destroyed him. And knew he could not—
must
not
!—for from within himself, from Ochen's teachings and his own poor
understanding of the occult, a warning voice cried loud that here, in this
battle, Dera's touch imbued the steel with that power that alone could oppose
the dreadful might Tharn invested in his minion.

           
He willed himself to ignore the
pain. Told his eyes they lied, that his hands did not blacken, the skin not
crisp and curl from scorching bone. He strained against Rhythamun's spell,
seeking to drive the sword down against the wizard's skull.

           
He could not; but neither could
Rhythamun force back the blade, turn his magic on Cennaire, on Bracht and
Katya, where they huddled, wary, excluded from this cataclysmic struggle.

           
This, Calandryll knew with awful
certainty, was his battle alone, his the power that might—
Oh, Dera, only mightl
—defeat the mage. He stared into the violet
eyes, his own blazing furious, and saw doubt flicker there. He forced a laugh
then, and it seemed the blade descended a fraction, that the agony eased a
little. Rhythamun retreated a step. A single pace only, but one that seemed to
Calandryll a confirmation, perhaps not of victory, but of its possibility. That
was sufficient: he strained anew against the power encompassing the warlock,
and saw beads of bloody sweat burst from his enemy's forehead. He knew not how
he drew on that power he commanded, only that it was a source within him,
strengthening, salving, imbuing him with a vigor, a surety of purpose that
transcended pain. It was occult power and his own determination, the joined
wills of Bracht and Katya and Cennaire, of all who would contest Tharn's resurrection,
even at cost of their own lives: it filled him, firmed him, their strengths
his. He knew not how he used it, only that he did.

           
And the straightsword was no longer
a molten thing, no longer a rod of agony, scourging, but the means to victory,
to Rhythamun's defeat. It fell a little farther, and then, of a sudden, crashed
down to splinter blackened marble as Rhythamun sprang back.

           
Calandryll snatched it up defensive
as he saw the doubt in the mage's eyes replaced by horrid fury. Hands sullied
by Anomius's sortilege lifted to shape patterns in the air, to send a bolt of
black light swifter than a serpent's darting tongue against him. He cried,
"Dera!" and it was a battle cry as he swung the sword against his
enemy's magic.

           
Thunder bellowed anew. The fabric of
the sepulcher shuddered. Black light became transfigured, sharded with gold,
with sparkling silver, blinding. The perfume of almonds hung a moment stronger
than the stench of corruption. Calandryll thought surely he was slain, felt
surprise that he yet stood living.

           
Rhythamun's eyes sprang wide, as if
he could scarce believe the evidence they gave him of Calandryll's survival.
For his part, Calandryll stared narrow-lidded, near dazzled by that explosion
of brilliance, anger fueling him, inflaming, lending its own righteous strength
to occult power. Before him he saw the madman who would deliver the world to
Tharn, to chaos. The man who had duped him, used him, confident of mastery,
contemptuous of all those mortal, ordinary folk he believed his puppets,
inferior. This was the man who would see all brought down under the foul heel
of the Mad God, helpless sacrifices to his insanity, to his lust for power. And
then, beyond the anger, there was a kinder emotion: pity, that mingled with
contempt, and sorrow. Rhythamun was evil—he could entertain no doubt of
that—but the sorcerer was, too, utterly insane, so consumed by his ambition
that he scarce knew what he did, and for that, for all he must be slain,
Calandryll was able to pity him.

           
In that moment Calandryll became
something more than a man. He was the instrument of the Younger Gods, the
embodiment of order in opposition to chaos, of humanity confronting wanton
destruction.

           
He knew then that he might win this
struggle. He should likely die in the execution, but did he only prevent
Tharn's raising then still he won. That alone was of import now—no longer his
life, or his love of Cennaire, not Bracht or Katya,- only victory, the defeat
of Rhythamun, the denial of Tharn's mad dreaming.

           
He roared and launched himself
forward, the straightsword raised like the very wrath of the Younger Gods.

           
And Rhythamun's hands came up again,
sending fresh magicks at him, magicks that were struck aside by the whirling
blade, dismissed to burst uselessly about the mausoleum, that vibrating to a
different rhythm now, trembling as if in fear, shuddering, cracks running like
opened veins across the floor, rents gaping in the walls. Somewhere a pillar
crashed, shattering, dust blowing in a filthy cloud. Behind him, unseen as he
advanced, a pale hand clutched upward at the rim of the sarcophagus, nails
scrabbled a moment and fell back. He went on, intent only on victory.

           
Disbelief replaced the anger in
Rhythamun's eyes now, and then fear took its place. The warlock retreated. Calandryll
advanced. Sable flame lashed at him,- hammer blows pounded at his chest; his
hair burned; leather scorched. Such magicks as should have slain a mortal man
were flung against him and ignored: he advanced. The straightsword was a shield
before him, glaive of wrath, a beacon of hope. He felt the power in it, the
power of the goddess; and more, as if all Dera's kin set benign might in the
steel. And beyond even that, the power of men, of Bracht's fierce courage and
Katya's determination, Cennaire's faith, and Ochen's belief. He advanced
remorseless.

           
And Rhythamun fell back, desperation
on his handsome, evil face as his sortilege clashed against the blade. He
stumbled, a hand reaching toward a cracking pillar, steadying himself, the
cantrip he shaped faltering. With a terrible shout Calandryll ran forward, the
straightsword raised high.

           
The warlock gasped, "No!"
as the blade descended, no longer slowed by his sortilege, no longer halted.

           
It fell against his face, the skull
divided, and Rhythamun screamed, a dreadful lingering howl of banished hope,
defeated ambition.

           
Calandryll felt his wrists, his
arms, jarred by the blow, a moment of pain, of wrenching nausea, as if he
touched quintessential horror, an evil beyond comprehension. Then relief, triumph,
like a clarion in the midst of battle. Something went out of him, as if, its
work done, a power quit him: he was only himself again. He felt a moment empty
as he watched Rhythamun's slain body shimmer, dissolving. There was no gradual
dissolution, no aging of flesh or collapse of bones into dust. Rhythamun was
simply gone, as if, defeated, those magicks that had so long bound him to
corporeal existence gave up their hold. The echo of his dying scream faded and
there was only a bloodied golden robe, empty. Here, in the realm of the occult,
within the aethyr, Calandryll sensed that the sorcerer's pneuma was destroyed,
his threat forever ended. Rhythamun was at last truly dead.

           
He reached down, using the hem of
the golden robe to cleanse his sword, sheathed the steel, and turned to his
companions.

           
Cennaire came into his arms, holding
him tight, so that he thought a moment that his ribs should break.

           
"I feared you should be slain,”
she said against his mouth, and he answered,
^“
I feared you should
die, and that I could not bear.
^”

           
For long heartbeats nothing else
existed, only they two, embracing, and then Bracht's voice intruded.