Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (62 page)

 
          
Abruptly
he pushed Kedryn away and spun to face Taziel. Kedryn moved to draw him back,
but Tepshen seized him and held him as the half-breed spoke again.

 
          
“Forge stone to sword, smith.
I accept your price.”

 
          
He
turned, snatching the glaive from Kedryn and tossed it to the monstrous
creature.

 
          
“Give
him the talisman, Kedryn. In the name of the Lady I ask you to do it. For her
sake grant me peace.”

 
          
Kedryn
shook his head, unable to speak, and Brannoc drew the stone from round his neck
as Tepshen held him still. “Do it,” he cried, crossing the cavern’s floor to
hand the talisman to Taziel.

 
          
The
trollish smith accepted the stone, eyeing Brannoc avidly.

           
“First the sword,” the half-breed
said, his voice harsh.

 
          
Taziel
ducked his misshapen head and turned to his forge. Kedryn struggled in
Tepshen’s arms, weeping now, as the hilt of Drul’s glaive was plunged into the
flames. Brannoc folded his arms across his chest, watching as the smith worked
the death’s-head pommel loose from its embracing claws and heated the metal
afresh. The fixings glowed red as he set the stone in place, tapping delicately
with his hammer, securing them around the talisman. He surveyed his work,
grunting in satisfaction, and blew upon the metal. It cooled under his breath
and he passed the glaive to Brannoc.

 
          
“It
is done.”

 
          
Brannoc
hefted the sword a moment,
then
walked to where
Tepshen held Kedryn.

 
          
“Now
use it well,” the half-breed said. “Let Ashar pay for the misery he inflicts.”

 
          
Tepshen
loosed his grip and Kedryn took the sword, staring at Brannoc. “Let us slay
him,” he murmured. “Let us slay him and begone from here together.”

 
          
Brannoc
shook his head, smiling grimly. “That would be Ashar’s way,” he said. “The path
you tread is more honest.”

 
          
“The
price is too high,” moaned Kedryn.

 
          
Brannoc
reached out his hands, clutching those of Kedryn and Tepshen. “We have come a
long way together, we three, but now my road is ended. I choose it this way,
friends, and I ask the Lady to bless us all. Walk in her light and use the
sword well.”

 
          
“Aye,”
Kedryn whispered.

 
          
Brannoc
turned again to Taziel. “Let them begone, smith.”

 
          
Taziel
grunted acceptance and indicated the cave mouth. Tepshen set a hand to Kedryn’s
arm and steered him past the leering creature. They reached the entrance and
paused, looking back. Brannoc raised a hand in farewell, and for an instant his
old grin returned.

 
          
“Remember
to tell this to the minstrels, my friends.”

 
          
Tepshen
nodded. Kedryn wiped at his eyes. “All the Kingdoms shall sing it,” he
promised.

 
          
“Go,”
Brannoc urged.

 
          
They
turned away, moving into the fire-lit shadows of the passage. Kedryn shouldered
the glaive, feeling in its hilt the faint vibration of the stone that now
glowed
blue at the pommel. It seemed lighter than before,
but still his shoulders slumped beneath the weight. Faint behind he heard
Brannoc say, “Now take your fee, smith
. ”
And heard Taziel’s foul chuckle, and the sound of a hammer striking
bone.

 
          
Rycol
studied the sun-washed expanse of timber spread below the ridge with an
apprehension that etched deep lines on his weatherbeaten features and turned
doubtful eyes to the blue-robed woman seated beneath the awning of the small
tent.

 
          
“Is
this wise, Sister?” he asked, a hand wrapping about his sword’s hilt as if in
anticipation of attack. “Is it sensible that Estrevan’s Paramount Sister
venture so close to the Beltrevan?”

 
          
Gerat
smiled wearily, mopping at her brow, for even at this height the heat was
intense, and said, “Did it not tax the powers of my Senders beyond limit I
should go to Drul’s Mound itself, Chatelain. This is the only place to be.”

 
          
Rycol
grimaced at her placid imperturbability and eased the shoulder pieces of his
leathern armor to a position less likely to chafe his broad shoulders as he
glanced around the jut of stone overlooking the timberland. His men were all in
place and alert. Archers stood with strung bows among the rocks; swordsmen
squatted on the baking ground; above the main encampment and farther down the
slope lookouts, each chosen for their keenness of eye, hunkered on watch. It
was unlikely, with the summer Gatherings so close, that any woodlanders would
wander so far south, and impossible that any sizable force should approach
unnoticed, but even so he felt uneasy. He did not like it that Gerat had
decided to venture forth from High Fort, even with a lull hundred in escort,
and liked it less that the Paramount Sister insisted on camping out in the
foothills of the Lozins. He had sufficient men that he could light a rearguard
action to see her brought safely back should the unexpected happen and knew
that in military terms she was safe, but there was something else, and it was a
thing he did not like at all because he could not understand it.

 
          
It
was a feeling he had known only once before, when the Messenger brought the
Horde against his fort, a feeling of impending doom that he could not express
in words, but felt within the innermost core of his being. It was a sensation
akin to the skin-prickling stillness preceding a summer storm, a feeling of
power gathering, of incalculable forces massing in readiness. It threatened to
render him irritable, for he felt the anticipation of battle but could see no
enemy, and he turned again to Gerat, speaking less from need of explanation
than the desire to fill the ominous silence with sound.

 
          
“You
are certain?”

 
          
Gerat
nodded, recognizing his unease. “I am certain, Rycol. One half of the talisman
has been separated from its rightful owner. Which half I cannot say, but I can
be certain it has fallen into Ashar’s hands. With half in his possession the
god is mightily strengthened. Should he secure both . . .
”

 
          
Her
words tailed off and Rycol was shocked to see the fear in her gray eyes. He
said, “But if Kedryn has succeeded in melding sword and stone may he not slay
the god?”

 
          
“Aye,”
Gerat nodded, “he may, the Lady willing. And so we must hope it is Wynett who
has surrendered her half.”

           
“Surely Wynett would not,” Rycol
said.

           
“Surely Wynett would not
knowingly,”
Gerat responded. “But Wynett
was taken by Ashar’s creature and so we must presume her Ashar’s prisoner, and
Ashar is a god of deception and betrayal. How can we know what deceits and
snares he has set out to trick her? Mayhap he has deceived her into trust. We
cannot know; only stand ready.”

 
          
“And
should it be Kedryn’s talisman?” asked Rycol.

 
          
“Then
the Chosen One is lost and the Kingdoms with him,” Gerat answered bluntly.
“Only Kedryn may defeat Ashar, and if he has failed, this world we know is
doomed.”

 
          
Rycol
grunted, swatting at a fly that buzzed about his sweating face. Gerat smiled
wanly and said, “But were Kedryn fallen or deceived I think we should know it
by now.”

 
          
“How so?”
Rycol demanded, staring at the trees, the foliage
ethereal under the weight of the summer heat.

 
          
“We
have watched here three days,” said Gerat, “and it took us two to reach this
place. I think Ashar would have struck against us ere now had he the power.”

 
          
“Then
think you he now seeks Kedryn’s half?” asked the chatelain.

 
          
“Aye,
I do.
so
,” Gerat confirmed. “I suspect he has deceived
poor Wynett and now seeks to inveigle Kedryn.
Mayhap with
Wynett the bait in his trap.”

 
          
Rycol
fidgeted with his swordbelt as if he longed for some visible, mortal enemy to
fight. “Should this be the case,” he said, “and Ashar so strengthened, were we
not better placed behind the walls of High Fort?”

 
          
Gerat
shook her head. “Should Ashar prove victorious even your strong walls will be
as nothing. Should he secure both halves of the talisman he will have no need
of barbarian flesh to further his fell ambitions for he will no longer be bound
by the gramaryes the Lady placed on these mountains—his might will be
unimaginable.” She closed her eyes as though the thought was too painful to
bear,
then
turned her calm gaze on Rycol. “Here I
shall feel the advent of battle, and when it comes I shall be able to link my
mind with that of Sister Jenille in High Fort, through her to all those other
Senders waiting along the road to Estrevan, and thus to the Sacred City itself.
There, the strongest of my Sisters await the challenge. When they hear my call
they will bend their wills that I may breach the walls of limbo and send that
holy strength into the netherworld to aid Kedryn. Thus may we counter Ashar’s
augmented
power.
” “Will it be sufficient?”
Rycol asked, his voice hushed.

 
          
“I
do not know,” Gerat answered him, honestly. “We can only pray to the Lady that
it will.”

 
          
Rycol
felt sweat trickle down his back. The sun was hot on his face and his body
seemed to seethe under the armor, but the sweat was cold. “If it is not?” he
demanded.

 
          
“Then
likely I shall be destroyed,” said Gerat, her voice flat, “and all my Sisters
with me. Likely Ashar will strike directly against Estrevan itself. And fill
the city with corpses.”

 
          
“It
is a mighty gamble you take,” Rycol said quietly.

 
          
“Aye,”
said Gerat, “but it is one that must be taken. It is the only one.”

 
          
Wynett’s
scream choked into a horrified silence as she fought for breath and the
strength of will to overcome the uncontrollable panic that threatened to rob
her of reason. She felt madness beat against the walls of her mind and clenched
her fists, driving nails against her palms as she gritted her teeth, hearing
them clatter, feeling her body tremble with unalloyed horror, her heart
thudding loud through the pounding pulse of blood in her ears. She was
abruptly, weirdly, aware of her surroundings with
a clarity
of perception heightened by the terror that gripped her. The hall was filled
with shifting shadows, the walls seeming to pulse with an impossible telluric
life. The black throne swelled, becoming a vast, ornate seat on which horrid
carven figures moved. The candles burned now not with honest yellow flame, but
with lapping tongues the color of blood. It would have been a boon had they
consequently revealed less, but it seemed they shed more light, as though come
into their own as had the thing that capered before her.

 
          
It
was no longer Eyrik and had she been capable of such voluntary action she would
have looked away in disgust, for the handsome human figure had become something
obscene. She could not, however, remove her gaze. It seemed that her eyes were
locked, hypnotized as is a rabbit by the lethal dance of a stoat, transfixed by
the nightmare that cavorted in triumph before her. Goatish orbs gleamed with
delight from a malformed skull, bald as bone, horned and fanged, thick lips,
blubbery and raw, parting to display a snaking, forked tongue that probed
salaciously toward her. Massive shoulders thick with orange hair supported
manlike arms clad in gray, cracked skin from which pus oozed, ending in scaly
hands, hooked talons extending from the fingers. The pulse of organs was
visible beneath the leprous skin of the belly, and between bent legs covered in
the same orange hair as the shoulders, ending in great black cloven hooves, a
huge phallus thrust rampant.

 
          
The
talisman flared as if in protest, then dulled, its blue radiance overwhelmed by
the blood-red glow of the candles as the creature placed it reverentially on
the cup of the intricate device. Instantly gold filigree became scarlet,
glittering crystal black, and the apparatus sang with a high-pitched keening,
vibrating as it drew life from the stone and turned that puissance to foul,
unholy purpose.

 
          
Wynett
took a step backward and the capering thing lunged toward her, a hand fastening
about her wrist, dragging her back to stand within the circle of blood-flamed
candles directly before the shuddering apparatus. The stench of old sweat and
excrement was noisome in her nostrils and she gagged, choking bile. “Watch!” it
ordered in a voice that boomed from the vaulted ceiling in a fetid gust,
redolent of ordure and decayed flesh. “Observe my triumph.”

 
          
She
turned her head, but talons locked on her jaw, gouging her cheeks, and forced
her to see as the apparatus glowed and melded, supporting limbs winding about
one another, fusing,
light
coruscating in dazzling patterns
of gold and crimson and sable, the blue of the talisman faint above. She gasped
as the transformation ended and the creature laughed, reaching for the sword
that now stood upright before the throne.

 
          
It
was a blade of epic proportions, tall and wide, glinting crimson, the fuller
deep, quillons spreading in proximation of bull’s horns from a basket of
weblike intricacy, black, the hilt dark and thick, ending in fascsimile of a
spider, the legs wound tight about the talisman.

 
          
The
thing that Eyrik had become snatched the glaive in both hands and sprang to the
foot of the throne, raising the sword high, swinging it in whistling circles
about his homed head, saliva drooling from the pinguid lips, capering a
pantomime of swordplay.

 
          
“Is
it not beautiful?” he roared, his forked tongue emerging to lick at the blade,
lowering it to mb the crimson steel against the length of his phallus. “Am I
not an artist?”

 
          
Wynett
stared, dumbstruck, close to madness, for she saw clearly the enormity of her
mistake and could see no way to undo it. She might have welcomed death in that
moment had a greater fear not overridden her terror: this thing was undoubtedly
Ashar himself and he must intend to use the blade against Kedryn.

 
          
And
with that knowledge
came
a further revelation: Ashar
must
need
the blade.

 
          
She
fought the despair that threatened to unhinge her sanity, fought panic and
fear, willing that part of her mind still able to stand off from the nightmare
unveiled before her to think rationally. If Ashar needed the glaive, then he
could not overcome Kedryn unaided: even with the talisman in his hands he could
not face Kedryn without this weapon. Did Kedryn then possess such strength that
the god feared him? It must surely be so, and therefore an element of hope existed
still. She rejected madness, clinging to faith. The sword jabbed toward her and
she started back.

 
          
“Do
you not think it lovely?” Foul breath wafted over her. “Tell me, lest I test
the edge on your soft flesh.”

 
          
She
nodded, eyeing the wavering point, needle-sharp. “Aye,” she said, “but why?”

 
          
“Why?”
Ashar lowered the blade, settling himself on the throne, a hand fondling his
engorged member. “You dare to ask me why?”