Sethra Lavode (Viscount of Adrilankha) (38 page)

“Ah,” said Sethra Lavode. “Yes, I know of such things. And yes, I can see it.”

“Well, and?” said Röaana.

Sethra Lavode raised her dagger, pointing it at the darkness that concealed, contained, or, perhaps
was
the Jenoine. The darkness appeared to thicken, and, at the same moment, the glow that had seemed to come from Grita’s skin abruptly vanished.

Piro reacted to this even before Grita herself was aware of what had happened: The Tiassa lunged and ran his sword through her body.

“Now, it seems, we can harm you,” he observed.

How Sethra Lavode, Not Without
A Certain Amount of Assistance
From the Necromancer, Engaged
The Jenoine in Other-Worldly Battle

G
rita’s face screwed up in a grimace of hatred, and she uttered the single word “you” as if it were the worst sort of curse. Piro glared back into her eyes, and withdrew his blade with a cruel twist. Grita cried out, and then, blood blossoming on her shirt, her knees buckled. She fell to the ground and did not move again.

“Well struck, Viscount,” said Khaavren.

Sethra Lavode, standing before the Jenoine, looked over her shoulder and said, “None of you move. This is my affair.”

Between these words, delivered in a tone that assumed obedience, and the shocked dismay of all that had just happened, no one was inclined to argue, with the exception of the Necromancer, who evidently determined that these words were not meant for her. She placed herself next to the Enchantress and directly before the region of darkness that still manifested itself within the cave.

“You attack the Jenoine,” said the Necromancer. “I will close the portal.”

“Very well,” said the Enchantress.

Sethra held out before her the dagger called Iceflame, and, as if it were a tangible enemy, struck the darkness. At the same instant, the Necromancer spread her hands wide, as if to hold a large object, then compressed them, and began to make passes before the darkness in a classic vision of the enchanter at work—indeed, her actions were so like those that are fancifully represented as the manipulations of the sorcerer, and so unlike the actual workings of the sorcerer, that one is tempted to inquire if these fancies have their origins in necromancy, or if, to the left, the demon had spent some time attending the theater, and was making motions that she understood were expected of her. In addition to these actions with her hands, she also began murmuring in
a language full of vowels and devoid of stresses—a language that, like the Necromancer herself, was not of our world.

As to what exactly Sethra Lavode did here, we can know little; of what the Necromancer did we can know less. Yet we do know that, at this moment, as the Enchantress engaged directly with the Jenoine, deep in the bowels of Dzur Mountain lights rippled up and down stalagmites; walls changed their colors; sparks fired out from globes; disks, set upon slender rods, began to spin as if from their own power. Miniature lightning storms raced up and down walls, and the entire mountain seemed to move. And, in the middle of it all, sat the enigmatic figure called Tukko, turning his attention from item to artifact, from table to wall, sitting as utterly motionless amid the chaos around him as the Necromancer was animated in the stillness before her.

A great deal must necessarily have happened in a very short time; indeed, the author confesses to a certain embarrassment in being unable to devote the deserved amount of space to what must have been, in some ways, at least as great a battle as that being fought in Adrilankha. Yet, our several witnesses are able to reveal almost nothing of this contest. Sethra Lavode plunged her dagger into the darkness, the Necromancer made arcane gestures before it, and, in almost the drawing of a breath, the peculiar magical field, or pattern of energy, or emanation from another world, had collapsed on itself, dissolved, and vanished.

In that instant, what had been the greatest challenge to the Orb withered away with it. Though not as profound in its effects as the Orb’s return that ended the Interregnum, the effects were more sudden.

The warlock Brimford suddenly realized that his art was having an effect as far away the god Tri’nagore was banished. Morrolan was able to teleport to Castle Black. The adepts in the army were able once more to communicate with each other, and messages began to flow one way and another with a rapidity that threatened to overwhelm Sethra the Younger with information.

In Whitecrest Manor, the Orb began to glow, and to circle Her Majesty’s head once more. For a moment, she just stared at it, as if it were some strange object she’d never seen before; then a slow smile spread over her countenance.

And an instant later, as various sorcerous effects began to strike at his army, Kâna knew the first hints of despair.

All of this, all of these effects, achieved in a mere instant the result of activity that, on the face of it at least, appeared infinitesimal.

The Enchantress sighed and let her head drop, taking a single deep breath as the only indication of the effort she had expended, then sheathed her dagger; the Necromancer gave no indication that she had made any effort whatsoever.

Khaavren, who had been all but oblivious to the events transpiring only ten or twelve feet from him, knelt down next to Aerich and said, “My friend, are you all right?”

Aerich spoke in a whisper, saying only the word “Tazendra.”

“I will attend her,” said Pel.

Piro and his friends remained in the background. Ibronka looked at what remained of the brave Dragonlord Kytraan, whose blood was thick upon the cave floor, and at the loyal Iatha, and the steadfast Belly, and, sobbing softly, wrapped her arms around the Viscount, who, in turn, held her close—nor were Piro’s eyes devoid of tears. Neither of them, at this time, seemed to find it necessary to say anything. Röaana and Ritt joined them in their silent commiseration. Tsira, who had been pushed back and away by Piro, tactfully removed herself from the cave, where she sat down on the grass outside along with Lar and Clari, looking at the strange artifact that had led them there, and wondering.

Pel spoke from the back of the cave. “Tazendra is dead,” he said in a voice quavering with emotion. Khaavren bowed his head. Tears filled Aerich’s eyes.

“So I had thought,” he murmured.

“So is Illista,” said Pel, who returned at that moment and knelt next to Aerich.

“It is past time for that one to be dead,” said Khaavren.

“Yes,” said Pel.

Khaavren looked over at their other enemy, and said, “I regret to say, Grita is dead as well.

“You regret it?” said Pel.

“Her death was too easy.” His voice was heavy with pain and bitterness.

“Judgment,” said Aerich, still whispering, “of which vengeance is a sequent, is the rightful province of the Lords of Judgment. And unless one accepts the superstitions of the Easterner, it is their only proper province, therefore it ought to be left to them.”

Khaavren chuckled without humor. “I shan’t begin an argument with you now, my friend.”

“That is right,” whispered Aerich.

Khaavren frowned. “We must find a physicker for you, Aerich,” he said, “for it seems you must be badly hurt. You have not moved so much as an inch since we came through the Necromancer’s gate.”

“Useless,” said the Lyorn with his accustomed coolness. “My neck is broken.”

After an instant of stunned silence, Pel bowed his head, and Khaavren sobbed, making no effort to conceal the emotion which overwhelmed him.

Sethra Lavode knelt down next to the Lyorn and touched his face with her hand, then rose and, addressing the Necromancer, said, “Come, let us return to the city. We may teleport again, and there is still a battle to be won.”

Khaavren, his face wet with tears, looked up at the Enchantress and said, “Warlord—”

“No,” said the Enchantress. “Remain here with your friends. I will take upon myself the safety of Her Majesty until you return. When you are ready to leave, inform Her Majesty; I will have a teleport ready for you and your friends.”

Khaavren bowed his head in silent gratitude. Sethra Lavode approached Piro and squeezed his shoulder; then she and the Necromancer vanished.

Piro disengaged himself from Ibronka, walked over to his father, and clasped his shoulder briefly. The Viscount then saluted the dying Lyorn, a salute which Aerich, as well as he was able, returned with his eyes. Then, as Pel had done to Tsanaali, Piro wiped his blade clean on Grita’s clothing and sheathed his sword.

“Come, my friends,” said Piro. “Let us take our dead comrades out of this cave, and leave my father and his friends in peace.”

Working together, they quickly brought the bodies from the cave, Piro carrying Kytraan’s head, and set them on the grass, Piro depositing his gruesome burden next to the truncated corpse that had been his friend. This done, Ibronka again came into the Viscount’s arms.

“There is blood on my hands,” said Piro.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Ibronka, softly.

He wrapped his arms around her. “The daylight is too bright,” he
said. “The breeze too soothing, the temperature is too mild. It is all so wrong.”

“I understand,” said Ibronka.

“Kytraan …”

“Yes.”

“We went through so much, and then, to have him killed so casually, so quickly, almost as if he were nothing.”

“I know,” said Ibronka.

“As if he were nothing,” Piro repeated.

“I know,” said Ibronka.

Piro looked up suddenly. “Röaana, are you all right?”

Röaana, who wore something of a stunned expression, looked at him and nodded slowly. “Yes, my lord, I am well enough. But—Kytraan, and Iatha, and Belly, and Tazendra, and now, it seems, Aerich.”

“I know.”

“I am the only one left,” said Ritt, suddenly, sounding surprised.

Piro frowned. “The only one?”

“Do you recall that day when we met, when Wadre was leading us?”

“I am unlikely to forget it,” said Piro.

“It seems like an age ago, and yet, it has been less than two years.”

“That is true.”

“And of that band, I am the only one still alive.”

“We have come through much together,” said Piro. “All of us.”

“Yes. And now what?”

Piro shook his head, his eyes coming to rest on Tsira, and on the amulet she still held in her hand, the amulet that had brought them there. He considered the strange twists and turns of fate and wondered if anyone could ever know to what his decisions would lead him. “Now? As to that, I cannot say.”

Inside the cave, Khaavren said, “Are you in pain, my friend?”

“No,” whispered Aerich. “I feel nothing. I regret that I cannot move, for I should like to press your hand, Khaavren, and yours, Pel.”

“Yes,” said Khaavren.

“I had never,” said Pel, “truly believed that our friendship would ever end.”

“Nothing is forever,” said Aerich.

“It is one thing to know that, it is another to believe it.”

“I understand,” whispered the Lyorn. “For my part, well, I regret Tazendra. She had more to do.”

“As did you,” said Khaavren with a choked voice.

“Oh, I? I have no regrets for myself. I have had a good life, and our friendship has been the best part of it. Except for Tazendra, I have no regrets.”

With effort, Khaavren suppressed his sobs, but could not keep the tears from his face.

“There is nothing in life like friendship,” said Aerich. “Ours has been good. We have all been lucky.”

“Yes,” said Pel. “We have been lucky.”

Aerich turned his eyes to Pel and he said, “I am glad you know it, my friend.”

His eyes closed, and his breathing became more shallow, and for a moment Khaavren thought he was already gone, but then his eyes opened again.

“You must bring Tazendra to Deathgate,” said Aerich, his voice now even more faint.

“Of course,” said Pel. “And you as well, Aerich.”

“Oh, I, well.” Something like a smile spread over his countenance. “I had never before realized the degree to which my conversation would be hindered by an inability to shrug.”

Khaavren pronounced his name, “Aerich,” again, as if it were an invocation.

Aerich smiled once more, very gently, and then he closed his eyes as if to rest, and his breathing stopped. Khaavren and Pel remained by his side, unable to move.

Outside, they bid a farewell to Tsira, who, still in something of shock, returned to her home. Lar and Clari remained silent, as stunned, we should say, as any of the others, for grief and horror are no respecters of class or House.

Some few minutes later, Pel and Khaavren bore Aerich’s body out, and laid it on the ground next to Iatha. Then they returned an instant later with Tazendra’s.

Piro embraced his father, and said, “My lord the Count, I am sorry for your loss. I have some conception, I think—”

“Yes,” said Khaavren shakily. “And I grieve for your loss as well, Viscount.”

“We should see to our friends,” said Piro.

Pel nodded, and, when he spoke, there was an edge to his voice, as if only by pretending to coldness could he force himself to speak. “We will return them all to the city, for now. We must get the oils on them soon if they are to be preserved for Deathgate.”

“And then,” said Khaavren, “it would please me immeasurably if you were to return home.”

“It is kind of you to offer,” said Piro. “But what of my friends?”

Khaavren glanced at them and, with an apparent effort, he managed something of a smile. “If they like, they may have positions in the Phoenix Guard. I can always set them to chasing bandits.”

Piro’s own smile came and went like an errant breeze on a still day. “And Ibronka?” he said.

“She is welcome,” he said. “I have no more objections to make; my conscience is dead now.”

Piro bowed.

“Let us return to the city,” said Khaavren.

How the Battle of Adrilankha Ended,
And Khaavren Received an Order

A
fter the destruction of Tri’nagore by Morrolan, and the expulsion of the Jenoine by Sethra Lavode and the Necromancer, well, it should come as no surprise to the reader that it became a different battle—if such a rout can, indeed, be called a battle at all. The fact is, history records few such one-sided contests as the latter stages of the Battle of Adrilankha.