Sparhawk and his friends lined the battlements, frozen, awed, able only to watch that primeval struggle.
And then the two broke free of each other and stood, backs bowed and arms half-extended, each facing his immortal brother in some inconceivable communion.
‘It falls to thee, Anakha,’ Bhelliom’s voice in sparhawk’s mind was calm. ‘Should Klæl and I continue, this world shall surely be destroyed, as hath oft-time come to pass before. Thou art of this world and must therefore be my champion. Constraints are upon thee which do not limit me. Klæl’s champion is also of this world and is similarly constrained.’
‘It shall be even as thou has said, my father,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘I will serve as thy champion if it must needs be. With whom must I contend?’
A great roar of rage came from far below, and a living flame surged up out of the shattered ruins of the chalk-white temple.
‘There is thine opponent, my son,’ the azure spirit replied. ‘Klæl hath called him forth to do battle with thee.’
‘Cyrgon?’
‘Even so.’
‘But he is a God!’
‘And art thou not?’
Sparhawk’s mind reeled.
‘Look within thyself, Anakha. Thou art my son, and I made thee to be the receptacle of my will. I now release that will to thee that thou mayest be the champion of this world. Feel its power infuse thee.’
It was like the opening of a door that had always been closed. Sparhawk felt his mind and will expanding infinitily as the barrier went down, and with that expanding there came an unutterable calm.
‘Now art thou truly Anakha, my son!’ Bhelliom exulted. ‘Thy will is now my will. All things are now possible for thee. It was thy will which vanquished Azash. I was but thine instrument. In this occasion, however, shalt thou be mine. Bend thine invincible will to the task. Seize it in thine hands and mold it. Forge weapons with thy mind and confront Cyrgon. If thine heart be true, he cannot prevail against thee. Now go. Cyrgon awaits thee.’
Sparhawk drew in a deep breath and looked down at the rubble-littered square far below. The flame which had emerged from the ruins had coalesced into a blazing man-shape standing before the wreck of the temple. ‘Come, Anakha!’ it roared. ‘Our meeting hath been foretold since before time began! This is thy destiny! Thou art honored above all others to fall by my hand.’
Sparhawk deliberately pushed aside the windy pomposity of archaic expression. ‘Don’t start celebrating until after you’ve won, Cyrgon!’ he shouted his reply. ‘Don’t go away! I’ll be right down!’ Then he set one hand atop the battlement and lightly vaulted over it.
He stopped, hanging in mid-air. ‘Let go, Aphrael,’ he said.
‘What are you doing?’ she exclaimed.
‘Just do as you’re told. Let me go.’
‘You’ll fall.’
‘No, actually I won’t. I can handle this. Don’t interfere. Cyrgon’s waiting for me, so please let go.’
It was not actually flying, although Sparhawk was certain that he could fly if he needed to. He felt a peculiar lightness as he drifted down toward the ruins of the House of Cyrgon. It was not that he had no weight; it was more that his weight had no meaning. His will was somehow stronger than gravity. Sword in hand, he settled down and down like a drifting feather.
Cyrgon waited below. The burning figure of the ancient God drew his fire about him, congealing the incandescent flame into the antique armor customarily worn by those who worshipped him – a burnished steel cuirass, a crested helmet, a large round shield and a sword in his fist.
A peculiar insight came to Sparhawk as he slid down through the dawn-cool air. Cyrgon was not so much stupid as he was conservative. It was change that he hated, change that he feared. Thus he had frozen his Cyrgai eternally in time and had erased any potential for change or innovation from their minds. The Cyrgai, unmoved by the winds of time, would remain forever as they had been when their God had first conceived of them. He had wrought an ideal and fenced it all about with law and custom and an innate hatred of change, and frozen thus, they were doomed – and had been since the first of them had placed one sandaled foot on the face of the ever-changing world.
Sparhawk smiled faintly. Cyrgon, it appeared, needed instruction in the benefits of change, and his first lesson would be in the advantages of modern equipment, weaponry, and tactics. Sparhawk thought, ‘Armor’, and he was immediately encased in black-enameled steel. He almost casually discarded his plain working sword and filled his hand with his heavier and longer ceremonial blade. Now he was a fully-armed Pandion Knight, a soldier of God – of several Gods, he rather ruefully amended that thought – and he was, almost by default, the champion not only of his Queen, his Church and his God – but also, if he read Bhelliom’s thought correctly, of his fair and sometimes vain sister, the world.
He drifted down and settled to earth amidst the wreck of the destroyed temple. ‘Well-met, Cyrgon,’ he said with profoundest formality.
‘Well-met, Anakha,’ the God replied. ‘I had misjudged thee. Thou art suitable now. I had despaired of thee, fearing that thou wouldst never have realized thy true significance. Thine apprenticeship hath been long and methinks, hindered by thine inappropriate affiliation with Aphrael.’
‘We’re wasting time, Cyrgon,’ Sparhawk cut through the flowery courtesies. ‘Let’s get at this. I’m already late for breakfast.’
‘So be it, Anakha!’ Cyrgon’s classic features were set in an expression of approval. ‘Defend thyself!’ And he swung a huge sword stroke at Sparhawk’s head.
But Sparhawk had already begun his stroke, and so their swords clashed harmlessly in the air between them.
It was good to be fighting again. There was no politics here, no confusion of dissembling words or false promises, just the clean, sharp ring of steel on steel and the smooth flow of muscle and sinew over bone.
Cyrgon was quick, as quick as Martel had been in his youth, and, despite his hatred of innovation, he learned quickly. The intricate moves of wrist and arm and shoulder that marked the master swordsman seemed to come unbidden, almost in spite of himself, to the ancient God. ‘Invigorating, isn’t it?’ Sparhawk panted through a wolflike grin, lashing a stinging cut at the God’s shoulder. ‘Open your mind, Cyrgon. Nothing is set in stone – not even something as simple as this.’ And he lashed out with his sword again, flicking another cut onto Cyrgon’s sword-arm.
The immortal rushed at him, forcing the oversized round shield against him, trying with will and main strength to overcome his better-trained opponent.
Sparhawk looked into that flawless face and saw regret and desperation there. He bunched his shoulder, as Kurik had taught him, and locked his shield-arm, forming an impenetrable barrier against the ineffectual flailing of his opponent. He parried only with his lightly held sword. ‘Yield, Cyrgon,’ he said, ‘and live. Yield, and Klæl will be banished. We are of this world, Cyrgon. Let Klæl and Bhelliom contend for other worlds. Take thy life and thy people and go. I would not slay even thee.’
‘I spurn thine insulting offer, Anakha!’ Cyrgon half-shrieked.
‘I guess that satisfies the demands of knightly honor,’ Sparhawk muttered to himself with a certain amount of relief. ‘God knows what I’d have done if he’d accepted.’ He raised his sword again. ‘So be it then, brother,’ he said. ‘We weren’t meant to live in the same world together anyway.’ His body and will seemed to swell inside his armor. ‘Watch, brother,’ he grated through clenched teeth. ‘Watch and learn.’
And then he unleashed five hundred years of training, coupled with his towering anger, at this poor, impotent Godling, who had ripped asunder the peace of the world, a peace toward which Sparhawk had yearned since his return from exile in Rendor. He ripped Cyrgon’s thigh with the classic ‘Pas-four’. He slashed that perfect face with Martel’s innovative ‘parry-pas-nine’. He cut away the upper half of Cyrgon’s oversized round shield with Vanion’s ‘Third feint-and-slash’. Of all the Church Knigh
ts, the Pandions were the most skilled swordsmen, and of all the Pandions, Sparhawk stood supreme. Bhelliom had called him the equal of a God, but Sparhawk fought as a man – superbly trained, a little out of condition and really too old for this kind of thing – but with an absolute confidence that if the fate of the world rested in his hands, he was good for at least one more fight.
His sword blurred in the light of the new-risen sun, flickering, weaving, darting. Baffled, the ancient Cyrgon tried to respond.
The opportunity presented itself, and Sparhawk felt the perfect symmetry of it. Cyrgon, untaught, had provided the black-armored Pandion precisely the same opening Martel had given him in the temple of Azash. Martel had fully understood the significance of the series of strokes. Cyrgon, however, did not. And so it was that the thrust which pierced him through came as an absolute surprise. The God stiffened and his sword fell from his nerveless fingers as he lurched back from that fatal thrust.
Sparhawk recovered from the thrust and swept his bloody sword up in front of his face in salute. ‘An innovation, Cyrgon,’ he said in a detached sort of voice. ‘You’re really very good, you know, but you ought to try to stay abreast of things.’
Cyrgon sagged to the flagstoned court, his immortal life spilling out through the gash in his breastplate. ‘And wilt thou take the world now, Anakha?’ he gasped.
Sparhawk dropped to his haunches beside the stricken God. ‘No, Cyrgon,’ he replied wearily. ‘I don’t want the world – just a quiet little corner of it.’
‘Then why earnest thou against me?’
‘I didn’t want you to have it either, because if you had, my little part wouldn’t have been safe.’ He reached out and took the pallid hand. ‘You fought well, Cyrgon. I have respect for you. Hail and farewell.’
Cyrgon’s voice was only a whisper as he replied, ‘Hail and farewell, Anakha.’
There was a great despairing howl of frustration and rage. Sparhawk looked up and saw a man-shape of sooty red streaking upward into the dawn sky as Klæl resumed his endless journey toward and beyond the farthest star.
Chapter 33
There was fighting somewhere – the ring of steel on steel and shouts and cries – but Ehlana scarcely heard the sounds as she stared down at the square lying between the ruins of the temple and the only slightly less ruined palace.
The sun was above the eastern horizon now, and it filled the ancient streets of Cyrga with harsh, unforgiving light. The Queen of Elenia was exhausted, but the ordeal of her captivity was over, and she yearned only to lose herself in her husband’s embrace. She did not understand much of what she had just witnessed, but that was not really important. She stood at the battlements holding the Child Goddess in her arms, gazing down at her invincible champion far below.
‘Do you think it might be safe for us to go down?’ she asked the small divinity in her arms.
‘The stairway’s blocked, Ehlana,’ Mirtai reminded her.
‘I can take care of that,’ Flute said.
‘Maybe we’d better stay up here,’ Bevier said with a worried frown. ‘Cyrgon and Klæl are gone, but Zalasta’s still out there somewhere. He might try to seize the Queen again so that he can use her to bargain his way out of here.’
‘He’d better not,’ the Child Goddess said ominously. ‘Ehlana’s right. Let’s go down.’
They went back inside, reached the head of the stairs and peered down through billowing clouds of dust. ‘What did you do?’ Talen asked Flute. ‘Where did all the rocks go?’
She shrugged. ‘I turned them into sand,’ she replied.
The stairway wound downward along the inside of the tower walls. Kalten and Bevier, swords in hand, led the way, prudently investigating each level as they reached it. The top three or four levels were empty, but as they began the descent to a level about midway down the inside of the tower, Xanetia hissed sharply, ‘Someone approaches!’
‘Where?’ Kalten demanded. ‘How many?’
‘Two, and they do mount the stairs toward us.’
‘I’ll deal with them,’ he muttered, gripping his sword-hilt even more tightly.
‘Don’t do anything foolish,’ Alean cautioned.
‘It’s the fellows coming up the stairs who are being foolish, love. Stay with the Queen.’ He started on ahead.
‘I’ll go with him,’ Mirtai said. ‘Bevier, it’s your turn to guard Ehlana.’
‘But –’
‘Hush!’ she commanded. ‘Do as you’re told.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he surrendered with a faint smile.
A murmured sound of voices came echoing up the stairs.
‘Santheocles!’ Ehlana identified one of the speakers in a short, urgent whisper.
‘And the other?’ Xanetia asked.
‘Ekatas.’
‘Ah,’ Xanetia said. Her pale brow furrowed in concentration. ‘This is not exact,’ she apologized, ‘but it seemeth me that they are unaware of thy release, Queen of Elenia, and they do rush to thy former prison, hoping that by threatening thy life might they gain safe conduct through the ranks of their enemies.’
There was a landing perhaps twenty steps down the narrow stairway, and Kalten and Mirtai stopped there, stepping somewhat apart to give themselves room.
Santheocles, wearing his gleaming breastplate and crested helmet, came bounding up the stairs two at a time with his sword in his hand. He stopped suddenly when he reached the landing, staring at Kalten and Mirtai in stupefied disbelief. He waved his sword at them and issued a peremptory command in his own language.
‘What did he say?’ Talen demanded.
‘He ordered them to get out of his way,’ Aphrael replied.
‘Doesn’t he realize that they’re his enemies?’
‘“Enemy” is a difficult concept for someone like Santheocles,’ Ehlana told him. ‘He’s never been outside the walls of Cyrga, and I doubt that he’s seen more than ten people who weren’t Cyrgai in his entire life. The Cyrgai obey him automatically, so he hasn’t had much experience with open hostility.’
Ekatas came puffing up the stairs behind Santheocles. His eyes were wide with shock and his wrinkled face ashen. He spoke sharply to his king, and Santheocles placidly stepped aside. Ekatas drew himself up and began speaking sonorously, his hands moving in the air before him.
‘Stop him!’ Bevier cried. ‘He’s casting a spell!’
‘He’s trying to cast a spell,’ Aphrael corrected. I think he’s in for a nasty surprise.’
The High Priest’s voice rose in a long, slow crescendo and he suddenly leveled one arm at Kalten and Mirtai.
Nothing happened.
Ekatas held his empty hand up in front of his face, gaping at it in utter astonishment.
‘Ekatas,’ Aphrael called sweetly to him, ‘I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but now that Cyrgon’s dead, your spells won’t work any more.’
He stared up at her, comprehension and recognition slowly dawning on his face. Then he spun and bolted through the door on the left side of the landing and slammed it behind him.
Mirtai moved quickly after him. She briefly tried the door, then stepped back and kicked it to pieces.
Kalten advanced on the sneering King of the Cyrgai. Santheocles struck a heroic pose, his oversized shield extended, his sword raised, and his head held high.
‘He’s no match for Kalten,’ Bevier said. ‘Why doesn’t he run?’
‘He doth believe himself invincible, Sir Bevier,’ Xanetia replied. ‘He hath slain many of his own soldiers on the practice-field, and thus considers himself the paramount warrior in all the world. In truth, however, his subordinates would not strike back or even defend themselves, because he was their king.’
Kalten, grim-faced and vengeful, fell on the feeble-minded monarch like an avalanche. The face of Santheocles was filled with shock and outrage as, for the first time in his life, someone actually raised a weapon against him.
It was a short, ugly fight, and the outcome was quite predictable. K
alten battered down the oversized shield, parried a couple of stiffly formal swings at his head and then buried his sword up to the hilt in the precise center of the burnished breastplate. Santheocles stared at him in sheer astonishment. Then he sighed, toppled backward off the blade, and clattered limply back down the stairs.
‘Yes!’ Ehlana exulted in a savage voice as the most offensive of her persecutors died.
From beyond the splintered door came a long, despairing scream fading horribly away, and Mirtai emerged with an expression of bleak satisfaction.
‘What did you do to him?’ Kalten asked curiously.
‘I defenestrated him,’ she replied with a shrug.
‘Mirtai!’ he gasped. ‘That’s awful!’
She gave him a baffled look. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘That’s a terrible thing to do to a man!’
‘Throw him out of a window? I can think of much worse things to do to somebody.’
‘Is that what that word means?’
‘Of course. Stragen used to talk about it back in Matherion.’
‘Oh.’ Kalten flushed slightly.
‘What did you think it meant?’
‘Ah – never mind, Mirtai. Just forget I said anything.’
‘You must have thought it meant something.’
‘Can we just drop it? I misunderstood, that’s all.’ He looked up at the others. ‘Let’s go on down,’ he suggested. I don’t think there’ll be anybody else in our way.’
Ehlana suddenly burst into tears. I can't!’ she wailed. ‘I can’t face Sparhawk like this!’ She put one hand on the wimple that covered her violated scalp.
‘Are you still worrying about that?’ Aphrael asked.
‘I look so awful!’
Aphrael rolled her eyes upward. ‘Let’s go into that room,’ she suggested. ‘I’ll fix it for you – if it’s so important.’
‘Could you?’ Ehlana asked eagerly.
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