The Blue Rider gestured, and a flood of goblins struck the line. These enemies did not fall nearly so easily as their kin had a moment ago.
As the battle once again raged, the Kaerun calmly dismounted and approached Jayan. He whispered more words, and frost blossomed on my friend’s armor. It looked so much like the frost blossoming on Korah’s armor. Finally, I understood the whispering. “Naeharum Adal. Where is he? Where is the one we need?”
Galatea saw the frost blossoms. She hesitated.
Jayan did not respond to the whispers but hacked at the goblin before him. At last he cleared a path to the Blue Rider. He yanked a spear that had been stuck in the ground and charged. His scream overpowered all the fighting. Men and goblin alike paused to see this thing, this mad berserker from the Spires that charged a dark figure wreathed in blue flame. There was no sound except for his raging roar.
The spearhead pierced flame and dark cloak and whatever it possessed for flesh. The sharp weapon protruded from the back, and yet Jayan did not slow. He released his hold on the spear shaft, grabbed up his blade, and with a mighty roar swung and sliced through the thing’s neck in one swift, clean strike.
The blade passed through the ghostly flesh with the whisper of a flame.
Goblins and men watched with fascination and horror. Jayan’s roar receded. The only sound was a faint whisper of flame and his panting for breath.
The body moved. The whisper returned. “Do you believe in the stories, King Jayan of the Spires? Of frost giants and the heroes who slew them? Of the power of darkness that pure strength can never overcome?” The Kaerun calmly took a hold of the spear shaft and pulled the weapon out of itself.
Jayan was shaken. “Yes.”
“Then why would you be so foolish as to attack a being like myself with strength alone? You Spiremen pride yourselves in being without guile, yet in all the tales, is it not shrewdness that defeats the enemy?”
Jayan took a step backwards, “Yes.”
No. Again, using the stories as a weapon against us. Just like with Korah. They had their own arsenal, didn’t they? Their own stockpile of stories to twist against us. I needed to get up there. I needed to stop that story with one of my own.
“Then you have no hope of defeating us. You have no guile. You are not shrewd. All you have is brute strength. Give in to despair. Fall on your knees, Spireman. Fall on your knees and die.”
Jayan’s eyes were no longer his own. His pupils had turned the color of the flames of the Kaerun. A single tear slid down his cheek and vanished into his bushy beard. His knees shook, and then he fell onto them. His voice was dragged from his lips. “Men of the Spires, lay down your arms.”
The Blue Rider reached out, long, thin fingers. Slowly the hand reached forward toward the Spireman King’s chest, and words started gathering from within Jayan, rising to the surface, ready to flow to the Kaerun.
“No!” Galatea leaped between them. She flung an oil bulb at the Rider. The bulb passed through it and flew into the night beyond. She hurled another bulb at the Rider’s feet. She lit it. Orange flames flared up into the blue and vanished suddenly.
She raised her fists. “You will not take him.”
The Kaerun tilted its head. “You have seen grief but feel so little sorrow, woman of the lakes. But you have failed so often. You have failed your husband. He would have wanted you to mourn him. You have abandoned your mate for another. And you have failed this nameless prince. Have you no pity, that you feel so little for the men you beguile?”
Galatea shivered in the cold. Her fists stayed at the guard.
“No matter. Your story is meaningless. You have nothing I need.” It waved once.
Galatea’s flesh turned pale and blue. She trembled.
“You are nothing. But the king here, he has knowledge I need. Knowledge of the Keeper of Tales. And I will harvest his story and delight in it.” It stepped forward. Blue flames licked at its flesh.
Galatea did not move. She held her ground between the Kaerun and Jayan.
It reached out again toward her. It pointed to her chest. Words floated to the surface and began siphoning to the Kaerun’s hand. “And I shall take the story of your first marriage. How easily you give it up. It must have meant nothing at all. I wonder how much you will fight for this prince you pretended to care for?”
Galatea threw a shaking punch. As soon as her fist contacted the blue flames, it froze. She fell aside, grasping at the hand. It would not move.
The Kaerun stepped past her fallen form, again reaching to the kneeling Spireman King. “Now, Spireman, you will tell me what I need to know.”
From the darkness a blade sliced through the reaching hand. A voice called out, “Men of the Spires, fight to protect your king and the Fabled City!” The Blue Rider recoiled. It let loose a scream that sounded like the shattering of bones.
Once again, the battle erupted. Spiremen and goblins fought to the death. Blades and harpoons flashed and severed body from soul.
The owner of the voice stepped between Jayan and the rider, wielding both a harpoon and a blade. He wore the furs of a Spireman. “I do not believe in your tales, creature of flame and darkness. You tried to slay me once before, and you failed. You will not harm me or any of mine.”
Korah plunged his blade deep into the heart of the beast, and it shrieked ever louder.
The flames grew in intensity, eating away at the armor it wore. It convulsed and fell to its knees. Its horse sprang forward, flashing hooves and teeth at Korah, leaping between the man and his quarry. The Kaerun dragged itself into its saddle, and the horse galloped away. The goblins fled, and the Spiremen let out a shout of victory that resounded even over the cliff to the battle below.
Jayan stumbled to his feet, shaking his head clear of the deceptive words. Korah offered a hand, and Jayan accepted. Korah’s smile was broad as he opened his arms. “Forgive me. I did not know the tales, so I was delayed in my journey here.” The two embraced, and another cheer lifted to the stars.
When they parted, Korah dropped to his knees. He cradled Galatea’s shivering form. “Are there any healers here?”
Jayan pointed down into the square before the Library as Korah scooped Galatea up into his arms.
“She loves you,” Jayan told him.
“I know.” Korah flashed a smile.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
I returned to myself. I found joy.
Korah. He lived!
And not only that. I had been more than worried that the cliff had been our weak spot, but now I knew I had nothing to fear. It was secure. Even the battle here below was going well. Yes, we had suffered losses, but the goblin tide was thinning. The evil creatures were growing desperate; they appeared slick with sweat.
Lazul had been treated, his bleeding stopped. He still held Karen Cordolis fast, but she had not awoken. I approached the dwarf during this lull in the battle. “Lazul?”
He looked up with bleary eyes. “I saved her. I saved her from my mistake. But she’s not waking up. I can’t tell if there’s anything wrong with her. She’s just not waking up.” He peered down at her. “There shall be a statue of you in my lands, dear woman.”
“Let me see her.”
He opened his hands. It was Karen Cordolis, but she appeared empty. I knew.
She had been held captive by Thesairh, general of the Blue Riders. They had probably made a good meal of her, devouring all her stories, leaving her just enough to be alive, but not enough to be awake, to have a personality, or a history. They had left her this way to torture us in case she was somehow returned to our care.
Their strategies twisted the light out of us and dampened our hopes. They knew how to best cast a net of despair so it would be easier to slay us with blades of steel.
My eyes rose to meet his, and he could read what I had seen. The eyes that had been damp hardened to a metal stronger than anything discovered by the smiths of men or dwarves. “Then she shall be avenged, and her stories will be tol
d in every home in my kingdom. Even if she is dead, her story will live on. We will remake it, and no Kaerun shall destroy it.”
He delicately put the form into a pack that lay beside him. He kept talking as he worked. “I am useless in your battle here. I sacrificed my leg for a woman already dead. What can I do?”
I was at a loss. I knew many wounded that would rise and fight, no matter the injuries, but Lazul could not even stand. The elven spellcasters had attempted to heal him, but the body had already accepted that this was now its story. No manner of coaxing would convince his leg to reattach.
Lazul saw. “Aye. Just put me up against a wall, then, so I have something to lean against when I swing my axe.”
An elf was beside me. Lazul saw her and jerked away. I glanced. Cerulean hovered. She raised her eyes from mine. “Look to the skies.” And then she was gone.
I looked up in time to see a flight of arrows arch high above and begin their deadly descent toward us. Lazul raised a shield. We both took shelter there. The assault of arrows bounced off, like hail on a hard roof.
All around the square the shafts of dry wood pelted our troops. Most wore armor that repelled the attack, but some had nothing to protect them. Some howled in pain as shafts buried themselves in necks and hands and joints in armor while others lay dead.
The attack had come silently. Hundreds of arrows had rained down in a single attack and then ceased as suddenly as they had started. This was not the way goblins usually attacked.
I leaped out from under my cover. “Back! Everyone without armor, back under the arch!” If our troops were slain by this deadly rain, it would be impossible to protect the Library. We had to keep our men safe.
Haltingly, grudgingly, some backed up. Some goblins still charged our line, but few were in danger from that assault. With the aid of an elven healer, I hauled Lazul to a spot under the arch.
As we moved, a second rain began. This one lasted longer than the first and was just as silent. This time, though, we were more prepared. Most of the troops were able to find cover of one sort or another, and few were injured. Most of the unarmored were below the arch now.
From relative safety I peered out. How could archers cover the entire field of battle so effectively? Then my eyes lit on the buildings on the far side of the square. They stood two hundred paces away, but I could see the telltale glint of troops on their roofs. Archers probably packed on every roof surrounding the Library’s square. But why had they pushed us back that way? It would have been far more effective to simply fire and keep firing, rather than giving us the chance to retreat to safety under the arch.
Unless that had been their plan.
The next wave of arrows let fly from the buildings, arching high above us. I saw them coming this time. Every arrow was lit in flame. They were not aiming for us under the arch, though. They were aiming for the battlefield of the square. They were aiming for dead goblins.
The goblins must have been carrying some sort of oil. Every arrow that struck a fallen foe burst into brighter flame, spreading quickly. Soon the entire square became a deadly inferno, sucking the air from where we were under the arch. Hundreds of our troops perished in the immediate blaze. Many, though, were able to retreat to the relative safety under the arch. In many places, men rushed to beat flames off comrades.
We were trapped, and it was only a matter of time before we all drowned on dry land. The fire was taking away all our air. In the North we used this strategy to kill deadly animals such as bears. Simply light a great fire at the mouth of the cave, and all the animals inside would perish, as if they had drowned. Our enemies were using the same tactic on us. Even the griffins seemed frustrated by the flames. They tried to reach us under the arch, but the rising heat prevented them from getting too close.
Of course, the heat could kill us first. A few men took off their helmets to wipe perspiration away. That would not do. I ordered them to either get to the back of the line or re-don their armor. We needed to be prepared. I had a feeling that this was meant to trap us, yes, but that something would yet be able to pierce the inferno. The forces of darkness would not let the light flicker when it could be snuffed.
Yolian found me. “We’re trying to speak down the fire, but there are so few tales about a fire being successfully fought.”
I nodded. “I know. Man’s greatest weakness was the flame that gave him life.” I glanced away from the dancing oranges that lit the battlefield. “I did not expect you to be able to call down rain to stop this blaze. Even if you were able to summon a storm that quickly, it appears as if this is fueled by some sort of oil. The water would do little to quench it.”
Yolian appeared crestfallen.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure something else will happen soon to distract us from this.”
I should not have spoken.
A shriek pierced the sky. It was the sound of an avian in great pain and greater rage. There above the flames soared a terrible owl creature, but it appeared to have been dipped in oil. It soared low, and the flames spread to its body. Now it was a great bird of fire, trailing a path of smoke and burning feathers.
The shriek repeated.
I read its path and screamed in horror. “No! Shoot it down! Shoot it down!”
The archers among us let loose their own salvo, but it was no use. Momentum was on the owl’s side. I smelled the stench of burning flesh and feathers as it flew over our heads.
It soared over the rows of benches that had been sunk into the ground. It glided past the desks designed for study. The shafts that had been loosed at it were ignored. The webs of words that sprang up from the lips of spellcasters did nothing to stop it.
The thing shattered against the first row of bookshelves. The bird burst into flames and ash, vanishing in a cloud that burned.
The sparks lit the books. Stories burned in the inferno.
And that is how I learned to kill a tale: destroy their home in the Library. If I’d learned this even a day earlier, I would have joined the Kaerun in trying to destroy this place. Guilt struggled with grief as I watched the flames spread from shelf to shelf.
I heard the stories dying. It was the sound of an old woman who knows her time has come. She gathers her strength to cry out, but by the time she has breathed in, it is too late. It was a last gasp in preparation for a scream that would never come.
All around me was chaos. The troops broke ranks. The thing we were here to protect would soon be completely destroyed. The surviving Archivers rushing deep into the Library to gather what scrolls and codices they could save. The blaze spread quickly along the dry papers and papyri. Little would be able to be salvaged. The armies that had gathered here began fighting their way out from the arch, trying to find a way through the blaze outside. Some found paths that were already covered in new goblin menaces, but it mattered little. They attacked their way out as best they could. Many of them fell.
My eyes were full of the inferno that devoured the tales of so many lands, stories past and present. All those fables that had defined for us who we were and where we had come from. All those accounts of the deeds of heroes past. The weapons we had been given to bind us together and protect us. The tales that had protected me. The tales I’d been appointed to keep. They were dying with the sound of a pained inhalation.
I had failed.
Chariis fell.
End Book Three
Book Four
Stories End
The End.
The fire died. The wind blew cold on our little island above the waves. The water had receded, I think. A few feet.
It didn’t matter. They were all dead. Just remembered stories now.
Korah had returned, reclaimed from death. For a little bit. Karen Cordolis was recovered, but still lost to us. Even Kree’Ah, my griffin mount, was gone forever.
I had spoken our tale to Badron one last time. I told of all my companions. But now their stories were done; their last words uttered. All that was left for me was to res
t. To sleep. To die as certainly as the rest of the world, doomed without stories to protect it. And as cold as this fire.
Badron and I sat without words, listening to the sound of the pounding waves below.
Oh, my muscles were sore. After all this time fighting, weeks on end of riding with little rest, and now failure at the end, I think my body was shutting down. It was done fighting. Before, the stories themselves had sustained me; after all, I was their keeper.
And now I was their killer.
I took up Northwind. I hadn’t bothered cleaning it after the last battle. Though the sun had set, the sky was filled with countless, countless stars.
Stars without stories.
It made no sense to me. I didn’t know how it could be. But with the Library burned, with no one left to remember the stories, they were dead.
Maybe I should tell some new ones. Some last stories for the end of the world. If a man was supposed to tell stories to his children before bed, if we told stories over someone’s grave, it was probably right to tell stories over a dead world.
I went to the edge of the cliff.
No more goblins. No more behemoths. No more paranai or jezebels or hagri or... The enemies were all gone. And that meant my blade was useless. A relic of a dead time.
I hurled it over the edge. The waters swallowed it.
Now it was time to say goodbye.
***
“I came to say goodbye,” he said.
He stood among the ruins. Pillars stuck up out of the earth like stone fingers. The marbled gray sky threatened a drizzle that held off for the moment. A cold wind blew against him, and the air smelled ancient.
His words hung in the air like tolls from a bell. Not a joyous, ringing bell, though. It was the death knell.
Sargon Tor looked over quiet hills. He stood alone. The old master of Chariis, on his last voyage in this world.
The Keeper of Tales Page 37
