The Gods Return coti-3

by David Drake

  "Warrior Cashel?" said Rasile is a raspy voice. "I said I would tell you when the Warrior Archas neared. He is here now." She pointed her short, hairy arm toward the east side of the enclosure opposite where the Priests' House stood. A big man with a braided blond beard climbed over the pile of rubble. His chest was bare except for leather cross-belts hung with weapons, and he held curved swords in both hands. He crossed the empty ground, drawing circles with his sword-points. "I am Fallin, God of the Sea!" he shouted. "No," said Cashel, stepping into the ruined temple, "you're not." He began to spin his quarterstaff. The butt-caps crackled spirals of blue wizardlight. *** "Put that fish spear down," snapped Ilna to the armored woman, "or I'll take it away from you!" Hili laughed and pointed the trident at Perrin and Perrine, the humans nearest to her. They cringed and clung together, too frightened even to run. Ilna had been poised to reknot the cords whose truth had driven the great ape mad. She threw down the strands of sisal. Everything had suddenly become clear to her; the real pattern stretched in all directions. It was perfectly beautiful-it wasperfect. Everything was obvious, woven into its proper place. She was disgusted with herself not to have understood it before. She began to weave again, not with her hands and not needing anything material to work with. Hili's trident jabbed toward the prince and princess, a motion rather than a real thrust. Black, crackling lightning twisted from its points. The twins flew back screaming, their silken garments smoldering where the sparks had touched them. The armored giant laughed merrily. "You prancing fool,"

  Ilna said, coldly furious. She hadn't really thought the giant would listen to her, though. She stepped forward, casting the new pattern before her. Hili turned toward the movement in surprise, then stabbed at Ilna with a expression of rage. Her lightning sizzled and caught in Ilna's pattern. Its meshes curled around Hili like a minnow net and closed. Hili shrieked, ripping her trident through the encirclement.

  She was no longer a giant. The place they fought wasn't the cavern either, but in a corner of Ilna's mind she could see the door to that stone prison standing open. The captives were streaming out behind Usun. Perrin and Perrine were being carried by the ape servants, while the twins' aged parents stumbled along behind. "No one can oppose me!"

  Hili shouted, gripping her trident in both hands and shoving the points toward Ilna's face. "I am God!" The trident blasted glittering black fire again. Ilna's reformed pattern tangled the bolts, stretching as it dragged them to silent oblivion. Ilna stepped forward, weaving a new pattern. She smiled coldly. What the other woman meant was that nobody couldsuccessfully oppose her, which the recent past should've taught her was a lie. But just to oppose this ranting bully-Ilna would've done that if it certainly meant her life.

  You didn't give into bullies. And it wasn't as though life meant a lot to her anyway. Hili danced aside, her handsome features suddenly as cold as a statue's. Hair-fine needles rained from the trident's points. Ilna's net caught most of the cascade, but pain shivered across her skin and under her eyeballs. She could see nothing but black pain. Ilna drew her pattern tight. She didn't ignore the pain-it couldn't be ignored; it was her whole being-but she did what was necessary anyway, as she'd always done. There was a squawk of surprise; the pain stopped and a moment later Ilna could see again.

  Hili was struggling in Ilna's net, slashing at it with the trident though the meshes fouled her limbs. She broke free at last and stood glaring at her opponent. Ilna had been breathing hard. She straightened and began to repair her pattern. There wasn't as much damage this time. She considered making the strands thinner and the meshes tighter so that they would better protect her, but that wasn't really necessary. It was only pain, after all. She started forward, her pattern swirling before her. Hili hunched, holding out her trident. She screamed like a trapped wildcat, then retreated instead of attacking. Ilna smiled without humor and continued toward the other woman. She didn't know how this was going to end, but she was going to keep on going until she'd ended it. The trident spat a net of sparkling blackness that pressed against Ilna's pattern instead of trying to stab through it. Ilna paused, not stopped by her opponent but stopping to measure Hili's strength. Yes, this would do…

  Ilna's pattern enveloped the pulsing black and the trident it sprang from. The cosmos twisted. Hili gave a despairing shriek; her protection and power vanished as if thrown into bottomless quicksand.

  Ilna paused, breathing hard again. "You should have listened to me," she said. "But you're not the first one who didn't." She started forward. Hili retreated, her face desperate. "I yield!" she cried. She threw down her helmet and fumbled for the catches of her body armor.

  "I surrender to you! I am your slave!" "You're mistaking me for my brother Cashel," Ilna said as she continued to advance. "He's a much nicer person than I am." Ilna spread the pattern that had just crushed the trident out of existence. Howling, Hili turned to run. She stumbled, threw her arms out before her, and fell-not downward but out, shrinking and screaming and finally vanishing into utter blackness. "Now that, dear heart," said Chalcus, "was as nice a piece of work as I ever hope to see." "We've been waiting for you, Ilna," said Merota. "I'm glad you've come." Ilna embraced them. She was crying. She never cried. "Sharina needs help still, of course," said Chalcus, "but that can wait for a moment. Dear heart, dear love, dear life of my life." The King of Man's former prisoners had reached the surface of the valley. With little Usun standing on an overturned cart to lead the cheers, they shouted, "Honor to the Sister! All praises to the Sister!" Ilna cried and hugged her family. *** Cashel spun his staff sunwise in a figure-8 as he walked forward, then switched the hand that led on the shaft and reversed its rotation. He wasn't being fancy and he sure wasn't trying to spook the pirate; Archas pretty clearly wasn't the sort to spook. Cashel just needed to be sure his muscles were ready for whatever happened.

  Archas, Fallin as he called himself now, laughed. "If you get out of my way, you stupid ox," he said cheerfully, "then I'll kill you quickly. If not, I'll take my time… and I'll let you live in pieces. Forever." His swords did a pretty dance in opposite directions to each other, spinning off wizardlight as bright as necklaces of rubies. He stepped in and, though his lips were still laughing, his right-hand sword thrust at Cashel's heart. The quarterstaff blocked it with a ferrule and abang! like a ram battering an iron-faced door.

  Wizardlight spewed out in a mixed shower. When red sparks landed on Cashel's wrist and arm, they stung and the little hairs shriveled up.

  Archas jumped back, though, swearing like the pirate he was; the scattered blue light had sprayed him too. Cashel grinned and held where he was for a moment, keeping the staff moving widdershins.

  Archas didn't look much like a god now. The pirate came in quickly, his right hand stabbing again but chopping with his left a half-heartbeat later. Cashel was moving before the strokes even started. Even so he couldn't have blocked both, but his quarterstaff met the thrust. The blast knocked him and Archas back, just like it had before. The air had the burned smell of nearby lightning. Cashel wasn't in the old temple any more, and Liane and Rasile weren't anywhere about. He got his quarterstaff back into a rhythm. This time he stepped forward instead of letting Archas come to him. "I am Fallin!" the pirate shouted again. Cashel straightened the staff into a thrust, left hand leading. Archas brought his swords together like scissor blades on the straps of the butt cap, catching it and stopping the stroke like Cashel had punched the side of a cliff. The shock hurled them apart again. Cashel's palms tingled all the way to his elbows, and there were blisters on both forearms. Cashel set the staff spinning, sunwise this time. He was breathing through his mouth. He stepped in again, just moving forward. The tips of the quarterstaff knitted a round of vivid blue before him, like the sky on a cloudless summer afternoon. He and Archas circled on a featureless black plain.

  The stars gleamed above, not the familiar constellations but all stars, a universe of stars, each shining with a subtle difference in color. Archas tapped his sword points against the sp
arkling blue shield in a pattern as careful as a spider placing the lines of her web. Part of Cashel's mind knew that what he saw-the staff and the swords-wasn't really what was happening any more, but it was easier to imagine it in the fashion he was used to. Cashel felt growing pressure. His arms ached like he was pushing a board through sand, heaping up the pile in front of him. His shield dimpled with each touch of a sword, and spots of heat swelled behind the dents. He kept walking forward, slower now but still moving. He wondered how long this could last. Archas' blond hair spread like a halo. His beardless face was smiling, but there were beads of sweat on the pirate's clear brow. Cashel took another step, as slow as ice creeping down a roof under its own weight. It was like pushing a mountain. People thought fighting was about how strong you were. That was part of it, sure, but there are other strong people around. Then it came down to timing.

  Cashel twisted and thrust like he held a spear. Archas may even have seen the stroke coming-he was that good-but this time he couldn't shift his swords to block it. The butt of the quarterstaff smashed into a blazing blue sun that filled the black cosmos. It seemed like Archas-Fallin-was screaming, but maybe that was a marsh hawk. Cashel stood on a hill under an ilex tree. There were ever so many sheep in the meadow about him. The sun was bright, and insects buzzed among the flowers. Cashel stretched, smiling lazily. There was one more thing to take care of before he got back to the regular business of watching his flock. Still smiling, Cashel strode off to find Sharina. He began to spin his quarterstaff in slow arcs, staying loose for when he needed his strength again. *** Sharina walked toward the cloud-wrapped, thunder-roaring figure Who lashed rain and hail onto the army below. Franca might be god of some skies, but the heavens have many moods. The slashing violence of a storm was only one of them. Franca's eyes flashed fury beneath His black brows. "Are you here to fight me, child?" he boomed.

  "Go back to your cradle!" He extended His arms, spreading His fingers toward her. Lighting rippled from His palms and dissipated in the air between them. "I'm not here to fight," Sharina said. She smiled at Him. She'd loved thunderstorms as a little girl, standing thrilled in the rain and delighted to be part of their power and flashing radiance. "I'm here to bring peace, for you as well if you'll accept it." Beneath her, flowers bloomed on the rolling hills. Grasses sprang up to recover the royal army's broad, muddy track; they were a brighter green than that of the meadows to either side. "Peace?" said Franca, and the land shuddered. "The peace of the grave, you mean!"

  His lightning blasted, this time in a continual torrent; ripping from all sides, tearing the cosmos apart in thorny crackling chaos.

  Sharina's bright comfort met the violence and washed it away like dust sluiced from windows by the spring rains. She extended her hand toward Franca and said, "Real peace, for you and for everyone. Take my hand."

  "Never!" Franca said. He launched another rush of lightning to push her back. Sharina spread her arms, bringing warm sunlight to the soil.

  She didn't budge from the spot, but she couldn't advance either. She thought of the big knife in her belt and smiled in soft amusement.

  There was a place for violence; but not for her; not now. "Death!" cried the thunder. "Death and destruction and chaos! Chaos! As it was, so shall it be forever!" "I might have been able to agree about death," said Ilna. "But not destruction. And as for chaos, if you're so fond of that-we'll send you there." A net wove itself around Franca. He roared. The world would have shattered, but Sharina sheltered it beneath her cloak of light. Franca's lightning tore Ilna's pattern, but it rewove even as the blazing edges of His power passed on. Sharina looked at her friend and thought, She isn't cruel.

  But she has no more mercy than the turning stars. Ilna wore a cold smile, though her pleasure was in the craftsmanship rather than the result of that craft. Cashel joined them. "This is the last one, then?" he said. "Cashel, you're here too?" said Sharina. She'd felt peace and contentment, but now joy swept the cosmos. "Yes, Sharina," he said, smiling but too embarrassed to look straight at her. He stepped a little to the side, his hands spread on the shaft of his quarterstaff. "This is my business, I think." The net drew tighter.

  Franca shouted. "There's peace even for Him," Sharina said. "If only-"

  "No," said Ilna; coldly, quietly. "Not this one. End it, brother."

  "She's right, you know, Sharina," Cashel said sadly. "She really is."

  "Death!" Franca cried. "Death and destruction and-" Cashel rammed the quarterstaff home. All his strength was in the stroke. Franca disintegrated into dust motes swirling in eternal chaos. Sunlight and flowers swept across the world. Sharina stood, linking hands with Her friends. *** The shock of the rain and scourging hail stunned Garric for an instant. He felt the soldiers around him hunch also; they were tired, bone tired, and the hammering cold tightened their bruised and strained muscles. It's too much. "Haft and the Isles!" Carus bellowed through Garric's throat. Technically it wasn't the right war cry, but it was the right one for this moment. "Let's finish these bloody rats, troopers!" Garric strode down the slope, swinging for the face of the leading ratman. The beast got its sword up in time, but Garric's long wizard-forged blade sheared it and the rim of the rat's bronze cap on its way to the brain beneath. The rat fell. The royal army surged ahead-hacking, stabbing and shouting a variety of things. The former cavalrymen used the Ornifal war cry, "Forward the Eagle!" The storm vanished, driven back on a brisk north wind. In the clear air Garric saw that the slope ahead and the hills beyond to the horizon were covered with swarming ratmen. There were too many to kill, too many even if they'd been a forest of birches and there was nothing to the business but chopping. The wedge staggered forward, one sword-stroke at time. Garric and the army would go on as long as they could. That was all that mattered. Scholars could discuss the battle in the future, if there was a future for human beings. This was soldiers' work. A rank odor swept southward on the breeze. Garric chopped backhand to crush a ratman's skull with the pommel of his dagger. The blow missed, because the rat fled with a terrified squeak. Garric stumbled, twisting left to keep from sprawling. He'd been counting instinctively on the stroke to balance him. He was wide open to the nearest pair of ratmen. They could chop high and low, at his neck and his right ankle, and he could only block one. But those rats and more rats in a wave spreading southward were running. Allthe rats were running. The dark-furred mass turned like barley bending away from a storm. Garric fell to his knees. He'd kept going on willpower; his body had been played out long before. He was gasping. He tried clumsily to push his helmet off without letting go of the dagger in his left hand. He'd forgotten about the chin strap. Even after he remembered, he couldn't force himself to drop either of his weapons.

  The rats fled in panic. Their swords lay where they'd stood, and they'd thrown away their helmets and breastplates as they ran. They littered the hillside with equipment all the way to where the Emperor of Palomir and his wizard stood. Garric looked back. Tenoctris stood on the hilltop, chanting with her arms spread. The smoke mounting from her cart swirled above her into the figure of a giant weasel. The beast's harsh musk swept across the battlefield. The weasel opened its mouth in a rasping shriek. Despite Garric's exhaustion, the sound brought the hair up all over his body. He got to his feet. "Come on, troopers!" he croaked. "Let's finish this now!" Carus chuckled. "It's never a bad idea to keep a sword in your hand," he said. He was probably joking; but he was Carus, so maybe not. Garric started up the hill. Once he got moving, it was bearable. This close to the end, it would've been bearable if he'd been barefoot and running over swords.

  He grinned. It felt good to grin, though the rat-blood caking his face cracked and pinched his skin. It wouldn't be long. The Palomir wizard dropped his athame and turned to run. The emperor leveled his sword at him and said, "Stop them, Salmson! This isn't supposed to happen!" The wizard shouted, "Run, you fool, it's all over!" He dodged past; the emperor stabbed him through the ribs from behind. He tumbled on his face, coughing bright blood. "This is
n't supposed to happen!" the emperor repeated as he turned. "I am Baray, Emperor of Palomir!" He wore full armor and he'd been merely watching while Garric and his men fought their way through a landscape of rats. But- Carus laughed.

  Garric thrust over the shield and in through the open visor. Teeth clicked as the point drove through the brain of the late Emperor of Palomir. The sun shone on the grass, and the scent of flowers washed the breeze clean.

  Epilogue Ilna was weaving in shades of gray. The pattern was subtle, perhaps too subtle for anyone but herself to really see, but everyone could feel it. She smiled: it was attractive, very attractive. And if that was boasting, well, it wasstill very attractive. "Dear heart," said Chalcus, "you should put in some color.

  People like color." Ilna looked at him, though she continued to work.

  His smile waked a smile from her too, as it always did. "There's color enough in life," she said. "Here there should be peace, which the living see little enough of." "Chalcus is right, Ilna," said Merota, snuggling closer as she watched the fabric grow. "Alittle color."

  "Tsk!" said Ilna, but she thought about the problem. There were ways to keep the pattern whole but, yes… to add a little color. If you were good enough, of course. "There's never been a better weaver than you, dear heart," said Chalcus. The Sister smiled as she wove. Her fabric showed touches of color, now; just a little color. *** Cashel stood with his back to the ilex, watching his flock as it wandered. He rubbed his shoulders on the rough bark, then shifted so that he didn't neglect any of his charges. Duzi, but the silly things some of them got up to! But that was all right; that was what people did. A good shepherd didn't meddle except when he had to.