Galdar had lived among humans and fought alongside them for years. He was the perfect choice as ambassador to the humans, and he was made even more perfect by the fact that humans tended to like him and trust him. Galdar wanted to serve the god who had saved him from Takhisis, taken away his arm and given him back his self-respect. Sargonnas was not a patient god. He had made it clear to Galdar that he either came now or he did not come at all.
Galdar had first thought, rather fearfully, that perhaps Sargonnas had grown so tired of waiting that the god was coming for Galdar.
A second look dissuaded him of that notion. He could not make out the features of this person, who was yet too far away, but it was human in shape and form, not minotaur.
But no human was permitted to walk this valley. No mortal, other than the two of them, was allowed here.
The hackles on Galdar’s neck rose. The fur on his back and arms rippled with a fell chill. “I don’t like this, Mina. We should flee. Now. Before this man sees us.”
“Not a man, Galdar,” said Mina. “A god. He comes for us. Or rather, he comes for me.”
He saw her hand go to her waist, saw it close over the hilt of a knife—a knife he recognized. He reached for his own knife and found it was not there.
She glanced at him, half-smiled. “I took your knife, Galdar. I took it from you in the night.”
He didn’t like the way she held it, as though it were something precious to her.
“Who is that man, Mina?” the minotaur demanded, his voice hoarse with a fear he could not name. “What does he want with you?”
“You should leave, Galdar,” she told him quietly, her gaze fixed on the stranger, who was drawing closer. His stride had quickened. He seemed impatient to reach his destination. “This is none of your concern.”
The figure came into view. He was a human male of indeterminate age. His face was what humans consider handsome—cleft chin, square jaw, aquiline nose, prominent cheekbones, smooth brow. He wore his black hair long; sleek locks curled about his shoulders and hung down his back. His skin was so pallid as to seem bloodless. He had no color in his lips or cheeks. His eyes were dark as creation’s first night. Set deep beneath heavy brows, they seemed darker still, always in shadow.
He was dressed all in black; his clothes were rich, which bespoke wealth. His black velvet coat came to his knees. Nipped in at his narrow waist, the coat was trimmed in silver at the sleeves and around the hem. He wore black breeches that came to just below the knee, trimmed with black ribbons. He had black silken stockings and black boots with silver buckles. White lace adorned his shirt, spread in frills over his bosom, protruding from his sleeves, falling languidly over his hands. He carried himself with grace and confidence and an awareness of his own power.
Galdar shivered. Though the sun’s heat was intense, he could no longer feel it. A cold so ancient that it made the mountain young crept into the marrow of his bones. He had faced many terrible foes in his life, including the Dragon Overlord Malys, and he had not run from any of them. He could not help himself now. He began to edge backward.
“Sargonnas!” Galdar prayed to his god. His voice cracked on the name and he tried to swallow, to moisten his throat. “Sargonnas, give me strength. Help me fight this dread foe—”
The god’s answer was a snort. “I’ve indulged your loyalty to this human female thus far, Galdar, but my patience has run out. Leave her to her fate. It is well-deserved.”
“I cannot,” said Galdar staunchly, though he blanched at the sight of the strange man. “I am pledged to her—”
“I warn you, Galdar,” said Sargonnas in dire tones. “Do not come between Chemosh and his prey.”
“Chemosh!” Galdar cried hollowly.
Chemosh. Lord of Death. Galdar began to tremble. His insides crawled.
Mina held up Galdar’s knife. The knife was old with a bone handle. It was a utility knife, one used for a variety of purposes, from cleaning fish to gutting deer. He kept the blade sharp, well-honed. He watched Mina raise the knife, saw the light of the sun reflected in the metal of the blade but not in her eyes. Her gaze was focused on the god.
She held the blade in her right hand. Reversing it, she pressed the blade’s sharp point against her throat. The inner flame in the amber eyes flashed briefly then dimmed. Her lips compressed. Her grip on the knife tightened. She closed her eyes and drew in a breath.
Galdar roared and lunged for her. He had waited too long. He could not reach her before she plunged the blade into her throat. He hoped his roar would distract her before she could destroy herself.
Chemosh lifted his hand in a negligent, almost careless gesture. Galdar flew off his feet, sailed into the air, upheld by the hand of the god. Galdar fought and struggled, but he was in the grasp of the god and there was no escape. No more than if he’d tried to flee from death itself.
Chemosh carried the minotaur—flailing and roaring—away from the valley, away from the mountain, away from Mina, who was receding into the distance, growing smaller and smaller, dwindling by the second.
Galdar reached out his hand to try desperately to grab hold of time and the world as both thundered past him—to seize hold of them, of her. She looked up at him with her eyes of amber and for a brief moment, the two of them touched.
Then the raging waters tore her from his grasp. His bellow of frantic desperation deepened, became a roar of despair.
Galdar sank beneath the floodwaters of time and knew no more.
Galdar woke to voices and to fear. The voices were deep and gruff and came from quite near him.
“Mina!” he cried, as he staggered to his feet, grappling for the sword that he had grimly taught himself to use with his left hand.
Two minotaurs wearing the battle armor of the minotaur legions jumped backward at his sudden rise and reached for their own swords.
“Where is she?” he raved, foam flecking his lips. “Mina! Where is she? What have you done with her?”
“Mina?” The two minotaurs stared at him, bewildered.
“We know of no one by that name,” said one, his sword half-in and half-out of the sheath.
“It sounds human,” growled his comrade. “What is she? Some captive of yours? If so, she must have run away when you fell from that cliff.”
“Either that or she pushed you,” said the soldier.
“Cliff?” Galdar was the one bewildered. He looked to where the minotaur pointed.
A steep cliff reared high above him, its rocky face barely visible through the heavy foliage. He looked around and found himself standing in tall grass beneath the shady branches of a linden tree. His body had left a deep gouge in the soft, moist loam.
Far from the sun-baked desert. Far from the mountain.
“We saw you fall from that great height,” said the minotaur. He shoved his blade back into its sheath. “Truly, Sargonnas must love you. We thought you were dead, for you must have plunged over one hundred feet straight down. Yet here you stand with naught but a bump on your head.”
Galdar tried to find the mountain, but the trees were too thick. He could not see the horizon line. He lowered his gaze. His head bowed, his shoulders slumped.
“What is your name, friend?” asked the other. “And what are you doing roaming about Silvanesti alone? The elf scum left in these parts do not dare attack us in the open, but they are quick to ambush a lone minotaur.”
“My name is Galdar,” he said, lifeless, dispirited.
The two soldiers gave a start, exchanged glances.
“Galdar the One-armed!” one exclaimed, his eyes fixing on the stump.
“Why, then, not only did the god save your life, he dropped you right at the feet of your escorts!” said the other.
“Escorts?” Galdar regarded them warily, confused and distrustful. “What do you mean … escorts?”
“Commander Faros received word that you were coming, my lord, and dispatched us to meet you to see that you reached headquarters safely. Truly, we are well-met, all prais
e to Sargonnas.”
“It is an honor to meet you, my lord,” added the other soldier, awed. “Your exploits with the Dark Knights are the stuff of legend.”
“Now that I recall, there was someone called Mina. She served under you, my lord, did she not? A minor functionary?”
“The fall must have addled you, my lord. From what we hear, this Mina has been dead for a long time, ever since Sargonnas defeated and put to death Queen Takhisis.”
“May the dogs chew on her bones,” added the soldier grimly.
Galdar looked around one final time for some sign of the mountain, the desert. For some sign of Mina. Futile, he knew, yet he could not help himself. He looked back then at the two minotaur, who were waiting for him patiently, regarding him—one arm and all—with respect and admiration.
“Praise to Sargonnas,” Galdar said softly, and, squaring his shoulders, he took his first step into his new life.
racing herself for death, Mina gave the knife a sharp thrust.
Death watched her with amusement.
The blade changed to wax that almost immediately began to melt in the hot sun. The warm wax oozed out between her fingers. Mina stared at it, stupefied, not understanding. Lifting her eyes, she met the eyes of the god.
Her legs trembled. Her strength failed her. She sank down onto her knees, dropped her head into her hands. She could no longer see the god, but she heard his footsteps coming nearer and nearer. His shadow fell over her, blotting out the hot sun. She shivered.
“Let me die, Lord Chemosh,” she mumbled, not looking up. “Please. I only want to rest.”
She heard the creak of his leather boots, sensed him moving near her, kneeling beside her. He smelled of myrrh, and she was reminded of the perfumed oils poured onto funeral pyres to mask the stench of burning flesh. Mingled with the musky fragrance was the faint, sweet odor of lily and rose, faded and fragile as the petals of youth pressed between the pages of life’s book. His hand touched her hair, smoothed it. His hand moved from her hair to her face. His touch was cool on her sunburned skin.
“You are worn out, Mina,” Chemosh said to her, his breath soft and warm upon her cheek. “Sleep is what you need. Sleep, not death. Only the poets confuse the two.”
He caressed her face with his hand, stroked her hair.
“But you came for me, my lord,” Mina said in drowsy protest, relaxing beneath his touch, melting as the waxen knife. “You are Death and you came for me.”
“I did. But I don’t want you dead. I need you alive, Mina.” His lips brushed her hair.
The touch of the god could be human, if the god willed it. Chemosh’s touch roused in Mina yearnings and feelings she had never before experienced. Virginal in body and mind, Mina had been protected from desire by her queen, who did not want her chosen disciple distracted by weaknesses of the flesh.
Mina knew desire now, felt it burn to life inside her.
Chemosh cupped her face with his hand, moved slowly to stroke her neck. His finger traced the path the blade of the knife might have taken, and Mina felt it sharp, cold, and burning, and she shuddered in pain that was both bitter and exalting.
“I feel your heart beating, Mina,” Chemosh said. “I feel your flesh warm, your blood pulsing.”
Mina did not understand the strange sensations his touch aroused in her. Her body ached, but the pain was pleasurable, and she never wanted such pleasure to end. She pressed nearer to him. Her lips sought his and he kissed her, slowly, gently, long and lingering.
He drew away from her, released her.
Mina opened her eyes. She looked into his eyes that were dark and empty as the sea on which she’d wakened one day to find herself alone.
“What are you doing to me, Lord?” she cried, suddenly fearful.
“Bringing you to life, Mina,” Chemosh answered, stroking back her hair from her forehead with his hand. The white lace brushed against her face, the spicy scent of myrrh filled her nostrils. She lay back on the ground, yielding to his touch.
“But you are Death,” she argued, confused.
Chemosh kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her neck. His lips moved to the hollow in her throat.
“Did any other gods come to you here, Mina?” he asked. He continued to caress her, but his voice was altered, took on an edge.
“Yes, some did, Lord,” she said. “What did they come for?”
“Some to save me. Some to chastise me. Some to punish me.”
She shuddered. His grip on her tightened and she was reassured.
“Did you make promises to any of them?” he asked. The edge grew sharper.
“No. None, my lord. I swear it.”
He was pleased. “Why not, Mina?” he asked with a smile playing about his lips.
Mina took hold of his hand, placed it on her breast, over her beating heart. “They wanted my faith. They wanted my loyalty. They wanted my fear.”
“Yes?”
“None of them wanted me.”
“I want you, Mina,” said Chemosh. He kept his hand resting on her breast, felt her heart beat increase. “Give yourself to me. Make me lord of all things. Make me the lord of your life.”
Mina was silent. She seemed troubled, stirred uneasily beneath his touch.
“Speak what is in your heart, Mina,” he said. “I will not be offended.”
“You betrayed her,” she said at last, accusing.
“Takhisis was the one who betrayed us, Mina,” Chemosh replied, chiding. “She betrayed you.”
“No, my lord,” Mina protested. “No, she told me the truth.”
“Lies, Mina. All lies. And you knew it.”
Mina shook her head and tried to free herself from his grasp.
“You knew she lied to you,” Chemosh said relentlessly. He held her pinned in his grasp, pressed her into the ground. “You knew it at the end. You were glad the elf killed her.”
Mina raised up her hands, her amber eyes lifted to the dragon. “Your Majesty, I have always adored you, worshipped you. I pledged my life to your service and I stand ready to honor that pledge. Through my fault, you lost the body you would have inhabited. I offer my own. Take my life. Use me as your vessel. Thus, I prove my faith!”
Queen Takhisis was beautiful, but her beauty was fell and terrible to look upon. Her face was cold as the vast frozen wastelands to the south, where a man perishes in instants, his breath turning to ice in his lungs. Her eyes were the flames of the funeral pyre. Her nails were talons, her hair the long and ragged hair of the corpse. Her armor was black fire. At her side she wore a sword perpetually stained with blood, a sword used to sever the souls from their bodies.
Mina cried, a wail of grief and anger. She struggled in Death’s grasp.
Takhisis reached for Mina’s heart, intending to make that heart her own. Takhisis reached for Mina’s soul, intending to snatch it from her body and cast it into oblivion. Takhisis reached out to fill Mina’s body with her own immortal essence.
“Admit it, Mina.” Chemosh held her fast, forced her to look into his eyes. “You were hoping someone would finish her for you.”
The elf king held in his hand the broken fragment of the dragonlance. He threw the lance, threw it with the strength of his anguish and his guilt, threw it with strength of his fear and his love.
The lance struck Takhisis, lodged in her breast.
She stared down in shock to see the lance protruding from her flesh. Her fingers moved to touch the bright, dark blood welling from the terrible wound. She staggered, started to fall …
“I killed the elf with my own hands,” Mina cried. “My queen died in my arms. I would have given—”
Mina stopped the words that had been pouring forth. She lowered her eyes from Chemosh’s intense gaze, averted her head.
“You would have given your life for Takhisis? You gave her your life, Mina, the time you fought Malys. Takhisis brought you back for her own selfish reasons. She needed you. If she had not, she would have let you fall through her finger
s as so much dust and ash. And at the end, she had the temerity to blame you for her downfall.”
Mina went limp in his grasp.
“She was right, my lord.” Tears of shame seeped from beneath her eyelids. “Her death was my fault.”
Chemosh brushed aside the tangle of red hair to see her face. “And when she died, some part of you was glad.”
Mina moaned and turned her face away from him. He smoothed back her tear-wet hair, wiped away her tears.
“Loyalty to your queen is not what has kept you in this valley. You stay because of your guilt. Guilt made you prisoner. Guilt is your jailor. Guilt was almost your slayer.”
He put both hands on her face, looked deep into the amber eyes.
“You have no reason to feel guilty, Mina. Takhisis bought and paid for her own fate.”
His voice softened, soothed. “She is gone and so is Paladine.”
“Paladine …” Mina murmured. “My oath, to avenge my queen’s death … on him, on the elves …”
“So you shall,” Chemosh promised. “But not yet. Not now. The way must be prepared. Hear me, Mina, and understand. Both the great gods are gone now. Only one remains—their brother, Gilean, god of the book, god of doubt and indecision. He stands with the scales of balance, light in one hand, darkness in another. Every waking second, he weighs them to make certain that they do not shift.”
Mina looked up at him, entranced. He had ceased to talk to her. He was talking to himself.
“A futile task,” Chemosh was saying with a shrug. “The scales will tip. They must since the pantheon is now uneven. Gilean knows that he cannot maintain the balance forever. He sees his own downfall, and he is afraid. For I know what he does not. I know what will tip the balance.
“Mortals,” said Chemosh, savoring the word. “Mortals are the ones who will topple the scale. Mortals like you, Mina. Mortals who come to the gods of their own free will. Mortals who do our bidding not out of fear, but out of love. Those mortals will grant power to their gods, not the other way around as it has been in ages past. That is why I did not want your death, Mina. That is why I want you alive.”
Amber and Ashes Page 3
