by Marc Turner
“What doesn’t Mottle know! Born in the darkness that preceded the First Age—”
“I mean, do you know anything that may be of use to us in fighting it? What are its weaknesses?”
The magus cocked his head. “Weaknesses?”
“How can we destroy it?”
“How can we not? Granted, the elderling’s strength is formidable, but Mottle is peerless in guile, matchless in cunning…”
Parolla had stopped listening. The tiktar had passed momentarily from sight behind a cluster of trees. “Your element is air, is it not?”
“It is.”
“Neutral against fire, then.”
The old man puffed out his chest. “In the fullest of his power Mottle has been known to bend air’s servant, water, to his will.”
Parolla raised an eyebrow. “You are an archmagus?”
“Mottle is ever underestimated, my girl.”
The tiktar came into view again, no more than a hundred paces away. Parolla had not appreciated at the lake just how tall the elderling was. Twice the height of a man, it flashed between the trees. She could now make out the blazing swords in its hands, the black pits that were its eyes.
Fifty paces.
A blast of wind struck the tiktar, but did not slow it.
Parolla took several steps to her left.
Thirty paces.
She released her power, glorying in the darkness coursing through her. This once she didn’t have to second-guess the need to draw on her blood. As the shadows across her vision deepened, death-magic erupted from her hands, hammering into the approaching elderling.
The tiktar cut through her sorcery like the keel of a boat through water.
Parolla blinked.
Ten paces.
Hells. She tensed to throw herself to one side.
Too late.
Suddenly she was lifted into the air, the tiktar passing beneath with a roar of flames, its swords cutting the air a hairbreadth from her feet. For a heartbeat Parolla hung helpless above the ground, legs kicking, before she began to descend. Touching down, she looked at Mottle and gave a brusque nod in thanks. The old man winked at her.
The tiktar had shuddered to a halt, colliding with a tree and setting it on fire. A single slash with one of its swords sent the trunk toppling to the ground. Then the elderling turned to face them.
When it charged again Parolla was ready for it.
* * *
Sensation was finally returning to Ebon’s hands and feet, the icy tingle giving way to a burning itch. He still couldn’t draw his sword, but the numbness in his legs was the greater concern, for his right foot dragged across the ground when he walked, and if he stumbled on any undead he wouldn’t be outrunning them. As luck would have it, this part of the ruined city was still, the sounds of distant combat muffled by rain. Down a side street he saw the corpse of a horse, blood leaking from a wound in its chest. One of the Sartorians’ mounts, maybe? Had Garat succeeded in fighting his way through to the dome? Or did the consel and his soldiers now number among the ranks of undead, perhaps lying in ambush ahead?
Ebon glanced at Vale. The Endorian would like that, he suspected.
A score of paces away the road was half-blocked by the debris of a collapsed building. The king slowed and squinted into the gloom, waiting for the blacks to melt into grays. Amid the rubble …
He shrank back.
Protruding from the stones was an arm half as long as Ebon was tall. Its four fingers ended in claws, two of which were broken. The arm itself was crisscrossed with bloodless cuts and covered in scales. Whatever body it was attached to remained immersed in shadow.
“You think it’s just playing dead?” Vale whispered.
“No,” Ebon replied. “But I do think it’s time we found out what killed it.” He sent a thought questing inward. “Goddess, attend me, please.”
For once Galea did not keep him waiting. “What it is?” she said as she swirled into his mind.
“The creature ahead … You said the Book’s threads cannot be cut.”
“What I said was, they cannot be cut by you.”
“Then who? Who has the power to do this?”
Galea’s lip curled. “Are we talking hypothetically?”
“Enough of your games. First that sickle-wielder we saw in the forest, now this creature. The cuts across its arm are bloodless, meaning it was undead before it was slain.”
“As I have already told you, the Book will have drawn to it a host of powers. As to which particular individual slaughtered this creature, I cannot say. Nor do I think it relevant who else might have an interest in acquiring the Book. All that matters is that you are first to the prize.”
Ebon’s eyes narrowed. A certain softening of the goddess’s eyes suggested she was being less than fully honest with him, but that wasn’t what concerned him most. “Prize, my Lady? I thought the Book was to be destroyed.”
“Not necessarily.”
“I thought you wanted freedom for your people. I know you promised freedom for mine.”
“I honor my bargains, mortal.”
After you’ve rewritten them, perhaps. “You pledged to help my city.”
“And I have done what I can for now. Its fate still hangs in the balance, a fact you would do well to remember…”
Her voice trailed off, and through the link between them Ebon sensed a bloom of power far to the north and west that was followed by an explosion like a thousand peals of thunder. The aftershock of the blast swept through the ground moments later, and the road bucked beneath him.
“My Lady? What just happened? My Lady!”
Galea’s voice held a note of apprehension. “The first of the Kinevar gods has fallen. The rest will soon follow.”
Ebon’s blood ran cold. “Gods? What do you mean, gods?”
“There is no time to explain! Mayot will summon the immortal here. You must hurry! To the dome!”
* * *
The Spider’s expression held a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. “An idea, High Priestess?”
“A way to burst Mayot’s bubble,” Romany said.
The goddess shook her head. “The game is over for us. We have achieved what we set out to do.”
“But the old man—”
“Will fall with or without our help…” The Spider paused as a ripple of power shook the dome. A distant shriek sounded, raw and primal, then a grinding noise came from the roof. Powdered dust fell about Romany’s spectral form. Below, Mayot gave an exultant cry.
“My Lady,” Romany breathed.
“Yes. The first Kinevar god has fallen.”
“Has Mayot been able to enslave it with the Book?”
“He has. Even now it approaches.”
“How long?” Romany said.
“A few bells.”
“Then there is little time left for us to act. Will you now intervene to end this?”
“Why would I?”
“Because with the subjugation of the Kinevar gods we will lose control of the game. In time Mayot may become a threat even to you.”
“Then I will deal with him when he does,” the Spider said mildly. “For now, he remains a thorn in Shroud’s side, and a useful thorn at that.”
Romany tried a different tack. “Did you foresee this? The power Mayot would come to wield?”
The goddess shrugged. “I knew what the Book could do. In truth Mayot has been surprisingly creative in exploiting its powers. His preemptive attack on the Kinevar gods has proved to be a masterstroke. More unexpected still, though, was your victory over Shroud’s minions—”
“A moment, my Lady. Unexpected?”
“The extent of it, yes. High Priestess, you have excelled yourself.”
Romany frowned. When had she ever done less? “Then you will not object to granting me a boon.”
The Spider’s expression was calculating. “You seem rrremarkably anxious to engineer Mayot’s downfall. I trust you haven’t let this become personal.�
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The priestess looked at Mayot on his throne. The old man was hugging the Book to his chest, his eyes shining with exhilaration. Romany’s gaze shifted to take in the ranks of undead round the dais, the line of Vamilian girls behind the throne, the naked withered corpse on the floor beside them. “We have created a monster, my Lady.”
The goddess covered a smile. “But of course we have. How else could the game have been won? Mayot is precisely what we needed him to be. What other man would have dared to take on Shroud?”
“And yet the suffering he has caused…”
The Spider laughed. “Oh, Romany,” she said, not unkindly. “Your nose has been buried in scrolls for too long. I blame myself for that. In the games we play there are always winners and losers. Enjoy your victory while you can. Or have you already forgotten the attack on your temple?”
Romany saw again the face of her servant, Danel. “When I spoke of suffering, I was not referring to Shroud’s disciples.”
The Spider’s smile only broadened. She remained silent for a time, her fingers stroking their invisible strings.
A grunt sounded below, and Romany looked down to see Shroud’s sickle-wielding disciple take a sword cut to his leg. His riposte opened a gash along the cheek of the female Prime fighting him, but the woman did not so much as flinch.
“What did you have in mind?” the Spider asked finally.
Romany clasped her hands together. “I will go to Mayot and offer to deliver to him the Book’s final secrets.”
“And when he lowers his defenses you wish me to seal off the sections already accessible to him?”
“Can it be done?”
“In theory. But then Mayot already believes himself to be invincible, and soon he will have the Kinevar gods on his side. Why would he risk dropping his shields?”
Romany snorted. “Because he thinks himself invincible. And because a man such as he can never have too much power.”
The Spider studied her. “You are taking a great gamble. For me to act through you, you will need to attend the mage in person. I will not be able to intervene if things go wrong.”
“The risk is to me alone.”
“And is it a risk worth taking?”
Wetting her lips with her tongue, Romany looked away.
* * *
The tiktar sped toward Parolla, trailing flames that set alight the trees to either side. She drew in as much power as she dared, then released it in a roar that eclipsed the growl of the storm. A wave of death-magic struck the elderling, stopping it no more than ten paces away. It stood writhing in the grip of her sorcery, hissing and spitting and stabbing its swords at her. Parolla could now see a naked humanoid form within the fire, but already that form was melting away. Soon nothing remained of the elderling except the flames that had once clothed it, and those flames now flashed to merge with the fire consuming one of the trees to her right.
Parolla scowled. Nice trick, but the tiktar couldn’t escape her that easily. She sent a volley of sorcery smashing into the trunk, and it toppled to the ground, throwing up sprays of muddy water. The flames, though, continued to lick greedily at the blackened wood, seemingly unaffected by Parolla’s magic.
She hesitated. What now?
Twin pillars of fire erupted from the burning tree, streaking toward her. As they struck her wards she felt a burst of heat and was hurled backward. She hit the ground and slid through greasy puddles, took in a mouthful of muck, spat it out again. Through the water in her eyes she saw a blur of orange as the elderling took physical form again. It came rushing at her, and Parolla struggled to one knee, tried to raise her hands …
Mottle stepped in front of her.
A funnel of air closed around the tiktar, lifting it high and flinging it aside. The elderling twisted in the air, landed nimbly between two trees a short distance away. It raised one of its swords. Flames lanced from its end toward Mottle, only to be caught by the wind and directed harmlessly away. Parolla rose, caked in muck, and let loose another barrage of sorcery. The tiktar screamed as it struck, holding its shape for a moment before dissolving to blend with the flames devouring one of the trees beside it. Parolla blasted the trunk to ash, only for the fire to leap to the next tree. She destroyed that too, then the next and the next until the air was heavy with ash.
Mottle said, “The trees have done something to offend you, my girl?”
She let her breath out slowly, then lowered her arms. The tiktar had transferred to a fallen tree several score paces away. Within the fire that consumed the trunk Parolla could make out black spots that might have been the elderling’s eyes. Other trees on the hilltop were ablaze, and the crackle of flames was loud all about. “The creature is restoring itself,” she said to Mottle. “Any damage we inflict to its physical form is burned away in the fire.”
“Fire feeds off earth,” the old man replied simply.
“Then what do you suggest? We can’t kill it—the thing is dead already. How do we destroy something that can make itself anew in the flames?”
The archmagus grinned. “As ever the answer lies with Mottle.” His eyes were wide, his voice breathless. “Your humble servant has been making good use of the time afforded him to draw on the storm’s energy. Observe, if you will.”
All at once the air was filled with water as if Parolla had stepped beneath a waterfall, and the hilltop disappeared beyond a few fuzzy armspans in each direction. She flinched, hunched her shoulders. Her clothes were plastered to her skin, her hair to her face, yet still she managed a half smile. Of course. You fought fire with water, and no flame could withstand such an onslaught. Parolla wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before. Even if the tiktar’s flames were extinguished, though, that didn’t necessarily mean it would be left completely powerless …
A score of heartbeats passed, the rain roaring and hissing in her ears. Then the deluge abruptly petered out as if the clouds had been wrung dry. She blinked wet from her eyes and looked round. The ground was covered in water, and a fine mist hung in the air, a mist that was already being shredded by the wind. The black trunks about her were smoking …
Except one, which continued to burn—the fallen tree where the tiktar sheltered. The breeze felt suddenly cold against Parolla’s skin.
An image came to her, then, of her first encounter with the elderling, its flaming form rising from the lake. The lake … Her stomach felt sour. Hells, how could she have thought water alone would be enough to destroy it? How could she have forgotten? And yet the rain must surely have sapped the tiktar’s strength. Sodden wood would burn less easily, slowing the elderling’s recovery. She should strike now while it was weakened. But how did one destroy fire?
The thread of death-magic holding it. It’s the only way.
Mottle giggled and gestured with one hand. Lightning arced down from the storm clouds and struck the blazing tree, sending splinters of wood spinning into the air.
“What are you doing, sirrah?” Parolla snapped. “The lightning will feed the flames.”
Mottle’s only response was another giggle. A gust of wind set his robe billowing, and he flapped his arms as if he were trying to fly. Parolla snorted her disgust. The old man was intoxicated on power. He’d drawn in too much of it when he called down the storm, and now it was oozing from every pore.
A new sound reached her suddenly: a faint drumming. It came from the north, and when she looked across she saw shapes taking form in the gloom beyond the tree where the tiktar waited. Parolla started. Riders, a dozen in all. More Fangalar? No, these horsemen wore not garishly colored robes but plate armor and full-face helms with antlers protruding from them …
Antlers.
She began laughing then, conscious of the hint of madness in the sound. She laughed until her chest ached and her eyes streamed and even Mottle had stopped his arm-flapping to stare at her.
The Hunt had found her.
* * *
The wound to Luker’s wrist that he’d suffered in his duel with
Kanon had opened again. Blood ran down his palm in a steady trickle, making his grip slick on the hilt of his longknife. He had scored a number of similar cuts to the arms and bodies of his opponents, but to no effect—the bastards didn’t bleed, after all, and moral victories counted for little in a fight against undead adversaries. Luker searched his opponents’ eyes for any sign they were battling against Mayot’s hold in the same way Kanon had. There was nothing. But then neither of the Prime possessed his master’s strength of will, nor would they have any interest in seeing Luker survive this encounter.
A strike from the Guardian’s Will rocked Harelip’s head back, but the undead warrior rolled with the blow. Meanwhile Poxface launched a blistering series of cuts and lunges at Luker’s head and chest. He parried her first few efforts, then counterattacked with a Will-reinforced slash to her midsection. When she defended the blow with both of her weapons, Luker’s second blade was already sweeping down with a cut to her right leg.
Harelip’s sword flashed to block.
The Guardian disengaged, parrying Harelip’s backswing before turning to meet Poxface’s next attack. Close again, but still no breakthrough. Truth was, this tag-team thing was beginning to piss him off. The outcome of the clash would depend on who made the first mistake, and it was looking more and more like that would be Luker. He could not sustain this level of concentration for much longer, for he could feel the first tendrils of a headache taking root in his brain. Time to take a few more risks if he wanted to force an opening …
The thock of a crossbow sounded an instant before a quarrel buried itself in Poxface’s right knee. The woman staggered.
Luker gave a dark smile. If the bolt had hit where Jenna intended, it was an inspired shot.
Mayot must have taken objection to the assassin crashing his party, for the dome lit up with flashes of sorcery. With luck the mage was shooting blind, but there was no time to worry about that now. Luker needed to press home his advantage before Mayot weighted the odds against him once more.
Poxface was hobbling, and Luker retreated, forcing her to come to him. As she shuffled forward, the Guardian lashed out with his Will, striking at the woman’s knee just as her weight came down. A crack of bone, and she stumbled and fell.
