The Lady of the Snowmist (War of the Gods on Earth Book 3)

by Andrew J Offutt

  Only! He closed his eyes in anguish. Squeezed them tightly. Never had he seen such a bandage. How could She live with such a wound? What had he done — and what had Oak done in consequence?

  “I … I don’t … no, no, I never remember. But … so many things have happened to — have happened since then! Was it all in my mind? Seemed to happen, then. I was … I was in other places. In the time-to-be, or the time that might be?” He shook his head. What horrors he had seen and endured! Then, “Jilain! Are you all right?”

  Her face changed, went soft. She made as if to touch him, but did not. “Of course, Jarik. Worried, just worried for you. One is so glad you — you are back. Oak is, Oak is so surly when he is busy! And he stays busy. Oak is totally … totally dedicated, single-minded.”

  “Yes,” Jarik said, so quietly that he only just breathed the word. “Oak is my good side. The good part of Jarik Blacksword.”

  “Oh Jarik! You are not evil!”

  Jarik’s eyes turned to stone and were bleak as the sky before the coming of the blizzard. “I disagree. But — so many things happened! Was it all a dream? All of that? Dreams? The Iron Lords? Those warriors of … Baron, uh, Indwell? The Fog Lords and their, their creatures?” A shiver ran through him and his fingers worked. “All those words; all I have learned? Just dreams and visions, while Oak worked and my mind, thrust aside, sought … sought something to occupy me?” He shook his head; touched it. He felt stubble without paying it any mind. “Ever do I dream, while Oak works. Lady Tiger?” Again he shuddered. “What a woman! And poor dotty Shirajsha! Driven into the return of childhood upon her brain by all the horror, the destruction to come, the War lost … because of me? Was none of that real?”

  He looked about, and his eyes were those of a trapped animal seeking the light, and a way out.

  Then he remembered to look at his own wrists. There were no bracers. His arms looked obscenely naked. Aye, and he felt so. This was not freedom, not with his wrists bare and this guilt upon him like a weight of solid iron! He turned his eyes again toward the warrior woman across the long white table from him. A tear was shivering on her cheek, twinkling there like a droplet of dew suspended beneath a leaf.

  “How long … how long has it been, Jilain?”

  “Since you put sword into Her,” she said, and saw him flinch at the phrase. “Most of a nikht, and two full days. Did you know that most of the women we see here are not here at all? — That you fought illusions that other time you were here? She tested you; She. Did you see the little girl that other time you were here, Jarik?”

  He remembered. “Yes. I saw a child, a girl. Very pale.”

  “She has never been out of the mountain. She was born here. She is her daukhter, Jarik; the girl is the daukhter of the Lady of the Snowmist. She has tried and tried to talk to Oak. Oak hears nothing when he works, or ignores all else and everyone else. Unless he needs something of us.” Jarik nodded. Then he asked, frowning, “Needs?”

  “Tools. Certain tools he demanded of the girl. He demanded that water be cooked, heated until it steamed. At first, at the very first, he demanded help in getting Her out of her armor, and then he demanded this one’s skirt and railed when one was slow in removing it. Soon he had need of this one’s tunic, too. And he used his own robe — that beautiful robe She gave you, Jarik. All those things are bloody, and more too. We all jumped to obey Oak, and fetched and carried for Oak, and accepted Oak’s surliness and his impatience and railing. He is so competent, Oak is — and no fit companion for anyone!”

  Again Jarik only nodded. I am no fit companion for that noble healer, he reflected, but the thought was fleeting. He was still working on acclimation. It seemed so long ago, that he had — had done this, to the god. A downward glance showed him that he wore a loose and almost sleeveless tunic. It was white, and it bore much rusty brown splotching. The stains were hard, with a slight metallic sheen. Blood, he knew. The blood of a god. The blood of Her. He had spilled it, and now he wore it. He gazed at Jilain, blinking.

  “I hope — I hope that danger never comes on me when I am Oak, and so busy!”

  “This one will be there,” the champion of Kerosyr said. “This one will defend you when you are Oak, Jarik.”

  “You were not given another skirt, I see,” he said inanely, for he noticed without quite noticing that his brain was slow and lazy and not ready to function.

  Jilain shrugged. “Skirts were not made for Jilain,” she said. “This one was not made for skirts. Besides, all that cloth would have tripped one, when he came.”

  “He? Oh — Oak.”

  She gave him a look of concern and confusion. “You do not remember? You remember nothing of this time when you were Oak?”

  “I remember much. All of it is unreal, though. So far! I think.”

  He set a hand to his forehead, and found that his hair was bound back with a strip of cloth, tied behind. Dreams, illusions, visions! What was reality? Why was he so convinced that all of it was real or as if real? That what She had said was true, and what Shirajsha had said? That his dreams or visions had shown him truth? There were two factions of gods. They were divided and at odds over the future of humankind … that is, whether humankind should have a future on the earth! And the Iron Lords represented the other side. The Forces of Destruction …

  “Jarik?”

  He waved his hand, lifted his head. He looked at Jilain.

  “This one did not refer to Oak, Jarik, when she referred to him who came. It was one of them. The dread gods. An Iron Lord.”

  “What?”

  She nodded. “An Iron Lord came here, Jarik. We — ”

  He stared, looked all around, stared again at her. One of the Lords of Iron. Here!

  “Metanira and one named Wildflower were helping Oak,” Jilain said. “This one stood well away, over there. Oak had bidden one get far away with it — the Black Soord. Then he came. He merely … appeared. One moment he was not here, and the next moment he was. He said that

  She must not be saved, that She must die. You — Oak said that you must try to. save Her. Oak bade Wildflower fetch — something. For his healing. One forgets what — “

  “Cloth,” Jarik said dully, staring not at Jilain, but through her. “Wadding, to stem the flow of her blood.”

  “Yes! Jarik — you do remember?”

  “I … don’t know.” Do I? That happened! “Did he — did he kill her? Wildflower, I mean?”

  “Yes. Horribly. Yet all in an instant. She became … flame. Metanira was paces away, and the garment she wore is scorched. He did it with his soord. Just such a soord as yours, Jarik, like the Black Soord — it is a black soord! Then he, he moved, just a little, pivoting a little, to point that horrible thing at you, that fire-soord!”

  Oh ye gods and Guide! Yes! Yes, I remember. But then — why am I alive?

  “And?” Jarik looked down at himself. “Why am I … what did he do then? Jil what happened then?”

  “This one stood stricken into a statue by what she had seen, by the very sikht of that iron god of gloom and menace. The Iron Lord had not seen this one, and she stood frozen. But then one saw what he intended. He was going to kill you, the same way, in a burst of flame so that Oak might not save Her and that She would not live. Then this one came alive. Oh it is shame on a Guardian that this one was so slow to move, almost too late to act! It did not occur to one then that she mikht not stop a god. One had to — had to act! One was thinking nothing at all. One just … charged, with the Black Soord stretched out like a spear because time was so short and it went rikht into him.”

  “Into … Jilain? Through, through the god armor. My Black Sword, which had been theirs?”

  “Yes. Into him, into the Iron Lord. He … he writhed on the point and — see? Up there. That darkness is char and scorch, where his soord spat fire without direction.”

  “You … saved … me. That was real, and you — then he vanished, is that it?”

  She shook her blue-tressed head. �
�He was alive, twisting on the blade so that one could hardly hold it, and then his soord fell from his hand, that big black-mailed hand. It fell onto the floor, right there, and no flame came out of it. Then one yanked the Soord — your Black Soord — out of him, and whipped it back to strike hard, overhand-sidearm and with all one’s might. The First Stroke, Guardians are taught to call it and to practice, and the best stroke of all, with the moost power behind it. The Black Soord chopped deep, Jarik. That Iron Lord fell down and was dead. Is dead.”

  “Dead!”

  “Yes.”

  “You … slew … an Iron Lord?”

  “Aye, Jarik.”

  He looked about, while his brain seemed to reel and his vision swam. Yet he could see, and he saw no Iron Lord. “Where … ”

  “We took him away, Jarik. Elsewhere, to another chamber. Oak would not suffer the body to lie there, and so Metanira and the child and this one carried him to another chamber. There he lies. Each of us has driven that Black Soord through the armor of gods into gods, Jarik. While we carried him away, Oak was already busy with Her. That Iron Lord is dead, Jarik. And see!” She showed him a hilt with an inch or so of iron blade. It had been snapped off. “With this, one tried to pry into his armor! Iron breaks on that armor, Jarik.”

  “Yes … ” He stared at her, and then he lurched and hurried from behind the long table on which Snowmist lay, and Jarik seized and embraced Jilain. The truncated dagger fell forgotten. She strained to him and her arms enwrapped him. Through both their tunics he felt the hardness of the crimson gemstone tipping her breast — which was unusually firm itself, with the underlying muscle — and he did not mind, at all. They hugged each other and never had anything felt so good. Jarik was sure that he could stand and hold Jilain and be held by Jilain for hours, days. For ever.

  “One thokht … ummm. One thokht that this was never going to happen,” she murmured, pressing close and holding him so tightly as if she sought to blend their two bodies into one inseparable unit.

  “So did I,” he said, and for a long while then they said nothing but only strained together. Holding and feeling; being.

  After a long while and yet far, far too soon, he became aware of his weariness. Cramps seemed fighting him for possession of his body. His calves were beset by quivers.

  “Have I … has Oak slept?” That he murmured with his lips close to her ear.

  She shook her head against his. “No. Oh, you drowsed and napped a bit now and then — standing rikht there, once. You have never left Her. Now and again you would growl ‘water’ or ‘beer’ and, twice, ‘food!’ We brokht you — Oak — what he asked. You drank and ate without pleasure, merely to sustain your body. Oak poured wine on Her and on bandages!” She hugged him in a renewed straining to him, making “umm” sounds. “Oak is not pleasant, Jarik. He does not want to talk. Only to do, and no one knows what he is doing but he. He ignores everything but his task. He wants only to escry, and heal, and to hover.”

  “And I? Oak is a healer. You prefer the company of Jarik, who stabbed a god in the back?”

  He held her tightly, lest she decide to pull away from one who had done such a deed. His arms were going leaden and his calves quivered in weariness and the long strain of standing; his head was light and his brain hardly functioning at peak. He tried to ignore all that, and he held onto Jilain.

  She remained against him, holding him. “You had made an agreement, Jarik. You had given your woord,” Jilain said, and for her that was all of it. Among the Guardians, statements were promises. Promises were vows. Vows were helderen: unbreakable, as if sacred. One did what one said one would do; to do that which one had said one would not do was inconceivable. The queen of the Guardians had broken such a promise — and Jilain Kerosyris had slain her and harangued the other Guardians to choose an honorable ruler.

  Jarik clung to her and stared at nothing. Every warrior had a blind spot, beyond the shield-edge. For Jilain, Jarik realized, it was a larger area. Where he, Jarik, was concerned, Jilain Kerosyris was blind.

  “I … love … you,” he said or tried to say, and could not get the words past his throat.

  She moved a little, and the ruby on her breast, the llanket, hurt him. He did not mind. She had not heard him, though, and he was sorry about that. He would tell her. It was so hard, being Jarik — and trying to be more than Jarik was just as hard.

  “The child,” she said. “The child, Jarik, said that you had to do it. Umm, your back feels good to these hands. She understood. She is very wise, Jarik, that child. She is not … normal. A god’s child. She says that she understands, Jarik. She holds no malice — and she says that She would understand.” Jilain nodded at the body of Karahshisar, very pale and still, a god on the earth who lay wounded, unconscious, massively bandaged. Jarik could not see the indicative nod; he felt it. “The girl knows that you made a bargain, and were sore confused, and felt that you had to keep your agreement with the Iron Lords. She said that it makes you — proves you — what She thokht — thinks you are.”

  “Yes,” he said, with his jaws clamped so tightly that the bones hurt. His hands moved on her back and felt the firmness of muscle, the central depression that was only that, not a hollow. He could feel no vertebrae, and knew they were there. He held, he was held by, a warrior. A very fast and very strong woman, and she loved him. He loved her.

  “Yes,” he said again in that grim voice. “I keep bargains. Like a child, bound by a foolish oath. Oh yes. I kept my bargain with the Iron Lords!” He was rigid, and she stroked his back. “The Iron Lords, who sent their iron hawk to kill me and to kill you, and who came, one of them, even here — after they had told me they could not — and sought to murder me. Because inside me there is a healer!”

  “Oh Jarik.” And they were silent, holding.

  She said, “But Oak made no bargain, Jarik. He tried to save Her, and he is you, Jarik. You must not forget. Oak is you! This one is a part of you, Jarik — but Oak is you. Oh! Jarik!”

  That she said suddenly, with a movement, and reluctantly Jarik let her step back a pace. He felt a breath of chill across his chest, where her warmth and his had for many minutes reflected each other. He saw that her tawny eyes were wide, and the thick black brows above expressed a new concern, just recollected.

  Suddenly he heard himself say, “Jilish.” And she was back against him, with both of them clinging and straining together.

  “Jarish,” she murmured. “Jair-iiishh … ”

  After a time he had to ask: “What was it, Jilai — Jilish? What did you suddenly remember?”

  “What? Oh! One said that Oak is yourself, and heals, and one remembered: did you save Her, Jarik? Is She alive? Will She live?”

  Keeping an arm around Jilain as she kept one about him, Jarik turned to look down upon Karahshisar. Naked and bandaged, She looked frail and very, very human, despite the mask. He noticed how small She was, how delicately made. It was Jarik’s eyes that looked at Her, though, not Oak’s. Jarik was helpless. Oak would not have let Jarik return if She were not all right, would he?

  Of course. Perhaps Oak would … go away, if She could not be saved, if She was dead or doomed. I do not know! He said it: “I don’t know, Jilain.”

  “Oh wait — Jarik! Oak is gone! She must be going to live, then! Else he would have — oh.” Jilain had thought of it too and she broke off, not wanting to voice it. She touched the still god. “Warm. She lives, Jarik. She is warm, but not hot; for a time She had a terrible fever, whick Oak foukht and foukht until he sweated so much we thokht he had caught it. Now … Oak mikht leave if She were dead, but … Anyhow, She is alive, and without fever. Her breathing feels normal or nearly. And Oak has left. She must be well, Jarish. Sleeping while she knits. She is healing.”

  Jarik blinked. She felt the sudden squeeze of his hand as he felt a reeling sensation. Suddenly one hand sprang out to brace him against the table of the wounded god, while he leaned heavily on Jilain. Sore fearful, she held him with both hands, her
expression of worry for him.

  “Yes,” he said softly. “She will live. She will … be alive. She … the Lady of the Snowmist will … will never move again.” And tears streaked the face of Jarik Blacksword, who had sought to slay Her, and the face of Oak the Healer, who had saved Her and sought to make Her knit.

  The worry had left Jilain’s face and now she looked sharply at him, her head on one side. “Jarik? You know this? Jarik? Oak?”

  “We are here. I know it, yes. I am Oak. I am Jarik. We are not ‘I, Jarik’ and ‘he, Oak’; or T, Oak’ and ‘he, Jarik.’ We are one. I have seen with Oak’s eyes and known with Oak’s knowledge. Uh!” He leaned even more heavily on her and on the table. “I must rest.”

  And he collapsed.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When a man is convinced that all is darkness, he will cling to that conviction even in the brightest sunlight.

  — Moris Keniston

  Adversity attracts the man of character. He seeks out the bitter joy of responsibility.

  — C. de Gaulle

  Jarik awoke. He had not dreamed. That, he mused, was a blessing of the g — Lady Karahshisar. A god on the earth. A God on the Earth! A god; the Lady of the Snowmist. She would live. She would even talk. (Jarik found that he lay on a bed, and that he was pleasantly naked.) But the Black Sword had girded through Her, deep into Her, from behind. It had slashed the spinal cord as it drove, and Oak could not repair that. She was paralyzed, irremediably and forever. Or until She … died. (And somewhere an Iron Lord lay dead. Was it the Lord of Destruction? Ironic, since She referred to the others as the Forces of Destruction, if the one called Destruction was dead!)

  (Thirst. Pox and blight — my lips are dry as hay in high summer!)