by Janet Morris
He'd better be able to, or else he'd fry.
Standing was too painful; he scuttled on his hands and knees toward the northern perimeter of the camp, where the fire would have started and where, with luck, he'd find a spot where it had burned up all its fuel, or burned thin, or burned low.
He'd left his horse beyond, among the trees to the west. He wished he had it now as his ribs grated upon one another. His breath came hard and stars danced in his vision. He needed both hands to make headway in this thick brush he must keep to, or risk discovery in the midst of his enemy, but reflexively, his arm pressed against his side to try to keep his bones from grating.
He'd made a bit of distance and calmed enough to realize that his cuirass was not even dented when a whinnying horse with tail ablaze galloped by, a rider on it; then another; then three more riders, yelling to each other in Mygdonian that it was time to save themselves.
Niko couldn't have agreed more, but the fire was faster than he was and he couldn't seem to muster courage or equilibrium enough to stand and run or even stand and fight. He must have hit his head as well, he thought, and turned to look behind him just as three Mygdonians came crashing through the underbrush the other way, javelins in hand, faces grimy so that their eye-whites seemed as bright as the all-white orbs of the undead.
But they weren't undead yet—they'd seen him and knew he wasn't one of theirs from his helmet and his gear.
At least they hadn't had the wit to call for reinforcements, though whether they'd have been heard amid the din was anybody's guess.
"There's one! Get him!" their leader called.
"One what?" another replied, but cast his javelin so that Stealth's reflexes threw him to the dirt and he saw pinwheeling stars when he hit.
He had three blossoms yet; one axiom he followed was to always hold something in reserve, a last defense.
"Did you hit him?" Niko heard the leader's voice and thanked the gods for the smoke obscuring everything.
"I don't think so. Let's look."
Yet lying prone, Niko slipped his dirk from his scabbard and the three blossoms between the fingers of his left hand. He'd try that first: it was his right side that really hurt him; the movement needed to slip his charmed dirk free had made his breath catch in his throat. And that dirk in his hand was warm, telling him sorcery lurked close by.
One thing at a time, he told himself, and when he could see booted feet clearly through the smoke he gritted his teeth and rolled to his knees, casting the blossoms—one, two, three—steeling himself for the effort it was going to take to stand, if he missed any of them.
He knew that with his right side in this condition, in hand-to-hand he wouldn't last long against a Maggot from the free zone, let alone well-trained soldiers. But he'd give it all he had.
Before he could gain his feet, one man yelled, another cursed, and Niko heard the unmistakable thump as human deadweight hit the ground.
The third, however, launched himself at Niko from above, telling him, "All right, devil bastard, man or shade, you've killed your last!"
The force of the impact bore Niko, in heavy panoply, over backward; cheek to jowl with the sweating Mygdonian whose turban was flopping, half-unwound, between them, making it hard for either man to see, they wrestled on the ground.
He felt something sticky on the other's back, recognized it as blood, and realized that the poison on his blossom would help him win if he could just hold out—he'd grazed this enemy, so some poison had to be in the other's bloodstream.
Meanwhile, there was a short, curved sword to keep from his vitals and a grasping hand to keep from clawing out his eyes.
His dirk was better than his opponent's sword in such close quarters, but it slid along the armor of the man on top of him; he hadn't the strength in that arm to pierce hardened leather, let alone bronze plates.
The Mygdonian's fingers were pressing painfully upon his eyeballs when, as Stealth got a leg around the other's thigh and raised his dirk to bring it down into his attacker's bladder by way of unprotected buttocks, the man went limp upon him: the poison at last had done its deadly work.
He lay under his assailant, breathing hard, listening to the running feet and hooves around him and the fire crackling as it closed in.
If only Randal had come along, he'd have been out of harm's way and back with the Riddler before Tempus torched the naphtha. As it was, he couldn't see a better move right now than playing dead under this still-warm corpse until he could regain his strength.
Suddenly he thought of Aškelon and the dream-bred horse he had. He really should have named it. Aškelon had said that it was special. He wished it would come and fetch him home; he envisioned himself upon its back and the two of them leaping over flames to safety.
All this time he still held the charmed dirk in a sweaty grip. And it was warmer by the second. He wondered if a warlock or a witch was coming close and, if so, whether his pretense of death would fool a black artist.
He knew he should get up, get out of here, die a clean death in the flames if he had to die. If the Nisibisi wizards caught him, he'd wish he'd died that way.
Decided, he prepared to roll the corpse off and make away, and then he heard the chanting, coming near. One voice among that soulless choir petitioning what did not live in heaven froze him: a woman's alto voice it was, so familiar that he didn't have to see her to know that Roxane was among the procession passing by.
And then from high above a squeal of unearthly rage rent the smoke, and the pall was buffeted away by the beat of giant wings.
He had to see: he raised his head and squinted through one eye, not enough that an adept might see him, he hoped, and there before him was a group of six warlocks with the magnificent Roxane at their head. Beside her walked a man in Myg-donian dress armor, embroidered surcoat, curled-toed boots and all. And these walked calmly, as if in a country garden.
Or at least they had been walking so, until the great wings beat down and talons raked their group and a wizard threw himself out of the way, landing crosswise, half atop Niko and the dead fighter sprawled on top of him, so that Niko could feel the man trembling and every beat of a racing heart.
And while the warlock on top of him intoned invocations through gritted teeth, the processional— all but Roxane and the Mygdonian commander— also dove for cover.
The witch had the general by the arm and was pointing, it seemed, straight at the warlock who lay across Niko and the corpse, and was cursing "the damned Roc and all the lesser mages who change shape but cannot change their nature." At this, the beating wings above, silhouetted now against a gray/brown/red sunrise sky, seemed to shimmer and, as if struck by a weapon, the giant bird whose wingspan was thrice a man's height came crashing to the ground.
A miasma exploded around it as it landed; Roxane pulled the Mygdonian warrior back and Niko saw her raise her hands as from behind the sound of hoofbeats racing grew loud and the trumpet of a war horse in furious assault made Niko's ears ring.
He still had the dirk, almost burning him now with its eagerness to strike the warlock who lay upon him as if he were a cozy couch.
He took the chance: he'd just kill what enemies he might and go with grace to whatever heaven had in store for him. Escape was impossible now, a pointless exercise in cowardice. He hoped the Riddler would say words for him, commend him to heaven in Abarsis's company—that he'd done a decent job here and that the Stepsons would in death forgive him for taking up with witches and magicians.
Then he stabbed the warlock in the loins and ripped on up; used all his strength to push both corpses, old and new, off him, and stood up just in time to see what kind of bird had descended from the heavens and to be knocked sideways by the war horse whose hooves he'd heard.
As the miasma settled, Randal, changed back by a hostile spell to his own form, flickered naked for an instant, then was clothed and armed. Drawing his kris, Randal leaped toward Roxane and the Mygdonian warlord, throwing stars and poisoned blossoms t
hat Niko had given him rising from his belt and speeding on their way toward the warlocks scattered round about—behind dead horses, bushes, or whatever cover they could find.
The sun was rising now, and shadows were long in a bloody dawn. From somewhere a mighty wind came and seemed to spin above the fighting so that all the smoke was blown outward and away.
Niko, knocked once more off his feet, scrambled up, his side in agony, and only then realized that the war horse was his own and in the thick of the battle, trampling wizards, biting witches where it could.
And these could not seem to believe that their pointing fingers would not dispatch this horse, who only was angered more when a hostile spell was cast its way.
Limping as fast as he could, his sword drawn, picking his own blossoms out of his kills along the way, Niko tried to reach his partner.
But Randal wasn't hurt, and though he seemed no more formidable than ever in his hillman's outfit, he was giving back spell for spell and hell for hell among these Nisibisi mages. Hurrying, his kris outstretched (or being dragged forward by it, for all Niko knew), he seemed to skip across the ground, stabbing certain footprints as he went.
Whenever the kris penetrated a footprint, a wizard wailed and flared, or crumbled into dust.
Between the crazed, froth-mouthed horse and Randal—who stabbed, as Niko watched, a standing warlock's shadow so that the mighty mage begged for mercy as he fell to his knees, his body seeming to melt into a multicolored puddle—the wizard-caste was having second thoughts.
Only Roxane held her ground, her hand on the Mygdonian commander's brocaded sleeve, and pointed, not at Randal, but at Stealth. And Niko heard her through that melee and all the pandemonium as if she were whispering in his ear. "Come, Niko! Come to me, my dear. Right now, I do command thee!"
"Nikodemos!" Randal's long and mournful call came to him as if from a great distance. "Don't let her do it! Not again. Fight her! Fight! I'll help you!"
But Stealth couldn't seem to understand Randal's Nisi; Roxane's summons was spoken in the language of his soul. His ribs hurt, his breath was short, her arms were out to welcome him. What was the use of all this fighting, anyway?
He walked toward her. Then his horse knocked him once more from his feet and the pain of the concussion as he hit the earth took his breath away.
When next he knew anything, the Aškelonian's wet muzzle was whuffling against his cheek, the horse kneeling down with its forelegs outstretched beside him as if waiting for a dowager or child to mount it.
Randal's words rang in his ears. "Fight her, Stealth. For all our sakes! She can't force you, don't let her take you! What will the Riddler say?" That did it. With those galling words echoing in his head, he dragged himself toward his kneeling horse's saddle: the Aškelonian, its head bowed between its bent forelegs, was watching him with soft, wise eyes that seemed sorrowful; even his horse didn't have faith in him.
He grabbed the saddle's pommel, levering himself aboard awkwardly: he'd show the Hazard and the witch that neither one of them controlled him. He couldn't have Randal strutting around, boasting that he'd saved his partner's life. He couldn't go back among the Sacred Band with the witch's taint renewed. He had to show Roxane, too, that he was under no sorcerous compulsion or any witch's command.
Then his horse lurched to its feet and he heard Roxane's voice again, telling Randal that everyone the mageling loved would suffer for his hubris.
Behind her, the fire was closing in, its flames licking skyward and its heat rolling over him in waves that made Niko grip his saddle hard and pray he wouldn't faint; it backlit the witch and the Mygdonian general and blazed so brightly behind them that he had to squint.
And Randal was retreating from Roxane's pointing finger, while around her the surviving warlocks gathered, dark, ominous shadows which might yet sum defeat.
Still Stealth couldn't take his eyes from her, and as he watched, he saw Cybele, the girl-witch he'd come to love, and then the Nisibisi maiden who'd healed his fever up at Bashir's, and then their glances met. "Cybele… Roxane… no," he said to eyes which promised him eternity and an end to strife and pain if he would but get off that horse and walk those few paces to her…
As he said it, Randal's retreat brought the Hazard to the horse's side. A sweaty face turned up to Stealth's; a mageling's mouth formed words: "Good. Ready? I'll just take hold of this bridle and we'll be out of—"
The junior Hazard's hand closed on Niko's horse's reins and everything—the fiery circle; the witch Roxane/Cybele; the Mygdonian general; the tall, robed sorcerers and flickering shadow-forms behind them; the dead men and beasts and, in the distance, turbaned Mygdonians running toward the royal tents now catching fire—disappeared.
"… here." Randal finished his sentence in a copse of trees free from flames and firelight so that at first everything around them seemed pitch black to Niko, then granular, undifferentiated green, then subsided into daylight.
* * *
Roxane, with Lacan Ajami close beside her, had watched helplessly as the accursed Aškelonian steed and Randal, a puny, Hazard-class Tysian mage, stole Nikodemos from under her very nose.
She had to cover her distress before Ajami then, save the man and the body of his troops, regroup her warlocks and set them to snuffing out the ring of fire—which they could only do when well away from all its hellish heat and smoke.
Fire was their nemesis, a cleansing weapon brought down on them by Tempus and his gods.
And Niko… she'd wanted him so much that she'd risked singeing her own hair and losing wizards to acquire him. Beloved Niko, who'd finally realized what the patronage of Aškelon, the panoply he wore, the horse he rode, could mean: he'd said no to her unspoken declaration of love and power and safekeeping. It was well that no wizard had overheard her offer him eternal life, or heard his heart's response.
They'd been too busy, that was something. They'd seen only what Ajami saw, heard only "Cybele… Roxane, no." Oh, they knew Niko had worked free of her control, but that was nothing—the blame for it easily and truly lay with Aškelon.
What Roxane knew that no one else would understand was that Nikodemos, for the first time, had used the power of his maat and of his patron to disavow love in favor of his honor.
He'd spurned her, discounted her, despite everything—their excruciating trysts when she was Cybele, the night she'd come to him at terrible risk on Wizardwall and eased him. In spite of being enemies, on different sides, she'd loved him and looked after him, taken care of him all this time.
Yet love counted for nothing before Aškelon's protection; services done meant nothing to Nikodemos. She'd been playing for time, never turned her full powers of destruction upon him, no matter what the provocation, hoping love would win out over prejudice.
For Nikodemos truly loved Cybele, and Cybele was Roxane as much as Roxane was Cybele.
But this was a final parting, and she summoned hatred from the depths of the underworld to punish him, though it seemed she sat in council with her Mygdonian allies, explaining away failure and saying how the wizard-caste could yet assist Myg-donia in putting the Riddler's men to rout. "We've saved the bulk of your motley crew, Ajami; what you lost, you lost through negligence, superstition, incompetence of the Mygdonian sort. Now here's my plan, since yours has gone awry—and remember as you hear it that once we're south of Wizard-wall, the town, in the throes of plague and revolution, will fall as one man whimpering at your feet and beg you to lift its yoke of ill fortune and Rankan servitude…"
All the time she spoke, she was marshaling her anger. She reached with immaterial hands and struck dead the girl in the Machadi embassy whom she'd designated a plague victim but allowed to live this long: Aisha. That would hurt Niko, make him know what awaited a mortal man who scorned Death's Queen.
This she did instead of what she'd meant to do: a splinter of one of Niko's broken ribs could easily be coaxed to pierce a vital organ. She would have healed him if he'd come to her; she could kill him
just as easily, right now.
But she did not.
She'd laid a curse on Randal and the mage must feel it: Niko's suffering would teach the hubristic mageling whom he dared to thwart.
And there was Grillo, riding hither with all speed among a "secretly" advancing contingent of enticingly human foes, his little golden homunculus— his master, for that was what the figurine had become—in his pocket.
She told herself that she wanted Nikodemos to be the last to die, and made herself believe it.
If, among the remaining Nisibisi adepts, any realized that Roxane was a prisoner herself—a slave to love and a servant of her own emotions so that her judgment was affected and her decisions not the best—then these kept silent: she was still Death's Queen, still Roxane. If she'd come out second best against a Tysian Hazard, this was a combination of two elements: her infatuation with a mortal and the fact that Randal had possession of a globe of power mightier than her own, the very one which Datan had once used to teach the witch her place and keep her in it.
But among themselves, the Nisibisi adepts muttered, late at night when Roxane was asleep. If only they'd succeeded in capturing Nikodemos, they could have traded him to Randal for the globe of high peaks clay; without it, victory was not assured.
Who had the globe, had power others dreamed not of.
In the morning, their consensus taken, the Nisibisi wizards came to Roxane, proposing an all-out offensive: they must retrieve their globe.
Of this there was no question; on this point, no disagreement. But on how to penetrate a brace of warding spells spun by that very globe, many held diverse opinions.
Some Mygdonians would have to be sacrificed, of course. Mygdon's lord and Tempus would have to engage each other. Though not one Nisibisi adept present had ever taken seriously the possibility of Shamshi, Datan's son, heir apparent to the throne of wizardry, being handed back to his Mygdonian mother and her husband, the ploy would do to get them within snatching distance of the coveted power globe.
