by Glenda Larke
'And do you think he will sit quietly in Kardiastan and let you ride away? He's not that sort of man, Ligea. He'll follow you.'
'He can't leave Kardiastan. He is their Mirager, Brand. He is needed here. Anyway, they are about to take on Tyrans. They are about to begin the disintegration of the Exaltarchy; he has more to do than worry about me.' I added for good measure, 'Just as you will have, when you continue the process in Altan one day. And I, too – when I do my part, in Tyrans.' Perhaps I'd be able to forget Temellin in the process, and expiate some of the guilt I felt. Guilt at what I had been, guilt at the evil Solad had done to save me. I had perfected the art of persuading others to betrayal, when betrayal had been the basis of my life, had I but known it. _,
Brand radiated worry. Quite deliberately, of course. 'In Tyrans, you will be alone. Condemned, if they catch you. Stay here. Here at least you'll have power, position. In Tyrans you would be forever on the run, always hiding. Rathrox Ligatan will have your head on a stake at Tyr's main gate if ever he catches up with you.'
I turned back to him, smiling. 'No power, Brand?' I raised my hand and showed him my cabochon. It had already regained much of its colour. 'What of this? What of my Magor sword? I have all the power I need.'
He opened his mouth and then closed it again. Finally he said carefully, 'Er, may I ask just what you are planning?'
'Well, I'd like to have a hand in seeing Rathrox Ligatan gets what's due to him. At one time I would have liked to be Magister Officii, but not now. Why should I aim so low? And what better way of ending slavery, of helping Kardiastan – or even your Altan for that matter – than being the rooster at the top of the midden rather than one halfway down?' It was an idea I had been playing with for some time now, and it had been growing more and more attractive as time went by.
Brand stared, puzzled. Then his jaw dropped. 'Sweet Goddess!'
I arched an eyebrow at him. 'Have I finally managed to penetrate that inhuman calm of yours, my Altani friend?'
'The Exaltarch?. You want to be the ExaltarchV
'And why not?'
He continued to stare. Then laughter bubbled up from inside him. He slapped his thigh and roared. I had never heard Brand laugh quite like that before. I waited patiently until the gasping whoops reduced
themselves, via more manageable guffaws, to the occasional chuckle.
'When you've quite finished -' I said.
He gave a final laugh. 'Ah, Ligea, you are really something. The compeer who was a general's daughter might be long gone, but for all that, there's still some of that old Ligea – indomitable, irrepressible Ligea – in this new one. And she's much more likeable.'
'You think I'm being ridiculous.'
He thought about that and then shook his head. 'No. No, I don't. If you say you're going to be Exaltarch, then that's just what you will be. If you say you're going to break the Empire into a thousand pieces, then I'll believe that too. I just wish I could be there to see Ligatan's face when you wave that sword of yours under his skinny nose.'
We both smiled at the thought.
It was Brand who splintered the moment. 'I must go and start the packing while there's still a bit of light in the sky,' he said. He picked up the saddlebags and strolled out.
I lay back on the pallet, planning. There should be a way to preserve the best of the Exaltarchy while doing away with this whole idea of enslaved or tributary states. A loose trade federation, perhaps, with some kind of voluntary tax to maintain peacekeeping forces and tradeways. Yes, that might be possible. The hard thing would be to change an economy and a culture dependent on slave labour…
I drowsed while I waited for him, enjoying my laziness. And was jerked back to alertness by a sound. A rumbling, a deep-throated thundering, a growl, as if the ground itself were venting its rage. My head jerked up in shock, just in time to feel the pallet beneath me take on a life of its own. First it twisted, then it slewed
sideways, humping up at the same time so that I had to grab hold of it to avoid being tumbled onto the floor. I was more puzzled than frightened; I thought it was another trick of the Mirage Makers – until something black flapped by my head, giving out frantic kitten-mews of terror. The red-eyed bird the Mirage Makers had supplied with the house. It wouldn't have been frightened of a change wrought by its makers.
I leapt to my feet, sword already in my hand and flaming into light – and gagged on my horror. A foul stench soured die air around me.
The Ravage.
The floor of the room between me and the door dissolved into writhing blackish slime. The far wall was already crumbling into the foulness, sliding stone by stone under the surface scum. The flagstones beneath the pallet heaved and cracked. The pinions of the black bird scraped my face as it swooped towards the broken wall on its way out; I envied it its wings. I knew I had only moments before the floor disintegrated and plunged me into the corruption of the Ravage.
I whirled, pointing my weapon at the wall closest to me. I sent the power forth to smash against the stones, praying they would give before the onslaught and provide a way to escape. The Mirage was on my side: a hole appeared that was more like a window and far too symmetrical to be wholly the result of my sword-bolt. Even as the floor disappeared from beneath my feet, I pulled myself up into the gap. The wall was thick and there was plenty of room to sit comfortably. I had no intention of lingering, however, and went to jump down on the other side. s
And stopped myself just in time.
There was no ground there. Even in the near-darkness I could see that for twenty paces on the other side of the wall there was only the heaving surface of the Ravage. Shock blanched me.
I looked down. By the light of my sword I could see the monsters thrashing in the depths, swelling with obscene triumph as they tried to reach me with their slavering muzzles. I screamed then: Brand's name.
His voice came back to me out of the darkness, surprisingly calm. 'I'm here. I see you. I'm getting a rope.'
I directed a beam of light his way and found him kneeling at the edge of the Ravage, rummaging through a saddlebag with desperate haste. Behind me the roof of the building toppled, dragging much of the wall I was crouched on with it. Somewhere inside my head I heard a scream of pain that was not mine. The stones I knelt on shifted slightly; narrow cracks opened up under me. A battle, the like of which I could only guess at, raged beneath the wall. And the Mirage Makers were losing.
'Hurry!' I cried, unable to keep the panic out of my voice. This was one time when there was no pleasure in the excitement. A stone tumbled, and I heard the glugging plop it made as it hit the surface of the Ravage and was sucked under.
'I have it,' Brand said. 'Listen, Ligea. I'm saddling up a shleth and attaching one end of the rope to the saddle horn. I'll throw the other end to you. Tie it to the wall, as high as you can. That should give it some height. Then you'll have to come across hand over hand as best you can.'
'Yes.' The word was a croak, not my voice at all. I reached up with my sword and used its power to punch a hole through tjie wall above my head. Rock t
dust showered me. Somewhere to my right several more stones fell into the Ravage. Behind me the rest of the'building had disappeared; my part of the wall was all that remained. I began to shake.
My brief hope that the Mirage Makers would help – build a bridge for me perhaps – had long since died. They were already doing all they could just to maintain this section of the wall so I might live a litde longer. I felt their agony and thought of Pinar's son.
Inside my womb my own baby stirred, making itself felt for the first time. My concern for him was real and compelling – and a revelation. Perhaps there was something of the mother in me after all, but I had no time to think about it.
'Are you ready?' Brand asked.
'Ready.'
The rope sailed across the blackness and I caught it easily. Goddess be thanked for Brand. I threaded the rope through the hole and tied it fast.
'When you're ready
,' Brand said.
A portion from the end of the wall tumbled and the rest trembled. I thrust my sword through my belt and seized the rope in both hands. At his end, Brand urged his shleth forward to keep the rope taut, but even so I found my bare toes skimming the surface of the Ravage. I hoisted my feet up and began to swing my way across the horror.
More stones fell, from both ends of the wall this time. The remaining portion was only five or six paces long now. Along the rope I could feel the way the stones shivered.
Something scraped against my leg, drawing blood. I looked down. A green scaled arm, stick-thin and dribbling slime, had reached up to me, raking me with razored claws. It gripped my ankle, digging in
viciously, pulling me down towards an open gape of curved teeth and serrated jaw waiting just below the surface. My forward movement was halted.
I let myself hang by one arm and aimed my cabochon at the creature's body, bringing the gem to light, then changing light to burning coldfire. The golden stream hit the surface of the Ravage and dissipated in a spatter of molten sparks, none of which seemed to harm the thing holding me. In terror, I kicked at it with my free foot, but my bare toes connected only ineffectually with its snout and I ripped my sole open on its serrations. Moreover, the movement made me bounce, dipping me towards the surface simmering below.
'Sod you', I told it and drew my sword. I slashed down, severing the creature's limb at the wrist. The clawed portion remained fastened to my ankle; the rest of the arm fell away into a roiling whirl of blood and slime.
I gagged, forced myself to return the fouled sword to my belt, then swung my legs up to lock my ankles over the rope.
'Ligea.' Brand's anguish hit me. 'The wall -/'
I was already moving, still slung below the rope, but I was only halfway across. At Brand's warning I looked back. The wall was heaving as the last of its foundations dissolved into the corruption. Cracks ripped through the stonework; blocks toppled.
I felt the triumph of the Ravage. I was not going to make it.
Snarling my frustration, I reached once more for my sword and slashed my connection to the wall.
Brand's howl of warning echoed in the air as I hit the surface of the Ravage. My actions were instinctive. I twisted the rope slack around my right wrist. My sword was fitted into my left hand, my cabochon in its,
place… The blade flared into a blaze of gold, bathing me in its light as I was sucked into the fester. I was still screaming the conjurations of self-warding as I was dragged under.
And even while I cried out the words, I knew the limitations of their value. Any movement of mine would negate such warding: the wards might still stand, but I wouldn't be inside them…
And so it was. First there was shock: the disbelief of a body struck by more agony than it was possible for a human being to bear. I was on fire. My skin screamed out its pain; my inner organs shrivelled with their burning; anguish tore my mind, shattering my knowledge of myself. My hands spasmed, tightening my hold on both sword and rope. My body convulsed, twisting me into a foetal travesty. I felt the core of my being, my soul, was touched by the Vortex of the Dead. I diverted as much power as I could to keep the pain at bay.
I slowed my heartbeat, slowed my breathing. I had to use power to push fluid away from my face in order to breathe at all. My sword still flamed to stave off the creatures homing in on me. Through blurred, uncomprehending eyes I saw them: twisted bodies of organic dross, twisted intelligences thriving on my suffering, watchful eyes shining with carnal glee. The beam of power from my blade sputtered ineffectually. Still, they were wary of it. Or perhaps it was the wards that held them off.
I looked upwards. As a fish might see a fisherman on the edge of a lake, I saw Brand: a dark, distorted figure, looking down. The light of my sword glowed beneath the surface, illuminating my agony for him. He was shouting to me, but the words were lost and I didn't have the strength left to enhance my hearing.
A moment later, I started to move and knew he was urging his shleth forward to pull me out. Slowly I began to roll through the foulness towards the edge. Yet as the rope dragged me one way, the Ravage sucked me down another, until I felt I was being torn in two.
It was well Brand did not understand how much pain he was bringing to me. Wave after wave of agony became a blaze that left my mind shrieking. I tried to build new wards. I tried to control my body's need for air. I tried to keep the power of my cabochon alive.
Around me the predators saw their prey being drawn away from them. They snarled and jostled, swooped down on me with claws and fangs bared, only to be turned away at the last moment by the force still glowing in my sword. The Ravage churned. And the blaze of my sword was dimming even as my body approached the edge and safety. The creatures closed in, crowing their anticipation.
One of them, its knobbed skin criss-crossed with sores, tore at my blouse with decayed yellow teeth and bit into my breast, fastening itself to me to suck my blood. In mind-blowing terror, I beat at it with my sword, but there was no strength there, nothing left to fight with. The curled mouth-parts of an obese worm ripped a piece out of my cheek and passed the flesh into its mouth. I was being eaten alive…
I wanted to scream and scream and scream.
But somewhere inside me I knew if I did, if I opened my mouth, the Ravage would enter my throat, burning, corrupting and killing. I kept my lips clamped closed.
Brand's roar of rage reached me, but meant little. I felt I was slipping away. I could see and hear, but movement was beyond me. The Ravage had long since _.
seeped through the remains of my warding; the creatures were now stronger than the power of my sword; the pain was more than I could bear.
I had come to the end of my endurance. I capitulated.
Beyond feeling, I let the rope slip free.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Brand howled his anguish once more and plunged his arm into the putrescence, groping blindly in the poison, refusing to feel the acid agony shrivelling his arm to irreparably cripple him. He managed to touch me, but his fingers slithered on my slime-covered skin, couldn't grasp me as I slid away from him. His weakened fingers skidded over my breast, my neck and the torn side of my face. I couldn't do anything to help him. I scarcely comprehended what he risked in his attempt to save me. Then, as I slipped away, he hooked fingers into the limb of the beast sucking at my breast and pulled it from me.
I fell to the bottom of the foulness, came in contact with the rock beneath the sore, felt myself enclosed in a cocoon of safety. The pain didn't disappear – there were too many raw and torn patches for that – but the agony reduced itself to a manageable level. Better still, I felt the comfort and love of the Mirage Makers. Rationality returned.
They piled concepts into my head, pictures, feelings. Concept: Time. Need. We can keep you safe here, but you cannot stay. You will soon need air. You
must have help. They offered me nothing more than a temporary security.
I said, There is no one.
That was when I saw Temellin in my head, his image startlingly clear.
Temellin? What could he have to do with this? He is too far away. I do not know where he is.
The next picture was of an embryo, and the urge I felt was a desperate desire to follow the child.
Follow the child? I assumed they referred to Pinar's son, and despaired. What kind of advice was that? I was doomed…
Another picture: this one showed me driving my sword tip into my cabochon. Garis had said something about that, hadn't he? But someone else had told me that if you cracked your cabochon, your life leaked away. None of this made sense! I beat down the panic once more.
I asked, remarkably calm, You wish me to die?
Emotion: Exasperation.
I don't know what you mean! Panic crept back, nibbling away the edges of my sanity.
They tried again: images of Temellin, of an unborn child, of a sword in my cabochon.
But for these beings, language was constrict
ing, not liberating. Away from the Shiver Barrens, unable to use the sands, without a human form, how could they use words?
And yet they found a way. They used the only things available: the creatures of the Ravage. Goddess knows what pain it cost them, but the Mirage Makers forced the deformed jaws of those monsters to articulate laboriously formed words, spoken words, that I could hear.
'Shadow self. Your shade.' A grinding, scraping Ravage voice. Four words that chilled my soul.
And then, 'Release your essensa.'
I knew that word. Someone had said something once… Aemid? Temellin? The legions can never kill our essensa. All living things have a life-force we call the essensa. And the word had been in one of the books I'd read, too, but I couldn't remember the context.
'Put your sword through your cabochon. You will not die. We want to save you.' Kind words uttered in ugly rasping sounds, sentiments at variance with vicious teeth and foul breath and gleeful eyes.
Irresolute, I dithered. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps it wasn't the Mirage Makers who spoke. And if it were them, I should still question their motives.
But I was dazed and in pain and tired of the struggle. I looked down at my hand, surprised to see I still clutched my sword. I swapped it to my right hand and looked at my cabochon. Barely any colour remained; my power was almost gone. A shade? It was the best offer I had. The only offer.
Weakly, I placed the tip of the blade on the cabochon and pressed. Feeble the movement might have been, but the blade split the cabochon and drove through my hand to pin it to the rock beneath. There was no pain. I released the sword hilt, but the weapon stayed upright, quivering.
A moment later, the Ravage and its vile creatures disappeared. I was clothed in blackness. All I could see was the faint glowing outline of my sword. A mist began to form where blade met cabochon, seeping out of me, at first formless and indistinct, then becoming a bubble of vapour, mist-white against the black background. I looked into it and saw the shape there: a baby, still incomplete, and embryonic – my son, not
