Crusader

by Sara Douglass

  It might put Qeteb himself under threat.

  No, better to dispose of the Niah person once and for all the instant her purpose was served.

  There was one further reason why Qeteb did not give Niah’s soulless body to Rox, a reason that he did not even want to voice in his mind, let alone aloud to the other Demons: there was something inside the Niah-woman that stopped him doing it.

  Qeteb could not understand it. There was no logical reason why he shouldn’t have been able to suffuse the Niahwoman’s body with Rox’s soul, but he could not do it. All his exploratory probings had been repulsed. By what? By what?

  He growled, and flexed his fists, and the four watching Demons took a simultaneous, co-ordinated step backwards.

  “Her body is foul and corrupted,” he said, “and I wish Rox to have flesh of this flesh,” he slapped his thigh, “to use. I am honouring him thus.”

  The other four stared at him, then decided to accept his words.

  “Once Rox is installed in the foetus and has control of the woman’s body,” Qeteb continued in a pleasant voice, as if none of the previous unpleasantness had occurred at all, “then we will destroy Sanctuary. We will consume everything within it—”

  There were howls of laughter and hunger.

  “—and then I will set you to hunting down each of DragonStar’s helpers, pitiful that they are, and to slaughtering them as they cringe begging for mercy.”

  “And then DragonStar!” Mot cried, flinging his arms wide.

  “Yes! Then DragonStar,” Qeteb said, and raised his arms heavenward. “And once His Prettiness is disposed of, we can turn our attention to this entire world!”

  “And then?” Sheol asked, sidling close to Qeteb and laying an arm about his waist.

  “Then we can rest awhile, my dear,” Qeteb said, and patted her cheek. “Before the next world.”

  Beyond the apple grove, the wasteland ran with corruption. There were now hundreds of thousands of beasts—both human and their livestock, and formerly wild creatures—that ran the wastes. They had bred in past weeks and the young that they dropped only days after the frenzied copulations that had created them grew at a maniacal rate—and grew into maniacal shapes. The breeding itself had been utterly indiscriminate—men-things with cow-things, roosterthings with bitch-things, bull seal-things with woman-things—and the results of these copulations were worse than horrific, more imaginative than the darkest nightmare, and far more aggressive than the most ill-trained and starved guard dog.

  The wasteland crawled with corruption that could have been barely imagined by the most drug-crazed mind.

  There was an eating ahead. Their master, Qeteb, had issued an invitation.

  But first, Qeteb and his Demons must needs attend the Sacred Groves. Eating aplenty lay there, too, but the Demons were not about to share this meal with anyone. The power of the Mother, and of the Horned Ones, and of whatever other enchantment the Groves harboured was far too potent and far too glorious to share with the misconceived darkness that slavered in the dirt.

  Qeteb stood in the centre of the apple grove and raised his hand above his head.

  He twisted it in an abrupt motion, and the wooden bowl spun down out of the sky.

  It wailed a little as it fell through the air, as if grieving.

  Qeteb caught it in firm fingers, and squeezed the wooden flesh of the bowl until tiny cracks appeared.

  “Careful!” Sheol muttered, shuffling from foot to foot.

  Qeteb raised the bowl as if to strike her with it, then relaxed. “I have never been careful, my dear, only successful.”

  Sheol grinned. “May I be the one to—”

  “We all must shed our blood for this,” Qeteb said, “if we all want to go to the Groves.”

  He put the bowl on the ground and the five Demons grouped about it. Qeteb waved his hand, and the bowl brimmed with water; it was the colour of a murky day.

  “Mother, you cow-bitch,” Qeteb said in a voice that bordered on the pleasant, “we’re coming to eat you!”

  He lifted his hand to his mouth and bit down savagely on his thumb.

  Blood spurted out, and Qeteb let it spatter into the bowl of water.

  He looked up.

  The other four lifted their own hands to their mouths, bit down, and then let their blood spatter into the bowl.

  Large amounts of blood also dribbled down their clothes, and stained their chins.

  One of them had bit too hard, and the severed tip of a thumb fell into the bowl with a splash.

  The water in the bowl turned to blood.

  Qeteb laughed—then he began to howl with mirth. He abruptly stopped, his chest heaving, his eyes bright. “It’s time!” he cried, and he grabbed the hands of the two Demons next to him.

  They all joined hands…and as they did their forms changed. They blurred and ran like candle wax placed too close to a fire, and each of them lifted a foot—now too metamorphosed into free-flowing form to be distinguishable as a foot—and placed it on the rim of the bowl.

  A great wind howled through the apple grove, shaking the trees and knocking over several of the stumps the Demons used as seats.

  It was laughter, the laughter of a world gone completely mad.

  The Demons’ forms flowed completely into a black-green liquid, and then they flowed completely into the bowl of water.

  The laughter quieted, and a new grove, a sacred place, was invaded.

  Chapter 26

  A Gloomy and Pain-Raddled Night

  She did not know exactly why she had come here, but she thought it was because she needed to put an end to it. If she could do that, then perhaps she could move on with the rest of her life.

  And maybe she could come to terms with StarDrifter.

  “First things first,” Zenith muttered as she lifted a hand, clenched and unclenched it to try and control its unwelcome trembling, then grasped the door handle before her.

  It did not budge, and Zenith took that as a sign from the stars that she should not be here. She heaved a sigh of relief, let the handle go, and turned away.

  “My Lady Zenith?” a polite voice inquired behind her.

  Zenith’s throat went suddenly, horribly dry, and she turned her head back to the door.

  It was open now, and a birdman, one of the Lake Guard, stood there.

  “My Lady?” he repeated, ever polite and deferential.

  “I, ah, I wondered if I might, ah, see…”

  “Yes?”

  “I wondered if I might spend a few minutes with Wolf Star.”

  There. The words were out. The action had been stated, even if the motives remained horrifyingly unclear.

  “You want to see WolfStar? My Lord Axis has left very clear instructions that—”

  “Surely they do not pertain to me?” Zenith said. “His daughter? Besides, I have heard that WolfStar is seriously ill, and I thought—” What could she say? Everyone knew she was no Healer! “—that I might sit with him for a while, perhaps while he sleeps, and give the Healers some respite.”

  The guardsman hesitated, and glanced at someone over his shoulder.

  Then he looked back at Zenith, nodded, and opened the door wide. “Please enter, my Lady.”

  Zenith clenched her hands amid her skirts, and walked in, carefully folding her wings so that they touched neither door frame nor guard.

  She entered a small chamber. There were several chairs and stools scattered about, a chest, a table, and a wooden crate packed with bottles of unguents and herbal potions.

  In the far wall was a closed door.

  WingRidge CurlClaw sat on one of the stools, leaning back against the wall, his arms folded, his eyes steady as they gazed at her.

  “What do you here, Zenith? I would have thought that you would be the last person to offer her services to WolfStar.”

  Zenith smiled, bright and artificial. She spread her arms wide and waggled her fingers. “Look! No knives!”

  WingRidge continued to g
aze at her. He did not smile.

  Zenith’s own face lost its feigned humour, and she let her arms fall to her sides. “WingRidge…please.”

  “Why?” He had not unfolded his arms, and his eyes were keener than ever.

  “To put an end to it,” she said. “I need to put an end to it.”

  WingRidge continued to stare a heartbeat longer, then he nodded and stood up. He stepped forward and gave Zenith a brief but warm hug. “I understand. He is asleep at the moment, but sleeps only lightly. You can wake him or not, as it pleases you.”

  “Is there anyone else in there?” Zenith eyed the door nervously.

  “A Healer. Do you want me to ask her to leave?”

  Zenith ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, then she jerked her head in a nod.

  WingRidge looked at her. “I will be out here if you need me.”

  Zenith nodded, unable to speak, her eyes full of unshed tears.

  WingRidge opened the door, and motioned the Healer out.

  It was cool and dim inside, and Zenith jumped when WingRidge clicked the door closed behind her.

  Had it woken WolfStar?

  No…

  There was no movement, and only the sound of slow, deep breathing from a bed placed close to the far wall.

  The room reeked with the stench of infection.

  Gods, Zenith thought, how ill is he?

  She took a step forward, and then another when the sound of the breathing did not alter, and then jerked her eyes about the room, orientating herself.

  A fireplace in the wall to her left, the fire damped down to the glow of coals.

  A table pushed against the same wall, laden with bowls, bandages and several bottles of soap and unguents.

  A pressed metal lamp hanging from a hook in the ceiling, exuding only the faintest of glimmers through the holes punched in its metal sides.

  It sent strange, wobbling, hunching shadows chasing each other about the room.

  A stool sat by the foot of the bed, another sat against the otherwise bare wall on her right.

  And there was the bed itself, clad in snowy linens, patchwork quilts flung over its foot railing.

  A form lay sprawled across the bed.

  It was pale naked in the dim light, save for a towel draped over its hips, and the odd patch of bandage. Its wings, a pale bronze in this light, falling over both edges of the bed and spilling over the floor.

  Arms: one flung so that it extended stiff and rigid, the other curled over the sleeper’s face.

  WolfStar.

  Zenith stood a very long time, terrified to even move should she wake him.

  What she wanted was for WingRidge to miraculously realise that she wanted to leave (now, now, now) and open the door and pull her out before WolfStar could wake to his senses and realise she’d been here.

  But the room remained still and silent, save for the sound of WolfStar’s breathing and Zenith’s thudding heart.

  The fire crackled (traitor fire!) and WolfStar stirred.

  Zenith gasped, and WolfStar’s arm lifted from his face. “Who is there?”

  Zenith opened her mouth, but could not speak. One hand she had clenched in the material of her robe over her breast; the other was lost somewhere among the folds of material about her thigh.

  WolfStar opened his eyes, and blinked. “Niah?”

  “No! No!”

  WolfStar stirred further, and half-raised himself on an elbow. He groaned, and lowered his face as he fought the pain.

  “No,” he finally said, his voice low and riddled with the agony coursing through his body. “It is not Niah at all, is it? You are Zenith.”

  She did not speak.

  “Why are you here?”

  Still she did not speak.

  WolfStar raised his face and stared at her. “Girl, if there is one thing that I know about you, it is that you do not lack courage. Why are you here?”

  “I do not know.”

  His mouth twisted. “Come to crow delight at my downfall, perhaps?”

  She shook her head.

  “No? Then I cannot think what else. I can scarce think that you have come to pass pleasantries with me.”

  He paused, and looked her in the eye. “Not you.”

  He shifted slightly in the bed, and Zenith took a pace back.

  “Oh, come now! I am hardly likely to harm you in this condition, Zenith. Sit down on that stool by the far wall, if you like, but sit down and let me talk to you.”

  WolfStar had never been one to miss a chance when he saw it…and he realised, the instant he knew who his visitor was, that Zenith represented the most magnificent of chances. Here was DragonStar’s remaining sibling, obviously upset and frightened. Deep inside, somewhere so dark that not a glimmer of emotion reached the light of WolfStar’s face, the Enchanter gloated. Zenith could be used, and she could be used to manipulate DragonStar. Niah had been a failure, but Zenith would be a victory. She would bring him power.

  Triumph roared through WolfStar’s being, but not a smile crossed his bland face, nor a sound passed his carefully painthinned lips. His mind raced, constructing the trap.

  Zenith stared at him, then looked at the stool against the wall (a safe, safe distance) before finally sitting down on the stool at the foot of the bed.

  WolfStar smiled, a careful expression that contained surprise, some satisfaction and a great deal of pain. He relaxed back against the pillow. “Has anyone told you what has happened to me?”

  “No.”

  “The Demons raped me, Zenith. Each one took their pleasure—if that it can be called—many times.”

  Zenith froze. A tightness in her chest made her realise she’d also stopped breathing, and she jerked in a shallow breath.

  “Surprised?” he said, and laughed hollowly. “Yes, you are. And no doubt pleased.”

  “Having experienced it myself,” she said, her voice surprising her with its eagerness, “I would not wish it on anyone else.”

  “I thought I lay with Niah.”

  “She was there.”

  “But you were, too?”

  She nodded, and then, to her horror, began to cry with great gulping breaths.

  “Zenith…Zenith…” WolfStar stirred as if his injuries made him totally unable to comfort Zenith.

  “I only had mind for Niah,” he eventually said. “I thought that she would destroy you, and I thought only to enjoy her strength.”

  Zenith continued to sob, slightly louder now.

  “But I was wrong. You had the strength to defeat her, and I have ever admired strength and—”

  “Oh, shut up!” Zenith slammed a fist down on the bed.

  “Tell me why you are here,” he said quietly.

  She turned her head away.

  “Why did you come back to me, Zenith?”

  She whipped her eyes back to him. “I came to see you so I could put some of my own demons to rest!”

  “And have you?”

  She shook her head.

  WolfStar extended his hand. “Please, take my hand, Zenith.”

  She ignored him.

  “Please…I think that you and I are alone in this night, and I think that you and I both need some comfort.”

  “Not from you!”

  “Nevertheless,” he said, “I am all that shares this gloomy and pain-raddled night with you. Take my hand.”

  And eventually, she stretched out her own hand and took his.

  Later, when she had gone, WolfStar lay on the bed, and allowed himself to laugh.

  Chapter 27

  Axis Resumes a Purpose

  DragonStar looked at the group before him, and wondered at how he would tell them the worst of possible news. They had trusted him, and he had not been able to provide for them.

  Now he had to tell them that, in all likelihood, the entire struggle had been in vain. That Sanctuary would fall. And if Sanctuary fell, then, in all likelihood, they would die.

  “Well?” Axis said.

 
; He stood belligerently before his son, hands on hips, dressed in his habitual, comfortable black clothes, booted, armed, and prepared for war.

  Azhure stood beside him, calmer, but DragonStar knew her well enough to know that Azhure’s exterior calm was a face she’d cultivated over the years to provide an antidote to Axis’ tendency for confrontation. Internally, she would be as angry, as frightened, and as unsure as everyone else in the room.

  DragonStar glanced behind his parents. Many were here: the four witches still in Sanctuary—Faraday, with so many mental and emotional barriers in place she looked like a piece of fragile Corolean glass; Leagh looking wan and exhausted; Zared, Herme and Theod, almost as belligerently anxious as Axis; StarDrifter, looking distracted (and DragonStar wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that Zenith wasn’t in her quarters and couldn’t, for the moment, be found); FreeFall and EvenSong, looking as useless as DragonStar himself felt; several of the Avar Banes, and Sa’Domai, the Chief of the Ravensbund. Sa’Domai looked, by far, the most collected person in the room, and DragonStar supposed that anyone who spent much of their life dodging collapsing icebergs and battling the storms of the Icebear Coast might possibly find interstellar Demons a mild threat by comparison.

  “I have no good news,” DragonStar said, unable to keep the bitter twist from his mouth. He gestured helplessly. “I hope that Urbeth will do what she can to aid the Mother and the Sacred Groves, but I cannot rely on her being able to stop the Demons. If the Demons manage to feast on the power of the Sacred Groves, then—at the moment—I cannot think what might stop them.”