by Marc Secchia
I drew P’dáronï aside to a wooden bench situated in a vine-wreathed arbour and said to her, “I’ve worked out what to do with your eyes. Let me swiftly set it in motion before we continue to the square.”
“Hurry,” she replied, through ashen lips.
“I couldn’t work out how to restore the nerve signals,” I explained, directing my power into her eyes. “Therefore I propose we bypass the physical optic nerve and translate the signals directly to their receptor sites–essentially, building a magical nerve to perform the same function. The only drawback I anticipate is that a surge of lillia could knock out your sight. You’ll have to see just how sensitive the connection is when your body has finished growing this capability. The change is small but fundamental.”
“I can grow … Mata’s name, Arlak-nevsê–this frightens me.”
“Me too, dearest one. You’re Armittalese and can do much I fear the Eldrik and Umarik cannot.”
P’dáronï shivered as I concentrated deeply, but only for a fraction of a makh. The plan in my mind was clear. There was little to do but set events in motion. Her body must do the rest. She would need to make the connections; her mind would need to learn to interpret the signals, should the mechanism work as I envisaged.
Pensively, I removed the bandages over her eyes. “I hope you won’t need these ever again.”
I drew her to her feet and clasped her slender body close. I nuzzled my cheek against her hair and then raised her chin with a fingertip to kiss her deeply. “P’dáronï-nevsêsh, if the worst should happen today … we must not allow Jyla the power of the Wurm. That is paramount.”
She held me fiercely. “Forever and beyond, Arlak-nevsê!”
My body moved forward, but it felt as though my heart were strapped to a cart straining in the opposite direction. I had anna before given up thoughts of fleeing this fate. Jyla would find me. She always did, motivated by her greed or lust for power or whatever it was that drove a person like her to the edge of madness. And when she found me, she would spoil whatever happiness I enjoyed. I knew I might die. I might lose P’dáronï. Jyla–or P’dáronï or Eliyan or Amal–might kill me. Even my desire for revenge held little sweetness or savour. Jyla must be stopped. Her madness should flourish no longer. I owed it to Janos, to Rubiny, to Orik, to my children, and to the entire Eldrik race.
These thoughts kept my feet moving.
Down into the bowl of the city we walked, perhaps the lowest part of Eldoran save the docks and the dungeons of the Pentacle. Even from afar we heard the chanting of the crowd: ‘Ahammae mor morbinduu,’ they cried. Separation is the penalty. Over and over. But we dared not run. There were soldiers guarding the square, one ring to the outside and a second, much thicker ring around the platform. Between the two rings of soldiers a press of thousands had gathered to watch the spectacle.
Thankfully, several other Eldrik arrived even as we did, and so we were allowed through the first ring of soldiers and into the back rank of this multitude. Carefully we mingled with the blank-faced watchers and slowly worked our way forward.
Above the heads of the chanting, swaying crowd, I could see the white pergola–a simple structure, truly told, akin to a trellised archway that might have graced a garden or a pretty building. But wind hissed through its yawning centre. A capricious breeze ruffled our hair too, a strange tugging as though the air sought with animate intent to draw us into the portal. There the air appeared caved in by some monstrous force beyond my ken. The edges of it were as purple as bruised flesh, a roughly oval space hanging between the pristine pillars of the pergola, and through this tear in the fabric of the world I beheld the low, hunchbacked silhouette of Birial, the Dark Isle, and the gloom of the eternal storm that assaulted it night and day.
I shuddered violently. The breath of Nethe incarnate! The sight of dark seas heaving in the place beyond! I heard the screams of a man being dragged up the platform steps even now. Ay, it took me right back to the man I had once seen Banished, Pedyk.
I kept my thoughts tightly focussed, as P’dáronï was doing. Our thoughts felt as thin as a spider’s gossamer silk stretched between us.
She shook her head slightly.
I could not see the base of the platform, but I noticed immediately that the area to the fore of the steps was packed with the crimson robes of Inquisitors, while upon the stage itself at least fifty Sorcerers stood in close array–overseeing proceedings, I supposed. Robed in their distinctive sherimol cloaks which were so black they became nought but patches of nothingness, the tight phalanx appeared as disembodied heads floating above the populace.
Jyla sat on an upright wooden chair on a platform of her own. That was new. There was no-one within ten paces of her. Dread queen of all she surveyed, I thought, perched upon her throne of blood, lust, and betrayal. As though she felt the touch of my eyes, her head turned to scan the crowd. I Dissembled frantically, knowing she could not possibly recognise me at this distance across the square, for I was robed as any of a hundred ordinary citizens of Eldoran nearby. Or could she? Jyla turned back to the spectacle. The crowd’s roar swelled as a trio of soldiers pitched the man into the portal. The Sorceress smiled.
I nearly leaped out of my cloak.
P’dáronï gazed at her fingers. Wriggling them slightly, turning her hand over to examine the whorls on her fingertips. That tiny action was so poignant I wanted to scream in exultation, or weep, or dance a rowdy Roymerian round-dance! There was a roaring in my ears; I felt as though I were swaying and spread my stance needlessly. Now her lowered lashes trembled. Her eyes rose shyly to behold my face. I could not withhold a gasp. Her irises were violet; the vibrant, energy-charged violet of pure lillia! Often in Hakooi odes eyes are said to sparkle. Her eyes were ablaze.
This I had not anticipated. Gone were the ruined, staring white orbs that I had known and even loved. In their place was … heaven? Glorious restoration? The fires of primordial life? Only Mata Herself could have imagined such an astonishing effect.
P’dáronï’s pupils worked hard, unused to focussing, and I could only imagine the torrent of sensations and impressions rushing into her mind, as though she were standing beneath a huge waterfall. I wiped wetness off my cheeks. My throat was too full to allow a word.
I own she must have read my response in my eyes. P’dáronï’s lips curved upward.
Suddenly, there was dead silence in the square. P’dáronï and I startled as one.
Jyla rose to her feet. Garbed in a long-sleeved robe of her favourite snow-white samite–the Umarite colour of death–she seemed too delicate a flower to command such presence. Her dark hair framed a face of unearthly beauty, the better to mask the evil burning within. Right across the square, we quailed beneath the crushing dominance of her presence. There was physical power in her gaze, coupled with a mental touch like the honed steel of a blade.
“Good citizens of Eldoran!” she said. Apparently needing no amplification, her voice carried to every corner of the square. It stuck me that I was hearing her through my mind as well as my ears. “It gives me great pleasure to bring before our judgement Eliyan the Sorcerer, who used to be First Councillor of the Eldrik! His crimes are well known and I shall not spell them out today. In Banishing this snake of a man, we take a great step forward in cleansing and purifying the gyael-irfa! We honour our ancestor Lucan, though whose incomparable vision all Eldrik will be sanctified and glorified in the hyngreal of Mata-worship. May our sacrifice today be acceptable to you, o great Mata, whom we serve!”
Not for Eliyan any protest. Although he was much thinner than I recalled, and certainly greyer of hair, his dignity was as unassailable as ever. A dozen Inquisitors flanked him. Each held the en
d of a magical lasso called a yoke of binding, which were looped five around his neck, five around his waist, and one about each of his wrists. Without hurry or apparent fear, the Sorcerer moved steadily to the platform. The magical shield rippled as he stepped within.
P’dáronï gripped my hand so hard the blood had stopped in my fingers. I let her.
This was our plan. This part we knew would work. The rest? P’dáronï would have to accomplish that on her own. Mata preserve her!
Upon the platform, a crimson robe called Soymal introduced himself as Head of the Inquisitors. He briefly read the charges, and then turned to Eliyan. In tones that brought to my mind Ulim’s Hunt riding abroad on a depthless Alldark night, he demanded, “Will you confess your crimes before you are sentenced to the Banishment?”
The crowd, who had been hissing ahammae mor morbinduu in perfect cadence, now stopped in perfect accord too, as though they were one mind and one voice. Indeed they were. Thralls of Jyla. Torflies snared in the spider’s web. It made my skin crawl to behold them. Unity, perfection, and utter enslavement–the definitive end of Lucanism.
Eliyan turned to face the crowd. Raising his voice, he said, “You people have no ears to hear. You have no minds with which to process my words. So I will say but this: the woman Jyla is not Mata. Cast yourselves upon Mata’s mercy today and be saved. If not, then may you be doomed to the pits of Nethe, along with all that is foul and unworthy in this world. Woe to you, fair Eldoran! May Mata have mercy upon us all.”
When it was evident Eliyan would say no more, the Inquisitor Soymal stepped forward. “Eliyan of Eldoran, you once held great responsibility among our people. May Mata show your eternal soul no mercy, in recompense for those you led astray. Eliyan, you have been judged and found guilty. Will you accept this punishment and be Banished?”
“I will never submit to evil while I yet draw breath.”
The world flickered.
My hand snaked across the handspan separating me from the first Warlock. The Hassutl of Herliki’s own dagger eased between the man’s ribs and he fell without a sound. I danced sideways. The second Warlock was only just turning toward me. I lunged outward and upward, stabbing the knife through the base of his jaw, slicing through his tongue near the back of the throat, and driving the blade into his brain. I felt P’dáronï leave my side as though she were a quarrel loosed from a bow. She needed only that shiver in the shield caused by two deaths to slip inside, before the Warlocks reacted. They sealed the gap instinctively.
My job was to create mayhem. But we had underestimated the extent of Jyla’s control over the Sorcerers, Warlocks, soldiers, and all the people. They neither shouted, nor panicked, nor did ought but look slightly aggrieved as I slew the two Warlocks. I crouched ready for their counterattack, which never came. Only a mental command:
However many thousand people were in that square turned as one and hurled themselves at me.
I had an instant to appreciate that P’dáronï was doing a far more effective job than I. Perhaps the shield separated the Sorcerers and Inquisitors from Jyla’s authority. Four of the Inquisitors around Eliyan convulsed upon the platform as though they had been poisoned, and had lost all interest in their prisoner. The rest attempted to drag the Sorcerer to the portal. He made it as hard as possible for them, despite the sharp crackling of energies I that carried to my ears even above the shouts of the Sorcerers around him, and despite his apparent inability to use his magic. Someone tried to blast P’dáronï with a fire-missile, but the crafty Armittalese had already shifted elsewhere. The resulting explosion vaporised two black robes.
But I had problems of my own. There were ten thousand hands eager to wrap themselves around my windpipe. Had I not made myself stronger I might have been crushed in the first wave of bodies. As it was, I wriggled my way free from the base of the pile, pilfered a sword from a dead soldier, and tried to find a few more Warlocks to annoy–which was all I was likely to achieve. A blast knocked me backward. I back-handed the blade into someone behind me, and managed by some miracle to dodge the next blast.
Freed for an instant, I saw from the corner of my eye the shield pulsing and heaving as though some dark, huge animal were trapped inside of it.
Suddenly, a titanic force picked me up and slammed me down again. I halted the blackness that threatened to engulf me. Fractured skull? I set it right. And found myself unable to move.
I was stuck in a casing as if I were an insect entombed in amber. Arms, legs, head; I could hardly move a muscle, let alone breathe. My mouth would not move, so powerful was the pincer-grasp upon my jaw. Truly told, as I was hauled upright I saw the Sorceress Jyla crooking her finger in my direction. That was all she needed. A huge block of clear, transparent crystal entombed me. It settled in place with a thump. There was still breath in my lungs, but I was utterly helpless.
“Arlak. You came,” she sneered. “Once again I must thank you for your timely appearance, just as when you betrayed Janos. Do wait upon my pleasure whilst I deal with this little problem.” Jyla turned her attention to the platform. “Lower shield.”
She said it softly, but the effect was immediate. Every Warlock, Sorcerer, and Inquisitor acted in instant obedience. The shield vanished.
“Must I do everything myself?”
Jyla raised her hands. Every person on the platform froze–except for P’dáronï, who flickered so swiftly from place to place that she appeared to be ten people rather than one. A slight frown creased Jyla’s still-beautiful features. Her brows knit together above her black-in-black eyes as though the sight perplexed her. She raised her hands and brought them together. A thunderclap of magic surged out of her, flattening every person in her path and upon the platform as the scythe fells stalks of hewehat grain. It smashed P’dáronï against one of the portal’s pillars.
“No!”
My shouting inside my crystal prison was pointless. I could not reach her! I could not touch her! And neither could she reach or touch me. From within the pile of groaning bodies around Eliyan one of the Inquisitors rose. Her hood fell back to reveal her face. Amal! I groaned inwardly. In Mata’s name, what had Jyla done to her? There she was, responding to Jyla’s silent command to restore the portal’s workings, her face hard and calculating, and her obedience to Jyla unquestioning.
The crystal conducted a strange trembling into my body; as though the Wurm were approaching, but it was not.
P’dáronï rose to her feet. How she accomplished that much beneath the might of Jyla’s death-grip upon the platform, I knew not, but for a second time I observed a flash of surprise cross the Sorceress’ flawless features.
She shouted, “Stop, or I will kill El Shashi!”
“I’ll kill him, I swear!”
“Then kill him now!”
Jyla spared no further word. Again raising her slender hands, she went after P’dáronï with everything she had. She shot across the space between the two platforms without bothering to set foot upon the ground. Fire erupted out of her hands as she winged forward. Truly told, she cared nought for the people still lying sprawled across that platform. But again, the Armittalese shimmered through the air as though she were not truly there. The fire passed through her and exploded against a building on the far side of the square, immolating it.
Amal was single-handedly pulling Eliyan toward the portal, attached Inquisitors and all. P’dáronï swooped in and knocked Amal back.
My prison trembled. I could not understand it. Even Jyla now risked a glance over her shoulder, allowing P’dáronï to d
rive her backward with a searing attack of fire. And then I saw dust explode from the eastern quarter as dozens of jerlak bulled through a wall, widening the gap between the houses that backed onto the square. Black and brown and grey bodies surged into the square in a flood tide, sweeping all before them.
“Shield!” roared Jyla.
Her Warlocks and Sorcerers jerked into motion as though she were a stagesmith ulule working the strings of her dangling puppets. At once the air around the platform wavered. I felt a subtle draw upon my power. Jyla was using the Wurm! She was … dear sweet Mata! With a wave of her arm, the Sorceress levitated Eliyan and the five Inquisitors still left alive to hold him, and pitched them through the portal! No, P’dáronï held them back! Desperately, she thrust Eliyan back from the brink of Banishment. Jyla and Amal conjured up great glowing swords and attacked P’dáronï with them, but she was doing something desperate and draining with her teleportation skills, preventing either of the infuriated Sorceresses from striking a clean blow.
Jerlak rumbled past me, driving the screaming crowd along as though the people were the herd and they were the herders. For a moment all was clouds of dust and screaming men and the thundering of hooves turning the fallen into bloody red pulp. Flame crackled and flesh sizzled as the Warlocks counterattacked. But the jerlak were a force of nature unleashed, an unstoppable avalanche of flesh and bone. Those Warlocks and Inquisitors trapped outside the shield were besieged, overwhelmed, and crushed.
Ah! I could not even grit my teeth in fury! Arlak the sideshow, Arlak the painting hanging on the wall in comparison to the heroic deeds of his wife over on the platform! Arlak the shocked. All these anna of knowing the temperament of jerlak–should I be surprised at this butchery? As my sight cleared I caught my breath. Jyla was locked in hand-to-hand combat with P’dáronï. She had somehow contrived to entrap P’dáronï’s wrist. She wrestled with the taller woman while taking great swings at her with her sword. The blows bounced off some kind of shield. P’dáronï’s eyes spit sparks as she fought back. That I could have lifted my hand to help her! Desperately, I fought to find a way to cut the Sorceress off from the Wurm. I ransacked Janos’ memories …
