“You don’t need to open the gate,” said Caina. “Kharnaces has already opened one for us.”
“The Conjurant Bloodcrystal?” said Annarah.
“I’ve seen it,” said Caina. “It’s a bloodcrystal, yes, but it’s also a gate to the netherworld. Like a wound in the walls between the worlds. I wouldn’t want to touch it, but I suspect anything that does touch it will be sucked into the netherworld.”
“What are you suggesting?” said Annarah.
Caina sheathed the valikon at her belt and looked at Morgant. “Grab the other end and lift.”
###
Callatas dropped to one knee, panting. He didn’t think that blood was pouring from his ears, but it certainly felt that way, and every inch of his rejuvenated body ached from the effort of channeling so much arcane power over so short of a time, from so many near misses when Kharnaces’s attacks had almost hammered through his defenses.
It would not be long now. His wards trembled like a rope holding too much weight, ready to snap at any moment. Kalgri bled from a half-dozen minor wounds, her movements slower and more ragged than they had been at the start of the fight. She had cut down dozens of the undead creatures, but there was no life force for the Voice to feed on, no source of fresh power for her. Sooner or later the endless waves of undead baboons and warriors would wear her down.
He should have used the Star when he had the chance. Now Callatas could not even manage that, not without abandoning his defenses. He did not even have enough strength left to call upon the Staff once more. In his desperation, he had considered using the Staff to escape to the netherworld, but that course was all but certain suicide. Rested and with his full powers, traveling to the netherworld would have been dangerous.
In his exhausted state, it would have been certain death.
All he could do was maintain his warding spells, and try to think of a way to prevail.
“Do you now see?” said Kharnaces. The Great Necromancer glided forward, his robes still pristine and white, his golden mask and bracers and torque gleaming. “Do you understand how this was inevitable?” The Conjurant Bloodcrystal whirled behind him, now thirty feet across, pulsing like a dead sun, green fire blazing along its circumference. “Behold the weakness of your flesh, the feebleness of your will, the impotency of your power. Humanity is a disease upon this world, and you cannot improve it. You cannot perfect it. And in the end, you do not even have the power to save the old humanity, let alone create a new one.”
Callatas tried to snarl out a defiance, but could not even draw the breath to do it.
It seemed that Kharnaces was right.
Another blast of necromantic fire snarled around Callatas's wards, and he almost died. Only a supreme effort of will kept his wards from collapsing. One more attack like that, and Callatas was finished.
“It is fitting,” said Kharnaces, coming to a halt a few yards from Callatas, “that you shall die with the old humanity you despised so much. In your own limited way, you grasped the truth. The old humanity is too corrupt to be saved. But there will be no new humanity.” Green fire whirled around his skeletal hands. “You have failed. There…”
There was a flash of something golden behind Kharnaces.
Callatas blinked, puzzled.
Three figures hastened across the hilltop, kicking aside the bones and armor of the destroyed undead creatures. One was Annarah, her pyrikon shifted back to its bracelet form. The other two were Caina Amalas and Morgant the Razor, and between them they carried a peculiar golden box adorned with Maatish hieroglyphics.
They ran right at the Conjurant Bloodcrystal, invisible to the nagataaru-possessed undead swarming across the hilltop towards Kalgri.
For the moment the sheer absurdity of watching the Balarigar and a legendary assassin haul a golden chest between them stunned Callatas. What the hell did they think they were doing? Looting the Tomb? The world was about to end, and they were stealing valuables…
Then Callatas realized what was happening.
Of course. Of course! It was obvious. Why had he not realized it sooner? A flare of desperate hope blazed within Callatas.
He looked back at Kharnaces. The Great Necromancer continued his endless lecture, while Kalgri whirled and cut and stabbed among the undead.
A distraction. Callatas had to distract him. Caina and Morgant were only a few dozen yards from the Conjurant Bloodcrystal.
“Wait!” said Callatas. “Wait!”
Kharnaces continued gathering power for the killing spell.
“You’re right!” said Callatas. “I see that now. You were always right.”
The undead upon the hilltop went utterly motionless. Kalgri stepped back, breathing hard, her blue eyes wide and wild, sweat covering her face. Callatas could not recall the last time he had seen her look so tired.
“You confess your error at the very end,” said Kharnaces. For the first time the Great Necromancer sounded less than serene. Now he simply sounded puzzled. “Why? For one hundred and fifty years you have pursued your futile course. Why change your mind at the end?”
“You persuaded me,” said Callatas, wishing Caina and Morgant would move faster. “With your eloquence. And power. You were always right. I can see that now.”
“No,” said Kharnaces. “This is an attempt to deceive me. But why? The Conjurant Bloodcrystal cannot be stopped. What use in deceiving me?” He fell silent for a moment. “Unless…”
Kharnaces turned towards the Conjurant Bloodcrystal, and saw Caina and Morgant and Annarah.
###
Caina’s arms and shoulders ached from the effort of hauling the box of canopic jars up the stairs to the top of the hill. After the first few hundred steps the effort had started to tell upon her.
The sight of the destruction upon the hilltop made her forget the ache in her shoulders.
Thousands of bones littered the hilltop, many of them charred and smoking. Patches of fire burned here and there, left over from the colossal energies that Kharnaces and Callatas had unleashed upon each other. Hundreds of undead creatures moved along the hilltop, converging upon Kalgri, who looked exhausted and wounded. Callatas himself was on one knee, leaning upon the Staff of Iramis for support, the Star of Iramis glowing against his chest. Kharnaces hovered a dozen paces from the Grand Master, his white robe stirring in the wind, his face concealed beneath the serene golden mask of a Great Necromancer. Titanic power swirled around Kharnaces, layer after layer of interlocking wards. Callatas was powerful, but Kharnaces was stronger, and would have been the arcane equal of the Moroaica or Rhames or the Sage Talekhris.
Yet even Kharnaces’s power was nothing next to the horrid might of the Conjurant Bloodcrystal.
It had swollen to forty feet across, and floated a few feet above the ground, spinning faster and faster. Thousands of hieroglyphs blazed upon its surface in green fire, disappearing and reappearing. To the vision of the valikarion, it was the most powerful thing she had ever seen, stronger than the Ascendant Bloodcrystal, strong enough to rip the world in half.
And yet, at the same time, it was a hole into nothingness, a rip in the walls between the world. Caina realized that the bloodcrystal had already begun its work, that it was simultaneously a mighty bloodcrystal and a tear in the barrier to the netherworld. It would grow and grow until it ripped apart the barrier entirely, and the nagataaru swarmed through to kill.
She urged herself a little faster, Morgant grunting next to her as he gripped the box.
“What is this?”
Kharnaces’s calm voice rolled over the hill.
“What utter madness is this?” Caina risked a glance backwards and saw the Great Necromancer’s mask turned towards her. Callatas stared at her, his expression livid with desperate emotion. Likely he had realized what she intended. Kalgri stared at Caina as well, though the Huntress only looked baffled.
“What are you doing, Balarigar?” said Kharnaces. “Your role has ended.” His serene confidence never wavered. “The ti
me of humanity has ended, and you may rest from your labors.”
Caina kept going. Kharnaces did not consider them a threat, but the minute he realized what she planned…
“This resistance is futile,” said Kharnaces. “You…”
His voice trailed off.
Some of the glow from the Conjurant Bloodcrystal flashed off the box’s gilded lid.
Kharnaces might have been a Great Necromancer, and he might have been Undying for twenty-five centuries, but he still flinched in the moment of realization as violently as a living man.
“No!” he thundered. “Stop them! All of you! Stop them now! Now!”
Arcane power shone around him as he started a spell, and every single one of the undead turned and raced towards Caina and Morgant and Annarah.
But it was too late.
“Now!” shouted Caina, and together she and Morgant heaved, flinging the gilded box into the spinning globe of darkness. The box touched the dark sphere, and it was sucked into the bloodcrystal, hurtling away from them at a tremendous speed into an infinite black void. Caina caught a brief glimpse of the box tumbling away, seemingly hundreds of yards away, and then it vanished.
Kharnaces screamed.
The Great Necromancer threw back his head, his arms outthrust, and purple fire and shadow erupted from his hands and his head, shooting skywards like glowing pillars. Caina flinched back, fearing that Kharnaces was about to unleash his power, but his wards unraveled in flares of burning light. His body ripped itself apart in a spray of bones and torn white cloth and glittering gold, and a hooded wraith of purple flame and shadow hurtled across the hilltop, drawn inexorably towards the Conjurant Bloodcrystal. Within the hooded wraith Caina caught a brief glimpse of the image of Kharnaces himself, his face twisted with insane fury as he howled silent curses at her.
Then the Harbinger and Kharnaces’s spirit touched the Conjurant Bloodcrystal and vanished.
The Conjurant Bloodcrystal let out a tearing metallic scream, and it began to wobble. Strange bulges appeared on the sphere, like bubbles rising from its core, and as Caina watched, it began to shrink, compressing in on itself like her pyrikon did when it shrank from its staff form.
And like Kharnaces’s wards, the bloodcrystal was starting to unravel.
Kharnaces had designed it to destroy the world. Evidently he had not thought to design it to allow a nagataaru lord to pass through it. The flows of power within it were snapping apart and lashing around each other, and when it finally collapsed…
“Run!” shouted Caina, and she turned, Morgant and Annarah running with her towards the stairs. She could not see Callatas and Kalgri, not through the crowds of undead creatures, but she had no doubt they were fleeing for their lives as well.
Or they were coming to kill her and take the Seal.
The Conjurant Bloodcrystal blazed with green fire, the metallic scream growing louder.
“We won’t make it!” said Annarah, turning as cast a spell. A shimmering white ward sprang into existence around theme.
Caina grabbed Annarah’s shoulder with her left hand. “Help her!” Her ghostsilver pyrikon began glowing, its power aiding Annarah, and the warding spell grew brighter. Would that be enough? Caina didn’t know…
The Conjurant Bloodcrystal exploded.
Green fire consumed the world, devoured the hilltop and the sky and the jungles blow.
The fire struck Annarah’s ward like a thunderclap, and pain flooded through Caina. The ward held for a moment as the pulse of green fire passed it, and then collapsed. A wall of hot air struck Caina, throwing her backwards, and she hit the ground hard.
Everything went black.
Chapter 24: The Next Battle
Kylon saw a wagon and walked towards it, pulling off his armor as he did, followed by his sweat-drenched shirt. The marginally cooler air of the twilight felt good against his feverish skin, and he dropped his armor on the ground, keeping his grip upon his sheathed valikon.
Then he sat down, leaned against the wagon’s wheel, and closed his eyes with an exhausted sigh.
The fighting had gone on the rest of the day, with Tanzir’s men pursuing of the broken army of the Grand Wazir. Only when the sun had begun to dip behind the western horizon had Tanzir at last called the army back, summoning the men to make camp north of the ravine.
There was work to be done. The remnants of Erghulan’s army would flee back to Istarinmul, and Tanzir’s army needed to prepare for the siege of the city. There were hundreds of wounded men to be tended, and spoils to be taken from the enemy camp, though Kylon did not care about spoils.
There was work to be done, but Kylon just needed a moment to rest.
He closed his eyes and leaned against the wheel, breathing slowly. One of the men he had sailed with in the Kyracian fleet had liked to say that after a battle every man wanted a skin of wine and a woman. Kylon knew exactly what he meant. Yet he was too tired to bother finding a skin of wine, and the woman he wanted was hundreds of miles away.
Gods of storm and brine, he hoped that Caina was alive.
But he could do nothing for her now.
A rest. Just a moment’s rest, and then he would find something useful to do.
Kylon fell asleep, and in his dreams he thought he heard a familiar, sardonic voice.
“The silver fire,” murmured the Knight of Wind and Air, “is your only salvation…”
“Lord Kylon?”
Kylon looked up, his hand moving to the valikon’s hilt.
He hadn’t been asleep for long. Night had not yet fallen, but around him a score more wagons had parked, and dozens of large tents had been raised. Lady Claudia stood over him, frowning in concern, a waterskin in her hands.”
“Are you well?” said Claudia. “Were you wounded after Rhataban’s death?”
Kylon shook his head. “No. I just wanted to rest for a moment. I fear I may have fallen asleep.”
She snorted. “Yes, a grievous crime. You defeated a Master Alchemist in single combat, slew a score of kadrataagu, and saved the heir to the throne of Istarinmul, but you fell asleep after your exertions? Unforgiveable!”
Kylon smiled a little. “I had heard Imperial noblewomen were demanding.”
“You’ll forgive me after this,” said Claudia, passing him the waterskin.
“What is it?” said Kylon.
“Watered wine,” said Claudia. “I thought if you weren’t wounded, then you were likely thirsty.”
“Gods, yes,” said Kylon. He pulled away the stopper and lifted the skin to his throat. The wine was bitter and weak, but after the battle it tasted like the finest nectar ever served in the Tower of Kardamnos. “Thank you. That must have been a lot of trouble.”
Claudia laughed. “Actually, it wasn’t. Lord Tanzir asked me to help look after the wounded.” Her smile faded. “And there are a lot of them, alas. I came here to help set up the field hospital, and I happened to find you. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Just a moment of rest,” said Kylon. He grunted and got back to his feet. “And I should rejoin Nasser and Laertes and the others. I doubt the Huntress is here at all. Nevertheless, I should guard Lord Tanzir and Prince Sulaman in case I am wrong.”
Claudia frowned. “Why do you think she is not here?”
“Because we won the battle,” said Kylon. “If she was here, she would have struck before the battle was lost. Then she could have gorged herself on the deaths as Erghulan slaughtered our army.” He shook his head. “She must have gone with Callatas to Pyramid Isle.”
Claudia nodded. “I feared that as well.”
“And I was a fool not to go with her,” said Kylon. “I should have insisted. I…”
“If you hadn’t,” said Claudia, “every last one of us would be dead. I know that is small comfort, but it is true.”
Kylon said nothing, but he managed a nod.
“I do understand,” said Claudia in a soft voice. “What is it to watch someone you love put themselves into dan
ger again and again.”
“Aye,” said Kylon. Did she understand what it was to watch someone you loved die front of you, powerless to help them? Given how her brother had died, perhaps she did. He shook his head and dismissed the thought. “It is…difficult.”
They stood in silence for a moment.
“And I also understand why Caina fell in love with you,” said Claudia.
Kylon blinked. “What?”
She grinned. “Now that I’ve seen you with your shirt off, anyway.”
Kylon blinked at her, and then she burst out laughing at his expression. He realized that she was teasing him, trying to snap him out of his gloomy mood. He suddenly felt embarrassed, but he supposed that was the point. It was hard to wallow in gloom during a moment of acute embarrassment.
“How is your son?” he said, hoping to change the subject. He stooped, recovered his shirt and his armor, and started pulling them on.
“Well,” said Claudia. “Kirzi and her husband kept watch over him, thank the gods.” She sighed. “A battlefield is no place for a child. Or for anyone, really. I wish I could have kept him safe in Malarae.” Her green eyes grew troubled. “But I suppose none of us have gotten what we wanted.”
“Battleborn,” said Kylon, slinging on his baldric and adjusting the straps holding the sheathed valikon.
“I’m sorry?” said Claudia.
“You could call him Corvalis Battleborn,” said Kylon. “Like the barbarians of the northlands do, given that he was born on a battlefield.”
Claudia raised a blond eyebrow. “He was born in a looted shoe shop, I will have you know.”
“I know,” said Kylon. “I was there. And the city was a battleground at the time.”
“I suppose so,” said Claudia. “We’ll have to start calling him Corvalis Battleborn. I suppose my brother would have been pleased…”
She fell silent as a gaunt man in the bright robes of a monk of the Living Flame approached.
“Lord abbot,” said Claudia with a quick bow.
“Karzid,” said Kylon, his hand coiling into a fist.
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