Guardians of the Keep

by Carol Berg

  “You will have to hurry, my lord. A moment’s earlier arrival and I would have been able to serve you better.” Exeget’s puffy face had crumpled into a gray ruin, as if time had leaped forward fifty years. But the Preceptor raised his clenched fists and closed his eyes. The rectangular doorway appeared in the shivering air. “Ce’Aret, Ustele, hurry,” he said, gasping. “Y’Dan, Gar’Dena my brother . . .”

  Gar’Dena shoved the Preceptors through the portal one by one. “My lady!” he called, gesturing for me to come. But I could not go. Not yet.

  Karon gazed down at Gerick. “You must come with us.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t belong here.”

  “You’re wrong.” And Gerick let his false image dissolve and with it the walls and the hearth and the trappings of ordinary life. He stood in the stark, black hall of the Lords, his truth revealed, his diamond eyes glittering in the darkness. “There is no going back, even if I wanted. This is exactly where I belong.”

  Karon did not flinch or falter. “It doesn’t matter. Not even this. Nothing . . . nothing . . . is irrevocable. I, of all men, can bear witness to that. Come with us who care for you.”

  “I’ve freed the woman,” said Gerick, folding his arms across his breast. “Take her away quickly or I’ll end up killing you both.” Then he turned his back on us and walked slowly toward the dais where the black thrones sat vacant.

  From the opposite end of the hall where a tall, wide doorway broke the line of the colonnade, running footsteps entered the vast chamber. “My lord,” cried a familiar voice, echoing in the empty vastness. “Three Zhid warriors right behind me!” A youth wearing Drudge’s garb burst through the gaping door, his arms laden with belts and scabbards bristling with swords and knives. He sped across the black, mirrored floor into the light, shooting me a cheerful grin. “We’ve come to rescue you.”

  Paulo dumped his bundle of armaments on the floor beside Karon. “I come by these from the guards’ stores. Thought you might have need.”

  Karon wrenched his gaze from Gerick’s back and smiled at Paulo. “You are irreplaceable, my friend.” Dragging a sword and a knife from the tangle, he took up a position between the door Paulo had just entered and the portal where Gar’Dena was disappearing into the council chamber.

  “Does the young master have a sword on him—or might he want this one?” Paulo called after Karon, pulling a blade from the pile and gesturing at Gerick’s back.

  “I don’t think he needs one. You and Seri, get through the portal. I’ll wait for Gerick.” His gaze embraced me, and he waved his sword toward the enchanted doorway. “Go. I’ll bring him. I promise.”

  But before I could convince myself to leave, a nauseating wave of dark power pulsed through the vast chamber. With a thunderous boom, the portal vanished. Exeget cried out and slumped to the floor. The little gold case of silestia fell out of his hand, clattering across the dark surface. At the same time, three Zhid warriors burst from the far end of the room, swords drawn and Karon stepped forward to meet them.

  While Paulo, hands on his waist, looked uncertainly from Karon to Gerick and back again, I ran to the fallen sorcerer. “Can I help you, Preceptor?” I asked, searching for some wound or hurt to ease. Sitting with his head drooped between his knees, he was bleeding from his mouth and nose, and wheezing like unoiled bellows.

  “Too late.” After carefully wiping his fingers on his robe, he held up his right hand. One of his fingers was black. “Unfortunate timing . . . for me, but fortunate for the Prince and the boy. At least the Lords will have nothing left of me to examine should they triumph in the end.”

  “You were the one who told me to be silent and not to be afraid.”

  Even in his mortal distress, the sorcerer managed a sly half-smile. “Dassine said you were the key to everything. May you find strength to finish it. We owe you”—he coughed and fought for breath, flailing his hand until he caught my own in an iron grip—“trust you . . . if all fails . . . you must finish . . . for the worlds . . .”

  “Master, what do you want me to do?” I said. From behind me came shouts and the clash of steel.

  Exeget’s head dropped again as he fought for every painful breath. He looked to be beyond hearing. When his cold hand slipped from mine, a small gold canister lay in my palm, identical to the canister that had fallen out of his hand when the portal collapsed—the one that still lay beside my foot.

  Exeget began choking. I slipped the gold case he’d given me into my pocket and rolled him to his side. A stream of bloody spittle dribbled from his mouth . . . his lips black . . . and his fingernails . . . the one finger wholly black . . . The silestia had been poisoned, designed to slay Gerick before he could become the Destroyer. The case on the floor was the one he had used. Therefore the case in my pocket must contain the uncontaminated oil of silestia.

  A shadow fell over me, and I looked up to see Madyalar staring down at the Exeget. The Preceptor vomited up blood and lay still.

  “He needs help,” I said.

  “I would as soon nurse a snake. The fool looks dead already. All I want from him is the silestia—” She wandered away, scuffing her foot on the floor, seeking the gold case.

  “Plotting until the end,” I whispered to the pale, still face. “If you can hear me, know that I understand your sacrifice. Gods have mercy . . . I will see it done.” Quickly, carefully, making sure that Madyalar could not see, I switched the two, placing the case with the poisoned ointment in Exeget’s pocket, and the case with the real oil on the floor as if it had rolled out of his hand. Then I backed away from him, not checking to see if he yet lived, not daring to think of what I had just done. Gerick could not be anointed. If we could not save him . . . if Karon died and Gerick chose to be a Lord and the anointed Heir . . .

  Only moments later, Madyalar crowed in triumph as she found the two cases. The one that she found on the floor, she named as the poison that had killed Exeget and threw it, spinning and clattering, across the floor. The one that she found hidden in Exeget’s pocket—the poison—she dropped into her own. I had given little consideration to gods since the day Karon burned, but on this day I needed every aid the universe could provide. Good Vasrin, holy Annadis, mighty Jerrat, if you can hear the cries of an unbeliever, let Karon prevail. . . .

  One of the Zhid lay dead on the floor, but Karon’s battle with the other two was growing desperate. As one engaged him, the other circled and attacked from a different direction. Relentlessly. Their swords rang and blazed with sparks when they struck the floor or one of the black pillars as Karon dodged in and out of them seeking a bit of shelter. And, of course, the battle was being fought with more than swords. Karon’s every stroke split the advancing darkness, every parry pushed back the night as if it was yet a third enemy that pursued him. The air was so filled with enchantments that it crackled. My hair floated outward from my head, and my skin was flushed and tingling. Then, in an explosion of green fire, Karon’s blade snapped.

  “We’ve got to help him, Paulo.” I had felt him come up behind me.

  “There is no help for him.”

  I jumped up and whirled about. Gerick, not Paulo, stood behind me, fists clenched at his side, watching the battle with his diamond eyes. Paulo had dragged another sword from the pile of weapons and was running toward Karon. “My lord!” he shouted, as Karon staggered backward, fending off two long blades with only a dagger and the broken sword hilt. “Here, my lord!”

  Karon ducked, ran, and flattened his back to a pillar, dropping the broken weapon and snatching the new sword Paulo tossed him. Even from my distance I could see him bleeding . . . from his shoulder, his arms, from one leg. “Get away, boy!” he cried harshly, as another bolt of fire split the air beside him. Paulo threw himself flat to the floor, skidding twenty paces. When the two Zhid were engaged with Karon again, Paulo scrambled to his feet.

  “It is Parven and Ziddari he fights,” said Gerick, softly, walking slowly toward the battle, mesmerized
, as if he were walking in his sleep.

  I followed him. “These are just images, then? They’ve chosen to appear in this form?”

  “No. These are real warriors, but the Lords have possessed them, using the warriors’ bodies but their own skills. If these two fall, they will bring two more and fight again. Notole seeks another host even now. They won’t stop.”

  “You were willing to help me, to let us go free. Can you help him now?”

  “Even if I chose to do so, I cannot. You heard me swear never to raise a hand against the Lords. They have called on me to fulfill my oath. I’ve told them that I won’t fight him. But I cannot aid him either.” Gerick paused and looked down at Exeget who lay in the pool of blood. He bent down and touched the Preceptor’s neck for a moment, then straightened up and nudged the body with his foot. Stepping over Exeget, he moved yet closer to the battle. With silent apologies to Exeget, I stepped over the fallen Preceptor and followed Gerick.

  Oppressive, soul-chilling dread filled the chamber, cold horror that rolled in like a black tide, shredding the spirit, proclaiming that all was hopeless, that the end was upon us.

  There is no escape. . . .

  Do you feel it, vermin? Make a portal to Avonar and its passage will incinerate your flesh. . . .

  Prepare for your anointing, young Lord. In moments there will be no living Heir.

  I believed they were right. “Gerick, he is your father. In the name of all that lives—”

  Before I could finish my plea, Paulo barreled out of nowhere, grabbed my arm, and pressed a short sword into my hand. His own blade was much too long for him. “We’ve got to help—Blazing shit!” He stared at Gerick’s face. “You damned fool! You donkey’s ass! You went and did it! I thought you had a brain in you. Jerrat’s balls, you’re stupider than me.”

  “How dare you speak to me?” said Gerick, spinning to face him, stepping forward.

  “How dare I? It’s how dare you.” Paulo waved his sword wildly at Karon’s plight. “Do you see what’s happening?”

  “I see everything.” Gerick stepped closer.

  Suddenly Paulo threw the weapon to the floor, and with the flat of his hand on Gerick’s chest, he shoved Gerick backward. “You’re doing this, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t touch me.” Gerick did not raise his hand, but his rage swelled, a ferocious storm that made the air shiver.

  “This is just what you said you’d do. It’s going to be killing and nothing but killing forever.”

  “Try me, horse boy. Do you think you could possibly take me down?”

  “For the Prince, I could. For the Lady Seri, I could.” With each phrase, Paulo shoved Gerick again and again, until Gerick stumbled, and Paulo threw himself on top of him. The two crashed to the floor.

  “Paulo, don’t!” I yelled, frantically trying to pull him away before Gerick could turn his power on him.

  “Mighty Lords!” Madyalar let out a ferocious cry. “The young Prince!”

  A roar like a hurricane blasted the room. A torrent of darkness swirled about us, ripping the light, dancing, screaming, tearing at clothes and hair, flaying us with its power. The air itself vented its anger; the stones about us groaned with the whirling tumult.

  Kill the insolent fool, Lord Dieste! bellowed Parven, almost splitting my skull. Blind him! Take his heart and eat it!

  Burn his skin away for daring to touch you—then taste of his pain! said Notole. Use the power to destroy these vermin who would enslave you.

  Dread and horror gnawed at my soul, clouding my senses, threatening to tear my heart from my breast. An unseen hand slammed me backward. I could scarcely see as the two boys rolled on the floor, grunting and gasping, clawing and twisting each other in a tangle of robes and arms and legs and tunics. One and then the other was on top, Paulo pummeling away wildly, Gerick snarling and cursing, twisting Paulo’s limbs until they must surely break. He’s going to be dead, I thought—dear, faithful Paulo. My very soul felt bruised. The fury raged without slack . . . without end . . . slashing . . . battering . . . until Gerick staggered to his feet at last, leaving Paulo in a crumpled heap.

  Silence. Utter. Complete. The tempest ceased. Thunder vanished. No clash of swords. No heaving breath. No flashes of lurid light from under the colonnade.

  Madyalar screeched and chortled, extending her finger toward the still forms sprawled on the shining floor. “Four lie dead! The mad Prince has fallen!”

  Gerick’s turned his head this way and that, his diamond eyes glittering in the uncertain light, as Madyalar knelt before him, dipping her finger in the gold case she had taken from Exeget’s robes. “My Prince, give me your hands. Let me anoint them with the true oil of silestia.”

  But, of course, it was not the true oil. . . .

  I could not allow it. Not even here at the end of everything. He was my son. “No!” I cried. “Gerick, don’t let her touch you!” And at the very same moment another voice cried out the same.

  Karon stepped from behind a pillar just behind us, his sword shining a brilliant green. “Still no good, Madyalar. You’ve miscounted—forgetting your own colleague. Exeget has won the last round between you.”

  The woman gaped.

  “Now, quickly!” Karon threw down his sword, closed his eyes, and held out his hands, and with his deep and shaking breath, his whispered word, and a grinding rumble as if the earth had split open, a portal gaped before us. This shimmering doorway did not open into some gracious lamplit room, nor even into a cold stone council chamber, but into a pit of absolute blackness from which came sounds so fearful as to make the strongest heart blanch. This is why they had risked sending Karon to Zhev’Na. With all portals to Avonar shut down, only the Heir of D’Arnath could open another way. This way. Through the Breach itself.

  Karon touched my hand. “We need to go now. Gerick, you must come with us. I’ll carry Paulo.”

  My son’s arms were wrapped about his middle. His terrible eyes pierced the gloom. So fragile in his darkness. So young.

  The Lords’ wrath spun and surged around us. Footsteps rang on the stone beyond the great doors. They were coming.

  “Ah, holy gods . . .” Karon’s voice broke. “We will not leave you here. If you stay . . . I will fight them until the last day of the world to set you free. I swear it.”

  “And I with him,” I said, shaping the story yet again in my mind and heart, praying he could hear me. You have been blessed and beloved from the day we first knew you. . . .

  “Take care of Paulo, Seri. Get him out of the way.” As Karon retrieved his sword, I stepped to the battered boy on the floor.

  “Wait!” Gerick held out one hand in warning. The world paused in its turning . . . and then, with his other hand, he reached out to Paulo.

  Paulo’s eyes blinked open. He grabbed Gerick’s hand, staggered to his feet, and leaned on my son’s shoulder, grinning through his swollen eyes and bloodied lips. “We’d best go then. Lead on, my lord. We’ll be right behind.”

  The creases of worry and grief graven on Karon’s blood-streaked face softened. For one moment he took my hand, his own wide hand near crushing my fingers. “As you say. Stay close, all of you.”

  And as the raging fury of the Lords erupted behind us, and Madyalar crumpled to the floor, howling as Exeget’s poison ate its way into her body, Karon led the three of us into the Breach between the worlds.

  CHAPTER 45

  We could not travel D’Arnath’s Bridge through the Breach, for no Gate or entry point existed in Zhev’Na. We had to traverse chaos itself. Karon led the way through the directionless tumult, his bare, blood-streaked arms stretched out in front of him, palms outward. No solid path lay beneath our feet. Although his power enfolded us, creating a small island of stability that allowed us to move forward, he could not shelter us completely from the grotesque visions, the unending wails of souls lost in madness, the unnamed terrors that bit at our heels and nibbled at our minds until we dared not let ourselves blink lest they fall upo
n us.

  Yet hope beyond belief bolstered my resolution, and Paulo’s grin shone like a lighthouse lantern in the gloom. Though hot rain lashed our skin, and the screaming and wailing tore at our souls, we flailed and yelled with joyous ferocity at the monstrous birds that flew screeching at our eyes, pressing on behind Karon as if nothing could harm us.

  Gerick’s terrible eyes glittered in the fantastical light and his black robes billowed in the howling gales, until he looked like another of the grotesque creatures that pursued us through that horror. But his steps dragged, so I offered Paulo my shoulder to lean on instead of his. Left alone, Gerick huddled into himself, hunching his shoulders, bowing his head, each step a visible struggle. Soon he had slowed almost to stopping, as if the tether binding him to Zhev’Na had stretched as far as it could. A towering tidal wave of mud was bearing down on him from one side.

  “Karon!” I screamed over the tumult.

  Karon, the wind whipping his bloody tunic about him, turned and saw what was happening. He closed his eyes and swept his arms around and upward, a surge of power holding back the deluge long enough for Gerick to catch up with us. As we moved forward again, Karon kept Gerick at his side, using his own body to shield Gerick from the horrors that escaped his enchantments.

  The struggle was more than physical. Hour after hour, I heard Karon talking, encouraging, battling. “Hold, my son. No, this is not your place. . . . I’ll not leave you. Don’t listen. Surely the enchantments of this place fear you because someday you will have power over them. They smell it in you and wish to make you afraid. . . .”

  Soon every step required a monstrous effort. We trudged through a hideous stew of stinking mud and pale, solid objects that looked like parts of bodies or beasts. We were shivering and nauseated, battered and bleeding, our cocoon becoming very thin.