Space held no more meaning here than time or substance. Likely each one of them perceived a different place, informed by individual senses, by Rhythamun's conception, which overlay their sight. To Calandryll it was a hall of inconceivable vastness, a single impossible chamber, extending beyond eye's range in dazzling magnificence. Gold burned with the intensity of suns from walls and floor and roof. Great pillars of vibrant marble rose to heights invisible, lost in the blazing glory above. At the same time, the one image overlayed upon the other, coexistant, it was a foul and miserable crypt, dank and fetid, noisome with the scent of putrefaction, that mingling with the cloying perfume of almonds, red light, as if flame shone through bloodied glass, flickering, sending shadows menacing across the scabrous floor.
The latter image was brief, overwhelmed by the other as Rhythamun's will asserted itself, donating his malign god the grandeur his crazed mind deemed fitting. It was an unintended boon: the light in which he bathed his master afforded the intruders clear sight.
At the center of the hall, too distant they might see as clearly as they did, stood a catafalque of solemn jet, a stepped construction that rose three times a tall man's-height, upon it a golden sarcophagus, brilliant, bier and coffin both contained within a red nimbus. The body the coffin held was not visible; the man who stood beyond it was.
Rhythamun no longer wore the shape of his fes- seryte victim, but stood naked, himself, his pneuma given form. Once, in Cuan na'For, Calandryll had briefly seen that face. Now he saw it clear, fleshed. It was a visage superficially handsome, but imbued with such innate evil that the clean planes, the aquiline features, seemed distorted by their inherent wickedness, the mask of flesh no more than a brief imposition over the iniquity beneath. The warlock wore a robe of gold, dark hair flowing loose over broad shoulders. His arms were extended above the sarcophagus, his hands reverentially holding a small, dark-bound book: the Arcanum. His violet eyes were glazed, his lips moving as they spoke the incantations.
Calandryll shouted, "Rhythamun!" and the eyes focused, turning toward him.
In the instant of his shout, even as the proud head turned, Calandryll and his companions stood at the foot of the catafalque. Rhythamun looked down upon them. A frown sped across his face and was gone, replaced with a leer of outrage. He lowered the Arcanum, head bending to survey them over the coffin's massive bulk.
"You dare interrupt me?" He gestured at their surroundings. "Here? You dare enter my master's temple? You dare set foot within Lord Tharn's holy sepulcher?"
"Aye!" Calandryll roared, and charged the bier unthinking, straightsword raised, possessed with a terrible wrath, righteous, intent on halting the unholy ceremony.
He flung against the nimbus and it was as though he contested with the sea, or struggled against quicksand. A foot touched the lowest step and he was slowed; a weight, imponderable, pressed down. He fought the pressure: gained a second step. He thought his lungs must burst; that fire consumed his innards. He thought his brain must melt and flow out through liquid eyes, his straining mouth. He was returned to the golden floor. He saw Bracht make the same attempt, and also slow, straining against the aura surrounding the coffin as if unseen ropes bound and restrained him. Rhythamun laughed, the sound echoing from the pillars. Bracht groaned and collapsed upon the lowest step. Katya sprang forward, dragging the Kern back.
"I think," said Rhythamun, "that I shall delay your fate awhile. I shall allow you the honor of witnessing Lord Tharn's resurrection with your own eyes. After all, are you not to thank in some small way?" He flourished the Arcanum, mocking them. "Had I not this tome, I'd not have owned the cantrips to bring me solitary to this place, nor those last gramaryes of raising. So, stand you there and await your fate."
"And I?" Anomius stepped from where he had sheltered, behind them, hidden from Rhythamun. "Shall I await my fate like these? I think not. I'll have that book of you, and soon."
His hands extended, flinging magic that filled the mausoleum with sound, as if the storm that ringed the place was brought inside. The glitter of gold was lost under a flash of brilliance that transcended light, an achromatic assault felt in the raw material of nerves, visceral. Rhythamun gasped, tottering a step backward, encompassed in wildfire blaze, his cold eyes widening, surprised. He righted himself, one hand upon the sarcophagus's rim, and hurled a magical response that enveloped Anomius in flame. The smaller man stood engulfed, wreathed with ardent coruscation, from which emerged luminous shafts, darting like lambent arrows at Rhythamun, who struck them aside, deflected off an occult shield, as he voiced the words of his spell, the fire enfolding Anomius growing fiercer with each complex utterance.
Calandryll and the others stood forgotten for the moment, mere observers of the thaumaturgical duel. Both sorcerers appeared imbued with equal strength, neither gaining the upper hand, but only holding one another to stalemate. It came to Calandryll—a gift of Ochen's teaching—that they both drew their power from Tharn, the god indifferent which should prevail. It mattered nothing to him which should be victorious, for they were both bent on the same end, which should only benefit his foul cause. For now the Mad God was a fountainhead of impartial potency, urgent only for awakening, careless which acolyte should rouse him from his dreaming.
The sepulcher reverberated to the tumult of their battle, pungent with the scent of their magicks. Overhead, the golden light was bedimmed, shadow and flame mingling in equal measure. The impossible pillars shuddered, dust like the detritus of rotted cerements drifting down. Cracks raced across the golden floor, dark blemishes exuding the stench of sulfur and putrescent matter.
Calandryll saw Rhythamun raise both his hands, and realized they no longer held the Arcanum. Through the fulgurations of warring sortilege he spied the book: it rested on the coffin's edge. He clutched Bracht's arm, pointing with the straight- sword, shouting into the Kern's ear, through the benumbing blasts.
"Think you we've our chance?"
"Do we find out?"
Bracht's features were grim. Calandryll nodded and they darted forward, intent on gaining the bier unnoticed. The nimbus threw them back again, ungently, as if it, too, gained strength.
"Ahrd!" Bracht grunted as they clambered to their feet. "Must we stand helpless by and watch this? Can we do nothing?"
Katya shouted over the dinning: "Save we intervene, the victor shall surely destroy us!"
And into Calandryll's mind, as if whispered, clear, mouth to his ear, came memory of Ochen's words, in Anwar-teng: "Remember, all of you, that you are as one, a gestalt where you go."
He beckoned the others close and said, "Have I the proper understanding of it, we must attempt this together. Not as four separate folk, but as one."
"We've naught to lose," Bracht said. "Save our souls."
And Katya: "They stand already in jeopardy."
Cennaire said nothing, only took Calandryll's hand.
"I think blades shall not avail us in this," he said, sheathing the straightsword. "Trust is our strength now. And belief in our cause."
Katya thrust her saber home into the scabbard. After a moment's hesitation, Bracht put up his falchion.
It took trust to approach the bier unarmed. Calandryll felt it as a palpable thing, real as the forms they wore in this aethyric place, solid as the blade that weighted his belt. It was a dependence on one another, a trust born of comradeship and acceptance, devoid now of doubts, cemented with then- shared purpose, mistrust banished. It was their shield as hostile magic blasted all about them, the sword that sundered the defensive aura, allowing them to mount the catafalque, climb steps that trembled under their determined feet, as if even in his dreaming, Tharn sensed their coming and stirred, nervous.
Briefly the nimbus sought to halt them, to drive them back. Calandryll felt the opposition, and denied it, aware of their four pneumas linked as one, a single entity possessed now of a single intent, that empowering the magic that resided in him, flooding him with strength, just as, malign, Rhythamun and Anomius drew
strength from the dreaming god: they climbed resolute, joined in their ambition.
And reached the platform atop the bier, the sarcophagus at its center, poor enough concealment as they crouched and crept toward the book. Unholy light sparked about them, the scents of rot and almonds combining miasmic, suffusing air that crackled with the unleashing of sorcerous power. Rhythamun stood close now, but diverted by Anomius, so intent on the battle he failed to see the hand that crept stealthy toward the Arcanum . . .
. . . Seized the book and was gone.
From hand to hand it went, Calandryll's the one that snatched it, passing it into Cennaire's keeping, she to Katya, the Vanu woman on to Bracht, who held it close as they descended back down the jet steps, those throbbing now, pulsating visibly, as if in rage. Bracht gave the book to Katya, and she, an expression of distaste creasing her tanned features, as though she must embrace a serpent, placed it secure beneath the mail of her hauberk. They moved, still as one, a little way from the bier, not yet confident of success, swords coming instinctive from scabbards.
Anomius became aware of them then, and of the absence. His fleshy lips stretched in brief, triumphant smile, and the cantrip he chanted faltered an instant.
Rhythamun saw the expression, followed the sideways flicker of the watery eyes, and prodigious anger overwhelmed his face. Calandryll saw death, and worse, in the furious violet gaze and then the terrible light that struck Anomius.
The warlock was hurled from the bier, sent crashing down the steps, perverted flame wrapping him in obscene embrace. Tongues of black fire lapped at his robe, his flesh. He screamed, struggling to his feet, the soiled black robe disintegrating so that he stood naked, skin blackening) crisping charred under the dreadful attack. His mouth opened and flame gouted from his throat. His eyes burst and more fire spouted from the emptied sockets. His flesh was consumed and he stood a burning skeleton, internal organs roasting, bursting. Then the bones, blackened, collapsed, falling in a clattering pile that was soon dissolved by the awful sable fire. Of Anomius nothing remained save a drifting cloud of inky smoke.
"My thanks for that diversion, but now I'll have the book."
The questers turned to where Rhythamun stood, a grimace of horrid triumph curling his lips. Veins throbbed in his neck, his golden robe smoldered, down cheeks scorched by Anomius's magic ran tears of blood, but confidence was an aura about him, and threatening might. He came down from the catafalque, hands raised, weaving an intricate pattern, beginning a cantrip. Calandryll cried, "No!" the straightsword lifting.
Light flashed anew from Rhythamun, and Calandryll felt himself lifted, flung clear, subjective time stretched out in the instant, so that he saw Bracht and Katya hurled aside, to safety, as Cennaire interposed herself between them and the blast the warlock sent to destroy them. It washed over her, raven hair streaming. But she lived. Calandryll heard Rhythamun curse,* Cennaire shout wild laughter and cry, "That magic shaped to harm the living cannot affect me!"
Calandryll came to his feet even as the mage commenced a fresh incantation, one that surely must consume Cennaire. He was unsure whether his feet or his will alone sped him forward, only that he stood before Rhythamun, and that he must strike before the spell was shaped.
The straightsword descended in a terrible arc. It seemed slow to Calandryll. It seemed the gramarye must end before steel struck, that Cennaire must be destroyed, the wizard take back the Arcanum, raise Tharn. He saw Rhythamun's lips moving, the eyes that shifted to focus on his face, anger and contempt mingled there. And the blade halted in a numbing blast of thunder, lightning exploding where blessed steel and fell magic collided.
He felt an awful shock run fiery down the roadways of his nerves, the straightsword almost flung from agonized fingers that trembled about the hilt. It seemed he clutched a rod of molten metal that consumed his flesh, that he must let go the sword before it destroyed him. And knew he could not— must not!—for from within himself, from Ochen's teachings and his own poor understanding of the occult, a warning voice cried loud that here, in this battle, Dera's touch imbued the steel with that power that alone could oppose the dreadful might Tharn invested in his minion.
He willed himself to ignore the pain. Told his eyes they lied, that his hands did not blacken, the skin not crisp and curl from scorching bone. He strained against Rhythamun's spell, seeking to drive the sword down against the wizard's skull.
He could not; but neither could Rhythamun force back the blade, turn his magic on Cennaire, on Bracht and Katya, where they huddled, wary, excluded from this cataclysmic struggle.
This, Calandryll knew with awful certainty, was his battle alone, his the power that might—Oh, Dera, only mightl—defeat the mage. He stared into the violet eyes, his own blazing furious, and saw doubt flicker there. He forced a laugh then, and it seemed the blade descended a fraction, that the agony eased a little. Rhythamun retreated a step. A single pace only, but one that seemed to Calandryll a confirmation, perhaps not of victory, but of its possibility. That was sufficient: he strained anew against the power encompassing the warlock, and saw beads of bloody sweat burst from his enemy's forehead. He knew not how he drew on that power he commanded, only that it was a source within him, strengthening, salving, imbuing him with a vigor, a surety of purpose that transcended pain. It was occult power and his own determination, the joined wills of Bracht and Katya and Cennaire, of all who would contest Tharn's resurrection, even at cost of their own lives: it filled him, firmed him, their strengths his. He knew not how he used it, only that he did.
And the straightsword was no longer a molten thing, no longer a rod of agony, scourging, but the means to victory, to Rhythamun's defeat. It fell a little farther, and then, of a sudden, crashed down to splinter blackened marble as Rhythamun sprang back.
Calandryll snatched it up defensive as he saw the doubt in the mage's eyes replaced by horrid fury. Hands sullied by Anomius's sortilege lifted to shape patterns in the air, to send a bolt of black light swifter than a serpent's darting tongue against him. He cried, "Dera!" and it was a battle cry as he swung the sword against his enemy's magic.
Thunder bellowed anew. The fabric of the sepulcher shuddered. Black light became transfigured, sharded with gold, with sparkling silver, blinding. The perfume of almonds hung a moment stronger than the stench of corruption. Calandryll thought surely he was slain, felt surprise that he yet stood living.
Rhythamun's eyes sprang wide, as if he could scarce believe the evidence they gave him of Calandryll's survival. For his part, Calandryll stared narrow-lidded, near dazzled by that explosion of brilliance, anger fueling him, inflaming, lending its own righteous strength to occult power. Before him he saw the madman who would deliver the world to Tharn, to chaos. The man who had duped him, used him, confident of mastery, contemptuous of all those mortal, ordinary folk he believed his puppets, inferior. This was the man who would see all brought down under the foul heel of the Mad God, helpless sacrifices to his insanity, to his lust for power. And then, beyond the anger, there was a kinder emotion: pity, that mingled with contempt, and sorrow. Rhythamun was evil—he could entertain no doubt of that—but the sorcerer was, too, utterly insane, so consumed by his ambition that he scarce knew what he did, and for that, for all he must be slain, Calandryll was able to pity him.
In that moment Calandryll became something more than a man. He was the instrument of the Younger Gods, the embodiment of order in opposition to chaos, of humanity confronting wanton destruction.
He knew then that he might win this struggle. He should likely die in the execution, but did he only prevent Tharn's raising then still he won. That alone was of import now—no longer his life, or his love of Cennaire, not Bracht or Katya,- only victory, the defeat of Rhythamun, the denial of Tharn's mad dreaming.
He roared and launched himself forward, the straightsword raised like the very wrath of the Younger Gods.
And Rhythamun's hands came up again, sending fresh magicks at him, magicks that were struck aside b
y the whirling blade, dismissed to burst uselessly about the mausoleum, that vibrating to a different rhythm now, trembling as if in fear, shuddering, cracks running like opened veins across the floor, rents gaping in the walls. Somewhere a pillar crashed, shattering, dust blowing in a filthy cloud. Behind him, unseen as he advanced, a pale hand clutched upward at the rim of the sarcophagus, nails scrabbled a moment and fell back. He went on, intent only on victory.
Disbelief replaced the anger in Rhythamun's eyes now, and then fear took its place. The warlock retreated. Calandryll advanced. Sable flame lashed at him,- hammer blows pounded at his chest; his hair burned; leather scorched. Such magicks as should have slain a mortal man were flung against him and ignored: he advanced. The straightsword was a shield before him, glaive of wrath, a beacon of hope. He felt the power in it, the power of the goddess; and more, as if all Dera's kin set benign might in the steel. And beyond even that, the power of men, of Bracht's fierce courage and Katya's determination, Cennaire's faith, and Ochen's belief. He advanced remorseless.
And Rhythamun fell back, desperation on his handsome, evil face as his sortilege clashed against the blade. He stumbled, a hand reaching toward a cracking pillar, steadying himself, the cantrip he shaped faltering. With a terrible shout Calandryll ran forward, the straightsword raised high.
The warlock gasped, "No!" as the blade descended, no longer slowed by his sortilege, no longer halted.
It fell against his face, the skull divided, and Rhythamun screamed, a dreadful lingering howl of banished hope, defeated ambition.
Calandryll felt his wrists, his arms, jarred by the blow, a moment of pain, of wrenching nausea, as if he touched quintessential horror, an evil beyond comprehension. Then relief, triumph, like a clarion in the midst of battle. Something went out of him, as if, its work done, a power quit him: he was only himself again. He felt a moment empty as he watched Rhythamun's slain body shimmer, dissolving. There was no gradual dissolution, no aging of flesh or collapse of bones into dust. Rhythamun was simply gone, as if, defeated, those magicks that had so long bound him to corporeal existence gave up their hold. The echo of his dying scream faded and there was only a bloodied golden robe, empty. Here, in the realm of the occult, within the aethyr, Calandryll sensed that the sorcerer's pneuma was destroyed, his threat forever ended. Rhythamun was at last truly dead.
Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 Page 42
