PUG’S ARM SHOT forward.
A rippling energy wave exploded forward, a wall of moving forces that distorted the air as it passed. Bowmen who had just released their arrows saw them shattered by it an instant before the wall struck them.
As if a giant child’s arm had swept aside a table full of toys, the soldiers were thrown back. Horsemen died as their mounts were seemingly picked up and tossed back a dozen feet, landing upon their riders. Horses screamed in terror, and those that managed to land on their feet bucked and kicked as they fled.
Pug, Tomas, Miranda, and Nakor walked through the avenue cleared by Pug’s magic, past men who lay groaning upon the ground. One more hearty warrior rose to his feet, his sword in hand, and lunged toward them. Tomas’s sword snaked out of his white scabbard silently and took the man’s life before he had taken a step.
They walked to the gates of Ylith.
A guard on the gate had witnessed the assault and had frantically ordered the gates closed. Men were pushing furiously on the gates as Tomas reached them. They swung ponderously toward him but he reached out, placing his shield against the left gate and his sword against the right and with one massive push, the gates swung inward, knocking dozens of men aside.
Nakor said, “I wish he’d left Elvandar earlier.”
Pug nodded. “But a vow is a vow. He couldn’t see the threat to his home until now.”
Miranda said, “Having power doesn’t free one from being short-sighted.”
“Not short-sighted,” said Pug. “Just a different appreciation of the situation.”
“Where to now?” asked Miranda.
“If I remember the layout of Ylith,” said Nakor, “straight down this street to the High Road, turn right, and we walk straight up to the citadel.”
Archers on the wall loosed a barrage of arrows, and Pug erected a protective barrier. “Ignore those,” he said to Tomas. “We have weightier matters to address.”
Tomas smiled at his boyhood friend. “Agreed.”
They walked calmly through the city of Ylith, and the depredation of the occupation was visible on every side. Some buildings had been rebuilt, but others still lay abandoned, their doors off their hinges and windows shattered, looking like nothing so much as empty faces.
Men ran from the sight of the four people encompassed by a sphere of flickering blue energy. From nearby alleys and streets, archers peered out and fired arrows at them; they bounced harmlessly off the magic shell.
They reached the corner where they needed to turn and found another company of archers waiting. Dozens of arrows struck the barrier and bounced off, and when Tomas reached a position a dozen feet before the first rank of archers, they broke and ran.
Nakor said, “These men are not dangerous to us as long as we pay attention to them, but somewhere ahead is someone who is very dangerous.”
“Do you know this as a fact,” asked Tomas, “or are you conjecturing?”
“Conjecturing,” said Nakor.
“But you suspect something,” said Miranda.
“What?” asked Pug.
“Nothing I care to talk about yet,” said Nakor. “But yes, I have a suspicion.”
“I’ve learned over the years to take those seriously,” said Pug. “What do you suggest?”
They were nearing a large intersection where soldiers were rolling wagons across the street in a barricade. Nakor said, “Only to be careful.”
Arrows rained down upon them, and even knowing the defense was in place, Miranda and Nakor flinched. “This is irritating,” said Nakor.
Pug said, “I agree. And as you observed, it could be dangerous if I let my concentration slip.” He said, “Stop a moment.”
They did and Pug raised his hand. He pointed up in the air, and outside the protective sphere, directly over the tip of his finger, a spark of white light appeared. Pug twirled his finger a moment, and the tiny white hot point of light spun. “Protect your eyes!” Pug warned.
Abruptly the scene became a harsh contrast in white and black, as the point of light erupted to the brilliance of the sun at noon, then brighter. The pulse of light lasted only for a moment, but the effect was literally blinding.
Pug and his companions opened their eyes to see men crying in panic and terror, some reaching around, while others fell to their knees, their hands to their eyes.
“I’m blind!” was repeated on all sides by panic-stricken men. Tomas walked through a gap between two wagons, the defense of the city forgotten by men made blind. “How long will it last?” asked Miranda.
“No more than a day for some, hours for others,” said Pug. “But this particular group will not be any further trouble to us.”
They made their way around the last of the barriers and moved up the street toward the citadel. The remaining soldiers who had retained their sight ran at the vision of the four powerful beings walking purposefully down the street.
A panic-stricken sentry had called for the drawbridge to be raised, and as they came within a hundred yards of the bridge, they saw it starting to rise. Tomas broke into an effortless run, his sword drawn, and Pug realized he had left the containment of the defensive shell. Pug let it lapse, for while it didn’t take a considerable level of concentration to maintain, it required energy he might need later.
Tomas leaped atop the rising bridge as it reached a height of six feet above the road. With a quick swing of his sword he severed the massive iron chain on the right, links the size of a man’s head shearing with an explosion of sparks and a deafening clang.
Then he severed the left chain and the bridge crashed back into place. The soldiers inside the citadel cut the restraining ropes on the winch that raised the portcullis, and the heavy iron gate slid down before them, the iron points slamming into the stones with a loud crash. “I can raise it and you can all slip under,” said Tomas.
Miranda said, “No, let me.” She waved her hands in a series of gestures and raised her right palm, then extended her right arm toward the gate. A ball of scintillating white-and-silver light formed around her hand, then flew off, like a ball lazily tossed by a child, arching gracefully to strike the center of the portcullis. The energy ran along the bars, sparking and sizzling, and the iron in the gate began to smoke. Then it heated up, turning first red, then white-hot. Even standing yards away, they could feel the scorching heat of the metal as it began to melt and crumble before them. The men in the gatehouse above the portcullis began to shout and flee the structure, due to the tremendous heat rising from the burning gate.
Where the molten metal struck the wood of the gate, it flamed and smoke rose. In minutes a hole more than adequate to allow them to pass had been melted through the gate. “Watch where you step, Nakor,” said Miranda.
“You watch, too,” said Nakor.
“I’m not the one wearing sandals,” she said.
They entered the courtyard and no one was in sight. Whatever fight may have resided in the garrison was driven from them by the destruction of the portcullis. They crossed the small bailey and entered the keep.
A simple tower keep had dominated the harbor at Ylith for years, for the original rulers had been little more than pirates and traders and their harbor was everything. But after the Kingdom had annexed Yabon, the new Baron had decided to build this citadel at the north end of the city to protect the city from goblins and Brothers of the Dark Path from the Northlands, raiding down into Yabon. Here, for five generations, the business of the Barony had been conducted.
They walked up a broad set of steps to a daunting set of oak doors. Tomas pushed them open, and they parted with a shattering crack as a bar the size of a man’s arm behind the doors splintered and broke.
Before they crossed the threshold, Nakor said, “Ware this place. It is a seat of power.”
Tomas said, “I can feel it. It has an alien feeling, something no Valheru has encountered.”
Pug said, “That’s saying something. If a Dragon Lord hasn’t encountered what’s on the other side of that door …” He closed his eyes and sent out his senses. At the portal a ward existed; had they passed through without protection, they would have been incinerated. Pug quickly ascertained the nature of the ward and countered it. “It’s safe to pass,” he said.
Sword at the ready and shield before him, Tomas entered the room first. Pug followed with Miranda and Nakor.
As soon as they entered the old baronial great hall, it was as if they had stepped into anther world. The hall reeked of death and the floors were stained with blood. Skulls and bones were scattered around the room, and a faint haze darkened the air. Torches burned in sconces, their light angry and red, as if something had sucked the light out of the flames.
Men who were no longer human stood on either side of the great hall. Their eyes were glowing jewels of luminous red, their muscles unnaturally enlarged and straining at the skin. They all wore facial scars and expressions of madness. Some twitched and others drooled, and they all had mystic tattoos covering their upper bodies. Some carried double-bladed axes and others had swords and buckler shields.
They seemed poised to attack, yet appeared to be waiting upon something. The great vaulted windows of the room had been painted in red and black, passing only the faintest illumination from outside. The runes upon them were alien and repugnant to view.
Nakor glanced from window to window. “These are wrong,” he whispered.
“What do you mean?” asked Miranda.
“Whoever painted those is trying to do something very … very bad. But they didn’t do it … correctly.”
“How do you know?” asked Tomas, holding his sword ready and watching first one side then the other as he advanced slowly up the center of the room.
“Years of sleeping on the Codex of Wodar-Hospur … I remember things when I need to know them. If I thought about that too much, it might make me upset.”
As they crossed the hall, they confronted a figure on the right-hand side of the baronial throne that caused them all to pause. It was clearly not human. It looked roughly human, though its skin had a pale blue tinge. Upon its back large wings with brilliant white feathers sprouted. On the left-hand side of the throne stood a man, dressed in black robes with runes embroidered upon them. He had a silver collar around his neck.
Sitting on the throne was an old warrior, still strong-looking despite his age. His grey-shot hair was cut short, though he retained the long fall common to those who had chosen to serve dark powers. And upon his cheeks the ritual scars clearly showed.
He regarded the four intruders with a wary gaze and said, “One of you must be the magician named Pug.”
Pug stepped forward and said, “I am Pug.”
“I was warned that eventually you would be troubling me.”
“You are General Fadawah,” said Pug.
“King Fadawah!” said the man with an anger that didn’t mask his fear.
Nakor said, “Your claim to that title seems to be at the root of our dispute.”
Fadawah’s eyes drifted to Tomas, and he said, “What is that?”
Tomas said, “I am Tomas, Warleader of Elvandar.”
The being to Fadawah’s left smiled. His features were cruel and evil, despite being stunningly beautiful, and twice as terrifying for that beauty: a high brow framed in golden ringlets, a straight regal nose. The mouth was full, sensual, and the eyes were a pale blue. His body looked powerful, heavily muscled, and there was an aura of danger about him even as he sat motionless.
He spoke and the room rang with despair upon every word. “The Valheru!” he said. The creature stepped forward and said, “Stand aside, Your Majesty.”
Fadawah stood up and moved behind the other man, who silently watched the exchange.
Crossing to stand before Tomas, the entity was his equal in stature. The creature’s voice boomed out in laughter. “Long have I ached to face one of the Dragon Host,” he said. Suddenly he lashed out with his bare fist, striking Tomas’s shield. Tomas flew back across the room, and the dozens of guards who had stood motionless erupted into action.
Miranda reacted before either Nakor or Pug. She spun full circle, her hand held palm downward, and spoke a word of power: a diamond of energy flew from her hand, shrieking through the air to strike the wall behind one of the warriors. It ricocheted off the wall and struck another warrior in the back. Like the finest blade slicing butter, it cut the man in half. Across the room it flew, as Miranda shouted to Tomas, “Stay down!”
Pug ignored Miranda’s destructive energy blade and turned to face the monster. Pug made a single motion, both hands circling like an open-handed fighting monk’s. But rather than striking a blow, he pulled both hands back before his chest and shouted a word. A single blast of energy came from both his hands, invisible but parting the air like a thousand fists. The winged creature was physically picked up and slammed back into the throne. Fadawah and the man with the silver collar both jumped away, to avoid being struck by the thing’s wing.
Nakor ran forward, as if to attack, but rather than strike with his staff, he confronted the being. “What are you?” he demanded.
Laughing as it stood, the creature pushed Nakor aside, as if he was too trivial a being to warrant violence. “I am the One Who Was Called!”
“Who are you?” Nakor repeated, sitting on the floor.
Leaning over, his beautiful face mere inches from Nakor, he said, “I am Zaltais of the Eternal Despair.”
Nakor shouted, “Tomas! You must vanquish him.”
With a gesture of his finger, Zaltais seemed to lift Nakor up and propel him in an arc across the hall, letting the old Isalani gambler slam into the wall. Nakor slumped to the floor.
Tomas lay below the flashing mystic blade that Miranda had cast, as it rebounded from wall to wall, carving through those warriors still standing.
Pug held his hand palm-out toward Zaltais, and an explosion of energy slammed into the winged being, propelling him backward into the throne one more time.
The mystic weapon that Miranda had cast faded suddenly, and Tomas leaped to his feet. The dozen remaining warriors surrounded him, and he struck out with his sword. Possessed by senses beyond human, he moved to avoid every blow. His golden sword, not wielded in battle since the Riftwar, struck out, and each blow took a limb or a head.
Miranda ran past the struggle in the middle of the room to see how Nakor fared. The ancient gambler lay stunned. Miranda couldn’t tell how serious his injuries were.
Pug advanced on Zaltais, who sat with eyes blinking a moment, as if stunned, then his eyes focused and he grinned. Pug felt only hopelessness on seeing that smile.
“I underestimated you, Pug of Crydee, Milamber of the Assembly! You are no Macros the Black, but you are a power! Too bad you’re not worthy of your mentor’s legacy!”
Pug faltered a moment, suddenly unsure of his next act. That hesitation cost him as Zaltais flicked his hand and sent coils of black energy snaking toward Pug. They struck, and each time they hit, Pug felt pain unlike any he had known; beyond the pain of flesh ripped by cruel fangs, each bite made him doubt his own ability. He hesitated, then fell back.
“Pug!” shouted Miranda, seeing her husband retreating.
Tomas swung his golden sword and killed the last of the warriors as Nakor started to rouse.
As Pug fell back, Tomas leaped past him, and the golden sword swung down. Zaltais raised his arm, taking Tomas’s blade on a golden bracer upon his wrist. The blade showered golden sparks and Tomas overbalanced, leaving himself open to a blow from the winged creature. Zaltais leveled a backhand strike with his right fist, slamming into Tomas’s face, and the warrior in white-and-gold staggered from the blow.
In thirty years Tomas had never faced a creature of this power. Not since facing the combined mind of the Valheru had Tomas known such doubt. Even the demon Jakan seemed a trivial test compared to this creature.
Tomas fell to the floor and tasted blood on his lips. “What are you?”
“I?” said Zaltais. “I am an Angel of the Seventh Circle! I am an agent of the Gods!”
Nakor stood up and said, “Get back! He is not what he seems! He is a creature of lies and misdirection!” Nakor shook off Miranda’s hand as she tried to steady him. The old man hurried over to the bloody bodies that littered the floor, and said, “These are dead because this thing convinced them their only hope was to do as he bid and he treated them thusly. He will deceive and mislead, and raise doubts that will strike to the root of your being. If you listen to him, he will eventually convince you to serve him.”
Tomas rose up, the blood from his lip dripping onto his breastplate, where it ran off, without stain. “I will never serve this creature,” he said.
“First he’ll make you doubt your ability. Then he will make you doubt your purpose. Then he’ll make you doubt your place in the universe. Then he’ll convince you where that place is!”
The self-proclaimed Angel from Hell said, “You talk too much, old man!” He withdrew the black coils that had struck Pug and pointed his hand at Nakor. A blinding flash of white-hot energy flared, and Nakor leaped aside as it shot across the hall. It shot out the doorway as Miranda also leaped aside.
Tomas jumped to his feet, drawing back his sword, and struck down at the crown of the creature’s head. Zaltais pulled away, so the tip of the blade struck him in the face. He reeled back, screaming in rage and pain. A red gash cut him from crown to chin. As if the muscles below his skin were pushing outward, the crack down his face widened, then split, runnning down his throat to his chest and stomach, and he shrieked, an inhuman sound.
It was a keening sound, and it made Pug’s teeth ache as if they were being ground together. Pug saw the red gash splitting Zaltais from crown to groin. Like a pea pod being cracked open, Zaltais’s skin and wings fell away.
The thing that emerged from within that shell looked like a giant praying mantis, with a black chitinous exterior, and large diaphanous wings.
“That is no more its true shape than the last!” shouted Nakor from his position on the floor. “You cannot kill it. You can only hold it. You must confine it and return it to that pit outside.”
“And that you will never do,” said the thing that was now Zaltais. It buzzed an angry sound and the wings blurred as it launched itself from the dais. Tomas lashed out again with his sword and sheared through one of the wings.
Zaltais slammed hard into the stones and Nakor stood up, moving back as Miranda came forward incanting a spell. Pug also was attempting a spell.
Nakor hurried around the confrontation now in the center of the room. He didn’t want to get in the way. He looked over to where General Fadawah stood, his own sword at the ready as if he sought to join in the fight on the side of his infernal servant. The other man crouched down beside the throne and Nakor approached them, his staff ready if he needed to defend himself.
Miranda and Pug’s spells were completed within seconds of one another. Crimson bands materialized around the insect and clamped down hard upon it. It chittered in rage and pain. Then Pug’s spell manifested, a nimbus of white light which caused Zaltais to go limp. It crashed to the stones.
“Quickly!” shouted Nakor. “Take it back to the pit and cast it in. Then seal the pit.”
“How?” asked Miranda.
“Any way you can think of!” Turning to face Fadawah and his companion, Nakor said, “I’ll take care of these two.”
Tomas picked up the imprisoned creature, while Pug cast a backward glance at Nakor. Miranda said, “Go, now!”
Nakor advanced on Fadawah, his staff before him, while the General stood poised with his sword. “I don’t need demons from hell to best an old fool like you,” sneered the leader of the invading army. “I was killing better men than you when I was a boy.”
“No doubt,” said Nakor, “but you’ll find that for my obvious shortcomings, I’m still very difficult to kill.” He glanced at the man beside Fadawah. “Ask your companion there; he knows.”
“What?” asked Fadawah, glancing to his left at Kahil.
That slight distraction was all Nakor needed. Lightning-swift, his staff shot forward, the butt striking Fadawah’s sword hand with a knuckle-crushing blow. The sword fell from fingers gone numb and the General fell back, knocking over Kahil.
Fadawah tried to pull out a belt dagger with his left hand, but Nakor smashed it with his staff, and the General cried out in pain, as he now held out two useless hands.
Nakor’s staff shot out a third time, and the General’s kneecap shattered. He fell, crying in agony as Nakor said, “For too many crimes to measure, beyond what the Emerald Queen and the demon Jakan forced you to do, you have earned death. I shall be merciful and spare you the suffering you deserve.” Suddenly the staff shot forward again, striking the now helpless Fadawah in the center of his forehead. Nakor heard the man’s skull crack. The self-styled King of the Bitter Sea’s eyes rolled up into his head and he died.
Nakor moved around Fadawah’s body and knelt next to the man who crouched next to the throne. He was a thin man, his cheekbones the most prominent feature of his face. “Hello, my love,” said Nakor.
“You recognize me?” he whispered.
“Always,” said Nakor. “Who are you in this body?”
“I am Kahil, Captain of Intelligence.”
“The power behind the throne, eh?” said Nakor. “So this is where you went when the demon took your place?”
“No, before,” said Kahil. “I sensed something wrong with that body when I wore the Emerald Crown. My powers were being subverted … in any event, Kahil had been with Fadawah before and was trusted. He was clever, but he was greedy. It took little for me to take over this body. For a while the Emerald Queen was nearly mindless, but no one seemed to notice. Then that damned demon showed up and ate it.” Kahil shrugged. “I was the only one who could see through the illusion and knew a demon ruled in my place. I bided my time, knowing eventually I would have a chance to rule again.”
“There have been things working beyond your most ambitious dreams. Do you now realize what a dangerous game you played?”
Weakly, the man said, “Yes, Nakor.” Then a light came into his eyes and he said, “But I can’t help myself.”
Nakor stood and helped Kahil to his feet. “What of Fadawah?”
“Mad. His mind was totally gone. I thought to build a weapon, an engine of magic that would create an army of the dead – there were so many of them lying around – and it did that, but it also brought Zaltais out of the pit. I did not expect that. Fadawah could control it, at least for a while, and I could not. I was, I believe the expression is, ‘caught between a rock and a hard place.’ I was ready to dispose of Fadawah once the Kingdom was defeated and I held all of Yabon, but with Zaltais around, I couldn’t quite get to that point.”
“You always failed to anticipate consequences, Jorma.”
“Kahil, please.”
“How do you like being a man this time?”
“It’s occasionally useful. But I miss my last body. It was by far the most beautiful.” Looking at Nakor, the being who had once been Nakor’s wife, the Lady Clovis, and the Emerald Queen said, “You’ve used that body for a very long time now.”
“I like it,” said Nakor. “It was the one I was born with. I just change my name every once in awhile.” He pointed to the door through which his companions left. “Did you see your daughter?”
“That was Miranda?” said Kahil. “My gods!”
Nakor grinned. “The other was her husband.”
“Do I have grandchildren?”
“Not yet.” Nakor lost his smile. “You know, you’ve gone so far down an evil road I barely remember what it was you once were. A vain girl, but no worse than some. But you have spent far too much time with dark powers. You do not even know what it was you did, do you? You have no idea who really controls your destiny.”
“I control my destiny!”
“Oh, you vain woman. You are no more than a pitiful tool of a power far more than you can begin to imagine. He gained your soul so long ago that you can never be saved. You can only go to him for whatever torment he has in store for a failed minion. You know what I have to do?”
“I know what you must try to do,” said Kahil, stepping back.
“Your vanity almost brought this world to ruination. Your lust for external youth and beauty caused you to destroy nations. You cannot be allowed to continue.”
“So at last you will attempt to kill me? It will take more than a tap to this head to rid this universe of me.”
“No, I will kill you.”
Kahil started to incant a spell, but before he could finish it, Nakor struck him in the face with the butt of his staff. The former Emerald Queen, now in a man’s body, staggered backward, his concentration broken and his spell incomplete. Nakor leveled his staff and a burst of white light shone on Kahil. He froze, transfixed, and from his mouth a mournful sound emerged. It grew weaker by the second as the body faded, becoming pale, then translucent, then transparent. When it vanished from view, the sound ceased, and Kahil was absent from the room. Sadly Nakor said, “I should have done that a century ago, but then I didn’t know how.”
He indulged himself a moment to reflect on everything, then he turned and hurried to overtake the others. Until Zaltais was returned to the pit and it sealed after him, the struggle was not over.
Miranda waved her hand and a brilliant shower of sparks exploded from her palm and sprayed a dozen soldiers hanging back near the gates to the city. As they began to be stung, they turned and ran.
“Not very dangerous,” she said, “but dramatic.” She looked back to see Tomas struggling with all his considerable strength to hold Zaltais on his shoulder, while Pug could do almost nothing but hang back.
As they cleared the city gates, the building which covered the pit in view, Zaltais overbalanced Tomas and flipped over his shoulder, landing hard upon the ground. The creature thrashed around, and Miranda said, “My spell is failing!”
Suddenly the crimson bands shattered, flung in all directions, the pieces fading from sight. The insectlike creature bounded upright and lashed out with a razor-sharp forearm. Tomas took the blow on his sword and the sound of the clash was steel upon steel.
Bright orange light bathed Zaltais as it pulled back to strike again. “It’s casting a spell!” Miranda shouted.
Pug incanted a word of power, which should have given him the ability to sense the monster’s magic. Instead he felt a blinding stab of pain in his head and he fell to his knees.
Pug’s hands went to his head and tears ran down his face as he struggled to make himself breathe. The images and sensations that flooded his mind were so alien as to cause nothing but pain. The spell he had utilized was designed to sense out the nature of the spell being used, and to counteract it if possible, but even the emanations of the Dread Lord that appeared under Sethanon, and of the Demon Kings, Jakan and Maarg, were comparatively familiar compared to what he was experiencing now. Pug fell to his knees, his eyes squeezed shut and his fists at his temples.
Miranda took a more direct approach and simply tried to burn the creature, sending forth her most powerful spell of flames, a white-hot burst of energy that burned bright enough to blind anyone who looked at the flame.
Zaltais writhed in the center of the flame, his own magic forgotten, a creature trapped in the heart of a star.
Tomas circled the burning creature, and went to where Pug knelt, helping his friend to his feet.
Suddenly the fire vanished as Nakor came hurrying up to them. “Quick! Carry it to the pit!”
The monster was swollen and cooking in its own juices, the carapace cracked in several places. Tomas grabbed one of the forearms and tried dragging it. He made slow progress, but Zaltais was hauled through the large doors of the building and toward the pit.
Then, with a loud crack, the chitinous outer shell broke, and inside the body they could see something writhing. The shell parted and something akin to a giant white worm began to wiggle out.
Miranda said, “I don’t have the strength to burn it again.”
Nakor said “You don’t need to burn it. Get it into the pit!”
Tomas charged the creature as it was halfway out of the smoking insect shell. He bashed it as hard as he could with his shield, and Zaltais was knocked backward, dragging the insect carcass with him, its lower section still embedded in the shell.
The thing shrieked, a sound which cut through the skull like a knife, causing Tomas to falter, but he overcame the sound and smashed the creature again, knocking it back once more, now only a dozen feet from the yawning opening of the pit.
Zaltais frantically snapped his tail, trying to rid himself of the insect corpse. Tomas kicked the thorax section and it spun the creature around, the insect body sliding toward the pit.
Pug wiped his hand across his eyes, his ringing head now clearing, and he uttered a simple spell that threw a punch of air, but one which could crush a man’s ribs. The creature was knocked backward and suddenly was overbalancing.
As they watched, arms began to extrude from the worm’s upper segment, frantically waving.
Nakor said, “Enough of this!” He ran forward, his staff cocked over his shoulder, and he struck the thing across the upper body as hard as he could.
With a scream that threatened to shatter their ears, Zaltais fell into the pit.
Miranda was knocked to her knees, as was Pug again. Tomas had to use all his willpower to remain upright, and Nakor gripped his staff as if it was the only thing keeping him alive.
Then the sound was gone. Nakor said, “We must seal this pit!”
“How?” asked Pug. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Yes, you have,” said Nakor. “You’re just not recognizing it!”
Pug took a deep breath and used what little energy he had left to assess the pit. “It’s a rift!” he said at last.
“Yes,” said Nakor, “but not the sort you know.”
“How did you know?” asked Miranda.
“I’ll explain it all later,” said Nakor, “but you must close it.”
A faint breeze stirred, and Miranda said, “Did you feel that?”
“Yes,” said Tomas. “And I don’t usually feel the wind inside a building.”
“There’s something trying to come through!” shouted Nakor.
Pug said, “I need help!”
“What do we do?” asked Miranda.
“Give me whatever strength you can!” shouted Pug. He closed his eyes and let his mind enter the rift. He sensed the energies and was again assaulted by an overwhelming sense of alien wrongness. Yet there was a pattern, and as alien as it was, once he apprehended it, he was able to study it, and with study, the structure began to emerge. “I have it!” he said at last.
He let his mind call up the knowledge he had gained as a Great One on Kelewan, as he had studied rifts and their nature. The nature of the rift was that Pug could either use more power to close it than it took to open it, or he could subvert the power used to keep it open. He chose the latter course, as his energy was too depleted to attempt the former. Besides, he felt that even at his best, that choice might prove beyond his powers. He sent a cord of energy that snaked out and engaged the source of the rift.
Suddenly a presence appeared on the other side of the rift. It was massive and powerful beyond anything he had thought possible, and it was nothing but a distillation of hatred and evil so pure it defied human understanding. A part of Pug’s mind recoiled and wanted nothing more than to fall to the floor and whimper, as Fadawah had done. But Pug’s mental discipline came to the fore and he held his ground against this horror of the mind.
Whatever it was, it quested. It knew Pug was somewhere close by, but not quite where. Pug felt a sense of urgency rise up inside as he sought to unweave the matrix of power that held open the rift, for he knew that should this being find him, he would be lost forever.
A faint surge of power came to Pug and he knew that Miranda had succeeded in joining her power to his. He felt a sense of reassurance from her when she touched him, and the part of his mind able to perceive her sent forth its thanks.
The questing consciousness on the other side of the rift was becoming more aware of Pug as each second passed. Pug had his own spell ready.
He opened his eyes and for a moment it was if he was seeing two images at once. Before him stood Tomas, sword at the ready, with Miranda and Nakor beside him. Overlaying that image was one of a torn section of space and time, through which a great terror was peering in his direction. More than anything else, Pug was struck by the image of a vast eye peering through a keyhole.
Pug yanked back his own line of power, disrupting the supporting matrix of energy. He sensed a terrible rage from the other side of the rift.
“Get out!” he shouted, and as he turned to run he realized he could barely move. Tomas threw his shield over his back and put his left arm around Pug, nearly picking him up.
They ran from the building as Ryana landed. “I called her,” said Tomas. The ground began to shake as they climbed aboard the dragon. As she launched herself into the sky, a terrible crack of thunder came from within the building.
The dragon beat her wings and gained altitude, and Pug turned to watch the scene below. A great wind was being drawn to the building and the building began to shudder and shake. A crack of timber heralded the roof shattering, collapsing into the building.
Miranda said, “Everything’s being sucked into the rift!”
Pug said, “I hope not everything.”
Nakor said, “It will balance out, but there will be a very big hole in the ground to fill when it’s done.”
A thunderous rumble sounded, and as Nakor predicted, a huge hole in the ground appeared and the rest of the building fell into it. A giant cloud of dust shot heavenward, and more ground fell into the hole. Then the rumbling stopped.
“It is over?” asked Miranda.
Pug closed his eyes and rested his head upon Tomas’s back. “It will never be over,” he said.
A ragged boy ducked under the outstretched arms of a guard who shouted, “Hey!”
“I gotta talk ta the Sheriff!” he shouted as he dodged by.
Dash turned to see the youngster scampering up the stairs. He stood on the rampart over the city gates, watching the Keshians deploy in the predawn darkness. “What do you want?” he demanded.
“Trina says to tell you, the South Palace Gate! Now!”
Instantly Dash knew he had overlooked other agents inside the palace. The South Palace Gate was the entrance used by tradesmen making deliveries directly to the palace. It opened on the large marshaling yard used to train Calis’s Crimson Eagles; it also provided direct access to the one portion of the palace that was unprotected by walls and gates. Should the Keshians get through that entrance to the city, they would not only be in the city, they would also be in the palace. And most of the city’s defenders would be in the wrong place.
Dash shouted to Gustaf, “South Palace Gate!”
Gustaf had a flying company, a company ready to run to any point in the line and reinforce, and they were off as soon as Dash shouted the location.
Turning to an officer nearby, Dash said, “Keep things here under control. Until their agents report the gate open, they’ll go through the charade of asking for surrender one more time.”
Dash hurried down the stairs and chased after Gustaf and his men. He ran through the streets until he could hear the sound of fighting. “Where is the palace guard?” he demanded.
Gustaf said, “They were ordered up to support the main gate.”
“Who gave that order?” asked Dash.
“I thought you did,” replied the constable.
“When we find out who gave that order, we’ll have found our poisoner.”
Dash and his constables raced through the street to the north-most entrance to the palace and found the gate unattended. He motioned for the men to run to the left, around the stables, and into the marshaling yard from the north. At the far end of the marshaling yard he saw a brawl taking place in front of the south gate. He had ridden wagons through that gate when working for Roo Avery what seemed like years before, in a different life, but never before had the marshaling yard seemed so vast.
As he reached a point halfway across the open stretch of ground he saw the struggle was nearly decided. Old men, boys, and a few men of fighting age stood toe-to-toe with armed mercenaries, trained killers who were dispatching them with cold-blooded efficiency.
Standing before the huge bar that kept the gate closed was Trina, a sword in one hand and a dagger in another. A bleeding man at her feet told Dash that he had already paid the price of trying to get by the determined woman.
The mercenaries at the gate were quickly disposing of the thieves, and Dash tried to will himself to be faster. He was twenty yards away when he saw a burly man with a beard strike down a young thief – barely more than a boy – then turn to join his companion facing Trina.
The first man before her struck an overhand blow, which she blocked high, leaving her guard open. The burly man stepped under and drove the point of his sword into her stomach.
“No!” Dash cried as he ran right into the two men without slackening speed. He carried both of them away and down in a heap. He struck out with his sword, killing the bigger man as he lay on the ground, then rolled over to come to his feet facing the first man who had struck at Trina.
The man made a combination attack, feigning a head blow, then turning his wrist to slash at Dash’s side. Dash nimbly stepped back, then forward, while the man’s sword point was moving past him and, before he could reverse his blade’s direction, Dash killed the man with a stabbing blow to the throat.
The constables overwhelmed the attackers at the gate as the thieves began to carry away their wounded. The Keshian agents fought to the last, but eventually they were all killed or disarmed.
Dash looked around, and when he saw everything was under control, he ran over to where Trina lay. The gate was still closed.
He knelt and cradled her in his arms and saw her skin was pallid and clammy. Blood flowed copiously from her stomach and Dash knew her life was draining away. He shouted, “Get a healer!”
A constable ran off while Dash cradled Trina in his arms. He tried to staunch the flow of blood by pressing on the wound, but the pain was almost unbearable to Trina.
She looked up at him and weakly said, “I love you, Sheriff Puppy.”
His tears fell unhindered. “You crazy good-for-nothing,” he said, “I told you to stay alive!”
He gathered her to him and she moaned, then whispered, “You promised.”
Dash was still holding the dead woman when the priest reached the gate. Gustaf put his hands on Dash’s shoulders, moved him back, and said, “We have work to do, Sheriff.”
Dash looked upward and saw the sky was brightening. He knew circumstances demanded he put aside his personal grief and the numbing sense of loss he felt. Soon the Keshian herald would approach the gate and make his final demand for surrender – for when the Keshian army saw the southern gate wasn’t open, they would know their only option was to attack, and they would come.