Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (64 page)

           
Kedryn shouted, “Get out! Clear the
chamber!” and advanced on the ghastly shape of Taws.

           
Flame crackled about the Messenger
now, fire escaping his lipless mouth, tendrils of smoke oozing oily from his
nostrils and ears. It seemed he had become the very embodiment of his frightful
master, less flesh than some combustible thing, a reeking fire demon that
howled and pranced, hurling bolts of random energy carelessly. The throne
itself cracked and burned, becoming molten, the deserted corpse of Sister Thera
withering, the flesh blackening, melding with the liquefying stone of the regal
chair. Windows shattered, exploding glassy shrapnel in a whistling rain
throughout the chamber; candles melted in sconces that themselves glowed white
hot, dripping metal tears over blackened walls; wood flamed, pungent smoke
miasmic in the thickened, stinking air.

           
“You cannot slay me,” Taws rasped,
and directed a bolt of glowing energy at the vaulted roof.

           
Stone fell in a murderous rain about
his opponents, but though blocks the size of a full-grown man crashed down,
none touched them, for it seemed the azure radiance held them within a cone of
force through which nothing might penetrate. Guided by that power that was in
him and beyond him, Kedryn raised a hand that unleashed blue light at the
Messenger, hurling Taws backward as if a great wind tossed him willfully as a
storm-driven leaf. He flew from the dais, tumbling to the floor behind, and
when he rose Kedryn saw fear in his stance, a hesitation bom of doubt. He
raised his hand again, and now Wynett joined him, the lances of light that
erupted from both their hands joining, sending Taws rolling over the flags.

           
They climbed the steps of the dais,
ignoring the molten stone that ran beneath their feet, ignoring the almost
consumed corpse, their eyes fixed on the hunched figure beyond, their features
grim as they raised their hands again.

           
Taws met the bolt of blue with a
spear of red, and the convergence of those twin sources of power erupted in a
thunderclap that shook the rotunda, spilling more stone from the fractured
roof, the flash of the explosion blinding them momentarily.

           
When their vision cleared they saw
the Messenger scuttling crablike along the wall, reminiscent of some obscene
spider, each step he took imprinting a smoking mark upon the flags. Again they
raised their hands and sent the purity of the blue energy lashing over him, and
now the Messenger screamed in pain and terror, writhing back with uplifted
hands, his ghastly features contorted as he sought to ward off the potency of
that cleansing puissance. It was a power greater than his, for it was bom of
compassion and affection, honest in its intent, stemming from the Lady’s benign
concern and the love shared by Kedryn and Wynett, and for all his rage Taws
knew that and felt its greatness. Felt it as it drove him back, remorselessly,
his own weakening as he fought it, draining from him until he crouched,
cornered like a rat, in the angle of the walls.

           
Wynett’s right hand held firmly in
his left, Kedryn maintained the flow of energy, joining it with the light that
blasted from his wife’s outthrust left hand. It mingled with the fireglow
emanating from Taws, darkening to violet, becoming a
midnight
black tinged deep within with red. The Messenger
became invisible, wrapped in the weird light as they descended the far side of
the dais and moved inexorably toward him. As they drew closer the talismans
they wore pulsed brighter and the black began to fade, assuming again the azure
effulgence, a core of crimson at its center.

           
From within that core came a wailing
scream. “Master, save me! Ashar, I beg you!”

           
And a booming voice filled the
rotunda with its thunder, so loud the words were indistinct, contempt dripping
from each syllable, implacable in its unhuman severity.

           
“You
have failed me.”

           
“Ashar!” Taws screamed. “Ashar, I am
yours. Master, save me!”

           
His cry was despairing as the two
continued their advance, the shimmering force they sent out becoming brighter,
stronger with each step.

           
Suddenly fire flared bright within
the veiling blue. A stink as of scorching flesh gusted mephitic through the
chamber and the reverberant voice rang out again.

           
“He
is mine .”

           
The fire burned fiercer, swelling
within the encompassing azure, transcending color to become pure light, a core
of blinding intensity that then dwindled to a pinprick and flashed out.

           
Kedryn blinked, realizing that the
blue radiance was faded, slowly aware that the talisman no longer pulsed in his
grip. The afterimage of that incredible brilliance still burned against his
retinas and as his sight returned he saw that where Taws had crouched there was
now only a blackened stain, the great blocks of the wall and the stones of the
floor bubbling liquid, oily smoke rising to mingle with the stench of
smoldering tapestries and burning wood. He turned, still holding Wynett’s hand,
letting it go only when she stood close against him and he could put his arms
around her and reassure himself of the physical presence, her arms about his
waist, her eyes intent on his.

           
“We defeated him,” she whispered,
scarce believing what they had done.

           
“We have saved the Kingdoms,” he
murmured.

           
“Is he dead?” she asked.

           
“I do not know,” he said, feeling
weary now, “I do not know if such as the Messenger
can
die.”

           
“But he is gone.”

           
“Aye, he is gone.” Kedryn held her
close, glorying in the pressure of her body against his, content in their
victory. “Dead or not, he is gone and we have won.”

           
They turned, seeing clearly for the
first time the wreckage that lay about them. The chamber lay in ruins. The
king’s throne was melted down to misshapen slag, Sister Thera’s body part of
it; great streaks of glasslike magma cooled across the floor; chunks of masonry
lay all around, a cool breeze from the jagged gap in the roof swirling the
smoke that drifted from wood and cloth; the glass of the windows was run away,
indeed, anything burnable was consumed. It was a scene of chaos and they left
it swiftly, seeking the fresher air of the chambers beyond.

           
The great wooden doors existed no
longer, only a pile of white ash that was warm beneath their feet as they
stepped through the smoke to see the corridor filled with frightened faces,
unsure who—or what—might emerge victorious from that epic combat. The folk of
Andurel had broached the walls, or been granted passage by Hattim’s soldiers,
for now they stood shoulder to shoulder with the Galichians, nobles and
servants mingled, soldiery and city folk, differences forgotten in the
frightful recognition of Hattim’s apostasy. They cheered as they saw Kedryn and
Wynett, the Galichians no less forcefully than those who had remained loyal.
Galen was there, beaming hugely, and Brannoc, a grin on his dark features, and
Ashrivelle, her face unnaturally pale, tears flooding from her eyes.

           
At her feet lay Hattim Sethiyan, a
knife protruding from his back. Brannoc stooped to retrieve it. Wiped the blade
casually on the usurper’s finery and shrugged innocently as he held out the
king’s medallion to Kedryn.

           
“He sought to flee. I stopped him.”

           
Kedryn nodded. For now he could not
find it in himself to pity the Galichian, for Hattim had chosen the path he
trod and in so doing brought terror down on Andurel and the threat of war to
the Kingdoms.

           
“Where are my parents?” he asked.
“Where is Tepshen?”

           
“Gone to find them,” said Brannoc.
“It seems Hattim at least accorded them the privilege of imprisonment in their
own quarters.”

           
Again Kedryn nodded, turning to
Ashrivelle now.

           
He was about to speak but she halted
him with a shake of her head, drawing herself up with obvious effort. “I did
not know,” she said softly, her voice frightened. “I loved him, but I did not
know what he did. It was as though some spell was laid on me.”

           
“Sister,” Wynett said gently, and
left the circle of Kedryn’s arm to hug her sibling.

           
Ashrivelle burst into fresh tears,
clutching Wynett as might a drowning man clutch a floating spar. “I will make
amends,” she wailed. “If such is possible. I will go to Estrevan and devote my
life to making good the ill I supported.”

           
“You did not know,” Wynett
comforted. “The Messenger held thrall here and you cannot be blamed.”

           
Kedryn put a hand upon her shoulder
and said, “His power was great, Princess, no blame rests on you.”

           
Ashrivelle turned grateful eyes
toward him and he smiled gently. Then his expression became one of pure
pleasure as the crowd parted on Tepshen’s shout to allow Bedyr and Yrla passage
through, Jarl and Arlynn close behind.

           
“Praise the Lady,” said Yrla,
throwing her arms about him. “You are safe.”

           
Bedyr put his arms about them both,
his smile jubilant. “You slew the creature?”

           
“He is gone,” said Kedryn quietly.

           
“And you are risen,” said Bedyr,
solemnly. “Tepshen has told us of your marriage.”

           
Kedryn nodded, extending a hand to
Wynett, who moved to join them, her face radiant.

           
“Welcome, daughter,” smiled Bedyr.

           
“Oh, Wynett!” Yrla kissed the
younger woman. “How happy you make me.”

           
They stood for long moments,
oblivious of the crowd, content with the closeness, happy in the ending of a
nightmare, then they turned away and Kedryn drew Wynett close again as they
walked together toward their shared future.

           
“Angus
Wells writes with a touch
of magic. . . .

           
This
is high fantasy of the most
exhilarating kind.”

           
—Robert
Holdstock, author of
Mythago Wood

           
A
special preview of

           
The Third Book of the Kingdoms

           
The Way Beneath

           
by

           
Angus
Wells

           
Kedryn and Wynett have defeated the
evil Usurper, Taws, but much is left unsettled in the Three Kingdoms. In the
wake of the Usurper’s rage there is rebuilding to do; High Fort and the
White
Palace
have been devastated by Taws’s assault.
Kedryn is young—too young, he feels, to be crowned king, and Ust-Galich stands
without a ruling lord.

           
Renewal is joyfully begun. And yet,
in dark places where not even the Lady’s influence can reach, Ashar’s anger
simmers, and he waits. His minion has failed, but his cause is not forgotten. .
. .

           
Prologue

           
HE had not known pain until now;
that sensation had been the preserve of mortal flesh and he had not thought to
experience it. Nor had he anticipated a second defeat, yet that had come and
with it such exquisite pain his preternatural senses exploded in disorder.
Vision was gone; taste, smell, hearing lost; touch became an abstract, consumed
beneath the raw wash of agony. His universe, his very being, was suffering, the
pain overriding all save the one remaining sensation: fear. Fear was a
permanent thing for all who served Ashar; more so for him, who was created of
and by the god, who was so wholly Ashar’s creature.

           
And fear possessed him now. He felt
it in the deepest channels of his unnatural being, gripping him with a strength
that slowly overcame the pain, relegating that anguish to a secondary status in
his returning awareness.

           
He had failed his master again.

           
The once at the Lozin Gate, where
the might of the Horde he had raised to being Ashar’s will to the Three
Kingdoms broke against the determination of a single manling, and now again
when that same weak creation of flesh and blood had stood against him, aided by
no more than a weaker woman.

           
And
the talisman
, said a voice that was not a voice but a crescendo of agony
within him.

           
He opened his eyes and saw only
fire. Ashar’s fire, which had sustained him and now seared him. He screamed,
knowing the fury of his master, and the fire abated a fraction, enough that he
could assess his situation, order his memories, sense the emptiness inside him.

           
“The talisman?” he asked in a voice
that quavered, no longer confident.

           
Kyrie’s
talisman!
The god spat the words as if even mention of the Lady’s name was
distasteful.

           
“She gave them power?” He saw a
fragment of hope, a faint glimmer of optimism that glinted dimly through the
threatening flames.

           
Estrevan
gave them the stones; the two halves of the talisman. With those they defeated
you.

           
He shuddered afresh. Had his eyes
been capable of producing tears he would have wept, but they could not and
instead he said, “Kedryn was blind.”

           
Kedryn
regained his sight, the god responded. He entered the netherworld with the
woman and found the one you used to take his eyes. Borsus gave him back his
sight.

           
“Borsus?” Disbelief was in his
reply. “Borsus was my man. How might he aid Kedryn Caitin?”

           
Did
I create so feeble a creature? The utter contempt stung him with a fiery lash.
Do you not know that all is a balance? That for each move of mine there is a
countermove she—again the single word spat out—may take? It is decreed so by a
power greater even than mine, and that allowed the one they call the Chosen to
gain back his lost sight. / had thought to outmaneuver her; thought that your
suborning of the one called Hattim Sethiyan must win me the game, but it did
not. You failed me, Taws.

           
He felt resentment then, and the
god’s knowledge of it brought pain afresh to the embodiment of his creation. He
screamed, knowing the ululation was as music to his master and might thus
placate the god. After what was either a little while or an eternity the
anguish eased and he spoke again, fearfully, knowing that he pleaded for his
very existence.

           
“I did not know he penetrated the
netherworld. I did not know he had regained his sight. I did not know he
possessed the half of the talisman, the woman the other.”

           
And
I could not warn you. said the god. She is strong in the Kingdoms—stronger now
for your defeat—and 1 could only trust in you to do my will there.

           
“As I did,” Taws moaned, cringing as
the flames that surrounded him burned brighter. “Had I but known of the
talismans I could have taken measures against their power.”
You had knowledge of the ones whose souls
you drank,
countered Ashar.
You had
Kedryn Caitin and the woman called Wynett within your grasp.

           
Taws groaned, remembering the blue
light, the quintessence of all he opposed, that had struck against him and
quelled his own hellish fire. “I could not fight against the joined strength of
the two halves,” he gasped.

           
No,
Ashar agreed, you could not. That power was too great, but it has shown me two
things.

           
There was a pause that the cringing
form of the mage took as hopeful until the god spoke again.

           
While
that talisman exists I cannot hope to vanquish either Caitin or the Kingdoms.
He holds the one part, his woman the other. Their love binds them as one,
uniting the stone. While they, together, possess the cursed thing the balance
is weighted

           
in the Lady’s favour. I must wrest
both parts from them.

           
“The woman,” Taws said quickly, “she
will be his weakness; he hers. Separate them, let the one be bait for the
other, the talisman the ransom for the captive’s life.”

           
It
had occurred to me, responded Ashar with massive contempt. Indeed, I have begun
my move. And this time I shall not be thwarted.

           
Taws smiled then, his fleshless lips
stretching despite the pain of Ashar’s fires. He asked, “What part do I play,
Master?”

           
You
have no part, answered the god. You have outlived your usefulness and l have no
further need of you, What / do now, I do alone. Now Kedryn Caitin shall face
me.

           
The smile upon Taws’s mantis
features became a rictus of inexpressible agony as the flames burned higher,
brighter, becoming all that he knew, the core of his being, until that gift of
Ashar was taken back.

           
Within the farthest reaches of the
Beltrevan, Caroc hunters trembled as flame lit the night sky, its brilliance
dimming the light of the spring stars, midnight becoming as noonday in high
summer. It seemed a rift was opened in the very skin of the world to give
access to Ashar’s fire, the roiling column stretching to the heavens, its
outwash rendering the mightiest trees to pale ash that blew on the hellish
wind, that awful gusting felling timber in a great corona about the central
pyre. Birds roasted in the branches and small animals upon the ground,
burrowing creatures died in their holes while others fled in stark terror from
the conflagration, forest bulls running alongside the great cats, wolves pacing
them, companions in fear with the deer that bounded, wide eyed and oblivious of
the predators, all unified in their desire to escape that ghastly holocaust.

           
No men were seriously harmed, for
none ventured near that place where first, so legend had it, Ashar had brought
the Messenger into the world. It was a place both sacred and cursed, for the
Messenger had promised much and led the tribes of the Beltrevan down into
defeat. Now, with peace agreed and the world turned on its head with a
Kingdomer hef-Alador by swordright, it was deemed best to steer well clear.
Consequently only a few suffered hurt: a handful struck by storm-tossed
branches, some by charging bulls, a scattering burnt by the more natural fire
that followed the initial eruption.

           
Most hurried to the more hospitable
regions ot the torest, wishing only to get themselves well clear of the raging
flames, not wishing to know whether Ashar expressed his anger or lamented his
defeat. That was something for the shamans to debate, and they would not come
together until the time of the summer Gathering; honest warriors, having tasted
the ashes of vanquishment, preferred now to go about their human business and
leave the arguments of the gods to the deities.

           
In High Fort, the chatelain Rycol
was summoned from his dinner table to observe a most curious phenomenon. It was
an event without precedence and drew a sizeable crowd of onlookers, doubtless
on the Keshi side of the Idre, too.

           
The seijeant sent by the captain of
the watch to inform Rycol did not believe it was the work of the woodlanders
for it moved down the river and there was no sign of human participation in its
coming. In any event, it came too swiftly for the great booms to be swung out
and was, in the seijeant’s breathtaken opinion, too large for even the booms to
halt. Alarmed, Rycol set down his eating implements, pushed back his chair, and
hurried from the dining hall, bellowing orders as he went. Consequently, in
addition to those merely interested in the sight, it was also seen by a large
part of the garrison as soldiers manned the ramparts with readied bows and the
artillerymen realigned their catapults and mangonels. Rycol and those with him
had the better view, for they rushed to the quayside where sight of the river
was unobstructed.