Stalking Darkness (69 page)

M
ardus crouched opposite Seregil in the uneven basin, the surge of the tide rushing around their ankles. They sloshed through icy water as they circled, vying for possession of the Helm that lay partially submerged between them, the newly awakened glow of the blue eye stones casting a pale phosphorescence up through the water. The blast that had formed it had deepened the shallow basin into a broad pit deeper in places than the height of the two men who fought there. Strewn with bodies, lit only by the dead glow of the eclipse that still stood overhead, it was like a place from a fever dream.

“I should have killed that whelp of yours when I had the chance,” snarled Mardus. “Yes, you should have,” Seregil retorted through gritted teeth, sizing up his opponent.

Mardus was not a brawny opponent, but he did have the protection of his cuirass. “You missed Nysander, too, you know. He’s alive and the Four remains unbroken.”

“Yet you failed all the same,” Mardus gloated, pointing to the Helm with the dagger clutched in his left hand. “I am the Vatharna, the Chosen of Seriamaius. Do you think you can stand against me now?”

“I was chosen, too, you fatherless son of a whore.” Seregil tugged open the neck of his tunic with one hand to show him the reversed symbol pulsing there.

“But it’s my people at the Cockerel that I’ll kill you for, and for what you did to Alec. For the runners and keeks you used and betrayed, the innocents who’ve died at your order. Hell, I’ll kill you for the sheer fun of it. Come on, Lord Eater of Shit. Let’s get this over with.”

He lunged at Mardus and their swords locked in a resounding parry that sent a shock up both their arms. Seregil ducked Mardus’ guard and tried for a stab below his cuirass. He missed his footing and the tip of his blade glanced off metal, but the point cut the man’s left arm and fresh blood spotted the already stained waters of the pool; neither of the combatants had time to notice how the bleary light of the Helm brightened as it rolled in the wash of the tide.

Fighting for purchase on the broken stone underfoot, Seregil quickly realized that he was overmatched. On better ground his speed would have evened the odds, but trapped here in this watery pit he could only stand firm and fend off the taller man’s bone-jarring swings. Mardus slapped his blade back and nicked Seregil’s left shoulder. Seregil got his guard back up, made a lucky sidestep, and repaid him with a slash across the right forearm.

For the first time it occurred to Seregil that his role in the prophecy had been fulfilled, that he was expendable now. That he might lose. Sensing his doubt, Mardus pressed the advantage and scored a shallow cut across Seregil’s thigh.

More blood spotted the water and the Helm, brighter now with this and every death that occurred in the fight that was still raging above them, shone more brightly still.

It was Mardus who finally noticed the light, understood its significance. Redoubling his attack, he beat Seregil back against the rocks.

Pinned off balance in an indefensible position, Seregil decided to take a desperate chance.

Springing past Mardus, he dove for the Helm. He hadn’t gotten two steps when his foot lodged in a hidden crevice and he stumbled painfully.

Mardus struck at his back, slashing him across the ribs. Just as he drew back for the killing stab, however, a wave surged in over the shelf of rock, knocking them both off their feet with a blinding wall of spray that slammed them against the rocks.

Mardus was the first to recover when it subsided. Still gripping his sword, he looked around to find Seregil sprawled stunned and unarmed against the seaward rocks. Blood trickled down over one closed eye from a cut on his forehead.

A look of dark triumph spread across Mardus’ face as he stalked toward him through the knee-deep water. Long experience had taught him where to strike to cripple and give a lingering death.

It was the glow of the Eyes that distracted him. As the foaming surge of waves cleared for an instant, Mardus found the Helm shining up through the water at his feet.

“It seems I’ll have the pleasure of offering you to the Beautiful One after all,” he gloated. “Wounded or not, you’re still an admirable sacrifice.”

Gripping the Helm by one of the twisted black horns, he raised it over his head. “Adrat Vatharna, thromuth—“

Seregil chose his moment. Opening his eyes, he reached underwater, yanked the poniard from his boot, and threw it.

Mardus froze, the Helm still poised over his head as he stared down in amazement at the knife buried between his ribs where the edge of the cuirass left his side exposed.

“You should’ve killed me when you had the chance,” Seregil snarled, trailing blood as he waded unarmed toward his adversary. “You played a brilliant game until now, but you should always finish your enemy off before you reach for the spoils. Arrogance, my lord. It’s a deadly vice. It makes you predictable.”

Mardus’ lips stretched in the parody of a smile. “Tricks. Always your tricks,” he whispered.

Clutching the Helm in one hand, his sword in the other, he turned woodenly and began to stumble toward the edge of the pool.

Seregil followed and blocked his way. Mardus was dying, but still he looked down at Seregil with searing disdain.

“The Eater of Death—” he began thickly, gouts of blood spilling down over his chin from his mouth. “—will eat your heart today, not mine,” Seregil finished, glaring up into his enemy’s dark eyes.

He grasped the hilt of the poniard and twisted it, tearing through muscle and sinew until the long blade lodged fast in bone. A hot, bright fresh spurt of blood poured out over his clenched fist.

Mardus dropped the Helm and toppled backward into the water. A ribbon of red bubbles streamed up from his nose and mouth, then ceased. His eyes, already vague with death, mirrored tiny dual reflections of the sun’s first, bright edge as it emerged from the moon’s dominance.

Seregil spat into the water. A smaller wave surged over the edge of the pool, hiding Mardus for a moment beneath a rushing sheet of foam.

When it cleared again, the long reflection of another man had interposed itself across the surface of the water in front of him. Seregil looked up to find Nysander standing above him at the edge of the pool, the sound of scattered fighting still audible from beyond.

“Well done,” the wizard said gravely. “Now the Helm must be destroyed once and for all. Give it to me, then find your sword.”

Reaching down, Seregil grasped the glowing Helm by two of its black horns, just as he had grasped the crystal points of the crown months before. And as before, invisible voices and insubstantial spirits coalesced around him as he touched it, trying to stay his hand.

The blue eye stones set in the band had taken on the appearance of flesh now and swiveled accusingly in their lidless sockets as he passed the Helm up to Nysander.

The wizard drew a fold of his cloak around the Helm, screening it from view. “Your sword,” he said again, his voice gentle but firm. “I must have your help in this, Seregil. You are the only one who can aid me.”

Seregil scarcely felt his wounds as he splashed back across the pool to find his weapon. “Here it is,” he called. “But what about—?”

The words died in his throat. With the foam of a fresh wave boiling in around his legs, he looked up at the tall figure from his nightmares towering over him.

But this time he knew the face beneath the spiked brim of the misshapen Helm. It was Nysander’s.

The skeletal hands that formed the cheek guards clenched inward against Nysander’s face, sinking their talons into his cheeks until the flesh dimpled. The unnatural blue eyes blazed, sending out rays of light. Nysander stood unmoved, waiting.

“Nysander, why?” Seregil rasped the skin around the brand on his chest crawled and tingled, the sensation growing as it crept down his right arm. Sparks flickered over the quilions of his sword and along the shining blade.

But Seregil was aware of nothing except the sorrowful determination he read in Nysander’s eyes. Nysander—oldest friend, wisest teacher, second father.

Some sane part of Seregil’s mind screamed for him to throw the sword away into the sea, but he couldn’t move or look away.

“Nysander, I can’t!” he pleaded, echoing the forgotten words of his dreams. “You must.” Nysander’s voice was already thin and strained. “I have accepted this burden freely.

“First shall be the Guardian, a vessel of light in the darkness. Then the Shaft and the Vanguard, who shall fail and yet not fail if the Guide, the Unseen One, goes forth. And at the last shall be again the Guardian, whose portion is bitter, as bitter as gall.”

“You must strike now, dear boy. Too much blood has been spilled and I cannot hold back its power for long. If you fail, I shall become their Vatharna, the anathema of my life’s work. Strike now, I beg you. There is no other way, and never has been.”

Seregil’s body felt weightless as he climbed up the broken rock, sword naked in his hand. Lock away grief, a voice whispered deep in his heart. Lock away horror and fear and outrage and pity—

I understand. Oh, yes!

The Eyes of the Helm rolled to focus on him as he took his place in front of Nysander; this was a blow that could not be struck from behind. Hideous moans split the air around them, blending with the cries from mortal throats nearby as he raised his arm to strike. Some part of him recognized Alec’s voice among the others but he did not turn.

Nysander staggered, sank to his knees, arms extended on either side. Orbs of light burned in the hollow of each palm, illuminating the symbols that still showed on his skin.

“To protect your soul—“

The orbs flared and began to fade as the Helm blazed brighter. Even then Seregil might have hesitated if Nysander hadn’t raised his head and looked up at him with eyes that glowed already with the same horrible light as the Helm. Something broke inside Seregil at the sight of those alien eyes staring up at him from that familiar, beloved face.

Raising his sword in both hands, he brought it down with all his strength.

The symbols Nysander had painted on the blade flashed out like lightning as it cleaved through iron, horn, and gold, shattering the great Helm of Seriamaius into a thousand ragged fragments that dissolved into shreds of shadow in the milky light of the returning sun.

A sudden wind filled with a thousand tortured voices roared down out of nowhere, smashing the waves against the rocks. Flinging the twisted, blackened sword away, Seregil fell to his knees and lifted Nysander’s ruined head onto his lap, cradling the dead man in his arms. Another wave crashed in against the ledges, foaming around his knees, tugging at the dead man’s legs.

You knew, Seregil thought as he gazed down into Nysander’s face, plain and kind again in death. You knew. All along you knew. You knew you knew you knew you knew — “You knew!” he screamed against the raging wind, blind to the friends gathered in horrified realization around him.

Bowed over Nysander’s limp body, Seregil waited for the next wave to drag them both from the rocks and down into the trackless depths beyond.

S
eregil watched the smoke from Nysander’s pyre rise against the brilliant red and gold of the sunset and wondered why he couldn’t weep.

Alec was crying softly beside him and Micum, too, as he lay supported by Beka, one broad hand over his eyes. Thero stood a little apart, tears streaming down his pale cheeks as the flames crackled up through the carefully stacked tinder and driftwood.

Seregil longed to join them. His grief was a dry, sharp-edged stone lodged in his chest; he could scarcely draw breath around it.

Rhal’s sailors and Beka’s soldiers stood in respectful silence on the opposite side of the pyre. Patrolling loyally off the coast, Rhal had seen the fire at the camp and taken it as a signal. Braving the crashing surf, he’d come ashore with twenty of his men in time to help Beka’s raiders clear out the last of the Plenimarans. As word spread of Mardus’ death, however, most of the remaining soldiers simply scattered into the hills to fend for themselves.

Afterwards, Beka and Rhal had marshaled their people together, clearing away the dead and all trace of the ceremony.

When the site was cleansed, they stacked a funeral pyre on the ledges below the basin, then stood aside as Seregil and Thero placed Nysander on the bed of oil-soaked kindling and sweet herbs.

Standing here now, watching unflinchingly as the flames blackened Nysander’s skin and clothing, Seregil forced himself to recall the old wizard kneeling calmly among his paints and symbols, speaking words of encouragement. But still the tears would not come.

Stars appeared overhead in the darkening sky and with them the comet, robbed now of its dread significance. The pyre began to settle in on itself and Nysander’s corpse sank out of sight in a whirling cloud of sparks. Several of Rhal’s men came forward and added more wood and oil, stoking the blaze until the heat of it pressed the onlookers back into the surrounding shadows.

With the solemnity of the funeral circle broken, people began to drift away. The fire would burn long into the night, reducing skin, bone, and wood alike to a fine ash for the tide and winds to scatter.