The Demon Lord (39 page)

“We had this argument before!”

“And you remember the outcome, I hope?” Gueynor’s voice was entirely reasonable, even though it still trembled slightly. Tonight she had seen and suffered things which would trouble her sleep for months, and only by witnessing the conclusion could she be sure that the world was a safe place after dark. Wisely, she did not appeal to Marek either as arbiter or advocate; the Cernuan stood to one side with arms folded and said nothing.

Finally Aldric shrugged. “It’s your choice. I wash my hands of it. But remember this: don’t try to be heroic, or even brave. Trying to stay alive may well prove difficult enough. And I would rather that you lived to be the Overlord of Seghar, Gueynor.” He glanced along the gallery, at the light ornamental armours which formed part of its decoration, and then back at the girl’s body in its flimsy shift. “Now find something more practical to wear…”

The gallery ended at the foot of a staircase which spiralled upwards out of sight, and its treads were gashed by the betraying triple gouges of Ythek’s claws. “Into Geruath’s weapon-tower,” muttered Marek. He stared back along the passage. “Why, I wonder? Better wait here for—” There was no one listening. “Dear God and black damnation!” the demon queller swore. “Does he never listen to his own advice… ?” With one hand on the medallion at his throat, Marek started up the stairs with all the silent speed that he could muster.

Aldric and Gueynor, already at the top, were slighty disconcerted to find themselves alone before a door which bore all the signs of the demon’s passage. “He was behind me, I tell you,” the Alban breathed.

“You should have made sure…” Gueynor murmured doubtfully.

“No matter now. Wait for him. I’m going through.”

“And I’m—”

“Waiting
here
! Gueynor, do it! Please… !” There was as much force in his whisper as Aldric dared; he knew that the girl was acting through fear, not false bravado—and he also knew that beyond the door he could protect only himself. With that unpleasant thought pushed to the back of his mind, Aldric eased open the door and slid carefully into the tower.

Inside was the pride of Geruath’s weapon collection, lit from outside by stars and by a setting moon three nights past full. It was dark inside the tower, but not completely. There was a strange ruddy luminescence to the air, as if the motes of floating dust were each red-hot and glowing. And then he saw it.

A rose. Of course… but such a rose. It hung unsupported on the air, its outlines vague, misty like an image sketched by frost on glass, and it was huge. A monstrous, overblown blossom twice the size of a man’s head, its great curving petals pulsed with all the shades of red from incandescent scarlet and vermillion down into crimson and the black of ancient blood. Its perfume was a throbbing intoxication that overwhelmed mere human senses as a spring tide overwhelms sand. And the rose sang. So close to its source, the Song of Desolation was one note in many voices: one note of such sweetness and purity that it burned with the brilliance of a solitary star on a winter’s night, but so distant, so inhumanly cold that only the hopeless awareness of his ultimate death remained coherent in Aldric’s mind.

Rather than live in despair, it would be better to die now…

Aldric’s hand closed around his
tsepan’s
hilt…

And Gemmel’s voice said dryly: “Cheer up, boy— nobody lives forever. Nor would any want to… just think of the boredom!” Where the old enchanter’s words had come from, the Alban did not know; but they made him smile, and no man can smile while seriously considering his own suicide.

Another light began to fill the tower: the steady radiance of the stone of Echainon. It radiated not heat, but warmth—the warmth of friendship, of comfort, of pity and compassion, of an embrace…
Kyrin, O my lady, O my love
. The warmth of humanity, with all its errors and its faults. And the coldness of Issaqua began to fail…

Then something moved beyond the rose and he went very, very still. It moved in the darkness beyond the conflicting lights, but it was so much blacker than the deepest shadows that its presence and position were quite plain.
Ythek’ter an-shri
moved to aid its Master.

Aldric felt the scrutiny of an intelligence so inhuman that he could think of no comparison. The demon Herald was aware of him. All the memories of its strength and speed and savagery came flooding back. Yet any predatory beast had those—even the Beast. Even Ev-than. But this was Ythek Shri, and it had more powers than any beast.

Talons glittered dully as they lifted towards him, and even twenty feet away their size and power were awesome. But the entity remained immobile, and only flecks of starlight reflecting from its surface sparkled as their sources twinkled so very far away. Then it hissed and closed its claws.

A gale came out of nowhere and rose to a shriek as it wrapped Aldric in a nebulous embrace. Armoured or not, braced legs or not, he was flung backwards against the wall and almost off his feet. With a mocking whistle the witch-wind died away and Aldric regained his balance. He slid Widowmaker out and drew her scabbard up across his back, well clear of both legs. The demon seemed to radiate malevolent amusement at his preparations as he hurriedly assumed a defensive guard, waiting for what was coming next. The wait was short.

Halfway through one breath and the next, his perception of the world went… strange. It began as a multicolored phosphoresence dancing around the outlines of things previously lost in shadow. Then even that weak hold on reality warped out of existence and vertigo hit him like a blow.
Up
was no longer above him, nor
down
beneath his feet.

Instead there was a deep gulf which yawned warm and inviting less than a step from where he stood on nothing. Iridescent light twirled in languorous coils far down in its glowing amber throat; small bright specks of pastel colour rose towards him and glided past his face with a faint hot rush of perfume. The chasm hummed gently cajoling lullaby sounds, sweet tones of half-heard melodies mingled with the distant tinkling of tiny bells. Aldric could hear the double drumbeat of his own heart slow and infinitely deep in his ears, in his bones, in the core of his reeling brain.

All that remained constant and unaffected was a long silvery glitter which he knew was Widowmaker’s blade— and a twisted black thing which squirmed sluggishly at the very bottom of the pit. As it began to writhe towards him, Aldric shut his eyes.

Marek forced the wind-jammed door aside and blinked at what he saw: the beautiful, dreadful Bale Flower of Issaqua—and Ythek Shri advancing with slow, measured strides on an armoured figure who seemed not to know that it was there. Gueynor pushed into the doorway behind him, realised what she was seeing and screamed a warning at the top of her voice.

Aldric’s eyes snapped open and focused on the gleam of this blade, the one steady thing in a world of flaring colours and twitching blackness. The giddiness which had almost claimed him—which had almost spilled him into the Abyss—was gone now; enough at least for him to poise the
taiken
double-handed by his head. Secure in its own invincibility, Ythek the Devourer leaned towards him…

Marek Endain raised one hand and began to mutter the phrases of a spell…

Aldric could no longer see the colours, for shifting, glinting blackness blotted all else out. Widowmaker trembled slightly. Not with fear, but with tension, for the muscles of his arms were taut as a full-drawn bowstring and as eager for release…

Something made a slavering sound…

And flame scorched the shadow-crowded tower, leaping from Marek’s outstretched hand as he pronounced the Invocation of Fire. Although his spell could do it no real harm, Ythek’s malign concentration wavered. And Aldric struck with all his strength.

“
Hai
!” Widowmaker sliced out: there was a chopping noise as her blade clove…
something
... and then a bubbling screech and a clatter of ponderous movement. Cold flowed down the sword, chilling Aldric’s sweaty hands. Despite his evident success in somehow wounding the demon, he was terrified; a hackle-raising fear billowed from it, like frigid vapour. Other enemies might attack his flesh and bone but the
tsalaer
guarded that with scales and plates and meshed mail; Ythek menaced his sanity and his frail soul, and against that he had no protection.

And while he subconsciously worried about his soul, the demon Herald’s talons almost took him in the chest. Aldric twisted to one side far faster than he could have dreamed and the great hooked claws went screeching across his battle armour’s surface instead of punching through—as would have happened had he not rolled with the blow. Even then the impact spun him right around and hurled him effortlessly across the room with all the breath bruised from his lungs. But there was no second attack, no pounce while he was helpless to defend himself.

For this time Ythek Shri had gone for Marek.

A dim flickering of balefire hung about the Cernuan; whether it was the outward sign of attack or of defence, Aldric did not know. Crouched low on spread, well-balanced legs, the demon queller fixed an unwinking stare on the approaching Devourer—and incredibly, the black reptilian bulk faltered, Marek took a long deep breath which seemed to expand his entire body; his eyes blazed and he stretched out his right arm, all his power focused through the extended index finger. There was no noise, no violent display—but Ythek stopped as if it faced an unseen wall, and when Marek took one step forward it retreated that step even though he made no gesture of threat and had drawn no talisman or weapon. There was only that rigid, pointing finger, black-nailed as any peasant’s…

The knucklebones, thought Aldric through his own whirl of pain and nausea. No… not the knucklebones— Gueynor had those now. He was holding back the demon with no more than the force of his own will… ! And that will was failing.

“Aldric…” The Cernuan’s voice was a fragment of its former self, and shook with effort. “Aldric… help me Quickly… ! Cannot hold…”

“
Abath arhan!” He
shouted the words like a war-cry, like a challenge, and allowed the stone to draw on the power that it had earlier granted him, to reclaim it all and more until his senses swam and his legs grew weak beneath him. In ears and mind the Song of Desolation grew loud and triumphant, then; louder still, rising to a ululating paean praising darkness and despair. The air was frigid, and white crystals of hoar-frost formed on his harness, blurring the stark outlines of the metal; as he exhaled Aldric could see the fog of his own breath hang before him like the smoke-drift from a firedrake’s jaws.

The great armoured triangle of Ythek’s head swung to survey him, and as the full weight of its regard pressed down on his cringing brain the Alban understood for one awesome instant just what Marek Endain had faced down… The Herald’s maw gaped wide, leering at him with an infinity of appalling teeth. Saliva wove a glistening web between them, oozing from their needle points in steaming corrosive threads that splashed and scarred the wooden floor. Pain spiked Aldric’s staring eyes, bored into his mind and slowly, slowly the world slid out of focus…

Time stopped. Gueynor was beside him, her hand about his wrist—but even through the armour, layers of steel and leather, he could feel that her grip was… different. As if her fingers were longer, narrower—as if the hand he saw was not the hand he felt. Aldric’s head turned so that he could look her in the face, but that too was changing. Like a painting on thin silk, another face had overlaid the one he knew; delicate as fine porcelain, ivory pale skin framed by dark, dark hair; great sad eyes. And suddenly, though he had never seen the face before, he recognised it—and in the same instant he realised what Gueynor held so tightly in her clenched left hand.

Sedna… and the knucklebones of Sedna.

“You have power, Alban.” Even the familiar Jouvaine voice was husky with an unmistakably Vreijek accent. “Give it to me. Let me direct it. Trust me…” Moving stiffly, like an automaton, Aldric removed the loops of silvered steel from his arms. Without the warm pressure of the spellstone in the centre of his palm he felt at once lighter, younger and yet somehow incomplete. Vulnerable…

“Take it,” he said to the sorceress who spoke through Gueynor’s lips. “Take it, use it and bring it to me.” Time began again.

The slight blonde figure which was at the same time tall and dark walked out to the middle of the floor. Beneath the armour which she wore, Gueynor’s skin was still marked with the sign of a consecrated sacrifice. She was an unclaimed victim going willingly to face that to which she had been dedicated, and she bore within her and around her the stuff of one who had been neither consecrated nor willing. One whose life had been stolen; whose death had violated the Balance of things…

Ythek Shri lowered over her, and Aldric held his breath. Then slowly… oh, so very slowly… the Devourer backed away. Incredibly, unbelievably, it bowed low and abased itself. Behind and above its Herald, the demonic flower-form of Issaqua throbbed like a beating heart. Its song was very quiet now and the scent of roses barely perceptible…

Marek Endain, the queller of demons, let his hands hang down by his sides as he watched. This thing had passed beyond him, leaving his much-vaunted knowledge very far behind. Like Aldric, he could only wait…

Until the tower, the citadel, the whole world seemed to explode. A searing lash of energy poured from the stone of Echainon where Sedna held it high in Gueynor’s hand. Light met darkness, heat met cold… Life met death. The blue fire wrapped Issaqua the Dweller in Shadows with coils of brilliance until no darkness remained even in the crimson heart of the Bale Flower’s being. Where there is sufficient light, there can be no shadows; where there is sufficient warmth, cold cannot exist.

Ythek Shri howled its anguish, beating its monstrous talons against the floor as if a self-inflicted pain could cancel one which it could not control. The Warden of Gateways shrieked endlessly as a Gateway not of its own making yawned to draw its substance back into the Void; then the dreadful lost howling shredded to the thin squeals of a pig as Ythek’s form wavered and dissolved, dissipating like ink on wet paper. For just one moment more an unclean translucent fog swirled thickly through the withered petals of a crumbling, faded rose…