A Knight of the Sacred Blade (13 page)

Bill shrugged. “It’s…um…it’s okay. Really.” He looked at Nathan’s sprawled form. “My God. Who beat the crap out of Nathan like that?”

Ally wiped sweat from her forehead. “I guess I did.”

“You did?” said Bill.

Ally nodded. “I did.” 

“Jeez.” Bill swallowed a few times. “Jeez. I mean…jeez!” 

“I always said I could take care of myself,” said Ally. 

“Yeah,” said Bill. “But…Nathan…he’s big…and you’re…you’re not.” 

“I wasn’t going to let him hurt Mary,” said Ally. 

“Yeah,” said Bill. He looked at Mary, who seemed almost comatose. “Is…she…um…is she okay?”

“No,” said Ally. “But she will be. Eventually.” 

“Okay!” said Mr. Ryan. “The police are on their way. We’re supposed to keep the attacker under guard.” He gave Nathan’s prone form a cursory inspection. “I don’t think that will be a problem. And they want to question you, Miss Wester.”

“Ally nodded. “I understand.” 

“William Junior, go to the pavilion and wait for the police,” said Mr. Ryan. “Bring them here when they arrive.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bill. He hesitated, and looked at Mary. “Um…could I get her anything while I’m there?”

“A soda,” said Mary, staring at the ground. “I’m thirsty.”

“Okay. A soda,” said Bill. “A soda. What kind…”

“Bill,” said Ally. “Just go.”

“Okay,” said Bill, sprinting away. Ally waited for the police and wondered how she could possibly explain all this to her parents. 

She didn't know what had happened.

Chapter 12 - The Ildramyn

Year of the Councils 972

Three weeks after leaving the Hold, Arran practiced his sword work. 

“Parry,” mumbled Arran, gripping his Sacred Blade’s hilt with both hands. He slid through the positions, his tired muscles relearning the moves. “Parry high, parry low. Block high, block middle, block low.” The Sacred Blade’s silvery length gleamed crimson in the sunset. “Thrust high, thrust low.” He began working the blade through the more advanced routines. “Silver Lance, Steel Lightning, Wrath From Above, Hammer of the Gods.” His muscles felt better, looser, than the first few times he had done this. “Blades’ Circle, the Crowning, Serpent’s Kiss…”

“You are getting better,” said Siduri. She sat against a nearby boulder, her spears across her lap. She oiled and sharpened the spearheads every day. “You are faster now. You are almost healed, I think.”

Arran smiled as he whipped his sword through the Lords’ Dance. “What would a woman know about battle?”

Siduri snorted. “I can hit a jackal from a hundred and fifty paces with my throw. It is fortunate that you were not my enemy when you came into the desert of the clans. You might a carry fine sword and powerful guns, but they would not help you if I buried a spear in your chest.”

Arran remembered staggering out into the desert to die, and his movements slowed.

Siduri jumped to her feet. “Well, come! Let us see how well you have recovered!”

She flung a spear at him.

Arran just had time to sputter a curse. He danced aside, his sword flashing, and deflected the spear with her blade. Siduri charged and flung her second spear. Arran ducked and managed to bat the weapon aside with a whirling slash.

He came out of his spun with Sacred Blade leveled at Siduri’s throat. “What is this? Did you go through all that trouble only to spear me?”

Siduri laughed. “Do not be foolish. I was aiming past you. Besides, you dodged and blocked, did you not?” She walked past his astonished stare and scooped up her spears. “I think I saw a jackal go past. We may have fresh meat for our meal tonight, no?” She vanished into the twilight without a sound.

Arran rammed his sword back into its scabbard with a mingled curse and laugh. The woman was insane. She disappeared and returned without a moment’s notice. But she was as good as her boast with her spears, perhaps even better. Yet she believed Alastarius, and had followed him out into the desert. 

That was certainly proof of madness. 

Arran shook his head and set to work making a campfire. Siduri might be insane, but he had come to rely on her. She knew the desert, and without her starvation and thirst would have claimed him weeks ago. Arran ran a hand through his hair, chopped short to resist the desert heat. She had done so much for him, sacrificed so much, that it would be churlish to kill himself now.

Siduri returned, a pair of dead rabbits dangling from her spear shaft. “I was fortunate. It seems the jackal was hunting a pair of hares.”

“Easier to spear?” said Arran.

Siduri arched an eyebrow. “You should thank me. Hare meat is better by far than jackal.” 

They set to work skinning the rabbits. 

“You are getting stronger,” said Siduri. “You are still young yet, and can recover quickly from such wounds.”

“You’re only ten years older than I,” said Arran. 

“Yet those ten years make a difference,” said Siduri. She stuck her knife in her teeth long enough to adjust the crude spit. “Tomorrow, I think, we can set a faster pace. We should reach the Oracle of Time in four or five tendays.” 

Arran looked over the darkening desert. “And then what?”

Siduri shrugged. “Who knows? You worry too much, I say. The future will sort itself out, whether we like it or not. Now be quiet and eat your hare.”

Arran had to laugh. “Yes, my lady.” 

###

A month passed, and they traveled ever deeper into the Desert of Scorpions. Arran wondered if the desert would ever end. He wondered if any man of the High Kingdoms, even Alastarius, had dreamed of the desert’s size. 

They passed canyons large enough to hold all of Carlisan and ancient volcanoes jutting from the earth like the ruined citadels of ancient gods. Once Arran saw the sandblasted bones of a dragon, its jaws large enough to swallow a house, its fangs like lances. He saw living dragons, too, brown rock dragons like titanic rattlesnakes, lying wrapped around the base of jagged cliffs. 

A week later they traveled through a desolate plain dominated by monumental stone pyramids. Ruined temples ringed the pyramids like the foothills of a mountain. Towering statues of kings with crowns of cobras stood among the ruins, and strange statues of lions with the heads of men. Odd writing marked the walls of the temples.

“No one knows for certain, not even the wisest. Not even Alastarius knew,” said Siduri when he asked her about the ruins. “They are older than the clans, older than the desert itself. Legends tell that they are the tombs of wicked kings. They made their nations into slaves and spent the wealth of a thousand empires to raise the pyramids, for the kings thought they could live forever with such tombs. Yet the gods cursed them for such wicked pride, and turned the land to a desert. Now the kings lie forgotten and cursed, and all that remains are their pyramids.” She shook her head. “Very foolish. The dead are dead. Why build them pyramids when they are dead?”

To Arran the pyramids looked like mountains raised by the hand of man. “Are they older than the Oracle of Time, do you think?”

Siduri snorted. “Silly man. Nothing is older than the Oracle.”

They kept going.

The land grew less harsh, the air less oppressive. Soon Arran saw green things growing amongst the barren sand and rock. The occasional seagull flapped overhead, and the smell of salt filled the air.

The next day they laid eyes on the farther sea, two months after they had left the Hold of Clan Hadazer.

###

Siduri smiled. “Look well, man of Carlisan. You may be the first man of your nation to see such a sight.”

Arran followed her advice and looked. The desert plain ended in a sharp cliff that plunged two hundred feet to the sea. White-crested green waves crashed against the crumbling boulders, the constant roar filling his ears. He wondered how many centuries, how many millennia that sea had been eating into the cliff. “Carlisan is gone. I may well be the first and only man of my nation to see this.” He shook his head. “We could use some fresh food. Are any of these fisher villages nearby?”

“No,” said Siduri. “None dwell for twenty miles in any direction, even on the islands, for fear of the Oracle.”

A mixture of dread and anticipation churned in Arran’s gut. “The Oracle. It is near?”

Siduri nodded. “Very near. It is only a few miles east. Come, I shall take you.”

They walked along the coast. Seagulls called and circled overhead, and the sea crashed and foamed. Arran didn’t mind the sound. It was better than the low, moaning wind of the desert. After they walked for a while, he saw a dark mass on the horizon. 

“What is that?” he said.

As they drew closer he saw a huge, ruined castle of dark stone. It squatted, black and malignant, at the edge of the cliff. Some of its towers and walls had crumbled into the sea, and the remaining structures looked worn and crumbling. The castle looked unspeakably ancient to Arran, older than the desert and its pyramids. He wondered how long it had sat here, brooding at the edge of the world. 

“It is the house of the Oracle,” said Siduri. “Here it has dwelt, since before the memory of the clans. It is in there that you must go.”

“Will you come with me?” said Arran, staring at the ruin.

“No,” said Siduri. “All the old lore agrees that he who seeks wisdom from the Oracle of Time must enter its house alone.”

Arran hesitated. Part of him wanted to run from the black ruin and never look back. But what else could he do? He had come thousands of miles to the very edge of the world. He had nowhere else to go. Something deep inside him whispered that this was his last chance. 

“I’ll go,” said Arran.

“Be careful,” said Siduri. “The tales say that the Oracle offers some sort of challenge to those who confront it. Those who fail it are lost forever.”

“I am already lost,” said Arran. 

“I know,” said Siduri, “but not as lost as you might think.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “You are a good and true man, even if you yourself do not think so. I will wait for you here. Go, now, with my blessing.”

Arran managed to nod. He turned and walked towards the looming black ruin. 

“Arran.”

He looked over his shoulder, saw Siduri smiling at him.

“Remember,” she said, “that you are a Knight of the Sacred Blade. No matter what weapon you wield. Remember that always.”

He nodded once more, and continued toward the castle.

He saw a doorway in the base of a tower, yawning like a toothless black mouth. He made for it, the dirt scraping beneath his boots. The castle was huge. How would he find the Oracle of Time? He reached the doorway and peered inside. A broad flight of worn stairs descended into the earth. Arran looked over his shoulder and saw Siduri watching him. 

He took a deep breath, turned, and began walking down the stairs.

The air felt cold after the heat of the desert. His boot heels clicked against the cold black marble. In the distance he saw a faint green glow. 

Then he heard whispers in the dark, muttering voices groaning in madness and pain. He drew his Sacred Blade and whirled, and the voices faded to nothing. Arran’s eyes darted over the passage, his heart pounding in his chest. He felt unseen eyes crawling up and down his body, dissecting him with their gaze. 

“Gods above,” said Arran. “I’m going mad.” He kept his sword in hand and descended. 

The stairs opened into a cavernous hall of gleaming black stone. A dark pool, its waters still and deep, ran the length of the hall. A stone throne stood over the pool, and a figured sat slumped in it. The green glow came from the figure on the throne. 

Arran stepped towards the throne and frowned in revulsion. A shriveled corpse sat in the throne, eye sockets empty and staring, mouth open in a silent scream, leathery skin pulled tight over jutting bones. Rusted iron chains bound the corpse to the throne. 

Arran lowered his sword in disgust. “A corpse? I’ve come all this way to see a corpse? Has the mighty Oracle of Time died?”

He turned to go. 

“I was dead millennia ere you were born, Arran Belphon of Carlisan.”

The voice had been low and female, seductive and husky. Arran turned back, blue light glimmering along his Sacred Blade. He saw sparks of green light flaring in the chained corpse’s eyes. The moldering head shifted and turned to watch him. 

“What manner of demon are you?” said Arran.

The corpse laughed. “The first,” it said, its voice purring. “I have waited so long for you. So very long.”

The air seemed to waver, and then…

The thing upon the throne became a vision of beauty.

It looked like his long-forgotten betrothed in Carlisan, the way she had looked when she had lain naked beneath him, her arms around his back and her lips against his mouth. 

A wave of longing and desire washed through him.

The shape on the throne held out its hand. “I can give you peace, Arran Belphon.”

”How?” said Arran, wary.

“Drink from the pool,” whispered the beautiful shape. “Its water is that of peace, of rest, of forgetfulness. Drink now and rest, tormented one.” 

Arran stared at the dark water. He felt so very tried, and he did indeed yearn for rest. He knelt, the dark water flickering before his eyes. 

He blinked.

He heard screaming. 

In the depths of the pool he saw the ghostly images of men and women bound with chains driven through their flesh. The forms writhed and screamed, faces contorted in endless agony. 

Arran cursed and reeled back, his Sacred Blade coming to guard position. The beautiful illusion had vanished, and he now saw the thing on the throne for what it was, a long-decayed corpse. “No.”

The corpse hissed. “Fool!” Its voice remained a melody of beauty. “Drink from my pool now. Save yourself the suffering that lies ahead.”

“Who are you?” said Arran. “Are you the Oracle of Time?”

The corpse laughed. “What is a name? The mortals that dwell in the desert name me such. I have also been called the Seer, the Watcher, the Ancient One, the Master of Ages, the Cursed Lord.” It hissed again. “But I have been and I am the Ildramyn.” A thousand whispers seem to ring through the chamber, echoing that name over and over. 

“The Ildramyn,” said Arran. “And just what is that?”

The corpse’s empty gaze rested on him. “I was the first. I was the greatest of all mortal spell casters, a master of the white magic and the black magic, a lord of Wizards and a master over Warlocks. My power challenged the very gods themselves. But my enemies were jealous. They banded against me, combined their powers, and bound me here in this ruin thousands of years ago, ere the High Kingdoms rose, ere the pyramids were made, ere the desert came. Now I am condemned to sit on my throne for all the ages, damned to watch the epochs pass. I am the Ildramyn.” The sparks flared in its eyes. “You would have joined me in my torment, if you had but drunk from my pool.”

Arran raised his flashing Sacred Blade. How many souls had the Ildramyn trapped over the centuries? “I ought to destroy you.” 

The Ildramyn laughed. “With that toy? The combined White and Black Councils could not defeat me! No, no. You have resisted my temptation, young one. Therefore, I am bound by the spells that constrain me. You may ask a question of me, and I will answer. Ask.” 

Arran hesitated.

The Ildramyn growled. “Ask. Or stand there until you die.”

“I…” said Arran. “Marugon.”

“Yes,” said the Ildramyn. “The Marr’Ugaoun. The soul of the voidspawn made flesh. The Destroyer of Worlds. I know of him. The last of the Warlocks and the greatest. He has crossed the void between the stars, and brought back engines of destruction from a poisoned world. You carry some on your belt and over your shoulder.” Arran touched the butt of his sniper rifle. “Yes, I can see their aura. They are not of our world.” The corpse titled its head to one side. “But I digress. Your question.”