Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (63 page)

 
          
“What
need have you of a sword?”

 
          
She
thought him likely to slay her then, for he leaned forward, yellow eyes
blazing, his tongue lashing as though possessed of its own angry life. Then he
laughed and gestured and the world shifted again. Abruptly it was once more
Eyrik who lounged upon the basalt seat and that was a relief, even though it
was no longer the courteous Eyrik, but a tall, prideful figure, in whose eyes
arrogance shone. He settled his hands about the hilt, resting his chin on the
stone. Wynett saw now that it still retained some small degree of its former
blue life.

 
          
“I
believe,” he said in a tone of mocking amusement, “that mayhap I shall now tell
you the truth.”

 
          
Wynett
licked lips dry with fear, fighting the urge to spit out the foul memory of his
breath, and waited in silence.

 
          
“Taws
failed me and was duly punished,” he continued, his smile evil as he relived
that memory. “But those he sent me furnished knowledge of your world. Hattim
Sethiyan was one; your own father another. I have lived too long bound by the
strictures of the one you worship and it is past time 1 came into my own, yet
still
she,”
he spat die word,
unwilling or, Wynett thought, unable to voice the Lady’s name, “thwarted me.
She set her hand to establishing such gramaryes as rendered the Lozin wall
insurmountable, and she paved the way for the creation of the Chosen One.
Thanks to her the Horde was defeated; thanks to her were you and Kedryn able to
defeat Taws. And yet your feeble human weakness showed me the path to victory.”

 
          
“That
bitch, for all the power she commands, is vulnerable in the love she has for
your kind. She should not have allowed her creation to love you, for love is
weakness. Had Estrevan not entrusted you both with the two parts of the
talisman, I should not have had this chance.”

 
          
He
chuckled, shaking his head. Wynett said defiantly, “Estrevan gave the stones
that Kedryn might regain his sight. Thus was he able to stand against your
Messenger.”

 
          
Ashar
twisted his human lips in a cynical smile, dismissing her argument. “But thus
did I learn of the talismans’ owners and so foment my design.”

 
          
Wynett
opened her mouth to speak again but he raised a hand and a fetid wind lashed
about her, leeching the words from her mouth, replacing them with the stench of
decay. For an instant his image flickered, becoming the goatish thing again, then
a bloated spider that clacked mandibles in threat. Wynett bit back her protest
and saw him resume human form.

 
          
“It
was easy then, with what I learnt, to send the leviathan into your world. I saw
that if it took you Kedryn would follow, and so he has.” He chuckled,
displaying white teeth. “Much of what you saw in the pool was true. It amused
me to use your own weakness against you: love renders you transparent. With
your part of the talisman in my domain—and your belief that I sought to aid
you!—it was not difficult to establish links. Your sister does, indeed, harbor
feelings for Kedryn.
Some aftermath of the love potion Taws
fed her, mayhap, but still a most available lever.
I created images to
disturb you. And how well I succeeded! You doubted your husband, did you not?
You thought him locked in Ashrivelle’s arms—your love betrayed you!”

 
          
He
paused, tittering. Wynett offered no response, better able now that he took
human form to think clearly, not willing to tell him he was wrong—that she had
not doubted Kedryn—for it seemed his pride was a potential weakness, while her
love was a strength.

 
          
“After
that,” he continued, “it was easy to assail your hopes, to damp your spirit
until I seemed your only ally. Meanwhile, Kedryn had entered the netherworld. As
hef-Alador he had the right to demand Drul’s glaive as, I suspect, the
blue-robed whores you call Sisters told him he must. You see, that blade was
forged for my purpose and thus may be used against me. Save now, I have its
equal.” He spun the sword he had created between his palms, admiring the
flicker of light on the crimson blade. “I might easily have destroyed Kedryn
once he entered my domain, but that did not serve my purpose so well as to lure
him ever deeper. Oh, there were a few of my creatures unable to contain their
hatred of living flesh that sought to slay him, but he survived them thanks to
his talisman and now approaches, thinking to destroy me.
Me!”

 
          
Wynett
stared as his eyes bulged, the gold-flecks whirling. His mouth was open and
saliva glistened on his lips, flecking his shirt. He shook his head in prideful
disbelief. “Why did you let him live?” she asked, glorying in this little piece
of knowledge.

 
          
“Because
the talisman must be freely given,” he answered.
“As you gave
yours to me.
That, or be taken by its match.
Which I
now have.”

 
          
He
stroked the sword as might a lover caress his mistress. Wynett watched him,
wondering how she might aid Kedryn. “So he has the sword,” she said.
“And has joined it with the talisman.”

 
          
Ashar’s
smile
faded,
his handsome features suddenly ugly as he
nodded curtly. “He has,” he agreed. “There was a price I did not think he would
pay, for he holds his comrades too dear.”

 
          
“His comrades?”
Wynett prompted, seeking to learn as much as
she could, thinking that knowledge was a weapon she might use against him.

 
          
“He
came with the two you saw in the pool,” came the answer; dismissive. “The one
called Tepshen Lahl and another called Brannoc. The latter paid with his life.”

 
          
Something
in his tone told her that he was not pleased with this outcome and she forced
down the rush of grief she felt for Brannoc as she asked, “How so?”

 
          
‘The
. . . enthusiasm ... of one of my followers tainted him,” Ashar grunted. “He
became a were-thing and chose death that my
smith fix
stone to sword.”

 
          
“Kedryn
will not relinquish either,” she said.

 
          
“You
think not?” the smile returned. “Be you right, then he is not
so
weak as I suppose.”

 
          
His
tone was malicious and Wynett felt a fresh flood of fear as he eyed her, his
gaze speculative. “He is strong,” she said, fighting the apprehension that
fluttered nervously behind her self-imposed calm.

 
          
“You
are his weakness,” Ashar returned. “Do you believe he will sacrifice you?”

 
          
Wynett
was neither certain of the answer nor the response she should give. Were the
situation reversed could she sacrifice Kedryn, even for the sake of the
Kingdoms? She did not know, and in a way was grateful that so awful a decision
was Kedryn’s and not hers. She forced composure on her features and a
steadiness she did not feel on her voice as she answered, “Kedryn is the Chosen
One.”

 
          
Ashar
bellowed reeking laughter, his form flickering, shifting, becoming wraithlike,
as if coiling smoke sat upon the throne,
then
resumed
the form of Eyrik.

 
          
“He
is also a man in love.”

 
          
Gross
contempt rang in his voice and it occurred to her then that victory alone was
not enough for this malign deity. Conquest was his ultimate aim, but the simple
assertion of his power was insufficient: his ego demanded more than fleshly
dominance. It seemed he had a need to debase his foes, to force upon them the
full realization of his cunning, to grind then- faces in the bitter despair of
vanquishment. More than just Kedryn’s defeat, he sought to undermine the very
beliefs that made his enemy strong. He reveled in the notion of betrayal as
eagerly as he lusted for victory.

 
          
“He
loves the Kingdoms and the Lady as much,” she said.

 
          
Did
doubt flash briefly in the gold-flecked eyes? She could not be sure, only that
he smiled an ugly smile and- said, “We shall see.”

 
          
Abruptly,
he rose from the throne, taking the great sword by its blade, seizing her wrist
with his free hand. There was
a strength
in him she
could not resist and she allowed him to drag her across the red-lit hall, out
through the marbled chamber to the courtyard.

 
          
The
interior of the palace was changed, as if, with the need for deception gone, he
allowed it to revert to its natural condition.
Now gloomy
walls of green-slimed gray stone rose about her, the sky above ruddy as if lit
by vast fires.
Jasmine and roses and magnolia no longer climbed about
colonnades, filling the atrium with their scent, but were replaced with ugly
weeds, leprously verdant and emanating a sour odor. Dull black stone flagged
the yard and the fountain was become a pit of fire jetting a column of
incandescent flame high into the noxious air. Ashar gestured and the flame
died, revealing a pillar of seared gray metal. He dragged her toward the pile
and she saw that it rose from a plinth, chains dangling from its upper level.
He stepped onto the plinth, hauling her behind, and forced her arm up, snapping
a manacle about her wrist. He chained her other arm and she was left standing,
hands upraised. Ashar stepped back, setting down the sword as he surveyed his
handiwork.

 
          
“I
believe,” he said, smiling lasciviously, “that some further distraction might
be amusing.”

 
          
Wynett
cried out then, as he took the neckline of her gown and tore it from her. He
chuckled and ripped away her undergarments so that she stood naked, her erect
posture thrusting out her breasts. Ashar studied her speculatively, his form
changing again so that she gazed, close to tears, at the misshapen thing that
appeared the physical embodiment of his spiritual deformity. He fondled the
huge phallus jutting toward her suggestively, the forked tongue lashing over
his fleshy lips.

 
          
“Mayhap
later,” he said softly, “after you have seen Kedryn slain I shall offer you a
choice. You may give yourself to me, or I shall take you. Think on it,
Wynett—you may yet live.”

 
          
“Never,”
she moaned and he chuckled, taking Eyrik’s shape again, and retrieved the
sword, swinging it to his broad shoulder as he turned and walked away, leaving
her alone in the dismal yard.

 
          
She
struggled against the chains but they were firm and she could neither tear them
loose nor work her hands through the hoops of the manacles. She gave up the
effort as she felt her skin chafe and blood ooze down her arms. Tears clouded
her vision and she blinked them away, concentrating on the need to remain calm,
to think clearly, that she might, should the Lady grant her so great a boon,
aid Kedryn in some way when he came.

 
          
How
she might do that she was not sure and she forced herself to review all that
Ashar had said. He was not confident of victory, of that she felt certain, for
why else should he prepare to offer Kedryn a choice between willing surrender
of the talisman and combat? Nor, whatever Kedryn decided, did the god intend to
honor any bargain. “After you have seen Kedryn slain,” he had said. Therefore,
no matter what blandishments he offered, no matter what fate should befall her,
Kedryn must not relinquish his sword. He must at all costs fight Ashar; and
with the Lady’s blessing slay him.

 
          
She
could not think beyond that and she closed her eyes, murmuring a heartfelt
prayer to Kyrie that Kedryn see her life did not matter, only the defeat of
Ashar.

 
          
Kedryn
and Tepshen emerged from the tunnel to find themselves on a windswept plateau
overlooking a narrow valley of dismal prospect. There was an air of miserable
desolation about the vista, a sense of palpable menace that hung threateningly
on the very wind that scoured the landscape. Behind them, the stone bulked gray
and gloomy against the sky, that red as though underlit by the flames gouting from
the farther reaches of the mountains, stretching like a great bloody curtain to
the hill-pocked horizons. Below, trees thrust skeletal limbs denuded of foliage
in attitudes of supplication, seeming to beg forgiveness of the draft,
spreading over sere ground to a wide river that curved steel-gray about an
islet of black rock. Jagged stone thrust fanglike, tortured shapes up from the
jet mound, forbidding as the jaws of some massive beast, conforming at the
central point to a vague approximation of a castle. It was clearly no human
construct, for no windows showed in the ebon surfaces and the towers were
spires of smooth rock, the walls like melted slag spewed from a molten core.
One entrance was visible, a great, dark portal with opened, anticipatory gates,
that faced a narrow bridge spanning the ominous stream.