Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (65 page)

 
          
Tepshen
shook his head. “I cannot. This is his battle and his alone.”

 
          
He
took her wrist then, holding her back as she moved to aid Kedryn, who now
pressed Ashar hard, sending the god scuttling back against the leprous weeds.

 
          
The
growths smoldered in the sparks cascading from the clashing blades, the acrid
smell of burning joining the fetor of the stinking hold. Kedryn felt his hair
scorch, was aware of tiny points of pain on his exposed skin as he moved
through the fiery rain, but they were as nothing under the purpose that
\'7bpipped him. He saw fear flicker in the yellow eyes and laughed again, the
sound eliciting a foul curse from Ashar. He swung his blade in a great,
two-handed stroke and felt it snag on burning vines. Now Ashar
grinned
a death’s-head smile and stabbed his blade like a
dagger at Kedryn’s belly. Kedryn spun, all the long hours of Tepshen’s training
coming to his aid, sucking in his stomach as he bent, seeing the crimson steel
slice the filthy linen of his shirt, the same movement freeing his weapon so
that he drove the hilt down against the god’s outthrust wrist.

 
          
Ashar
screamed as the talisman mounted on the pommel touched him. His flesh seared
and he darted back. Kedryn paced after him, parrying a thrust, unable to swing
the glaive in that confined space.

 
          
Then
the god was backed against a door of dully burnished metal and he kicked it
open, springing into the chamber behind. Kedryn followed him, raising the
glaive to deflect a cut that would have split his skull had it landed, seeing
that they now fought within a chamber of blood-red marble, twinned pillars
forming an aisle down the center. Ashar ducked behind the shelter of a column
and they commenced a slow, zigzagging progress through the piles, marble
chipping and flaking as their blades clashed and were deflected, sparks of
livid crimson flying from Ashar’s, sparks of purest azure from Kedryn’s,
filling the room with dazzling, rainbow light. Rank sweat beaded the god’s
forehead, running down his hideous face to mat the orange hair that mantled his
shoulders. Kedryn felt only the exhilaration of combat, uplifted by the purity
of his intent, fueled by the desire to revenge Wynett’s suffering, Brannoc’s
death, all the suffering and the misery inflicted by this malign deity. Drul’s
glaive was a steel feather in his hands, his own battle skill augmented by the
power of the talisman that glowed fierce as vengeance at the hilt. He had no
thought of hurt, no fear, only the compelling animus of Ashar’s destruction. It
drove him onward, oblivious of Wynett and Tepshen entering the chamber behind
him.

 
          
Ashar,
his face toward the door, saw them and attacked with a fresh fury, screaming
obscene curses as he hacked and slashed, his blade a blur of motion that now
put Kedryn on the defensive. The god forced the man back, Kedryn retreating
slowly, moving between the lines of pillars. He sensed the door at his back and
allowed Ashar to drive him toward it, thinking to ensnare the god’s blade in
the vines beyond. Instead, Ashar leapt, goatishly nimble, to the side, his
great sword arcing in a flat curve that smashed Tepshen’s defense aside as easily
as if the eastern blade were matchwood, swinging on to carve a great red gash
across Wynett’s naked stomach.

 
          
Kedryn
saw it as though time slowed, allowing him to observe each awful detail. He saw
Tepshen stagger back. Saw Wynett’s flesh part, die droplets of blood arch
crimson from the wound. Saw the greater flow as her life gushed out on the
pulse beat of her heart.
Heard her scream.
Saw her
eyes open wide in pain.
Heard Ashar’s triumphant roar and his
own heart-rent bellow.
Saw Wynett double, hands pressing to the dreadful
wound as she fell down on her face. Saw Ashar’s blade continue in a circle as
the god spun, aiming a devastating cut at his own belly.

 
          
And blocked it with Drul’s.
glaive
,
feeling the shock vibrate through his shoulders as dreadful rage consumed him,
terrifying in its intensity, awesome, overwhelming him.

 
          
He
became then something as inhuman as the god himself, a machine of pure
destruction. The power he had felt before magnified, and Ashar recognized it,
the triumph that lit his yellow eyes fading as Kedryn rasped the glaive up the
length of the crimson sword, stepping inside his reach to slice the blade
upward, carving a line from chest to chin. Pus-thick gore oozed from the wound
and Ashar danced backward as Kedryn’s stroke reversed, sweeping at his skull.
Steel glanced from a curling horn and Ashar gasped, disbelief widening his
gaze. Kedryn swung again and Ashar ducked, prancing away as the tip of one horn
was sundered. He strove to turn the blows, losing chunks of gray skin as Kedryn
forced him back between the pillars, his torso and shoulders becoming slick
with the purulent matter that oozed from the wounds. He screamed in fury and
frustration and turned on his heels, running for the farther end of the
chamber.

 
          
Kedryn
charged after, the glaive upraised, and saw Ashar fling open an inner door,
lunging into the room beyond. He followed, finding himself now inside a great,
dark hall, vaulted high, its lithic walls akin to the hold’s exterior. Candles
with bloody flames burned in sconces and chandeliers, and from a circle of tall
stands set around a monstrous throne that loomed black from the center. Ashar
turned here, desperate now as he parried the rage-engendered strength of his
foe, the hall flickering with the light coruscating from both blades. A stand
toppled, its fallen candle spilling molten wax like running blood across the
floor. Ashar thrust another over at Kedryn, driving in as the man ducked clear
of the flame that threatened to sear his eyes. Kedryn was too fast. He turned
the blow and countered with a vicious cut that propelled Ashar backward, hooves
drumming as he staggered against the dais of the throne. Kedryn lunged forward,
the glaive a weaving column of blue light in his hands, and Ashar backed up the
steps of the dais.

 
          
His
thighs touched the seat’s edge and he realized he could retreat no farther. He
roared, the sound a fetid wash about Kedryn’s face, and lifted his sword high,
steel catching light from the candles, burning as though he raised a blade of flame.

 
          
And
Kedryn set one foot upon the lowermost step, muscles bunching as he hurled
himself forward, oblivious of the blade that descended, his own thrust out.

 
          
The
point struck Ashar’s belly.
Drove through to imbed in the
basalt of the throne, rammed home with all the strength Kedryn could muster,
the power of Estrevan in his arms, the Lady’s blessing guiding him, rage and
grief and revenge in the stroke.
He pitched facedown at the foot of the
throne, feeling Ashar’s blade land across his back, not hard with a killing
stroke, but heavy as a fallen weapon, dropped from taloned hands that now
clutched at the length of blue-glowing steel pinning the god to his unholy
seat.

 
          
Hooves
drummed furiously before Kedryn’s face and he rolled away, kicking the dropped
sword across the floor. He rose on hands and knees, staring, and climbed slowly
to his feet, his eyes fixed on the creature that screamed and writhed before
him.

 
          
Drul’s
glaive was driven hilt-deep into Ashar’s belly. The god whimpered as he
clutched at the haft, screaming as the blue fire radiating from the talisman
seared his fingers. The nimbus grew, surrounding him with its azure fulguration
and his hands fell away, clawing at his chest. Bloody tears spilled from his
pain-slitted eyes and his movements slowed until finally he slumped still, his
arms dropping to his sides, his ghastly head drooping on his ravaged chest.
Kedryn saw that he was pinned, not sure if he was dead, and turned in search of
the fallen sword, intent on severing the horned head from the slumped
shoulders.

 
          
He
saw the blade gleam in the blue light, plain steel now, and saw Wynett’s half
of the talisman fallen clear of the arachnid pommel as if, the god defeated, it
sought to distance itself from his debased creation. It pulsed with a feint
life and Kedryn cupped it, forgetting Ashar as the rage left him and his eyes
filled with tears. He groaned, “Wynett!” and turned his back on the vanquished
god, moving on leaden feet toward the door.

 
          
The
talisman glowed brighter as he quit the hall and he felt it vibrate beneath his
fingers. Clutching ft tight he stepped into the marbled chamber, grief like
ashes in his mouth as he saw Tepshen knelt beside Wynett’s body, a tom pink
gown hiding her nudity, the pink dark red where cloth touched wound.

 
          
“Ashar
is defeated,” he said dully, kneeling, his vision blurred by tears as he stared
at the dear, dead face.

 
          
Tepshen
stared at him, his own features lined with grief. Kedryn reached out, stroking
Wynett’s sun-golden hair, touching her lips, easing lids down over the blankly
staring blue eyes he could not bear to see. Grief filled him then and he threw
back his head, wailing. Tepshen reached to hold him, but halted the movement,
his slanted eyes widening as blue radiance filled the doorway.

 
          
“Would
you have her back?” asked a voice of such tranquil passion that Kedryn’s
keening died in his throat.

 
          
He
wiped a hand over his tear-filled eyes, head turning slowly to observe the
figure that entered the chamber.

 
          
She
moved within a corona of light, almost too intense to permit clear vision, her
form and features impressions rather than definite outlines, but nonetheless
glorious, radiating love, serenity, a calm confidence that brooked no doubt of
her ability to fulfill the promise implicit in her question. Kedryn stared at
her, seeing a woman who was Wynett and Yrla, the Sisters of Estrevan, all one,
embodying all that was good, all that was pure and honest. He nodded dumbly,
unable to speak, and she smiled, that simple expression wondrous.

 
          
Gracefully
she walked toward them, kneeling beside Wynett, gently removing the
bloodstained gown. She extended a hand, her fingertips touching the bloody
wound. Still dumbstruck, Kedryn stared as the gash sealed, flesh knitting
seamlessly, no scar or trace of hurt remaining. Wynett’s breasts rose and her
lips parted,
breath
sighing as though she awoke from
deep slumber. Her eyes opened, widening as she found herself looking at the
woman.

 
          
“Lady?”
she murmured. “Am I then come to you? Is Kedryn . . . ?”

 
          
She
fell silent as Kyrie touched her lips, smiling.

 
          
“Not
yet, Sister,” said the goddess. “And Kedryn lives. I would not see you parted.”

 
          
Wynett
turned her head then, seeing Kedryn, and held out her arms. He enfolded her in
his embrace, tears of joy spilling now, kissing her, stroking her hair,
glorying in the touch of her warm, living flesh.

 
          
“Thank
you, Lady,” he wept, laughing and crying at the same time.

 
          
“I
owe
you
thanks,” she returned. “
All the
world owes you thanks, for without your travails—and
those of your comrades—,” her radiant gaze took in Tepshen, “Ashar should have
conquered and evil reign.”

 
          
“Is
he then dead?” Wynett asked.

 
          
“Not
dead.” Kyrie shook her head. “He is a god and it is no easy task to slay a god.
But he is held now, thanks to Kedryn. The talisman will pin him, for none here
may venture close and Ashar may not remove the sword himself. In time,
perchance, there will be one who finds a way to bring him back, but that is for
the far future and for now the Kingdoms shall know peace. The Beltrevan, too,
for with Ashar defeated his power shall wane and brotherhood hold sway.”

 
          
“I
would have taken his head,” Kedryn murmured, “had I not seen Wynett’s
talisman.”

 
          
“It
is not too late,” Tepshen declared, fingering his sword.

 
          
“Leave
him,” smiled Kyrie. “What is done is sufficient, and it is time you quit this
place. Balance is restored to the world and you have fulfilled all that may be
asked of you.”

 
          
“Brannoc,”
said Kedryn. “Might you not restore Brannoc to life?”