Dark Foundations (97 page)

The envoy stepped toward the baziliarch. “I now utter your name,” he said, and in his loud firm words, Merral heard the note of a legal pronouncement. “You are Nar-Barratri.”

The creature shuddered and something of the strange sheen that encased it seemed to fade. “You have had other names and other forms, but this is the one you will perish under. You are one of the seven who serve the great serpent whose assured destiny is the lake of fire. You came here as his forerunner. And, as his forerunner, I send you on the authority of the One who died, who rose, and who holds the seven stars, to the same eternal destiny.”

The envoy's words were like a clap of thunder.

There was an angry rattle and a hiss from the baziliarch. “Will you slay me?”

“No, I will not so honor you. You are a creature of pride and you loathe the race of men. Therefore I will let one of them do it—one who is the least. Now, I take from you the power you were given over that form.”

The sword made strange elegant movements in the air. The baziliarch's joints seemed to fail and, its wings buckling, it lurched forward and collapsed on the ground with brittle cracking noises. The remaining sheen around it vanished and as it did it seemed to Merral that all the terror it had held evaporated. The head, a vast black bulk with its incongruous silver crown, sank to the ground as if burdened with an immeasurable weariness. The eyes dimmed.

The envoy's coat closed and the light faded though his sword still gleamed brightly. His face hidden in darkness, he turned to the crowd huddled against the façade of the hall. “Elana Zennia Antalfer,” he called, his voice now softer.

The line of men in armor parted and a slight figure pushed her way forward till she stood in front.

Of course.
She said she wouldn't go into the refuge
.

The envoy raised a black-gloved hand and made a gentle, beckoning gesture.

Slowly and rather shyly, Elana walked across the stained and dirty square and stood by Merral, her blonde hair catching the light.

The envoy stooped slightly toward her. “Elana,” he said, softly, “you have resisted evil. The King wishes to honor you by having you serve him. Will you aid him?”

“If I can,” she said in an awed voice.

“Would you take the crown off that thing and bring it here?”

“Y-yes.” She walked forward and stopped a few strides away from the creature's head.

The jaws slid against each other and the beast spoke. “You cannot use her.” The baziliarch's words had only a fraction of their old power. “She too sinned.”

Merral saw Elana blush.

The envoy turned to the baziliarch, his head slightly tilted, as if puzzling over something. “I have no record of that.”

“It happened.” There was an indignant note in the waning voice.

“If she has let the King deal with her sin, then it is erased. That is what forgiveness is all about. It is his record, not yours, that counts.” His voice took on the tone of an infinite sadness. “But you never did understand forgiveness, did you? Now be still.” The sword moved in the air.

The head slumped to the ground.

“Elana, take his crown and bring it to me.”

The girl took a deep breath and stepped forward until her knees were almost touching the closed mouth. She lifted the gleaming silver circlet off the monstrous head and took a sharp step back.

A new series of sharp creaking sounds came from the beast's body and as they sounded, Elana scampered back to the envoy. The baziliarch's body quivered along its entire length almost as if it was shriveling up. It seemed to have become something feeble, now only a husk of what it once was.

The envoy took the crown. “Thank you. I shall give it to the one who deserves it—the King of all Kings.” He held it up for a moment, as if surveying it, and then tucked it inside his coat where, in a way that defied all geometry and physics, it vanished.

The envoy turned back to Elana. “Your task is not yet complete. Take up the enemy's sword and slay him with it.”

Elana turned to Merral, her eyes wide with unease.

“Best obey him,” Merral said and wondered if he had ever said anything wiser.

She shook herself and slowly walked to where the baziliarch's sword lay and picked it up, her fingers struggling to grasp the strange hilt. Then, carrying it awkwardly, she stepped to the segmented neck. It was nearly the width of her waist, but Merral now saw that it was very insubstantial—a flimsy shell of a carapace that covered a strange nothingness.

Elana raised the blade, looked at the envoy as if for reassurance, seemed to find it, then closed her eyes and struck down with the blade. It crashed through the dry husk of the skin, until it rang against the stone flags of the square. Dust flew around and the neck collapsed in on itself, as if it were made of nothing more than stiffened paper. The body began to crumble as if some extraordinary accelerated process of woodworm were at work.

Cheering broke out from among the people at the edges of the square. Merral saw the burly figure of his uncle Barrand break free of the crowd and, with a clumsy gait, dash over to his daughter.

Elana dropped the hilt, stared at her handiwork, looked around at the cheering crowd. Clearly overwhelmed, she ran to her father and hugged him.

“Stand away,” the envoy commanded.

Merral stepped back. In the heart of the fast-crumbling carcass he saw a lingering darkness, a great formless shadow.

“Now,” said the envoy raising his sword high, his gaze on the dry, crumbling carcass, “I send you to the flames—the first, but not the last, of your kind to go there, in the name of the King Eternal.”

Tall red flames, flickering with a soundless energy, rose up around the creature. At first, Merral thought it was the beast itself that was alight; then he realized that the flames were burning around it. He felt no sensation of heat.

There was another gesture from the envoy and he uttered words that Merral could not make out. Suddenly, all around the creature, the stone slabs that floored the square seemed to fade away to be replaced by a red flaming gulf like the mouth of a vast furnace.

Slowly, and then with an ever-greater speed, the baziliarch's corpse with the shadow at its core tumbled in and fell down. The sword with the serrated blade tumbled after it. The last glimpse Merral had of the baziliarch was of a black worm writhing into an infinite depth of fire.

Abruptly, the flames disappeared and the gray stone flooring of the square returned.

The envoy tucked his sword away and the remaining light about him vanished. He turned to the cluster of soldiers in front of the hall and beckoned someone over. Merral saw Vero walk forward and approach the envoy. Together, they walked a dozen paces away and the envoy spoke with Vero. What he said, Merral could not hear, but he saw his friend lower his head as if he was being rebuked.

Then suddenly, the envoy strode back to Merral.

“Thank you,” Merral said, trying to avoid looking into the awesome darkness of the face hidden under the hat. “I didn't deserve your help.”

“Deserve? You never did. That's what grace is about.”

Merral bowed his head in silence.

“Commander, the enemy's accusation was not without foundation. You did disobey the Lord's counsel. Your repentance has been accepted; the sin is a past matter. But the results of your actions remain. These are not so easily dealt with.” He paused. “Now, there are matters to be dealt with. Tomorrow, you must return to Isterrane. Be prepared to endure what is inflicted on you there. Do not resist. Endure.” He gestured to the walls and the gate where the Krallen were perched in silent and immobile array. “I will take from your enemies their powers of communication and coordination. They have known the emotion of hatred; they will now know terror. Now, cleanse the town.”

He raised his hand high. “
Az
leyama, az
layakeen!
” he pronounced in a loud ringing voice, and in his words Merral sensed an ancient and great authority.

At his command, the creatures on the walls and by the gate seemed to be seized by a collective shiver. They turned and began to slip away. As they did, some collided with each other.

The envoy gently tapped Merral's shoulder. “Commander, be about your work. We will meet again.”

Then he was gone.

Merral shook himself, handed the flagstaff to Vero, and clapped his hands for silence. “Men and women,” he cried, his heart overflowing with joy. “The forces of the Dominion are broken! Have the refuge opened. Let everyone who can find a sword or gun and seek out our enemies and destroy them! The town is to be cleansed.”

He paused. “Soldiers, gather at the gate. Snipers, kill those slitherwings. Warden Enatus, have the bells rung.”

There were yells of approval and wild cheers.

Merral picked up his sword, took back the flag, and with men and women gathering behind him, walked to the open gates through which the Krallen had fled.

There, as the great bells began to peal in jubilation, he paused and gazed around. Overhead, the clouds and the stars appeared. He scented a new freshness in the air. Below, much of the town was lit by the ruddy glow of fires while elsewhere the lighting was still on. In the uneven illumination, he could see gray forms fleeing down the streets in a chaotic manner that he found extraordinarily satisfying.

There was a brief snap of rifle shots and something tumbled out of the sky toward the lake.

I have had another chance
. Merral gave thanks to the Most High.

Suddenly, across by the airport, he saw lightning—a succession of brilliant yellow flashes that lit up the lake.

“What's that, sir?” Lloyd muttered as dull booms echoed through the streets.

It took a moment for Merral to realize the answer. “That, Sergeant, is Colonel Thuron attacking the rear of the Dominion army. It would seem that he too has rebelled against Clemant.”

“The icing on the cake,” added Vero quietly from just behind them.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Merral fired a flare into the sky and as its green light cascaded around them, he cried out, “Advance!”

31

B
y three in the morning they had cleared the town of Krallen and the remaining Dominion forces had fled across the causeway in disarray to where, on the far side, they were destroyed by Frankie's troops. As he waited for the engineers to stabilize the broken part of the causeway so his soldiers could safely cross, Merral walked back to his home.

En route, he came across four young men, wearing dirty jerkins and carrying swords. They were peering inside doorways with a bright handlight. When Merral saw that their pale faces were daubed with camouflage, he knew who they were.

“The Hanston Road—” he paused—“the Hanston Road Irregulars. What news?”

“Commander!” There were four salutes. They were barely recognizable as the teenagers of only a few hours earlier.

They looked at each other, their expressions a mixture of pride and grief.

“Sir, we got twenty-four goblins. Well, twenty-three really. One got away.”

“He weren't going far,” added the smallest one. “Not wiv' a leg off.”

“Well done. But weren't there six of you?”

They looked at each other and their newfound maturity and confidence suddenly vanished. They looked down at the ground.

“Bill and Hass got it,” said the tallest. “When we was . . . retreating.”

Merral looked away and blinked. “I'm sorry,” he murmured. “I really am.”

“Yeah. We are too. . . . We are all kinda gutted.” Then the young man looked up. “Still, sir, we gotta do our job, haven't we?”

“Yes,” Merral replied. “We have to.”

There were lights on inside his house and he could see that someone had dragged the Krallen bodies out into the street where, devoid of any menace, they lay looking like a heap of rubbish. Leaving Lloyd outside, Merral walked in to find his mother and father, their clothing dirty and stained, sitting on the ripped sofa in the general room, holding hands.