Sacrifice (Book 4) (28 page)

“Good people of Rhugoth,” he said, using Duammagic to enhance and project his voice. “It is with a feeling of great honor that I share this night with you. As in days long past, the people of Rhugoth are indeed the best and most loyal of people. I thank you for your trust and support in these difficult times as we once again must be the tip of the spear that will pierce the heart of Mikkik and lead the world out of deception and destruction.

“I am most humbled and gratified that I have the great privilege of marrying the most glorious daughter of this nation, and I swear to you that I will dedicate my life to filling hers with peace and joy. Now return to your revels while we await the favor of the Lady Alumira. Let there be feasting, let there be song, and let our joy be unrivaled in Ki’Hal!”

A wave of applause and cheering shook the air and Gen dismounted, keeping an eye on the double doors in anticipation of seeing his bride. The Chalaine had expressly forbidden him from seeing her arrayed in her chosen dress, wanting to surprise him. More than anything, he wanted to see her and have the whole procession and ceremony done. The people needed the pomp, but he wanted only the private moments before riding off to battle the Church soldiers in Tenswater and then on the plain around Echo Hold.

He could feel her presence somewhere below, still in her chamber. But as he turned to watch the crowd, she moved in an instant to somewhere on the other side of the city. He waited for a moment, alarmed, disbelieving his own senses. But her position did not return to the hall behind.

Dason!
he thought.
He came to stage a rescue of his own!

Gen placed his foot in the stirrup of his horse, but gasps and expressions of surprise filled the air before turning to silence. The music died, and even the rowdiest of revelers held his peace. Gen turned and gazed upward to see a figure burning like a white hot sun descending from the sky as if plucked from the stars. This same trick of glory Gen knew from the battle at Echo Hold. Mikkik had come for him.

The crowd shied back as Mikkik settled on the stones of the courtyard with a graceful step, striding forward toward the stairs. Gen drew his sword and swallowed. How would Mikkik approach him? As an enemy? A wayward child? After dying and being revivified by the Millim Eri, Gen had used Trysmagic to reapply the protection against transmutation, but would his will be strong enough to counter the force of a dark god bent on destroying the world?

“Remain here,” Gen commanded his knights.

Working up his courage, Gen marched down the stairs with a regal step, keeping calm. A burning sword of fire ignited in Mikkik’s hand as they closed upon each other. The god knew when to apply a little theatricality. Mikkik towered over him, his simple white robe and golden belt so bright that it illuminated the faces of the stunned crowd around them.

“I have come to end this treachery,” Mikkik’s voice boomed. “I am Eldaloth, the only King of Ki’Hal. There may be no other, especially not one who unworthily takes upon himself the name of one of my great and noble servants of times past.” Mikkik raised his sword. “I will cleanse this place of you and redeem Rhugoth from this farce!”

Gen raised his sword to defend, but suddenly Mikkik pressed upon his mind with brutal force, sending his thoughts scattering in a hundred directions. Gen’s vision blurred as Mikkik threw images and emotions from his life at him as if pelting him with rocks. His concentration wavered, unable to push aside the memories and feelings enough to gather his thoughts to defend himself. Mikkik would crush him with the first blow.

Gen retreated inside himself, trying to find the will to dispel the confounding swirl of his mind and center his thoughts on the shining blade arcing unopposed toward the space between his neck and shoulder with enough force to drive the sword deep into his chest. He fought Mikkik’s spell, but the Mynmagic was too strong. He would not escape.

Run Chalaine!
Gen willed.
Run!

Pontiff Athan rubbed the unfamiliar growth on his face and let his fingers wander up to the tired eyes that had scarcely rested since departing Echo Hold over three days before. Padra Nolan and ten of the elite Eldephaere had accompanied him on their crucial mission to restore Ki’Hal before Mirelle and her schemes could endanger it. Eldaloth would deal with her, Athan was sure, though he need not fear her interference any longer. The goal was in easy reach.

They rode at a casual pace across the bridge over Mora Lake toward the still and quiet city of Elde Luri Mora. The journey eastward had passed in blessed ease. No storms or Uyumaak had menaced them as they pushed the horses to their limits. Athan would not let any idleness or overconfidence or neglect put his sacred task in jeopardy. He had regimented their travel with uncompromising efficiency and with some cost to their health and the welfare of the horses.

But they had come fast and they had come far, and when Ki’Hal was restored, then so would they be. An end to sickness and famine and even death awaited a weary world, and the sacred sword bundled in oil-slicked leather would return a joy and brightness to the world that had been lost since Mikkik’s treachery. That Eldaloth would entrust him with this final task was a supernal reward that would immortalize the name of Athan forever.

Elde Luri Mora sat as it once had when he and the doomed caravan had entered it. As then, it was a place of refuge and safety, sleeping in an eternal spring, unable to mature to the sweet fruit of summer. Very few of Athan’s memories of that time brought him cheer, though the old Pontiff Beliarmus tossing an insolent Gen across the sacred hall would always bring a smile to his face. How they had all survived those tumultuous days eluded him, but
miraculous
was an apt description for their deliverance.

Of course, no great act of history was accomplished without losses and setbacks, but tonight would see the end of evil, the end of nefarious schemes and demented Queens. He would be the instrument in Eldaloth’s hands. Pontiff Athan would bring peace. He would bring health. He would bring joy. The thought nearly overwhelmed him with anticipation, and he fought back the urge to push his exhausted horse into one last gallop.

Evening had passed, only a dim veil of light rising up from the horizon before him as they finished their traverse and the hooves of the animals trod upon the cobbled roadways of Elde Luri Mora. All three moons shone brightly in summer sky, highlighting the edges of thin clouds riding just above the forested hills that encompassed the lake and the island. The scent of blossoms caressed their worries and weariness away, and Athan smiled in anticipation. Fireflies swarmed and blinked aimlessly in the gathering darkness, pushed about by a gentle evening breeze.

“Is that the great hall of Elde Luri Mora?” Padra Nolan asked as the edifice slid into view as they crested a rise. The tall domed structure waited just as they had left it.

“The Hall of Three Moons, yes,” Athan answered. “Unless the Ilch made some other provision, the bones of my predecessor await somewhere in the darkness there. You will see where Chertanne and the Chalaine were wed. The babe was conceived in that dwelling just across the way. When Eldaloth reigns here, I imagine all will be welcome to come see the places where such momentous events took place. I hope that I will dwell here with him. It is the most beautiful of places.

“Let us make haste. This task should not be delayed. I truly pity all the unfortunate nobles in the caravan. How disappointed they will be when they realize they will not be a part of this great moment. I hope they will understand the need for our haste. At the very least, they will be among the first to visit the great city after its glory is restored.”

“It will be a disappointment,” Padra Nolan agreed. “But Eldaloth will reward them some other way, I am sure.”

“Exactly, brother. Thank you for accompanying me. Now, let’s be about our task quickly. I am anxious to discharge this duty.”

They dismounted their horses and ascended the familiar stairs toward the arched entry, Athan clutching the Sword of the Chalaine to his breast. As they approached, the fireflies gathered and swarmed in an enormous cloud and streamed inside the Hall of Three Moons, illuminating it in a yellowish light.

“Marvelous!” Padra Nathan exclaimed.

“Yes. More wonders will come,” Athan said. “Guard the way,” he commanded his soldiers. “This should take but a moment.”

Before them stretched the map of Ki’Hal etched upon the floor, and on the far side of the room, Pontiff Beliarmus’s dark robe and desiccated skeleton moldered on the ground.

Athan shook his head in disgust. “I suppose it is no surprise that the Ilch and his companions could not show even the least bit of decency to provide a great man a proper burial. We will attend to it when we are finished.”

They reached the center of the map, following Eldaloth’s instructions. Reverently Athan knelt, unwrapping the sword entrusted to him. It was a simple blade, but he could feel the power of the Chalaine’s blood—Eldaloth’s blood—coursing through it. Once inserted into the holy ground of Elde Luri Mora, Eldaloth’s power would flow from the sacred blade and enliven the world.

He exhaled. “The time has come.” He remembered the words, thick upon the tongue, given him by his master: “Kekkat. Gundrued Ki. Gundrued Tekkix. Gundrued Zhas. Kekkat!”

The blade began to glow, the air vibrating with power. Grasping the hilt with both hands, he raised the sword above his head and jammed it downward, the point sliding into the stone floor like a sharp dagger into soft flesh. It slid all the way to the hilt and Athan released it, raising his head to the sky. “It is done!”

The ground beneath his feet buzzed like the air. “It is happening, Nolan! It is happening!”

As if blown by a gale, the fireflies streamed out the door, leaving them in darkness. The buzzing beneath their feet progressed to a tremor, a horrible low moaning of grinding rock pummeling their ears. A mighty shake of the ground threw them to the floor, a wrenching, cracking noise bringing their hands to their ears to muffle the penetrating thunder that shook their bodies to the core. The great glass dome of the ceiling crashed down, cracks in the masonry of the dome loosening in chunks and throwing down sections of the ceiling and walls all around them.

Athan struggled to his feet as the shaking subsided, casting about to find Padra Nolan crushed beneath a heavy stone, his blood pooling outward. A great fissure stretching the length of the floor had swallowed the sword, but Athan knew he was in grave danger and could not linger.

Swaying as he tried to keep his bearings, he went to cast a spell to steady himself and calm his nerves, but his incantations issued from his mouth in vain. Stumbling over fallen rock and debris, he reached the broken entrance finding that his soldiers had fled to the base of the stairs to escape the crumbling building. As one they looked to the sky, mouths agape, unaware of his presence.

Athan’s eyes followed theirs to the sky. The moons had gone, or rather they had been obliterated. Nothing but expanding clouds of what seemed to be fine dust remained, as if each had exploded from the very center. The power of magic was gone. The blessed feeling of life in Elda Luri Mora was gone.

What have I done?
Athan thought, stumbling and falling down the stairs in shock. Battered and bruised, he regained his feet, eyes ever upon the sky as the clouds of shattered moons swelled the sky, streaming in every direction.

“The trees!” one of the soldiers exclaimed.

The blossoms that had clothed every tree in splendorous pinks, purples, and yellows had wilted as one, their leaves falling like a rain to carpet the ground beneath them. In seconds, the branches were barren and colorless, the soothing breeze that once blew gently kicking up into a gale that swirled the detritus around them in a whirlwind.

Athan was numb. He had to make it back to Echo Hold. There had to have been some mistake! Had he said the wrong words? Misplaced the sword? But as he reached his horse and clung to its bridle, the horrifying possibility that he had dismissed as folly started to reassert itself. Had Mirelle been right? Had they all been duped?
Impossible!
All the signs were there! Every event detailed by the prophecy had happened. Eldaloth had come!

“We should go, Pontiff,” one of his soldiers said, breaking through his confusion. “Something is not right, here.”

“What is it?”

“Look.”

Athan lifted his gaze to the city around them. In the last of the evening light, every tree, every blade of grass, every creeping vine and flower was turning black and shriveling into a gray powder as if burned by some invisible fire.  Terror and despair gripped his heart as his own flesh and that of the horses began to dry and peel.