Arlensul lashed out with her spear, pleased with her father’s response so far. The Walker slid aside. His hammer made a gong of Arlensul’s shield.
Words formed deep in Svavar’s mind. Do not forget your dearest wish. Do not forget who has been your most devoted protector. Which mainly baffled Svavar. What could he do besides watch the titans clash?
Father and daughter traded blow for blow. The countryside resounded to their fury. Despite their terror, mortals stopped running, watched enrapt.
Soon, my chosen one.
Svavar began to shake, colder than naked in Andoray’s iciest winter, dreading the foulness to come. Which evil most torments the world? Within the mandala Arlensul’s sisters were wakening the Heroes.
Not good, that. There was Erief.... What was left of murdered Erief after centuries in that terrible Hall.
The great god of the north flung his hammer aside. It never fell to the ground. A staff appeared in his hands, in myth carved of ash cut from the great World Tree, a living, sentient tree whose roots reached into every well of knowledge there was. The Walker slammed that staff’s iron shod foot into Arlensul’s shield. The shield split. Only the smaller fragment remained in the Chooser’s control. The staff thrust again. The immortal spear spun out of Arlensul’s hand. It did not vanish. It fell at Svavar’s feet.
Now you must decide.
38. Another View
Pinkus Ghort murmured, “Oh, shit,” so gently and so emotionlessly that Else knew he was deeply frightened. Principaté Divino Bruglioni said, “I agree wholeheartedly, Captain.” Else asked, “Your Grace, can you do anything to shelter the troops?” To right and left the covering force remained in place. The secondary reserve had come forward to witness a once-in-a-millennium event.
The soldiers were mostly Devedian toughs. But Else got little chance to give that any thought. Ghort said, “Here we go.” Else grasped the hilt of his tired old sword.
The one Instrumentality split the shield of the other, then knocked its spear away. The night lance fell at the lesser soultaken’s feet. Wisps of things began to leak from the dark mandala.
The soultaken rained blows on the remnant of the other’s shield.
Whispers raced among the witnesses. To a man, they knew they were witnessing the end of a major myth cycle.
There were Pramans on the city wall, now. They were more spiritually distressed than their Episcopal and Devedian foes. Pramans were so fiercely attached to their faith that they could conceive of no other reality. Even granting diabolic status to the Instrumentalities of the Night was an impossible stretch for some.
The lesser Instrumentality fought strongly and valiantly, holding her own. Her opponent was handicapped by the limits of human flesh.
The lesser soultaken retrieved Arlensul’s spear.
More than misty ghosts began leaking through the dark mandala. Armed men shambled out, banging into one another in confusion. Were they blind? No. They had just awakened. And few were in prime condition.
Else knew enough of the myths of the north to understand what was happening. The Hall of Heroes, of the Great Sky Fortress, was spewing its harvest across distance and time. No accident, obviously, but definitely senseless. Why would a clutch of forgotten gods get involved in a squabble between unrelated religious enemies half a thousand miles from any where they ever held sway?
39. A Living Brother, a Loving Death
Svavar understood what had to be done. That was as plain as anything he ever knew. He and Grim would shake the Old Ones’ control no other way. He gathered Arlensul’s spear, forged by the Instrumentalities themselves. It felt remarkably light and agile in his hand.
It struck like an adder’s tongue dart, entering Grim’s back easily as a dagger into soft cheese. He felt his brother’s heartbeat, relayed down the haunted shaft. He screamed as Grim’s life flooded otherworldly metal and wood.
He screamed again when the rage and madness of the Gray Walker followed. The pain was beyond imagination. But it lasted only an instant. Then the One was away, sprinting for the dark mandala but missing it and continuing onward in a large, blind arc.
Dead men tripping over dead men continued to pour out of the mandala, driven by Arlensul’s sisters. They spread out across the slope.
He had done Arlensul’s will. He was supposed to fall on the spear himself, now, he supposed. But that was not going to happen. A fragment of the One had infected him through the Chooser’s blade. The adder’s tongue flicked.
Arlensul was surprised. This did not fit her plan. Svavar was surprised himself as a part of the Chooser reached him through the spear.
He screamed some. The pain seemed to go on and on and on but in reality lasted only seconds. Then came a flood of emotion as the warrior Gedanke staggered out of the dark mandala, harried by Arlensul’s sisters.
The foulest blow, Arlensul ceased to exist while straining toward her dead lover. Not even the Instrumentalities of the Night are true immortals. And that, Svavar realized vaguely, was the cause of all his despair. Stupid, enfeebled gods far from events had heard a snatch of an echo running through the canyons of time and, in their dread of marginalization and extinction, had latched onto that one remote moment as the key to their continued existence. How could he know these things? Arlensul’s spear leapt in his hands. Her sister Sprenghul shrieked in mortal agony. The Great Sky Fortress was bereft of another sustaining Instrumentality. Svavar felt power and knowledge flood him. That spear was something from darkest legend, a Harvester of Souls. Each Instrumentality it devoured made it easier for him to draw power and knowledge from the next.
Svavar smiled weakly. They had guessed wrong. All of them. Their Godslayer was right here among them, the tool chosen to destroy their expected assassin.
There was a mythic irony here. Or, perhaps, Instrumentalities of a higher plane were dabbling. The gods of the gods might be at play.
Svavar turned on the last of the Choosers, Fastthal, still driving Heroes into the world. Her father jogged past. The Heroes milled. Some drifted toward the soldiers Svavar sensed watching from cover not far away. Some meandered along the foot of the wall. Some climbed.
Fastthal shrieked in rage and fled into the dark mandala. Svavar had no trouble seeing through that, now. He saw the rest of the Old Ones, in all their dreaded forms. They were as confused as the Heroes, and frightened besides. They did not know what to do, now.
In the end they chose withdrawal. They closed the dark mandala, isolating themselves from their monstrous regiment of dead and mutilated killers. Svavar could not stop them, nor could he get through to punish them.
He noted that his brother, Grimur Grimmsson, had died as he had expected throughout his life, far from home and to little point, not even in real despair. He had lived as he believed he should. Strong and predatory.
The tale was told at last. Asgrimmur Grimmsson could lie down and abandon his burdens. Svavar planted the butt of Arlensul’s spear in the snow. This should be almost painless. He tried. He could not do it. Not because he was a coward, though. The spear refused to accept him. The power and knowledge he had absorbed from the Choosers and the All Father, before he got away, would not let him. Nor did the Asgrimmur Grimmsson core of him really want to do it. There was work to be done, still. There were debts not yet paid.
Svavar was slow but he got there. Asgrimmur Grimmsson was dead. What stood in his boots now was an ascending Instrumentality. He could not slay himself even had he that will. Someone had to do that for him, now.
His universe filled with thunder and lightning, sulfurous stench and yet more incredible pain, first exploding in his left shoulder, then at a dozen points elsewhere in his body.
40. The Fire and the Pain
Ghort told Else, “Pipe, I’m ready to check on out. I have officially seen everything.”
“What did you see?” Else did not trust his own eyes. Those things out there were among the greatest demons of the Night. Holy men in the Kaifate of al-Minphet would
insist that they did not exist. They were folktales, nothing more. Like the fabrications of the professional storytellers of Lucidia.
The soultaken attacked his companions. While countless dead men tramped into the world and, after some confusion, shambled toward the living. Meaning some turned toward the city wall, more headed east to meet the approaching Imperial probe, and most came at Else and his crusaders.
Not once had Else seen Gledius Stewpo among the Devedian-heavy reserve but he heard that dwarf bellow, “Stand to your
matches! Now, fire!”
Two hundred firepowder weapons barked during a two-second span. The weapons had remained unseen until the dwarf summoned them forth.
The fusillade tore the approaching heroes apart. Else was aghast at how swiftly firepowder missiles flung the power of the Night into oblivion.
Few of the ferocious dead warriors got close enough to engage the Patriarchal troops. The Deves produced an endless rolling thunder. The smoke became oppressive.
Results were less sanguine where there were no firepowder weapons. The Imperials were not prepared to deal with fighters who were dead already. Their best defense was discipline.
Once they formed ranks they managed to fend off wild attackers fighting as individuals.
A tenth of the heroes chose to assault al-Khazen. Else saw no obvious reason why some scarecrow figures chose to clamber up the wall, but they did, easy as insects. When they reached the battlements they murdered everyone in sight.
The firepowder smoke cleared away. Streamers of dark mist came from al-Khazen as the sorcerers within engaged the un-dead warriors. That resistance attracted the interest of most of the dead still facing the Patriarchal troops.
Else pushed up off the cold, wet ground and eased forward. Ghort followed. He crowded in against Else. “What the hell happened here, Pipe? I sure as fuck don’t want it to be what I’m pretty sure it was.”
Behind them, the Devedian fusiliers prepared to withdraw. Al-Khazen’s garrison would not mount a pursuit
Firepowder tubes continued to crack occasionally Sharpshooters plinked the blind, howling thing jogging in its wide circle. That thing no longer looked anything like the man it had
It was aware of little outside itself. It passed near Else without sensing him. The inverse was not true.
The pain was worse than it had been with the bogon in the Ownvidian Knot, though more sudden and stimulated over a much shorter range. Else collapsed. But he was not alone. He would not have to explain to Pinkus Ghort. Ghort was down himself, clawing at his temples.
Devedian soldiers continued to snipe at the wounded god. Every hit weakened him, slowed him, left him less certain of his form. He did not appear human, now. But he was a god. He would be a long time going. Most likely, he would not go at all. He might even recover if enough live mortals were slain around him.
Else’s pain faded as the wounded god stumbled away.
Ghort heaved the contents of his stomach. “Ah, Eis’s fucking Holy Piles, Pipe! If there’s any way to kill that freak, let’s get on with it. Or just stay out of its fucking way. I can’t take much of this.”
Still recovering from his own pain, Else considered his place in events, both as others intended and as chance had conspired. This morning would not set well with Grade Drocker. Nor with er-Rashal el-Dhulquarnen, who had to be stunned.
Only now did Else grasp the implication of those few minutes in Esther’s Wood. That which would slay a bogon could dispatch far more powerful entities.
Else said, “I’m not sure what to do, Pinkus. It’s only starting to sink in. But I think we’re in the middle of history happening.” A shriek of despair came from the wall. They watched as the dead heroes threw someone down. Ghort cursed. “Them damned things won’t quit.” A dead hero with one arm, one leg, and no eyes had hold of his ankle. “Don’t cut yourself. That looked like Starkden that just fell.” Ghort severed the wrist of his assailant, then levered the hand off his ankle. “We need us a big-ass bonfire to roast us some dead men.”
“Good idea.” Else’s pain grew. The blind Instrumentality was headed their way. “A pit might be better.”
“So they can’t run from the fire. Yeah. Shit. Now what?”
Deves were walking the killing ground, finishing the dead heroes with swords and spearheads of blackened iron with silver-plated tips. They gave the blind god a wide berth. At random moments he sparked off lightning.
“They’ve figured out a way to battle the Night. From a distance,” Else said. “The Brotherhood will be thrilled.”
Ghort skipped away from a grabbing hand, frowning. “Something like this happened before, Pipe. On a smaller scale. You mentioning the Brotherhood made me remember. This was in Sonsa, a couple years ago, before we hooked up. That’s how Drocker got messed up. By Deves. They said it was some new kind of sorcery but I’m thinking it was maybe the same thing we just saw here.”
“Could be. They’re devious people. Well, this is Starkden.”
“She dead?”
“Looks like.”
“Be careful.” Else collected an antique spear that had lost its operator. He poked the fallen sorceress. “Let’s get her bound and bagged and headed up to Drocker. He’ll love us even if she isn’t breathing.”
“He’ll have him a shitload of mixed feelings. Should we do something to help them Imperials?” Things were no longer going well for Lothar’s would-be rescuers, though the Braunsknechts from the drain had joined them. “They’re holding their own. We need to get busy here.”
“The guys look like they’re hot to go, Pipe. They’ve figured out what these dead guys are. Which tells them there might be valuable antique weapons and grave goods to be had. But I’m on the job.”
Ghort strode off to draft work parties. Else considered proceedings atop the wall. He saw Bone and Az observing from relative safety. So Az had found his way back to the company. They saw him but gave no sign. Until Az made a quick, small Sha-lug warning gesture.
Else turned as a body lying deep in mud and dirty snow and parts hacked off dead heroes surged to its feet, the soultaken that had speared the crippled god. He felt the fury, fear, and insanity of the thing. And the power. Here raged a new monster of the Night, pulling itself together by culling fragments from dying Instrumentalities.
The thing recognized Else.
Else decided on a swift tactical relocation. A fresh surge of pain hit. He lost focus on his footing. He slipped on an icy stone, fell, slid twenty feet downhill.
Deves maneuvering against the blinded god fired on the new threat.
The soultaken roared, producing an amazing noise from a human throat. Then it shook like a dog suffering a seizure. It swelled up, changed shape, and began to get the hell out of there.
It turned into something like a mantis of twice human size, with twice too many legs for a bug. Mahogany chirm with scarlet scars and highlights ripped through its fur and rag clothing. It headed norm at a high rate of speed, undaunted by the terrain.
Else sat in cold mud and gaped till his wrist told him the blind god was coming.
Else started to get up. His hand brushed something his eyes did not see. When he grasped it with his amulet hand it became visible as the bronze sword of power formerly carried by the soultaken now infested by his supreme deity.
The blind god shifted course, toward his nearest tormentors. Could that hideous head be far from the sword? Ah. There.
Else’s bowels turned to ice. They came near voiding.
The thing’s eyes were open. It lay on its left side, in muddy, trampled grass, eyes alive. Eyes aware. And as mad as could be imagined. What was it? It had no hands, no voice, no means to impose its will Save the mesmerizing power of those eyes.
Else’s wrist blazed with pain. The amulet shielded him again. For that er-Rashal el-Dhulquarnen deserved gratitude. Else clambered to his feet. He stripped a ragged cloak off an unmoving dead hero and used it to bundle the head. The pain faded immediately.
/> ***
TROOPS FROM THE PATRIARCHAL CAMP BEGAN TO ARRIVE. Grade Drocker sensed an opportunity to strike a hammer blow on the cheap. Else sent a party in through the storm drain and another to climb his still-dangling escape rope. Whoever got the chance should open a postern or gate. He directed others to help the Deves finish and collect the dead heroes. Ghort he finally did send to help the Imperials. The men from the Grail Empire faced a deteriorating situation.
Exhausted, Else eventually settled down in the bottom of a brushy gully with Uncle Divino. It looked like it had snowed antique weapons. There were scores scattered in the mud or hanging in the bushes.
“Good place to hide, eh?” The bronze sword had drained him. He set blade and wrapped head aside. “I’m ready for a nap.” Bruglioni grunted. “Best I could do. How’s it going up there?”
“I think we’re all right You all alone? Where are your guys?”
“Those assholes ran oft as soon as it got exciting. Then I managed to get crippled without doing anything but lay here.” Else grunted. “All that hardware came raining down. This damned dagger got me through the knee. There’s a killing spell on it but it wasn’t meant for me. It was intended to kill somebody named Erief Erealsson. Presumably one of our undead visitors.”
“I don’t know the name. Probably somebody who was important once upon a time. History is fickle.”
“Do you have any idea what’s happening here, Hecht?”
“I think so. This might be the beginning of the end of the Tyranny of the Night. The weapons the Deves used could make it possible to punish the gods themselves.”
Uncle Divino scowled. “You’re a doctrinal mess, Hecht. But that’s near the mark. The Brotherhood of War and the Special Office will be excited. They’ll want to get those weapons into the service of God as soon as they understand them.”
“Even if the weapons are tools of the Adversary?”
“What?” The Principaté’s eyes widened. Had recent events been orchestrated? Was he a witness to the first bell of the Carillon of Doom? “Damn! You might be right. This needs the attention of a quorum in the whole of the Collegium. Damn again! I can’t get up. I can’t move my leg.”