“Got her on the first try!” Seregil exclaimed under his breath, watching from the ledges above as Irtuk Beshar whirled suddenly, clutching at the shaft protruding from her chest. The Helm fell from her hands, tumbling back into the hole it came from. Mardus dove after it.
Ignoring the sudden arrow storm that erupted around them, he and Micum left Nysander in the shelter of the rocks and charged down. Irtuk Beshar’s spells on the pool were already unraveling. Water surged back into the basin, washing corpses and entrails down into the hole, and sweeping the Helm out of reach as Mardus bent to grab it.
Praying to Sakor that Nysander was right about her powers being exhausted, Micum charged the wounded dyrmagnos. She saw him and raised one gnarled hand. He swung, severing the arm, then struck again, taking her between the neck and shoulder. Her body split under his blade like a dry gourd. She screamed curses at him as her head and remaining arm tumbled away from her torso.
Despite the warnings of Seregil and Nysander, Micum hesitated for an instant, transfixed with horror as the severed parts writhed on the ground at his feet. Then a hint of motion caught his eye and he turned in time to deflect Tildus’ sword.
Sakor’s smiling today, he told himself as he sidestepped another blow and caught the Plenimaran captain a solid blow to the neck.
Other marines leapt forward to avenge their captain’s death. Micum crippled two and killed a third. A fourth pressed in on his left side but fell before Micum could strike at him, an arrow through his back. Micum scarcely had time to register that the fletching color was not Alec’s before more Plenimarans rushed at him. He doggedly stood his ground, aware of the clash of swords behind him but too closely pressed to look.
As hoped, the revolt of the prisoners, together with the mysterious fire at the encampment, had drawn off many of the soldiers. Micum made short work of the few who remained.
He was just looking around for Seregil when a searing bolt of pain shot through the back of his right thigh. Staggering, he twisted around to find Irtuk Beshar clinging to him, eyes shining like a wildcat’s as she tore at his leg with nails and teeth. Too late he realized his mistake; she was whole again.
The lower portion of her gown had fallen away and Micum could see both the livid, uneven line of the joining and the splintered end of the arrow shaft still protruding between her shriveled dus. Her legs, black and withered as those of a burned corpse, kicked spasmodically as she tightened her grip and sank her teeth into his flesh. A deadly coldness spread slowly out from the wounds.
Micum hacked awkwardly at her. One withered leg flew off, then he managed the cleave her in half at the waist. Determined not to make the same error twice, he grabbed the lower torso by its remaining leg and flung it with all his strength into the sea, then kicked the other limb into the shadows beyond the torches.
But Irtuk Beshar was still horribly alive and clung on to him like a curse. The coldness of her bite spread up through Micum’s vitals, stopping his ears, darkening his vision, numbing his fingers. His sword fell from his hand and he tore clumsily at her. Dried bone collapsed beneath his fists, strips of dusty scalp pulled away like rotten cloth, but still Irtuk Beshar hung on, plunging her poison into his veins with the last of her strength.
Micum’s deadened leg folded under him and he felt her grip change as she slowly pulled herself up his body. He could hear Seregil shouting nearby. Micum’s throat worked soundlessly, choked with the vengeful hate of the dyrmagnos.
Alec was down to the three white arrows when he saw Micum thrashing on the ground just above the pool. His belly went cold as he realized what the monstrous thing clinging to him must be. It was pointless to shoot from here; there was no way to hit the dyrmagnos without killing Micum at the same time. Gripping the arrow like a dagger, Alec bounded down over the rocks, praying he wasn’t already too late.
Looking back over her shoulder, Beka saw that Braknil’s decuria had succeeded in setting fire to the Plenimaran camp. At this signal, she and Rhylin’s decuria opened fire on the Plenimaran soldiers massed in the natural amphitheater below. From where they stood on the ledges, it was like shooting pigs in a sty.
They were not the first to fire, however. Even as she loosed arrow after arrow, Beka wondered how Braknil had gotten back here so quickly and what his group was doing on the opposite side of the cove. One of them had managed to hit the sorceress before Beka could give the order for her group to fire. Whatever the case, the prisoners were breaking free below, just as she’d hoped.
“That’s got them moving,” she growled, turning to the others. “Come on, urgazhi, let’s leave them to it.”
“Hold on, Lieutenant,” whispered Rhylin. “It looks to me like we’re not the only ones who were after them!”
The frantic prisoners were pushing their captors back toward the cliffs, but a smaller knot of fighting was concentrated near the water’s edge. Torchlight glanced off steel in the shadows of the natural basin that lay in the embrace of the two ridges of high ground. General Mardus was nowhere in sight, but the Plenimaran’s sorceress was still alive and wrestling with a large swordsman.
Beka’s heart skipped a beat.
“It can’t be!” she gasped. Then Alec bolted into view from behind a jumble of rocks, splashing wildly through the shallow water toward the struggling pair with nothing but an arrow in his hand.
Dropping her bow, Beka began scrambling down the steep rock face.
“What are you doing?” Rhylin cried, catching her by the wrist.
Beka pulled free so violently that she nearly dragged the startled man over the edge.
“My father’s down there!” she snapped over her shoulder as she plunged on.
“Riders,” barked Rhylin behind her, “follow the lieutenant’s lead! Attack!”
Micum was still struggling weakly beneath the dyrmagnos when Alec reached him. Grasping Beshar by what was left of her hair, Alec plunged the arrow into her neck. The resulting blast knocked him over onto his back, ears ringing.
Releasing Micum with a wild screech, Irtuk Beshar dragged what remained of herself at Alec and locked a hand around his ankle.
“I’ll have you after all,” she rasped, pulling herself along his leg with both hands like some nightmare lizard.
Alec saw his own death in her eyes. In his haste to aid Micum, he’d left the last two white arrows behind with his bow.
“Aura Elustri!” he panted, struggling to wrest his sword from the scabbard pinned beneath his leg. Before he could shift it, another blade flashed down, sending the dyrmagnos’ head spinning into the surf.
Shaking off the clinging hands, Alec lurched to his feet and stared in disbelief as Beka Cavish hacked furiously at the flailing arms and trunk.
“Get away from it,” he warned. “You can’t kill it.”
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, backing away from the twitching remains.
“No time for that. Where’s Micum? Go see to him.”
Beka found her father lying motionless where he’d fallen, eyes shut as he fought for breath. Sweat ran down his face in rivulets, carving trails in the black strip painted across his eyes.
“Father, it is you!” Beka exclaimed, kneeling to inspect the terrible wound in his leg. The dyrmagnos had torn away skin and muscle in her frenzy, and the raw flesh was already going dangerously dark.
“Beka?” he gasped, opening his eyes. “Scatter the parts, scatter—it won’t die.”
“Alec’s doing that,” she assured him. She pulled off her gloves to take his hand and saw for the first time the strange designs that had somehow appeared on her palms. Her father’s hands bore the same device.
“First I find you here and now this,” she said, bewildered. “What in Sakor’s name is going on?”
Micum held his hand next to hers. “So you’re a Vanguard, too. Things have come together in a strange way, Beka. You don’t know the half of it.” He closed his eyes and drew a wheezing breath.
She pulled open his tunic and
laid an ear to his chest. His heart was pounding too hard and his skin was too cold. Looking around for help, she saw Alec and Rhylin hurrying toward her, supporting another man between them. This thin one with his matted black hair and young beard looked vaguely familiar. He’d been wounded, too; the side of his face was bloody and he had a sword cut across his ribs. Nonetheless, his pale green eyes were sharp and alert as he sank down beside Micum.
“Help him, Thero. There must be something you can do,” Alec pleaded. “I’ve got to find Seregil! Has anyone seen him? Or Nysander?”
“I am here, dear boy,” a hollow voice replied from the shadowed rocks above them.
50
VATHARNA
Mardus crouched opposite Seregil in the uneven basin, the surge of the tide rushing around their ankles. They sloshed through icy water as they circled, vying for possession of the Helm that lay partially submerged between them, the newly awakened glow of the blue eye stones casting a pale phosphorescence up through the water. The blast that had formed it had deepened the shallow basin into a broad pit deeper in places than the height of the two men who fought there. Strewn with bodies, lit only by the dead glow of the eclipse that still stood overhead, it was like a place from a fever dream.
“I should have killed that whelp of yours when I had the chance,” snarled Mardus.
“Yes, you should have,” Seregil retorted through gritted teeth, sizing up his opponent. Mardus was not a brawny opponent, but he did have the protection of his cuirass. “You missed Nysander, too, you know. He’s alive and the Four remains unbroken.”
“Yet you failed all the same,” Mardus gloated, pointing to the Helm with the dagger clutched in his left hand. “I am the Vatharna, the Chosen of Seriamaius. Do you think you can stand against me now?”
“I was chosen, too, you fatherless son of a whore.” Seregil tugged open the neck of his tunic with one hand to show him the reversed symbol pulsing there. “But it’s my people at the Cockerel that I’ll kill you for, and for what you did to Alec. For the runners and keeks you used and betrayed, the innocents who’ve died at your order. Hell, I’ll kill you for the sheer fun of it. Come on, Lord Eater of Shit. Let’s get this over with.”
He lunged at Mardus and their swords locked in a resounding parry that sent a shock up both their arms. Seregil ducked Mardus’ guard and tried for a stab below his cuirass. He missed his footing and the tip of his blade glanced off metal, but the point cut the man’s left arm and fresh blood spotted the already stained waters of the pool; neither of the combatants had time to notice how the bleary light of the Helm brightened as it rolled in the wash of the tide.
Fighting for purchase on the broken stone underfoot, Seregil quickly realized that he was overmatched. On better ground his speed would have evened the odds, but trapped here in this watery pit he could only stand firm and fend off the taller man’s bone-jarring swings. Mardus slapped his blade back and nicked Seregil’s left shoulder. Seregil got his guard back up, made a lucky sidestep, and repaid him with a slash across the right forearm.
For the first time it occurred to Seregil that his role in the prophecy had been fulfilled, that he was expendable now. That he might lose.
Sensing his doubt, Mardus pressed the advantage and scored a shallow cut across Seregil’s thigh. More blood spotted the water and the Helm, brighter now with this and every death that occurred in the fight that was still raging above them, shone more brightly still.
It was Mardus who finally noticed the light, understood its significance. Redoubling his attack, he beat Seregil back against the rocks. Pinned off balance in an indefensible position, Seregil decided to take a desperate chance. Springing past Mardus, he dove for the Helm. He hadn’t gotten two steps when his foot lodged in a hidden crevice and he stumbled painfully.
Mardus struck at his back, slashing him across the ribs. Just as he drew back for the killing stab, however, a wave surged in over the shelf of rock, knocking them both off their feet with a blinding wall of spray that slammed them against the rocks.
• • •
Mardus was the first to recover when it subsided. Still gripping his sword, he looked around to find Seregil sprawled stunned and unarmed against the seaward rocks. Blood trickled down over one closed eye from a cut on his forehead.
A look of dark triumph spread across Mardus’ face as he stalked toward him through the knee-deep water. Long experience had taught him where to strike to cripple and give a lingering death.
It was the glow of the Eyes that distracted him. As the foaming surge of waves cleared for an instant, Mardus found the Helm shining up through the water at his feet.
“It seems I’ll have the pleasure of offering you to the Beautiful One after all,” he gloated. “Wounded or not, you’re still an admirable sacrifice.”
Gripping the Helm by one of the twisted black horns, he raised it over his head. “Adrat Vatharna, thromuth—”
Seregil chose his moment. Opening his eyes, he reached underwater, yanked the poniard from his boot, and threw it.
Mardus froze, the Helm still poised over his head as he stared down in amazement at the knife buried between his ribs where the edge of the cuirass left his side exposed.
“You should’ve killed me when you had the chance,” Seregil snarled, trailing blood as he waded unarmed toward his adversary. “You played a brilliant game until now, but you should always finish your enemy off before you reach for the spoils. Arrogance, my lord. It’s a deadly vice. It makes you predictable.”
Mardus’ lips stretched in the parody of a smile. “Tricks. Always your tricks,” he whispered. Clutching the Helm in one hand, his sword in the other, he turned woodenly and began to stumble toward the edge of the pool.
Seregil followed and blocked his way. Mardus was dying, but still he looked down at Seregil with searing disdain.
“The Eater of Death—” he began thickly, gouts of blood spilling down over his chin from his mouth.
“—will eat your heart today, not mine,” Seregil finished, glaring up into his enemy’s dark eyes.
He grasped the hilt of the poniard and twisted it, tearing through muscle and sinew until the long blade lodged fast in bone. A hot, bright freshet of blood poured out over his clenched fist.
Mardus dropped the Helm and toppled backward into the water. A ribbon of red bubbles streamed up from his nose and mouth, then ceased. His eyes, already vague with death, mirrored tiny dual reflections of the sun’s first, bright edge as it emerged from the moon’s dominance.
Seregil spat into the water. A smaller wave surged over the edge of the pool, hiding Mardus for a moment beneath a rushing sheet of foam. When it cleared again, the long reflection of another man had interposed itself across the surface of the water in front of him. Seregil looked up to find Nysander standing above him at the edge of the pool, the sound of scattered fighting still audible from beyond.
“Well done,” the wizard said gravely. “Now the Helm must be destroyed once and for all. Give it to me, then find your sword.”
Reaching down, Seregil grasped the glowing Helm by two of its black horns, just as he had grasped the crystal points of the crown months before. And as before, invisible voices and insubstantial spirits coalesced around him as he touched it, trying to stay his hand.
The blue eye stones set in the band had taken on the appearance of flesh now and swiveled accusingly in their lidless sockets as he passed the Helm up to Nysander.
The wizard drew a fold of his cloak around the Helm, screening it from view. “Your sword,” he said again, his voice gentle but firm. “I must have your help in this, Seregil. You are the only one who can aid me.”
Seregil scarcely felt his wounds as he splashed back across the pool to find his weapon.
“Here it is,” he called. “But what about—?”
The words died in his throat. With the foam of a fresh wave boiling in around his legs, he looked up at the tall figure from his nightmares towering over him. But this time he knew the f
ace beneath the spiked brim of the misshapen Helm.
It was Nysander’s.
The skeletal hands that formed the cheek guards clenched inward against Nysander’s face, sinking their talons into his cheeks until the flesh dimpled. The unnatural blue eyes blazed, sending out rays of light. Nysander stood unmoved, waiting.
“Nysander, why?” Seregil rasped. The skin around the brand on his chest crawled and tingled, the sensation growing as it crept down his right arm. Sparks flickered over the quillons of his sword and along the shining blade.
But Seregil was aware of nothing except the sorrowful determination he read in Nysander’s eyes.
Nysander—oldest friend, wisest teacher, second father.
Some sane part of Seregil’s mind screamed for him to throw the sword away into the sea, but he couldn’t move or look away.
“Nysander, I can’t!” he pleaded, echoing the forgotten words of his dreams.
“You must.” Nysander’s voice was already thin and strained. “I have accepted this burden freely. ‘First shall be the Guardian, a vessel of light in the darkness. Then the Shaft and the Vanguard, who shall fail and yet not fail if the Guide, the Unseen One, goes forth. And at the last shall be again the Guardian, whose portion is bitter, as bitter as gall.’
“You must strike now, dear boy. Too much blood has been spilled and I cannot hold back its power for long. If you fail, I shall become their Vatharna, the anathema of my life’s work. Strike now, I beg you. There is no other way, and never has been.”
Seregil’s body felt weightless as he climbed up the broken rock, sword naked in his hand.
Lock away grief, a voice whispered deep in his heart. Lock away horror and fear and outrage and pity—
I understand. Oh, yes!
The Eyes of the Helm rolled to focus on him as he took his place in front of Nysander; this was a blow that could not be struck from behind. Hideous moans split the air around them, blending with the cries from mortal throats nearby as he raised his arm to strike. Some part of him recognized Alec’s voice among the others but he did not turn.