The Warlord herself, after turning command of the battle over to Sethra the Younger, was concerned, above all, with the location of the Jenoine which she was convinced had appeared on the world. For this reason, she had called to herself the Necromancer, who, being found, reported to her promptly.
“Well?” said Sethra.
The Necromancer bowed.
“Are you aware,” said Sethra, “that a Jenoine has gained access to our world?”
“Partial access,” corrected the Necromancer.
“How, partial?”
“It has not fully manifested. It has an opening sufficient to attack the Orb, and is attempting, by doing so, to make an opening to manifest fully.”
“Well, but where is it?”
“I have, hitherto, been unable to determine this.”
“You have been trying?”
The Necromancer bowed an assent. “The forces that prevent such an entry—that is to say, the shields put in place by the gods to keep the Jenoine from coming to our world—are still in place.”
“They are still in place? But then, how can it have manifested?”
“Someone has given it access by finding one of those locations where the boundaries between worlds are flawed.”
Sethra frowned. “Yes. While I have not studied necromancy as you have, I have heard of such places. But, how many of them are there?”
“A few hundreds, I would think.”
“A few hundreds? But then, to find this Jenoine could take days!”
“Years,” corrected the Necromancer. “Each place must be first discovered, and then investigated. You perceive, these steps take considerable time.”
“How many have you found hitherto?”
“Three.”
“Three?”
The Necromancer signified that this was correct.
Sethra frowned and reflected. After a moment, she said, “I have never come across such a place.”
“They are difficult to identify if found, even for one skilled in necromancy, and, therefore, even more difficult to find if the location is not known.”
“Well then, how could our enemies have found it?”
The Necromancer shrugged. “Luck, perhaps.”
The Enchantress shook her head. “You perceive, I am suspicious of anything that smells of chance when there is an elaborate conspiracy involved.”
The Necromancer shrugged again.
“How else could they have found it?” demanded Sethra.
The Necromancer appeared to reflect, at last saying, “Certain demons know of such places.”
“And yet, my lady, we have seen no evidence that they have summoned a demon.”
“That is true.”
“Well then, what of the gods?”
“Well, certainly the gods would know all, or at any rate, most of the paths from the Halls of Judgment, and these would all lead to such places.”
“How, they would?”
“Without question. You perceive, any naturally occurring route from the world where the Halls are to this world would require such a point, and any such paths created by the gods would cause one to occur.” We trust that the reader has at least some passing familiarity, by legend if nothing else (and, in truth, we have little enough beyond legend to work with), with the Jenoine—those immensely powerful beings who once ruled our world, and against whom it could be said that our entire existence as a people is a struggle.
Sethra frowned, still thinking. “When Zerika emerged with the Orb after her journey to the Halls of Judgment, she must, then, have arrived at such a place.”
The Necromancer bowed her agreement with this assessment.
“So that,” continued Sethra, “should the enemy know, or be able to discover, where Zerika emerged into our world, they would know that this place must necessarily be a place where a Jenoine could manifest?”
“Yes,” said the Necromancer laconically.
“Do you ride?” asked Sethra.
“After a fashion.”
“Then let us call for a pair of horses, and, when they are delivered, mount up at once.”
“Very well.”
In twenty minutes, Sethra Lavode had arrived at Whitecrest Manor (some five minutes ahead of the Necromancer), and, two minutes later, she entered the covered terrace, where she observed a bloody floor as well as Khaavren and Pel and several wounded and moaning prisoners.
“What has happened?” cried Sethra.
“An attempt to take the Orb,” said Khaavren.
“It was thwarted,” added Pel.
Sethra looked at Her Majesty and said, “The Orb?”
“It is, as you can see, lifeless. I cannot think why.”
“As to why,” said Sethra, “I know well enough, and it is for that reason I am here.”
Zerika nodded and held it out, as if she expected the Enchantress to take it and perform some sort of magic upon it. But Sethra shook her head, saying, “Your Majesty, it is not the Orb I require, but, rather, information.”
“Whatever I know is at your disposal. But tell me, what is causing this?”
“Our enemies have managed to permit a Jenoine to manifest, and the Jenoine is attacking the Orb.”
“The Gods!” cried Zerika. “Is it true?”
“I take my oath on it.”
Zerika’s teeth clenched and her eyes narrowed. “That they would do such a thing!”
Khaavren, in a tone of irony, murmured something under his breath about fair uses of war, but, as it was inaudible, it has not come down to us, and, moreover, Zerika either didn’t hear it or ignored it. At this point, the Necromancer entered the room and placed herself next to Sethra.
“Where is this Jenoine?” demanded the Empress.
“That is what I must learn from you,” said Sethra.
“Apropos,” said the Necromancer.
“Well?”
“Once we learn, how are we to get there?”
“One problem at a time,” said the Enchantress, grasping the hilt of the dagger at her side. Then she turned to Zerika and said, “Your Majesty, tell me, with as much precision as you can, and as laconically as possible (for you perceive we are in a hurry), where it was that you emerged from the Halls of Judgment.”
“Step over to this map,” said the Empress.
As they walked, Sethra said, “Once we have found the location, you will be able to create a necromantic gate, will you not?”
As if it were the matter of greatest unconcern, the Necromancer said, “So long as that god has manifested in the world, I am completely helpless.”
“Now that,” observed Sethra Lavode, “is unfortunate.”
Chapter the Ninety-Fifth
How Morrolan Battled a God
When we last saw Morrolan, he was slowly advancing through a deserted street upon an icon of Tri’nagore. In the street were the bodies of those he had cut down, and around him were others of their band, fleeing with the sort of terror that can only be inspired by such a weapon as that wielded by Morrolan.
He did not hesitate for an instant. The thought of following those who attempted to escape did not so much as cross his mind. Instead he went directly to the icon that occupied a place of honor in the center of the village and spat upon it. Then, sheathing his sword and unbuttoning his breeches, he made certain, in a way that was as old as Eastern tradition itself, that no man or god could have the least doubt about his feelings toward Tri’nagore. While we must beg the reader’s pardon for introducing this sort of crudeness, we must insist that, not only is it the case that Morrolan performed the act to which we have alluded, but, as we have indicated, this is the sort of defilement in which the crass Easterner is wont to indulge when determined to insult a god. Having stated that it occurred, however, we shall hasten on to other matters, as we would not wish to injure the reader’s sensibilities by dwelling on such matters for an instant longer than is strictly required by our duty as historian.
The response was so quick that Mo
rrolan was very nearly forced to go into battle with his breeches open. There was a shimmering in the air, similar to what might be seen upon a hot summer’s day, and, as Morrolan drew his sword once more, Tri’nagore appeared next to the icon.
In appearance, that one of the Lords of Judgment whose name has come down to us as Tristangrascalaticrunagore was, indeed, sufficiently fearsome that he ought to have frightened a thousand Morrolans. In height he measured some thirteen feet, and in breadth he was little less. In spite of the way he has been depicted in certain lurid illustrated tales, he had, in fact, only two arms, and two legs, and no tail—yet what he did have for a form was sufficiently squat, ugly, and powerful (he being, in fact, covered in thick hide of an appalling orange color) that those who illustrate such tales as we have referred to may nearly be forgiven their liberties.
It was growing dark at this moment, not because it was near to the end of the day, but because there were now heavy black clouds overhead. In addition, it had become quite cold, though Morrolan was only dimly aware of these things. Moreover, there was a substantial breeze as well as a hint of thunder that may have been caused by the god’s appearance, as it is known that certain of the deities announce their presence by dramatic shifts in the weather. Morrolan was unaware of this, as well.
He approached the god as he might have approached a subordinate who required to be reminded of his duty—that is, with a firm step and a fire in his eye, and, not the least hint of fear. The god himself, we should add, was in what might be considered an irate state of mind; there is a certain dignity that comes with deification, and this dignity does not take well to the defiling of one’s icon—especially by a single mortal. Both the action and the implied arrogance behind it were not calculated to put this god into any sort of mood for conversation, but, rather, to fill him with the intention of grasping this lout about the middle, or perhaps by the throat, and squeezing him, slowly, so that he would have time to regret his insolence before he expired.
These plans were made, however, without first having asked Morrolan if he approved them, and, in fact, the Dragonlord did not; indeed, the notion of being touched by Tri’nagore, much less grasped, squeezed, and ultimately killed, was understandably repugnant to the Count of Southmoor, who responded by ducking under the outstretched hands and driving his sword, point first, into his enemy’s stomach—a target, we ought to say, that was hard to miss. Nevertheless, his first blow did not land. Not because of any especial speed or quickness on the part of the god, but, rather, because his essential character, being at once both of the world and not of it, made it impossible for any normal weapon to touch him, and particularly difficult for even Morrolan’s black wand to do so; the weapon slipped past Tri’nagore by the smallest of margins.
Whether Tri’nagore was aware of his danger even now, we cannot know; his response, however, was to make another effort to grasp Morrolan. The Dragonlord, thrown slightly off balance by his attack, very nearly fell into the god’s clutches, but a twist at the last instant, so to speak, saved him. He let his momentum carry him forward, recovered his balance, raised his sword, and reflected.
“Come now,” he said to himself. “It seems that this irritating—being—has a means of avoiding the point of my sword. Considering this, the prudent course might require me to break off the engagement at once, but there are some flaws in this plan. For one I do not think it will be possible, for he seems tolerably put out. And, for another, well, I have never had an especially prudent character.
“So then,” he continued, “the solution must be to find a way to convince my weapon to bite, because, well, with sorcery having unaccountably failed, I have no other means of inflicting injury on him. But then, how am I to do so? It is a shame that, with sorcery ineffective, I cannot reach Arra, because it is very possible, even likely, that a little help from my Circle would be all that would be required. He may be able to suppress the Warlock’s use of witchcraft, but to do so with the number of witches I have available to me, well, that would be more difficult.
“Well, and here he comes again. That was uncomfortably close for both of us—he nearly had me, and, for my part, I should have been able to slice of one of his hands if my weapon had not veered away from him. It is insupportable. My black wand, evidently, feels the same way—I can sense its annoyance. Steady there, Blackwand, I am looking for a means now to permit you to bite, and, with the Favor, I may even discover one.
“And yet, let us consider. Is sorcery strictly necessary for me to communicate with Arra? It seems to me that when I link my powers with those in the Circle, we are doing something that is closely akin to sorcerous communication, and we are certainly not using sorcery to accomplish it—at least, we were engaging in this communion not only before I had even learned that there was such a thing as sorcery, but before the return of the Orb that permits it to function.
“And so, with this in mind, might it be possible to make contact with Arra? Well, if I can manage to avoid this being again—that was close—I can think of no good reason not to make the attempt.”
Having reached this conclusion, Morrolan wasted no time in putting it to the test. He thought back to those occasions, especially in the first days of his association with Arra in Blackchapel, when he had joined the psychic powers to hers, and tried to remember how it had felt. Of course, it is different when only one party, instead of both together, is attempting to forge such a chain, and, moreover, the level of connection required for actual communication is much higher than what is required for the sharing or transfer of psychic energy. The difficulty was increased, as well, by the fact that Morrolan was required constantly to dodge efforts by Tri’nagore to get Morrolan in his clutches.
Tri’nagore did not confine himself to purely physical attacks either, but, on at least two occasions, struck at the Dragonlord with enchantments which, although he never learned their precise nature, would certainly have done him no good had not Blackwand, apparently acting on its own, deflected and absorbed the forces directed at him.
In the midst of this, Morrolan realized that he was, at it were, hearing Arra’s voice in the back of his head, almost as if she were behind him. He could even make out words now and then—“My lord, what is it you wish?” or something very like that.
While still concentrating on his enemy—that is, on staying out of his enemy’s grasp—he managed to formulate thoughts to Arra, first asking if she could understand him, and then, when assured that she could, explaining in two words what he wished.
Arra, for her part, understood immediately that there was no question of joking, and said that she would at once gather together a Circle, leaving alone only those needed to keep Castle Black from falling, and cast a spell of finding and striking on his blade.
Twice more Morrolan had to dodge and twist to stay clear of the god, who began to show signs of annoyance and frustration, and once more the energy of some sort of deadly spell came toward him, only to be deflected by Blackwand. An instant later, Morrolan felt a peculiar sensation come over him, as if, as he later explained it, “there was a tingling running up and down my arms, my feet seemed to grow into the ground, as if I were a plant or a tree and they my roots, and, at the same time, it felt as if I were so light upon my feet that I could have leapt twenty feet in the air without effort. Also, it seemed that my vision became both sharper and more narrow.”
That is, according to his own testimony, how the spell affected Morrolan. For its effects outside of his direct sensations, we can only observe that, the next time the god came at him in an effort to strike or grasp him, Morrolan stepped forward and, almost without effort, drove Blackwand deep into his vitals.
If we have given the impression that Tri’nagore’s strength was, exclusively or above all, physical, we must apologize. While there is no precise record indicating which magical arts he embodied, what forces he had access to, and the nature of his existence in those regions not subject to our mundane understanding, there is no doubt that they were
formidable. Yet, equally, there is no doubt that, once Morrolan’s extraordinary sword had entered his corporeal body, none of these things made the least difference in the world.
It has been said that Tri’nagore’s dying cry could be heard a hundred miles away. It is certainly the case that it was heard in Blackchapel, and there they wondered extremely. As far as Morrolan was concerned, he was never able to determine if it was the astonishing blast of sound, the physical death throes of the gargantuan embodiment of the god, or some magical or psychic outpouring caused by Tri’nagore’s expulsion from the world; but, for whatever reason, as the god lost for-ever his ability to manifest in our plane of existence, Morrolan fell senseless to the ground.
When he awoke again it was to the peculiar sensation of hot breath in his ear—breath that, as his wits came back, proved to be from the horse, Huzay. Morrolan patted his nose, then slowly pulled himself to his feet and looked around. On reflection, he came to the conclusion that they had made an attempt upon him while he was oblivious, and that, somehow, his sword had protected him. While there was not the least remaining trace of the god, there were, immediately around him, three bodies that he could not account for, because they had not been there while he fought the god, and he had no memory of anything that happened afterwards. Moreover, the idol he had desecrated was now, unaccountably, gone—or rather, destroyed, as he noticed what could only be pieces of it spreading out in a large circle from where it had once stood.
“Well now,” he murmured. “There is something to be said for this, indeed.”
He carefully cleaned the blade on the clothing of the nearest corpse, sheathed it, and patted the neck of his horse, considering what he had just been through. These reflections continued for some few moments, until, as he happened to be looking around, he found himself grimacing from the bright light high in the sky to the west.