They rushed forward, but the first suddenly swayed to his left with a crossbow bolt through his skull. The second lunged at Dace. The swordsman’s blade flashed up with impossible speed, blocking the thrust. Off-balance, the Daroth fell forward and Dace’s blade swept through his thick throat. “Where are the rest of you?” shouted Dace. Then he fell unconscious into the arms of Ozhobar.
Dressed in black leather leggings and a silver satin tunic shirt, the Duke stood silently in the park. Though surrounded by men he was alone, as he always had been. His eyes scanned the hillsides, remembering far-off days when he had played here with his brother. Bright and adventurous, Jorain had been the only person to reach the shy, introverted child the Duke had once been. When he had died he had taken a part of Albreck with him. A loveless marriage, and twenty years of ruling a people he neither liked nor understood, had been the life of Albreck following the death of Jorain. You would have been so much better than I, thought Albreck. The people loved you.
Albreck switched his gaze to the catacomb entrance. Reinforced by two elaborate stone pillars and a white lintel stone, there were steps within that led down to the crystal cavern. Jorain had told him it was an entrance to Hell, and the six-year-old Albreck had been afraid to enter.
Now the childish game had become a reality. It was an entrance to Hell.
And I have come here to die, thought Albreck. The thought made him smile, he didn’t know why. Are you waiting for me, Jorain? he wondered. The Duke had brought no sword or dagger and he stood now, arms folded, waiting patiently for whatever would follow. He glanced at Karis. The warrior woman was now wearing a dress of white silk she had borrowed from the wardrobe of the Duke’s wife; around her slim waist was a blue sash. She looked so incongruous now, surrounded by warriors, like a virgin bride waiting for her groom.
“Why do you need the dress?” he had asked her.
“Don’t ask, my lord,” she said.
Under torchlight, Karis was organizing the placements of the five ballistae, forming a wide semi-circle some hundred paces from the entrance to the catacombs. Four hundred crossbow-men, in three ranks, were positioned between the weapons: the front line kneeling, the second standing, the third, higher still, positioned on the backs of a circle of wagons.
The Duke saw the veteran warrior Necklen approach Karis and take her by the arm. He could not hear their conversation, but he could see anxiety in the warrior’s face.
“There is no need for you to die,” said Necklen, moving alongside Karis. “I could do it!”
“I am not planning to die,” she told him, “but it is a risk I cannot avoid. You said it yourself—how can we get them to mass in the centre of the killing circle? This is the only way I could think of.”
“All right. But why you? Why not me?”
“You have no rank, old man. They would believe in an instant that it was a ploy.”
“And it isn’t?”
“No, it is not. Now go to your position. And do as I bid.”
“I couldn’t kill you, Karis. Not if my life depended on it.”
She put her slender hands on his shoulders. “Thousands of lives may depend upon it. And if it comes to it, promise me you will obey my order. Promise me, Necklen, in the name of friendship.”
“Let someone else do it. I’ll stand beside you.”
“No! If you cannot do your duty, then get you gone and I’ll find a man who can.” The sharpness in her tone stung him, and he swung away from her. She called to him instantly, her tone contrite. “I love you, old man. Don’t let me down.” He couldn’t speak, but he nodded and walked back to his ballista, checking the load and the release pin. Then he took up his hammer.
The Duke approached Necklen. “What is she doing?” he asked.
“Getting ready to die,” whispered the old man.
“What do you mean?”
“She is going to talk to them, forcing them to mill around her. She’ll ask for peace. If they say no—which they will—she will raise her hand. When she drops it, the killing begins.”
The Duke said nothing, staring at the woman in the white dress standing in the moonlight. She looked so frail now, ghostlike and serene. He shivered.
A soldier at the catacomb entrance called out: “I can hear them. I can hear the screams.”
Karis strode forward. “Get back to your position,” she told the soldier. Gratefully the young man ran back to the wagons, climbing to the back of one and retrieving his crossbow. Karis stood some thirty feet from the white stone of the entrance and waited, longing to see Forin emerge unscathed. A few crossbow-men made it into the torchlight, and stood blinking; their friends called to them and they sprinted for cover. Then Vint appeared, blood on his face and arms. He ran to Karis, but she ordered him back. “The Daroth are right behind. You must take cover,” he said.
“Get back. Now!”
He hesitated, then ran to where Necklen stood, his face pale, his eyes haunted.
Forin came last, his armour once more dented and split, a deep gash upon his brow masking his face with blood. He stumbled towards Karis and grabbed her arm, dragging her back. Her hand lashed across his face, the sound like a whiplash. “Let go of me, you stupid ox!” His hand fell away and he stood staring at her. “Get back now!”
“They are upon us.” He reached for her again.
Spinning on her heel she pointed to a crossbow-man. “You! Aim at this man’s heart, and if he isn’t moving when I drop my arm—kill him!” She raised her hand. “Now move, goat-brain!” she thundered. Furious, Forin stalked back towards the wagons.
Karis let out her breath. She wanted to call out to Forin, to explain. But there was no time. The first of the Daroth moved out into the torchlight, which glistened on his ghost-white face and beaked mouth. “No one shoot!” yelled Karis. “Where is your leader, Daroth?” she asked. Heat began to grow inside her head.
“It is time to end this war. It is time to end this war! It is time to end this war!” She repeated the thought over and over, like a prayer. “I wish to speak to your leader,” she said, aloud. More and more Daroth were moving out of the entrance now, spreading out, staring at the ballistae and the crossbow-men, their jet-black eyes unreadable. A warrior taller than the others stepped through the mass. “I am the Daroth Duke,” he said. “I remember you, woman. Say what you have to say, and then I shall kill you.”
“And what purpose will that serve?” she asked him. “In the few months since we have learned of your threat, we have already designed weapons that can destroy you in great numbers. We are an inventive people, and we outnumber you vastly. Look around you now. How many more of your people must die in this insane manner?”
“We do not die, woman. You cannot kill us. We are Daroth. We are immortal. And I tire of this conversation. You have gained time, and you will now destroy more of our bodies. Then we will sack the city and kill everyone in it. So give your order—and let it begin.”
“That is not what I wish, my lord,” she told him.
“Your wishes are of no consequence.” His sword came up and Karis raised her arm.
Duvodas had not eaten or slept for five days, yet there was no sensation of hunger or weariness. Nor did he feel the biting wind from the north, nor the heat of the midday sun as he crossed the mountains and descended into the verdant valleys below.
There was no sensation for him, and his mind was empty of all emotion—save one: the burning need to wreak revenge upon the Daroth. His clothes were filthy and mud-spattered, his blond hair greasy and lank as he moved through the darkness towards the domed city. No Daroth riders were in sight as he walked in the moonlight, and he made no attempt to move stealthily.
For two days now he had been aware that the land below his feet was devoid of magic. It did not matter, for sorcery, dark and terrible, coursed through his veins—feeding him, driving him on. The power within did not lessen; instead it seemed to grow with every step he took towards the city.
There were no walls.
The Daroth, in their arrogance, did not believe that an enemy would come this close. Had there been walls, Duvodas would have broken them. Had there been gates, he would have torn them asunder. He paused for the first time in five days and stood, staring at the moonlit city. An owl swooped above him, and a small fox scuttled away into the undergrowth to his right.
Sitting down on the ground, he let fall the two shoulder-bags he carried. The canvas sack slid several feet down the gentle slope and the Eldarin Pearl rolled clear, moonlight shimmering on its surface. Duvodas blinked, and a tiny needle of regret pricked his soul. He remembered Ranaloth warning him of the perils of love, and he knew now what the old Eldarin had meant. Like light and shadow, love and hate were inseparable. One could not exist without the other. Rising he gathered the sack and reached for the Pearl. But as his hand touched the milky surface, he recoiled in pain and stared at his palm. Blisters had formed there, the skin burned by the contact. Carefully covering the orb with the sack, he eased it back into place.
“What have you become that you cannot touch it?” he asked himself.
The answer was all too obvious. Duvodas returned his stare to the city, and thought again of his plan. It seemed awesome now in its evil. Shira’s beautiful face swam before his eyes, and he saw her once more lifted on the Daroth spear, the life torn from her. His resolution hardened.
“You who bring death and despair to the world deserve no mercy,” he told the distant city. “You who live for destruction and pain deserve no life.”
By what right do you judge them?
The thought sprang unbidden, as if whispered on the wind.
“By the right of power, and the needs of vengeance,” he answered.
Does that not make you as evil as the Daroth?
“Indeed it does.”
Looping his bags over his shoulder, he walked on. There were no sentries, and he passed the first buildings without incident.
Then a Daroth moved into sight, carrying two buckets on a yoke across his shoulders. His black eyes fastened on the human. Duvodas pointed a finger and the Daroth died, his body crumbling to the ground with steam erupting from his eyes, ears and mouth. Duvodas did not even see him fall. On he walked through the night-shrouded city, searching for signs of his intended destination. Three times more he slew unsuspecting Daroth who stumbled across him. He had expected more of them to be on the streets, but the night was cold and the vast majority of the city-dwellers remained snug in their domed homes.
Duvodas saw twin towers in the distance, smoke drifting from them, and steadily he made his way towards them. Closer now, and he could feel the pulsing of life from the caverns deep in the ground. Ahead was a huge dome, where two sentries stood before the doors. Levelling their spears, they approached him.
He felt their feeble attempts to read his thoughts. This he allowed. “I have come to destroy you and all your people.”
“Impossible, human. We are immortal!”
“You are doomed!” They rushed him then, but twin blasts of fire speared from his fingers, piercing their bodies and burning huge holes in the wall of the building behind them. Duvodas walked to the great doors and pushed them open. Within was a circular hall, and a vast empty table. Pulling shut the door he searched for a stairwell, finding it at the rear of the chamber. Behind him he could hear the city-dwellers running from their homes, a huge mob racing to stop him.
He did not increase his speed. Opening his thoughts, he reached out, feeling the panic in the minds of the Daroth. “I am vengeance,” he told them. “I am death.” The steps were shallow, and wound down deep below the city; there were no lanterns here, and the darkness was total. But Duvodas raised his hand, and his palm began to glow with a fierce white light. Down and down he moved, descending to a wide corridor and a second stairwell. The heat here was intense. Pausing, he knelt and touched the floor. The stone was warm, and he could feel hot air blowing against his skin. His glowing hand illuminated an air vent close to the wall.
Ahead was a wide entrance in the rock, blocked by a huge steel portcullis. Duvodas reached out and touched it and it began to glow—faintly red at first, then brighter and brighter. The centre sagged and melted away, smoke and steam hissing up from the floor as rivulets of molten metal swirled around his feet. He was about to enter the cavern beyond when he heard the sounds of booted feet upon the stairs behind him. Spinning, he threw out his hand. The first two Daroth warriors ran into sight; both burst into flames.
The pulsing of new life was almost overpowering now as Duvodas strode into the massive chamber. More than 600 paces long, and at least 200 wide, it was filled with thousands of yellow and black pods—huge cocoons, many of them throbbing and writhing.
The Daroth were indeed immortal. Twice in every generation they were reborn through these pods. And that, as Sirano had known, was their greatest weakness. That is why they feared coexistence—for should an enemy ever reach where he had reached, their immortality would be lost. A human had but one life to lose, and that was hard enough. But to lose eternity . . . ? The fear was colossal.
He could feel it now in the panic of the Daroth as they surged down the stairwell behind him.
Several of the pods burst open and small, naked Daroth wriggled free. He felt the pulsing of their thoughts; two were the sentries he had despatched earlier. “Tell me again of your immortality,” he pulsed at them.
Drawing in a deep breath, Duvodas spread out his arms. The temperature around him plummeted, ice forming intricate patterns on the walls—spreading, flowing, bright and white against the black rock. The heat from the vents caused sleet to swirl, settling on the pods and frosting them with death.
The ice-cold power of Duvo’s hatred swelled out, and the nearest pods shrivelled and cracked. The three Daroth young who had emerged began to scream and writhe upon the ice-covered floor.
Duvodas began to walk the length of the immense cavern, radiating the bleakness of a savage winter with every step. Yellow-black pods cracked and burst all around him, disgorging their infant contents. The cavern echoed to their high-pitched, dying screams.
Hundreds of full-grown Daroth warriors ran into the chamber behind him. One charged at Duvodas but, as he neared, ice forming all around him, he began to slow. Desperate to save the pods, the warrior pushed on until his blood froze and he fell dead to the floor. Others hurled spears, but upon striking the walking man they shattered as if made of glass.
Within the chamber and throughout the city, thousands of Daroth adults began to scream and die, their bodies shrivelling as the symbiotic link between them and their pods was severed.
And Duvodas walked on.
A glistening column of white light opened out before him, and he saw the golden figure of the Oltor Prime, his hand outstretched.
The Daroth Duke dropped his sword and a strange high-pitched scream was torn from his throat. Karis stood stunned as the huge warrior suddenly crumpled. All around her Daroth warriors were dying, their inhuman wailing filling the air. Others merely stood, swords and spears dropping from their hands as they knelt beside the shrivelling corpses.
Forgotten, Karis moved back to the ballistae. “Do we shoot now?” asked Necklen.
“No,” said Karis. “We wait.”
The old man cast her a quizzical look. “We can finish them, Karis.”
“I’m sick of killing,” she told him. “Sickened to the depths of my soul. If they pick up their swords we will attack them, but something is happening here and we may yet end the slaughter.”
The bodies began to putrefy at an alarming rate, and the stench was overpowering. Duke Albreck moved through to stand beside Karis. “Did you do this?” he asked.
She shook her head. “They talk of immortality—but I think they have just experienced genuine death. I don’t know how.”
The kneeling Daroth suddenly rose. Not one of them reached for a weapon, but one of the ballistae engineers panicked and struck his release bolt. Iron shot tore into the enemy ranks, smashi
ng a score of warriors from their feet. Thinking an order had been given, three of the other ballistae were loosed, and the crossbow-men added to the carnage.
The Daroth did nothing. They merely stood and they died. Horrified, Karis shouted for the killing to stop, but blood-lust and hatred were high now and the crossbow-men continued to shoot. She saw the ballistae arms being drawn back once more.
Running out across the killing ground with her arms held high, Karis continued to shout: “It is over! Stop shooting!”
Black bolts slashed the air around her, and Necklen scrambled from behind the ballistae, running towards her. Forin too dashed across the open ground, trying to reach her. Panic welled in him. “Karis!” he yelled. “Get down!” He even saw the bolt flying towards her. For a moment only he thought he could hurl his body across its deadly line, but it flashed by him to plunge into her back.
Karis staggered, but did not fall at first. Slowly she sank to her knees, blood soaking through the white dress. The crossbow-man dropped his weapon and put his face in his hands. Only then did the killing stop, as the Corduin army gazed in stunned disbelief at the kneeling figure of the dying Ice Queen.
Forin reached her side, dropping to his knees where she lay only yards from the surviving Daroth. He put his arms around her, holding her close. “Sweet Heaven, don’t die on me, Karis! Don’t die!”
The Duke, Vint and Necklen joined them. Karis felt no pain as her head sagged against Forin’s shoulder. He kissed her brow. “Where is the surgeon?” he shouted.
“Calm yourself,” she whispered. There was no tension in her now, no fear. The killing was over, and she felt strangely at peace. Looking up, she saw that fewer than fifty Daroth were still standing. “Who is the leader now?” she asked, directing her question at the nearest warrior.
The Daroth’s white face turned towards her. “You will now destroy us,” he said. “The Daroth will be no more.”