by M. C. Planck
“Woman,” Maggie said.
Throd did not seem like the sort of man who expected to be corrected by a woman, even a queen. “Beg your pardon, my lady?” he said with a surprised expression.
“You meant woman, not wife. A good woman. A woman’s existence proceeds her status as a wife.”
Instinctively, Throd glanced at Christopher to see whether he would let this pass. Christopher responded by putting his arm around Maggie again. “She’s always right,” he said, thrilled for the chance to put the man in his place again.
When Throd had moved on, Maggie muttered, “Perhaps some people deserve to be hit with a sword once in a while.”
Christopher felt his tension melt away. The line of well-wishers soon went with it as guards began ushering people out. Night had fallen, and night had recently become Christopher’s favorite part of the day.
Maggie looked over at darkened windows, tall and narrow slits in the front of the great hall. “You said you would show me the stars.”
He nodded. “Let’s go to the roof. You can see half the kingdom from there.”
They strolled through the castle, up winding stairs and narrow passageways, until they came out into the cold night air. Above them the sky sparkled with its profusion of twinkling lights, as bright as a full moon, although the light was white rather than yellow.
She gasped and turned into his arms. They stood, embracing for a long moment while her trembling subsided. Finally she spoke. “I still need to go back, at least long enough to call my mother. And let the office know I won’t be in.”
“It blew my mind, too,” he told her. “I still can’t figure it out. We must be at the center of the galaxy.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she murmured into his shoulder. “There’s a black hole in the middle of the Milky Way. And how could we get there? Even at the speed of light, it takes thousands of years to reach the center.”
“I’m guessing physics is in for a bit of a rewrite,” he agreed, remembering watching a dragon take the shape of a man.
Speaking of black holes, there was a hole in the sky at the horizon. The hole spread rapidly, and Christopher recognized the shape. Wings, but not dragon wings.
He pushed Maggie behind him, speaking the words of a spell and drawing his sword all in one motion. His blade began to shine with a light harder and sharper than the stars.
The demon vanished, only to reappear behind him. Christopher spun again, keeping in front of Maggie, chanting a different spell. Maggie helpfully started screaming, or, as he preferred to think of it, raising the alarm.
It roared in some hideous language, the force of its words ripping at Christopher in a fiery wind. There were advantages to being of legendary rank. He shrugged off the assault and leapt forward, striking with his glowing sword.
The blade bit deeply into the monster’s scaled flesh. It blinked, and then blinked again in surprise.
“I’ve learned since we last met,” Christopher said. “No more dimension-hopping for you.” Then he hit it again.
Its roar was of pain and anger this time. It struck back, its claws tearing deep furrows in Christopher’s flesh that healed immediately. Without tael he would have been reduced to dog food just from that one attack. As Lalania had pointed out, there was a reward to all the killing he had done. He ignored the pain and thrust, trying to set up a chance to cut at its wings. He didn’t want it getting away this time.
The demon responded by moving close and wrapping its huge body around him in a deadly bear hug. Unfortunately for the demon, that meant that it was within Christopher’s touch. He stepped out of its embrace like stepping out of a coat, thanks to Marcius’s special favor, laid his palm on the creature, and spoke a spell. The same white energy that had healed a dragon poured into the demon, stuffing it so full that Christopher saw white leaking out of its eyes and mouth.
It staggered back, smoking all over, lashing out with its claws. They hit like guillotine blades; the monster was not to be underestimated even at his rank. And he was unarmored, with only tael between his flesh and its talons.
Off to the side, he heard boots on the roof. Armed men were coming to help him. In the flash of light from their direction, he knew that Ser Gregor and his magic sword were among them. The creature turned to face the danger and released its deadly speech. Against foes of lesser rank, it would be instantly fatal.
The sound of footfalls vanished even while the mob continued to charge. He saw Saint Krellyan in its midst, his hand raised in denial. The Saint had surrounded his fellows with a sphere of silence, blocking the demon’s words of power.
Christopher took advantage of the distraction to heal himself completely. It was overkill to use such a powerful spell on his mortal frame, but it was also quick, and he had only this instant’s reprieve. Then he charged the beast again.
In desperation it leapt back on him, trying to drag him to the edge of the roof where it could escape while dropping him to his death or at least to significant discomfort. Marcius’s favor still held; at Christopher’s rank, it lasted for a good long time. This time when he laid his palm on the demon, white steamed out from under its scales as it writhed.
Now it broke and ran, hopping and spreading its wings. Christopher was glad not to be armored as he sprinted after it. A white lion charged ahead of him and pounced, bringing the creature to the ground. They rolled, the lion biting and raking, the demon’s heavy blows spraying white motes like blowing snow across the roof. Krellyan had called for aid from the Bright Lady, although it might not last long against the demon’s claws. Christopher took the opportunity to slice through a wing.
Krellyan sent in a wave of large white wolves to pin the demon down while Christopher hacked away. Gregor joined him. Eventually, the monster stopped moving and dissolved into black ash. Christopher knelt and cast one more spell, the smallest of them all, and watched a globe of tael grow in his hand. He was a rich man again.
“My lord,” Gregor said at his side with a white face. “What the actual Dark was that?”
“Sigrath’s demon. I have no idea why it stuck around or attacked now. Thanks for the assist.”
“You did most of it,” Saint Krellyan said, touching Christopher and healing him. Even in its death throes, the monster had been insanely destructive. “Yet I must disagree. Demons do not act on their own initiative. Someone had to have sent it.”
“Well, it’s dead now.” Christopher surveyed the damage the battle had inflicted on his slate roof, which was surprisingly high. Both his blade and its claws had cut through the stone like butter, leaving the roof looking like crochet after cats had played with it. “And we made a healthy profit. Whoever sent it made a tactical error.”
“My lord,” Gregor said again, his face even whiter.
Christopher looked where the man was pointing. Maggie’s body lay smoking in the ruins, charred almost beyond recognition.
His stomach lurched but only reflexively. This was all in a day’s work for a Saint. Striding over to her corpse, he cast the revival spell.
Nothing happened.
He turned to stare at Krellyan, looking for answers. In response, Krellyan cast his own revival spell. The look on his face told Christopher it had failed.
He still had his most powerful revival, the one that required no more than a name. Brewing with anger, he chanted the long and elegant syllables. In his hand, he held enough tael to bring back the Saint a dozen times over. The list of names he knew for his wife was unambiguously precise.
Nothing happened.
Raging, he snapped out a different name. In a flash of light, his huge warhorse trotted onto the roof. He had not been able to justify the expense of tael before, but such concerns seemed wholly irrelevant now.
“I can bring my horse back. How the Dark can I bring my horse back but not my wife? How is this even possible?”
The people before him quailed, and he realized he was shouting. Let him shout, then. With the last high-ranking spell he had
for the day, he summoned the person who should have to answer. As the last syllable died, he found himself again in the plain white misty field, stretching peacefully out in infinite dimension around him. In front of him stood the god Marcius, wearing an inscrutable face.
22
CALL OF THE FALCON
His blood still pulsed with the heat of combat. Pointlessly, since this place was not real, and there was nothing here to fight. Marcius tipped his head. White-haired and yet young, handsome and muscular with sad ancient eyes, wearing chainmail that glittered like a rainbow in the imaginary sunlight, the god spoke with careful neutrality. “You must ask a question.”
“Why.” Christopher said, his voice thick and heavy.
“Because that is how the spell works.”
His jaw was clenched so hard it was hard to speak. “Why can’t I bring my wife back.”
“Ah, that. Stay your avenging hand; understand I did not know until you asked me. My gaze is not always directed upon you, though you are now my highest ranking servant. Congratulations, by the way.” Christopher glared, his lip curling.
Marcius continued, politely ignoring his ill-tempered response. “The Lord of Death, known by your people as Hordur, has personally intervened. He sent the demon, which he could only do because you had met it before. So take a care of who you greet in the future. He now holds your wife’s soul hostage on his own plane of Hel, the Underworld.”
“How do I get her back.”
Marcius quirked one eyebrow. “You don’t wish to know why he has done so?”
“I don’t care. Tell me what I have to do. And this time, be clear. No more games, no more cryptic clues, no more promises. No more deals.”
“With gods,” Marcius said by way of apology, “there are always games.”
Christopher trembled, trying to contain his fury. “I did what you asked. I killed the hjerne-spica. You have no right to jerk me around now.”
“While I can only cheer the destruction of one of those foul creatures, honesty compels me to note that I did not request such a task of you.”
“You said you had something you wanted done,” Christopher said, jabbing his finger in accusation. “You asked me for a favor.”
“I did, and I still do. Yet I cannot intervene directly. Hordur is an elder god, one of the Six. I am a mere aspect, bound by the rules. I would say I lack the authority to make demands of an elder god, but the truth is that no one has such authority.”
Christopher snarled. “I didn’t ask you to intervene. You’ve never done anything for me before, why would I think you would now?” The god had promised him help once, and when called on revealed he hadn’t actually needed any. “I asked you for information. The spell grants me a number of questions, answered truthfully to the best of your knowledge. Tell me how to rescue my wife.”
Marcius looked at him with sympathetic eyes. “You already know. You must travel to Hel and bargain for her release, as in all the stories of your childhood. Although the details will be significantly different.” Of course they would be different since he had no intention of playing any more riddling games with oracular entities. “I’m done with bargains. How do I march my army to Hel?”
“The same spell that delivered your wife will open onto any plane, with the right key. Unique of all the planes, Hel is simple to find. A corpse, freshly slain between the start and end of the chant, will suffice. I concede that for our affiliation, that is not necessarily easy to obtain, but your realm manufactures criminals the same as any other.”
“And then?” Because there had to be more.
“You will find Hel’s defenses formidable. The demon you slew is native to that realm; their numbers are countless, not to mention the lesser forms and varieties. All the armies of Heaven would contend in vain against them on their own turf; we would tremble if they chose to invade ours. Your army will vanish like a raindrop in a volcano.”
Christopher glared, and Marcius sighed. “Instead, you must travel with a small party, evade the majority of demons, and confront Hordur alone. His vanity at least makes this possible because he will want to toy with you and is incapable of feeling fear in the face of anything less than a flock of angels. Ironically, his personal avatar is perhaps the least dangerous of your obstacles, although obviously not to be disregarded. More famously, you must contend with the Mouth of Dissolution. It manifests as a floating sphere of impenetrable dark; whatever goes in does not come back out. Merely to touch it is to be destroyed beyond all magic’s ability to repair, miracles nonwithstanding. And it moves at his command.”
If the speech was intended to dissuade him, it failed. “Tell me how to defeat the Mouth.”
“You must wrest control of it from Hordur in mental combat. Obviously, no mortal can win such a contest.” Marcius hurried to the next part, sensing Christopher’s impatience with this list of impossibilities. “Less obviously, a man of legendary rank does not exactly count as a mortal. Yet you are not up to the task. No offense, but the intellectual gymnastics required are more arcane than divine.”
“So I will need to recruit an ally.”
“Recruit seems like a weak word, given that failure to win this contest inexorably results in utter dissolution. You must find an ally who has nothing left to lose.”
“I have someone in mind,” he said, thinking of Jenny.
Marcius, as always, seemed to exist merely to foil him. “One last constraint: you cannot solve this problem by throwing dragons at it. Hordur would view even a single elder wyrm as a threat worthy of hiding behind his demon horde. Your Jenny is a flock of angels all on its own.”
Christopher breathed out heavily. “So to defeat Hordur, I must first be underestimated, and second perform the impossible.”
The god smiled encouragingly. “Such describes your entire career, does it not?”
“This is bullshit,” Christopher said, shaking his head in denial. “Every part of this is a stupid setup.”
Marcius did not deny it. “There are wheels within wheels. And yet, this is not news to you. You understood the nature of the game. You shaped yourself into the role laid out for you, when you could have gone home.”
He looked at Christopher intensely, compassion and judgment mixed in equal measure. “Instead, you placed your wife on the board as a piece in the game. Are you so very like one of us now?”
Christopher raised his fist and stepped forward, angry enough to strike a god. But his hand did not fall. It was true, terribly true. On some level, he had understood that bringing Maggie over would be the next step in the drama unfolding around him. He had intuitively recognized that he could either get out of the game or play it to its conclusion. What he could not do was sit at the table for amusement.
“I’m not the only one to cross over from Earth. The next victim might have fallen for the hjerne-spica’s plot, and then they would have taken us unaware. My existence is a threat to Earth but also a chance to learn to defend ourselves. I had to try.” Voiced, his defense felt vainglorious, and yet there it was.
“You didn’t have to.”
Christopher growled. “I chose to. I chose to believe that I was a better chance than the next random person. I chose to think more of myself than a name plucked out of a phone book. Or at least, no worse.”
“We are all a product of our choices, and few of them survive rational scrutiny,” Marcius said. “That your humility drove you to the heights of arrogance is not the most surprising facet of this multisplendored world.”
“I will do it,” Christopher said. “I will shove Hordur into his own Mouth. And I don’t care what the consequences of destroying the god of death are. If you or any other gods care, then you get my wife back for me. Right now.”
“I care,” Marcius assured him. “Yet I am bound by the game as much as you. We both must play our hands as best we can and trust to luck.”
“You are a god of Luck,” Christopher said. “Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“I am,�
�� Marcius said with sad resignation, “both more and less than either of us know.” With an enigmatic frown, the god disappeared and the world of mist faded, leaving Christopher on his cold war-torn rooftop.
“What did the god say?” Krellyan asked, his brow troubled.
“Rubbish. As always.” Christopher grunted from the depths of foul temper. “Also, I’m going to Hel.”
He felt strung out, like a rope stretched too tautly between buildings, twin immovable points that nonetheless must somehow converge into a single future. The only way to relieve the tension was to move forward.
The Witch of the Moors stood before him wearing a respectful wariness. She had come quickly at his summons. He noticed that people now leapt to obey his commands with an alacrity that went beyond mere respect for the throne. He strongly suspected that they were afraid of him, but contemplating this fact did not advance his cause. So he didn’t.
“I cannot serve, my lord,” the Witch said. “My magic is arcane in nature, but I am not a wizard. It is a different approach to the same well of power, intuitive and personal rather than rational and academic.”
“That rules out elves, too,” Lalania said unhappily. “They also practice sorcery. Argeous will be no more help than our Lady.”
What he needed was a proper wizard of high rank. He used to have one, but then he had to kill him.
“You could promote your own,” the Witch suggested. She looked meaningfully at Fae, standing off to the side. As his Minister of the Arcane, the young woman was naturally involved in this discussion.
Christopher said nothing, lost in thought. This left it up to Fae to respond.
“I am not worthy.” Fae did not stammer, but it was impossible to miss the reluctance behind the words. “The Wizard of Carrhill demonstrated as much. Even with advanced rank, I will never be the equal of this task.”