His muscles felt stiff and heavy as old lead. But as he walked, they regained a portion of normal feeling, including the old pain in the area of his chest and abdomen.
He stopped again, remembering it, the pain. Yes, it was still there, the old illness that had first come upon him very gradually, it seemed, and had at last gotten so unbearable that he had sought the doctors. And the physicians of the Palace had all concluded it was a cancerous growth within him, and there was nothing much they could do. For that reason, they had promised to perform something which he had at first gravely resisted.
But the Council had insisted eventually, having voted him down, for they had all loved him so well—their young just King. . . . He was to comply, and he was to be placed in a suspended state.
They had called it Stasis. At least, that’s the term they used to describe it to him. He wouldn’t be dead, not really, they said. He would simply fall asleep, and then, be “suspended,” all of his living biological activity halted in a single moment of time, including the cancer.
And then, they told him, he would wake up in the future.
Some day, there would be physicians who would know the way to cure him, and then he would be brought around.
“But for what?” he’d said. “Who would need an ancient anachronism for a King? I would rather die like all other men, and have my body turn to dust. I care not that I am still young. It is my time, and I bow to the will of gods.”
And yet, he had cared. Even as he had spoken the words, he knew with a momentary sense of suffocation, that he was not prepared for death, not yet. Not in the prime of his life.
And yet—was this Stasis not a death in itself? There had been no guarantee, and one of the doctors had admitted it to him in secret, admitted that he might never wake again.
The vapid sun came down softly upon him, as he stood thus, thinking, remembering. . . . And it occurred to him suddenly, with a bright shock of terror, that this was the future, and he had awakened, or been awakened somehow, and yet, none of it was as he had expected, none of it was real.
For, this was not his world. It couldn’t be! What was this gray darkness? What stifling terrible filter had been placed upon his eyes like a curtain, that the only things he could see were shades of black and gray?
He stood, and brought his gloved fingers up before his eyes, staring at them, staring at the monochrome gradations of dark and light, at the impossible.
In that moment, there came a soft movement somewhere to his left, and he saw two men walking slowly—no, creeping upon the path. They were dressed unlike the others, those black ones who had just ridden by. They seemed ordinary, belonging to the City, the style of their clothing somewhat different, but not enough to stand out. They were spies.
One of the men held a short bared sword in a tight fist, and the other, looking around him constantly, walked in the front.
He was the one who turned suddenly, and glanced directly at the ancient one.
He froze. Behind him, his fellow also went motionless, and then, seeing what the other saw, his eyes widened, and his jaw dropped in shock.
They stared, both of them, stared directly at him as he stood.
They had recognized him, the form out of legend. Not so much his face, as that antique dark steel armor. They had seen it several times, when children, from a distance, under glass. And the impression had stayed with them. They would not mistake it for anything. . . .
The strange bright light that stood in small moving eddies all around him, the color aura. . . . The fact that he was only a few feet away from the Tomb—
With a stifled harsh outcry, the first one of the men jerked forward suddenly, and then began to run. He ran, heedless of the fact that somewhere just ahead was the Enemy.
The second man remained frozen for the span of several seconds, and his eyes were round and incredulous. The short bared sword had dropped from his hand and landed softly on the gravel.
The man in antique armor stepped forward then, and came closer to the terrified one.
“Oh gods! Oh gods! Who are you? Who—” the other began to mutter. “Who, in the name of the Rainbow, who are you?”
And then, came a soft voice—rusty at first, for the vocal cords have been unused for centuries:
“I . . . am your . . . King.”
And the other man fell forward on his knees, beginning to mutter senselessly about the end of the world, and bowed with his face into the gravel and the silver grass of Outer Dirvan, at the feet of Alliran Monteyn.
The Qurthe had pushed them backward, like a strong tidal force, back along the open space of the Markets, toward the Inner City.
Ranhé found herself forced together with the others, and separated from Elasand. And now she was fighting alongside several other Masters, one of which was Nilmet. In flashes she remembered his words at the inn, that he would never kill. But it was all so irrelevant now, the world turning upside down. The Philosopher stubbornly continued to hold his weapon, and his blade cut just as did hers. . . .
There was also Gilimas, the bearded man who had been the richest man in the City and now played the soldier like all the rest of them. There was the bizarre reality of Vaeste’s petite cousin, Cyanolis, a courtesan with a light sword who managed to hold her own against giant dark forms of dull steel. There were the familiar Bilhaar, among them young Ukrt and Teryr, and the wiry youth Tarateal, their cousin, who not only sliced with the tandem longswords, but wielded the arin sling at close range, bringing down the enemy soldiers with surprising accuracy. And there were a number of guildsmen she did not know, all struggling against numerous Qurthe warriors, both mounted and on foot, that had come from all sides, it seemed, like faceless terrors out of the deepest nightmare. . . .
Color had proved to be a dubious weapon. It seemed to affect the Enemy less than it invigorated the one creating the color. Thus, it was a better shield, a thing to clarify one’s senses, to keep one focused upon the battle, and to beat off the apathy.
Her sword arm ached, and her shield arm was numb, while the antiquated shield itself was battered into scraps. From overhead, the slow impotent sun had heated up the metal parts of her armor, and sweat gathered within, pouring down her body, plastering her tendrils of hair to her brow. Air came heavy in her lungs. . . .
And yet, her sword continued to burn, enveloped in yellow, and she kept her eyes focused upon its clarity, as she continued to strike all around her, no longer distinguishing separate dark riders, no longer knowing the limbs before her.
At some point, she lost track of the Guildmaster, and Vorn also had seemed to be taken elsewhere by the tide of battle. She was now somewhere on the side of the open Markets area, and Elasand was still within her sight, fighting fiercely, with no other guildsmen to protect him.
“Follow me!” she cried hoarsely, during a moment of respite, choking on her own breath, to Nilmet. “We must get closer to the Lord Vaeste! Come!”
Nilmet had a long bloody gash at the side of his cheek that ran down along his throat. And yet, he grinned at her, brandishing his sword quite clumsily, and nodded, while beating away a Qurthe rider’s blow.
It was a miracle that both of them were still alive.
She must be bleeding too, and yet she did not feel it. This was what hell must be. . . . A place where you simply could not stop to take a breath, could not stop, for that would be your end. Just keep moving, keep raising the sword arm, and strike, parry, strike, or else someone will strike you.
The Twilight One rode a great ebony beast. His armor was ornate like the night, and sun came down and disappeared in the matte dull surface of its vacuum.
Behind him, on a lesser beast, came Hestiam, dressed in bare cotton trousers and tunic, his body shackled at the waist to the girdings of his mount, while just behind him was the young boy Lissean, chained in turn to the former Regent of Tronaelend-Lis.
All around them, a sea of mounted warriors, a wall of pikes and sable shields, with no insignia upon them,
yet clearly Qurthe.
They had left the Inner Gates of the Palace and were in the Outer Gardens of Dirvan.
The world stood in a gray haze before them, with the Gardens seen through a filter of ashes.
All shapes, surreal.
No sound, except for the passage of the warbeasts, and the striking of metal joints. Overhead, the indifferent weakling sun.
The gravel path before them had become worn, uprooted, from the many tracks of beast and warrior.
A few feet to the right, Hestiam noted, lifting his dull gaze of apathy, was the familiar domed roof of the Mausoleum, where lay the last Monteyn King. And for a moment, a strange sense came to him, a sense of nostalgia, tugging at his innards, an old familiar hope, a lightness that almost managed to cast off his layer of apathy. He remembered the stories, remembered seeing the antique form under glass.
But the feeling passed, just as they had passed the Tomb, riding onward, toward the burning fragmented-mirror black surface of the Arata, and somewhere up ahead, hell. . . .
The Twilight One was riding forth to join a battle which he had already won. He—someone—had said, all will die tonight.
And Hestiam, mesmerized by his own awareness of inevitability, was making himself ready, even now.
Elasand Vaeste reined in his stallion amid fallen bodies, both Qurthe and his fellow guildsmen. He turned, saw an overwhelming black shape loom before him, obscuring the sun.
The great, scaled beast reared up on its hind legs, and atop it sat the one whose crested helmet had eluded him for some time now.
“Vorn!” cried Elasand, as his temples again picked up a beat, and there was a salty taste in his mouth. He gathered himself, and his sword blade still burned glorious steady violet.
The black Qurth came down upon him hard, and parrying him, Elasand heard a dull thud, and a cracking of bone. And then, he felt a heaviness, as the whole world seemed to tilt to the side, while his own horse collapsed beneath him.
He had enough presence of mind to roll free, so as not to be pinned down by the bulk of his own beast, and the trampling of the enemy’s giant monstrous one.
He hit the ground with a solid thud (while agony shot through him), then scrambled up, flaming sword still in hand.
There was a roaring in his mind, and a wet warmth at his left side, far below the ribs, near the waist.
Somewhere. . . .
From somewhere far, there came screams, harsh, human. And then, unbelievably, the black giant just left him, battering onward as though he was no longer of any consequence.
Elasand stood upright, staggering, leaning on his sword, in a relative clearing.
But not for long. Now that he was down, on foot, they were coming upon him from all sides, and soon he would be in the center of a singular metal and iron darkness.
Vorn struck him down effortlessly, and was about to finish the job. The one called Vaeste staggered helpless before him, his sword flame only a minor repulsing distraction, that would not matter, not now.
But in that moment, he thought he saw her.
Like a mirage, toward the back. . . .
Yes, there!
He had been watching the field of battle, hoping against all hope that she would be there, somehow, hoping that she would come to witness.
He would again glimpse her rich paleness, and then he would take her away from it, take her, and ride madly, away.
And there, somewhere toward the City army’s flanks, he thought he saw a glimpse of her, just as he was about to finish off this Vaeste.
Dropping everything, Vorn pushed onward, past all, like a battering ram, riding hard, for surely he saw her face, was not mistaken to see her.
Deileala Grelias, the former Regentrix of Tronaelend-Lis.
Yes, she would come, of all people, to watch the battle.
She was off to the side, near the lesser buildings of the Markets Square, and around her, a small number of guards. She was mounted on a gray horse, wrapped in a pale satin cloak, bare-headed, and the wind danced in her shadow-soft hair.
Even now, the sight of her convulsed him. He would never forget it, the softness, having breathed in her unique female scent, having touched her rounded resilient flesh, her undulating fierceness in the night.
He rode forward, beating the resistance soldiers away from him with the ease of insanity, his great sword crashing down upon them, closer. . . .
Soon, he could see her face, her turned head, her startled unbelieving expression.
The two guards had come forward to block his way, to protect her, but he decapitated one with a mere flick of his monstrous sword, and threw off the other, it did not matter how or where.
He was silent, breathing rapidly and harshly underneath the closed visor, but she recognized him nevertheless, recognized his great form.
With a light scream she attempted to escape, urging her small gray horse into a light helpless canter.
But he came at her, his beast pounding, moving up alongside her, and then, reached forward with the other great gauntlet, bent down and forward, and took hold of her waist. . . .
She was pulled from her own running mount and was crushed against blood-splattered wicked iron armor, against black leather bindings, and underneath it all, against a single pounding male heart. . . .
She struggled, like a wild animal, against his grip of iron. But she was his now, his prize, as the Twilight One had long promised him. Nothing would take her away, nothing.
Vorn lifted the visor of his helmet, and she looked up in that instant, meeting the gaze of his deep midnight eyes, without a flicker of life, of meaning, only intensity.
She ceased her struggle, froze, watching those demon eyes, the sweat-slicked dark skin, inches away, as he stared at her.
Then, he brought his face forward, pressed his dark warm lips upon hers. And she was swooning suddenly, while a sensual pang came rushing through her, remembering what had come to pass, once, upon satin sheets, in the dark. . . .
His beast continued to pound forward, aimlessly now. She was locked in his steel embrace, and her thoughts turned like a carousel inside her mind, the possibilities rushing by. . . . All need for fulfillment, all regret, confusion, terror, instinct, pity—all fought for supremacy within her.
While, at the same time, her right hand fumbled with the small thing at her waist, hidden away and sharp, that she had concealed for a moment such as this, a moment where she might have to fight her own self, her own doubt.
How sweet was this strange demon’s embrace. Unlike any she ever had, all-encompassing, and deep like the earth itself. So intoxicating and inevitable, that she involuntarily brought her hands up and around his neck, from behind, meanwhile drinking the ecstatic male breath from his lips, and her fingers insinuated into his tight curling locks of hair, holding him tight to her, close and tight, for the last time. . . .
She tasted him thus, as she plunged the small, sharp, deadly instrument, a tiny woman’s dagger, into the small of his neck, right below the skull, where he was bare of leather bindings, or helmet, where he would never have been touched otherwise, except by an intimate embrace.
She could feel his instant of tensing, the pause. His lips came away from her, and his eyes met hers with a look that did not accuse, but watched for an instant, unbelieving.
Then, blood gurgled at the corner of his mouth, blood that was black and human.
He sighed, like a demon child, and then released her. And with her, released his hold on the reins, slumping forward suddenly. The momentum of the mount rocked him backward, so he fell prone to the ground.
Somehow, she remained seated in the saddle atop his beast, while for several feet, Vorn’s body was dragged against the ground. Then, regaining control of her mind, she took the reins feverishly, and kicked forward, so that his body was freed of the stirrup and bindings. And as he fell away at last, she put the knuckles of her left hand to her mouth, and bit them, and then began to sob, wildly, horribly, as she had never wept befo
re.
“Bitch! Damn you . . .” she gasped between wrenching sobs.
The Regentrix wept, because she had killed her demon lover, her Enemy, her very need, her personal obsession. But even more so, she wept because she was now truly free, at last.
Elasand had taken hold of a Qurthe battlesword with both hands, in a deadly grip. He had lost his shield some time ago, broken the slender blade of his longsword, and grabbed a dead man’s weapon that was closest to him.
His side was bleeding profusely, and he could already feel the languid stupor that was gathering, and soon would overwhelm him. And yet, he had to continue to stand, because two more enemy riders were bearing down on him.
“My lord!”
He swung around, disoriented, squinting his eyes, and saw Ranhé riding toward him from the other direction, and behind her, several others of the Light Guild.
“Hold on, only for a little longer, my lord!”
And then she was at his side, reining in her mount sharply, splattered with blood, but seemingly unhurt, while her own sword continued to burn a garish brilliant yellow.
“I am surprised—at you—Ranhé—” he stuttered, looking up at her, breath catching in his throat. “That you still would fight for me.”
“What else would I do?” she exclaimed angrily then, for the first time raising her voice at him.
“But you are loyal to no one, you said—you said so to me once—you said—” He was raving, in delirium.
“My lord, you are a rare fool! Is this any time to discuss loyalty? Watch out behind you!”
And as she spoke, he turned and then simultaneously ignited the Qurthe blade with violet brilliance—the sight of which managed to clear his mind just a little—and brought it up in a parry, to counter a blow from one of the dark warriors that had come upon him.
Ranhé immediately moved in to intercept, at the same time telling him to fall back, and she engaged the enemy soldier.
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