by Dragonlance
“No!”
The Master turned to look. Shedara did too, and caught her breath. Somehow, miraculously, Eldako was back on his feet, even running now, the threads of the protective spell sparking around him, unraveling fast. The Master pointed, a ray of gray light lancing from his finger.
It hit Eldako full on. His breastplate shattered, his sword crumbling in his hand. But the protective spell held, and though he staggered a little, he kept on coming. The Master rose, stepping back from Forlo, fear in his eyes. Above, Maladar watched, uncaring, as the greatest of his disciples sought to flee.
But there was nowhere to go. Eldako hit the Master hard, knocking the wind out of his body, then grabbing him around the waist and hurtling onward, past the altar, past them all.
Shedara gasped, tears leaping to her eyes. She knew what was about to happen … but the webs still held her fast. She couldn’t move. “No!” she shouted.
Yelling a wild merkitsa war cry, still clutching the panicking Master, Eldako leaped off the rooftop.
Chapter
34
AKH-TAZI, NERON
Forlo saw what Eldako did, as if from a deep hole in the earth. The wild elf charged across the temple, scooping up the Master as he ran. His whole body still riddled with pain from the spell the leader of the Faceless had cast on him, Forlo managed to push himself up onto his elbows and open his mouth in a wordless shout as the two hurtled off the edge the roof. Shedara yanked an arm free of her webs and extended it toward Eldako and shouted spidery words, a spell that could save his life, the magic she’d used at Coldhope, what seemed like years ago.
But it was too late. A heartbeat later, he was gone.
The Master bellowed as he fell. There was a terrible, final sound—a thud, a crunch. Then all was silent. Shedara stared, wide eyed, her hand still pointing as the spell died on her lips. Truly, this time, the merkitsa was dead—but the last of the Faceless Brethren had perished with him.
Forlo groaned, shuddering, and began to push himself back to his feet. Across the rooftop, he saw Hult doing the same. The Uigan’s face was pale, his mouth hanging open. Forlo wiped blood from his mouth and nose, staggered to where his sword lay, bent to pick it up, lurched back upright and turned to face the altar.
The boy—too old to be his son, but with a pang Forlo noted the resemblance—stood over Essana. A long, wickedly curving dagger gleamed in his hand, reflecting both the black light of Nuvis and the ghostly glow from above. Hanging over them all, the specter of Maladar stared down, his ruined face inscrutable.
The Faceless Emperor glared at them, at him, in silence. Then, instead of fury, he began to laugh. Magic flashed from his eyes, and Forlo went down again, his sword clattering from his hand. The pain returned, as strong as before. It turned his blood to liquid fire, made frost of his flesh, filled his mind with white lightning. His back arched, his fingers clutching like claws at the sky.
“You think you have won,” the ghost said, its voice seeming to rise from the roots of Akh-tazi. “You have gained nothing. The Brethren served their purpose. Now the Taker will serve his.”
Forlo’s eyes flicked to the boy—no, he corrected himself, a young man, older-seeming than Hult. His son gazed up at Maladar, eyes shining with purpose, fanaticism, adoration. He lifted the knife, pressed its edge to his lips, then drew it sharply down against himself, splitting flesh. Blood poured down his chin, increasing as he smiled, tearing the wounds open even more.
“An offering for thee, Sleeper,” he declared. He raised the blade, turning to salute the Hooded One, then looked back down at the body on the altar, the flesh that had carried him, given him birth.
“Hult!” called Shedara. “Come here. Cut me loose. Quickly!”
Forlo saw her in the corner of his vision: halfway out of the magical cocoon, the strands of webbing crumbling as she writhed against them. Hult raced to her, swung his sword, and clove it open. Together they managed to haul her out—then both turned to face Maladar. He hovered before them, eyes ablaze with blue flame, and spoke a word that sounded like the buzzing of ten thousand wasps.
The ground shook, leaped, fell, and both Shedara and Hult slammed down, the wind knocked out of them. Hult’s sword skipped away. The rooftop beneath them cracked, and hands of black stone burst out, grabbing them by ankle and wrist. The obsidian’s sharp edges sliced into their flesh, and blood flowed.
“Stupid elf,” Maladar said. “You may have awoken me, but you cannot defeat me now. Nuvis fuels my strength!”
“Nuvis fuels our strength,” echoed Forlo’s son.
Essana wept uncontrollably, her eyes dark with despair. She looked up at the young man with the dagger and shook her head, just slightly. She had no more strength than that. The Faceless had wrecked her.
Forlo glared up at Maladar, towering over him, strips of flesh hanging from what had been his face, and felt neither awe nor fear. Only loathing.
“I will kill you,” Hult shouted behind him. “By Jijin and all my ancestors, when this is done, you will be dead by my hand!”
The dead emperor laughed again. “You will never rise from where you lie, Uigan. You will join your Boyla in the Abyss.”
“The moon,” groaned Shedara. “The black moon.…”
Forlo saw. It had reached its zenith, its power pouring down upon the world. He wondered what people in other lands must be thinking now, confronted with such an awful sight. Or could they see it at all? Were they far enough from Maladar’s power that the night sky looked normal to them? Were they sleeping soundly in the League and on the Tamire, unaware of what was about to happen? He ground his teeth, trying to fight, but every movement brought fresh agony.
“You gods-damned caitiff,” he panted. “You fatherless troll-get.…”
Maladar paid him no mind. He turned his back, facing the Hooded One. The strands of magic that bound him to it glowed brightly, throwing off arcs of white energy. The statue seemed to swell, bulging as the wards that held him to it began to weaken.
“By blood was I bound,” said the specter. “By blood I shall be loosed.”
“By blood,” spoke the Taker, holding the dagger poised, gripped in both hands. “So shall it be.”
No.
The magic that held him didn’t weaken, not in the slightest. Even breathing hurt horribly. But as the blade rose above Essana, Forlo found hidden strength, a well he’d never tapped before. He thrust the agony aside, sat up, rose to his feet. Blood filled his mouth. It poured from his nose. He could even feel it trickling warmly from his ears. Maladar’s spell was slowly killing him.
Starlight, he thought, I’m coming.
The world shrank around him—jungle, temple, his friends all vanished. Even Maladar disappeared. All that remained were the altar, his wife, and the monster that was his son. He staggered forward, leaving his sword where it lay. He’d forgotten he even had a sword; he didn’t even know the word sword.
Behind him, he heard voices yelling, a man and a woman shouting a name. Forlo. He wondered who that was. Every step was a shuddering ordeal, but he kept going. Kept … going. Kept. Going.
“Come forth, O highest, lord of all lands beneath the sun,” intoned his son. He didn’t look up, his attention focused on Essana alone. “Let thy wrath be kindled anew. Let thy vengeance cleanse the paltry empires that have arisen in thy absence. Let the people know, by their suffering, of how thou wert wronged. Come forth, and reign over the world, supreme and forever.”
The dagger came down.
Forlo was still three paces away. He roared and hurled himself forward, flinging himself on top of his wife. The blade struck flesh, ground against bone.
The pain went away.
Hult stared, horrified. Forlo lay still atop the altar. The Taker gaped at him, flabbergasted, then stumbled back. The dagger was lodged deep in Forlo’s back.
No. First Eldako; now this. Jijin, he thought, it isn’t supposed to be this way. It is too much! Beside him, Shedara made a heartbroken sound.
/>
Then something started to happen. Blackness bloomed up from the altar, enveloped the statue. The silvery bonds that led to the ghost darkened, became oily, cancerous.
“What?” Maladar asked, stunned. He flung up a hand, trying to reach the Hooded One, to stop whatever had begun deep within the stone. “NO!”
Too late, Hult thought. A wild and vicious joy leapt within him. Too late!
The statue burst.
It didn’t shatter, crumble, or explode: it bulged, then split open like an over-filled waterskin, the stone peeling aside to reveal a core of blazing, violet light. Hult squinted, throwing up an arm to shield his eyes as the magic that had kept Maladar trapped inside for a thousand years flared bright, then poured out in a silent wave. It washed over Forlo and Essana and their son, then struck Hult and Shedara. He expected it to be burning hot, but instead it was freezing, colder even than the storms of Panak. It sent him staggering back as it blew past, moving on out over the jungle, stirring the leaves of the trees, leaving them brown and frost-rimed in its wake. When he turned to look at the Hooded One again, only a stub of black rock remained, greasy smoke curling upward from its cracked, pockmarked surface.
“The magic,” Shedara breathed. “It’s gone.”
Hult nodded. Even he could feel it. Maladar had vanished as well, the moment the wave touched him. He hadn’t even had time to scream—he had simply disappeared.
“Is that it?” he whispered. “Is it done?”
Shedara looked around, frowning. “I don’t sense him,” she said. “But … well … do you think it could be that easy?”
“No,” Hult said, and pushed against the obsidian hands that held him. They cracked apart, their own enchantments broken. Shedara did the same, and in a moment they were both on their feet, swords in hand, turning to face the altar.
Forlo lay there, motionless, sprawled on top of his wife. The boy had stepped back, eyes wide and mouth open. The knife was still in Forlo’s back.
Forlo had his victory, had rescued the one thing he held dear in this world.
But the cost … oh, the cost.
A tear spilled down Hult’s cheek as he and Shedara walked toward the altar. Essana had lost consciousness. She might be dead, but Hult didn’t think so. Even the gods couldn’t be so cruel, could they? And then there was the son … the young man with blood on his hands, now staring as if he didn’t know how it got there.
Hult raised his sword, pointed it at the one who had called himself the Taker. “I should kill you where you stand,” he said, his voice shaking with rage. “You have murdered your own father. There is no greater crime than kin-slaying.”
“I … I didn’t mean to,” said the boy. “He got in the way.”
“Of your attempt to sacrifice your mother!” Hult shot back, moving forward. The young man stepped back, tripped over the hem of his robes, fell. Hult moved in quickly, laying the edge of his blade against the Taker’s throat. “I say it again—you are a dog. If I struck off your head now, no man would call it unjust.”
He paused, turning the blade. The fear in the boy’s eyes ran deep as the flesh of his neck creased. A thin trickle of blood ran down the sword’s edge. Then Hult turned his head, spat on the Hooded One’s remains, and lifted the weapon away.
“But not now,” he said. He pointed his maimed hand at the boy. “Do not rise. Do not move. Speak no word until I tell you. Do you understand?”
Confused, frightened, the boy nodded. He is only a babe, Hult thought, without the poison the Brethren poured in his ears, without Maladar to goad him.
“He’s breathing,” said Shedara.
He turned, looking toward her. She was bent over Forlo, one hand on his throat, bending low to put her ear by his mouth. “His life-beat,” she said. “It’s … still strong. He has a knife jammed in his lung, but he sounds completely healthy.…”
Hult felt something, then … a low thrumming, like the beating of a heart. The sound came from above. He looked up and felt cold all over. Nuvis hadn’t retreated with the Hooded One destroyed; it was as huge as ever … maybe even larger, its gangrenous light shining brighter than before. Scalp prickling, he grabbed Shedara’s arm and pulled. She resisted, giving him an incredulous look.
“What are you doing?”
“The moon!” he shouted, pointing with his chin. “Maladar isn’t gone at all! Get back now!”
She glanced up, turning pale. Beside her, Forlo stirred. Shedara let out a startled yell, then jumped back, a throwing knife dropping into her hand. Hult’s sword came up, quivering.
“No,” Shedara gasped. “Oh, no …”
Groaning, Forlo rolled over, then sat up. His eyes were dark, bleary, like a man who’d just woken from a deep sleep. The being who looked out of them, however, was no longer Forlo. Hult recognized the cruelty in that gaze, the inhumanity, the evil.
A cold, reptilian smile spread across Forlo’s face. “Yes,” he said, and the voice was Maladar’s. “You know what has happened here. The wards are broken. I am free. And I have a body … not the one I intended, but a body just the same. And your grief fuels my strength, as I had hoped his might.”
He reached back, clawed at the dagger’s hilt, yanked it free. No blood spilled from the wound, nor was there any on the blade as he dropped it at his feet.
“You have won nothing,” said Maladar with malicious glee. He stepped away from the altar, from Essana lying there, mercifully unconscious. “The Brethren’s purpose is fulfilled. This day, my reign begins anew.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Shedara said, and threw her dagger.
The man who had been Forlo held up a finger. The blade burst into flame, then burned in midair like it was made of paper, until it was no more than a cloud of white ash.
“You don’t,” he said, sweeping the air with his hand.
Shedara reeled as if he’d punched her, stumbling back, then crashing to the ground. Her head smacked against the stone, and she lay still.
Anger boiled inside Hult. The tip of his sword rose another inch—then it, too, caught fire and burned away to nothing, leaving his hand dark with soot. He clenched his fists, glowering at the thing that dwelt inside his friend’s flesh.
“Oh, how boring,” said Maladar, and waved his hand again.
It was like a hammer had struck him. The world spun around Hult, full of exploding stars. He sat down, hard. Maladar looked down on him, still smiling.
“I would kill you,” he said, “but there are fates crueler than death. Live, Hult, son of Holar. You could not save Chovuk Boyla, and you could not save Forlo of Coldhope. Live, knowing your ancestors have turned their backs on you.”
Hult could only sit there, dazed, while Forlo-Maladar shut his eyes and raised high his hands. Flames poured down from them, red and gold, washing over his body. He laughed and laughed, a sound that knew nothing of mirth. There was a flare of light as the fire consumed him … then he was gone, and all was dark.
Hult looked up. The black moon had receded again, invisible in the night sky. Burying his face in his hands, he lay back on the temple roof.
Chapter
35
AKH-TAZI, NERON
They buried Eldako, son of Tho-ket, in the rich, dark earth of the jungle, not far from where he’d died. The cha’asii sang over his grave, a rhythmic tune accompanied by a stomping dance, a warrior’s chant. They struck arrows against their bowstrings, the soft thrumming sending the merkitsa to his rest.
When the song was done, Hult came forward. His face looked less alive than the stone visages looming out of the trees. In his hands he held a single arrow, cracked in the middle and caked with blood—the same shaft that had slain the Speaker.
“I feared elves, once,” Hult said. “My people and his did not know each other, and the elders told terrible tales of those who dwelt in the Dreaming Green. When I went there with my master, I thought it a land of ghosts and demons. I did not expect to leave the place alive. The last thing I exp
ected to find there was a friend.
“Eldako saved my life many times. I cannot count them now, with the grief so near. We were sword-brothers, he and I, both missing our homes but bound to this quest. Now, for him, the tale is done. If there is any justice in this world, if Jijin and the elven gods truly are kind, I will live to bring word of him back to the Tamire and the Green, so his people and mine may both sing of his bravery.”
He held up the arrow. His hands trembled.
“Eldako was many things—a warrior, a healer, a prince—but of them all he was proudest of his bow-craft. There was no better archer in all the Tamire—perhaps all of Taladas. This was the last arrow he ever loosed. A killing shot. With it, and with his own life, he slew two of the last three of the Faceless. He did all he could to give us victory … and if we have failed, it is not—” He stopped, his voice cracking. “It … was not his fault.”
He raised the arrow to his lips, kissed the fletching, then thrust it down, point-first, into the wild elf’s grave.
“Farewell, my brother,” he said. “There is good hunting where you are now.”
As he moved away from the grave, Shedara came forward to take his place. She wept openly, making no effort to hide her sorrow, her mouth an ugly grimace.
“I bear no gifts,” she said. “I make no speeches. I’m not going to stand here, bawling over his grave either. He wouldn’t have approved.”
Hult chuckled, nodding. Shedara glanced at him, then turned to look back at the grave.
“I loved Eldako. Our love was late in coming … too late. I only knew myself when I thought him lost, on the shores of this land. It was a gift that I could spend time with him after that, even crippled as he was. For those few days I loved him openly, and he loved me. I haven’t known that sort of love before. I don’t think … I don’t think I will again.”