Touched by the Gods

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Granzer let out a bitter bark of laughter. “I suspect you're right,” he said. He turned and looked openly out at the long lines marching eastward.

  Those were the people who would really save the Empire, he thought. He and the other Councillors might concern themselves with ensuring that the best available Emperor took the throne, but it was Lord Kadan and his soldiers who would ensure that the throne still stood.

  He frowned.

  Were they really ensuring anything? What if Graubris refused to accept the Council's decision? What if the Council were to split, eight to eight? The law called for the Empress to act as a tiebreaker – but there would be no Empress. Could they count her expressed preference for Graubris as her vote?

  Could he and Passeil and the rest be driving the Empire toward civil war? Would they defeat the Nazakri, only to destroy themselves?

  Would they defeat the Nazakri at all? Was he doing the right thing, sending Kadan eastward and leaving Seidabar almost unguarded?

  He looked up, as if seeking a sign in the heavens, and saw one moon hanging high in the sky above, dominating the view – Ba'el, clearly visible even by daylight. The sun was in the east, and Ba'el showed only a red crescent, like a bloody grin.

  Granzer shuddered and turned away.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  The bridge was ready. The magicians had arranged it and weighted it so that an inch or so of water flowed across it, making any attempt to burn it useless – at least, any attempt to destroy it with natural, everyday fire; no one knew what the ghastly red stuff used by Rebiri Nazakri could do.

  Most of the New Magicians had collapsed, their power spent; the last few had had to swim ashore while rebel arrows splashed around them, as their companions could no longer spare the energy to assist them. Only Vrai Burrai and Tebas Tudan still flew, and they did so only intermittently as they hurried back and forth along the bridge, checking the seams.

  “Need we wait any longer?” Malledd asked, as he stood on the brink, at the head of the disorderly column of Imperial troops. Having come this far he was eager to get it all over with, one way or the other, and with the sun sinking in the west, every moment was precious.

  “No,” Lord Duzon said from astride his charger – the last horse left to them, as the others had all fallen during the night's fighting. He rose up in the stirrups and shouted, “For our Empress, for the gods, for the Domdur, and for our dead, forward!” He shook the reins and kicked his heels, urging his mount out onto the bridge.

  Malledd ran at the horse's left side; to the right came Kodeida and Manenobar, the last two members of the Company of Champions besides Duzon himself. Behind these four ran Onnell, Darsmit, Kiudegar, and the rest of the surviving Imperial vanguard, splashing onto the wooden causeway.

  They charged across the bridge, gathering speed, sweeping past the startled Tebas Tudan and the unsurprised Vrai Burrai, and plunged off the eastern end into knee-deep water; they didn't hesitate there, but continued up the bank to smash headlong into their waiting enemies.

  There was no possibility of subtlety or surprise in this assault; the bridge had made their intent obvious from the first, and the rebels had had hours to prepare. Surprisingly, they had done little – the Imperials were not met with pikes, nor locked shields, nor any barriers other than men with raised weapons.

  Even as Malledd ran forward, and as little as he knew of warfare, he marveled at this – shouldn't they have dug ditches, thrown up earthworks, set traps? They hadn't; he knew that, as the Domdur had watched from across the river and would have seen any such activity.

  Nor did the wizard himself confront them; he was nowhere in sight.

  “Break through them!” Duzon shouted, his sword raised; his mount's greater speed had carried him ahead of the others. “Get the nightwalkers!” He suited his own actions to his words, sending his horse trampling over the enemy, slashing at anyone in reach.

  Malledd let out a wordless bellow of approval and swung his own sword at the nearest foe. The rebel ducked, screaming, then tried to turn and flee but collided with his neighbor, sending them both sprawling.

  These weren't the grinning, mocking nightwalkers, unafraid of death; these were mortal men they faced now, men who had watched the nightly battles for triad after triad but who had never had to fight in them. Seasons of battle had hardened the Domdur troops into ruthless veterans, while those same seasons spent in inaction had left the rebels a disorganized, cowardly mob. Many shrieked and ran the first time a hostile weapon came near.

  Malledd slashed at the legs of both downed rebels, leaving them helpless and bleeding but still alive, then looked up just in time to see Duzon and his mount vanish.

  Malledd blinked in confusion; where had Lord Duzon gone? He hurried forward, heedless of his own safety, trying to see what had become of the horseman.

  “Look out!” Manenobar shouted, and Malledd turned to fend off a wild, reckless blow from a plump Matuan who was already panting with exertion. The two men locked swords, and for a moment Malledd stared into the rebel's face and saw anger, terror, and sweat.

  Then, swords still locked, he punched the Matuan in the nose with his free left hand. The Matuan crumpled, and his sword clattered to the ground.

  Malledd turned his attention eastward again and pushed his way forward, through the rebels, trying to find Duzon, trying to get through the rebel lines so as to get at the inert nightwalkers.

  Then he was clear of the press, nothing but open space before him – and the ground crumbled beneath him. He tumbled forward, into darkness, and landed hard on rough ground.

  He remained alert, though, and scrambled quickly to his feet. He was in a hole, facing a tunnel.

  “Malledd,” someone said.

  Malled turned, and found Lord Duzon standing beside him in the mouth of another tunnel, holding the charger's bridle.

  “They've mined all through here,” Duzon said. “It's a maze – there must be at least a dozen tunnels!”

  Malledd looked up, at the gray sky far above; the sounds of battle were still audible, but muffled. The surface of the ground was a good four feet above his head; a hole had been dug in the tunnel ceiling, not quite all the way up into the open air, and his own weight had broken in the last thin layer of soil.

  There had been traps after all. Malledd didn't know when they had been prepared, but they had been here, ready and waiting.

  “We have to get out of here,” he said.

  Just then someone shrieked, and light appeared in one of the tunnels – another booby-trap had been triggered, another thinned roof had collapsed beneath someone.

  “How did they dig these without our seeing anything?” Duzon asked of no one in particular.

  “We did see them,” Malledd said, suddenly realizing. “The pit they kept digging in, the pit where the Nazakri dug up whatever it is he uses to make nightwalkers. They tunneled out from the pit!”

  “You're right,” Duzon said. He turned. “That's our way out.”

  Another soldier broke through and tumbled into the tunnels in a rush and roar of earth, a second man falling on his heels. Duzon's horse whinnied in fear.

  “We have to find a way to the pit,” Duzon said. “We can climb out there.”

  “Right,” Malledd said. He looked around, trying to orient himself; the slant of the light from the openings overhead told him which way was east and which west. “That way,” he said, pointing in the direction he judged to lead toward the great open pit at the heart of the rebel camp.

  Another hole opened, and someone cried out in surprise – a cry that was abruptly cut off by impact with the hard-trodden tunnel floor. A voice groaned in pain.

  “I'll help them,” Malledd said. “You go find the pit. Show yourself, rally our troops.”

  “Yes, of course,” Duzon said. He hurried down the passage Malledd had pointed to, pulling his protesting mount after him.

  Malledd turned to gather the others, and tend to any who had been injured in the f
all. Fortunately, the daylight served to spotlight each of them; he need merely go to each illuminated place in turn and find who was there.

  At the first he found two men, one down with a twisted ankle and the other guarding his fallen companion. Malledd asked, “Can you walk?”

  “Limp, maybe,” the man on the ground replied. “I can't fight.”

  Malledd frowned. “These tunnels open off the big pit in the center of the enemy camp,” he explained. He pointed. “The pit's that way, and you can climb out there – but you might need to fight, I don't know.”

  “We'll try it,” his companion said, glancing uneasily at the darkness of the tunnels behind them. “We don't know what surprises they might have for us down here.”

  Malledd hadn't really given that much thought – if there had been enemies waiting down here, he thought they would have already attacked by now.

  Another scream sounded amid a rush of falling earth; Malledd had lost count of how many people had been caught in these pitfalls.

  So far, though, all had survived the experience, and most weren't even injured beyond a few bruises and scrapes. Surely the enemy hadn't expected the Imperial troops to be killed by so short a drop. Perhaps they did have soldiers, or monsters of some sort, or some other dire menace, waiting to see how many would fall into their trap before they attacked.

  Or perhaps the enemy's soldiers were waiting at the pit, perhaps with archers posted around the rim.

  Or perhaps the tunnels had been dug for some other purpose entirely, and converted to traps at the last moment – the nightwalkers were said to draw their power from beneath the earth, and that was generally believed to be why the Nazakri had dug a pit in the first place. Maybe the tunnels had been where the nightwalkers renewed their strength.

  There was no way of knowing, however, either why the tunnels had been dug or what might be lurking in them, and heading for the open pit seemed the safest course of action.

  “Be careful,” Malledd said, before moving off toward the next fallen ally.

  He had directed four more toward the pit and Lord Duzon, and was heading for another, when he heard the dry, hideous laugh from the darkness of a tunnel. Malledd froze, sword raised.

  “Go ahead,” a rasping voice said. “Get them back above ground if you like. The sun's going down, Domdur, and when it's gone we'll have them all.”

  “Oh, no, you won't,” Malledd replied. “We'll have you.”

  The nightwalker's only reply was another long laugh, this one fading as if the creature was retreating deeper into the subterranean maze. Malledd considered pursuit, then discarded the idea – nightwalkers could see in the dark, he was fairly sure, and he had no way of knowing how many of the foul things might be lurking there in the dark, or what traps they might have set.

  Besides, the nightwalker had a point – sunset was approaching all too rapidly, and he had to get as many of the Domdur soldiers out as he could before night fell.

  More seemed to be falling as fast as he could reach them; at one point a long stretch of ceiling crumbled all at once, dumping more than a dozen combatants from both sides into the tunnels. The rebels seemed as surprised as the Domdur, and with Malledd rallying them the Imperial troops were able to make short work of their foe.

  “How goes it above?” Malledd asked one of the victors, as he wiped blood from his axe – fresh human blood, Malledd noted uneasily, not the half-clotted ichor of a nightwalker.

  “They fight like children,” the soldier replied contemptuously. “Much shouting and posturing, but half of them flee at the first blow, and the rest flail about wildly, with no skill at all. After the nightwalkers, these people are nothing!”

  “Then we've taken most of the camp?”

  The man hesitated. “No,” he admitted. “We've held back, for fear of traps. We saw our people disappearing, and didn't know what had become of them. We've cleared everything between the river and the first holes, but dared not advance further.”

  “But the sun's setting!”

  “I know,” the soldier said unhappily.

  Malledd looked up at the sky overhead; the tunnel they were in had become more of a trench, thanks to the collapse of so much of its roof. “Here, let me boost you up there,” he said. “Tell our people to press on, that the traps aren't dangerous!”

  The man nodded. Malledd knelt, and the other clambered up his back until Malledd could grab his ankles and hoist him upward. When the man's arms reached the rim of the opening, Malledd shifted his grip and shoved him farther up, so that he sprawled out onto the ground.

  Then he clambered to his feet and ran off; Malledd could hear his voice as he shouted encouragement to the others.

  “It's not dangerous down here?” another of the Domdur troops asked.

  “Not if you stay in the light,” Malledd said. “There are nightwalkers in the darkest places - - I don't know how many, but at least one or two. The pit in the center of the camp is that way – Lord Duzon was trying to find a way out there.”

  Just then a great shout sounded above them; Malledd and the others looked up, startled.

  “Duzon!” someone above them called. “It's Lord Duzon! The champion!”

  “It would seem he's found one,” Malledd said, smiling broadly. “Come on!”

  Together, the little band headed into the tunnels in the direction Duzon had taken. Malledd took the lead, sword held ready.

  The path led them into utter darkness for a hundred feet or so, as they felt their way through turning, twisting tunnels that seemed to be designed to shut out the light – as, Malledd realized, they undoubtedly were, since it was sunlight that immobilized nightwalkers. Then a faint glimmer appeared ahead, and moments later they emerged into the open pit.

  The sounds of battle crashed down on them as they stepped out into open air; the rebels and the Domdur were fighting along the rim of the pit. Malledd glimpsed Duzon's horse rearing, and an arrow flying near it, and that was all he needed.

  “This way!” he shouted, charging up the crumbling slope to Duzon's aid.

  The others followed him, bellowing war-cries. Malledd heard bowstrings twang, heard a yelp, saw a flash of blood-red – and then he was too busy hacking at the unguarded side of someone in rotted Greyan robes to pay any further attention.

  As the soldier in the fallen tunnel had said, these rebels were not veterans, not nightwalkers; they were, in fact, no match for the battle-hardened Domdur, and the major factor slowing their retreat from the Imperial assault was their own clumsiness and confusion. Everywhere that the Imperial vanguard managed to form a line and advance without tumbling into the tunnels beneath, they made steady progress, driving the rebels back or scattering them completely.

  Malledd took a fierce, unreasoning delight in this, but as the western sky turned from blue to red and daylight began to fade a sliver of worry drove itself into his heart.

  Where was the black wizard? And would there be time to behead the nightwalkers?

  He shoved aside a man who had fallen against him, blinked ashes from his eyes, and looked about.

  Domdur soldiers were at work among the stacked corpses, chopping through throat after throat with axe and sword – but there were so many!

  And where was the wizard?

  Then a flash of light drew his attention – just minutes earlier he might have missed it, but as the sky darkened it stood out more. He turned, pushed aside a dazed Imperial soldier, and peered across a great expanse of bodies at the remains of the black pavilion that had served as Rebiri Nazakri's headquarters.

  There amid the fluttering tatters was the Nazakri, standing atop a smoking mound of rubble, surrounded by the New Magicians. Bolts of golden fire were being flung at him from every side – but they were feeble things, weakened by the magicians' earlier efforts in creating the bridge and striking aside lesser foes, and drawing on reserves that had been kept low by the heavy smoke of the camp's destruction.

  The Olnamian wizard's staff absorbed each bur
st, countering it with a smothering darkness from the smoking crystal at the raised end; the Nazakri seemed untroubled by the assault, though his expression was calmly intent. Both sides fought in determined silence, without war-cries or shouted bravado.

  An Imperial soldier – not a magician of any sort, but an ordinary swordsman in Imperial red – was creeping up behind the Olnamian; Malledd glimpsed him briefly. He clearly intended to take Rebiri Nazakri from behind.

  Then the wizard turned, ever so slightly, though Malledd had no idea how he had known the skulking foeman was there; red fire lashed out from the glowing end of the staff, and the would-be assassin screamed in agony, a scream clearly audible over the roar of battle despite the distance. He fell back out of Malledd's sight; the smith only had a glimpse of a blackened, smoking ruin where the man's face had been.

  Clearly, it would take magic to defeat the wizard's own dark magic. The New Magicians would have to handle him, and Malledd prayed that they could.

  The ordinary soldiers, though, and the nightwalkers – those could be defeated by more ordinary means. Malledd turned his attention elsewhere, spotted a cluster of terrified rebels trying to rally, and charged toward them, bellowing and swinging his sword above his head.

  They scattered.

  Moments later, as he looked around for new foes, Malledd realized that he could find none – fading shadows stretched across the bloody ruins of the camp, the gathering dusk bleached out much of the color, and smoke and sweat had dimmed his eyes, making it hard to be sure what he was looking at, but it was clear that all armed resistance had collapsed. The wizard was still holding off the New Magicians, and only a tiny fraction of the nightwalkers had been disposed of, but the living rebels the Olnami warlord had recruited were now in full flight, eastward across the plains.

  The battle was won.

  Malledd smiled triumphantly – but an instant later the smile vanished as a tiny movement caught his eye. He turned and stared.

  He hadn't imagined it. A dozen feet away a corpse was beginning to twitch.

  Malledd whirled and stared at the western horizon. The sun was gone; the afterglow was already starting to fade.