Touched by the Gods

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “So the city's defenders have not all fled in terror,” the Olnami said, smiling. He lifted his staff, then paused.

  Not the fire; he needed that for the gates and the city within the gates. He needed that to bring down the tower where the foul Beretris dwelt, and to shatter the dome of that temple that had been dedicated to the gods who had favored the Domdur over the Olnami.

  But the blackness, the dark spirits...

  He had intended to unleash it all upon the city. The unalloyed blackness did not destroy directly, did not smash, but a person touched by it was touched by sudden terror, by fear and hatred, by sudden irrational rage or momentary blindness. Rebiri had used that to good purpose back in Matua; on the plains he had relied instead on the nightwalkers, creatures that resulted from allowing the darkness to possess a soulless body.

  So many nightwalkers had been destroyed on the way west that the crystal's structure was straining. If he were to unleash just a small part of that darkness, relieve the pressure on the crystal, this poor fool who dared to block the way would surely be reduced to helplessness. The nightwalkers could then butcher him at their leisure.

  Smiling, Rebiri pointed the black crystal and let the energy flow.

  The sudden shift in stress was too much for the already-dangerously-strained structure; the crystal shattered spectacularly, and rather than a small portion, all the tangible darkness billowed forth in a great wave, sweeping up the ramp.

  It washed over Malledd, and he shivered.

  Coldness dug a thousand tiny, sharp fingers into him; horrific images played out before him in fractions of a second. For an instant he knew that his children were dead, that Anva had betrayed him and slaughtered them so that she could run away with another man, that she had secretly schemed to send him here, to this slow ghastly death facing this all-powerful wizard. He knew that Vadeviya was sitting comfortably at an inn somewhere, laughing uproariously at how easily he had convinced that poor fool of a blacksmith to play the part of the divine champion. He knew that Lord Duzon was a traitor planning to usurp the throne, using Malledd in his intrigues against the Empress. All the world was darkness and doom, greed and hatred and treachery, and only he, poor innocent trusting idiot that he was, had ever believed otherwise. Even the gods themselves...

  The image of Baranmel at Berai's wedding came to him, and the blackness in his soul suddenly recoiled. The cold faded; his blood warmed anew. His vision cleared, and he found himself looking at the red-lit face of a tired, bitter old man in a heavy black hood.

  Anva and his children were fine, safe at home, loving him and worrying about him; Vadeviya and Lord Duzon were doing their best to serve the gods and the Empire. All his doubts, all the lies, had been black magic.

  His grip on his sword had loosened, his knees had sagged; now he straightened up, closed his fingers tight around the hilt, and raised the blade to guard. He took a step forward, ignored the broken shards of crystal that cut his bloody feet afresh.

  “Go away,” he croaked. “Go away, and we'll let you live.”

  Rebiri Nazakri stared at him in astonishment.

  That overwhelming flood of darkness should have reduced this soldier to utter insanity, or even killed him from sheer despair, and then swept on past him into the city beyond; instead he had overcome it somehow, taking it all in and leaving nothing. The wizard had never before seen anyone who could resist the darkness save himself; he had gained a limited immunity from years of constant exposure to its presence.

  This man, though – this great hulking Domdur who stood a head taller than any of the nightwalkers, even without considering the ramp's slope – had brushed the darkness off.

  Was he another black magician, another wizard as powerful as the Nazakri himself?

  No, that could not be; he carried a sword, not a staff, and had no New Magic crystal anywhere. The only other force that resisted the darkness was sunlight, the light of the gods...

  Comprehension burst upon Rebiri Nazakri. He smiled.

  “Ah,” he said. “You must be Malledd, son of Hmar. I was told of your existence.”

  Ba'el had never said that all the gods had forsaken the Domdur, after all; this poor fool clearly still served those gods who yet favored Ba'el's foes.

  “And you are Rebiri Nazakri,” Malledd said, trying hard to force the words out cleanly. “Go home to Olnamia; we wish you and your people no harm.”

  Nazakri could barely make out what the “divine champion“ was mumbling, and it didn't really matter in any case. This was the heir to Ruamel of the Domdur, as he was himself heir to Basari Nazakri. This confrontation here before the gates of Seidabar was a continuation of the battle that had ended – no, merely paused! – three hundred twenty years before, when Ruamel had captured Basari and forced him to swear that hateful, treasonous oath.

  There could be no other conclusion to this meeting but death. This time there would be no compromise – no capture, no surrender, no attempts at peacemaking or conciliation.

  He turned to the waiting nightwalkers and called, “Kill him!”

  He stood unmoving as the nightwalkers surged past him, their weapons raised.

  Malledd met them with his sword swinging back and forth like a scythe; he was not so much attempting to sever necks this time as simply to ward his attackers off.

  The horde pressed in on him, forcing him back, step by step up the ramp. He was poised on one edge, so that they could not come at him from all sides, but that also meant that they could try to force him back over, down into the Outer City and away from the gates.

  He refused to yield even an inch to the side, but he retreated slowly and steadily upward. Blades nicked and slashed at him, opening cuts and tearing away what remained of his tunic; trickles of blood ran down his legs and droplets sprayed from his desperately-swinging arms.

  The battle was not entirely one-sided, though; while Malledd stayed resolutely on the ramp, many of the nightwalkers were not so sure-footed and were sent tumbling down the sheer sides into the streets below – some of them in pieces. Heads flew off whenever Malledd saw openings, and the bodies that fell were then kicked over the edge by their still-fighting companions. Limbs and less-recognizable body parts were also scattered along the slope and over the side.

  Malledd lost all sense of time as he fought; his entire life seemed an endless agony of swinging his sword against a wall of stabbing weapons and dead, grinning faces as he inched backward toward the gates.

  He was more than halfway up from the plaza to the gates when the light began to change.

  It was almost imperceptible at first. Even when it began to register on Malledd that he could see his enemies more clearly, he attributed it at first to the faint glow from beyond the fortress walls.

  But then a pair of larger-than-usual nightwalkers crumbled sideways, as the first's head rolled free and his dead weight was suddenly thrust against another, casting them both over the edge of the ramp and giving Malledd a quick glance at the open sky to the west before more of the undead closed in.

  A moon had shone in that patch of sky – shone, a soft coppery glow, more than three-fourths full.

  Malledd smiled, and fought on with renewed strength and renewed hope.

  The sun was relit. Midnight had passed. Ba'el's Triad was over, and Vedal's begun.

  The sun was still below the eastern horizon, perhaps still hours away, but its fires were lit, and daylight was coming, and the nightwalkers were still not through the gates.

  The sky was still black, the city dark, when Malledd stepped back and felt himself press against hard dry wood. He had reached the gates.

  Still the nightwalkers came at him, swords and axes and clubs swinging and stabbing.

  He fought on and on, and still the nightwalkers came, their numbers still enough to cover the ramp from side to side and for much of its length.

  Behind them, glimpsed over their heads every so often, he could see Rebiri Nazakri, standing on the ramp, waiting impatiently for M
alledd's death. The wizard glanced angrily up at the sky every so often, up at the shining moons.

  Then the attacks seemed to slow.

  Malledd looked out at the western sky and saw deep, deep blue, instead of black.

  Dawn was breaking. The nightwalkers were slowing as the first traces of sunlight reached them; when the sun cleared the horizon they would all fall, helpless and inert.

  “No!” the Nazakri shrieked. “No, no, no!” He screamed curses in Olnami; Malledd could not understand a word.

  Then the wizard swung his staff so that the smoky red crystal that still adorned one end pointed directly at Malledd – and at the gate he stood against.

  “I can still do it, champion,” he called. “I have no need of them to smash the gates and destroy your holy places! I yet have enough magic of my own!”

  Flame burst from the crystal, a great gout of angry red flame that swept through the remaining nightwalkers, blasting flesh from blackened bone, bursting over Malledd, blinding him and burning him alive.

  Agony swept through him, and the outside world vanished; he felt his skin and hair shriveling and tearing away as tiny flakes of ash, felt his flesh drying and cracking and blackening. His sight flared and died, plunging him into utter darkness awash in pain. His legs could no longer support him, and he crumpled to his knees, then fell backward as the gate behind him was reduced to smoke and cinders.

  His hand still gripped his sword. The burning flesh of his fingers seemed welded to the wire-wrapped hilt.

  His ears were filled with roaring. He knew the fire had passed over him, but he still seemed to hear it. He knew he was still alive because of the roar, and the pain – surely the dead did not feel such agony!

  He couldn't understand how he still lived, though. He should be dead. He knew he should be dead. He undoubtedly would be dead soon – and he welcomed the thought, since it would mean an end to the horrible, unbearable pain. He just wanted it to be over.

  But it wasn't. He still lived, though his flesh was black and sere.

  This was undoubtedly more of the gods' gifts, he thought bitterly.

  Then the roaring faded, and to his astonishment a faint glimmer of light penetrated the darkness – he had been sure both his eyes and ears were gone, yet somehow he could once again see and hear, at least slightly.

  He could hear the wizard's voice cursing, as if at a great distance, and footsteps, the crunching of sandals on ash and cinder, drawing nearer. He could see the indigo sky above, and hanging almost directly overhead a great red half-moon – Ba'el's moon, mocking him.

  The Olnami was undoubtedly coming to finish him off before marching on into the Inner City, to wreak what havoc he could before his magic gave out and the Imperial forces could strike him down.

  If the Empress still lingered in the city, the Nazakri might yet slay her. He might yet bring down the temple dome.

  But Malledd could do no more. He still lived, still held his sword, but all he knew was pain, and the image of Ba'el above, and the sound of approaching footsteps.

  He tried to think of something else, but the only thing he could force through the pain was the thought that Anva was still waiting for him, and might never know how he died, how much he had struggled.

  If he could just strike one more blow, raise his sword one more time... He focused all his will into his right arm, trying to force the ruined, exhausted muscles to move, the burned flesh to obey him.

  Black cloth rippled into his motionless field of view, and then the wizard's face appeared, peering down at him, blocking the sight of Ba'el.

  “Dead at last, Malledd, son of Hmar?” the Olnami said, in Domdur. “Good! May demons eat your soul!” Then he pulled up the front of his robe and began to step forward, over the blackened remains of his enemy, through the shattered gate and into the citadel of Seidabar.

  And Malledd managed one final effort. The sword swung upright, and thrust upward, catching the old man beneath the breastbone.

  The blade, weakened by magical flame and days of constant abuse, snapped off, and Malledd's arm fell back to the ground clutching the hilt.

  Malledd saw Rebiri Nazakri fall back, mortally wounded; he saw a thin line of blood spray down the broken stump of his sword. He saw Ba'el's moon again revealed.

  Then he thought he saw a single ray of sunlight reach out from the east and strike the moon, and the red glow burst into flame, and the moon shattered, and for Malledd the world went dark again and he sank down into blackness.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  The ramp was covered with bodies; Lord Duzon's stolen horse shied away from stepping on them, and he dismounted.

  He had ridden as quickly as he could, sleeping in snatches in the saddle; when his own horse had collapsed beneath him he had been lucky enough to find another in the stable of an abandoned inn, and he had taken it without worrying about ownership.

  The highway had been littered with headless corpses, an endless line of them – Malledd's doing, Duzon knew. The smith was clearly more than human, truly a divine warrior, to have vanquished so many so quickly.

  Now Duzon found himself confronted with more of Malledd's handiwork; the ramp to the inner city was carpeted with rotting gore.

  He looked up and saw the broken gate. One valve was still closed, but the other had been smashed somehow, leaving a tangle of broken, burned timbers.

  From here he could see no other damage, though. He had seen the temple dome still intact and gleaming as he approached Seidabar, and the palace tower still upright.

  He had to know what had happened. Had Rebiri Nazakri decided to take the city for himself, rather than destroy it? Was he in there somewhere?

  Duzon began picking his way up the ramp, avoiding as much of the carnage as possible, placing his feet around or beside or between the heads and bodies.

  The ghastly wreckage thinned after a few yards; many of the corpses had rolled or slid down to the bottom. He was able to pick up his pace.

  As he neared the top he saw that several of the bodies ahead were burned, rather than beheaded – or in some cases as well as beheaded, he corrected himself. Many other bodies were intact, neither burned nor decapitated – those, he realized, might be nightwalkers overcome by the sunlight. They would need to be dealt with.

  At the end of the burned area, in a clear space right at the broken gate itself, was a mound covered in black cloth, a mound Duzon couldn't identify. Cautiously, he crept up to the mound and prodded it with his sword.

  Nothing moved.

  He poked the tip of his sword under one edge and lifted the fabric, then flung it back to reveal what it covered.

  Another corpse – no, two, he realized, one sprawled across another, and both still wearing their heads. The one on the bottom was a charred ruin; the one on top, the one whose flowing cloak had covered them both...

  Was it even a corpse? Perhaps this was someone alive. He knelt and rolled the body off to one side, off the burned and blackened corpse.

  When he saw the old man's face, and the staff still clutched in one dead hand, Duzon sucked in his breath.

  This was the wizard himself. This was Rebiri Nazakri – and he was indisputably dead, his features dark and swollen, his belly coated thickly in blood. A broken corner of sword-blade protruded just below his ribs.

  Just to be sure, though, Duzon used his own sword to lop off the wizard's head. He kicked the staff free of the wizard's dead hand and looked at it.

  One crystal was shattered; the other looked lifeless and empty, like so much ornately-worked glass. Duzon crushed it beneath his boot and ground the largest shards to powder. Then he turned his attention to the other body, the burned one.

  The broken stump of a sword lay by its open right hand, and Duzon frowned; was that Malledd's weapon? He picked it up and studied it, but the sword had no very distinctive markings. The size of this body was right...

  “Duzon?”

  Startled, Duzon leapt to his feet, sword ready, and found Lord G
raush staring out at him through the ruined gate. Graush held an axe awkwardly in his right hand.

  “It is you!” Graush exclaimed.

  “Yes,” Duzon said. He was too tired, too overwhelmed by events, to manage anything more eloquent.

  Graush stepped forward, down the ramp, through the blasted gate. He looked around slowly and carefully, then asked, “What happened here? Who are all these people?”

  Duzon could hardly say what had happened, since he didn't know himself, but he prodded the cloaked, freshly-beheaded corpse with the toe of his boot.

  “This,” he said, “was Rebiri Nazakri, hereditary warlord of the Olnamians and master of the blackest magic.”

  “He's dead?” Graush came and looked down at the corpse. “Interesting; how did you ever manage to strike so exactly in the center?”

  Duzon started to protest; he realized he was still holding the broken sword, and he dropped it to the pavement. “I didn't...”

  “The gods guided your hand, beyond question,” Graush said. “I beg your pardon, my lord, for ever doubting that you were in fact the chosen champion of the Domdur.”

  “No, I cut off his head, but I didn't kill him...” Duzon insisted.

  Graush interrupted him again. “No doubt the gods themselves struck him down, for daring to strike at the sacred city itself.” He looked around. “If that's the wizard, who are all these others? I see few of our own uniforms.”

  “Nightwalkers,” Duzon replied. “All of them, uniforms or not – all but this one.” He pointed at Malledd's scorched remains. “We need to behead them all before nightfall.”

  “I'll see that it's done, my lord.” He sketched a bow.

  “Don't call me that!” Duzon protested. “Don't bow. You outrank me. You never called me that before.”

  “For that I apologize,” Graush said.

  Duzon stared at him for a moment, then gave it up. There would be plenty of time to explain it all later, to tell everyone that he had never been the divine champion, that Malledd had been the one selected by the gods, the hero who slew the foe at the very gates of the city.