Starman

by Sara Douglass

  Shra, desperately fighting for Azhure’s life as Azhure had once fought for hers.

  “Argh!” He roared and kicked the frail body away, sending Shra skidding across the floor and slamming into a far wall. At the same moment Faraday leaned around and hit Barsarbe so hard the Bane let go and fell to her hands and knees.

  Shra’s brief but courageous intervention had bought Azhure time. Now she stepped forward, her face tight and determined, and seized the hand that grasped the knife.

  Artor roared again and clenched His other fist, raising it high to smite Azhure in the face…then found that grasped too, by fragile hands which wielded the power of the Mother.

  And all about Artor and Azhure and Faraday the hounds snapped and howled, unwilling to intervene while the three grappled so close.

  “Feel the power of the Mother,” Faraday hissed in Artor’s ear, and felt the foul sting of His breath as He turned towards her.

  “And feel the power of the Nine,” Azhure said, her face flushed but calm, and her grey—blue eyes met Faraday’s.

  “Feel the power of the Earth,” Faraday said.

  “And the power of the Stars,” Azhure whispered, so low her words were almost lost amid the howling of the hounds. On her finger the Circle of the Stars flared into life and it brought with it the strength of the Nine.

  As Azhure let the power of the Nine flood into Artor, so Faraday loosed what bonds still restrained the emerald fire and let it surge through the god’s body; it had watched for countless generations as the forests died under the Plough, and now it turned the full force of its vengeance upon Artor. He writhed and screamed; Azhure and Faraday struggled to maintain their footing, but both clung grimly to His wrists, knowing they would be defeated if they lost their grip.

  Enraged by the sting of both earth and firmament, almost blinded by the Circle that burned in his face, Artor let loose His own power to rope between and about the women. The Avar and Goodwife Renkin screamed and sank to the floor, twisting and beating at their ears. The Alaunt’s howls rose, but they kept their feet and snaked their heads, trying to find an opening in which to seize the god they loathed.

  Azhure felt His power assail her own flesh and it took all her strength to hang on; Stars knew how Faraday managed. She risked a quick look at the other woman’s face. Faraday was as white as snow, and her lip was bloody where she’d bitten it in her frantic struggle to hang on. But her eyes were wide as they blazed with the power of the Mother, and she opened her mouth to speak.

  “Get you gone, Artor.” Her words were barely audible, but they trembled and hesitated and then, gaining strength, reverberated about the stone hall.

  “We do not want you, Artor,” Azhure said, and the voices of both women mixed and fed off each other and soon they roared through the hall with a life of their own.

  Artor tipped back His head and bellowed with such an intensity that the very walls of the Worship Hall cracked. Every muscle in His body bulged, and the women had to shift their grip to make sure their hands did not slip in His sweat.

  “Go!” Faraday whispered.

  “Leave!” Azhure murmured, and their words twisted and writhed among the echoes of Artor’s shrieks and roars.

  The Worship Hall was filled with a gale of sound, and yet not a breath of air moved.

  The Goodwife crawled across to Shra, and she dragged the unconscious girl from the hall. As she passed the Avar women, still writhing on the ground, she caught at Criah’s arm. “Get out now,” she cried, “before it’s too late!”

  Criah nodded dumbly, tears of agony streaming down her face, and seized the women next to her, nodding at the door. Soon all the Avar were crawling towards safety.

  The three locked in combat did not notice their departure.

  Against the power of the Star Gods and the Earth Mother Artor brought to bear all the power that He could. It shrieked through the interstellar wastes to His aid—and met the combined power of earth and stars. The power was fearsome and it tore and bit at the women, but they were courageous and determined and drew strength from each other.

  And Artor was weak, weaker than He had been a thousand years previously. Then He had the power and the belief of the Seneschal at His back; now the Seneschal was broken and belief in Artor had shattered throughout Tencendor.

  Where once was ploughed plain, now wove forests.

  Where once had flourished prejudice and hatred, now laughed Icarii and human as they shared the pain and pleasure of experience and love.

  Now earth and stars stood together as they had not a thousand years ago.

  Now the Circle flared complete.

  Artor shrieked and writhed and roared and twisted, but the women clung and their words battered at him.

  “Go!”

  “Get you gone!”

  “Leave us!”

  “We do not want you!”

  Azhure finally managed to twist Artor’s arm behind His back and she leaned in against His body as a lover might.

  “Let’s hunt,” she whispered, her lips brushing His ear.

  Artor fled, as the Huntress hoped He might. He slipped from the hands that grasped Him and fled into the darkness that surrounded Smyrton.

  Faraday dropped back, exhausted, but the Huntress whistled her hounds and her horse to her side and, mounting, set the hounds coursing and the horse chasing, and she lifted an arrow from the quiver on her back and fitted it to the Wolven.

  “Let’s hunt!” she cried.

  And so they did.

  They hunted through darkness so complete that it hung in thick curtains about them, but the sound of the Alaunt clamour rose and danced through the spaces and the sound of the Huntress’ laughter crashed about the ears of the quarry.

  He drove His bulls hard and fast, leaning over the Plough with strength trebled by terror, and His terror communicated itself to the red and maddened beasts before Him so that their breath steamed hot and bloodied from their nostrils and their horns glinted in great arcs as they tossed and rolled their heads.

  Behind them, closer and closer, the Huntress urged on her ghostly pack and her red horse until both horse and hounds could smell the fear before them, and they redoubled their efforts in glee.

  The thud of the ploughshare and the thunder of hooves echoed about the darkness.

  “Hunt!” whispered the Huntress.

  “Plough!” screamed the Ploughman, and He turned His beasts and His implement to face the threat behind Him.

  “Steady,” the Huntress counselled as the Alaunt leapt for the throats of the monstrous bulls, and she sat back in the saddle and brought her horse to a dancing halt, sighting along the shaft of the arrow.

  She sighed as she loosed it, feeling its loss as keenly as she might feel the loss of a lover’s intimate warmth.

  It sped through the darkness, fed by vengeance, and in the name of vengeance for all those slaughtered in Artor’s name, it lodged itself in the eye of one of the roaring bulls.

  The animal dropped, and instantly its kicking body was covered with hounds who tore into the soft flesh of throat and belly until the bull kicked its life out twisted among the ropes of its own bowel.

  The Huntress smiled, and fitted another arrow to the Wolven.

  The other bull screamed now, and its scream drowned out even Artor’s shrieks, as the arrow twisted through its eye to its brain and the hounds ripped and tore into its belly.

  For one heartbeat Artor stood behind the useless Plough and stared into the eyes of the Huntress.

  Her smile broadened and she reached for yet another arrow.

  As one, the hounds lifted their bloodstained muzzles from the ruined carcasses of the bulls and stared at Artor, bunching their hindquarters and curling their lips in silent snarls.

  “Hunt!” cried their mistress, and they leapt.

  But Artor was already gone, fleeing into the darkness.

  The hounds streamed after Him, baying their excitement, His sweat-terror scent strong in their nostrils
, their mistress laughing behind.

  They coursed and they clamoured and they screamed.

  And they cornered Him, eventually, when even His strength had given out and when His terror and horror made Him miss His step.

  Sicarius caught Him first, and his teeth sliced through the vital tendons at the back of the god’s right ankle and He crashed to the ground. Another sank her teeth into His left hamstring, and Artor writhed helplessly. As He writhed, yet a third hound dropped to the ground and tore open the sweet flesh of His left armpit and Artor screamed.

  “Good dogs,” the Huntress said and, reining her stallion to a halt, slid to the ground and strolled over to the crippled god.

  “Artor,” she said, kneeling beside Him and placing one hand on His shoulder. “Did you smile when Hagen dug his knife into my back? Did you laugh when Niah twisted and charred on the hearth bricks? Did you feed off the pain of all those you hounded and burned and murdered in your own righteous name?”

  She reached behind her, her arm stilling, then slowly…slowly…she revealed what she had lifted from the quiver at her back.

  Hagen’s bone-handled knife.

  Artor shrieked and the Alaunt, pacing about Him, lifted back their heads and howled.

  Azhure ran her finger experimentally along the blade of the knife.

  “For all those who have died in your name, Artor,” she said without emotion, then she carefully inserted the blade under the sixth rib on the left side of His chest, slid it in perhaps a finger’s breadth to make sure she had the angle correct, then jerked it up and twisted it about, slicing open His heart.

  When she withdrew the knife hot blood steamed after it.

  She rose to her feet. “Feed,” she commanded, and within a heartbeat writhing hounds covered the god’s body.

  “Feed.”

  51

  THE GRAVE

  The Goodwife went back in to see to Faraday, terrified that the Plough god had slain her, but all she found was Faraday sitting exhausted on the ground, and no trace of the raven-haired woman who had come to her aid.

  “M’Lady,” she gasped, seizing Faraday’s arm and hauling her to her feet. “Are you well?”

  Faraday coughed and a violent tremor shook her, but she managed a smile for the Goodwife. “Well enough.”

  “Where’s…?” the Goodwife began, her eyes concerned, but before she could finish the strange woman was there herself.

  Faraday grasped the woman’s hand. “Is he…?”

  “Gone,” Azhure said. She leaned forward and hugged Faraday and laughed suddenly. “We did it, Faraday! Now you may complete your planting in peace.”

  Faraday smiled and hugged her back as tightly as she could. “I thank you, Azhure. You saved my life.”

  Azhure sobered and leaned back. “And that is hardly thanks for all you have done for me, Faraday. Goodwife,” she turned to the woman at Faraday’s side, “Goodwife, take Faraday outside and seat her in the tray of that ridiculous cart. Then get everyone out of the village. There is still work to be done here.”

  “No doubt more murder,” Barsarbe said flatly behind them, and Faraday twisted out of Azhure’s arms.

  “If I had listened to you, Bane,” she said, her voice hard, “then we all would be lying dead here this moment, and Artor would have triumphed.”

  Barsarbe ignored Faraday and stared at Azhure, unable to believe that the woman had walked back into her life. She knew they all owed their lives to Azhure (yet again), but that knowledge only increased her bitterness—how much more bloodshed would the woman bring? Without another word she turned on her heel and stalked out.

  Whatever ill-feeling Barsarbe left behind her dissipated the instant that Shra, still shaky from the blow she had received to her head, ran across the floor of the Worship Hall and flung herself into Azhure’s arms.

  Azhure cried with delight and hugged the child to her. “How you have grown, Shra!”

  Shra touched her fingers to Azhure’s forehead. “And how you have grown, Azhure.”

  Azhure smiled and set the girl to her feet. “Later, Shra. Now take Faraday’s hand and help the Goodwife get her out of this village.”

  “Faraday will have to plant through here,” the Goodwife said, her tone suddenly heavy with power and authority.

  Azhure looked at her sharply, recognising both voice and power. “She cannot plant while this village still stands, Mother. Let me wipe what remains of Artor from this place.”

  The Goodwife nodded, then pulled gently at Faraday’s arm. “Come, child. You shall rest a little before the final planting.”

  But Faraday hesitated. “Axis?” she asked Azhure nervously.

  Azhure stilled at the expression in Faraday’s eyes. “Axis is well,” she said gently. “He is well.”

  Faraday bowed her head and let the Goodwife guide her from the building.

  Azhure stood at the door to the cellar, memories flooding through her. Here she had stood at the BattleAxe’s shoulder as he had entered the cell that held Raum and Shra; little had she known then how she would come to love him.

  Here she had hesitated before climbing down the steps to strike Belial and free Raum and Shra so all three could run to the Avarinheim and Azhure could start the journey that would take her so far.

  And now, here she stood again, and there was only one thing she needed to know from the villagers below.

  She flung back the door and ran lightly down the steps.

  The Alaunt had herded and snarled and snapped until the entire village was trapped behind the iron bars at the rear of the cellar. They were packed in so tightly that several obviously had difficulty breathing.

  Azhure spared them no sympathy. They still gazed at her with maddened eyes, their faces grey and fanatical. There was no hope for any of them.

  Slowly she paced the length of the iron bars, staring into faces that she had grown up with, that had conspired with Hagen to make her suffer.

  One man, Wainwald, reached through the bars and grabbed at her breast. Azhure recoiled, remembering that Wainwald had been the most persistent of the young men who had leered and lusted after her.

  “Harlot,” he grunted, “with a costume that demands rape to satisfy it. Come here!”

  Another man snatched at her and Azhure retreated a step or two. Never had they been this bad, this feral. She walked further down the bars until she found Goodwife Garland. She was in her early sixties, and she undoubtedly knew where…where…

  “Where is my mother’s body?” Azhure said, stepping close enough so that she could sink her fingers into the material of the Goodwife’s bodice. “Where did Hagen bury her?”

  Goodwife Garland’s lip curled, but the next instant her face twisted in horror as Azhure’s power invaded her mind with persistent icy fingers.

  Where? Where? Where? Where?

  The Goodwife whimpered and her face spasmed with the pain.

  Where? Where? Where? Where?

  “He buried the slut under the floor of the chicken shed.” The Goodwife managed a contemptuous smile. “Imagine that. Your mother lies under twenty-five years of chicken shit, Azhure. What better resting place could she have found?”

  Azhure let her go and stepped back, her face blank. Goodwife Garland had told the truth, Azhure could feel that, and that was all she cared about. The truth. The insults did not matter.

  Not now.

  Azhure nodded, letting her eyes travel over the assembled village. Women sneered and men panted, hands itching for her. Even boys of four or five reached out, their eyes hot.

  “I wish you all good fortune in the AfterLife,” she said, “for you are surely going to need it.”

  Then she turned and walked out of the cellar.

  She had sent the hounds and the horse to wait with Faraday and the Avar, but now Azhure wandered through the village, loosing any livestock she found, opening doors and gates so that all could have the chance for escape. Stars knew, she thought, they deserve escape from this dark dungeo
n.

  She reached the chicken coop last. It was a fair distance from Hagen’s house behind the Worship Hall and he must have struggled to drag her mother’s body this far; but then, perhaps he had help, and he wouldn’t have wanted to be discomforted by the stench of her mother’s decay, would he?

  She stood outside for a long time, looking at it, and it was only when the wind felt cold against her face that she realised she was crying.

  Soft arms encircled her. Faraday.

  “Shhh,” she crooned, rocking Azhure as she sobbed. “Shhh. Is this where your mother lies? Well, cry now, Azhure, let it all go, and when all is gone, then you and I shall make of this wasteland a fit place for your mother to rest in.”

  “Oh, Faraday,” Azhure sobbed, “she did not deserve this!”

  “None of us deserve all that happens to us, and some mothers rest far from the love of their families,” Faraday said gently, stroking Azhure’s hair. “Come, dry your cheeks. What are you going to do to this village?”

  “Destroy it,” Azhure said roughly, wiping her eyes. “And what are you doing here, anyway? I thought I told you to wait outside the village?”

  “You needed me, Azhure. Now, shall we join the others?”

  Azhure nodded, and together the two women walked hand-in-hand through the village.

  “This is your childhood you are about to destroy, Azhure,” Faraday said as they neared the group of Avar and the Goodwife waiting some distance beyond the village. “Are you sure you want to do it?”

  “Never more sure, Faraday.”

  Just before they reached the women, Azhure turned back to the village, fitting an arrow to her bow. “Azhure’s vengeance,” she said, then let the arrow fly.

  It arced into the sky, catching the noon-day sun, then it turned its head for the ground, and the watchers could see that its tip burned with a feverish flame and it fell so fast that even from this distance they could hear its whispering roar.