Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02

by The Usurper (v1. 1)

  The kyo turned in a half circle, blade extended in readiness for further attack, Beyond, Brannoc’s Keshi saber was out, menacing the gape-mouthed court. Those who had thought to lend support to Celeruna halted with hands on sword hilts, stilled by the menace of the two warriors and the authority that radiated from Kedryn. Hattim was on his feet, his eyes wide with horror, looking, as though he sought her help or approval, to the Sister.

  Kedryn stood watching her, aware of the steady pulsing of the talisman beneath his surcoat, hardly daring to believe what, rapidly, he knew he must.

  “The Messenger!” he said softly.

  “Aye,” Wynett confirmed. “I feel it, too.”

  Beside Hattim, Taws saw that all his plans stood in jeopardy. He had not anticipated his prey walking so openly into the trap he had set, nor thought that Kedryn might outwit him, that he would come not as some adventurer seeking only to free his parents, but as the husband of Wynett, with lawful claim to the High Throne.

  It was that, he saw, that stilled the hands of the Galichian’s sycophants, for while they were fully prepared to support Hattim in his regal claims, they still adhered to the customs of the Kingdoms and must therefore acknowledge the Tamurin’s prior right. Frustrated rage burned within his borrowed body, and a mighty fear of his master’s fury should he fail Ashar now, so close to the successful culmination of his design. Desperately, he sought to retrieve the initiative and whispered in Hattim’s ear, “Challenge him!”

  “How?” moaned Hattim. “He has the right. Wed to Wynett, I cannot gainsay him.”

  “With swords, you fool!” cursed Taws. “Take the throne by sword right! Hold it, lest we lose everything!”

  Hattim swallowed, licked fleshy lips, remembering how Kedryn had defeated him before, remembering how Kedryn had slain Niloc Yarrum, a youth then, a man now, confident of himself; frightening in that confidence.

  “I cannot,” he groaned. “He will slay me.”

  “Ashar curse you,” snarled Taws, anger getting the better of him.

  “Heresy!” Kedryn’s voice thundered through the silence, an accusing finger leveled at the body of Sister Thera. “The Messenger walks among you and Hattim Sethiyan is his acolyte.”

  The gaze of all present fastened on the trio now standing before the two thrones. Mouths gaped wide in horror as Sister Thera’s eyes burned an unholy red, like coals blazing in some hellish furnace. A woman screamed; a man shouted, echoing Kedryn’s . accusation. Hattim felt himself hurled forward, staggering from the throne to stumble on the steps and topple face-down to the floor. He raised his head to find Ashrivelle at his side, stooping to aid him, her hands clutching with painful force on his arm as she froze, her face horror-struck as she looked toward the throne.

  At Kedryn’s side Wynett cried out in disgust. Tepshen mouthed a curse. Brannoc shaped the warding gesture with his free hand. Kedryn himself stared with an awful fascination as Taws, his fury incandescent, finally revealed himself.

  The blue-robed body that had once belonged to a woman contorted. It stretched upward, rising to the tips of its toes as its arms flung out, the fingers clawed. Red eyes bulged above flaring nostrils, the mouth wide, the lips curling back from parted teeth as a weird, high-pitched shrieking filled the throne room with ear-piercing sound. The body shuddered, blood erupting from the mouth and nostrils and ears, from the eyes, staining the gown of Estrevan blue about the loins. It thickened where it came from the gaping lips, oozing over the chest, coagulating. The body fell back against the throne, fouling the stone with its outpourings, and the blood pooled dense in the lap. Then, though afterward none there could describe it precisely, unsure whether what they saw came from the blood or from thin air, a shape formed, hovering about the writhing body, becoming solid.

  Kedryn gazed at the wraith. Saw it become flesh, if flesh it was that clad that awful shape, and knew that he faced his destiny. Taws stood before him, ghastly in his nakedness, though even the malformed contortion of his unhuman lineaments could not surpass the sheer horror of his rage. Red eyes burned in sunken sockets, narrow lips drawn back in a snarl from pointed teeth, the mantis face framed by a mane of corpse-white hair. An arm that hinged unlike any human limb extended taloned fingers toward Kedryn, and from them came a wash of flame.

  “No!” Wynett’s shout was a denial of Taws’s power, of his intent, and at the same time a declaration of her love.

  She flung herself before Kedryn, one hand about her talisman, holding it out so that the flame of the mage’s gramarye burst against it, filling the air with a charnel stink. She was thrown back against Kedryn, and he held her, believing her burned until she cried again, “No!”

  That shout broke the hypnotic fascination Taws exerted and he set a hand to his own talisman, knowing instinctively that only the blue stones could offer salvation from the destruction that threatened. It seemed then that he stepped aside from time, that with Wynett he entered some limbo existing contemporaneously with the chronology that governed life, facing the Messenger on a plane that transcended the existence of human flesh. He saw Brannoc hurl a knife, and witnessed the blade burst into flame, falling in molten droplets to the floor. He saw Taws laugh and turn both taloned hands, palms outward, toward him, a great Hood of fire, a tidal wave of flame, roar toward him. Not knowing how he knew, he thrust out his own free hand—saw Wynett do the same—and saw Taws’s fire again repulsed. He saw Tepshen raise his blade high and charge the mage, and turned his hand to send a wash of blue light out to the kyo, bathing the yelling warrior in its radiance. He saw Taws turn, sending tongues of flame licking at Tepshen, and the tongues die as they touched the pulsing blue effulgence, Tepshen’s blade descending in a lethal arc that ended and rebounded as it met the gray-white hide of the Messenger, Taws’s hand lash out to send Tepshen staggering back as if his blow had struck a wall of rock.

  “Stay back!” he roared, and felt Wynett take his hand, her touch enhancing the power he could feel within himself, the glow of their two talismans increasing with the contact, pulsing fiercer, surrounding them until they moved within the shield of its radiance.

  That sense of purpose that had gripped him before, that surety, was on him now, stronger than when he first fought Hattim or Niloc Yarrum, stronger than ever, and with Wynett at his side he moved toward the insectile figure that roared and bellowed beside the High Throne. Waves of furious red fire burst from Taws’s outthrust hands and were repulsed by the blue light. Tapestries burst into flame and stone melted, lava seething across the chamber’s floor. Tepshen Lahl rose unsteadily to his feet and retreated from the capering figure of the mage, Brannoc moving to support the kyo, the two drawing back from a duel they recognized as Kedryn’s and Wynett’s alone, knowing it utilized powers far greater than sword blades. The Galichians and those incumbents of the White Palace still remaining ran in screaming panic from the holocaust.

  Kedryn shouted, “Get out! Clear the chamber!” and advanced on the ghastly shape of Taws.

  Flame crackled about the Messenger now, fire escaping his lipless mouth, tendrils of smoke oozing oily from his nostrils and ears. It seemed he had become the very embodiment of his frightful master, less flesh than some combustible thing, a reeking fire demon that howled and pranced, hurling bolts of random energy carelessly. The throne itself cracked and burned, becoming molten, the deserted corpse of Sister Thera withering, the flesh blackening, melding with the liquefying stone of the regal chair. Windows shattered, exploding glassy shrapnel in a whistling rain throughout the chamber; candles melted in sconces that themselves glowed white hot, dripping metal tears over blackened walls; wood flamed, pungent smoke miasmic in the thickened, stinking air.

  “You cannot slay me,” Taws rasped, and directed a bolt of glowing energy at the vaulted roof.

  Stone fell in a murderous rain about his opponents, but though blocks the size of a full-grown man crashed down, none touched them, for it seemed the azure radiance held them within a cone of force through which nothing might p
enetrate. Guided by that power that was in him and beyond him, Kedryn raised a hand that unleashed blue light at the Messenger, hurling Taws backward as if a great wind tossed him willfully as a storm-driven leaf. He flew from the dais, tumbling to the floor behind, and when he rose Kedryn saw fear in his stance, a hesitation bom of doubt. He raised his hand again, and now Wynett joined him, the lances of light that erupted from both their hands joining, sending Taws rolling over the flags.

  They climbed the steps of the dais, ignoring the molten stone that ran beneath their feet, ignoring the almost consumed corpse, their eyes fixed on the hunched figure beyond, their features grim as they raised their hands again.

  Taws met the bolt of blue with a spear of red, and the convergence of those twin sources of power erupted in a thunderclap that shook the rotunda, spilling more stone from the fractured roof, the flash of the explosion blinding them momentarily.

  When their vision cleared they saw the Messenger scuttling crablike along the wall, reminiscent of some obscene spider, each step he took imprinting a smoking mark upon the flags. Again they raised their hands and sent the purity of the blue energy lashing over him, and now the Messenger screamed in pain and terror, writhing back with uplifted hands, his ghastly features contorted as he sought to ward off the potency of that cleansing puissance. It was a power greater than his, for it was bom of compassion and affection, honest in its intent, stemming from the Lady’s benign concern and the love shared by Kedryn and Wynett, and for all his rage Taws knew that and felt its greatness. Felt it as it drove him back, remorselessly, his own weakening as he fought it, draining from him until he crouched, cornered like a rat, in the angle of the walls.

  Wynett’s right hand held firmly in his left, Kedryn maintained the flow of energy, joining it with the light that blasted from his wife’s outthrust left hand. It mingled with the fireglow emanating from Taws, darkening to violet, becoming a midnight black tinged deep within with red. The Messenger became invisible, wrapped in the weird light as they descended the far side of the dais and moved inexorably toward him. As they drew closer the talismans they wore pulsed brighter and the black began to fade, assuming again the azure effulgence, a core of crimson at its center.

  From within that core came a wailing scream. “Master, save me! Ashar, I beg you!”

  And a booming voice filled the rotunda with its thunder, so loud the words were indistinct, contempt dripping from each syllable, implacable in its unhuman severity.

  “You have failed me.”

  “Ashar!” Taws screamed. “Ashar, I am yours. Master, save me!”

  His cry was despairing as the two continued their advance, the shimmering force they sent out becoming brighter, stronger with each step.

  Suddenly fire flared bright within the veiling blue. A stink as of scorching flesh gusted mephitic through the chamber and the reverberant voice rang out again.

  “He is mine .”

  The fire burned fiercer, swelling within the encompassing azure, transcending color to become pure light, a core of blinding intensity that then dwindled to a pinprick and flashed out.

  Kedryn blinked, realizing that the blue radiance was faded, slowly aware that the talisman no longer pulsed in his grip. The afterimage of that incredible brilliance still burned against his retinas and as his sight returned he saw that where Taws had crouched there was now only a blackened stain, the great blocks of the wall and the stones of the floor bubbling liquid, oily smoke rising to mingle with the stench of smoldering tapestries and burning wood. He turned, still holding Wynett’s hand, letting it go only when she stood close against him and he could put his arms around her and reassure himself of the physical presence, her arms about his waist, her eyes intent on his.

  “We defeated him,” she whispered, scarce believing what they had done.

  “We have saved the Kingdoms,” he murmured.

  “Is he dead?” she asked.

  “I do not know,” he said, feeling weary now, “I do not know if such as the Messenger can die.”

  “But he is gone.”

  “Aye, he is gone.” Kedryn held her close, glorying in the pressure of her body against his, content in their victory. “Dead or not, he is gone and we have won.”

  They turned, seeing clearly for the first time the wreckage that lay about them. The chamber lay in ruins. The king’s throne was melted down to misshapen slag, Sister Thera’s body part of it; great streaks of glasslike magma cooled across the floor; chunks of masonry lay all around, a cool breeze from the jagged gap in the roof swirling the smoke that drifted from wood and cloth; the glass of the windows was run away, indeed, anything burnable was consumed. It was a scene of chaos and they left it swiftly, seeking the fresher air of the chambers beyond.

  The great wooden doors existed no longer, only a pile of white ash that was warm beneath their feet as they stepped through the smoke to see the corridor filled with frightened faces, unsure who—or what—might emerge victorious from that epic combat. The folk of Andurel had broached the walls, or been granted passage by Hattim’s soldiers, for now they stood shoulder to shoulder with the Galichians, nobles and servants mingled, soldiery and city folk, differences forgotten in the frightful recognition of Hattim’s apostasy. They cheered as they saw Kedryn and Wynett, the Galichians no less forcefully than those who had remained loyal. Galen was there, beaming hugely, and Brannoc, a grin on his dark features, and Ashrivelle, her face unnaturally pale, tears flooding from her eyes.

  At her feet lay Hattim Sethiyan, a knife protruding from his back. Brannoc stooped to retrieve it. Wiped the blade casually on the usurper’s finery and shrugged innocently as he held out the king’s medallion to Kedryn.

  “He sought to flee. I stopped him.”

  Kedryn nodded. For now he could not find it in himself to pity the Galichian, for Hattim had chosen the path he trod and in so doing brought terror down on Andurel and the threat of war to the Kingdoms.

  “Where are my parents?” he asked. “Where is Tepshen?”

  “Gone to find them,” said Brannoc. “It seems Hattim at least accorded them the privilege of imprisonment in their own quarters.”

  Again Kedryn nodded, turning to Ashrivelle now.

  He was about to speak but she halted him with a shake of her head, drawing herself up with obvious effort. “I did not know,” she said softly, her voice frightened. “I loved him, but I did not know what he did. It was as though some spell was laid on me.”

  “Sister,” Wynett said gently, and left the circle of Kedryn’s arm to hug her sibling.

  Ashrivelle burst into fresh tears, clutching Wynett as might a drowning man clutch a floating spar. “I will make amends,” she wailed. “If such is possible. I will go to Estrevan and devote my life to making good the ill I supported.”

  “You did not know,” Wynett comforted. “The Messenger held thrall here and you cannot be blamed.”

  Kedryn put a hand upon her shoulder and said, “His power was great, Princess, no blame rests on you.”

  Ashrivelle turned grateful eyes toward him and he smiled gently. Then his expression became one of pure pleasure as the crowd parted on Tepshen’s shout to allow Bedyr and Yrla passage through, Jarl and Arlynn close behind.

  “Praise the Lady,” said Yrla, throwing her arms about him. “You are safe.”

  Bedyr put his arms about them both, his smile jubilant. “You slew the creature?”

  “He is gone,” said Kedryn quietly.

  “And you are risen,” said Bedyr, solemnly. “Tepshen has told us of your marriage.”

  Kedryn nodded, extending a hand to Wynett, who moved to join them, her face radiant.

  “Welcome, daughter,” smiled Bedyr.

  “Oh, Wynett!” Yrla kissed the younger woman. “How happy you make me.”

  They stood for long moments, oblivious of the crowd, content with the closeness, happy in the ending of a nightmare, then they turned away and Kedryn drew Wynett close again as they walked together toward their shared f
uture.

  “Angus Wells writes with a touch

  of magic. . . .

  This is high fantasy of the most

  exhilarating kind.”

  —Robert Holdstock, author of

  Mythago Wood

  A special preview of

  The Third Book of the Kingdoms

  The Way Beneath

  by

  Angus Wells

  Kedryn and Wynett have defeated the evil Usurper, Taws, but much is left unsettled in the Three Kingdoms. In the wake of the Usurper’s rage there is rebuilding to do; High Fort and the White Palace have been devastated by Taws’s assault. Kedryn is young—too young, he feels, to be crowned king, and Ust-Galich stands without a ruling lord.

  Renewal is joyfully begun. And yet, in dark places where not even the Lady’s influence can reach, Ashar’s anger simmers, and he waits. His minion has failed, but his cause is not forgotten. . . .

  Prologue

  HE had not known pain until now; that sensation had been the preserve of mortal flesh and he had not thought to experience it. Nor had he anticipated a second defeat, yet that had come and with it such exquisite pain his preternatural senses exploded in disorder. Vision was gone; taste, smell, hearing lost; touch became an abstract, consumed beneath the raw wash of agony. His universe, his very being, was suffering, the pain overriding all save the one remaining sensation: fear. Fear was a permanent thing for all who served Ashar; more so for him, who was created of and by the god, who was so wholly Ashar’s creature.

  And fear possessed him now. He felt it in the deepest channels of his unnatural being, gripping him with a strength that slowly overcame the pain, relegating that anguish to a secondary status in his returning awareness.