“Yes,” replied Fyltak. “But my family has long raised its children to practice the arts of the sponge divers of Zhelu. I can go without new breath for four or even five minutes at a time. That is why I was given the sword, I was the best of us. So equipped, I took the name of the sword and became known as the God-Taker!”
He was evidently recovering his former boisterous self, the shock of the cold and the close encounter with Xavva-Tish-Laqishtax wearing off.
“Have you actually tried to use the sword against any godlets?” asked Mister Fitz. “Or did you just merely adopt the sword’s title and not its activity? I ask because the entity within is very old and somewhat faded, and the sorcerous structures within the steel likewise degraded. I would presume that the sword’s use against another godlet would result in the banishment of both entities and destruction of the physical hosts.”
“With this very hand and blade I slew the Blood-Sipping Ghoul of Lazzarenno!” exclaimed Fyltak.
“No you didn’t,” said Hereward crossly. “Remember who you’re talking to.”
“That would be wise,” said Mister Fitz. “For any number of reasons.”
“Oh, yes, that’s right,” said Fyltak. He looked nervously at the puppet. “In truth, while I have slain a number of…I suppose you might call them hedge wizards and shop sorcerers, I have not yet had the chance to test my mettle against an actual godlet.”
“Hedge wizards I am familiar with,” said Sir Hereward. “What by Hroggar’s beard is…what is a shop sorcerer?”
“You know, someone whose powers come from sorcerous trinkets they have purchased,” said Fyltak. “Invariably they are scoundrels seeking an easy path to power.”
Hereward blinked at this assessment from a man whose own sorcery derived entirely from a sword he had inherited.
“Though you have not proven its worth against a godlet as yet, I think the sword may still be strong enough to do what is needed,” said Mister Fitz. “We had best take it and test this assumption before Xavva gets too far ahead.”
“Take it? None but I can wield this sword!”
Sir Hereward glanced aside at Mister Fitz, who gave the slightest shake of his head, forestalling the action he knew full well Hereward wanted to undertake: smack Fyltak down and take the weapon.
“Well then, you had best accompany us and wield it against the godlet,” said the puppet. He jumped to the basket on Hereward’s back. “Let us go, forthwith!”
They had barely gone three steps when Fyltak moved past and began to walk half-backwards so he could face knight and puppet, talking all the while.
“Ah, while of course I wish to take action against this vile godlet,” said Fyltak. “What with the cold, and the…er…spirit-gorging…do you have a plan on how to proceed, taking these things into account?”
“It is weakened,” said Mister Fitz. “We have sorcerous brassards that provide some protection against such things as Xavva-Tish-Laqishtax. We will don them at a suitable proximity.”
“Oh, the agent’s brassard!” exclaimed Fyltak. He reached inside his cloak and drew forth a broad silk armband some five fingers wide, embroidered with a symbol of great familiarity to Sir Hereward and Mister Fitz, that of the Council of the Treaty for the Safety of the World. Though the symbol did not glow as it should from the sorcerous thread used to sew it, it was unquestionably genuine and merely quiescent.
Sir Hereward stopped, boots crushing ice emphatically.
“Where did you get that?”
His face was set and hard, his eyes narrowed, his body tensed to take action. The brassards were supposed to fall into dust if they left their owner’s possession for more than a night and day, and were carefully handed down from one agent to the next, often as a deathbed ritual.
Once again, Mister Fitz touched Hereward’s shoulder, restraining the knight from sudden, lethal action.
“It is also a family heirloom,” said Fyltak, oblivious to his danger. “With the sword. Though the old tales say it should light up, brighter than a lantern.”
“It will,” said Mister Fitz. “May I hold it a moment?”
Fyltak passed the brassard to Mister Fitz, who tasted the silk with his tongue. A ripple of light passed through the silken threads, fading as the puppet handed it back.
“Curious,” said Mister Fitz. “It is very old, not some recent find, Hereward. Fyltak must indeed be a descendant of some long-lost agent. The brassard will answer to the invocation, in due course. Come, we must hurry!”
They marched on, the weather around them returning to its more natural state, the air warming and the snow melting. There was still a clot of darkness ahead, but clearly Xavva was saving its strength, for the black cloud no longer stretched across the horizon but was concentrated in an area of a few hundred yards about the godlet.
A few times they caught sight of Xavva itself, for they were descending a broad slope toward the Smallest Sea and there were several sections where it was quite steep and the height extended their view, cloud notwithstanding. But always the snow swirled and closed about the godlet, so they saw little beyond that it was still using three sets of legs in an ungainly motion that provided slightly slower locomotion than the pursuers could manage on their own better-twinned pairs of legs.
“The Simirila have thrown down the bridges,” remarked Mister Fitz, who could see more clearly through the snowy cloud. The Smallest Sea was little more than a lake, dotted with many islands, which were connected by a multitude of bridges of many different makes and load capacities, forming a veritable maze of water crossings that usually required a local and not inexpensive guide to navigate, particularly if requiring bridges that might support wagons or draft animals.
“We will catch it on the shore, then,” said Sir Hereward. “What do you intend? Don the brassards and close? We two distract Xavva as best we may while Fyltak takes off Eudonia’s head with the God-Taker?”
He spoke lightly, but with the clear knowledge that the godlet was almost certainly still potent enough to draw out the life essence of any or all would-be distractors, regardless of the protection offered by the brassards. The only question would be if the godlet could do it quickly enough to avoid the banishing stroke from Fyltak’s sword.
“I fear the lack of a bridge does not halt the godlet,” replied Mister Fitz, blue eyes bright. “It is making its own, of ice. Come, we must be on the ice it makes before it melts again!”
Sir Hereward broke into a run, the basket bobbing up and down on his back. Fyltak ran at his side, exhibiting none of the puffing and blowing he had done before when they had met him earlier that day, adding credence to his story about how brandishing the sword slowed all around him, including the air.
There was a layer of ice on the muddy shore, which cracked under their bootheels, but the broad swathe that led out across the water looked considerably thicker, much to Sir Hereward’s relief. He paused by the shore to drop the basket before testing the ice with his sword. It held against several blows, and he stepped out upon it, causing no cracks or disturbing movement. Despite the thick ice underfoot, it was not particularly cold.
“Xavva expends much of its strength upon the ice bridge,” said Mister Fitz, bending down to inspect the newly frozen surface of the lake. “That is good. It is only fifty or sixty yards ahead of us now. Come, don the brassards. We shall do as you suggest, Hereward, the two of us distracting it for Fyltak to make the banishing blow. Fyltak, you must strike for the neck and take the head off with a single blow. Can you do that?”
Fyltak licked his lips nervously, then nodded. He hesitated further for a moment, then drew the lorgnette out of his cuirass and wrapped the cord around his head to keep the lenses balanced on his nose.
“Not the best eyes,” he said. “But I can do what must be done. I am Fyltak the God-Taker!”
“After this, you will be indeed,” muttered Sir Hereward, who was pulling his brassard over the sleeve of his buff coat, not an easy operation with fingers still numb f
rom cold. He thought, but did not say aloud, “if you live.”
“Remember to drop the sword as soon as the stroke is through,” instructed Mister Fitz. “Now, slide the brassard up your arm, and we will do the declaration as we hurry along. Repeat what Sir Hereward and I say. Are you ready?”
“Yes. I…I am ready.”
Knight and puppet spoke together, with Fyltak a few moments behind. The symbol on their brassards shone more brightly with every word, the God-Taker’s no less brilliant, for all its antiquity.
“In the name of the Council of the Treaty for the Safety of the World, acting under the authority granted by the Three Empires, the Seven Kingdoms, the Palatine Regency, the Jessar Republic, and the Forty Lesser Realms, we declare ourselves agents of the Council. We identify the godlet manifested on the ice ahead as Xavva-Tish-Laqishtax, a listed entity under the Treaty. Consequently, the said godlet and all those who assist it are deemed to be enemies of the World and the Council authorizes us to pursue any and all actions necessary to banish, repel, or exterminate the said godlet.”
When they finished the declaration, Fyltak had a broad smile upon his face.
They had been walking while they spoke, but now Mister Fitz urged them to move more quickly.
“Faster! The godlet sprints for an island, and the fools have only thrown down the closer bridges!”
The puppet ran ahead, bending almost double and using his hands as well as his feet, his spindly limbs making him all too reminiscent of some injured spider that had lost half its legs. Sir Hereward galloped after him, both pistols drawn, with Fyltak close behind, who had not yet drawn his sword.
As they ran, the snow cloud ahead dissipated, pulling apart to become mere streaks across the sky. They saw Xavva clearly, a hundred yards short of the closest island. But it was not moving straight for the shore. Two of its legs were trying to take it back the way it had come, and the others were straining to go forwards, resulting in a crabwise, sprawling motion.
“Eudonia has risen within it!” cried Mister Fitz. “Quickly now!”
He matched action to his words, drawing his triangular blade to send it whirring through the air as fast as a crossbow bolt. It struck one of the added-on legs above the knee, inflicting a terrible wound, but not severing it as he had hoped. The knife, deeply embedded in bone, stuck there. Fitz reached inside his sleeves and drew two more blades, longer and sharper versions of the sorcerous needles he more commonly used.
Sir Hereward paused, went down on one knee, aimed for a second and fired both pistols at the midsection of the godlet. One ball whizzed past. The other struck, but as far as he could tell had no effect. The knight threw the pistols aside and drew his sword, charging onward with a wild shout he hoped would serve to distract the attention of the godlet from the real attack, delivered by Fyltak.
Who slipped over on the ice and fell, the God-Taker sword sliding from his grasp.
At that moment, Xavva stopped, reached down to break a splintered piece of fallen bridge out of the ice, and turned to its pursuers, raising its makeshift weapon over its head. An oak beam longer than Hereward was tall, this terrible club was liberally dotted with iron bolts, and a single blow would doubtless be fatal.
The godlet advanced on Hereward, who slipped and skidded backwards in an effort to arrest his forward momentum. Mister Fitz circled around the godlet, needles ready, but even if he could successfully close, it was doubtful sharp steel could do more than irritate it.
Fyltak got to his feet. His lorgnette had fallen off, but he still spotted his sword upon the ice. He staggered over to it and lifted it with both hands.
But the godlet paid him no attention, apparently completely fixated on Sir Hereward. It was only as it got closer he saw that Eudonia’s eyes were open now, albeit crazed and washed with the violent violet light of remnant energy from the sorcerous needles.
“Aberration!” spat the witch’s mouth. Clearly, the godlet was no longer fully in charge of the body, but this was not the hoped-for improvement Sir Hereward and Mister Fitz had counted on, as his great-great-aunt’s animosity to the boy-witch had remained when so much else of her personality had been eroded in the long contest with the godlet.
“Aunt Eudonia!” cried Hereward. He retreated again, but he could feel the ice cracking and shifting under his bootheels. Now the witch was back in charge, the godlet was not freezing the water. “I charge you to assist us as an Agent of the Treaty!”
“Vile spawn,” muttered the witch, following these words with a sudden smashing blow with the bridge timber that sent a fountain of exploded ice up into the air. Hereward leapt aside as the club came down, and scuttled sideways for more solid ice, but his foot broke through and he fell forwards. Twisting around, he raised his sword in a futile attempt to block a further blow, just as Mister Fitz jumped to the witch’s shoulders and plunged his needles into the witch’s insane eyes.
Eudonia—or the godlet, or both—screamed. But it was a scream of rage rather than pain. It threw the timber away, narrowly missing Sir Hereward, and one hand grabbed Mister Fitz and hurled him away too, far away, over the ice and into the water.
Sir Hereward freed his foot and crawled on his elbows and knees over the ice, faster than he had ever crawled before. Half of him hoped the godlet or Eudonia or Xavva or whatever the thing behind him currently was would follow and be distracted, and half of him desperately hoped it wouldn’t.
At the edge of the island, he hit mud instead of ice, rolled over, and looked back. Xavva was following him, blind face pressed close to the lake surface, nose sniffing, hands reaching, head twitching from side to side as it sought to catch sounds as well as scent.
Fyltak was behind it, moving with a peculiarly swift and liquid grace, the God-Taker sword raised high, the brassard bright upon his arm.
“Eudonia! Xavva! Over here!” screamed Sir Hereward, as he drew himself to his feet and readied himself to run as best he could.
The godlet sprang up too, its legs bunched to spring forwards, just as Fyltak swung his sword. The blade met the thing’s neck and cut through with a sound like the mainmast of a great ship snapping in a hurricane or an overpowered siege cannon blowing itself apart. The blade burned away like a powder trail as Fyltak finished the cut, but the head toppled from the neck and rolled across the ice, which in that same moment was crazed with a thousand cracks.
Fyltak dropped the sword hilt, emitted a euphoric shout, took one step and fell through the ice into the Smallest Sea. A moment later the unnaturally chilled waters also claimed the God-Taker sword hilt and burned-out stub of a blade, and the body and head of Eudonia, with or without the godlet still within.
Sir Hereward took three swift steps into the now-open water, which was littered with tiny chunks of ice similar to those chipped into the cool drinks of that same city of Simiril which lay ahead and supplied Fyltak’s coffee, but he stopped when the water came to his waist. He was too heavily clothed and booted to swim, and the water was very cold. Besides, there was a small chance that Xavva-Tish-Laqishtax was not in fact banished after all.
He looked around for Mister Fitz, fully expecting the puppet to have swum ashore. The puppet had done so, but Sir Hereward was shocked to see Mister Fitz’s upper body in its dripping blue jacket was canted to one side at an odd angle. Though made of papier-mâché and wood, the puppet was constructed of sorcerous versions of said materials, which were extraordinarily difficult to damage. But here he was, most evidently damaged.
“You are injured!” exclaimed Hereward, rushing to his side. But the puppet waved him off.
“It is nothing,” he said. “Merely the alignment of a joint in my spine, which I will adjust as soon as my sewing case is replenished. Have you seen any sign the godlet persists? Movement under the water?”
“No,” replied Hereward, turning to gaze upon the ice-cube-spattered waters. “Yes! There!”
A shadow was moving under the water. Sir Hereward and Mister Fitz drew back as it broke through the s
urface in a sudden explosion of ice cubes.
Fyltak stood there, huffing and blowing and shivering, before quickly wading in to be greeted with a comradely backslap from Sir Hereward, who was rapidly readjusting his views on his unlooked-for ally.
“I thought you drowned for certain!” exclaimed the knight. “In cuirass and boots and cloak, no man could swim ashore!”
“Nor could they,” coughed Fyltak. “I walked upon the bottom of the lake. I told you I was trained in the arts of the sponge divers of Zhelu.”
“And I am glad of it!” exclaimed Sir Hereward. “Ah, did you perchance see anything of Xavva-Tish-Laqishtax while you were down there?”
Fyltak jumped and twisted about to look behind him.
“No!” he cried, suddenly shaking even more. “I had thought…it is banished is it not!”
“I am not certain it is,” replied Mister Fitz. “The water clouds my sight…”
The lopsided puppet shifted clumsily, turning his whole body rather than just his head, to gaze upon a stretch of water some fifty yards distant.
“It is still here,” he said. “Greatly diminished, but still here.”
Even as he spoke, a ghastly, headless thing crawled out of the lake on all fours. It had lost not only its head, but the extra legs as well, torn off in the explosion caused by the conjoining of godlet-possessed sword and the entity within Eudonia’s body. Despite raw gaping wounds at neck and hip, no blood flowed.
It did not attempt to stand, but moved fully onto the land, pausing to shake itself, an unnerving sight given that it had no head.
“What…what do we do?” asked Fyltak.
“Move away quietly,” said Mister Fitz in a whisper. The puppet followed his own advice, stepping out swiftly and surely though his torso remained twisted. “Tread lightly, breathe shallowly, stay calm.”
“But it has no head, it cannot hear…or see us,” said Fyltak as he too hurried away, glancing anxiously back over his shoulder.
“There are other senses,” replied Mister Fitz. “I fear it will be swift, once it locates us. But if we make that bridge, perhaps we can lure it into the water once more…Hereward! Why do you stop?”
The Book of Swords Page 30