by David Drake
Then the Archai would take the weapon away from him. It was still something to try.
“Did you think you were free, Tilphosa?” the wizard said. “The Mistress guided you here, as surely as She guided me to meet you. She's the Mistress of All; Her web is the whole of present time.”
“Not my mistress, Metra,” Tilphosa said in a tight voice. Her tense arm muscles showed she was struggling against the grip of the two Archai holding her, though neither she nor they moved that Cashel could see. The insect monsters were deceptively strong.
“Your Mistress still, girl,” Metra said. “The Mistress of All, whether you choose to believe it or not.”
She leaned forward and slipped the ruby ring onto the fourth finger of Tilphosa's left hand. Stepping back, she continued, “You will join Lord Thalemos, as the Mistress planned. And when you do, your rings combined will open the way for Her to return.”
Tilphosa clenched and unclenched her fist, trying to work the jewel onto the underside of her finger so that it didn't catch the light. Metra gestured; one of the Archai straightened the girl's hand again and rotated the ring back to where it had been.
“The next time you do that,” the wizard said, “they'll break your fingers. That won't affect the spell, you realize.”
Cashel squirmed forward. If he got a little closer, he could swing his legs to knock the Archa holding Tilphosa's left hand off its—
One of the creatures behind Cashel gripped his ankle with the pincer of a forelimb and jerked him back. Cashel felt the tickle of blood starting to run down his heel.
Metra's peal of laughter began discordantly and rose to a cackle just this side of madness. “I've been with the Mistress often since you left,” she said. “Every night She comes to me, Tilphosa. I'm very close to Her now.”
She laughed again, even more wildly than before. Tilphosa watched warily, relaxing her muscles for the moment.
“Did your Mistress make the ring?” Cashel said. He understood Metra, now. She'd taken the Mistress into her mind, and those who the Gods ride don't stay sane or even human. The wizard might decide to do anything; if Cashel got her talking, it might pull her back toward sanity before a whim told her to cut Tilphosa's throat.
“Not Her,” Metra said triumphantly. “The Intercessor Echea fashioned the rings, the ruby and the sapphire.”
“The Intercessor serves the Mistress?” Tilphosa said. “I don't believe you!”
Cashel didn't care about the answers to the questions—they wouldn't help him get loose, which was the only thing important—but it sounded like the girl did. Either way, it kept Metra talking.
“The pattern can only exist once in the cosmos, girl,” Metra said. “Echea hoped to thwart the Mistress by cutting the gems and concealing them, so that we Children of the Mistress could neither find nor form the pattern ourselves. Echea's own wizardry burned her to a husk, but still the Mistress has succeeded!”
Metra's laughter was as brittle as breaking glass. The Archai stood motionless, watching like statues of waxed bronze. Could they understand what the wizard was saying? Now that he thought about it, Cashel wondered if they even heard human speech.
“Echea drove the Archai out of this city, didn't she?” Tilphosa said. “Echea defeated the Mistress.”
“Echea is dead!” Metra shouted. “She's dead, and her descendents will be destroyed! Now, shut your mouth, lady, or I'll have your tongue plucked out. You won't bleed to death in the time I need for you to remain alive.”
“Do as you please, Metra,” the girl said quietly. She seemed calm; completely a lady, completely self-assured even under the present conditions. “I don't know what the future will bring, but I know the past brought your Mistress defeat.”
Metra stared at her. The expression Cashel saw flit across the wizard's face was fear, unmistakably fear. Though it was gone as quickly as it appeared, it gave Cashel the hope he'd been lacking for the last while.
Somebody who says things with perfect assurance is convincing even if when you step out from the words you can see that they're not really certain after all. It's hard to get away from that kind of spell, especially if you're trussed like a hen on market day.
Metra's fright proved that her heart knew that the Mistress could fail, whatever her mind let her mouth say. Cashel's world brightened by a considerable degree.
It didn't change what Cashel would do, of course. He didn't seem to be making any progress working at the cords holding him, but he didn't have a better idea right now. He continued to strain and twist, then relax, in hope that he'd feel a change in his bonds. Not yet, but maybe the next time... .
Metra took her athame from the satchel which held the tools of her art. She looked at it, then put it back and picked up Cashel's quarterstaff instead. The weight made her frown.
“Iron caps,” she said with a tinge of anger as she examined the ferrules. “I believed you at first when you said you weren't a wizard. I should have known better. And only a very powerful wizard can work with iron.”
“Your eyes are wide, Metra,” Tilphosa said. “Even in this bright sun. Have you drugged yourself so you don't have to see the truth?”
The wizard didn't appear to be listening. She began to draw in the courtyard's soft silt with Cashel's staff, making symbols in a circle around Tilphosa.
“Or aren't you really there anymore, is that it?” Tilphosa said, her voice rising with anger. “Is it the Mistress speaking through your body? Your God doesn't care if She leaves you blind after She's done with you!”
Metra dropped the staff without looking where it fell. Even so it was too far away for Cashel to reach, unfortunately. He couldn't have grabbed it anyway, tied as he was, but it would've been good at least to touch the hickory.
Tilphosa glanced down at Cashel. She was emotionally taut and breathing hard. Cashel smiled.
He was proud of his companion: she wasn't giving up even the least little bit. They'd get out of this, he figured; and if they didn't, well, Garric and the others would take care of things.
Metra gave Cashel a cruel smile. “Your staff was the perfect tool to form the words of power,” she said. “You've been a great help to the Mistress.”
She giggled uncontrollably, closing her eyes in her delight. When the fit passed she grinned at Cashel again, and added, “Your sister is named Ilna, isn't she?”
Cashel kept his face impassive.
“Yes, Ilna,” Metra went on. “The Mistress told me. Your sister is aiding the Mistress in Her works just as you are.”
Cashel felt his face growing red. He said nothing, but he strained his arms and legs against each other, trying to snap the cords that joined them. They cut him, but that wouldn't have mattered if he could've felt even a little movement in his bonds.
Metra took a pair of flasks made from sturgeon's bladder from her satchel. They were closed with wooden plugs and tendon overties; she undid the ties and poured pinches of glittering powder from each into the symbols she'd drawn in a circle around Tilphosa. One flask seemed to hold blue vitriol, but the other crystals were the color of cinnabar.
Tilphosa watched with a look of sneering disgust. Though she wasn't bound, the Archai gripped her by both wrist and ankle, holding her as securely as if she'd been nailed to a broad plank.
The sun was at zenith. Metra looked toward it without even trying to shade her eyes. Cashel winced, though the wizard didn't seem to be affected by the blinding glare.
“The time is come,” Metra said in a tone of reverent wonder. She didn't seem to be speaking to anyone, even to herself. She tossed down the flasks without bothering to stopper them over the remaining contents.
Cashel expected the wizard either to pick up his quarterstaff or to take out her own athame. Instead Metra raised her arms straight in the air, and cried, “Noma para sarapamon!”
A spark of red light snapped from Tilphosa's ring and touched the powdered contents. The crystals flared up fiercer than the sun, dual coils of red and blue wrapping
around one another. The twisting column rose higher than the stone walls of the courtyard, waking fresh glints from the tiny ruby.
The blaze thinned, then swelled fiercely again like a great artery pulsing as a heartbeat. “Pseriphtha misontaik thooth,” Metra chanted.
Something bellowed in the swamp. There was a splash and a second bellow, this time closer. It sounded to Cashel like the call of a seawolf, the great marine lizards which had sometimes come ashore to snatch sheep from his flock.
Seawolves lived in the salt sea, not the fresh waters of rivers and swamps like those this city had risen from. There must be something similar here, though.
“Phokensepseu,” said the wizard, “erektathous phokentatou!”
The first flare was beginning to die down. The powder in a deep-dug symbol on the other side of Tilphosa blazed in turn, throbbing in the same rhythm.
“Ptolema ptolemes origines...” Metra said.
Water spouted high enough that Cashel could see the column above the walls surrounding him. An Archa, or perhaps only the head and torso of an Archa, was caught in it. The screaming roar of some great reptile choked off in blood, though the swamp continued to quiver.
The creature hadn't been powerful enough to penetrate the circle of the city's defenders. Cashel had no reason to trust the Intercessor and his allies, but right at the moment he'd have been willing to give the fellow a try.
He twisted against the ropes. Tilphosa was straining also. It was worth a try... .
A third word of power burst into flame as the wizard chanted. The first had sunk to spluttering embers, and the second was a pale ghost of its full glory.
The facets of Tilphosa's ring flashed brighter than reflections should have been in full daylight. They threw a pattern onto the air itself: at first like gnats circling, then more fiercely and spreading into an oval.
Metra was forming a door into another place. Cashel didn't see any way to stop her, but he was pretty sure that somebody'd better do that—and he was closer than other people.
The powder in a fourth word ignited, this time on the side closest Cashel. He braced himself to roll over the flames. An Archa tugged him back with the same brutal efficiency as before; he hadn't even had a chance to move.
“Thiatcha thotho achaipho!” Metra screamed. She staggered with the effort of climaxing her spell. The powder in the three remaining words roared up simultaneously.
Unexpectedly, the Archai holding Tilphosa released the girl. She fell into Cashel when the grip she'd been struggling against no longer held her.
“It's done,” Metra said in a wondering voice. She looked at Cashel and Tilphosa. “I didn't even need your blood, stranger. I thought that was why the Mistress had sent you here, but that wasn't the reason after all.”
“Nobody sent me here,” Cashel said tightly. “Tilphosa, take my knife out and cut me loose.”
Metra blinked and rubbed her eyes. She seemed none the worse for looking into the sun, but the power that had ridden her during the past hour had now released her.
“It doesn't matter what you do,” Metra said calmly. The wizard's emotions seemed to have burned to ash along with the powder she'd poured into the words drawn in the silt. “Your ring can only close the portal from the other side, Tilphosa; and there the Mistress waits to enter Her kingdom.”
Tilphosa tugged Cashel's knife from its sheath of wood battens wrapped and tensioned with rawhide. She sawed the cord tying his hands to his feet, deliberately ignoring Metra and the lens of light forming in the air behind her. Cashel straightened thankfully, then held still for the girl to hack through the bonds holding his wrists.
The Archai didn't interfere. The whole vast crowd of them was staring at the portal as it slowly clarified.
Metra began to laugh. Cashel thought she was having another attack of hysterics; and perhaps it was, but the laughter turned suddenly to tears.
“She is Queen of the World!” the wizard cried. “Her time is come again! Nothing can change Her will!”
The cords broke. Cashel swung his arms forward and flexed them; his wrists were slick with blood.
“Give me the knife!” he said in a husky voice. He'd waited patiently while he had to; now that he could move again, the emotions pumping through his blood threatened to take him over. “I'll get my ankles.”
Metra's portal was an oval of solid light above the words of power. Vague shapes moved on the other side. Though it was noonday in the risen city, it was brighter still in the world Tilphosa's ring had opened.
Cashel's knife was a rural blacksmith's product, not a piece of fine cutlery. The iron blade sharpened easily and took a keen edge, but this rope's tough fibers had dulled it. Cashel set his knife carefully, then pulled until he'd severed the tight bonds.
For a moment he thought the blade would snap instead. He'd already frayed the cord, so he'd have finished breaking free by main strength if he'd had to.
Cashel stood, taking deep breaths as he looked for his quarterstaff. He was dizzy from straining against the ropes for so long. The tags of cord still dangled from his bloody wrists and ankles, but they wouldn't get in his way.
“Cashel, look at this,” Tilphosa said, her voice rising. She knelt in the soft dirt and stared at the hole opening in the fabric of this world. “Look!”
Cashel hadn't been paying much attention to the portal. He glanced at it, slitting his eyes against the glare. A barrier remained between the worlds, though it was becoming thinner, like a puddle in the sun. On the other side were three figures, reptilian though seemingly boneless.
They were slender but very tall. One held a girl in its tentacle; she looked like a poppet in a child's hand. That creature and its companions had pierced her with their spiked tongues and were rasping out the victim's juices like woodpeckers sharing a grub.
“Is that your Mistress, wizard?” Cashel asked.
He picked up his staff, rolling it through the skirt of his tunic to clean off the dirt. The hickory was smoothed by years of his palms' touch and polished with his body oils. Its touch made him feel at home again.
The assembled Archai keened like the winter wind across chimney pots. Those on top of the wall vanished suddenly, leaping down to scramble through the maze of streets leading away.
The Archai inside the courtyard turned as one and struggled in cluttering fury to flee. Warriors jammed the many doorways, hacking at one another in their desperation to escape. The courtyard cleared suddenly; two twitching bodies and a severed forelimb remained on the trampled silt.
Tilphosa rose to her feet. “Metra, what are they?” she said.
Metra stared at the portal; it was clearing as it expanded. Her mouth drooped open, and she seemed to be trying to point with her left hand, but she couldn't get words out.
Tilphosa slapped her hard. “What are they?” she shouted.
“The Pack are loose,” Metra said. “The way between the Mistress and this world is open, but the Pack are loose!”
Metra sat down hard, as though her legs could no longer support her. She began to laugh hysterically.
“Loose!” she shrieked. “All life, everywhere in the cosmos, doomed! We took the Pack from their cell, but now they're loose!”
The portal continued to expand. Cashel wondered how big it would finally become. Big enough to let the Pack through, he guessed.
Cashel spun his staff out at his right side, then overhead. He started with simple circles, then drew figure eights. He didn't feel the fatigue and stiffness of being tied anymore, and the itching pain where his skin had rubbed off was only a faint memory.
“Metra,” Cashel said hoarsely, “how do we close this hole you made?”
The wizard held her sides as she laughed, rocking back and forth. Tilphosa bent and cocked her hand for another slap.
Metra's face cleared. Perfectly lucid and in a tone of cold malevolence, she said, “Shine your ring on the portal from the other side, girl. That's all. It will shrink and close as it's expanding now.
Except that the Pack will suck you dry before they devour all the rest of us!”
Tilphosa straightened and looked at Cashel. “Will you guard me?” she said simply.
“Sure,” said Cashel. “As long as I can.”
The portal was transparent in the center, though the edges had a milky tinge like the membrane inside the shell of a hard-boiled egg. Both the clear portion and the border expanded slowly, like water pooling on a flat surface.
Tilphosa put her hand out to the hole; her flesh passed through unaffected. The creatures on the other side watched; only their tongues moved.
The girl took a deep breath and poised. Cashel stepped between her and the portal. “Guess I'll go first,” he said.
He clambered through. The translucent edge had a spongy feeling, but the clear center was plenty big enough for his body.
The sun here was a hammer. The ground was a stony waste with no sign of life or water. He heard Tilphosa's breath catch as she followed him.
The Pack, swaying like monstrous willow trees, glided toward them on short, fat legs.
As they came, the one holding their first victim tossed the emptied body away.
Ilna's fingers knotted cords with a swift ease that kept her calm. For as far down the valley as her eyes could see, giant spiders were leaving their webs and walking toward her. Their spindly legs and cautious pace reminded her of cripples on crutches.
DRINK HER BLOOD. SUCK HER DRY.
Of course, in these numbers even cripples could kill her. She smiled. It was as good an expression as any to wear as you prepared for death.
Ilna looked over her shoulder, just in case the giants behind her had mounted their side of the dome more quickly than those she'd just watching killing the sheep and shepherd. She found that she wanted to face her slayer rather than feel the sudden icy shock of fangs driving into her body from behind.