The Gods Return

by David Drake

  The defenders had to have known about the Worm, but they must not’ve understood. There was a rush to get off the battlements right snap! when the creature started toward the walls. People fell and pushed each other off; even soldiers were running, some of them. Cashel grimaced, but he couldn’t have done anything about it even if he’d been there.

  He started the staff circling again, slowly though. This wasn’t for any purpose besides working his muscles while he watched what he couldn’t change. He wondered if he and the quarterstaff would’ve made a difference down there on the walls. He didn’t suppose they could, though he’d be willing to try.

  An angle of the walls poked out to the east, following a wedge of land between two gullies that were dry at least at this time of the year. The Tree was crawling toward it.

  Rasile’s image showed things so well that Cashel could see that the fields—they’d been planted in maize—were torn up behind the Tree. It looked like a whole village of drunken plowmen had driven oxen through them. Gorand was doing what he could to spare people, but anything else had to take its chances.

  The ground trembled even here in the center of the city. It was a constant shudder, enough to keep dust motes dancing over the piles of brick where the walls used to be. Cashel thought it was Gorand, but then the Tree walked around the corner of the wall. The shiver in the ground changed as the Worm turned toward the new enemy.

  The pirates had been standing well back from the Worm. When Gorand appeared they just ran: south back where they’d come from, or west away from the Tree.

  Rasile didn’t seem to do anything, but Cashel found he was seeing the Worm and the Tree up close as they slid together. The Worm had been big when he watched it smash through the walls of Ombis, but it’d gotten a lot bigger since. He wondered how long Archas figured to control it if it kept on growing; but maybe that was why the pirate chief was coming here to the temple.

  The Worm reared, swelling its mouth open the way a whirl pool spreads in still water. It puffed black smoke across a broad swathe of the Tree. Foliage fell away like leaves killed by a late freeze. Even bark sloughed, leaving branches dry and as white as old bone.

  The Worm drove forward, slashing with its murderous tusk. Wood seared by the creature’s poisonous breath crackled and splintered before its attack. Nothing could’ve stopped that onrush, but the long flanks of the Tree closed about the gray body. Cashel could hear the Tree’s movement, a vast hollow sigh like a storm sweeping through a forest in springtime.

  Branches slid across the granite-speckled skin, gripping and lifting it. The Worm twisted, stabbing again. Vines and creepers looped the tusk from all directions, using its leverage to lock the creature’s head.

  The Worm’s mouth opened. More branches caught at the circular lips, pulling them wider and wrestling the creature’s head up. Again the maw spurted black smoke, but this time into the air like a whale blowing. The gout drifted back on the breeze, settling slowly. Some vegetation withered, but patches of the Worm’s tough hide blistered to an angry red also.

  The Worm thrashed, hammering the ground and shaking down houses that the Tree’s passage had weakened. The branches didn’t lose their grip, though, and the long gray body began to stretch.

  The Worm’s tail was still free; it twitched up and slammed repeatedly. Cashel felt the ground throb to the dull hammerblows well after each stroke, the way thunder follows distant lightning.

  The Worm tried to coil, dragging part of the Tree along for a distance. The roots dug down to bedrock, scraping up soil in a growing ridge.

  Even the Worm’s strength failed after a time: the motion slowed, then stopped. The Tree’s foliage rustled, but for a moment nothing happened; Cashel wondered if maybe Gorand had worn himself out in the grapple too.

  Portions of the Tree strained in opposite directions, still holding the Worm like algae to a rock. The long gray body stretched and stretched further. The maw spurted liquid, not the corrosive smoke, and the tail twirled in a desperate spiral instead of drumming the ground.

  The Worm tore open, pouring out sluggish fluids and fat coils of intestine; Cashel heard a ripping sound like nothing in his experience. The skin at the edges of the tear pulled back.

  The Worm shrank like a slug which the sun caught on bricks. Though Gorand released it, the gray corpse continued to shrivel.

  The Tree, still bearing white scars from the battle, reformed itself into a compact mass instead of the hollow circle it’d been here in the enclosure. It walked slowly toward the west.

  “Isn’t it coming back?” Liane asked quietly.

  Cashel shrugged. “Gorand spent a lot of time in that cabin where we found him,” he said. “He’s took care of the Worm the way he said he would, but he’s holding the coin himself now. I guess he wants to see some of the world, or anyway a part of it that isn’t Dariada.”

  “Warrior Cashel?” said Rasile is a raspy voice. “I said I would tell you when the Warrior Archas neared. He is here now.”

  She pointed her short, hairy arm toward the east side of the enclosure opposite where the Priests’ House stood. A big man with a braided blond beard climbed over the pile of rubble. His chest was bare except for leather crossbelts hung with weapons, and he held curved swords in both hands.

  He crossed the empty ground, drawing circles with his sword points. “I am Fallin, God of the Sea!” he shouted.

  “No,” said Cashel, stepping into the ruined temple, “you’re not.”

  He began to spin his quarterstaff. The butt caps crackled spirals of blue wizardlight.

  PUT THAT FISH spear down,” snapped Ilna to the armored woman, “or I’ll take it away from you!”

  Hili laughed and pointed the trident at Perrin and Perrine, the humans nearest to her. They cringed and clung together, too frightened even to run.

  Ilna had been poised to reknot the cords whose truth had driven the great ape mad. She threw down the strands of sisal. Everything had suddenly become clear to her; the real pattern stretched in all directions.

  It was perfectly beautiful—it was perfect. Everything was obvious, woven into its proper place. She was disgusted with herself not to have understood it before. She began to weave again, not with her hands and not needing anything material to work with.

  Hili’s trident jabbed toward the prince and princess, a motion rather than a real thrust. Black, crackling lightning twisted from its points. The twins flew back screaming, their silken garments smoldering where the sparks had touched them. The armored giant laughed merrily.

  “You prancing fool,” Ilna said, coldly furious. She hadn’t really thought the giant would listen to her, though. She stepped forward, casting the new pattern before her.

  Hili turned toward the movement in surprise, then stabbed at Ilna with a expression of rage. Her lightning sizzled and caught in Ilna’s pattern. Its meshes curled around Hili like a minnow net and closed.

  Hili shrieked, ripping her trident through the encirclement. She was no longer a giant. The place they fought wasn’t the cavern either, but in a corner of Ilna’s mind she could see the door to that stone prison standing open. The captives were streaming out behind Usun. Perrin and Perrine were being carried by the ape servants, while the twins’ aged parents stumbled along behind.

  “No one can oppose me!” Hili shouted, gripping her trident in both hands and shoving the points toward Ilna’s face. “I am God!”

  The trident blasted glittering black fire again. Ilna’s reformed pattern tangled the bolts, stretching as it dragged them to silent oblivion.

  Ilna stepped forward, weaving a new pattern. She smiled coldly. What the other woman meant was that nobody could successfully oppose her, which the recent past should’ve taught her was a lie. But just to oppose this ranting bully—Ilna would’ve done that if it certainly meant her life. You didn’t give into bullies.

  And it wasn’t as though life meant a lot to her anyway.

  Hili danced aside, her handsome features suddenly as
cold as a statue’s. Hair-fine needles rained from the trident’s points. Ilna’s net caught most of the cascade, but pain shivered across her skin and under her eyeballs. She could see nothing but black pain.

  Ilna drew her pattern tight. She didn’t ignore the pain—it couldn’t be ignored; it was her whole being—but she did what was necessary anyway, as she’d always done.

  There was a squawk of surprise; the pain stopped and a moment later Ilna could see again. Hili was struggling in Ilna’s net, slashing at it with the trident though the meshes fouled her limbs. She broke free at last and stood glaring at her opponent.

  Ilna had been breathing hard. She straightened and began to repair her pattern. There wasn’t as much damage this time. She considered making the strands thinner and the meshes tighter so that they would better protect her, but that wasn’t really necessary. It was only pain, after all.

  She started forward, her pattern swirling before her.

  Hili hunched, holding out her trident. She screamed like a trapped wildcat, then retreated instead of attacking.

  Ilna smiled without humor and continued toward the other woman. She didn’t know how this was going to end, but she was going to keep on going until she’d ended it.

  The trident spat a net of sparkling blackness that pressed against Ilna’s pattern instead of trying to stab through it. Ilna paused, not stopped by her opponent but stopping to measure Hili’s strength. Yes, this would do. . . .

  Ilna’s pattern enveloped the pulsing black and the trident it sprang from. The cosmos twisted. Hili gave a despairing shriek; her protection and power vanished as if thrown into bottomless quicksand.

  Ilna paused, breathing hard again. “You should have listened to me,” she said. “But you’re not the first one who didn’t.”

  She started forward.

  Hili retreated, her face desperate. “I yield!” she cried. She threw down her helmet and fumbled for the catches of her body armor. “I surrender to you! I am your slave!”

  “You’re mistaking me for my brother Cashel,” Ilna said as she continued to advance. “He’s a much nicer person than I am.”

  Ilna spread the pattern that had just crushed the trident out of existence. Howling, Hili turned to run. She stumbled, threw her arms out before her, and fell—not downward but out, shrinking and screaming and finally vanishing into utter blackness.

  “Now that, dear heart,” said Chalcus, “was as nice a piece of work as I ever hope to see.”

  “We’ve been waiting for you, Ilna,” said Merota. “I’m glad you’ve come.”

  Ilna embraced them. She was crying. She never cried.

  “Sharina needs help still, of course,” said Chalcus, “but that can wait for a moment. Dear heart, dear love, dear life of my life.”

  The King of Man’s former prisoners had reached the surface of the valley. With little Usun standing on an overturned cart to lead the cheers, they shouted, “Honor to the Sister! All praises to the Sister!”

  Ilna cried and hugged her family.

  CASHEL SPUN HIS staff sunwise in a figure eight as he walked forward, then switched the hand that led on the shaft and reversed its rotation. He wasn’t being fancy and he sure wasn’t trying to spook the pirate; Archas pretty clearly wasn’t the sort to spook. Cashel just needed to be sure his muscles were ready for whatever happened.

  Archas, Fallin as he called himself now, laughed. “If you get out of my way, you stupid ox,” he said cheerfully, “then I’ll kill you quickly. If not, I’ll take my time . . . and I’ll let you live in pieces. Forever.”

  His swords did a pretty dance in opposite directions to each other, spinning off wizardlight as bright as necklaces of rubies. He stepped in and, though his lips were still laughing, his right-hand sword thrust at Cashel’s heart.

  The quarterstaff blocked it with a ferrule and a bang! like a ram battering an iron-faced door. Wizardlight spewed out in a mixed shower. When red sparks landed on Cashel’s wrist and arm, they stung and the little hairs shriveled up. Archas jumped back, though, swearing like the pirate he was; the scattered blue light had sprayed him too.

  Cashel grinned and held where he was for a moment, keeping the staff moving widdershins. Archas didn’t look much like a god now.

  The pirate came in quickly, his right hand stabbing again but chopping with his left a half-heartbeat later. Cashel was moving before the strokes even started. Even so he couldn’t have blocked both, but his quarterstaff met the thrust. The blast knocked him and Archas back, just like it had before.

  The air had the burned smell of nearby lightning. Cashel wasn’t in the old temple anymore, and Liane and Rasile weren’t anywhere about.

  He got his quarterstaff back into a rhythm. This time he stepped forward instead of letting Archas come to him.

  “I am Fallin!” the pirate shouted again.

  Cashel straightened the staff into a thrust, left hand leading. Archas brought his swords together like scissor blades on the straps of the butt cap, catching it and stopping the stroke like Cashel had punched the side of a cliff.

  The shock hurled them apart again. Cashel’s palms tingled all the way to his elbows, and there were blisters on both forearms.

  Cashel set the staff spinning, sunwise this time. He was breathing through his mouth. He stepped in again, just moving forward. The tips of the quarterstaff knitted a round of vivid blue before him, like the sky on a cloudless summer afternoon.

  He and Archas circled on a featureless black plain. The stars gleamed above, not the familiar constellations but all stars, a universe of stars, each shining with a subtle difference in color.

  Archas tapped his sword points against the sparkling blue shield in a pattern as careful as a spider placing the lines of her web. Part of Cashel’s mind knew that what he saw—the staff and the swords—wasn’t really what was happening anymore, but it was easier to imagine it in the fashion he was used to.

  Cashel felt growing pressure. His arms ached like he was pushing a board through sand, heaping up the pile in front of him. His shield dimpled with each touch of a sword, and spots of heat swelled behind the dents. He kept walking forward, slower now but still moving. He wondered how long this could last.

  Archas’ blond hair spread like a halo. His beardless face was smiling, but there were beads of sweat on the pirate’s clear brow.

  Cashel took another step, as slow as ice creeping down a roof under its own weight. It was like pushing a mountain.

  People thought fighting was about how strong you were. That was part of it, sure, but there are other strong people around. Then it came down to timing.

  Cashel twisted and thrust like he held a spear. Archas might even have seen the stroke coming—he was that good—but this time he couldn’t shift his swords to block it. The butt of the quarterstaff smashed into a blazing blue sun that filled the black cosmos.

  It seemed like Archas—Fallin—was screaming, but maybe that was a marsh hawk. Cashel stood on a hill under an ilex tree. There were ever so many sheep in the meadow about him. The sun was bright, and insects buzzed among the flowers.

  Cashel stretched, smiling lazily. There was one more thing to take care of before he got back to the regular business of watching his flock.

  Still smiling, Cashel strode off to find Sharina. He began to spin his quarterstaff in slow arcs, staying loose for when he needed his strength again.

  SHARINA WALKED TOWARD the cloud-wrapped, thunder-roaring figure Who lashed rain and hail onto the army below. Franca might be god of some skies, but the heavens have many moods. The slashing violence of a storm was only one of them.

  Franca’s eyes flashed fury beneath His black brows. “Are you here to fight me, child?” he boomed. “Go back to your cradle!”

  He extended His arms, spreading His fingers toward her. Lighting rippled from His palms and dissipated in the air between them.

  “I’m not here to fight,” Sharina said. She smiled at Him. She’d loved thunderstorms as a little girl, standing
thrilled in the rain and delighted to be part of their power and flashing radiance. “I’m here to bring peace, for you as well if you’ll accept it.”

  Beneath her, flowers bloomed on the rolling hills. Grasses sprang up to recover the royal army’s broad, muddy track; they were a brighter green than that of the meadows to either side.

  “Peace?” said Franca, and the land shuddered. “The peace of the grave, you mean!”

  His lightning blasted, this time in a continual torrent; ripping from all sides, tearing the cosmos apart in thorny crackling chaos. Sharina’s bright comfort met the violence and washed it away like dust sluiced from windows by the spring rains.

  She extended her hand toward Franca and said, “Real peace, for you and for everyone. Take my hand.”

  “Never!” Franca said. He launched another rush of lightning to push her back.

  Sharina spread her arms, bringing warm sunlight to the soil. She didn’t budge from the spot, but she couldn’t advance either.

  She thought of the big knife in her belt and smiled in soft amusement. There was a place for violence; but not for her; not now.

  “Death!” cried the thunder. “Death and destruction and chaos! Chaos! As it was, so shall it be forever!”

  “I might have been able to agree about death,” said Ilna. “But not destruction. And as for chaos, if you’re so fond of that—we’ll send you there.”

  A net wove itself around Franca. He roared. The world would have shattered, but Sharina sheltered it beneath her cloak of light.

  Franca’s lightning tore Ilna’s pattern, but it rewove even as the blazing edges of His power passed on.

  Sharina looked at her friend and thought, She isn’t cruel. But she has no more mercy than the turning stars. Ilna wore a cold smile, though her pleasure was in the craftsmanship rather than the result of that craft.

  Cashel joined them. “This is the last one, then?” he said.

  “Cashel, you’re here too?” said Sharina. She’d felt peace and contentment, but now joy swept the cosmos.