As was fitting, the temple of the Ima’il-Kush was located near the center of the largest inhabited continent, on an island in a small inland sea that was in fact the central peak of an ancient meteor impact crater. It was served both by boats that hailed from the four large cities founded along the circular edge of the sea, and long elevated causeways to each city, built of white stone with thin veins of gold that shimmered in the sun. The Kal’ai-Il was, of course, at the center, surrounded by the temple’s arenas. The other buildings that served as living and work areas for the robed ones were laid out to one side, and the great coliseum that housed the Ima’il-Kush Crystal of Souls was to the other, with the stables for the magtheps in the rear. While the layout was similar, the stone from which the buildings of this temple were made came from the same quarries as that used to build the causeway, making the entire complex glitter and shine in the sun, and explode with every color of the rainbow at sunrise and sunset.
Keel-Tath never had a chance to appreciate the temple’s beauty. Shivering from the infinite cold of their transit, she and Sian-Al’ai found themselves in the middle of a horrific battle every bit as fierce as that which had swept the Desh-Ka priesthood from its ancient home. While the scene was bereft of any sign of Syr-Nagath’s forces, hundreds of priests and priestesses were engaged in battle, turning the island into a scene of raging bedlam. She watched as those who had preserved the Way for a hundred thousand cycles fell upon one another like animals, casting aside their most ancient and deeply held beliefs. Most used swords, the blades moving faster than the eye could see, but many used both swords and their higher powers. Water, fire, stone, and even the very air they breathed were used as weapons. The powers of the priesthoods were largely drawn from elemental forces of nature; all that was lacking was the cyan lightning of the Desh-Ka. She heard the clash of steel and the war cries of the priests and priestesses, and the air was full of the bitter tang of hot metal mixed with the coppery scent of blood. A vortex of smoke and ash spiraled upward into the sky, blotting out the sun.
Keel-Tath’s eye caught movement on the causeway, and she was relieved to see that the robed ones and younglings were being allowed to flee unharmed.
“Come!” She turned as Sian-Al’ai tugged impatiently on her arm, dragging Keel-Tath’s attention from the scene. They stood on the overlook occupied by the coliseum, which seemed to be outside the worst of the fray.
Shaking herself, Keel-Tath turned to follow the priestess as she dashed up the smooth obsidian walkway that led to the coliseum’s massive entry door.
They hadn’t made more than ten steps before they were confronted by four of the enemy, two of the T’lan-Il and one each from the Kura-Hagil and Ana’il-Rukh.
“At last you have returned,” one of them said. “We have awaited you, high priestess of the Ima’il-Kush.”
“And you have brought us the white-haired child,” said another, his cold gaze landing on Keel-Tath.
Sian-Al’ai stood calm before them. “I give you one chance to stand aside, my brothers and sisters.”
“And we give you one chance to hand over the child and renounce your heresy,” the thickly muscled priest of the Ana’il-Rukh rumbled.
Turning to Keel-Tath, Sian-Al’ai said softly, “If you are what I believe you are, the temple door should open at your touch.” With a sad smile she added, “May thy Way be long and glorious, child of Anuir-Ruhal’te.”
Keel-Tath was just opening her mouth to reply when Sian-Al’ai, her sword already drawn, flew toward the others, her blade slashing impossibly fast.
Holding her own sword at the ready, Keel-Tath darted to the left, skirting the savage melee, intent on reaching the door.
An enemy priest appeared in front of her. With reactions drilled into her by Ayan-Dar and Ria-Ka’luhr since she was old enough to hold a wooden training sword, Keel-Tath used her momentum to carry her forward into a slashing attack that the priest easily parried. Pirouetting to the right, she blocked the priest’s parry while drawing her dagger. Pressing the priest’s sword upward with her own to expose his midsection, she thrust the dagger forward.
Had it been any other opponent she was likely to meet in open combat, the gambit likely would have led to a swift victory. Instead, the priest grunted — a sound which she took for grudging admiration — before deftly sidestepping clear of her dagger and slamming his free hand into the side of her head.
Dazed, with stars in her eyes and feeling as if she had been struck with a hammer, she stumbled and nearly fell.
“Your courage brings honor to your name, young one,” the priest said as he knocked the sword and dagger from her hands with flicks of his own blade, “but this challenge is over. It would not do for you to be injured. Yield with honor.”
She stared at him, the fire in her blood raging. “I will never yield, to you or any other!”
As if moving of their own accord, she raised her hands, the open palms pointing to the priest, who cocked his head with uncertainty. She felt something, or someone, guiding her. It felt as if Ayan-Dar were standing close behind her, his hands guiding hers to demonstrate the proper stroke of a sword.
The priest before her was just opening his mouth to say something when the boom of thunder rocked the temple and cyan lightning burst from Keel-Tath’s palms.
But as the lightning struck the priest, something strange happened. Everything seemed to stop. The priest was frozen in the act of being hurled backward toward the door of the coliseum. Sian-Al’ai was frozen, her sword just about to strike the neck of one of her opponents. Crimson stained her armor where one of the other enemy priests had struck a blow. The remaining two priests were caught in the act of disappearing and reappearing, trying to find a position of advantage against Sian-Al’ai, their bodies only partially rendered in this reality.
The battle all across the temple stood still, like an ancient pictograph from the Books of Time. Even the dust motes that swirled across the island hung suspended, unmoving.
Gingerly, Keel-Tath moved her hands, then turned and took a step toward Sian-Al’ai. The motes in the air moved out of her way, slowly, as if caught in a viscous liquid rather than air. Reaching out to the priestess’s blade, she moved it fractionally toward Sian-Al’ai’s opponent until the edge nicked the priest’s neck. Then she moved it back to where it had been.
She knew then that, using this frozen moment in time, she could easily have killed the priests and priestesses who had come to subdue the Ima’il-Kush. All of them.
Looking at the priest who had blocked her path, she was tempted to do just that. She could destroy him and all those who stood against her here and now. And having done so, could she not also dispose of Syr-Nagath just as easily?
Picking up her sword, she stood close by the priest she had hit with lightning, which itself hung in the air, a web of energy sinking into the priest’s armor, the brilliant cyan so bright she was forced to squint. She put the blade to his throat. It would be so easy…
But the Way as she had been taught was anything but easy. It was fraught with danger and difficulty since the day a youngling left the creche. Death was often close, and became a bosom companion as the cycles wore on, particularly for the warriors. But there were worse things than death. Bearing the burden of dishonor, laying down all that she had ever held dear simply to smite her enemies, was perhaps the worst. From that there could be no redemption. Not for the child of Anuir-Ruhal’te.
And this priest, indeed every priest and priestess of all the orders, was one among her people. Perhaps not of her blood, but one of her kin all the same. If she was to unite her people and lead them, let alone defeat the threat posed by Syr-Nagath, she would need the greatest of powers. And that power, at this arrested moment in time, was mercy.
She lowered her sword. Stepping close to the priest, she held out her free hand to touch the cyan lightning, which gradually diminished in its intensity from the killing blow it otherwise would have been. She knew other lives would yet be lost thi
s day, but none would be by her own hand.
Stepping around the priest, she made her way to the great door to the coliseum and pressed her palm to the ancient wood, inlaid with runes of silver and gold that proclaimed this place the heart of the Ima’il-Kush. The door opened inward with the most gentle push of her hand to reveal the darkness within.
Sheathing her sword, she took a deep breath before stepping across the threshold.
The door swung silently shut behind her.
***
Syr-Nagath stood on the command deck of one of her newly completed starships. One of six in the first squadron of her rapidly growing fleet, it was nearing the Great Moon. Other ships had already departed to attack the Settlements, and more, many more, would follow in their wakes, bearing thousands of Ka’i-Nur warriors and tens of thousands of warriors from the other bloodlines. She would join them soon, but she had to attend to the Great Moon first. Her fingers drummed against the armrest of the central command chair, the tips of her talons scoring the metal. Her blood trilled with excitement as the squadron approached. From her son’s eyes, she knew that only a handful of priests and priestesses stood in defense of the palace, and they were only Ima’il-Kush. The far more deadly Desh-Ka remained incapacitated. She discounted the acolytes and warriors such as Dara-Kol. They were hardly a threat, especially to the hundreds of armored Ka’i-Nur warriors who rode in the holds of the ships.
Ulan-Samir stood beside her, silent. Along the rear wall of the command deck stood more of his order, ready to attack. He glared at the view screen, which displayed a crystal clear image of the enormous palatial complex on the moon’s surface. He scowled and clenched his armored fists.
“I still do not understand,” he said in a rasping voice. “What happened was impossible.”
“You could not have known,” she told him. “Even I did not know.”
Choosing to use up more of the blood of the priesthoods, Syr-Nagath had ordered Ulan-Samir to send a host of his own order to take Keel-Tath’s refuge by storm. The attack, however, had not gone at all according to plan. The priests and priestesses vanished into the ether, willing themselves to their destination, and an instant later Ulan-Samir felt them die in searing agony. None survived to return and reveal the nature of this unknown menace.
While Syr-Nagath wanted to destroy the priesthoods in the end, she had no intention of wasting what remained of Ulan-Samir’s priesthood in a second attack. That would have involved calling back those who had joined with the other orders to attack the Ima’il-Kush, and she had already had Ulan-Samir strip his temple of its priests and priestesses, leaving only acolytes behind. Instead, she had ordered the first squadron of her starships, which were already standing by for orders, to lift for an attack against the moon. Its Books of Time were too tempting a prize, and if she could manage to capture Keel-Tath and finish off the last of the Desh-Ka, it would be so much the better.
The moon grew as the great ships rapidly approached.
“Its appearance has changed,” Ulan-Samir observed.
Looking closer, Syr-Nagath saw that he was indeed correct. While most of the obsidian surface remained as it had been, a shimmering black, a great disk of territory centered on the palace now featured vivid hues of brown, green, and blue. A few wisps of cloud were even visible in the atmosphere which, according to the shipmaster, was thickening with every passing moment, making it more suitable for breathing. “Life is returning,” Syr-Nagath whispered. She could not help but be awed by the spectacle as the ships drew closer.
“Your orders, mistress?” The shipmaster asked in a deep voice. He was not a warrior, but a robed one, a builder. His hands, as were the other builders and warriors on the command deck, were submerged in a type of symbiont not unlike that used by the healers. The symbionts translated their thoughts into commands the ship could understand. “Should we arm our weapons?”
“No,” Syr-Nagath said. “I do not want the palace badly damaged, if possible. Bring us low enough to deploy my warriors, and beware any traps.”
“We have seen no trace of defensive mechanisms. Yet.” With a bow of his head, the shipmaster returned to his duties.
“Surely they must have noticed our approach?”
Ulan-Samir turned his eyes, which were dead to all emotion in the aftermath of having so many of his order slaughtered at once, to stare at her. “They know. But they understand there is nothing they can do.”
***
“The Dark Queen’s ships approach,” one of the Ima’il-Kush priests informed Dara-Kol. He and one of the priestesses had been standing guard in one of the majestic watchtowers that rose from the palace.
Dara-Kol looked up from where she had been kneeling beside Alena-Khan, who had just regained consciousness, but was yet barely able to speak. “How many?”
“Six huge vessels. And each carries a host of Nyur-A’il.” The priest scowled. “And with them is at least a legion of her silver warriors.”
Dara-Kol’s heart sank. They could not prevail against so many. But at least Keel-Tath was, for the moment, safe. That was all that mattered.
She looked down as Alena-Khan took her hand. Her face and body were no longer charred, but the healers had much work yet to do before she would be fully recovered. “Have faith,” she whispered. To the priest of the Ima’il-Kush, she said, “Do you not feel it?”
“Feel what? I…” His voice trailed off and his eyes widened slightly. Then he turned to look upward, through the enormous panes of crystal that circled the upper portion of the throne room.
Dara-Kol followed his gaze and saw six tiny specks on the horizon. Looking back at Alena-Khan, she asked, “What do you feel?”
“The moon,” the high priestess of the Desh-Ka whispered, a smile creasing her damaged face. “Syr-Nagath is about to face its sword.”
***
The ships swept in, high above the palace. Portals along the lower hull of the great vessels irised open and massive silver-clad warriors, nearly six thousand of them, leaped out.
“Beware!” One of the bridge controllers shouted. One of the screens showed obsidian spires all around the palace, rising from the ground as if they were fast growing trees. Light sparkled at their tops. “Something is…”
The view screens that circled the bridge went white, overloaded by the searing cyan energy that swept the skies. Syr-Nagath cried out in anguish as her warriors were exterminated, their songs in her blood silenced in an instant as they were vaporized.
The ship shuddered, then was shaken like a bone in the jaws of a carrion beast. All who were not secured to their chairs were thrown from one side of the command deck to the other, save those of the priesthood who vanished to safety. The hull rang with a series of deafening booms, and the air was filled with smoke bearing the odor of ozone and burning metal as cascades of sparks burst from the control panels.
“Destroy them!” Syr-Nagath shouted.
“Our weapons are down,” the shipmaster reported with disquieting calm. “We must retreat while we still can.”
With a snarl of rage, realizing that she had been drawn into a trap like an arrogant fool, Syr-Nagath slammed her fist down on the armrest of her command chair.
The ship shook again as it took another hit and the gravity began to fluctuate. Syr-Nagath was overwhelmed by waves of nausea, and several of those on the bridge who were still conscious vomited.
“If we do not withdraw now,” the shipmaster informed her, his calm having finally evaporated, “we will be destroyed. Three of the other ships are already lost. And we cannot jump away, for we are too deep in the gravity well of the moon.”
“Then let us flee.” Syr-Nagath’s stomach heaved as the shipmaster dove the ship toward the moon’s surface, dipping below the horizon where the hellish weapons of the palace were no longer in line of sight, hoping that no other hidden traps awaited them. Once on the moon’s far side, he took them out of the atmosphere and turned for home as the crew frantically worked to keep the ship alive.
Theirs was the only one to escape.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Keel-Tath strode through the darkness, shivering from the biting cold. She was not sure how much time had passed since she had entered the coliseum, but she knew that within a vessel of one of the Crystals of Souls, time as measured in the outside world had little meaning. While her uncertainty about what might lay ahead grew with each step, she felt no fear, for nothing evil could touch her in this place.
“Where are you?" she asked into the darkness, not for the first time, hoping to hear her fallen mentor’s voice.
“I am here, child.”
She stopped, disbelieving her ears even as a flood of joy and relief swept through her. It was Ayan-Dar. “Where are you?”
“Here. Take my hand.”
She reached out and felt his hand, so big and strong, enfold her own.
“I am glad you are here, but how is it possible?" she whispered. “You are Desh-Ka, not Ima’il-Kush.”
“That is so, but in a sense my blood and my soul are bound to yours. Thus, where you go, so can I.” He chuckled. “Or that is my thought on the matter.” In a darker voice, he added, “This is not a trial that you would wish to face alone, my child.”
As he finished speaking, the darkness faded away to reveal the arena at the center of the coliseum of the Ima’il-Kush. But this was far different from that of the Desh-Ka.
Instead of a single dais in the center where the Crystal of Souls would have appeared, five platforms were arrayed around a central dais that was elevated above the others. A set of five steps led down from the top to a gleaming walkway of black stone that crossed the sand, and upon which Keel-Tath and Ayan-Dar stood.
Mistress Of The Ages (In Her Name, Book 9) Page 11