More bits emerged from the smoke below. Jewel-bright dragons swooping, kiting, diving and arcing back up again, clawing desperately for height to get out of the way of arrows. A red blossom of fire below.
A knot of archers taking a brave stand and sending volley after volley into the dragons, until someone, by plan or chance, dropped a jar onto the rim of a chariot, splashing driver and horses with liquid fire—and the horses bolted, screaming, straight into the archers, while the driver lurched out of the back, arms flailing, head a ball of flame.
But there, a long line of archers, keeping the dragons off the chariots they protected. A dragon suddenly stiffening, then lurching sideways, and floundering its way back to the safety of the cliffs, one wing web torn and shedding drops of blood.
A lucky arrow hitting a Jouster in Oset-re’s colors . . .
And the battle in the sky was having its effect on those fighting below as well. Some were staring, doing nothing, paralyzed.
But it seemed plenty of them were encouraged by the appearance of their goddess. And there were still far more of them than there were of the people of the Two Kingdoms.
As below, so above. This was belief. And it was power.
The Avatars of Haras and Hattar, Siris and Iris, supported by Seft, flung their weapons of fire and fury at the unchained creature Tamat. Haras sent javelins of sunfire at the hideous creature’s heads, while his father called down lightning from the stars themselves. Hattar shot silver arrow after arrow from the curved moon bow that was her own special weapon, while Iris rained down the Blood of the Earth upon it, white-hot molten stone that sizzled when it struck flesh. The transformed dragons they rode, though not god-ridden, were still possessed of their own vast courage and even greater loyalty. They dared as close as their riders would let them go, darting in and out, dodging Tamat’s lightnings and the dreadful black sky-metal death swords in her hands, and trying to score her with teeth and talon.
From below, Seft’s dark powers lashed out, and connected. They wrapped about the eyes of her three heads, blinding her as much as possible; his magic put fetters and weights on her arms, binding her for moments, making her clumsy, causing her to miss them when she could strike at them. She shook them off, but he sent them again and again and again, and while they lasted, they hampered her.
So far, none of them had taken any serious injury that a moment’s attention from Iris could not heal.
As above, so below. This battle, too, was at a stalemate. Their weapons were marking her. But not fast enough.
They were able to distract her from the mortals below, and keep her from supporting her army, but Tamat’s blood-fueled magic was healing her as fast as they wounded her.
And Tamat remained as strong as ever, and they, bound by mortality and their mortal vessels, were tiring. Their Light hammered her Darkness, but her Darkness could swallow it up.
From mind to mind, the thoughts flashed.
Her priests are feeding her. Iris lashed the unholy creature with the flail of earth-focused power she held in Her hand, as her dragon dove in beneath Tamat’s blade to get the goddess in near enough to strike. The corn-gold chains of the flail struck home across the dark-blinded eyes of the third head, and the dragon writhed out of the way of a lashing claw to fling herself and her rider out of harm’s way.
There is pain and death in abundance below Us. That feeds her . . . Siris fended off a volley of lightning with a shield made out of His own Being, and sent His dragon kiting sideways as the shield failed. If we can stop her from being fed—if we can remove that source of her strength—
No. It was the Avatar of Seft.
. . . no? One thought from four minds jolted by the response.
It is not that she is being fed. It is that she is not bound by flesh, except the flesh of her own creation. We are tiring. She is not. We are anchored by mortality. She is not. There was conviction in that. But more than that. There was Truth.
But surely one of Us can— The thought went unfinished. Yes, any one of them could, indeed, manifest enough power to equal, even to rival, Tamat.
And to do that, their mortal vessel would have to die, both because no mortal could encompass that much power and live, and because it would be the manifestation itself that destroyed Tamat.
One must fall. The answer was flat, implacable, inescapable.
No! Protest from three of the four.
Yes. Resignation from Siris, as he reached within himself, found the consent of his mortal vessel and prepared to make of himself a sacrifice—spurred by her own anguish and that of her vessel, Iris reached for him—
No! she cried, all the heartbreak of goddess and mortal together bound in that word. And as Haras hung his head in anguish, Kiron tried to think frantically if there was some other way—
Yes. Siris and Ari together shut them out.
Kashet hung in the sky, hovered, blinding blue against the churning dark. The dragon understood, too—and Kiron felt it, felt the dragon’s assent. He and his beloved Jouster would take this together if that was what it would take to save all.
Together, they faced Tamat, and—
Not this time, my brother.
A blast of dark energies struck Siris in the back, knocking him from his dragon. With a cry of anger and despair, Haras dove Avatre down in the maneuver that Kiron had practiced so often. Traitor! Betrayer! You show your true self at—
A laugh. Not this time, my nephew. I am the god of difficult choices. Remember that in the future.
Just as Avatre got under the plummeting body, arced herself with grace and power, and caught him across the saddlebow, something dark bloomed on the cliff below them.
Across the face of Aerie, across the battlefield, a voice louder than the thunder and sharp as the kiss of a blade rang out.
“Tamat! Corruptor! Destroyer! I dare you to face Me! I am Seft, Lord of the Darkness and Despair, and I am your Master!”
A second pillar of darkness rose from the top of the cliff in the heart of Aerie. A second Being spread shadow wings against the sunlight, blotting it out. Unable to resist the challenge, Tamat roared her answer, and the two surged together——and in that moment of meeting, Seft snapped the bonds of His vessel’s mortality, sending a wave of force across the battlefield that flattened everything in its path.
Kiron picked himself up off the ground. Beside him, Ari stirred and moaned a little. Both had been flung from Avatre’s back when Seft and Tamat had met and—
Avatre! He turned at the sound of a whine, to see the red-and-gold dragon, rather the worse for wear, climbing up over the edge of the cliff, with Kashet right behind her. They both flopped down next to their respective Jousters, stretched out their long necks and sighed with exhaustion.
The air stank. Burned flesh, burned hair, burned stone. A lingering taint of decay.
And the silence.
Gingerly, he removed the diadem of Haras from his head, and looked it over. It was in better shape than he was, for all its apparent fragility. But it no longer glowed with magic, and he was just as glad. Haras was gone, to wherever it was that the gods dwelled, and Kiron could quite do without the “honor” of serving as His vessel again. With careful deliberation, he removed Ari’s diadem, too.
“Ari!” The-on flapped heavily down onto the cliff top, and Nofret tumbled from her back to cradle Ari in her arms. Her hair was half-scorched on the left side of her face, and there were burns on her hands. Ari, of course, was going to be black and blue from head to toe. He groaned once, then opened his eyes and smiled, and she burst into tears.
“If—if you ever—do that again—” Whatever she was going to say vanished in incoherent sobs and kisses. A little embarrassed, Kiron looked away—
And saw, with a shock of recognition, the crumpled body of Rakaten-te, Chosen of Seft.
And a shadow-enshrouded form that held that body in His arms.
Kiron, who had been struggling to his feet, instinctively bent the knee.
The
shadow gently laid Rakaten-te down, and passed a hand over his face. The bandages that had always covered his eyes melted away and Lord Seft flowed to his—feet? It wasn’t possible to tell, but Kiron got the impression of someone standing, someone with furled wings, or a cloak like wings, brooding down on him.
I am the god of difficult choices, said a voice that came from everywhere and nowhere. Never forget that. He knew that, my Chosen did, and he knew that we must share that choice. And now—
He turned toward the place where Tamat’s army had been. Kiron stood, slowly and looked in that direction.
The army was fleeing, in disorder, in panic. No one pursued them; most of the defenders on the cliffs had been flattened when Seft and Tamat collided. As for the Jousters—like Kiron, Nofret, and Ari, they and their dragons were picking themselves up from whatever place they had been flung.
It matters not. They cannot cross the Anvil of the Sun twice unprovisioned and live. Oh, a handful will survive. And they will carry back the tale—the tale of how their goddess was immolated, how Tia and Alta are one now . . . and how that land is defended.
A kind of fierce, dark exaltation infused those last words. And Kiron shivered to hear them.
My remaining time is short. Kiron saw, as the shadowed god turned, that He had His diadem in his hands. My Chosen has crossed the Bridge of Stars, and I am in need of a new avatar.
For one moment of unbearable horror, Kiron feared that Seft was going to—
No! No! Never again! Never—
But the god turned away from him, and toward the trio that stood a little ways away, the first to have gotten to their feet.
I am in need of a Chosen One, Kaleth, Mouth of the Gods. I am the god of difficult choices. Will you make the choice to serve Me?
“You are a difficult master,” Kaleth replied, regarding the form of shadow gravely.
And yet you have served Me already, as you have served all the gods. Will you serve Me alone? A pause. The choice that Rakaten-te assented to is not one that is asked often of My Chosen. But it is one that they must be ready to make. Could you make it?
Kaleth took a slow, deep breath and looked the God fearlessly in the face. “Aye,” he said, as, to Kiron’s wide-eyed astonishment, Marit nodded gravely in agreement. “For the sake of the Two Kingdoms, aye. And for their sake, I will be your Chosen,” said Kaleth, the Mouth of the Gods.
Then this is yours. The diadem of Seft floated across the space between them, and down into Kaleth’s waiting hands. Keep it safe, against need, my Chosen.
But then the shadow turned toward Marit. The gods will need another Speaker, faithful one. And Prophecy, and standing between Life and Death, Light and Shadow, has ever been the providence of Nebt. Will you take your mate’s place as the Mouth of the Gods?
Marit nodded, and the diadem of Nebt rose from the box where it had been left. As it neared her outstretched hands, for a moment, it took on a soft, metallic glow.
All unnoticed, Aket-ten had landed Re-eth-ke and come to stand beside Kiron. The god merely glanced in their direction but said nothing.
Nofret had helped Ari to his feet again, and the god turned back to them. Make the Two Kingdoms into One. Guard your borders, yet do not expel the stranger. Be vigilant, but not despotic. Remember that the difficult choice is almost always the right one. And now I go.
With those words, the god vanished, leaving no trace of Himself behind.
The last trace of the Nameless Ones was gone from the desert outside the cliff walls of Aerie. From where Kiron and Aket-ten had stood on the cliffs in the early morning light, you could not tell there had even been a battle.
Since the casualties had been relatively few on the Altian side—“Altia” being the name that Nofret and Ari had jointly decreed was to be the new name of their combined Kingdoms—in some ways the war had created a windfall for the desert city. Those horses that had died became dragon food. Those that lived had already been taken off to be traded for more useful asses, donkeys, and camels. The chariots and some of the weapons were already being converted into furniture and hardware, tools and other useful objects. So useful was the detritus of war, in fact, that scavengers from Aerie tracked the fleeing army well into the Anvil of the Sun to loot the fallen.
And there were a great many fallen.
And that was where the last mystery had occurred, in regard to all those fallen.
That first night, one of the things that the weary council that Ari convened tried to consider was what to do with the hundreds, thousands of corpses right on their doorstep. They were dangerous there; besides the stench that would start to arise when they began to decay, there was the disease, the flies, and all that to consider.
“We can’t burn them,” Ari had said helplessly. “There is not enough wood in all of Aerie to burn a tenth of them. We can’t bury them, we haven’t enough hands . . . .”
And just as he said that, there came the unearthly howl of a jackal cutting across the quiet night air. “Unearthly,” because it hadn’t come from the desert.
It had come from everywhere. And nowhere.
They all froze, then had looked at one another cautiously. Anbenis, the god of the dead, had the head of a jackal. . . .
The howl came again, filling Kiron’s upper room where they all sat on mats, like so many scribes, because Kiron didn’t have chairs.
“Perhaps we should sleep on a decision,” Ari said after a moment.
And in the morning, the bodies were simply gone. Not as in “dragged off by jackals” gone either. As in “vanished, leaving even their clothing and armor behind” gone.
That, thankfully, was the last manifestation of the hands of the gods.
Kiron had felt very uneasy about stooping to the level of looting the dead so as to make use of that discarded clothing, but others were not so squeamish. After a thorough washing, there were plenty of folk walking about on this day sporting Heyksin tunics. Aside from the garish colors, which would soon fade, they were not so unlike Altian tunics.
So he and Aket-ten sat on the carved window ledge of his uppermost room, and watched the unaccustomed splotches of bright crimson, eye-searing blue, and acidic yellow moving purposefully beneath them. There were too many weighty matters to be discussed, and they wanted to discuss none of them.
So, instead, they talked about furniture, of which there was very little here. It was a relief, a relief to speak of commonplaces, to debate the type of table, the style of lamp. It meant they did not yet need to think about what all this meant . . . or could mean.
Or what it had been like to play host to a god.
“I should like a proper bed,” Aket-ten said at last, speaking aloud. “Raised off the floor, with a real mattress. There are enough rags now to stuff mattresses for every person in Aerie twice over.”
Kiron decided to say nothing of his misgivings about sleeping on dead men’s clothing; instead, he suggested, “Don’t you think grass would be more comfortable?”
“Well, so would goose-down,” she said, giving him a dubious look, but I don’t see any parades of geese in Aerie—nor fields of grass either—”
“Perhaps the Lord of the Jousters can ask for a mattress to be brought,” suggested Marit from the stair. “Ari and Nofret are off safely, which is just as well, considering that it would not be wise for her to be flying soon.”
“Ah, goo—” The implications of that last sentence brought Kiron’s thoughts to a crashing halt. “What?”
Kaleth followed his mate up into the dwelling room. “Oh, do give over. You are not so dense as that, Kiron,” the Chosen said with a smirk. He now wore the same sort of robes that Rakaten-te had worn, and carried the very staff the former Chosen had used, but to Kiron’s relief, he had not been blinded. Kaleth did not explain this, nor did Kiron ask.
“Why do you think that Seft made the choice he did?” Marit asked, and then at a look from Kaleth, amended, “All right, it was one of the reasons. There will soon be a Haras-in-the-nest
.”
“And you will have to give up the honor of being the wearer of the diadem of Haras if there is need,” added Kaleth, and snorted at Kiron’s expression of relief.
Kiron did not say what he was thinking, which was I prefer my gods in Their Temples, and not in my head, opting instead for “Why are you strolling about like any baker’s son? I thought the Chosen of Seft was supposed to remain secluded.”
Kaleth shrugged. “The god has not told me to scuttle into hiding. I assume that it does not matter here, nor in Sanctuary, which are both cities of the gods. We have tended to live somewhat withdrawn anyway, Marit and I, so I anticipate no great change.”
Kiron was about to ask something else, when a commotion below made all of them turn and stare at the stairs.
“—I don’t care if he is bathing or eating or speaking with the Mouth of the Gods!” said an all-too-familiar, scolding voice. “—I will see my son!”
Letis stormed up the last few steps and turned to look for Kiron. Since he was hard to miss, she made a little grunt of mingled exasperation and satisfaction, and strode up to him to stand in front of him with her arms crossed over her chest. “I have made enough allowances for you, and I have heard more than enough nonsensical reasons why you did not return. You are my son! It is time you obeyed me. You must return to Mefis now, and get back our farm. Then you can marry Peri, settle down to a proper life with a proper wife, breed me proper grandchildren who will honor their grandmother, and forget all this dragon foolishness.” She scowled, and muttered, under her breath. “Wars with the Nameless Ones, indeed!”
Kiron simply stared at her. First of all, he could not imagine how she had gotten here. Secondly, he could not imagine how to answer her.
She stood there, utterly recalcitrant, completely unembarrassed. Peri, however, who had followed her up here, was embarrassed enough for three.
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