I heard the sound of hooves behind me as the sisters wisely moved their mounts out of the way of the expected attack.
Taking the initiative, I drew two blades and charged toward Eblis, my mount gathering speed as it pounded over the muddy ground. So sudden was my assault that the Shaiksa didn’t have time to bring up the lance properly. I was upon him before he could target me.
My blades flashed in the sunlight, and there was the clash of metal on metal. The one in my right hand found the join between two armored plates on Eblis’s chest. I thrust it upward into the gap, and it jammed. Whether it had penetrated the flesh was impossible to say. But the blade in my left hand shattered against the Shaiksa’s armor, and I tossed away the hilt of the broken weapon. As I turned my mount, ready to attack again, I drew the saber.
But this time I lacked the advantage of surprise. Eblis was ready for my attack, and he urged his own horse forward too, the sharp tip of the Kangadon aimed straight at my heart. I twisted in my saddle, ensuring that the point of the lance missed me, but I had no opportunity to strike a blow of my own.
We brought our horses around and thundered toward each other again, the assassin once more lowering the lance into a horizontal position, his horse kicking up a spray of mud behind him.
However, I focused my concentration, and now I created a magical shield identical to the one that had thwarted the hyb’s sharp talons. It was small and bright, gleaming in the air, no bigger than a hand’s span, but I positioned it precisely with my mind and held it firm so that the lance, despite its magical properties, might be deflected.
But at the moment of contact I suddenly understood how Eblis had defeated the king of Valkarky so long ago. The king would no doubt have used a magical shield even more powerful than my own, but at the moment of his death he must have recognized the true power of the Kangadon: nothing could deflect it from its target.
And so it was now. The tip of the lance went through my shield like a knife through butter and sought out my heart. I was a fraction of a second away from death. Only one thing remained for me to do; I could not deflect the Kangadon, so I had to evade it.
I twisted in the saddle, avoiding its tip by the thickness of a butterfly’s wing, and threw myself off my horse. I absorbed some of the impact by tucking my arms and legs in close to my body and rolling forward as I met the ground. It was soft after the melting of the winter’s snow, and that helped to cushion the blow, but nevertheless the air was punched from my lungs. The saber flew out of my hand, and I lay sprawled on the ground while my deadly opponent quickly turned his horse and charged at me again.
I managed to sit up, but I was befuddled, struggling to clear my head after my heavy tumble. Eblis had almost reached me, the tip of the Kangadon still aimed unerringly at my heart. I thought my end had come—when suddenly I heard the drumming of other hooves, and something rushed toward him from my left.
It was a white horse and a rider. Now they were between me and the assassin, and they met the force of his charge. The white horse whinnied and toppled over, throwing its rider into the air like a rag doll. I glimpsed her face as she spun over and over before hitting the ground hard.
It was little Nessa. She had tried to save me and had now paid the price.
Her mount whinnied again and rolled over before heaving itself upright. I glanced toward Nessa. She was lying facedown and was not moving. Her death had been quick and kind—far better than the one she would have faced at the hands of the Shaiksa once I had been dispatched. She was the luckiest of the three sisters. The tawny death was quick, but it was extremely painful to undergo, with hot bubbles popping inside your stomach and intestines, and your flesh melting from within.
I realized I had failed to keep my promise to Old Rowler. Once I was dead, the youngest child would be slain too, her throat cut by this assassin. She would suffer the same death they had originally intended for her back in the tower. I had merely delayed the inevitable. I felt angry and bitter at the prospect of my defeat. It had all been for nothing.
Eblis brought his horse round in a slow arc, his lance at the ready. My head was clearing now, and I looked around for my saber. I was unable to deflect the blade, but at least I could die with a weapon in my hand. But my legs simply refused to work; all I could do was struggle up onto my knees.
The Shaiksa raised his visor and smiled at me. He wished me to gaze upon the face of the one who would slay me. I did not waste any words and kept my expression impassive. Inside, I was seething with anger at the thought that Balkai would get his way. I had proved myself in the trial; in sending this assassin, he had showed no honor. He was unscrupulous and corrupt.
Although I knew that I would die here, I wanted to reach my saber. I would do my best to hurt Eblis so that he would always remember our encounter. One had to die sometime, and to fall to the greatest of the Shaiksa assassins—He Who Cannot Be Defeated—was a worthy death.
He charged again. I twisted away, but the tip of the lance pierced my right shoulder and Eblis jerked it upward violently, lifting me off my feet. For a moment I was helpless and in terrible pain, but my weight, in addition to the length of the lance, meant that he could not hold me aloft for more than a few seconds. The moment he was forced to lower it, I slid down the lance, hit the ground, and rolled to the side.
When I got to my knees again, blood was running down my arm and dripping into the mud. In moments I would surely be dead, but still I would not give up, and I began to crawl across the mud toward my saber. It seemed a long way away; at any moment Eblis might charge again and transfix me with his lance—maybe this time through the heart.
As I made my way painfully along, I kept my eyes on him. He was staring at me but did not urge his mount forward. Everything was very still and quiet. Then I realized that he was not looking at me after all. I risked a quick backward glance.
Behind me, slightly to my left, I saw another rider on a stallion as black and powerful as Eblis’s. I knew that rider. It was a purra.
It was Grimalkin, the human witch assassin.
CHAPTER XXIII
HE WHO CAN NEVER DIE
GRIMALKIN was holding the necklace of bones that she wore around her neck. Hers must be bones from the hands of her defeated enemies rather than the shrunken skulls worn by Eblis. She was tapping and stroking them in some mysterious ritualistic fashion. As I watched, she released the bones and drew a long dagger from one of her scabbards, then approached me, her horse stepping delicately across the soft mud.
“Get up off your knees, Slither,” she commanded. “Kill your enemy with this. Kill him before he kills you. Never give in! Never surrender!”
She threw the dagger toward me. It spun over and over through the air, but I reached up with a cry of pain and caught it by the hilt.
There was something odd about that weapon. The moment I lifted my tail, it told me that the blade was crafted from a silver alloy. My eyes told me something even more astounding.
The hilt was crafted in the shape of a skelt’s head, and its eyes were two rubies. It was the image of our unborn god, Talkus. As I watched, the ruby eyes shed tears of blood that dripped onto the mud close to my feet, to mingle with my own. It was without doubt a blade of power. I could feel the magical force emanating from it.
Grimalkin smiled and backed her horse away from me. Filled with new hope and strength, I got to my feet. Eblis had been gazing warily at Grimalkin, but now, as she moved away, his attention came back to me—his target.
He charged straight toward me. I took a deep breath and stood my ground, bringing the whole of my concentration to bear upon the task at hand. As the tip of the lance came within range, I stepped to one side to avoid being trampled by the stallion, lifted the blade, and parried the tip of the spear.
To my astonishment, the blade did not break. It deflected the lance and scraped along its whole length, sending up a shower of sparks. When it reached the Shaiksa’s gauntlets and found his hands, he cried out in shock. He released
the Kangadon, and it spun upward out of his grasp, turning over and over in the air.
Then, in a moment of whalakai—the perception that comes to a haizda mage but rarely—I was aware of every nuance of the situation in a flash of insight.
I knew what I must do! I sliced sideways, my arm moving almost too fast to be seen, and struck the spinning lance with my blade.
The Kangadon split into two pieces.
Thus the Lance That Cannot Be Broken was no more.
But it was not for nothing that Eblis had survived and prevailed as an assassin for more than two thousand years. The lance was destroyed and he was wounded, but he summoned his strength and attacked once more. This time he wielded two more long blades as he attempted to ride me down.
Once again I struck out with the skelt blade, and then spun away quickly to avoid being trampled. His horse galloped onward, nostrils snorting steam into the chill air. But Eblis fell, hit the ground hard, and lay there without moving.
I approached and looked down at my enemy—but, to my own surprise, I did not deal the final blow. It was not a conscious decision. Something within me had chosen another way for this to end. I waited in silence, still gripping the blade. After many minutes, Eblis rolled onto his stomach and struggled to his feet. His hands were empty of weapons. He had lost them in the fall. Nevertheless I waited patiently while he retrieved them from the mud, which had been churned up by the galloping hooves.
Then we began to fight at close quarters. We were evenly matched, and the struggle continued for a long time. Soon the sun went down and the light began to fail. Now we were fighting in darkness, and I used my shakamure magic to see my enemy. I also drew upon my other magical reserves to bolster my strength. No doubt Eblis employed his own magic, because his blades were guided with great accuracy, and for a while I was hard-pressed just to parry them. We fought in silence—all that could be heard was grunts, the clash of blades, and our boots churning the mud.
But slowly I began to gain the ascendancy, and at last I brought my enemy to his knees and lifted the dagger for the killing blow.
As I did so, I felt a hand staying my arm.
“You have won, Slither, but now he is mine,” whispered the voice of Grimalkin in my ear. “Return the blade to my hand.”
What could I do but acquiesce? After all, I had won a great victory, and I owed the witch for that. Without her intervention I would have died in the mud. So I returned the blade to her and walked across to the place where Nessa lay.
I knelt down beside her. She was still breathing, just, but her life signs were slowly fading. I had a little magic remaining to me, so I placed my hand on her forehead and let it seep into her body until she began to revive.
After a while I helped her up into a sitting position, and she opened her eyes.
“You were dying, little Nessa, but I have revived you with my strength. It is no more than what I owe you.”
Just as she had saved me when bitten by the snake, now I had repaid her. She stared at me and seemed about to make some reply, but then I heard a sound from behind that made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.
Shaiksa assassins do not scream. And yet Eblis, the bravest, strongest, and most ruthless of them all, cried out. His screams went on for a very long time.
Nessa looked at me, her eyes widening at the sound. I found the sounds pleasing—but obviously she did not. The assassin was being killed slowly, and his dying thoughts were being sent out to the rest of his brotherhood. Even as he died, their knowledge was being advanced. But what were they learning?
In another moment of whalakai, I understood what was happening. They were not only learning—they were being taught. That lesson was being given by Grimalkin: just as she had carved the symbol of her scissors on trees to mark her territory and warn off her enemies, so now, she was sending the whole Shaiksa brotherhood a message.
She was telling them who she was, what she was capable of; teaching them all about pain and fear.
And then, in a loud voice, she called out her verbal message to the brotherhood: “Keep away from me,” she warned, “or what I did to your brother, so I will do to you! Those who pursue me will die a death such as this! I am Grimalkin.”
So it was that the Lance That Cannot Be Broken was indeed broken, and He Who Can Never Die was slain and left this world after more than two thousand years as an undefeated Shaiksa assassin.
And in that moment I knew that the witch assassin was the most deadly warrior I had ever encountered. So now a great challenge lay ahead. One day I must fight and defeat her. To accomplish that would be the summit of my endeavors as a haizda mage.
When later I examined the body of Eblis to see what had been done to him, I could see nothing that could have made him shriek so musically. It is true that she had carved the symbol of her scissors on his forehead, but there was nothing else. I had to admit that there were many things I could learn from the human witch.
CHAPTER XXIV
DAUGHTER OF DARKNESS
NESSA was bruised and battered but, because of my help, had survived her fall; her greatest hurt was still the loss of her sister Susan.
Later, after the two girls had cried themselves to sleep, the witch and I talked by the campfire.
“The magnificent blade that I used to defeat Eblis—where did you obtain it?” I asked.
“It does not belong to me,” she replied. “I hold it in trust for another and must return it to him.”
“May I see it again?” I asked.
The witch smiled grimly, showing her pointed teeth, and for a moment I thought that she might refuse me. Then she drew it out of its scabbard and handed it to me. I held it carefully, turning it over and over in my hands. I sensed its power immediately.
“This is a very special blade. Who made it?” I asked.
“It was crafted by one of our gods, little mage. We have our own god of blacksmiths, and he is called Hephaestus.”
“It is strange that he should choose a skelt’s head for the hilt,” I observed. “Talkus, our God Who Is Yet to Be, will assume this likeness at the moment of his birth.”
“I remember what you said,” the witch said with a frown. “Your people will begin a holy war and try to drive us into the sea.”
“Then we will rule the whole world,” I told her.
“It will certainly be an interesting time,” she said. “Were you to attempt such a thing, my people would certainly offer fierce resistance. And then we would eventually pull down the walls of Valkarky and rid the world of the Kobalos. So let us hope that it is a long time before Talkus enters this world!”
I handed the blade back to her without comment, but then several thoughts came to me almost simultaneously.
“The star stone—is it valuable to humans?” I asked. “Is that why you entered our territory and approached Valkarky? It seems an odd coincidence that you should be nearby when it fell.”
“It was not a coincidence. I knew when and where it would fall,” the witch retorted.
“Did you use magic to learn that?”
“We witches can sometimes scry the future; we are also able to long sniff approaching danger. But I will admit that it was actually a strange dream that revealed the coming of the stone to me, one that seemed so real I thought I had awakened. There was a blinding light so fierce that I feared my eyes would be burned from my head. Then a voice told me where and when it would fall—and then, once it was in my possession, what I must do with it.”
“Did the voice that came out of the light also warn you of the danger from my people?”
“I already knew that the piece of ore would plummet to earth near your city,” she replied. “It fell exactly as predicted, but then, while I waited for it to cool so that I could carry it away south, I sniffed the approach of your warriors. I fought them, but they were too numerous.”
“Now that it is once more in your possession, what will you do with it?”
“This is a blade from the dark a
nd not truly suitable for the one who must wield it!” she exclaimed, holding out the skelt-shaped hilt toward me. “So I will forge a new blade—one even greater and more potent!”
“Who is the one it is destined for? Is he a king?”
“At this time he is the apprentice of a spook—one skilled in dealing with the dark and its servants. He is the only one who has the ability to destroy the Fiend forever. This dark blade is one of three that he must use to achieve that end. But if he survives, he may have other tasks awaiting him.”
“What other tasks?”
“I have scryed the future and know that further challenges await him—but all is uncertain. Scrying is an imperfect art. He may even die in his attempt to kill the Fiend. I looked into a mirror, striving to see his future, but it became cloudy with doubt. I will forge the blade for him, anyway.”
“You hope to forge a better blade than that created by your blacksmith god?” I said, shaking my head at her presumption. “My people call such vaunted ambition hubris. Pride is the greatest sin of all—one that can call down the combined anger of the gods.”
“Nevertheless, I am determined to try,” she replied. “This is what the voice commanded: I must forge a blade of light. It shall be called the Star Blade.”
“You belong to what you call the dark, and yet you would create its antithesis. It is strange indeed that a daughter of darkness should forge a blade of light!” I commented.
“We live in strange times,” the witch replied. “It is also strange that I, a witch, should have formed an alliance with the enemies of my clan. But this is what has forced the situation upon us,” she said, lifting the leather sack that contained the head of their dark god. “The Fiend must be destroyed. Nothing else matters but that.”
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