Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (85 page)

The Ablizian woman fell twitching and Corinea collapsed on top, her awareness no longer in her body. But her spiratus flashed along the skeins of light and into the spearhead . . .

. . . and out the other side, into another place entirely.

*

Ramita was focused entirely on the man who had stolen her child, standing before her. She bounded towards him, cleaving a bull-headed Ablizian in two with one of her blades in passing, blasting another with lightning, overloading his shields then turning him to a blackened and shrivelled twig, clearing the path to Malevorn Andevarion.

She felt indestructible; barely registering the glowing red light coalescing around the Inquisitor’s spearhead as she closed the distance. But at the last second, a cool voice spoke inside her skull:

At the same time, something else gripped her, something from the aether that found her and fuelled her, and she shielded a bare instant before a blast of incandescent light engulfed her, a wave of heat and flame that washed over not just her, but everything within twenty yards. Two of the Merozains and four Ablizians just ceased to be: ripped from life and blasted to dust. Another Ablizian standing beside Corinea – who’d suddenly appeared amidst the fighting not twenty yards away – was torched too, but the ancient sorceress looked unharmed.

Ramita’s shields bowed inwards, her clothes shrivelled and caught alight and the blades in her hands went red-hot. The skin on her face and the front of her body seared and she screamed in agony, but the beast inside her snarled and she staggered on. A curtain of fire parted and she saw Malevorn Andevarion staring at her in disbelief. The scarlet light of his spear was lessened, as if it had exhausted its power. He shouted furiously as he lifted it to protect himself, and her first blow, with a sword whose hilt had fused with the flesh in her hand, slammed into the spear-haft.

The wooden shaft snapped.

Something hammered into them both, an explosion of energy that tore them apart. She glimpsed Malevorn as he went spiralling head over heels, but she too flew backwards, the spear-head landing beside her thigh, still blazing with light. She thumped to the ground on her back, winded and dazed, but Andevarion was on his feet, while she was still groaning and fighting for breath.

Then the pain hit her like a bolt of lightning.

Her whole body was burned, her shields were folding up – and Malevorn appeared above her, face blazing. He cast about for the spear-head and when he spotted it on the ground beside her he brandished his sword and it burst into blue fire.

But before he could stab down, he was slammed backwards by a kinetic blow. Then Alaron leapt over her and went after his old college nemesis like a man possessed.

The spear-head pulsed again, and began to move – towards Andevarion – and she grabbed it instinctively. Light blazed agonisingly in her head and she almost passed out, but she clung on grimly, somehow maintaining her grip as she fell into a spider-web of stars.

*

Malevorn hadn’t seen Alaron’s blow coming, but as he spun through the air his well-honed combat instincts took over, he gripped the earth with kinesis and landed on one knee, sword still in hand. He raised it just in time to parry Alaron Mercer’s stupid wooden staff. Then he threw Mercer off with a savage riposte while his mind sought the link to the diamond spear-head. His Ablizians fought on, still guided by Corineus through the spear-link, even though Malevorn was no longer holding it. He tried to draw it to him, but it wouldn’t come –it was gripped in the Noorie woman’s hand. He snarled in frustration, then Mercer came at him again.

Mercer was in grey robes, and his wooden staff was lit up with gnosis-light. The kinetic push he had used had been Ascendant-strong, and his shielding gleamed about him.

Well, well . . . so Mercer did crack the Scytale . . .
But Malevorn could taste victory – Mater-Imperia herself had quailed before him.
How dare these imbeciles interfere? I am destined for a seat at Corineus’ right hand – gutting Mercer will be the cherry on the cake!

he told his slaves.

He squared up to Mercer, then went at him with all his skill and fury.

*

Alaron’s staff smashed into Malevorn’s sword and sparks flew as he parried desperately against a battering of kinesis and steel. Fighting Malevorn Andevarion had always been a harrowing experience: his old enemy was bigger, stronger, more ruthless, and with a deadly instinct for picking out a weakness. But this was worse, because Ramita had slumped to the ground, and Alaron was in a delirium of fear for her.

Malevorn kept coming at him, with savage intensity, raining in blows, pushing Alaron to continually defend, all the while sending bursts of mage-fire at Ramita’s body too, forcing Alaron to spread his shielding, preventing him from countering.

Is she even alive? What happened to her?
Alaron prayed silently as he fought, wanting only to throw himself over her, but he couldn’t take his eyes from Malevorn for an instant.

All about them the Merozain Brothers and the animal-headed shapeshifters hammered at each other, spread across the plaza, with the Zains in a ragged circle in the middle, and almost double their number of Ablizians pressing inwards beneath the shadow of the broken castle and the shattered Dom-al’Ahm. They were holding their own, perhaps even winning more of the duels, but Alaron sensed that his people were tiring. With Ramita lying motionless, unable to lend her power, they were beginning to waver.

Caught in a losing fight, he tasted desperation, realising that he must break the evolving pattern of this fight before all was lost. He blocked another combination, parried and countered.

Try this, bastard!

He sent one image of himself left while darting right and jabbing at Malevorn’s midriff. Malevorn half-turned the wrong way for a moment and his staff slammed through his foe’s shielding. The shield flared red, he kicked and caught Malevorn on his booted ankle, sent him off-balance. For a moment Malevorn was vulnerable, but he recovered with a blaze of fire and an impossible twist, flipping over, his face a mask of concentration. Alaron circled, keeping himself between Ramita and Malevorn, praying that hadn’t been his last chance. Beside him, another of his Merozains – Meero with the pug-nose and steely eyes, who’d liked to joke that the new order was really named after him – fell, his throat torn out. The Merozain Brothers tightened ranks, fully on the defensive now.

‘You’ve been practising, Mercer,’ Malevorn acknowledged with a curl of the lip. ‘But you’re using a
stick
.’ He lunged, struck the staff and flashed his blade along it, and he would have taken Alaron’s fingers off if he hadn’t yanked his hand back just in time: an action that he turned into a jab to the head with the other end of the kon-staff. Malevorn’s shield held, but he was again forced to back up.

‘Useful things, sticks,’ Alaron panted. ‘Both ends can kill, you know?’ His eyes flickered around the mêlée, saw that only half a dozen of his Merozains were down, but they were outnumbered and giving ground. Tegeda was in there, fighting like a Hadishah with whirling scimitar and slashing dagger. But one of the Ablizians stabbed Urfin through the chest and inhaled his soul and Alaron could almost see the energy coursing into its kindred.
Come on
, he berated himself,
do something!

But Malevorn’s blade and the need to protect Ramita kept him pinned in place. Then he saw Corinea, lying lifeless over the body of another Ablizian, her left hand buried past the wrist in its throat and its fangs embedded in her forearm.

Kore’s Blood, we’re not going to win this . . .

‘You found someone who could decipher the Scytale?’ Malevorn asked curiously, as if they weren’t fighting for their lives. All his old arrogance was coming back. ‘I can’t ask you afterwards,’ he added with a sneer, ‘because you’ll be dead.’

Alaron was silent for a moment, then he replied, more to buy time than anything else, ‘I worked most of it out myself.’ He needed a plan. He’d been fighting Malevorn half his life – he knew his strengths and could guess at the weaknesses; he’d just never been in a position to exploit them before. But perhaps there was a way . . . even if Malevorn did have access to all the gnosis, could he use it all . . . ?

He parried hard, seeking a respite, preparing a new attack.

‘You worked it out? Never!’ Malevorn sneered. ‘You had help, surely!’

‘Unlike you, I have friends,’ Alaron replied.

‘And where are they now, Mercer? Dead or dying.’

Stay cool . . .
Malevorn had been a Thaumaturge, a Fire- and Earth-mage, practical, brutal but straightforward. Alaron sought the antithesis – Sorcery and Theurgy, based in Air and Water . . .
How about this?

He kindled his full aura around him, watching Malevorn blink at the sudden display of power, a spiratus-blade appeared in his left hand and he thrust. The blade, too insubstantial to be entirely repelled by conventional shields, stabbed through and took Malevorn in the side as he desperately twisted away. He shouted in alarm and pain as his aura was slashed open and ghostly blood sprayed.

Not a fatal blow, but a wound to his aura is a drain on his gnosis
, Alaron thought.
A good start . . .

Malevorn backed away, eyes widening. ‘You’ve
never
been able to do that, Mercer!’ He adjusted his shields, which was obviously a strain; his aura was still bleeding. Though the old Malevorn wouldn’t have even been able to do that . . .

He really does have all of the gnosis too
. Alaron bit his lip: he had to land a serious blow soon, but he was running out of ideas. Malevorn now wore a look of absolute concentration on his face, and his blade had all its usual deadly grace.

Now what? How about . . .

Alaron released the spiratus blade and lunged with his staff again, throwing in a twist of illusion, so that Malevorn’s parry went too high; he then jammed the lower end of the kon-staff into his foe’s thigh and gnostic-fire seared flesh: not a dangerous wound, but one that might slow him.
Ha!
he shouted inwardly.

But Malevorn’s flesh re-knit in seconds. ‘Interesting,’ the Inquisitor grimaced, bounding back and unleashing a flurry of blows, his own blade flashing in six directions at once, as a torrent of air and fire gusted through the air between them. It was Alaron’s turn to blanch as the unexpected attacks carved up the space between them. Only a frantic dart backwards prevented the Inquisitor’s blade from plunging into his stomach. He beat the blade away, lunging and retreating, still buying time.

Malevorn’s face was confident once more. ‘Corineus Himself has blessed me, Mercer. I can do
anything
I want with the gnosis when He is with me.’ He lunged again, another combination of illusory blades and one deadly and very real sword, thrusting straight for Alaron’s throat – only a flash of divining-gnosis anticipated precisely where the real blow was intended and he jerked aside, the blades drawing a line of sparks through his shields.

Malevorn growled in frustration as he circled again, but his confidence had clearly been restored. It was beginning to feel like only a matter of time.

Alaron’s spirits sagged.
He can do anything I can . . . Hel, he’s always been better than me, and he still is . . .

It was a crushing blow, after all he’d been through, to find his rival had somehow managed to match him.

But how? How he has he gained what I have? Why is his aura different? It’s as if he’s pulling his powers from another place . . .

Then Malevorn came at him again in a whirl of gnosis that pummelled every facet of his defences, and all he could do was block, shield and give ground, until a sight-defying slash pierced his defences . . .

*

Corinea had fallen through some gateway into another world. Though her body lay in the midst of battle, her awareness of it was gone. She was pure spirit here, still holding the spiratus of her dagger in her right hand. The memory of Johan’s blood made the blade glisten scarlet.

Before her was a vast plain. In the middle rose a mountain that grew in size as she flashed towards it. The peak was shaped as a throne, and seated on it was a being who looked just like the Rondians pictured Kore: a white-robed man with lightning grasped in his fists. She felt like an insect before him.

The giant figure was Johan Corin. This was
his
world,
his
reality.

She cried aloud to see him, but he appeared to be intent on a scene playing out in a bubble of light floating before him. As she drew closer she saw that it was the battle between Alaron and Ramita’s monks and Malevorn Andevarion’s beastmen.

Then he caught sight of her own body, lying stricken amid the tangled corpses, and he turned . . .
and he saw her.

His eyes bulged, his jaw dropped and he rose to his feet. ‘
SELENE!
’ he thundered, in a voice that managed to convey rage and fear and a thousand other emotions. His cry struck her like a blow, almost ripping her out of his world. A thousand other voices gibbered around her, each individual but somehow part of him, and for a moment he wasn’t a man at all, but a giant blob of eyes and mouths and deformed spiratus bodies, all horribly melted into each other in a hideous tangle of limbs and faces. Then he was himself again, terrified and furious to have his sanctum penetrated. He lifted one hand to a phantom sun and it blazed like a weapon.

‘
HOW DARE YOU BE HERE!
’

Johan, what have you become?
She found herself filled with horror and pity, but there was no time; he threw the lightning-bolt in his hand, glowing with the power from the sun, and her hand rose in reflex, holding the spell-encrusted dagger before her. He recognised it, and his fear outweighed all else: the weapon – his nemesis and bane when he had lived – caught the blaze of power and shielded her, sending reflected bolts sparkling off into the skies.