Return of the Guardian-King (69 page)
A stirring broke out on the city’s wallwalks immediately flanking the gates. Belthre’gar turned from talking to his aides and faced toward the point of interest. His Sorite bodyguards kept their bows on their backs, but throughout the gathered host, men stood up, and a rustling mutter arose from them.
A great squeal echoed over the field, followed by the telltale clacking of the chain gears as the gates swung slowly outward. Abramm uttered a quiet “Now” and nudged Warbanner forward as Trap and Rolland moved out in tandem ahead of him. They trotted in formation down the gentle slope toward the ragged unguarded rear lines. Dressed in dark colors as they were, they approached unnoticed. Or if noticed, then ignored, since what could be threatening about three lone horsemen riding slowly into a camp of hundreds of thousands?
They entered the encampment unopposed, trotting easily along a broad lane between two companies of Esurhites, heading deeper and deeper into the southlander army, straight for the golden platform on which its leader stood.
The gap between gates had widened enough to admit three men riding abreast when Belthre’gar gave the command to attack. As multiple lesser commands rang out, the army roared and soldiers rushed for the opening— only to be shot down from the line of bowmen now appearing on the wallwalk.
It was a ruse!
Abramm thought, delighted.
Perfect!
Swiftly, he untied his cloak and cast it off, then loosed the tie on Warbanner’s headstall, so that the silk covering fluttered away. Then he drew his sword and shouted the word as Rolland and Trap, who’d also drawn their weapons, kicked their horses into a gallop. Together they plunged up the lane, noticed at last, but far too late. Trap and Rolland hit the wall of Broho defenders first, running the first few of them down and sending others flying out of their paths as they carved a path for Abramm, who galloped behind them on Warbanner, sword blazing with Eidon’s Light.
As his lead men grappled with the defenders, they moved apart to create a gap, which Abramm raced through, Light flaring like a spear before him. He was nearly to the platform when the tallest Sorite turned. Abramm recognized him at once, not at all surprised it was Moroq. In the blink of an eye, the Sorite flipped his bow over his head and released his first dark arrow. The Light swallowed it half a nose ahead of Warbanner. More came, and the Light consumed then all.
He saw blades slashing toward him as Warbanner was forced to stop, and he met them with his own—steel crashing into steel as he pulled the horse around. Light gleamed off bald heads and shredding mist as purple fire blazed in darkness. The din was horrendous. The terrible stench of blood and spilling guts filled the air. Belthre’gar turned finally, his eyes widening as he saw Abramm. Then Moroq hauled him off the far side of the platform and out of sight.
Abramm wheeled Warbanner full circle amidst a closing line of Broho, all facing him with blades drawn, eyes blazing with purple fire. He was one sword against them all. Purple flame leaped from their mouths, but the Light blasted every bolt of it to droplets. They followed flame with the fearspell, but Abramm used his sword to turn it back upon them, and they fled.
It occurred to him then that while he might be invulnerable, the men who served under him were not. That recalled to him the scepter. He jerked it lefthanded from its scabbard and swung it over his head. Lightning flashed down from the sky . . . or did it go up from the scepter? Wind whirled around him, tearing at his hair as he saw Belthre’gar again, riding in a chariot pulled by two black horses, charging north across the battlefield. Toward the corridor.
Abramm jammed the scepter back into its scabbard and took off after the Supreme Commander, determined he should not get away. He had no idea what had become of Trap and Rolland, nor if anyone was following him. Around him increasing daylight illumined chaos—men fighting and fallen, swords flashing—and he realized with a shock Belthre’gar’s forces were fighting one another. Different tabards, different armies . . . confused by the darkness? Arrows rained upon them as rocks and pitch pots thrown by catapults from both sides crashed continually on every side.
Warbanner ran like a horse years younger. They dodged wagons, leaped ditches, and scrambled down inclines, blowing over those unlucky enough to be in their way as they closed the gap. The corridor loomed ahead, its green light a brilliant counterpoint to the gray morning. Wind tore around him, moving northward, tearing up the Shadow as it did, though not nearly as fast as he’d have liked.
The chariot bounced ahead of him now, tipping wildly this way and that. Moroq drove it, his great muscled arms tensed with the effort of holding the reins, his legs braced widely to keep the cart from overturning as Belthre’gar clung to the other side. They barreled down the slope and through the arch, where Moroq pulled up and shoved the Supreme Commander from the chariot. Belthre’gar rolled, stood up, saw Abramm coming, and scrambled for his sword. It was only half drawn when Abramm’s blade sliced his throat. As Abramm rode on past, hauling Warbanner to a stop, the image of the man’s widening eyes above scarlet jets of spurting blood came with him. He wheeled his horse around just in time to see the Esurhite leader collapse, the rhu’ema that lived within him flowing out his eyes, nose, and mouth. It coiled above the fallen man a moment, then drove into the corridor and was gone.
Abramm sat atop his warhorse, sword dripping blood, adversary’s body before him, and realized he’d raced in unthinking. Now he was cut off, surrounded by his enemies. Sheer numbers could easily kill his horse, then rip the robe from his shoulders. And he saw little indication anyone had come with him. Out beyond the brow of the basin in which the corridor stood, the arrows still flew and the catapults still heaved. In the distance scaling ladders now propped against Fannath Rill’s walls, black-tunicked invaders scrambling over their tops. Rocks and arrows and flaming pitch rained down everywhere. Worse, the winds had stopped, and the Shadow was regathering.
Movement drew his eye to the Sorite giant, bow flexed, black arrow aimed at him. The string twanged, the arrow flew, and Abramm’s sword came up—too late. The shaft hit him square in the breast . . . but fell to the stone, where it vanished.
Moroq roared in a way that wasn’t remotely human. His eyes flashed into gold fire as he flung aside his bow and leaped forward. The air fluttered around him with a shifting of light and shadow, of red and black and gold . . . and the man shape vanished into a huge narrow face, leathery wings, and golden talons.
Warbanner erupted beneath him, squealing in terror as he reared and turned and tried to run all at the same time. The ruins tilted crazily; Abramm glimpsed talons and wings and the ground coming up fast. A great wind buffeted him as he hit the pavement, the blow knocking the sword from his grasp. He rolled away, barely evading Warbanner’s flailing hooves as the horse scrambled wildly upright, a great bloody gash in his neck. A moment later he bolted into the mass of men surrounding them, but no one tried to stop him. They were too busy staring at the dragon as it circled the ruin, its scales flashing like fresh blood in the early morning light.
Abramm leaped to his feet, eyeing the dragon as well. He’d lost his sword. Warbanner must have kicked it somewhere in his thrashing to get up. The army that surrounded him had fallen silent. He heard the faint hum of the corridor behind him as the dragon circled, enjoying the attention. Then it dropped low over the host of Esurhites and exhaled an orange-scarlet mist. As it settled upon the men, their faces twisted with fury and they screamed as one, charging with an eerie unity of mind and purpose that could have no other source than the creature circling above them. Abramm could almost hear its words:
Kill him! Kill him now!
No time to find his sword, so he reached for the only thing he had—the scepter, still riding in its scabbard on his back. The moment he pulled it free, the Light exploded through him. He gripped it with both hands and brained the first of his attackers with the blazing jewel at its end.
Then there was no time to know or plan or even think. He swung and whirled and ducked and hit, again and again and again. Yet still they came. Men grabbed him, tried to pull the robe off him, but he drove them away and kept swinging. He heard the dragon roaring, and the men roaring likewise as the scepter blazed, streaming sparks, smashing heads and shoulders and backs, breaking bones and crushing flesh. They came on and on, opposing him like madmen, and he fought them off with a strength he knew was not his own, until the bodies piled up around him, and he had to climb up onto them to keep the high ground.
Then, finally, it stopped.
Despite the slaughter, enemy soldiers still filled the basin outside the ancient arcade, whipped by a gale wind he hadn’t noticed until now. It had torn loose the warrior’s knots on their necks, their hair streaming from their heads like black banners. Dust and leaves, branches and boards, bits of fabric and all manner of other things sailed and tumbled by. Gradually the red light in the men’s eyes faded, and they slowed and stopped, staring now at the great pile of bodies atop which Abramm stood. Then three Broho stepped forth from the crowd and sent a black cloud of fear at him.
He swung the scepter into it with hardly a thought, the movement easy and confident. He’d been swinging and swinging for who knew how long at whatever threat came to him—what was one more?
As the scepter’s head hit it, the cloud burst into a plume of dark motes, caught by the wind and blown back over the men—not just the three Broho, but the score of soldiers behind them. Fear gripped them as swiftly as the bloodlust had earlier. They screamed, dropped their weapons, and fled, only to be cut off by the dragon, who roared its frustration and this time exhaled fire, incinerating them as they ran.
That was the drop that burst the dam. Panic seized the field and pandemonium ensued. The dragon flew over them, burning men as it went, then circled up into the sky, breathtaking in its size and gracefulness and the way the new-risen sun sparkled off its scarlet scales. It had to be at least a quarter mile away, but Abramm saw its eyes, and heard its thoughts, which were just for him:
“You may have won here, but you’ll still lose all that you really care about.”
The creature winged over his head, then circled to the north.
“Try to save
them if you can. . . .”
An image of the corridor behind him flashed into his mind.
The dragon’s wings flapped languidly, and then the mists, driven northward by the scepter’s winds, swallowed the beast from view.
Abramm strode toward the corridor, scepter in hand. The prickling intensified as he stepped into its aura—and stopped as he saw Maddie and the others riding up the switchbacks to the top of the cliff on which Deveren Dol perched. Close, but not close enough. Urgency prodded him as he realized he was seeing her through the dragon’s eyes. Which meant the creature would be there well before she reached the fortress.
The image was overlaid by a view of the Ankrill bending around the base of a castle, the scene framed by stone pillars. At first he had no idea what he was seeing, then realized it was also near Deveren Dol, but atop the falls now, looking out of some temple across the river at the castle. Somehow he sensed it was an opening this corridor linked to. He could be there any moment, step through the gateway, and get there in time to save his family.
Yes!
No!
What was he thinking? He had no business trying to use a corridor to solve his problems.
Maybe Eidon wanted him to use it, though. His passage might destroy it, and he could be where he was needed, as well. It made perfect sense.
No!
Why not?
He had the scepter and the crown. What did he need to fear? And if he did not act soon, it would be too late. Maddie would die, and it would be his fault. Impatience roiled in his middle.
Just do it. Do it now before
it’s too late! What are you waiting for?
His weight shifted. He almost took another step, then put his foot down again. Moroq had driven Belthre’gar to the corridor, and more or less cast him before Abramm’s blade to kill. He’d attacked Abramm with the dark arrows, when he had to have known they’d be ineffective. Had he known Abramm would be able to fight off the hordes of soldiers empowered by dragonenflamed bloodlust? He might have. Then he’d flamed his own forces and flown away. . . . Because he’d lost, yes. But was it ever that simple?
Dragon vision showed him his wife and—was that his daughter?!—on the second horse from the lead, buffeted by the wind as she came up over the top of the cliff and turned to look south toward him. And the approaching dragon. Did she see it yet?
Fear tore at him as the wind tore at her. He needed to go. Now.
No.
Father, I know I have no business using this thing. Help me to destroy it!
The moment his motivation turned, so did the temptation. Suddenly it was not Maddie he saw, nor even the destination near Deveren Dol, but dozens of others—he was startled to recognize Tuk-Rhaal in Kiriath among them. And there was the domed room in Chena’ag Tor, and a vast hall with the red dragon on the wall above a golden throne . . . Moroq’s Throne of Power.
Abramm could go there, to the very center of Moroq’s unseen empire, and destroy it. He had the scepter and the crown and the robe, and with them he wielded a power that could wipe out his greatest enemy!
Visions of what a victory that would be swelled in his head. No more Shadow. No more evil. His realm free from pain and suffering at last. Why shouldn’t he do it? He had the power. He had the opportunity. How many men would ever face such an opportunity? He would never face it again, he was sure. And if he did not take it, he would have only himself to blame when troubles returned to his land . . . as they inevitably would. It might take a long time for the enemy to rebuild its forces, but eventually they would come again. With this corridor, he could make his victory final.