The Hollow Queen (38 page)

Even consciously knowing that, in the end, their successful achievement of it would exterminate their race as well.

So the slings and thrown hammers made little or no impact on the titan as it blasted through the breastworks at the foot of Grivven Peak, tore through the battle wagons, and snapped the backs of horses and Bolg alike.

Charging onward toward the systems of air intake and the venting of forge-fire smoke that were the infrastructure of a civilization carved from an unforgiving mountain range. Places that were too high for a humanoid to climb, too deep for one to survive a fall from, too hot to keep flesh from melting.

But to which a stone statue was impervious.

After more than a night's span of hours, Faron found it.

A winding tunnel in the back of the mountain: an air return, from the look of it.

Faron had made the climb without much effort; his body of Living Stone felt traces of life in the stone in places of earth that had not seen the light, leaving it still fresh, still humming with at least a little animation. The element of earth welcomed him, so it had not taken much effort to follow a twisting and confusing series of tunnels down to a mysterious central corridor, a circular meeting room with the image of a dark hand pressed into the wall.

Hrarfa was overjoyed at the freshness of the stone, still humming with a little of the fire left over from the world's creation.

The statue put its hand, far and away bigger than the image of the hand, on the image and pressed.

Where is the Earthchild?
the titan asked.

The image of the hand began to glow, like coals of a fire that had been refreshed with a touch of breath blown across them.

And finally almost reluctantly illuminated the fourth finger.

One that represented a tunnel pointing toward the south.

Overjoyed, both demonic presences inside the Living Stone body hurried forthwith down the corridor.

 

41

Almost running smack into Grunthor.

The Bolg Sergeant-Major, newly minted pick hammer in hand, was leaning casually on his elbow against the tunnel wall.

The titan came to an abrupt halt before the soldier, uncertain what to do next.

Grunthor threw back his head and laughed.

“'Ow disappointin'. Now, 'ere Oi've been told you was really tall an' brawny, but actually yer nothin' special. Crushed by the truth, Oi am.”

The titan snickered in return.

Oh, you will indeed be crushed, but not by the truth.

“Well, that certainly remains to be seen. But before we set to blows, Oi thought you deserved to 'ear one of yer favorite songs to 'elp make the occasion of our long-awaited meetin' special. Thought it might be yer birthday or somethin'.”

The titan's eyes narrowed. Without another word it started to stride down the stone hallway, a look of murder unmistakable even on features that did not move.

Only to be dragged to an inadvertent halt by a high-pitched humming note.

A note that expanded, a moment later, into a four-note pattern, like a net of invisible vibrating threads woven from the four winds.

Because they, in fact, were.

*   *   *

Faron almost fell forward in the stone hallway tunnel.

Like a knife to the brain, the sound set the frame of the stone statue abuzz with a shrill vibration that instantly took the power out of its stride.

It tried to step but found itself frozen in place.

The sudden lack of control over the body of Living Stone made the Faorina spirit panic, but not with the hysteria that had suddenly seized the F'dor.

An explosion of foul cursing and ancient oaths of violence and anger ripped through the statue, stinging Faron's spirit with its invectives.

Hrarfa, unlike Faron, had heard this song before.

And knew what the lyrics meant.

The Thrall ritual!
she screamed virulently, heedless of Faron's warning regarding what would happen if she ever did again.
How can that be? The—Dhracian—the Bolg king—he is with Talquist! I saw him in the scale, the second assassin—that's why we left when we did—

From the depths of the stone statue, a nonverbal attack of caustic thought silenced her.

The titan's two demonic sides struggled with as much strength as either of them could summon to break the bonds of the net of vibration and the wind of the Earth that were wrapping around their essences, but the Dhracian who was chanting the ritual older than Time was one of the original Brethren, the
Zhereditck,
and had been searching for Hrarfa ceaselessly for millennia with a blood rage unsurpassed by any destructive impulse the F'dor could summon.

Rath, who had combed the pockets of air across the wide world since the fall of the Sleeping Child had torn the Vault open.

Looking for this demon and all her like.

By sheer will, he was relentlessly crushing their life forces.

*   *   *

Grunthor broke into a wide grin. He picked up his enormous pick hammer and stepped closer.

“Cast 'er off, sonny,” he said softly to the Faorina spirit inside the stone titan. “Yer not like 'er; Oi know all about you. You took 'er on outta pity, but is she worth dyin' for? 'Cause that's what's about to 'appen. Not an easy death, a return to the earth, but an eternal one in a Vaultful of screamin' bitches like the one inside ya. You decide.”

The statue remained rigid. Only the disturbing blue eyes darted furiously in the stone head, growing more distended and shot with cracks by the moment.

The expression on the giant Sergeant-Major's grinning face was resolving rapidly into a ferocious mien, his amber eyes taking on the glow of righteous rage.

He brought the pick hammer forward and tapped its perfectly balanced handle menacingly into his palm.

“You pathetic bitch,” he said softly to Hrarfa, venom dripping from his words. “All this time you've been suckin' the tarse of weak men, whorin' yer way across the world, across Time. The body you occupy once belonged to a real soldier, somebody 'oo lived and fought and died and was buried with honor. You got no right to be in there, darlin'. Time ta go.”

An unpronounceable curse blended with a scream of rage that shook the tunnel walls echoed forth from the titan.

Rath's hand, which had been winding in the air as if wrapping each of the four winds around his palm, rose up before him. He emerged from the shadows, a glittering in his scleraless black eyes, glaring at the titan with a look so hateful that it drew blood to the surface of his own skin.

“Last chance, my friend,” Grunthor said to Faron.

*   *   *

Get out
.

The thought, whispered in actual words inside the titan's body, thudded against the inside of the prison of Living Stone that Faron had been occupying since Talquist had placed him on the Weighing plate of the Scales.

A burning rage as filled with hate as the F'dor's screams was rolled up in Faron's consciousness. He let the formless essence of his mind wrap around the alien vibration that had been sharing his host body all this time and, not knowing what else to do, squeezed it violently with his own mind.

Hrarfa's screams of rage became even more scathing, even more dire.

Faron, no! What are you doing—

Get out!

You can't live without me, Faron,
Hrarfa's thoughts said in a tone that was equal parts wheedling and dark loathing.
He will kill you in a moment, and then where will you be? Do you think our kin in the Vault will forgive your treachery?

I think they will celebrate it.
The titan's thoughts dripped with disdain and ferocious hate.
I may be sired by one of your kind, but I choose not to be your kin. Get out!

Your father was—

My father was the host of a F'dor, just as I have been. Neither of us have
enjoyed the experience. Get out!

The third command finally shattered the existential link that Hrarfa had formed with the body of Living Stone back in the forest of Haguefort when she had begged for shelter, and had gotten it, from Faron.

The air in the underground tunnel filled with acrid smoke so caustic that both men's eyelids shriveled.

A howling cry echoed throughout the tunnels of the Hand. The sound was so horrific that, even miles below, the Earthchild heard it and trembled violently.

The formless spirit of Hrarfa, ejected from her host, was trapped in the subterranean tunnels, fading into oblivion.

That notwithstanding, her desperate will to live was still strong.

She weighed her choices.

She could try to run, try to find something in the immediate vicinity, a thought that she immediately discarded.

Any Bolg weak enough for her to subsume, especially in her compromised state, was outside, tearing apart the fifth, eighth, and twelfth regiments at that moment.

Most likely.

The Dhracian who stood behind the Firbolg soldier before her was not an option, of course. Even if she had the presence of mind and strength of purpose to undertake an attempt to forcibly take him as a host, the sheer diametrical opposition would rend her spirit like a wolf with a bird in its teeth and toss its scraps to the four winds over which he had control.

Mastering the will of a Dhracian, especially a member of the
Zhereditck,
was something that could not even be contemplated.

But the Firbolg commander who stood before her dissipating spirit now might have some weakness, some way inside him much like the ventilation tunnels that had allowed the titan to broach Ylorc.

In her fading consciousness she sought to assess him and was immediately overwhelmed with the vibrational signature that slapped her in return.

The grinning fool was in possession of a physicality that radiated life, health, strength, and muscularity. Despite the taste of the old world that hung in the air around him, there was a conflicting impression of youth and a surprising lack of scarring or injury to him. His skin, green-gray like the color of healing bruises, was supple, his teeth were amazingly without pits, his tusks polished and bright, and his hair was mossy and thick like that of a man of two decades, not the more likely age counted in at least two millennia.

It would be a challenge in which she was unlikely to be victorious.

She had no other choice.

*   *   *

A split second after the burning cloud of poisonous smoke had sublimated into the air of the underground tunnel, it shot forth as if on a stiff breeze and wrapped itself around Grunthor.

Rath, witnessing the attack, let go of the vocal chant.

“Hold your breath!” he shouted.

Feeling the Thrall ritual shatter as he did.

Grunthor looked around and above him.

He was wrapped in a caustic fog, falling on him like heavy rain.

His pick hammer trembled in his grip.

Before his eyes an image formed. It was a hollow face, much like a flattened skull with eye sockets and a toothless mouth, a vertical oval hole where a nose would have been. And as the mist wrapped around him, the vaporous face seemed to open its mouth and soar straight toward his eyes.

Grunthor was having none of it.

“BUGGER OFF!”
he roared.

Then he swung back and delivered a shattering roundhouse blow, leading with his claws, cutting through the stinking cloud of vapor like an ax blade through a sapling tree.

Tearing the face to formless shreds.

Dissipating the mist.

And summarily ending the existence of one of the most relentless and powerful F'dor spirits to walk the Earth since the opening of the Vault.

And, regrettably and inadvertently, releasing the body of Living Stone, still occupied by the Faorina spirit Faron, from the Thrall ritual.

And any hold that Rath had held over it.

 

42

“Dodge. Now.”

The distinct voice of the Dhracian cut through the tunnel commandingly.

Grunthor, long used to following commands without even a second's hesitation, stepped aside as the titan lumbered past, its arms outstretched for Grunthor's throat.

And, with a mighty swing, struck the titan's extended right arm with his newly crafted pick hammer.

Shattering it utterly and smashing it off.

It fell to the earthen tunnel floor and broke into five pieces and an impressive quantity of dust.

The Sergeant-Major stepped back, panting, waiting for the titan to attack.

But instead it stood in the center of the tunnel, its gleaming blue eyes staring wildly at the stump below its shoulder.

The place that had connected to the missing arm was open to the dank air of the tunnel and to the sight of the Bolg and the Dhracian.

At the place where the lower arm had been attached, instead of the healthy glow of Living Stone was a wet, claylike substance that smelled of the healthy green of forests and caves, rich brown with striations of vermillion and purple, blue and gold.

But the broken area was dry and brittle inside, the only part of it still living was the very core of the limb, a red-brown center around which was nothing but dry, dead clay.

Grunthor waited for a return charge.

But instead, the titan continued to stare at its upper arm in what seemed like shock.

Then it looked up at the Sergeant-Major in what most closely resembled the emotion of terror.

And, without a backward glance, it dashed back up the corridor through which it had entered the Bolglands faster than any living man of flesh could run, and lumbered out into the night.

Running south through the remains of the battle of the steppes where the army it had led lay bleeding and dying, a few of them crying out to the sky for water or their mothers.

*   *   *

Grunthor and Rath stared at each other in astonishment.