A Dance of Chaos: Book 6 of Shadowdance (49 page)

At last he fell back, dropping to his knees and holding his forehead. Delysia wanted to go to him. She wanted to bring her healing magic to his aid, to banish his exhaustion, but their foes, despite the tremendous assault they had suffered, still poured inside undeterred. Her role in this battle, it wasn’t watching, and it wasn’t healing. Not yet.

Something in her snapped, and she suddenly felt very cold. It was cowardice to leave it all in the hands of others, to let Tarlak and Brug and Haern and hundreds of soldiers be the ones to stain their hands with blood in an attempt to keep everyone safe. Not when she could help them. Not when she could share the burden, for no matter how heavy it was, she could bear it. After all, her brother was right. She was strong, and the army invading her city was about to find out just how strong she could be.

Delysia broke into a run, feeling incredibly calm despite the carnage around her. Past her brother she ran, and when she reached the thin line of soldiers she moved them aside with a mere wave of her hand. Faster and faster she pumped her legs, racing toward the heart of her opponents’ formation, wanting every bit of momentum she could muster. They would not stop her. They would not defeat her. She barely felt the rain. She barely heard the battle cries, the wounded, the dying. Antonil’s men were trying to reseal the hole in the wall, smashing toward it with their shields while enduring the retaliation of their foes. They would not succeed, not without help. Her help. A group of six orcs saw the gap she’d opened and rushed toward her, weapons raised, mouths bellowing out a cry she did not hear. They did not scare her. They only made her run faster.

Just before they could strike, she flung her arms wide and shouted Ashhur’s name. The ensuing shock wave blasted the nearest orcs to the ground as if they had been struck by the most tumultuous of winds. Her momentum halted as light shot out from her body in all directions. From her back spread a shimmering set of wings comprised of holy light, and controlling them was as natural as moving her hands. Delysia stepped forward, but her feet were no longer touching the ground. Her body moved ahead nonetheless, and her wings lashed out ahead of her, elongating, becoming blades that sliced through the orc bodies as if they were straw. The blood and gore could not stick to the light, and as the orcs howled, she surged forward, lashing them again with her wings.

“You are not welcome here,” Delysia said, and she felt her voice was not her own. “Begone from this city.”

She pointed a hand, and from her finger blasted a beam of light twice the size of a man. It tore through their ranks, disintegrating anything it touched. Many orcs flung themselves against the wall of soldiers, tearing at them with wild abandon instead of facing her. Others reacted like rabid dogs, rushing her no matter how reckless it might be. Delysia felt nothing as she struck them down, not even slowing the movements of her feet as she propelled herself toward the gate while hovering above the ground. Whips of light cracked from her hands, searing flesh and shattering bone. She was almost to the gate, and with a thought she sent a wing corkscrewing in, ripping apart the dozen who had tried, and failed, to flee in time. As the wings retracted, the stunned soldiers on either side regained their wits and rushed to seal the gap.

Delysia turned, her wings becoming ethereal, their light rising up to the sky like shimmering smoke. The orcs still within the city were quickly cut down by the remaining soldiers, barring the scattered pockets that had broken through the ring and fled beyond. Delysia felt the ground touch her feet, and the sound of the rain grew in her ears. With a gasp she took in a breath, and it felt like she woke from a dream. All around her, soldiers gave her a wide berth as they moved to solidify their defenses, which was good, for it felt as if the slightest breeze could have toppled her.

Tarlak caught her before she finally fell.

“Easy there,” he said as she let him hold her. Her arms and legs felt intensely weak, her head filled with cotton.

“Are we safe?” she asked.

“Seems so,” he said. “It looks like the attack has stalled. I doubt the remaining orcs are excited about fighting after they’ve watched so many of their own slaughtered.”

“And Brug?”

“The idiot’s still on the frontlines, angry and kicking.”

Delysia smiled.

“Good,” she said. “Now let me go.”

Just as quickly as the weakness had hit her, it was gone, her strength slowly returning to her body. Gently pulling herself free of her brother, she stood apart a few paces and ran a hand through her soaked hair, much of which stuck to her face and neck.

“That’ll teach that bastard necromancer not to mess with the Eschaton,” Tarlak said, and he made a rude gesture with his arms toward the city entrance. “So what do you think, are we due for a reward, or a
really
large rew—”

He never finished the sentence. Tarlak screamed as he dropped to his knees, fingers clutching at the sides of his face, fingernails digging into his skin so hard thin drops of blood dripped down his cheeks as he raked them up and down. The pain in his voice was terrible to hear. When she reached out for him, he slapped her hand away.

“Don’t,” he said, crumpling, as if trying to shrivel down as small as possible. “Don’t … don’t touch me…”

His entire body had begun to quiver. Fighting down her rising panic, Delysia closed her eyes and whispered a simple prayer. When she opened them, her vision was attuned to the realm of gods, the natural world turning shadowy and dark. Shimmering an alternating violet and crimson were a dozen snakes latched on to her brother’s body. Their eyes were rubies, their scales obsidian. They twisted and curled about him, sliding through his robes as if the cloth were made of air. Only their heads did not move, for they had sunk their ethereal teeth into Tarlak’s face and neck. At those spots Tarlak scratched, his hand passing through them like shadows. Every few moments Tarlak’s veins pulsed a bright red, the light visible even through his flesh and clothing.

What curse is this?
Delysia wondered, baffled by the sight of it. Some strange evil of Karak’s, she knew, but how could she break it? There was only one way she could think of, and that was simply to bathe her brother with Ashhur’s grace and pray the curse could not withstand it. Despite his resistance, she grabbed Tarlak by the front of his shirt and knelt down.

“You will endure this, do you hear me?” she told her brother. “You’re stronger than this, now fight it!”

There was no way to know if he heard her, so she trusted him to resist. Pleading to Ashhur, she summoned the strength within her, flooding her hands with light. With normal sight it would have appeared as a white glow, but to her god-sight it was a brilliant knife that she plunged into her brother’s chest. Tarlak gasped as her physical hands touched his body, and then the snakes released, slithering with stunning speed. Delysia felt pain spike up her body as they dug their fangs into her hands, quick jabs before slithering back into her brother’s flesh. From each one a trail of smoke floated through the night, traveling back to their master who gave them power and life. Delysia thought to cut the strands, but there was no guarantee it would end the curse. Even worse, she feared it might bring death to Tarlak instead of the mere agony the cursed snakes caused.

“Begone from him,” she said, pulsing more of her power into her brother’s body. The snakes writhed, and she heard a dozen screeches, like those of wounded birds. Instead of the prayer’s exorcising them, the visible manifestations of the curse sank into him, burrowing their heads down into his flesh as their shimmering tails tightened their grasp. Delysia felt herself running short of breath as she continued to pray. Her words caused the horrible things to clench tight, dig deeper, bite harder. Tarlak screamed on his back, thrashing wildly against her touch.

At last she was desperate enough to try cutting the threads. She reached out to the shadowy tendrils, clutching one with her hand. The moment she did, a flash of darkness passed over her eyes, and she heard a voice rumble deep within her mind.

You are nothing, little girl, merely a feeble child playing in the realm of gods. It will cost you dearly.

“A feeble child?” she hissed as she felt herself growing dizzy. “Then prove it, you fiend. I’m not scared of you.”

At first laughter was her only response, so full of loathing and mockery she felt her neck flushing. The curse sank deeper into Tarlak, and it filled him with such pain he arced his back and flung aside his arms so far she feared he would break his own bones. The scream that tore out of him was unearthly in its power, terrifying in its agony, and then with a dozen raptor cries, the snakes leaped from his body and into hers.

Delysia’s turn to scream. Even the little concentration it took to keep the god-sight enabled left her, and she found herself crumpled on the ground, trembling as she looked through tearstained eyes at her curled fists. The cursed vipers had been biting her there, but she saw only her own quivering hand. But the pain was real, so very real. Equally terrible was the presence of Karak, like a cold shadow cast across her body. It left her feeling isolated, alone, denied the comfort of her god as she writhed in agony.

“Del?” she heard Tarlak ask. He sounded as if he were just waking up from a deep sleep. “Del, no, what did you do?”

The pain shifted, curling through her body, attacking her lungs, her heart, her throat. Her eyes burned, and she closed them, unable to shake the image of two obsidian vipers latching on to her eyeballs. Face to the ground, she shuddered as the rain fell upon her, and she’d have given anything for that water to wash away her consciousness.

Feeble child
, the prophet’s voice echoed in her mind.
A man or woman can die from pain, if it is great enough. The mind breaks, unable to handle such levels of torment. That fate awaits you, Priestess. I will drag you to the very brink, and then beyond. You’ll die screaming, pissing yourself like a newborn babe as you claw out your eyes. By the end you will be a broken husk, a fitting testament to Karak’s fury. This city may not be mine, but I have waited for centuries, and I can wait for centuries more. But how long can you endure? Days? Hours? Minutes …

The pain heightened. It didn’t seem possible that it could, but it did. Despite her closed eyes she saw a thousand exploding spots fill her vision. While only a dozen had bitten her brother, now she felt as if there were a thousand sinking in their fangs, flooding her with their venom. Every inch of her skin was on fire, every bone in her body aching, every breath she took seeming certain to be her last.

You feel the fires of the Abyss, feeble child. No mortal can withstand their caress.

She heard Tarlak calling for her, distant, unimportant. Rational thought seemed lost to her, her mind able to focus only on the terrible, all-encompassing pain. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know her own name. And then she felt herself go numb, fully numb, as the presence of the dark god bathed her mortal form.

There is still respite
, he whispered, his voice deeper than the prophet’s.
Even in death, there is time to reach out your hand
…

The momentary respite from the pain allowed her to gather her thoughts, and she let out a single, pitiful laugh. If it was possible to stun a god, she felt she’d done it, for neither Karak nor the prophet spoke his ugly words in her mind. Gritting her teeth, she coalesced her thoughts so she might voice her denial. The effort was incredible. The mere act of opening her mouth meant enduring a thousand beestings across the muscles of her tongue and throat, but she would not be silenced.

“No.”

Every shred of her will, every last remnant of her power, she poured into that single word. With everything she would deny him. With everything she would fight the cruelty he sowed, the darkness he fostered. The pain returned, as furious as ever, but she clung to that word, assigning to it her very identity. Her name was Delysia, and even if she was but a feeble child, she was not Karak’s child, and would never be.

Death comes for you, Priestess. My time for games is ended.

The prophet’s voice.

“No.”

She was on her knees now, her awareness returning. It was raining, her clothes were wet, her hair sticking to her face. Wave after wave of agony coursed through her. She beat her fists against the hard stone of the road as she screamed it out again.

“No!”

Light shone from her fists, and when she struck them again, the stone cracked, spider webs racing for hundreds of feet in all directions from the blow. She heard a ringing, high-pitched and piercing, but it felt wonderful to her ears. Lifting her hands, she watched smoke drift off them, spreading into the night air for only a few feet before dissipating. Ashhur’s power flooded from her chest to her extremities, and she reveled in its presence. A whisper, and she returned her vision to the realm of gods.

The snakes crawled about her body, but they were twisting in pain, mouths opening and closing in feeble attempts to bite. Clasping her hands together, she lifted them above her head, then flung them down as she stood to her full height. Light flashed from every inch of her skin, and she heard the cursed things shriek, then cease to be. The tendrils connected to the prophet snapped and withdrew, curling like the legs of a dying spider. And then, with a sudden intake of air, her sight returned to normal, and it seemed her ears resumed working again, for she heard the patter of the rain with sudden, startling clarity.

“Never,” Delysia whispered as she dropped to her knees, chest rising and falling as she gasped in air. “Never yours.”

“Del!”

She barely had time to brace herself before Tarlak flung his arms around her in a hug. Despite every muscle in her body feeling sore, she laughed and pressed her face against his chest.

“I’m all right,” she whispered.

He pulled back, kissed her forehead.

“And it’s a good thing, too,” he said. “Because if not, I’d have killed you for pulling such a reckless stunt.”