Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (64 page)

 
          
Kedryn
sniffed the wind, his nostrils crinkling in distaste as it brought the odors of
corruption, and turned to his companion.

 
          
“I
think we have found Ashar’s hold.”

 
          
“Aye.”
Tepshen’s luteous features were grim. “And likely he
awaits our coming.”

 
          
“Then
let us not disappoint him,” Kedryn declared.

 
          
Tepshen
studied his face for a moment, then smiled gravely and took his hand in an
unusual display of emotion.

 
          
“Whatever
fate befall
us now, I am proud of you. You are a true
warrior.”

 
          
His
sinewy hand squeezed tight and Kedryn returned the pressure, smiling no less
gravely.

 
          
“You
honor me, my friend. I could ask no better comrade on this quest.”

 
          
Tepshen
nodded and murmured, “Save Brannoc, perchance
. ”

 
          
“That
is another debt we shall settle,” Kedryn answered, and they began to climb down
through the jumbled stones toward the grim, gray trees.

 
          
The
wind grew stronger as they descended, feculent as the stench of a midden,
rattling the withered branches so that the cadaverous trees seemed to reach
toward them, seeking to ensnare them. They stood gaunt, reminding Kedryn of the
frameworks of the blood eagle, that impression heightened by the charnel reek
that mingled with the fecal stench as they drew closer to the river. Thorny
limbs seemed to clutch at him and he drew Drul’s glaive, ready to lop off any
that took life and sought to steal his. The ground beneath his feet was gray
and parched as mummified skin, striated with tiny cracks that seemed to sigh as
he stepped upon them, the combination of clattering branches and plangent
ground soul-numbingly miserable, the wind an offense that threatened to void
his stomach. He fought against the sensual assault, marching resolutely onward,
Tepshen at his side, intent on reaching the weird keep that bulked ever larger
before them.

 
          
They
reached the river, pausing at the bridge. It seemed too fragile to sustain
their weight, its span held on either bank by massy pillars of basalt, graven
with indecipherable runes, the footway stretching out unsupported over the
steely race that frothed against the sheer banks, lashing angrily at the
desolate soil.

 
          
“There
is no other way,” Tepshen remarked, and set out across the span.

 
          
Kedryn
hurried to follow, aware that the bridge swayed as they crossed it, each step
setting its planks to vibrating, the retaining walls shuddering under his hand.
It seemed the structure must fall apart beneath them, spilling them into the
flood below, and Kedryn felt vertigo assail him as he speeded his pace,
trotting behind the kyo.

 
          
They
halted again when they reached the farther bank, staring up at the hold that
now loomed vast above them. A broad roadway of seamless jet ran up to the open
gates, the portal glowing red as if fire burned within the walls, those sheer
and smooth, seamless as the road, stone run as if poured from a melting pot,
evil a presence tangible as the stench of the wind that Kedryn now realized
wafted from that door. He set both hands about the hilt of his sword and
stepped past

 
          
Tepshen, taking the lead as they approached Ashar’s stronghold.

 
          
The
wind was fierce as they entered the keep, sighing down a long, low corridor
filled with the mephitic frowst. It threatened to numb their senses as they
paced the doleful tunnel, their blades held battle-ready, anticipating
momentary attack in the gloomy darkness.

 
          
Then
the tunnel gave way to a yard as forbidding as the hold’s exterior, shadowy
beneath the jut of sweeping walls, encased in a tangled spread of rank weeds from
which came the fetor. Kedryn ignored it now, for at the center of the yard
stood a column surrounded by a low wall, and chained to that column was Wynett.

 
          
He
was shocked to see her naked even as his heart lurched with joy as the steady
rise and fall of her breasts told him she lived. He gazed upon the sweet
perfection of her features and called her name as he ran to free her.

 
          
Her
head turned then, her clear blue eyes opening wide as she saw him start toward
her, and he saw fear writ stark, her mouth opening to cry a warning.

 
          
“Kedryn, no!
Ward yourself!”

 
          
He
halted, Drul’s glaive raised, spinning in a circle, his eyes scanning the
shadowy depths of the weed-hung yard.

 
          
And gaped as he saw a tall, brown-haired man emerge from the
tangles at the far side of the court.
His senses reeled as he studied
the sternly handsome face, the set of the broad shoulders, for in them he saw
his father as Bedyr had been in his youth, and that similarity, that
recognition, was weirdly disorientating. He hesitated, sword point lowering as
the man stepped out onto the black flagstones. He held a sword akin to Drul’s,
but the blade was crimson as if soaked in blood, and he smiled.

 
          
Wynett
cried, “He is Ashar, Kedryn! Do not trust him.”

 
          
“Kill
him,” murmured Tepshen, close at his back. “I shall look to Wynett.”

 
          
Kedryn
took a pace forward, matched by the brown-haired man, still smiling, each
movement an echo of Kedryn’s.

 
          
“So,”
he called, “you are the Chosen One. Kedryn Caitin! You have dared much to come
here.”

 
          
“I
will dare more,” Kedryn responded, feeling the glaive tremble in his grip, the
talisman mounted on the pommel glowing brighter, its radiance gradually
banishing the dull shadows, pulsating, filling him with a dreadful purpose.

 
          
“No
doubt,” Ashar returned, and his voice was Bedyr’s, “but will you sacrifice your
wife?”

 
          
Kedryn
halted, aware that Tepshen moved a short distance away, sidling toward the
column.

 
          
“I
offer you a bargain,” Ashar said, and Wynett screamed, “Do not listen to him!
He intends to slay you!”

 
          
Ashar
gestured and for an instant fire spurted around Wynett. Kedryn roared, “No!”
and the flames died. Ashar said, “I will give you the woman for that sword. It
is, after all, rightfully mine.”

 
          
“He
lies,” Wynett cried. “He will take the sword and slay you.”

 
          
“Would
you see her die?” asked Ashar, gesturing again so that
a
fresh
gout of fire sprang upward.

 
          
Kedryn
stared at him. From the corner of his eye he saw Tepshen halt, realizing that
the kyo had reached a point where the column must block him from the god’s
sight.

 
          
“He
is afraid of you,” Wynett screamed.

 
          
Tepshen
began to move cautiously toward the pillar. Kedryn said, “You are a god of
lies, why should I trust you?”

 
          
“Because
you love her,” Ashar said, “and because you will see her die horribly if you
refuse.”

 
          
Kedryn
paused, aghast at the alternatives. Ashar smiled, and he was Bedyr, standing
beaming at his son. “Give me the sword,” he urged, “and you shall go free with
your wife.”

 
          
Kedryn
shook his head, not in refusal, but bafflement. It seemed he stood before his
father and his soul rebelled at the notion of striking Bedyr, rebelled at the
notion of condemning Wynett to death. Did the Lady ask this of him? Was he
capable of so awful a choice?

 
          
“Give
me the sword,” repeated Bedyr. “Do you not trust me? Am I not your father?”

 
          
Gerat
rose from the stool, stepping from beneath the awning of the tent into the
sunlight. Rycol moved to join her, but she motioned him back, lifting her arms
as her eyes closed and her lips moved to utter a single word: “Now.”

 
          
The
chatelain halted as she gasped, her body trembling, shaking as through gripped
by some terrible force. It seemed for an instant that she was wreathed in blue
flame, surrounded by a corona that concentrated about her hands and flashed,
driving out and away, streaking like lightning over the startled faces of his
soldiery, lancing over the treetops below to strike deep into the woodlands of
the Beltrevan.

 
          
Kedryn
felt the power flood through him. It was cleansing, a cool, cauterizing fire
that banished doubt. He saw the nimbus emanating from his glaive burn fiercer,
felt the sword shudder in his grip, compelling him forward. He saw Bedyr’s form
dissolve, replaced by that of the tall, brown-haired man, then by something
else, something hideous that snarled and sprang forward on cloven hooves, lips
drawn back from lupine fangs between which a forked tongue lashed. He was
possessed by that certainty that had gripped him when he faced Niloc Yarrum, by
the surety that had sustained him as he faced Taws, by the implacable sense of
rectitude that had filled him as he held the talisman atop the roofs of the
White
Palace
. He saw Ashar in
all the
god’s malignant ugliness and knew that he faced a liar, a foul thing that held
only the antithesis of truth.

 
          
“For
Wynett!” he roared.
“For the Lady and the Kingdoms!”
And before Ashar had time to gesture again, before the flames could lick once
more, one final time, about Wynett, Kedryn gestured with the sword, not knowing
from whence came the cantrip, or how he knew to work it, only that incalculable
strength filled him as blue light flashed, encompassing his beloved, wreathing
her in the Lady’s protective light. He barked angry laughter as Ashar cursed
and returned his blade to the attack stance as his feet carried him swift
across the yard, the glaive swinging in a furious arc at the god’s misshapen
skull.

 
          
Ashar
raised his own ensorcelled blade and blue steel rang loud against crimson,
sparks coruscating about the combatants, both weapons glowing with magical
life.

 
          
“You
cannot win,” rasped the god, becoming Bedyr again, though but briefly, for it
seemed the power invested in Kedryn and in Drul’s glaive robbed him of that
shape-shifting ability, revealing him clear to Kedryn’s angry eyes.

 
          
“By
the Lady,” answered the Chosen One, “I can.”

 
          
He
turned his sword as Ashar
parried,
the great weapon
light in his hands, deflecting the god’s cut, driving in again to hack at the
pulsating belly. Ashar stood his ground, trading blow for blow, the yard filled
with the clamor of steel on steel, cloven hooves clattering as the deity danced
and sought to sunder Kedryn’s chest, sever his neck, raining savage blows
against the gaunt, fierce-eyed man. Each attack was turned and answered in
kind, the righteous fury that possessed Kedryn lending him a physical strength
to match the spiritual puissance burning within him, and Ashar was slowly
driven back toward the weed-hung colonnades.

 
          
Tepshen
saw his chance and sprang to the plinth, stepping into the blue nimbus that surrounded
Wynett. He slid his blade between the links of the binding chain and levered,
tendons bulging along his arms. The chain broke and the manacles securing
Wynett’s wrists fell free. Tepshen put an arm about her waist and swung her
clear of the pillar, depositing her on the flagstones, neither of them, their
eyes fixed on the battle raging across the yard, aware of her nudity.

 
          
“Aid
him,” Wynett urged.