Authors: Eric Van Lustbader
‘See there!’ Her voice held a measure of excitement.
He peered through the sleet. Sailing up the river was a fleet of ships of a strange configuration all flying the same flag: black bars on a maroon field.
‘It is Moichi!’ Her voice a cry of delight. ‘His people come to join the Kai-feng!’
And the Sunset Warrior, feeling the enormous weight of the small body lying against his chest, thought: But still, too late for some.
N
OW HE LEFT THEM
to it.
For him no longer the battle of man against man.
For him the Salamander and The Dolman.
For him the world had ceased to spin on its axis. The seasons were frozen, the sun invisible, the moon gone. For now the ultimate purpose of his life was before him.
All else fell away. A dream only.
Thus did he pursue the whipping banners of the rampant ebon lizard, tail in its open mouth, crimson flames licking at its body. And he recalled words from the ancient mythology of his world:
Thus the Salamander, rising from the living flames, eschews death to command, in league with Evil.
Across the death-strewn plain he rode, pushing the luma past even its enormous limits. Its forelegs became battering rams as it flung aside the living and the dead alike, jumping piles of corpses black with buzzing furry flies, careening past death struggles, decapitations, disembowelings, past massacres and stalemates until at last it collapsed under him, tumbling with him down the slope of the near bank, greasy with mud and blood and entrails.
He leapt, uncoiling his powerful leg muscles, and hit the lapping water in a flat, economical dive, hurling himself outward, not down into the depths.
He surfaced nearly a third of the way across, shaking his head free of water, and kicked scissor-fashion with his legs, his limbs working in concert, establishing a rapid rhythm.
Came up out of the water, calling, calling, even as he launched himself up the steep incline of the far shore. And he heard the thunder of its hoofs and he loped across the hard ground to meet it.
He mounted his crimson luma in one wide sweep of his parted legs. It reared, snorting, and he spoke to it softly, crooning, and it took off after the rapidly disappearing banners.
Sang softly to it as it ran easily, effortlessly, over the wide field, away from the charcoal wood, and now its speed increased until they were fairly flying. And together they rejoiced in the passion of wind and sleet against their bodies.
Find her—Bring her.
Within the high yellow walls of Kamado, Hynd knew of Bonneduce the Last’s passing. Rather than mourning, he felt only the warmth of their long years of friendship. He had known of the little man’s vast torment and he was happy now that at last the pain had been stripped away, shed like the old and lifeless skin of a snake.
Find her—Bring her.
He prowled the narrow, deserted streets, past all the dark, dead gods, pillared as if crucified. Angrily, he sought an answer to a question beyond him.
Find her—Bring her.
The last thought glowing in his mind before the silken cord had been severed by Bonneduce the Last’s death. A banner rippling against the skies of his mind.
Obviously he had meant Moeru. There was no doubt of that.
Abruptly he reined in, squinting ahead.
Six horsemen, including the two standard-bearers. And between them the coal-black creature upon whom sat—
He pulled hard on the reins. The luma leapt into the air, wheeling. He cursed himself for a fool as he dug his boot heels into his luma’s gleaming flanks, heading back across the barren plain toward the verge of the ebon forest.
It was not the Salamander who rode that devilish thing, though the figure was fully as huge and was dressed in his black robes. The wind had shifted, coming directly at him from the party ahead, and he had caught the horrid stench of the thing which rode the monster.
Decoyed.
And now behind him, the fourth Makkon pounded its great malformed fists against the steaming coat of the creature upon whose back it rode. And it left the standard-bearers and the guards behind as it took off after the Sunset Warrior.
They both had seen the incompleteness that first moment when the Sunset Warrior had galloped into Kamado but there was nothing to say. Even if they could have told him—which, they both knew they could not—what was there to say? Dor-Sefrith was the only one and he was dead now.
At long last all the gods were gone, all the wise men used up, all the hosts of the mages dreaming their endless dreams.
We are left alone now to make our own decisions, thought Hynd. If we die, then it will be by our own hand. And if we live, then we will have earned all that we shall inherit. This world with its day and its night. Perhaps even the stars.
Down the refuse-strewn streets he ran, his round tail flying, and rats shrieked, scampering from his path. Out of the high gates and onto the vast field.
He knew now what he had to do. He wondered if the same could be said for the Sunset Warrior.
He left the panting luma at the edge of the dead forest and went in on foot.
Before the fire caused by the coming of The Dolman, the forest had been dense. In death it remained difficult to penetrate. Remarkably, none of the branches or trunks had been destroyed by the unnatural conflagration, only the foliage, so that now the wood had, more than ever, the appearance of a maze.
He ignored the muffled sounds behind him, keeping to an imaginary path that took him due north. Time and again, he was obliged to make circuitous detours. He did not use his sword or any other weapon for he was quite determined to give his foes no advantage whatsoever and this included any forewarning of his approach. The sounds of his cleaving the brittle branches would he heard a kilometer away. Now and then a thought threatened to intrude upon his consciousness or perhaps feeling was the more appropriate word. But his mind was narrowing as his concentration heightened and the wisp of intuition was thrust aside, losing itself on a sudden gust of wind.
At length he came to a clearing. The sleet had ceased but the day was darker now, oppressive and colder than ever. He peered up at the violent skies, watching for a moment the heavy amber clouds stretched across the world like the taut skin of a fevered animal. He thought briefly of Kukulkan, the lord of light, writhing in his domain far above the destruction encompassing the world. Here the sun did not exist.
He whirled even before he heard the crashing behind him. He drew
Aka-i-tsuchi.
There was green mist among the trees, pale and opalescent, swirling, fuming, rolling into the tiny glade. Behind the mist, a dark, hulking shape, looming. Orange eyes like blazing beacons.
The fourth Makkon.
The Salamander’s robes, torn and muddy, streamed open, fluttering to the earth. The reek of the Makkon scent filled the clearing. The long powerful tail whipped back and forth behind it, freeing itself from the last remnants of the ebon cloth. A wailing came from the curved beak.
This Makkon seemed taller than its brothers and perhaps it was older, though that concept might have been inimical to the creature. Its eyes were cold and alien and clever. Its outline pulsed, growing blurred here and there.
As it advanced, its arms swung out, and the movement was accompanied by a sound like that of scythes cutting through ripe wheat. And now the Sunset Warrior saw that where its brothers had possessed scaled, six-fingered claws, this one had hands fashioned from what appeared to be clear, cut quartz. But beneath the hard, glistening surface, lights of pastel reds and purples shot through the length of the curved fingers, magnified as if seen through the eye of a lens.
The gray beak, yellowed somewhat, opened spasmodically and the stiff triangular tongue fluttered again and again. The Makkon hurled its titanic bulk at him and he pivoted on his left leg, facing the charge with his left side. Slammed the flat of his sword across the shoulders of the thing.
As the massive frame hurtled past him, he heard the repeated sounds coming from the Makkon. Over and over it called and he believed now that it was the speech of man, garbled and tortured, as if the creature had spent long years learning one phrase and was now forcing it out of a larynx not meant to reproduce such syllables.
‘I want them,’
said the Makkon.
It charged him again and he twisted, but this time it was ready, and more swiftly than it seemed possible for a thing of such bulk, it feinted, coming in under his guard. He felt a searing pain in his left arm. As if liquid ice were being injected into his veins.
The quartz hand had grasped him and the transparent talons had sunk into the inside of his arm just above the ending of the Makkon gauntlet. The living lights within the crystal skin lanced out of the tips of the hollow claws into his flesh. He jerked at the contact but could not break the grip. He swung his sword but his position was awkward and he had little leverage. The blow glanced, skittering off the pulsing hide. The hideous beak opened and a terrible howling broke from the Makkon’s mouth.
‘I want them.’
He wrenched at his arm again, feeling the ice flowing into him. Pain raced through him and the blackened trees spun around him. He went to his knees, the strength abruptly deserting his legs. He dropped his useless sword.
‘I want them.’
The Makkon’s other hand came down on the hide of the gauntlet and, with a raking motion, tried to peel it off his hand. He clenched his fist against the pressure and abruptly another memory hurled itself into the spotlight of his consciousness. Dor-Sefrith’s green glazed brick house in the City of Ten Thousand Paths. Within the second story, an empty glass case with two imprints of things which resembled a man’s hand. Larger. More finger’s? Of course! The gauntlets had been the magus’ doing. Had dor-Sefrith battled this Makkon? Had it been he who had cut the hands off it? He stared into the glowing, febrile eyes and knew.
Now the chill blackness threatened to engulf him and he cursed himself for his carelessness. He was in serious trouble, finished before he had even begun. He spiraled his mind inward.
The world turned upside down.
Hit the ground with the soles of his boots, allowing them to take the brunt of the velocity. He leaned forward and rolled. Free.
Because he had fought harder, pulling against the fury of the Makkon, building the strength within him, setting up the increasingly high stresses of the tug of war, digging his heels into the snow and ice, increasing the pressure, his teeth grinding, ignoring the encroaching blackness, feeling the answering response as the Makkon pulled harder against him. Reversed it then, using the thing’s strength against him, entering when pulled, stepping through the move, slamming into the frame, then arching himself up and over the stumbling Makkon, the boiling amber sky the floor of his world for a long moment when the wind whistled through his hair and piled snow was a white barrier over his head.
The tearing almost wrenched his arm from its socket but the talons left his flesh, their lights shooting into the air momentarily. Rolling across the hard ground, his high helm spinning into a snowdrift.
But the Makkon had already recovered and was upon him as he uncoiled, its transparent talons searching again for his flesh. He felt its humid terrible breath, choking him in viscous fumes, and he smashed his balled fist against the Makkon’s skull. It staggered and fell over sideways, its long arms flailing dangerously but again it was a feint and one hand whipped in under his guard and crashed against his cheek. Immediately the whole of his face went numb. Felt as if the cheekbone had shattered. Sight in that eye suddenly blurred and he lost depth perception. Something cold and slimy slithered around his neck. The Makkon’s tail. It wrapped itself about his throat and the jeweled claw came for him, reaching for his eyes. It slashed. And at the same time he thrust the gauntlet up, smashing it into the underside of the Makkon’s beak. It shattered and the creature howled in pain and rage. But the noose of the tail tightened, keeping the air in his lungs trapped, and as his system extracted the oxygen, manufacturing carbon dioxide, it became a poison. He was killing himself.
He fought one hand down to his side and drew his short blade. Its virgin metal whispered in the glade, bespeaking the mysteries of warfare, death, and destruction, and he thrust it up blindly, into the rent mouth. The hide had already been split and he searched for the broken flesh, sawing desperately with the blade. But the Makkon twisted, would not let the sword’s point reach the vulnerable spot at the top of its palate. Viscous black fluid, Makkon’s blood, gouted over him in a sickening wave and the creature’s crystal talons sought purchase along his arms, opening the flesh, and time now narrowed into a few agonizingly short moments as the Sunset Warrior hacked at the flesh and the Makkon pumped its strange poison into his opened veins. Flesh ribboning and breath fouling.
The ice was a crimson tide leeching the strength from him, ten thousand flecks of shining death probing deep into him, and he ignored the rising agony and twisted, sight returning to his eye, depth perception critical now. He moved another centimeter to the left, concentrated his entire force upward from the sole of his boot, through his bent leg, straightening it, striking at the proper angle, the power thus magnified, totally awesome, crashing just under the Makkon’s chin. It howled and the tail unwound, whiplike, but the talons remained embedded. Used the sword, thrusting mightily into the Makkon’s mouth, feeling the blade breaching the roof, the sighing blade bisecting the creature’s brain. It reared up, dragging itself over him in its last desperate attempt to outrun the shining sword, but he hung on, tenacious and relentless, increasing the force of the thrust until his muscles screamed for release from the enormous tension and, twisting, he heaved the massive body onto its back, sitting astride it and, using both hands, showing the orange eyes the sight of its own dead hands being used to kill it, jammed the blade all the way through the head, shattering the back of the skull in a burst of fury. The point buried itself in the white frost beneath them.