The Hidden City (61 page)

The Temple Guardsman assumed a warlike posture – a rather stiff, formalized pose such as one occasionally sees on a frieze carved by an indifferently talented sculptor. Kalten brushed the man's sword aside and slammed his fist against the side of his helmet. The guardsman reeled away and fell heavily onto the cobblestones. He
was struggling to rise again when Kalten kicked him solidly in the face.

‘Quietly, Kalten!' Sparhawk said in a hoarse whisper.

‘Sorry. I guess I got carried away.' Kalten bent and peeled back the fallen guardsman's eyelid. ‘He'll sleep till noon,' he said. He straightened and looked around. ‘Is that all of them?'

‘That was the last,' Bevier whispered. ‘Let's get them out of the middle of the street. The moon's finally starting to come up down in this basin, and it'll soon be as bright as day here.'

It had been a short, ugly little fight. Sparhawk and his friends had rushed out of a dark side-street and had fallen on the detachment from the rear. Surprise had accounted for much of their success, and what surprise had not accomplished had been more than made up for by the ineptitude of the ceremonial troops. Sparhawk concluded that the Cyrgai
looked
impressive, but that their training over the centuries had become so formalized and detached from reality that it had almost turned into a form of dance instead of a preparation for real combat. Since the Cyrgai could not cross the Styric curse-line, they had not been involved in any real fights for ten thousand years, and so they were hopelessly unprepared for all the nasty little tricks that crop up from time to time in close, hand-to-hand fighting.

‘I still don't see how we're going to pull this off,' Talen puffed as he dragged an inert guardsman back into the shadows. ‘One look will tell the gate-guards that we're not Cyrgai.'

‘We've already discussed that while you were out scouting,' Sparhawk told him. ‘Xanetia and Aphrael are going to mix spells again – the way the Anarae and Sephrenia did back in Matherion. We'll look enough like Cyrgai to get us through the gate – particularly if the
rest of the Cyrgai are as much afraid of these Temple Guardsmen as Xanetia says they are.'

‘As long as the subject's come up,' Kalten said, ‘after we've bluffed our way past those gate-guards, I want my own face back. We stand a fair chance of getting killed tonight, and I'd like to have my own name on my tombstone. Besides, even if by some chance we succeed, I don't want to startle Alean by coming at her with a stranger's face. After what she's been through, she's entitled to see the real me.'

‘I don't have any problem with that,' Sparhawk agreed.

Captain Jodral returned just after dark, his loose robe flapping and his eyes wide as he desperately flogged at his horse. ‘We're doomed, my General' he shrieked.

‘Get control of yourself Jodral!' General Piras snapped. ‘What did you see?'

‘There are millions of them, General!' Jodral was still on the verge of hysteria.

‘Jodral, you've never seen a million of anything! Now, what's out there?'

‘They're coming across the Sarna, General,' Jodral replied, trying his best to control his quavering voice. ‘The reports about that fleet are true. I saw the ships.'

‘Where? We're ten leagues from the coast.'

‘They've sailed up the River Sarna, General Piras, and they've lashed their ships together side by side to form bridges.'

‘Absurd! The Sarna's five miles wide down here! Talk sense, man!'

‘I know what I saw, General. The other scouts will be along shortly to confirm it. Kaftal's in flames. You can see the light of the fire from here.' Jodral turned and pointed south toward a huge, flickering orange glow in the sky above the low coastal hills standing between the Cynesgan forces and the sea.

General Piras swore. This was the third time this week that his scouts had reported a crossing of the lower Sarna or the Verel River, and he had not thus far seen any sign of hostile forces. Under normal circumstances, he'd have simply had his scouts flogged or worse, but
these were not normal circumstances. The enemy force that had been harrying the southern coast was made up of the Knights of the Church of Chyrellos – sorcerers to a man – who were quite capable of vanishing and then reappearing miles to his rear. Still muttering curses, he summoned his adjutant. ‘Sallat!' he snapped. ‘Wake up the troops. Tell them to prepare themselves! If those accursed knights
are
crossing the Sarna here, we'll have to engage them before they can establish a foothold on this side of the river.'

‘It's just another ruse, my General,' his adjutant said, looking at Captain Jodral with contempt. ‘Every time some idiot sees three fishermen in a boat, we get a report of a crossing.'

‘I
know,
Sallat,' Piras replied, ‘but I
have
to respond. King Jaluah will have my head if I let the Knights get across those rivers.' The General spread his hands helplessly. ‘What else can I do?' He swore again. ‘Sound the charge, Sallat. Maybe
this
time we'll find somebody real when we reach the river.'

Alean was trembling violently when Zalasta returned the two captives to the small but now scrupulously clean cell following yet another of those hideous, silent interviews with the bat-winged Klæl, but Ehlana felt drained of all emotion. There was a perverse seductiveness to the strangely gentle probing of that infinite mind, and Ehlana always felt violated and befouled when it was over.

‘That will be the last time, Ehlana,' Zalasta told her apologetically. ‘If it's any comfort to you, he's still baffled by your husband. He cannot understand how any creature with such power would willingly subordinate himself to –' He hesitated.

‘To a mere woman, Zalasta?' she suggested wearily.

‘No, Ehlana, that's not it. Some of the worlds Klæl
dominates are wholly ruled by females. Males are kept for breeding purposes only. He simply cannot understand the relationship between you and Sparhawk.'

‘You might explain the meaning of love to him, Zalasta,' She paused. ‘But you don't understand it yourself, do you?'

His face went cold. ‘Good night, your Majesty,' he said in an unemotional tone. Then he turned and left the cell, closing and locking the door behind him.

Ehlana had her ear pressed to the door before the clanging echo of its closing had subsided.

‘I do not fear them,' she heard King Santheocles declare.

‘Then you're a bigger fool than I thought,' Zalasta told him bluntly. ‘All of your allies have been systematically neutralized, and your enemies have you surrounded.'

‘We are Cyrgai,' Santheocles insisted. ‘No one can stand against us.'

That may have been true ten thousand years ago when your enemies dressed in furs and charged your lines with flint-tipped spears. Now you face Church Knights armed with steel; you face Atan warriors who can kill your soldiers with their fingertips; you face Peloi who ride through your ranks like the wind; you face Trolls, who not only kill your soldiers, but also eat them. If that weren't bad enough, you face Aphrael, who can stop the sun or turn you to stone. Worst of all, you face Anakha and Bhelliom, and that means that you face obliteration.'

‘Mighty Cyrgon will protect us.' Santheocles' voice was set in a willful note of stubborn imbecility.

‘Why don't you go talk with Otha of Zemoch, Santheocles?' There was a sneer in Zalasta's voice. ‘He'll tell you how the Elder God Azash squealed when Anakha destroyed him.' Zalasta suddenly broke off.
‘He comes!'
he choked. ‘Closer than we'd ever thought possible!'

‘What are you talking about?' Ekatas demanded.

‘Anakha is here!' Zalasta exclaimed. ‘Go to your generals, Santheocles! Tell them to call out their troops and order them to scour the streets of Cyrga, for Anakha is within your walls! Hurry, man! Anakha is here, and our deaths stalk the streets with him! Come with me, Ekatas! Cyrgon must be warned, and eternal Klæl! The night of decision is upon us!'

Elron ticked off the count on his fingers and swore. No matter how he slurred or compressed the words of that last line, it still had one beat too many. He hurled his quill-pen across the room and sank his face into his hands in an artful pose of poetic despair. Elron did that frequently when composing verse.

Then he hopefully raised his face as a thought came to him. He
was
nearing the final stanzas of his masterpiece, after all, and an Alexandrine
would
add emphasis. What would the critics say?

Elron agonized over the decision. He cursed the day when he had chosen to cast the most important work of his career in heroic couplets. He
hated
iambics. They were so mercilessly regular and unforgiving, and pentameter was like a chain around his neck, jerking him up short at the end of every line. ‘Ode to Blue' hung in the balance while her creator struggled with the sullen intransigencies of form and meter.

Elron could not be sure how long the screaming had been going on or exactly when it had started. His mind, caught up in a creative frenzy, had blotted out everything external to that one maddeningly recalcitrant line. The poet rose irritably to his feet and went to the window to look out at the torch-lit
streets of Natayos. What
were
they screaming about?

Scarpa's soldiers, ignorant, unwashed serfs for the most part, were running, bawling in terror like so many bleating sheep. What had set them off
this
time?

Elron leaned slightly out to look back up the street. There seemed to be a different kind of light coming from the part of the ruined city that was still buried in tangled brush and creeping vines. Elron frowned. It was most definitely not torchlight. It seemed to be a pale white glow instead, steady, unwavering, and coming from dozens of places at the same time.

Then Elron heard Scarpa's voice rising over the screams. The crazy charlatan was shouting orders of some kind in his most imperial voice. The rabble in the streets, however, were ignoring him. The army was streaming along the cobbled streets of ruined Natayos toward the main gate, pushing, howling, jamming together and struggling to get through that hopelessly clogged gateway. Beyond the gate, Elron saw winking torches streaming off into the surrounding jungle. What in God's name was going on here?

Then his blood suddenly froze. He gaped in horror at the glowing figures emerging from the side-streets of the ruin to stalk implacably along the broad avenue that led to the gate. The Shining Ones who had depopulated Panem-Dea, Norenja and Synaqua had finally descended on Natayos!

The poet stood frozen for only a moment, and then his mind moved more quickly than he'd have thought possible. Flight was clearly out of the question. The gate was so completely jammed that even those who had already reached it had little chance of forcing their way through. Elron dashed to his writing-table and swatted his candle with the flat of his hand, plunging the room into darkness. If there were no lights in the windows of this upper floor, the horrors that stalked the streets
would have no reason to search. Frantically, stumbling in the darkness, he ran from room to room, desperately searching for any other burning candles that might betray his location.

Then, certain that he was safe for the moment at least, the one known throughout Astel as Sabre crept back to his room to fearfully peer around the edge of the window-frame at the street below.

Scarpa stood atop a partially-collapsed wall issuing contradictory commands to regiments that evidently only he could see. His threadbare velvet cloak was draped over his shoulders and his makeshift crown was slightly askew.

Not far from where he stood, Cyzada was saying something in his hollow voice – an incantation of some kind, Elron guessed – and his fingers were weaving intricate designs in the air. Louder and louder he spoke in guttural Styric, summoning God only knew what horrors to face the silent, glowing figures advancing on him. His voice rose to a screech, and he pawed at the air, frantically exaggerating the gestures.

And then one of the incandescent intruders reached him. Cyzada screamed and flinched back violently, but it was too late. The glowing hand had already touched him. He reeled back as if that almost gentle touch had been some massive blow. Staggering, he turned as if to flee, and Elron saw his face.

The poet retched, clamping his hands over his mouth to hold in any sound that might give away his presence. Cyzada of Esos was dissolving. His already unrecognizable face was sliding down the front of his head like melted wax, and a rapidly-spreading stain was discoloring the front of his white Styric robe. He staggered a few steps toward the still-raving Scarpa, his arms reaching hungrily out toward the madman even as the flesh slid away from those skeletal, outstretched hands. Then the
Styric slowly collapsed to the stones, bubbling, seething, his decaying body oozing out through the fabric of his robe.

‘Archers to the front!' Scarpa commanded in his rich, theatrical voice. ‘Sweep them with arrows!'

Elron fell to the floor and scrambled away from the window.

‘Cavalry to the flanks!' he heard Scarpa command. ‘Sabers at the ready!'

Elron crawled toward his writing-table, groping in the dark.

‘Imperial guardsmen!' Scarpa bellowed. ‘Quicktime, march!'

Elron found the leg of the table, reached up and frantically began grabbing at the sheets of paper lying on the table-top.

‘First Regiment – charge!' Scarpa commanded in a great voice.

Elron knocked over the table, whimpering in his desperate haste.

‘Second Regiment –' Scarpa's voice broke off suddenly, and Elron heard him scream.