The Right Hand of God (58 page)

Within moments the Falthan command stood at the edge of the small dell. Stretched tight across it, like the skin across the top of a storage jar, was a shimmering layer of light made of yellow and blue strands. Twice already Achtal had thrown himself at it, and twice he had been repulsed.

'It is the Truthspell,' Phemanderac said. 'Halkonis wrote about this. It seals the fighters together in single combat, ensuring they receive no outside help, until the challenge is completed. In this case, that will come with the surrender or death of one of the contestants.'

He sighed, then turned sorrowfully to Achtal. 'I think the Destroyer would have accepted Leith's surrender,' he said. 'But I think he will kill Hal'

Nearby stood Mahnum and Indrett, in each other's arms. 'Stubborn Hal! Thus he seeks to redeem himself in his brother's eyes!' Mahnum shook his head.

'There is more to it than that,' his wife replied. 'He wishes to . . .' Her voice faded to silence, and a great hush fell all around the rim of the depression. Hal and the Destroyer now stood face to face, weapons drawn.

The Undying Man held his sword with the aplomb of a seasoned fighter, but knew that his stance, designed to impress a gifted opponent, was wasted on the youth standing in front of him. His two-footed stance, the way he held his short blade far too tightly, even the choice of blade - surely they had better weapons in Faltha, he wondered - all told the Lord of Bhrudwo he was dealing with an unskilled adversary. He stood unmoving for a moment, reinforcing the link between his sword and his will. That was all that really mattered. The stance and even the armour were merely for show. Then he opened his mouth as if to talk, and struck with his blade, heavy with purpose. It should have been enough, but the Falthan deflected it with a perfectly placed block. Thrown off balance, the Undying Man barely recovered before the counter-thrust whistled in front of his face.

Thus chastened, he settled down to fight in earnest. There were no accompanying bursts of magic power, as all their art was focused on the blades they wielded. Even so, both men moved more swiftly than ought to have been possible, limbs unencumbered by the doubt and fear that slows the merely mortal fighter. Back and forth across, the dell they danced, thrust and parry, combinations of blows endured patiently, eyes searching for the opening that surely must come.

Eventually the two combatants sprang apart. 'Who taught you to fight, boy?' the Destroyer rasped, striving to keep weariness from showing in his voice. 'You have a style that reminds me of the swordsmen of Birinjh. Where do you come from?'

Hal laughed. 'My teacher is a Maghdi Dasht from a village on the High Plateau,' he said.

'Impossible!'

'Nevertheless,' came the reply, 'it would take far longer than two thousand years to be aware of everything happening in your domain even at one moment. What conceit leads you to think that you can trust your own knowledge, when it has proved to be so partial?'

He knows the magic, the Undying Man reminded himself. He's trying to sow doubt. In answer he hurled himself at the Falthan, raining blows on him from every direction; and could feel the youth faltering.

'Knowledge isn't everything, youngling,' he panted. 'Sometimes strength and desire are what count in the end.'

The two armies crept closer to the bowl, knowing their fates were bound up in the conflict being played out below them. Each small advantage was cheered, each step backwards greeted with a groan of concern.

'How is he doing this?' Modahl asked his son and his daughter. 'From where does he draw the power? How can he stand against the Destroyer?'

'There is more to Hal than anyone knows,' Kurr replied, and many nearby heard his words. 'It is not my story to tell, but the Most High made no mistake when selecting him as one of the Arkhimm.'

'I thought it was a brave but foolish gesture!' Farr said in genuine wonderment. The swordplay was so crisp, so fluid, so beautiful. 'Had he fought this way in the Battle of The Gap, we might have driven them back to their own lands!'

'I do not think he could have,' said the Ice Queen of Sna Vaztha. 'He uses his life-strength to do what he does.'

'He fights like his teacher,' Kurr remarked, indicating the Bhrudwan acolyte standing on the lip of the dell, eyes empty like a lightless room. 'But there must be something more, for even Achtal could not stand against the best of the Maghdi Dasht, and surely they are but shadows of their master.'

'There is power enough down there to reshape the world,' Phemanderac gasped. 'The Destroyer draws on reservoirs of power laid aside over millennia. But upon what does Hal draw?'

Down in the dell the two combatants closed yet again. Without warning, a light brighter than the sun seared across the vision of everyone there; then, just as they were able to open their eyes, the light exploded again, this time accompanied by a shout. 'HAL!'

The first flash of light momentarily blinded them both, but they recovered in seconds. The Destroyer came forward swinging, trusting senses other than sight. Hal was ready for him, and struck a blow across the Undying Man's right side, opening up a wound at least a forearm-span in length.

But the Lord of Bhrudwo did not slow down, and instead revealed his great advantage. As Hal watched, the wound healed itself. 'Did you think that you struck at anything but illusion?' the Destroyer mocked. 'Perhaps two thousand years of life is not sufficient to know everything.

But twenty years is barely enough time to learn how to stand upright!'

'But - your body is there,' Hal gasped, on the edge of exhaustion.

'Wrapped in illusion. You may strike me, but only if you are lucky. You, on the other hand, are about to be—'

The light flashed again, and both men knew it to be the Jugom Ark. Hal heard his name shouted in anguish, and for an instant he turned in the direction of the one who called his name, feeling the intense need in the cry.

The opening was small, but it was enough. Though he was half-blinded by the light, though he had been driven further into his hard-won supply of strength than ever before, the Undying Man still had enough energy remaining to drive his blade forward and into the breast of his opponent.

Hal cried out, his voice bubbling into silence as he fell to the ground.

* * *

Leith came flying down the path. 'Hal! Hal! What are you doing?' he cried as he smashed through bushes and knocked aside boulders in his haste to reach his brother. 'What are you doing?'

'What I must,' said a voice in his mind; and then: 'Goodbye.' The Arrow-bearer reached the bottom of the path and hurled himself across the muddy field of The Cauldron. 'No, Hal! No! NO!'

There were the two armies standing strangely silent as they faced each other. There was the dell where he had spied on his brother. There was the barrier of shimmering light, which faded even as he approached it. There were the two figures at the bottom of the dell, one with his arm raised in triumph, one lying prone on the ground. He threw himself down the slope, his legs barely able to keep up with his body, and neither able to keep pace with his will. 'Hal!

HAL! No, Hal!'

He cast himself on the body of his brother, taken by a madness that drove him into a black pit of despair from which there seemed no escape. Blood, his brother's blood, soaked into his robe.

'Please, Hal,' he whispered. 'Please don't die.' But his brother was beyond listening.

'I love you, Hal,' Leith rasped brokenly, too late.

Discarded carelessly on the ground beside him, the Jugom Ark flickered one last time, and went out.

THE CEREMONY OF SURRENDER, effectively handing control of the Falthan army over to the Destroyer, took place just before sunset. Leith Mahnumsen did not attend, nor was his absence questioned. His mother was there, though his father was not. Throughout the short ceremony Indrett seemed to be having difficulty standing, and leaned heavily on the arm of Modahl of Sna Vaztha. Forty or so Falthan commanders stood in front of the Bhrudwan tents, representing the defeated force, trying to keep the desolation from showing on their faces. On the far side of the depression waited the remnant of the Falthan army, now its true size with the illusory extra warriors removed.

Earlier the commanders had been sent to explain the terms of their defeat to the Army of Faltha. The combat between the son of Mahnum and the Destroyer had been hedged about with spells, they explained. The loser's army was now bound by a Truthspell, and could no longer oppose or deceive their adversaries. When the Declaration of Surrender was signed, the magic would become binding for all time.

'The Sixteen Kingdoms will resist him, each one,' said an Instruian soldier to the man standing next to him, who happened to be of the Instruian Guard.

'There is hope yet.' He kept his eyes on the open space in front of the Bhrudwan encampment, where the ceremony was being held.

'Aye, there is hope,' came the gruff response. 'But not much. You have heard the rumours that half the kingdoms have already gone over to the Destroyer?' The soldier nodded eagerly; he always kept an ear open for rumour. 'The tales are true, and more. There are many as would welcome the Bhrudwans with open arms,' said the Guard, and waited for the reaction.

'Are you saying you know guardsmen who would betray Faltha? That you are a traitor yourself?' The words were offered in a shocked undertone.

'I'm sayin' nothing of the kind,' said the guard, 'but how could the Bhrudwans be worse than the Arkhoi we've had running Instruere?' Seeing the doubt on the other man's face, he continued. 'I've done service in the Hall of Lore, and I've seen things that would turn your stomach.'

'But what about the burnings this afternoon? Those soldiers surrendered properly. They shouldn't have been executed for it.'

'That's what the army needs, a little more discipline,' the guard said, running his tongue over his lips. 'How else did fifty thousand of them defeat a hundred thousand of us? Faltha is soft, mark my words; soft and weak. This war has weeded out the weaklings, and only the strong like us remain. We'll be wanted in the new set-up, no question.'

The soldier shook his head and moved on, trying to get a better view of the ceremony, but the words of the guard stayed in his head.

Trumpets blared, and the Destroyer - the Undying Man,

we have to call him now, Kurr remembered bitterly - strode forward, resplendent in his black robe, a silver crown on his brow, his sword resting on his hip. As they had been instructed, the Falthan commanders fell to their knees and pressed their foreheads to the dirt. The losian commanders had refused to consider this demand when the details of the ceremony were relayed to them, and some even spoke of killing themselves before acquiescing, but the Haufuth suggested quietly substituting First Men for their absent allies. So far it seemed to have worked.

Kurr remained kneeling along with the others, watching out of the corner of his eye as Indrett stood, then approached the slayer of her son. So hard, the old farmer thought; so cruel to ask her to do this. Yet she knelt on one knee in front of the Undying Man, and spoke the words of surrender in a strong, clear voice. So much courage.

All felt the magic of it pull tight around them. Perhaps other people at other times would be able to resist the Lord of Bhrudwo, but not them, not now, not for as long as the Binding lasted. And when the Declaration was signed, the Binding would become immutable, lasting forever. A dreadful fate, they realised; but they had entered into this agreement freely, they had accepted his challenge, they had brought this on themselves.

Stella stood beside the Destroyer, her body aflame with pain as always, but sustained by his will so that she could not even move a muscle in relief unless he wished it - and he never wished it. As 1 am bound, so Faltha is bound. She considered the irony, but even thinking gave her pain. There seemed little of herself left apart from the hurting.

She had heard the Destroyer issue his challenge, and hope

had risen within her despite the evidence she had of his duplicity. When Hal and not Leith accepted the challenge, hope had evaporated. But with surprised eyes she had witnessed the cripple fight with astonishing skill, and all through the match she had begged the Most High for Hal to emerge victorious. She poured out her soul to the boy from her own village, and had felt the same drawing she had experienced the day when Leith had been under attack by the Maghdi Dasht. The Fire that burns in me is somehow being used by Hal, she realised, even though the Destroyer continually taunted her by telling her that it was locked away beyond her capacity to use. With every blow she willed Hal on: it needed just one stroke of luck and she would be set free! It was so close she could almost feel the shape of freedom.

But that blow never came, and in a moment of horror she watched the Destroyer strike Hal down, saw him die. Hal, loving Hal, friend and companion, dying at the end of an evil blade.

She had closed her eyes and resolved never to open them again, so deep was her sorrow.

But in spite of herself she had opened them, if only to avoid falling in the dirt as his irresistible will dragged at her. She saw Leith embracing his brother's body, heard his cries of anguish and the low moans of fear that rippled through the Falthan army as they realised the war was over, that they had lost. She beheld the smile on her master's face, and wished she had the power to spit on him as she had done once before. She watched him wipe his blade clean of Hal's blood, foulness cleansing himself of purity.

The Destroyer seemed to give her no more thought after locking her into position just before the ceremony of surrender began. He had spent the afternoon using the blue fire to communicate with various of his traitorous allies - Stella was too weary and heartsick to note whom he had spoken to - and later the husks of the six Falthans he had drained of life for the fire were taken to the poles and burned there. In some fashion this had refreshed him, and the ceremony had begun soon after.

She wondered if the Falthans realised just how close the Destroyer had come to losing everything. His blood burned in her veins; thus she could sense his extremity. His illusory skin had faded as he expended all his energy on keeping Hal's sword at bay, and for a few moments all saw him as he really was, a wreck of a man, tormented by the contradictory powers running through him. But perhaps they thought this ghastly apparition was the illusion, designed to frighten Hal. So close! He would not have died, of course, but he would certainly have been stripped of his powers, freeing her and so many others. For a moment she thought of a man without a tongue. So close.