The Shadow Within (66 page)

Abramm’s own shock kept it from fleeing far, for he had not expected to throw the Light at all, had not even tried, and had no idea how he had accomplished it. Which, of course, the morwhol now knew. Worse, he’d apparently done no more damage than to break off its attack upon Gillard, which may or may not have saved his brother’s life.

Grimly, he slid another stone into the sling, had just grasped the end of its leather strap, when the morwhol burst out of the mist in front of him, a great snarling shadow bearing down so fast he hardly had time to fling his stone. White fire slammed into the morwhol’s head, right between the eyes, a killing blow for a lesser creature. This one only recoiled with a snarl and returned to its circling. But at least it had recoiled. Maybe his spindly burst of Light
had
done something, after all.

Back around the broken pillars and freestanding portions of wall it went. He readied another stone, then stiffened as voices hissed in his ears, soft as the sighing of a breeze.
You should not have come here, Abramm Kalladorne . . .
your people will die because of you
.

Glancing up, he saw a ribbon of red light sidling through the mist near what must have been the top of the Temple façade. Rhu’ema. The morwhol’s “friends” come to watch. And help?
You should not have come,
the voices hissed.
They’ll die, and their blood will be upon your hands
.

Toenails clicking on stone made him turn. The morwhol stood in the opening of a low wall, and the dark man-eyes snared his own the moment he looked at them, drawing him into them like a snake striking from its hole. Again the horrific visions poured into him. Again the Shadow within him rose in response, and terror claimed him. The thing stepped toward him, its jaws gaping. He couldn’t move. Could hardly breathe. It took another step.

This is the end. . . .

And somewhere deep within him a Presence stirred, a Light flickered, and he remembered he was not helpless after all. Shaking off the fear and the binding of the silent Command, he slung—and hit. Likewise a fourth time. Then a fifth, the accuracy of his aim filling him with awe. But at the same time he knew he was only delaying the inevitable. The stones were doing little damage, and soon he would run out.

He let it get closer the next time, only to see his seventh stone miss entirely. Shocked, he dropped the sling, whipped out the broadsword, and dove over the wall, the morwhol right behind him. It must have expected him to scramble away rather than dive for the ground, for it sailed clean over him, stumbling on a fragment of stony wing as it came down. Abramm, meanwhile, had landed on his side, sword clutched in both hands. He rolled back to brace against wall just as the creature pounced upon him, impaling itself on his blade. With the steel plunged deep into the rough-maned chest, he sent the Light flooding into it. The monster’s shriek of shock and pain nearly shattered his eardrums. Stinging spittle flew across his face as the beast scrambled to free itself, dark blood gushing down the hilt, eating through his leather gloves on contact. The Light pulsed again, burning away the tainted blood in a wild, hissing sizzle. Screaming and frantic, the creature wrenched itself off his sword, stumbled across the pavement, then collapsed, panting in rough deep grunts.

Abramm shoved himself up, knowing he must seize the moment while it lasted—too late. At his first movement, the beast rose on three legs and trotted away, leaving dark blood pooled on the pale stone. Yowling piteously, glaring at him all the while, it went back to circling, limping heavily at first, but, as with the veren, healing all too soon. Abramm began to feel truly afraid.

How am I supposed to kill this thing, Eidon?

But the only answer he got came from the voices whispering in his ears, feeding the fear at the back of his mind.
You’re going to die . . . you should not
have come . . . it will end as you have seen
.

Around behind the façade it went, and Abramm glanced up again toward the rhu’ema. The mist had risen and thickened overhead, revealing the top of the façade, squared off above the rounded summit of its entry arch, and flanked by a pair of stone dragons rearing up from the stone pedestals beside it. The sight of them transfixed him with a stunning chill of portents, the shock so great he had to look away and then back again, to be sure he hadn’t imagined them—nor the way their eyes glowed with red fire.

The dragon and the shield. They lifted the hairs on the back of his neck, and he knew it was no accident he was here, knew there was far more going on here than him simply meeting this morwhol.

The broadsword kept it away for a time, but that, too, only delayed the inevitable, wearing him down as the creature played with him, feinting and dodging to draw him after it, only to turn and attack. It fed the fear and the reckless angry frustration that kept him swinging and missing until the sweat ran off his brow and his arms shook. His fear rose in choking waves and made him swing the sword wildly as he kept reaching for the Light, the blade before him firing and fading, firing and fading. He did not understand it. He had fought the fear off here already. Had fought it off even in his fleshly strength in the Esurhite arenas. Now he carried the Light within, had served Eidon with a whole heart these last four years, had come in obedience and at least a measure of trust. Why wasn’t it working? Why was it so hard now?

Because you have more to lose than you ever did in Esurh, my son. Because
you are much too attached to the man you have become and the blessings you
have been given. Because you will not trust me.

But I
am
trusting you! I would never have come if I didn’t trust you.

Then cast your blades aside!

Cast them aside? It will kill me for sure
.

The beast attacked, snarling and spitting, and he swung the blazing sword yet again, saw it evaded almost lazily.
You’re going to die,
the rhu’ema whispered.
And all your people, too
.

Another lunge. Another swing. He didn’t see the column until the broadsword collided with it in a great ringing clang, the force of impact jarring into palm and wrist and shivering the hilt loose in his fingers. He tightened them frantically, just managed to keep from dropping it.

Cast your blades aside
. To throw the Light, he knew he had to trust only it. To become vulnerable,
knowing
Eidon would do the work through him. Even with something so small as the staffid that had been hard, and right now it would be easier to fling himself off the cliff beyond the temple and trust Eidon to catch him than to cast aside this blade with the morwhol slavering in his face.

You have to be willing to lose it all, Abramm. To give it all to me and trust
me to treat you fairly, to do you good. Have I ever let you down?

No, my Lord. But . . .

It is the Shadow within you that fears. Trust the Light
.

The beast circled round the low wall, past the tiered benches, dark eyes upon him, tail flicking.

Very well, my Lord Eidon, I will trust you. It’s obvious I’ll get nowhere otherwise
. And setting his jaw, he flung the broadsword away, the blade clanging as it hit the stone pavement and slid to a stop.

The morwhol attacked at once. And here were Abramm’s rapier and dagger, leaping to his hands as if they had life of their own. And if they were feeble, silly weapons for the beast he faced, at least he could maneuver them quickly and skillfully, tired as he was.
I should have used these at the start,
he thought.

But it didn’t take him long to realize he was again delaying the inevitable. He would never kill the beast this way, for while he was growing more and more tired, it was growing stronger, almost as if it were sucking the energy out of him.
Cast your blades aside
.

It was harder now, because he knew he had nothing to replace them with.

Trust me
.

His throat was raw from his panting. Sweat ran off his brow, stinging his eyes. Rivulets coursed down his side, and his arms shook all the time now. His back and shoulders were starting to cramp as stars flashed at the edge of his vision. He had used up all he had, had come to the very end of himself. Just as he had in that cistern four years ago when he’d finally come to Eidon in the first place. With nothing.

And that is the only way you’ll walk through the door of your destiny, my
son. You must trust me completely, no matter what sight tells you. Put aside your
own ideas and plans and let me do as I wish with you.

He glanced up again, the undulating ribbons of light coiling and uncoiling as they strained toward him, driven back by flares of white and silver and gold. As in Jarnek he felt their hatred. Even more than the crowds in Esurh had, they despised him, lusting to watch him fail and die, would have fallen upon him themselves were it not for the power of Eidon, stopping them.

Trust him
.

And so for the second time, he made himself stop and stand straight and fling both weapons away, the ring of their blades on the stone making him cringe.
I
will
trust you, Lord
.

The morwhol emerged from the doorway of the temple gateway, Rhiad- eyes fixed upon him, jaws split as if it were laughing. Abramm waited for the Light to roar through him and blast it away, but nothing happened. Then, in the blink of an eye, the creature lunged, swiping his chest with its claws, the force of the blow knocking him ten feet. He landed on his back, the breath driven out of him, his leather jerkin slashed to flapping strips that let the folds of the scarf he’d tucked within come billowing out.

Flat on his back, stunned and struggling to regain his breath, he stared up at the rhu’ema-wreathed dragons on their pedestals, heard their laughter in his head.
So much for your destiny—loser!
A dark shape loomed over him, blotting them out. Hot, stinking breath rushed over his face and the eyes that looked into his own were a man’s eyes, brown irises on a white orb, long lashed, familiar. Rhiad’s voice rasped in his ears.
And now, my Golden Prince,
you will know what I have known. First we will take that handsome face . . .

The beast’s claws hovered above his right eye.
My Lord, I cast my blades
away, as you asked. Where is the Light? Why aren’t you stopping this?

The claws drew nearer, and he couldn’t stop his instinctive flinch away, nor the horrible mewling that slid out of his throat.
Oh, Eidon, please!
Yet on they came. Something sharp pressed into his brow.
Surely now the Light will
come
. But it did not. The claw pressed harder. He scrunched his eyes shut just as it slashed downward, tracking fire across brow and cheek, all the way to his jaw. Blood trickled hotly down his temple and he gasped, as much in shock as in pain.

Oh, Lord! What are you doing to me? Where are you? I’m trusting, and you
promised. You promised
.

A sharp cackling intruded on his pleas. And then Rhiad’s voice again.
You
will lose it all, Abramm Kalladorne. Crown and people and station. Face and
skill and body. I will take it all and no one can stop me! Even if you live, you will
never wield a blade again. Women will shrink in horror at the sight of you, while
men will shake their heads in pity
.

It went to work, then, cackling and babbling and shrilling with glee as it shredded his sword arm into blood-soaked ribbons. The pain, both physical and mental, was so great he thought sure he’d fallen through some hole that had taken him to Torments. Voices called him. Rhu’ema voices. Rhiad’s voice . . . those of his men, yelling and screaming. Was he already dead and the beast at work on his friends now? He couldn’t tell what was real and what was not.

And then somehow it all drifted away, as if he had become cut off from his body. A white froth had erupted from his chest. He reached up with his good arm to touch it—marveling that he could move anything at all—and found it not to be froth, but soft, gauzy folds of fabric spilling out of his split jerkin. He clutched it, stirring up the scent of sage and lemongrass.

Madeleine.

She was here . . . but not in body, linked somehow to his soul. He felt her horror at what was happening to him, her anguish at his pain, her deep, unacknowledged love for him. And she was praying.
“Eidon, please! Remind
him how the Shadow blinds him, remind him who he is and whom he serves.
What it is that really matters in this life. I know you hold him in your hands and
that you will never let him go. Let him know it, too. . . .”

Remind him of whom he serves
. Who did he serve?
Eidon, Lord of Light,
Creator of All, the Just and Righteous and True
. . . The one who promised to guide him, to bless him and prosper him, and never to forsake him. The one who always kept his promises because he alone was unable to break them. The one who had seen Abramm through his years of slavery in Esurh and from that made him something he had never dreamed he could be. The one who delivered him from Beltha’adi and brought him to Kiriath. Whose Light had slain the kraggin, who had given Abramm the crown when he should have been mocked and turned away, who had given him the favor of his people and an army of men sworn to follow him. Who’d given him Simon’s affection, long yearned for, and Carissa’s return. From the other side, all that had looked as impossible as the situation he now faced.

And then there was the greatest impossibility of all—that the creator of all life and light had found a way to reach past the Shadow that tainted Abramm, as it did all men, and make him his own. If he could do that, surely he could handle this morwhol. If he had not done so, if he truly meant to take away all he had given, then he had a reason.

You must be willing to give it all up.

I’m willing, my Lord. Take it all, for none of it matters without you. I don’t
know what you’re doing, but I know in the end it will make sense. And I know
you will not forsake me, even though I fail and insult you and disobey you, again
and again. Yet you remain faithful.