And Zared’s force was tired, very tired. He’d pushed hard to get this far this fast, and his men had ridden into battle without sufficient rest or preparation.
But they were determined, and they had a leader they believed in, which was perhaps a little more than the Norsmen had.
They battled until the evening darkened into night. Zared, exhausted, swung about on his horse, trying to see through the gloom what the state of battle was.
There were shouts and cries, the thud and screech of weaponry, but it was too damned dark to see what he should do —
Something landed on the back of his horse. A strong arm slid about his throat, another pricked a dagger through the joints of his breast-plate.
“Call your men off,” a voice hissed, and Zared heard the inflections of Icarü arrogance.
“Call your men off, Prince of Treachery, for you have lost. Even now the Strike Force wheels down. Hear the wind of their descent? Feel the prick of their vengeance?” And the dagger slid in deeper, tearing into flesh, and Zared groaned.
The Icarü clinging to his back laughed, low and harsh. “Your wife told us of your arrival, Zared. Even now she sits waiting with her brother and StarSon. Sipping wine, no doubt, and laughing at your fate.”
Now the dagger slid to critical depth and Zared gagged.
“Call your men back!”
And he did, although his every thought was with Leagh’s treachery, not the battle grinding to a halt about him, nor the dagger wedged to its hilt in his side.
A Brother to Die For They stood there in their confident semi-circle, the five Questors and the Queen of Heaven, cuddling her life-lacking son in her arms.
Their eyes were directed to a spot far above them, shimmering in the violet night-sky.
Star Gate.
It glowed with the strength of the enchantments warding it, lightning streaked jade and silver, a bulge in the stars.
A doorway.
“How nice of them to so brighten it for us,” Sheol murmured, and she laughed with Barzula, and slipped her arm through his.
“One more leap and we reach its rim,” Mot said. His arms were stringy in their thinness, and he kept them wrapped about his skeletal form, but his face was well-fed and satisfied, and his eyes glowed with victory.
“And then one more push through!” cried StarLaughter, and she bounced the undead child in her arms. “Through!”
Raspu leaned over and took the baby from her. He crooned and hummed to him, and stroked his clammy cool brow. “Soon,” he said, and squeezed the child in his enthusiasm.
“What first?” asked Rox, leaning over to stroke the child’s cheek. “Breath or warmth?”
“Warmth,” said Sheol. “For it is a precondition of all the others.”
“And warmth is…?” StarLaughter said, watching over Raspu’s enthusiasm lest he damage her beloved son.
“Cauldron Lake, my Queen of Heaven,” Rox answered. “Warmth is buried in its depths.”
“Can you conquer it?” StarLaughter raised her eyes first to Rox’s face, then to Raspu’s.
They grinned, feral, confident. “Assuredly, sweet mother,” Rox said. “We have been waiting a long time, after all, and we know enough of the Enemy to be certain of their tricks. We think we can be sure of their wards and embellishments.”
“And the Star Gate?” Drago had hitherto been sitting cramped in a shadowy corner. Now he rose and took a hesitant step forward. “Can you negotiate the wards about the Star Gate?”
As one the Questors turned to stare at him. Then, in tune, they smiled.
“We will shatter them,” Sheol said, and suddenly hissed, her eyes bright and fierce.
Drago took a frightened step backwards. “But -” “Think you that these pitiful wards can counter ms?” Mot roared, the sound stunning coming from his bony frame. “We will quest through the wards!”
“Poor boy,” StarLaughter said softly. “Look how frightened he is. Go away, frightened boy. We have no need of you yet.”
Drago sank down on the floor as the Questors turned back to contemplation of the Star Gate. His hands gripped the sack.
He was going to die, he knew it.
Stupid, stupid fool for thinking these creatures would be his friends.
He should have stayed home.
He started. Home. Tencendor? Yes, he supposed it was home. He wanted to go home.
They will kill you. You know that.
I know that, Drago answered in his mind.
We can help.
Drago felt the bitterness of life-long rejection well within him. No-one helps me.
Zenith did.
Zenith. He wondered if she was well, or if Niah had overcome her. I wish I could have helped her, he thought.
We know. There was deep sadness in their voices. Now it is your turn to help. Are you prepared to help Tencendor?
Drago’s thoughts drifted. He remembered the Tencendor of his youth. Sigholt, keeper of bad memories and resentments. Carlon, all silver and gold, but petty in its preoccupation with pleasure. But then he remembered the forests. He thought he’d always hated the forests, but they had never hated him. Surprisingly. He remembered a stream he had crossed when he was about nine or ten. It had been an insignificant stream, but it had flashed agreeably, and the sound of its waters had been beautiful. He remembered the loveliness of smooth flowing plains and the peace of a herd of cream-coloured cattle grazing in the sun. He remembered his grandfather, StarDrifter, sitting on the edge of the cliffs of Temple Mount, explaining some mystery of the breeze as he ignored his grandson’s surliness. He remembered the laughter of someone – himself? -watching the antics of a courtyard litter of kittens.
Let us show you something, said Veremund, and a vision filled Drago’s mind.
He saw a landscape which had been brutalised by a cruel wind – and something else.
He saw crazed cattle, hunting in feral packs, craving the taste of blood in their mouths.
He saw people wandering disconsolate through this barren landscape. They were thin, and scabbed, and they tore listlessly at their rags and moaned as they wandered.
They were despairing.
He saw Icarü, huddled about scathed rocks of the Icescarp Alps. They shivered in a bitter wind, their eyes sunken, haunted, even the memory of beauty lost to them.
Their wings lay in tatters along their backs, and they no longer knew the meaning of the word “music”.
He saw the Avar, sitting lump-like under a relentless sun. No shade. No trees. And yet somehow forced to live nevertheless.
Beside them rotted the carcass of a stag, white hairs blowing across the land.
The Questors can do all of this? he wondered. How?
The Demons’ greatest ally is that which already exists in people’s souls. Terror. Despair. Tempest. Anger. Greed. Lust.
Gods! thought Drago. And resentment and bitterness. They have used what was in me to further their own cause.
Yes. They let him think a moment. Will you aid Caelum, Drago?
Caelum? He thought of his brother as a child, screaming in despair at his brother’s treachery, knowing he was to be the sacrifice for his brother’s ambition. If a brother could betray him this cruelly, then what could he ever trust again?
In Caelum, Drago thought, I seeded uncertainty. If I hadn’t destroyed Caelum’s security on the rooftop of Sigholt, then Caelum would doubtless meet the Questors with the golden confidence that should have been his inheritance. I shattered Caelum’s future and I stole his heritage, Drago realised, as much as I believed others stole mine.
Yes. See the devastation across Tencendor. See the lives, the hopes, the enchantments lost. See-Caelum waver helpless in the winds of indecision. It will happen. Nothing you can do can save it. Unless…
Drago knew what they meant.
Unless…
He thought of that stream, of the peaceful cattle, of StarDrifter’s patience, of Zenith’s courage, of Caelum’s terrified scream that day long past.
Will you offer your life to aid Caelum and Tencendor, Drago?
Yes, he thought. Yes, if I can save my home. He sat there for long moments, watching the Questors murmur and laugh among themselves, passing the undead child back and forth, back and forth.
Oh gods, what was he loosing on Tencendor?
Yes. Yes, I am prepared to die to save Tencendor.
For the first time in his life Drago smiled unaffectedly. It lightened his face, softened his eyes. Kill me then, he thought, before the Questors have a chance to use me again.
The Sentinels’ laughter rang in his ears. No! Too easy! Your life is now vowed to Tencendor and to your brother, vowed to the fight against the Demons. You will live past the Star Gate. Believe us.
“And you? Will you come back with me? I know Faraday would like to see you again.”
And it would be good to see her again, too. But, no, we will not come back. We will see you through, then we will stay this side to drift forever more among the stars. Now, tell us, do you know this pretty lullaby?