Authors: Christopher Stasheff
Only
Ataxeles, nothing more—they stood in a realm of mist, gray clouds swirling all
about them, scattering light that told of a sun somewhere, but never here. She
risked a quick downward glance and saw that the ground was hard, with a
straggling of grass blades, brown and sere. She glared back at Ataxeles, heart
thumping in her breast, and knew he could see her fear.
His
laughter stopped abruptly and his eyes narrowed to slits. His voice was a hiss
as he said, “You do not deceive me, slut!”
Anger
flared, instant and harsh. “I am a maiden!”
“You
are a slut in your heart! All women are, save one! You do not deceive me about
that, either!”
“Either?”
Kitishane eyed him warily.
“Aye!
You hide behind the warrior, but I know you for what you are—Bolenkar's true
foe!”
Kitishane
could only stare.
Ataxeles
laughed again, but this time his laughter was harsh and little more than
breath. “Oh, you pretend well, pretend to be amazed—but I know that without you
to unite the plans of the shaman-gnome with the sensing of the enemy's heart of
the slut-gnome, and harness both to the warrior's fighting, he would be able to
do little or nothing! He would flail about with his sword but never strike, or
worse, hit only allies; he would wreak havoc, but do as much for Bolenkar as
against him!”
With
a sinking heart Kitishane realized that what he said was true. She had never
dared think that Culaehra could need her that badly.
“I
shall win the battle he brings against our scarlet god,” Ataxeles said, his
eyes glinting. “I shall win it here and now, by slaying you!”
The
battle-axe swung high.
Kitishane
whipped her sword up with a sinking heart, knowing a common blade was little
use against an axe like that, knowing her only chance lay in always turning its
stroke, never meeting it head-on.
Knowing,
too, that if she died, the allies died, every one of them, and with them, hope
for peace and harmony in the world, she summoned up every last ounce of
resolve. She would win, she must win! She summoned, too, a vision of Culaehra
lying battered and bleeding. Fright and anger flowed, and with them absolute
determination.
She
danced to the left, meeting the axe with a slanting blade, pushing, deflecting
it just enough so the stroke hissed past her shoulder. Before Ataxeles could
recover, she thrust at his throat just above the breastplate. She felt it
strike bone and cursed inside, riposting quickly to guard—but blood sprang and
Ataxeles roared with pain and anger. He charged her, axe slashing. Kitishane
nearly wilted from fear—nearly; but she wilted to the side, leaving one foot
behind, and Ataxeles tripped, stumbled, and went crashing to the ground. He
whirled about, pushing himself up with a bellow, up enough to hurl the axe. It
flew too fast; she tried to sidestep but it caught her in the belly and the
side, whirling her around and knocking her down. She could not breathe;
everything seemed to darken about her. Dimly, she heard Ataxeles' triumphant
laughter, heard him coming nearer. Holding the sword, she frantically fought to
move, to keep moving, remembering what Illbane had taught them about night
fighting, about sensing where your enemy was even if you could not really see
him.
She
thrust upward.
Ataxeles
howled with rage and anger, a howl that moved away. Kitishane scrambled to her
feet, turning to face the howl, holding her sword up in both hands.
Then
her body shuddered as her lungs filled with air again. Her vision cleared and
she saw Ataxeles moving around her sideways, still facing her but shuffling his
feet to the side, his face dark with anger and pain, blood welling from his
thigh. “What unnatural sort of woman are you?” he bellowed. “Women do not
fight, and when they do, they cannot fight so well or so long!”
“I
am a woman trained to fight by Ohaern,” Kitishane snapped.
Ataxeles
went rigid, eyes wide at the name—and Kitishane leaped forward, slashing left
to right, then right to left. Her first stroke bit into the haft of Ataxeles'
battle-axe; he shouted with anger and fear and yanked it free. Her second
slashed the laces that held his hip plates to his breastplate; blood welled
from his side. He roared with rage and charged her again, axe swinging. She
ducked under it, but his fist came up, filling her vision, smashing pain
through her head, and the world went dark again. She felt herself flying
through the air, felt herself land, hard ground shocking the air out of her as
pain wracked her body and his shout of triumph filled her head. Desperately,
she tried to roll up to her knees, clinging to her sword at any cost,
struggling to bring it up, knowing it would be too little and too late, and her
heart cried out
Culaehra!
but he was not there.
Then
some strange reassurance swept through her, lending her strength; it was almost
as if Illbane stood beside her again, almost as if she heard his voice shouting
Lua! Yocote!
but that had to be her voice, not his. Even so, she struggled
to rise; if that horrible axe was going to kill her, she would meet it on her
feet!
“We
must go back!” Culaehra insisted. “She must be beside us in battle! We have
come so far together—we must not be separated now!”
“She
must be beside us,” Lua agreed. “Do not ask me why, Yocote, but I will have no
heart without my human sister!”
“But
do you not see! That is exactly what the enemy intends!” Yocote cried. “That is
their surest way to win the battle! If they can keep us wandering down here
searching for one another, Bolenkar's soldiers can chop up our allies
piecemeal! Without you to lead them, Culaehra, they will fall apart! Instead of
one army a thousand strong, you will have six armies, none of more than a
hundred, none knowing or caring what the others do! Bolenkar will triumph and
will chew up all the younger races!”
“The
younger races can go hang, if I do not have Kitishane!” Culaehra snapped.
“Only
by slaying Bolenkar can you save Kitishane!” the gnome cried. “Do you not see?
He has stolen her away; she is his hostage against you! If you do not slay him,
you will lose her!”
“If
I do not have her, I cannot slay him!” Culaehra returned. “Trust me, Yocote! I
do not know a great deal, but I know this!”
“I,
too.” Lua stared at Yocote, huge-eyed. “I feel it all through me, Yocote. If
Bolenkar's minions have taken her, we must find her, or all is lost!”
Yocote
cursed and turned to Tegringax. “Can you, at least, not see sense?”
“I
see the trail ahead and the trail behind,” Tegringax returned. “Tell me down
which you wish to go, and I shall take you.”
Yocote
frowned. “You can take us back the way we came, with no fear of becoming lost?”
“No
fear at all,” Tegringax assured him.
The
gnome threw up his hands. “All right, then! Let us seek her! It will be quicker
than standing here arguing with you two. Tegringax, lead on!”
Chuckling
like gravel rolling down a rocky slope, Tegringax led them back into the maze.
Three
turns and Culaehra was lost. He could not have said whether this was the way
they had come or not, so much sameness was there in all the rocky walls. But
Tegringax plodded on ahead, and Culaehra, trusting, followed.
Abruptly,
Yocote stopped, eyes huge, arms outspread to halt them all. “It is here! Here
she disappeared! I feel it!”
Lua
crouched down, palms against the rock, and stared unseeing. “I, too! But not
alone. Another, a male—”
“Ataxeles!”
Yocote made the name an obscenity. “And if it is that soldier-shaman who has
taken her, I know to where they have gone! Culaehra, hold fast to me! Lua,
hold! Tegringax, stay you here and await us!” He added as an afterthought, “I
prithee.”
“Have
no fear, I shall stay,” Tegringax answered, amused. “And have no fear that
Bolenkar's minions may find me, for I can melt into rock if I must.”
“Well
and good, so long as it is a rock near here! Hold fast, my companions! We go!”
Yocote began to chant in the shaman's tongue, gesturing as well as he could
with the arms they held. He stopped in mid-sentence, eyes huge.
“What
is it?” Lua asked.
“Illbane!
He calls us!” Yocote frowned, eyes on some distant scene. “And ... Kitishane
...” He threw back his head and chanted.
Culaehra
felt anger building. If Illbane was taking them away from Kitishane when she
most needed them—
Then
the ground slipped from beneath his feet. Instantly, another surface pressed up
against them. They were surrounded by mist, but it cleared quickly ahead of
them, and he saw Kitishane on her knees with Ataxeles raising a sword over her.
He shouted and sprang, but Yocote was already gesturing and chanting, and Lua
had her hands pressed to the ground, singing. The surface beneath Ataxeles
suddenly turned into a mire. Ataxeles sank to his knees and shouted, flailing
for balance.
Kitishane
saw her chance, pushed herself to her feet, stepped forward, and swung. A thin
red line appeared across Ataxeles' throat. He cried out in fear, but it was
only a gargle. Dropping his sword to pinch the edges of the cut together, he
frantically mouthed another spell. The flow of blood slackened ...
Lua
hurled a stone.
It
struck Ataxeles square in the forehead. He lurched, his eyes rolled up, and he
fell backward into the mire.
Kitishane's
sword hissed by two feet above him. She froze, staring down in disbelief.
Then
Culaehra was beside her, sword high, ready for the slightest movement, and she
turned to throw herself into his arms, stiff for a moment, then loosening with
sobs that wracked her whole body. Bemused, Culaehra folded his arms about her.
He glanced down at the body beside him, then sheathed his sword and held her
with both arms, murmuring soft words and caressing her back gently.
Yocote
watched them for a moment, his eyes sardonic, but a smile touched his lips.
Before it could grow, he turned to Lua. “Well aimed, maiden—but where did you
find a stone? There are none here—there is barely ground!”
“I
have been gathering pretty pebbles all through our journey, shaman,” she
informed him. “I had a notion I might need a weapon—and if I did not, they had
beauty enough to treasure.” “Beauty.” Culaehra frowned, turning. “Let us see
what manner of... Ho!”
Yocote
and Kitishane both snapped their heads up at the alarm in his words—and saw the
ground hardening where there had been mud, and no trace of Ataxeles.
“The
earth has swallowed his body,” Lua breathed.
But
Yocote shook his head. “There is no earth in the shaman's world, but only a
hardening of the mist.”
“Then
the mists have taken him, and the mists can have him!” Culaehra said. He turned
back to Kitishane. “Though I will own I would have preferred to have him alive,
that I might be revenged upon him for attacking you.”
She
smiled up through her tears, then raised one hand to dash them away as she took
his great paw with the other—but she said only, “Come. There is a world to
save.”
Culaehra
stood looking at her for a moment, then smiled. “Well, if it has you in it, it
is worth saving. Lead on, maiden—I shall follow.”
Her
smile broadened, but she still held his hand as she turned to Yocote. “Come
then, shaman! Lead us back to the maze!”
“Join
hands and hold my arms.” Yocote tried to hide his misgivings, but he had a bad
feeling about the loss of Ataxeles' body. Still, he put it from his mind and
began to recite the spell.
The
world swam about them again, and when it firmed once more, gray stone
surrounded them instead of gray mist. Yocote dropped their hands, looking about
anxiously. “Tegringax!”
“Here.”
Tegringax stepped forth from one of the walls; he had blended with it so
perfectly that they had not seen him until he moved.
“Lead
us up to Bolenkar!” Yocote implored.
“Gladly.”
Tegringax looked them up and down, then turned away and started walking. Over
his shoulder he called back, “I had not thought to see you again.”
“His
faith in me is overwhelming,” Yocote growled.
“But
it is a delight to prove that faith is merited,” Lua replied.
He
looked at her in surprise and saw her eyes glowing into his. His heart turned
within him and he fought the urge to take her into his arms. The thought of the
coming battle saved him. “We must go fight,” he said, and turned away.
Lua
sighed and wondered when she would have done enough penance.
Tegringax
led them up, up, to a circle of darker stone at the top of a spiral tunnel. “Farther
than this I dare not go,” he said. He placed the glowing ball in Lua's palm,
saying, “Take hold, ye of Earth,” then raised a hand in farewell. “Good fortune
in your battle!” He stepped back against gray stone, blended into it, and
disappeared.
“Many
thanks, Tegringax,” Culaehra called, but softly. Turning, he set his hands
against the portal and pushed, then pushed again.
“What
trouble?” Yocote asked.
“It
will not move,” the warrior answered. He felt over the surface. “I feel no
hinges.”
“Let
me.” Lua pushed up beside him, set one hand against the rock and began to sing
to it. Culaehra fingered his sword hilt, wondering how well Corotrovir would
bite stone.
Incredibly,
the portal began to move.
It
swung aside on pivots they could not see, swung with less grating than
Tegringax's laugh. Culaehra set a finger across his lips, then moved through
the doorway, drawing his sword.
They
came out into a dungeon, a long and narrow hallway hewn from rock and lighted
by a lone torch in a sconce. Silently, Culaehra prowled the length of the
corridor. His companions followed.