The Sword, The Ring And The Chalice - The Sword Part 7

The darsteed swung around to face the approaching hurlhound, its powerful body quivering eagerly.

Tobeszijian's mind sifted rapidly through a dozen possibilities. He had to think of a refuge for the children outside of Nether, and he had only seconds to make a decision. They must be hidden with someone trustworthy enough not to sell them as hostages to a foreign enemy, or even to Muncel. But as a wheeling series of faces belonging to the handful of n.o.bles in Mandria or to the one-eyed chieftain in Klad whom he'd bribed into being a secret ally crossed his mind, Tobeszijian knew that none of them were right. He knew, too, that he could not afford to make a mistake now; he had only a single trip with the Ring remaining to him.

The hurlhound was still crashing down the hillside, so close now he could hear it snarling and snapping.

And at that moment, a second one burst from the thicket on his left and charged straight toward him.

Tobeszijian shouted in alarm, but the monster yelped and turned aside at the stream, dashing back andforth as though afraid to leap it.

The hurlhound was a monstrous creature, twice the size of the largest dog in Tobeszijian's kennels, with black, scaled skin instead of hair and a broad, blunt head ending in a powerful muzzle of razor-sharp teeth. Its tongue-glowing with eerie green phosphorus-lolled from its jaws. He could hear the creature panting and whining as it paced back and forth along the narrow stream. Its eyes glowed red, and it stank of rotting flesh, so sickly and foul Tobeszijian thought he would retch.

"Dog!" Faldain announced, pointing.

Thiatereika screamed.

At that instant, the hurlhound leaped across the stream and came bounding straight at them with impossible speed. Reaching them, it jumped up as though to drag Tobeszijian from the saddle.

Tobeszijian swung his sword down in a powerful slash and cut off the hurlhound's head in a clean blow.

Mirengard was glowing with blinding radiance. He could feel the magical power in humming through the bones of his hand. Behind him, the other hurlhound reached the bottom of the hill and came roaring at them. Tobeszijian swung the darsteed around to face its oncoming charge, but at that moment the king made his decision.

Gazing at his glowing sword, he thought of the only sword-maker he knew capable of producing something similar to the legendary Mirengard. Jerking off his glove with his teeth, Tobeszijian let the hurlhound keep coming and concentrated all his heart and mind on his glowing Ring. Its light shone over the pawing darsteed and Tobeszijian's children. To Jorb, the dwarf of Nold, he thought. To Jorb!

The hurlhound reached them, leaping high. Its cavernous jaws opened wide, revealing its glowing teeth and venomous tongue. Its eyes shone red with the fires of h.e.l.l, and its stink rolled over Tobeszijian like death itself. But he pushed his fear aside. He held his ground while his children screamed and struggled against the iron band of his protecting arm. Then the power came, tossing them up into the very air. The hurlhound was knocked aside with a yelp, and they were swept into the second world yet again. Nold was a forbidding, unwelcoming country, damp and cold, and it was still tainted by the residue of magic cast in the mighty battles of antiquity. Spa.r.s.ely settled, most of the land was choked with the Dark Forest-woods so thick no decent road could be built through them. Instead, muddy trails wound through the trees, trails that might take a weary traveler to a settlement or might stop in the midst of nowhere.

It was afternoon, and Tobeszijian rode along such a trail, trying hard to keep his sense of direction despite the weariness buzzing inside his head. The darsteed was limping badly. Moaning and snorting, the animal hobbled along stiffly, its wound still oozing and raw.

Every time Tobeszijian tried to dismount to spare it, however, the creature attacked him.

He rode it grimly, forcing it to give him the very last of its strength. When it finally went down, he would have to cut its throat and walk to the next settlement. If he could not buy a decent horse, it would be a long trudge indeed all the way home to Nether.

He sighed, feeling bereft without the children snuggled beneath his cloak. Again and again, his mind conjured up his last sight of their bewildered, tear-streaked faces while Jorb held their shoulders to keep them from running after their father. Tobeszijian frowned. He could not feel easy about leaving them behind. They had no protectors, no guards, no retainers. Even were he gone a month or two-and certainly it would be no more than that-it was an enormous risk to leave them in the sole care of a near stranger. Tobeszijian knew Jorb on a business footing only. The dwarf was a master armorer, and was known for the fine swords he crafted.

Twice Tobeszijian had commissioned him to make armor and daggers for him. Jorb coveted Mirengard.

Whenever he talked to Tobeszijian, his gaze would stray to the sword, and his thick fingers-strong enough to crack walnuts-would flex and stretch as though they ached to slide along that shining blade.

Like all dwarves, Jorb was temperamental and sly. He struck hard bargains, but once a dwarf actually gave his word, he would stay true to it. Jorb had demanded Mirengard in exchange for hiding the children.

It was an impossible bargain. Tobeszijian could not hold his throne without the sword, and Jorb knew that. The dwarf had used his unreasonable demand to leverage a fat purse of gold, the jeweled ring from Tobeszijian's smallest finger, his silver spurs, and the cups of eldin silver belonging to the children.

Clutching his booty and chuckling to himself, the dwarf had ducked his bearded chin low and scuttled back into his queer hut built in the base of a vast tree trunk, with a stone-lined entry and an iron-banded door. Smoke curled out through a hollow limb overhead, making the tree almost look like it was on fire.

Jorb popped outside a few minutes later and gestured. "Well, bring 'em in. Bring 'em in!" he said.

There had been time only for a swift glance round at the cramped interior. It was swept clean, with every humble possession in its proper place. Tobeszijian knew that Jorb was accounted to be rich and prosperous, as he was much in demand for his skills at the forge. No doubt the dwarf kept his gold strongboxes and treasures down deep in the ground, concealed in mysterious tunnels and burrows. Still, the place was far from suitable for the children of a king. With the blessing of Thod, perhaps they would not have to stay hidden here long. Tobeszijian had ridden away this morning with the cries of Faldain and Thiatereika echoing in his ears. He knew he must set his face toward war, yet he felt unmanned and guilty. He despaired of ever being reunited with his children. Soon, my precious ones, he'd promised them silently. Soon I shall return for you.

Thiatereika had run down the road in his darsteed's wake, crying out, "My papa, come back! My papa!

My papa!"

The heartbreak and terror in her voice had nearly destroyed all his resolve. Although he'd intended to turn around and wave, he kept his back to her, hearing her voice growing fainter and fainter as he kicked the darsteed into a gallop. They were safe, he told himself for the countless time.

Hidden and safe.

He wanted to feel relief, but instead his sense of uneasiness grew. Nereisse would have condemned him for leaving them behind, unguarded, in the hands of one who owed him no allegiance. It seemed that her spirit, cold with disapproval, perched on his shoulder.

"What else could I do?" he asked aloud.

Tipping back his head, he stared at the overcast sky. The clouds were ma.s.sed and dark above the thick treetops. He shivered under his cloak. He felt as though he had somehow failed. And with that came a boiling surge of anger against Nereisse, who had left him to face these difficulties alone. What right had she to risk her life by knowingly drawing poison into her body to save her daughter? What right had she to take herself from him, just when he needed her most? They could have had another daughter, could have faced the future together, could have ... Gripping his hair in his fist, he cried out, making an animal sound of sheer anguish.

He did not understand himself. His fury and resentment bewildered him, and he felt guilty, as though he had somehow betrayed his dead wife by feeling this way. He loved her. He had been enspelled by her from the first moment he glimpsed her in the forest. As for weighing the value of Nereisse's life against Thiatereika's ... what was wrong with him? Could he resent his own daughter for having lived at the cost of her mother's life?

Was that why he found it so easy to abandon his children in this dark, primitive land?

Fearing that some madness was trying to break his mind, he turned his thoughts toward his next responsibilities. He must work quickly to raise an army and crush Muncel's rebellion. If he didn't return to Nether soon and force his n.o.bles and knights to honor their oaths to him, then he might as well stay here in the forests of Nold, an exile forever. He would not seek a.s.sistance from Verence of Mandria yet.

Thus far, Verence had proven to be a sound ally, but it was best to handle civil war without the help of neighboring lands, which might decide to conquer rather than a.s.sist.

The sky overhead stayed gray and tired. Now and then rain drizzled on him. He brushed past leafy branches and ducked beneath loops of gnarled vines. Keebacks wheeled overhead in the sky, making their plaintive cry. He encountered no other travelers, except once, a group of five dwarves clad in green linsey. Stocky and round-cheeked, their beards woolly and matted, they were each burdened with bulky sacks thrown across their shoulders, sacks heavy enough to bend them double. Their furtive eyes glared at Tobeszijian, then they scattered off the road and into the forest, giving him no chance to ask how far it was to the next settlement.

If he could find a village, he would trade his cloak pin for a horse or even a mule, and set the darsteed loose.

He touched his mind to the beast's, trying to urge it, but the darsteed was too filled with pain and fury to go faster.

A keeback burst from the trees ahead of him, calling kee-kee-kee. A stag bounded into the road, stared at him with startled eyes, and leaped back into the thicket in a panic. The darsteed stumbled to a halt unbidden, and let its head sink down. Frowning, Tobeszijian kicked it hard, but it only groaned. He sat there in the saddle, tired and cold and wet, and knew he had pushed it all he could. Its wound was not fatal, but the beast needed rest and care to mend. Tobeszijian had time for neither. He could not set the creature free in these woods, where it would hunt and attack man, dwarf, or creature alike. Which meant he would have to kill it.

"Not yet," he said through his teeth, thinking of the long walk ahead of him. A king afoot in a foreign land? It was a mockery.

Again he urged the darsteed forward, but it stood there with its snout on the ground and would not respond.

Fury and frustration choked Tobeszijian. He knew he had only himself to blame for the darsteed's injury.

Tilting back his head, Tobeszijian lifted his fist to the sky. If only he'd used the Ring to go north to Prince Volvn's stronghold as he'd first intended. If only he hadn't been warned not to take the children back into Nether. It was unfair of the G.o.ds to set so strict a limitation on the use of the Ring. Only three tries?

When there was need of more? "d.a.m.n you!" he shouted. Drawing his sword, he whacked thedarsteed's rump with the flat of his blade.

It hissed and whipped its head around defiantly, but took no step forward. Again he struck it, shouting curses and wishing he had not let Jorb talk him out of his spurs, but all his efforts to urge the creature on were for naught. The darsteed instead sank to its knees.

Tobeszijian twisted around in the saddle and started to dismount. But at that moment he heard a sudden pop of sound, and a creature black and hairy materialized from thin air to stand directly in his path. It was half the size of the darsteed, and so lean it seemed almost flat when it turned to the side. A stench of sulfur hung on its fur, and its bony head turned on a long, sinuous neck to bare multiple rows of savage teeth at Tobeszijian. The darsteed bellowed and reared up with an awkward lunge, nearly unseating its rider. Furious at himself for being caught off guard, Tobeszijian had only a second to wonder why his senses had not warned him a Nonkind was this close before the sylith leaped forward.

As the darsteed lashed out with its sharp hooves and the sylith dodged with a snarl, Tobeszijian drew Mirengard. In the presence of Nonkind its blade glowed as white as the purest flame.

Swinging aloft, Tobeszijian fought to control the darsteed and managed to pivot his mount around just as the sylith sprang up at him. Tobeszijian's blade sliced cleanly through the sylith's thin neck, dropping its head to the ground with a spurt of acidic blood that splattered and steamed in the cold air. He smelled the dreadful decayed stench of it and tried desperately to breathe through his mouth.

The headless body of the monster staggered about, refusing to topple. Bugling a challenge, the darsteed brought its sharp hooves down upon the sylith's head, crushing it. Snorting flame, the darsteed set the sylith's narrow body afire. A shriek rent the air, fading into the ether as the sylith finally died. Its charred body crashed to the ground and lay still. The reek of burned flesh filled the air.

Mirengard glowed even brighter, and the sword's power flowed down its blade, dripping off the tip and cleansing the foul blood away. Tiny silver puddles shimmered on the trampled ground, and green vines sprouted there, unfurling new leaves despite the frost-laden air. In less than a day the vines would grow over the sylith's charred corpse and conceal it as though it had never been there. Continuing down his road, Tobeszijian drew in a few deep breaths and wondered what had made the monster attack him alone. Syliths seldom hunted singly. Another one was bound to be nearby. He lifted his face to the damp breeze, questing, but sensed nothing. A shiver moved down his spine, and he kept Mirengard gripped in his hand instead of sheathing it. Snorting little spurts of flame, its eyes glowing red, its tail lashing viciously behind it, the darsteed trotted a few steps, restive and fiery, before it began to limp again.

Tobeszijian kept it going. Settling himself deeper in the saddle, he maintained a wary lookout. He smelled nothing other than the darsteed's lathered sweat, damp soil, and the half-rotted leaves of the forest, yet he stayed tense and ready.

At that moment, twin shrieks filled the air before him. He reined up sharply, his heart nearly bursting through his breastplate. Just as the darsteed wheeled sideways, two hurlhounds materialized on the road, blocking it. The darsteed, still hot with battle-l.u.s.t, bellowed and lunged against the reins. Another cry answered from behind. Two more hurlhounds appeared there, cutting him off from retreat.

Tobeszijian swore and spurred the darsteed into the forest, although he knew that with its wounded shoulder it could not outrun this unholy pack. The darsteed reared, and he glimpsed yet a fifth hurlhound, springing at them from the undergrowth.

Black-scaled and vicious, their eyes glowing red and their fangs dripping death, the hurlhounds closed in.Darsteed and rider fought with hooves and sword, grimly determined to prevail. But two of the hounds bit deep into the darsteed's hindquarters, cutting tendons, and brought it halfway down. The darsteed screamed with pain, and its agony flooded Tobeszijian's senses even as he twisted in the saddle to hack into one of the hurlhounds. The creature collapsed with a yelp, and its companion snarled and sprang back out of reach. At that moment, Tobeszijian was struck from the left by the weight of another, which gripped the folds of his heavy cloak in its mouth and tried to drag him from the saddle.

Tobeszijian drew his dagger and struck the hurlhound in the face. His dagger point skidded across its scaled skull and rammed into one of its red eyes. Snarling and yelping, the hurlhound snapped back its head so violently that Tobeszijian's dagger was torn from his hand.

He struck with Mirengard to fend off another attack, but one of the creatures sank its fangs into his leg.

Venom poured into his flesh like fire. He heard himself screaming a wild, senseless mixture of curses and prayers. The darsteed bucked beneath him as it tried to pull its crippled hind legs up beneath it.

Wobbling, it threw Tobeszijian off balance, and with a moan let itself sink down, only to thrash wildly again.

The remaining hurlhounds did not let up. One went for the darsteed's throat while another nearly pulled Tobeszijian from the saddle. Streaming blood, racked with agony, he killed it, but more of the creatures kept appearing, making sure he stayed surrounded and outnumbered.

Their dim, b.e.s.t.i.a.l minds hammered at his: KillIkillIkillIkill.

And another unholy mind came with theirs, one cold, sentient, and clear: WhereIwhereIwhereIwhere?

Tobeszijian's mind was bombarded with images of the Chalice, death and decay, rotting bones, moldering intestines, gaping wounds, hot biting joy at killing, and implacable fury mingled with frustration.

He gasped, struggling with all his might to hold his mind shut against the mad hounds and their unseen master. He would not surrender the Chalice. Not even to save himself.

He knew he could not prevail. He was tiring, and he wore no spell of protection to shield him. His wounds burned with such fire he thought he might pa.s.s out. Yet the pain goaded him to keep fighting even as the poison sapped his strength. He felt himself weakening fast. His sword arm slowed, feeling increasingly heavy. Tiny gray dots danced in his vision. His spirit and mind remained strong, but his body was dying.

Turning in a tight circle, he struck again and again, beating back the hurlhounds with diminishing strength.

The poison in his veins was something dark and tangled, tainted with horrors worse than death. His body jerked, and he fought the need to thrash against whatever burned inside him. He would not give way to it, would not become a part of the evil surrounding him. "No," he said raggedly, hacking a terrible wound across the neck of a lunging hurlhound. With its head nearly severed from its body, it staggered in a circle and snapped b.l.o.o.d.y, hissing froth at one of its mates. Wild laughter suddenly filled the air above the ferocious snarls and growls. Yelping, the uninjured hurlhounds sprang back from Tobeszijian as though obeying a silent command. Those bleeding with wounds froze in their tracks and abruptly collapsed.

Swaying, Tobeszijian blinked away the dancing dots for a moment and glanced around. A short distance away, a trio of men mounted on darsteeds emerged from the woods. Their helms were plain and black. Their hauberks were made not of chain mail, but instead of thinly sliced disks of obsidian stone, coating their bodies like the darsteeds' scales. Gloved and spurred, with long broadswords of black steel hanging at their sides, they stared at Tobeszijian in silence. He saw their eyes glow red and unnatural through the slits in their helms. When they breathed, the stone disks of their armor made faint clacking sounds, and smoke curled forth from their nostrils. The damp air reeked of sulfur and death.

One of the three held a cage that swung freely on a chain. Within the cage writhed something misty and formless. Smaller than a man, it lengthened itself and then shrank, always in flux. It was colored the same sickly gray hue as wood fungus, and it was far more to be feared than any of the other Nonkind present.

It was horribly, completely evil. A soultaker.

Tobeszijian's breath froze in his lungs. Fear rushed through his bowels as though he had suddenly swallowed hot liquid. While syliths and hurlhounds ripped a man's body apart, soul-takers came to it, lay on it, and took that which the G.o.ds granted to men and not to beasts.

On the battlefield, from afar, Tobeszijian had witnessed soultakers feeding on their victims. He had heard the screams that mortal throats should never make. He had seen afterward the soultakers rise into the air, writhing, bloated, and colored brightly by the life and essence of what they'd consumed. He had seen the corpses rise and follow commands, their dead white faces staring with eyes that no longer saw, their slack mouths sagging open, their clutching hands outstretched to attack the living troops that often fled in disarray. Tobeszijian had seen soultakers sit on the shoulders of these walking corpses, like riders on their mounts. And he had sometimes witnessed soldiers of the darkness such as these opening cages to unleash soultakers within. Fury and fear tangled with desperation in his throat. That thing would not take him, he vowed grimly. It would not eat his soul and then use his rotting body to harm others. Whether dead or alive, he'd become no eternal prisoner of the Nonkind, doomed for all eternity.

Tobeszijian fought off his swimming dizziness and drew himself erect. Streaming with blood from his wounds, his lungs aching for air, he gripped Mirengard with both hands and raised it in challenge to the Nonkind soldiers. glowed a blinding white, as did the Ring of Solder on his finger. Frowning, Tobeszijian reached deep inside his faith, drawing on the power of the Sword and Ring. "In the name of Thod," he said in a voice that rang out in the silence, "begone, foul demons, and let me pa.s.s."

"Surrender the Chalice and you may pa.s.s." The voice that answered him was gravelly and strangled, almost too hoa.r.s.e to be understood. Tobeszijian lifted his head higher. He never parleyed with the Nonkind, never discussed their terms. His father had warned him to refuse any request, simply and straightforwardly, and to keep refusing. For to be drawn into conversation was to give their evil minds time to find a way of tricking him. He met the fierce red eyes of the soldiers. Around him the hurlhounds panted and watched, their fangs dripping saliva that hissed and steamed. "Surrender the Chalice," the hoa.r.s.e voice commanded again. "No," Tobeszijian said, forcing his voice to sound strong and firm while his heart thudded beneath his breastplate. The poison was burning even hotter inside him now, making him shiver and sweat. He wanted to drop to his knees and cry out for mercy. That desire was so foreign and false that he felt appalled, then realized their minds were trying to force his compliance. "No!" he cried. "Surrender," the soldier in the center of the trio said.

Through Tobeszijian's mind writhed whispers of SurrenderIsurrenderIsurrenderIsurrender.

"What makes you think I have the Chalice?" Tobeszijian countered. "I am a common traveler, on my road. You are mistaken." Rasping, terrible laughter filled the air. "King Tobeszijian, you have become a liar and a coward. Without your armies and your spells, you stink of fear." Tobeszijian stiffened, but inside he was horrified by the truth of what the Nonkind had said. Never before had he known any cowardice in himself. Never before had he broken from his training. Never before had he been as afraid as he was now.

It was the poison, he told himself feverishly. He had to take care and not let its influence work tricks on his mind.

"Surrender the Chalice," the Nonkind said to him.

The command held force now, a force that rocked Tobeszijian back on his heels. He nearly toppled over backward. Catching his balance, he blinked sweat from his eyes and gripped Mirengard desperately. Protect me, he prayed to it. He knew that the Nonkind would hammer at his will and courage while the poison sapped his strength. He would have to fight until the hurlhounds tore him apart.

Then the soultaker would defile him, taking his thoughts and knowledge, and imprisoning his spirit forever. The location of the Chalice would be known to them, and all would be lost-not just his life and his kingdom, but the very world of truth, mercy, and good.

"Thod have mercy on me," he prayed aloud. Mirengard glowed even brighter, until the blade was a shining flame. He did not want to die, but he could not give these creatures what they wanted.

Tobeszijian shivered and recalled his youth, when his father had taken him far from the palace on a winter's day. In a secret place, King Runtha had made him swear grave oaths of responsibility for the Chalice's safekeeping. Runtha's voice had been solemn and calm as he recited the words. Tobeszijian had repeated them after him, and the words and phrases had echoed strangely in the air around him.

He opened his mouth now to repeat those oaths, but before he could speak the hounds snarled and sprang at him from all sides.

Tobeszijian staggered in an attempted feint, his weakened and b.l.o.o.d.y body unable to carry through on the maneuver. He struck hard with Mirengard, but a set of poisonous jaws clamped onto his hip from behind, and Tobeszijian cried out as he was driven to his knees.

"No!" he shouted. "May Thod rot you, demon!"

Twisting, he sliced with Mirengard, and the shining sword cleaved the hound in two. The remaining hounds circled him with snapping jaws, but he pivoted on his knees, swinging Mirengard, and they dodged away.

Heartened by their cowardice, Tobeszijian found the strength to stagger back to his feet. The hounds closed in, menace glowing in their red eyes. Awash with agony, Tobeszijian circled with them. The dancing dots were back in his vision, and his breath sounded ragged and harsh in his ears. Hearing a soft click, he glanced up just as one of the Nonkind soldiers opened the soultaker's cage.

The thing, so pale and formless, slid its pallid tendrils through the opening, and the rest of it flowed out.

Writhing, it floated in the air near Tobeszijian, who stared at it in horror and dread.

Thoughts as thin as needles of rain slid into his mind: ComeIcomeIcomeIcome to me, and I shall eat you, king of men.

Screaming an oath, Tobeszijian swung Mirengard at it with all his might, but the soultaker sailed upward,and he missed.

A hurlhound struck his back, knocking him down. He heard the ferocious growling as the thing bit his shoulder through his armor, trying for his neck. Shouting, Tobeszijian felt himself lifted by the monster and shaken hard, the way a dog shakes a rat. He felt his neck pop and a dreadful numb sensation spread through him.

In desperation, he looked down and saw Mirengard still glowing white and pure in his b.l.o.o.d.y hand. He saw the Ring of Solder shining on his forefinger, its power there for the taking, the using. He had spent his three journeys, all that were allowed, but Tobeszijian no longer cared about rules or warnings. He was dying here, defeated and alone. The Ring was his final chance to save himself, to save his soul, to save the Chalice.

Desperately he sent his thoughts into the power of the Ring, finding its center. He saw the blinding flash, heard the great pop as he was sucked once more into the second world. In the distance he heard howls of anger, as though the hurlhounds were trying to follow him here into this place of gray silence, but this time he went hurtling, hurtling, hurtling as though slung by a catapult. He could not move, could not aim himself, could not command his own body. Instead, he plummeted through the mists of the second world, and flew toward a shining barrier that sparkled and swirled ahead of him. He felt strange tremors in his body, accompanied by a rush of chilling coldness that doused the fire burning his wounds.

Too late he realized he had leaped into the second world without a destination in his mind.

He found himself spinning around and around as though still falling through the air. He seemed to be shrinking, and faintly he heard voices rising and falling in powerful murmurs, voices that seemed to have the power to break all creation if they chose.

Was he going to the third world? Was he now dead like his poor, sweet Nereisse? Would he be reunited with her on the other side of that glowing curtain of light as the Writ promised?

But there was something unfinished. Something that needed doing. Some responsibility he had left behind him.

"You never stick to your duty, boy," his father's voice suddenly boomed at him.

"It's duty that keeps a king strong."

"My lord prince, if you will not keep your mind on your studies you will never learn the strategies of rule," his tutor's voice said with a sigh. "Dear husband, I feel a sense of unease that I cannot as yet explain," Nereisse said on the eve of his departure. "Must you go so far away to hunt this year? Must you be gone so long?"