Crusader Page 19

  Sicarius was the lesser wounded of the two, and likely to make a full recovery. FortHeart had lost her ear, and one of her legs was swollen, but the Healer had said that she, too, would recover, if not to her former prettiness.

  From there DragonStar had dared the uncertainties of Spiredore to come to this spot. Why? DragonStar tried to force his half-frozen face into a grin as he thought that one through. Why? Because somewhere on the Icebear Coast was the one person who just might be able to help.

  Urbeth.

  DragonStar had not seen nor heard from her since Qeteb had been resurrected, but he had no doubt that she had survived the wasting of Tencendor, and currently sat with her daughters, waiting out the time before DragonStar managed to best Qeteb and set Tencendor to rights.

  “Well, my lady,” DragonStar muttered through icehardened lips, “DragonStar doesn’t have a hope of besting Qeteb if the Demon harvests both the power of the Mother and the power of the Enemy!”

  He lifted his head slightly and stared into the white oblivion before him. “Urbeth!” he screamed. “Urbeth! Where are you!”

  Nothing but the shrieking of the wind and the groaning of the ice.

  “Urbeth, you hairy cow, answer me now!”

  Nothing. DragonStar struggled to keep his footing. Everything was coated with a slick of ice: not only the ground, but his boots, his cloak, and even his hands glistened under a thin layer of the loathsome stuff.

  “Urbeth!” he yelled, his voice thinner now. “Urbeth!”

  Nothing.

  DragonStar groaned and sank to his haunches, trying to tug his cloak even more tightly about him. He couldn’t stay here…he must leave…Urbeth was gone…

  His head sank downwards. He was so tired. Perhaps if he just closed his eyes a minute, rested a bit before he returned to Sanctuary. Some rest would be good.

  His head dropped lower.

  “Urbeth,” he whispered, and slumped forward onto the ice.

  He woke to the frightful smell of rotten fish. He jerked awake, his head pounding so badly he thought it might explode.

  He opened his eyes.

  He was in an ice cave, the floor of which was covered in decomposing fish.

  DragonStar gagged, and struggled to his knees. He was covered in bits of rotting fish.

  “Look to what this land has been brought,” a voice said behind him, and DragonStar struggled to turn about amid the fish. He slipped over twice before he managed to turn completely around and gain his feet.

  Three women stood there. All were tall and willowy, all dressed in pale grey robes, and each of them was standing with arms crossed so that her hands rested on her shoulders. Two had raven-black hair that cascaded down their backs and over their breasts, the other, the middle one, had irongrey hair with streaks of silver through it.

  “Urbeth,” DragonStar said. “Your housekeeping skills have slipped.”

  She snarled, but DragonStar did not flinch. “I need your help.”

  She arched an eyebrow at him. None of the three had stepped forward, nor relaxed their hands from their shoulders.

  “Qeteb will win through to the power of the Enemy,” he said. “Sanctuary will fall.”

  For the first time Urbeth’s face registered shock.

  “Worse,” DragonStar continued, “Qeteb has access to the Sacred Groves. If you have any love, or even a single regard, for the Mother, Urbeth, then aid her now.”

  And then, with hands still shaking from the cold, DragonStar drew the lily sword and created the doorway of light. Before Urbeth or either of her daughters could say anything, he was gone.

  Chapter 24

  Zenith

  Zenith checked Leagh before she retired herself. The woman was sleeping quietly, her skin slightly flushed but cool, her breathing calm and deep. Zenith nodded to Zared, sitting silent in a corner under the pool of light cast by a lamp, and then left the room, sighing as she closed the door.

  Zenith was feeling excluded and forgotten—and feeling guilty that she felt that way in the first instance. Her brother DragonStar, her best friend Leagh, and even her parents (who had spent the greater portion of her life being distant and uninterested), were caught up in events of such great magnitude that all existence depended on the outcome. There were hurried comings and goings, hastily convened councils, newly-discovered magics and dark treacheries happening everywhere…but they were happening behind closed doors for all Zenith felt involved. She played no part in them—she might as well not exist for all the influence she could bring to bear on the current crisis.

  Zenith was not a proud woman, nor one to seek attention or lust after her own role in whatever power play consumed the nation, but she was a SunSoar, a princess of the House of Stars, and she was not used to being brushed aside as if she was of no import at all.

  “And yet what have I accomplished?” she asked herself as she walked the halls of Sanctuary towards her own apartment. “I played a small part in enabling DragonStar to escape death at Caelum’s hands, and then…nothing. I was forcibly seduced, then as forcibly excluded from my own body. I have ever reacted, not acted.”

  And then Zenith smiled at her own foolishness. What was she doing, thinking dark thoughts about being excluded from whatever secret councils were being held this night? What was she doing lusting after some dark and dangerous furtive role in bringing about Qeteb’s downfall? All she wanted, if truth be told, was a quiet life away from the intricacies of high politics and enchantment: perhaps with a husband to love and care for her, and children to love.

  Now Zenith hesitated again, pausing and resting a hand on one of the corridor walls.

  She could have all that if she really wanted it, couldn’t she? StarDrifter was never far away. He never demanded, he never even mentioned the fact that what he wanted most of all in life was to have her as his wife, but Zenith could almost feel the intensity of his thoughts: StarDrifter’s hunger kept her awake at nights.

  Guilt, guilt, guilt—that’s what kept her awake at nights. There was no reason why she couldn’t respond to StarDrifter save her own inhibitions and prudery. She loved him—Zenith had no problems admitting that to herself, nor even to StarDrifter—but whenever she thought of bedding with him, then the strength of her physical repulsion made her stomach turn over.

  Would time ease her repulsion? Erode her prudery?

  But how much time, and how long was StarDrifter prepared to give her?

  Zenith lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders and walked forwards. Why did she always feel so guilty? What fault was within her that made her—

  A birdwoman hurrying along the corridor interrupted Zenith’s flow of thoughts, and she studied the woman, grateful for the interruption and the opportunity to think about something other than her own inadequacies.

  The birdwoman, an Icarii Healer by the name of StarWalker, was carrying a bowl of soiled cloths. The pungent aroma of ginnet—a herb used to stifle infection—rose from the cloths.

  “Someone is ill?” Zenith asked, laying a hand on StarWalker’s arm to halt her.

  “Yes,” StarWalker said, watching Zenith carefully. The healer licked her lips, and her eyes slid away from Zenith’s.

  Zenith’s eyes narrowed. “Who is ill?” she asked. “And why the ginnet? Is she—he?—so badly injured they need its strength?”

  “The man is badly injured,” StarWalker said. “Crippling wounds…inflicted by the Demons, I believe.”

  Zenith’s interest was piqued. Who had been so badly hurt? And why was StarWalker being so reticent? The birdwoman’s eyes were now sliding this way and that so desperately she looked as though she were about to have a seizure.

  Dammit! Zenith thought. Is everyone resolved to keep me in the dark about every trifling detail?

  “I really must go,” StarWalker said. “If you will excuse me…”

  Zenith’s hand tightened on StarWalker’s arm. “Where is the sick room?”

  “Oh, it’s too far for you to be troubling yourse
lf—”

  “I don’t think so, StarWalker. Where is the sick room? I might as well make myself useful.”

  “Zenith,” StarWalker said, finally looking her in the eye, “you do not want to go there.”

  “Why? Is the patient so infectious? And if so, then what are you doing wandering the corridors with a bowl full of infection in your hands?”

  “Zenith,” StarWalker was now leaning close, her eyes wide and full of an emotion that Zenith could not quite read. “Zenith…DragonStar found WolfStar within the wasteland. He brought him back—frightfully injured by the Demons. I…I did not want to tell you.”

  Zenith was so shocked she could not say anything for a moment. WolfStar…here? In Sanctuary? She had hardly thought of him since she’d come down to Sanctuary herself; somehow her mind had come to the unconscious conclusion that he’d been killed by the Demons and she need never worry about him again. But now…

  “WolfStar?” she whispered.

  “There is no need for you to be concerned,” StarWalker said, laying the bowl on the ground and taking both of Zenith’s hands in hers. “He is kept under close guard. He can’t be a danger to you now.”

  Gods, Zenith thought weakly, does everyone know about his rape of me? Has everyone else been told that WolfStar is here, and is everyone wandering about thinking, Poor Zenith, we must keep this from her in case she shatters?

  “Where is he?” Zenith said, looking StarWalker in the eye.

  “I don’t think I should—”

  “Where is he?”

  StarWalker hesitated, then spoke. “He’s being kept in the underground chambers in the complex next to the apple and plum orchard.”

  Zenith nodded slowly; she knew it. StarWalker must be heading back to the series of herb storerooms that were situated on the second level of this building. If Zenith hadn’t happened across StarWalker, nor pressed her for details, she would never have known about WolfStar.

  “Thank you, StarWalker,” she said, absently, disengaging herself from the woman’s grip.

  “He won’t harm you,” StarWalker said.

  “I’m sure he won’t,” Zenith said, and abruptly turned and walked away.

  She sat in her darkened room for many hours. Thinking. Remembering. Trying to decide on some course of action.

  Zenith was stunned at her own reaction to the news that WolfStar had been found and then secreted within Sanctuary. She would have imagined she might have felt fear, or anger, or even repulsion.

  But she felt none of these. All she felt was an overwhelming desire to see him.

  Why? To gloat perhaps. To spit in his face? To finally lay aside the memory of his repulsive rape and then misuse of her body as he encouraged Niah in her attempts to control it?

  Zenith didn’t know, and that was what distressed her most of all. She had thought anger and revenge would have been at the forefront of her mind…but all she found herself thinking of was the single glimpse she’d had of WolfStar at Fernbrake Lake. She’d been horrified by his condition—but she hadn’t felt any anger or repulsion when she’d seen him, had she?

  “No, no,” she muttered, her hands twisting in her lap, “I was distracted by the sight of Niah, that’s all. I would have been angered and repulsed if I hadn’t been distracted by Niah.”

  Zenith rose and paced about the room. She badly wanted to talk to someone, but there was no-one left. Faraday, Gwendylyr and Leagh were each preoccupied with their own problems and their newly-discovered roles and powers, while Azhure, although she’d been closer and warmer to Zenith in the past few days than Zenith could remember in many years, was still not a confidante. Not for this, and certainly not where WolfStar was concerned. Azhure might superficially acknowledge WolfStar’s failings (murder, manipulation, treachery, rape…the failings of any mere mortal) but he was nevertheless her father, and she had emotional ties with WolfStar that precluded any detached discussion of him.

  Besides, Zenith could not get out of her mind the fact that Azhure had also encouraged the Niah-soul’s attempt to take over Zenith’s body.

  StarDrifter? Could she go to StarDrifter? Zenith found herself standing before the door to the corridor. She trusted him more than any. She loved him. He would be understanding.

  About WolfStar?

  “Why am I feeling this way?” Zenith whispered. “Why?” She felt as though some mean-spirited giant had taken an enormous wooden spoon and stirred up her entrails. She was a mass of conflicting emotions, and yet she could not identify any of them.

  And she did not know what to do, nor who to talk to. Was it just mention of WolfStar, or was it that combined with her feelings of disassociation and uselessness which had been growing for weeks now?

  Zenith closed her eyes, gripped the door handle tightly, and made up her mind.

  She had to talk to someone.

  She turned the handle, opened the door, and walked into the corridor, vanishing into the gloom.

  Chapter 25

  Into the Sacred Groves

  “I am not sure it was such a good idea to goad the StarSon,” Sheol said. “Nor tell him about the Sacred Groves. And most certainly it was not a good idea to let him know how vital the individual combats between us and his are!”

  Sheol’s mouth pouted in a show of petulance that Barzula, Mot and Raspu privately thought would bring her to a very, very bad end.

  But Qeteb surprised them. He had retained the congenial, handsome facade he’d shown DragonStar, and now walked about their glade, tossing an apple from one hand to the other.

  Qeteb was in an extremely good mood. Infinite power coupled with infinite destruction lay in his immediate future, and that made him a trifle mellower than usual. He took a bite out of the apple.

  “DragonStar would have guessed the fate of the Sacred Groves soon enough,” he said around the bits of creamy apple flesh that fell from his mouth. “And knowing precisely what rides on the individual combats will make him insecure, not more powerful. Sometimes knowledge undermines, not empowers.”

  His eyes slid to Niah, still lying waiting soullessly for whatever his pleasure might be next.

  Qeteb’s lips curled in a sly smile, and he spat out the remaining fragments of the apple, tossing the core away to a rabid weasel nosing amid a dungheap behind one of the fruit trees.

  Qeteb’s face flickered in distaste as the weasel snatched at the core. He thought that once he got the new order working nicely within this wasteland, he might do something about the more pungent aspects of his horde of maniacal admirers.

  Then he bent down to Niah, and stroked her hair. Bitch. Her form did not appeal at all, but it was female and it was fertile, and that is all that Qeteb cared about. His hand slid down to her belly, and pressed down.

  Her body nourished the foetal flesh that would eventually harbour Rox’s soul. A shame that the new flesh took so long to grow. There were magics and enchantments that could be used to speed up the process, but even so it would be many weeks before Niah’s body had fulfilled its purpose and Qeteb could dispose of it once and for all.

  “Good little wife,” he muttered, and patted her cheek. “Dear girl.”

  Weeks it might take, but in the meantime Niah was going to come in very, very useful.

  Barzula appeared at his shoulder, and Qeteb looked up.

  “What are you going to do?” Barzula asked. His voice was laden with suppressed excitement. His three companions and he had thought that Qeteb would act instantly to use Niah’s latent powers, and now they grew impatient.

  Best not to show it too much, though.

  Qeteb stood up and straightened out the fine grey wool tunic he wore.

  “We go to the Sacred Groves, and we eat,” he said, and the other four Demons broke into howls of anticipation, holding hands and capering about in a circle.

  “We need the power that we will obtain there,” Qeteb continued, and then paused, his eyes fixing on some distant, unseen point as he thought of all the power he and his could feed o
n in the Sacred Groves.

  The silence lengthened.

  Qeteb visibly shook himself, then spoke again. “We need that extra power to—”

  “Destroy Sanctuary?” Sheol said, letting her eagerness get the better of her sense.

  Qeteb roared, and flung out a stiff arm, hitting Sheol in the cheekbone.

  There was a distinct crack, and Sheol fell over, but she scrambled to her feet, letting neither Qeteb’s anger nor her swelling face distract her from her hunger.

  “What then?” she whispered. Her cheek quivered, and then rearranged itself back into a normal shape.

  Qeteb stared at her, then spoke. “We restore Rox’s soul to the scrap of flesh within that woman’s belly—”

  “But that won’t do any good!” Mot said. He stepped forward, his skeletal arms wrapped about himself as if his overabundant hunger would make him consume himself at any moment. “He can’t be born yet, and—”

  “Will no-one allow me to finish?” Qeteb bellowed, and the other Demons subsided, dropping their eyes and shuffling their feet.

  It was a show of respect only. They were far too excited at the thought of the power that lay ahead to be too submissive.

  “Have you learned nothing from all the worlds we have consumed? All the souls we have absorbed? Ah!”

  Qeteb stalked away a few paces, then strode back, bent down and seized Niah by the hair, and hauled her to her feet.

  Her face registered no pain, no offence.

  Qeteb shook her so violently her arms and legs jiggled. “She is soulless. There is nothing there! If Rox inhabits the flesh within her flesh, then he can control her from her womb. He can control her power!”

  “Why not simply give Rox her body to inhabit?” Sheol asked. Why bother with all this waiting for the foetus Qeteb had planted to reach a viable state?

  Qeteb stared at Sheol, allowing rage to suffuse his face. Initially, he’d wanted to give Rox a new body of flesh to inhabit—Niah’s flesh had been somewhat overused, after all. But now there was a very, very good reason he didn’t want Rox to have permanent control of this woman’s body: if she was so infused with the Enemy’s power, then Qeteb wanted none of the other Demons to control it for very long. That Rox would do so for some few short weeks or months did not trouble Qeteb—after all, he was sure he could keep Rox under control for that length of time. But Qeteb would not, could not, tolerate a permanent situation where Rox controlled the vast power of the Enemy.