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already taught them the cost of getting too close.
The sun was nearing the horizon. In an hour it would be too dark to see....
Bragi swore, shouted, cajoled. His men leaned on their weapons, staring with
eyes that had seen too much bloodshed. They didn't care if the foe were
vulnerable. He was going. That was enough.
Bragi caught another horse, raged around looking for men who would fight on.
He glimpsed movement near the fortress. Someone with white hair scuttled
toward a band of legionnaires. Megelin's riders chased him back inside.
A wild, evil glee captured Bragi's soul. He walked his mount toward the
battered stronghold.
He passed the remains of Badalamen and hardly noticed. A mad little laugh kept
bubbling up from deep in his guts.
The bent man watched the barbaric rider cross that field of death as
implacably as a glacier. He studied Feng, a mile eastward, directing assembly
of the pontoons Badalamen had prepared. He searched the sky. Nowhere did he
see his winged steed.
He spat. A potent tool, the Windmjirnerhorn, the Horn of the Star Rider, from
which he could conjure almost anything, remained strapped to the beast's back.
He was naked to his enemies, defenseless-except for cunning and foresight.
And his Pole.
The rider loomed huge now, subjectively growing larger than life as their
confrontation approached.
He scuttled into the fortress's cluttered recesses, through the shambles of
Magden Norath's laboratories. What had happened to the Escalonian? The first
rat to desert the ship, he thought. No guts. Lived his dreams and fantasies
through his creations.
The Fadema, though, remained where he had left her, sitting with his ancient,
mindless accomplice.
"Is it over?" she asked.
"Not yet, my lady. But nearly." He smiled, stepped past her to a cluttered
shelf, selected one of Norath's scalpels.
"Good. I'm tired of it all."
"You'll rest well." He yanked her head back, cut her throat.
The Old Man frowned.
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"The Fates have intervened, old friend. Our holocaust becomes a country fair.
Hold this." The Old Man accepted the scalpel. The Star Rider began
extinguishing lamps. When one remained he produced his golden token, placed it
over his "thirdeye."
"The Tervola have decided to cut their losses. I should have known. Their
first loyalty will always be to Shinsan. A foul habit. Ah! I can hear Them.
They're laughing. My predicamentamuses Them."
He pocketed the medallion. "That'll scare hell out of somebody." He cocked his
head, listening. The measured tread of boots echoed from a darkened passage.
"He comes." He selected an unconsecrated kill-dagger from the shelf. "The
final scene, old friend."
Varthlokkur, Visigodred, and Mist, only survivors of the Inner Circle, sat,
exhausted, watching the Winterstorm. Outside, dull-witted, disarmed, weary,
the Unborn bobbed on the breeze, abiding Varthlokkur's command.
Valther burst in. "We've done it!" He was blood-filthy. A battered sword
trailed from his hand.
They didn't respond.
He planted himself before them. "Didn't you hear? We've won! They're
retreating...."
The Winterstorm exploded.
Valther shrieked once as flames consumed him.
Mist wept quietly, too drained to move.
Visigodred held her, softly observed, "If he hadn't been there...."
"We'd have burned," Varthlokkur said. "It was time. He had been redeemed. The
Fates. They weave a mad tapestry.... He was the last Storm King. They had no
further use for him." He didn't seem surprised that his enemy, suddenly, was
able to overpower his creation.
Ragnarson paused. There was a wrongness about the dimly lighted chamber. Yet
the entire fortress had that taint. The evil of Ehelebe?
He entered, knelt by the corpse. "Fadema. Thus he rewarded you." Blood still
oozed from her ruined throat. She stared up with startled dead eyes.
3I7
Sensing something, Bragi whirled.
The blade slashed his already ruined shirt, turned on his mail. He drove hard
with his sword. The old man groaned, clutched his belly, hurtled toward the
remaining lamp as if yanked by puppet strings. It broke. In seconds the room
was ablaze.
"Burn forever, you bastard." One of those mad chuckles escaped him. "You've
hurt me for the last time."
A bone-weary Treblicock met him beside his mount. "Valther's dead," Michael
said. "We thought you should know." He described the circumstances.
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"So. He got in one last shot. Where's your shadow?"
"Aral? Him and Kildragon went around the sides. In case you came out over
there. Why?"
"I think I might need somebody to carry me back."
"Mike!" Dantice's shout penetrated the remaining clamor of the battlefield.
"Hurry up!"
They found Dantice kneeling beside a dying man.
"Reskird!" Bragi swore. "Not now. Not here."
"Bragi?" Kildragon gasped.
"I'm here. What happened?"
"My boy. Look out for my boy."
Reskird had a son who was a fledgling Guildsman. Bragi hadn't seen him in
years.
"I will, Reskird." He held his friend's hand. "Who was it? What happened?"
The silver dagger had missed Kildragon's heart, but not by much. It had [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]