Then the rain struck in driving sheets, obscuring the knights’ vision and half-concealing the advancing Trolls. ‘Keep at them!’ Sparhawk commanded in a great voice. ‘Don’t let up!’
The methodical charges continued as the Trolls doggedly pushed through the mud into the killing zone. The strategy was going well, but it had not been without casualties. Several horses were down, felled by club strokes from wounded and enraged Trolls, and a few armoured knights lay motionless on the rain-swept ground.
Then the wind suddenly dropped, and the rain slackened as the calm at the centre of the storm passed over them.
‘What’s that?’ Tynian shouted, pointing beyond the howling Trolls.
It was a single, incandescent spark, brighter than the sun, and it hung just over the edge of the forest. It began to grow ominously, swelling, surging, surrounded by a blazing halo of purplish light.
‘There’s something inside it!’ Kalten yelled.
Sparhawk strained to see, squinting in the brilliant purple light that illuminated the battle-ground. ‘It’s alive,’ he said tersely. ‘It’s moving.’
The ball of purple light swelled faster and faster, and blazing orange flames shot out from the edges of it.
There was someone standing in the centre of that fiery ball – someone robed and hooded and burning green. The figure raised one hand, opened it wide, and a searing bolt of lightning shot from that open palm. A charging Cyrinic Knight and his horse were blasted into charred fragments by the bolt.
And then, from behind that searing light, an enormous shape reared up out of the forest. It was impossible that anything alive could be so huge. The head left no doubt that the creature was reptilian. The huge head was earlessly sleek, scaly and had a protruding, lipless muzzle filled with row after row of back-curving teeth. It had a short neck, narrow shoulders and tiny forepaws. The rest of the body was mercifully concealed by the trees.
‘We can’t fight that thing!’ Kalten cried.
The hooded figure within the ball of purple and orange fire raised its arm again. It seemed to clench itself, and then again the lightning shot from its open palm – and stopped, exploding in midair in a dazzling shower of sparks.
‘Did you do that?’ Vanion shouted at Sparhawk.
‘Not me, Vanion. I’m not that fast.’
Then they heard the deep, resonant voice chanting in Styric. Sparhawk wheeled Faran to look.
It was Zalasta. The silvery-haired Styric stood partway up the steep slope on the north side of the canyon, his white robe gleaming in the storm’s half-light. He had both arms extended over his head, and his staff, which Sparhawk had thought to be no more than an affectation, blazed with energy. He swung the staff downward, pointing it at the hooded figure standing in its fiery nimbus. A brilliant spark shot from the tip of the staff and sizzled as it passed over the heads of the Peloi and the armoured knights to explode against the ball of fire.
The figure in the fire flinched, and once more lightning shot from its open palm, directed at Zalasta this time. The Styric brushed it disdainfully aside with his staff and immediately responded with another of those brilliant sparks of light which shattered like the last on the surface of the ball of fire.
Again the hooded one inside its protecting fire flinched, more violently this time. The gigantic creature behind it screamed and drew back into the darkness.
The Church Knights, dumbfounded by the dreadful confrontation, had frozen in their tracks.
‘We have our own work to attend to, gentlemen!’ Vanion roared his reminder. ‘Charge!’
Sparhawk shook his head to clear his mind. ‘Thanks, Vanion,’ he said to his friend. ‘I got distracted there for a moment.’
‘Pay attention, Sparhawk,’ Vanion said crisply in precisely the same tone he had always used on the practice-field years before when Sparhawk and Kalten had been novices.
‘Yes, my Lord Preceptor,’ Sparhawk replied automatically in the self-same embarrassed tone he had used as a stripling. The two looked at each other, and then they both laughed.
‘Just like old times,’ Kalten said gaily. ‘Well then, why don’t we go Troll-hunting and leave the incidentals to Zalasta?’
The knights continued their endless charge and the two magicians continued their fiery duel overhead. The Trolls were no less savage now, but their numbers were diminished and the huge pile of their dead impeded their attack.
The bloody work on the ground went on and on while the air above the battleground sizzled and crackled with awful fire.
‘Is it my imagination, or is our purple friend up there getting a little pale and wan?’ Tynian suggested as they took up fresh lances once more.
‘His fire’s beginning to fade just a bit,’ Kalten agreed. ‘And he’s taking longer and longer to work himself up to another thunderbolt.’
‘Don’t grow over-confident, gentlemen,’ Vanion admonished them. ‘We still have Trolls to deal with, and that oversized lizard’s still out there in the forest.’
‘I was trying very hard not to think about that,’ Kalten replied.
Then, very suddenly, as suddenly as it had expanded, the ball of purple-orange fire began to contract. Zalasta stepped up his attack, the fiery sparks shooting from his staff in rapid succession to burst against the outer surface of that rapidly constricting nimbus like fiery hail.
Then the blazing orb vanished.
A cheer went up from the Peloi, and the Trolls faltered.
Khalad, his face strangely numb, set another javelin on his improvised engine and cut the rope to unleash his missile. The javelin sprang from the huge bow, and as it sped forward it seemed to ignite, and it blazed with light as it arced out higher and farther than any of the young man’s previous shots had done.
The great lizard rearing up out of the forest roared, its awful mouth gaping. And then the burning javelin took it full in the chest. It sank deep, and the hideous creature shrieked a great cry of agony and rage, its tiny forepaws clutching futilely at the burning shaft. And then there was a heavy, muffled thud within the monster’s body, a confined explosion that shook the very ground. The vast lizard burst open in a spray of bloody fire, and its ripped remains sank twitching back into the forest.
A nebulous kind of wavering appeared at the edge of the trees, a wavering very much like the shimmer of heat on a hot summer day, and then they all saw something emerging from that shimmer. It was a face only, brutish, ugly and filled with rage and frustration. The shaggy face sloped sharply back from its fang-filled muzzle, and the pig-like eyes burned in their sockets.
It howled – a vast howl that tore at the very air. It howled again, and Sparhawk recoiled. The wavering apparition was bellowing in Troll! Again it howled, its thunderous voice bending the trees around it like a vast wind.
‘What in God’s name is that?’ Bevier cried.
‘Ghworg,’ Ulath replied tensely, ‘the Troll-God of Kill.’
The immortal beast howled yet again, and then it vanished.
CHAPTER 23
All semblance of co-operation among the Trolls vanished with the disappearance of Ghworg. They were not, as Ulath had so frequently pointed out, creatures which normally ran in packs, and without the presence of the God to coerce them into semi-unity, they reverted to their customary antagonism toward each other. Their charge faltered as a number of very nasty fights broke out in their ranks. These fights quickly spread, and within moments there was a general brawl in progress out beyond the mouth of the canyon.
‘Well?’ Kalten asked Ulath.
‘It’s over,’ the Genidian Knight shrugged, ‘–at least our part of it is. The riot among the Trolls themselves might go on for quite a while, though.’
Kring, it appeared, had reached the same conclusion, and his Peloi moved purposefully on the heaps of Trollish casualties, their sabres and lances at the ready.
Khalad was still standing behind his roughly constructed engine, his face blank and his eyes unseeing. Then he seemed to awaken.
‘What happened?’ he asked, looking around with some confusion.
‘You killed that big reptile, my young friend,’ Tynian told him. ‘It was a spectacular shot.’
‘I did? I don’t remember even shooting at it. I thought it was out of range.’
Zalasta had come down from the sloping side of the canyon with a look of satisfaction on his beetle-browed face. ‘I’m afraid I had to override your thoughts for a few moments there, young sir,’ he explained to Sparhawk’s squire. ‘I needed your engine to deal with the thunder beast. I hope you’ll forgive me, but there wasn’t time to consult with you about it.’
‘That’s quite all right, learned one. I just wish I’d been able to see the shot. What kind of beast was it?’
‘Its species roamed the earth millions of years ago,’ the Styric replied. ‘Before mankind or even the Trolls emerged. Our opponent appears to be very gifted in resurrecting the ancient dead.’
‘Was that him inside that ball of fire?’ Kalten asked.
‘I can’t be positive about that, Sir Kalten. It seems that we have many layers of enemies out there. If the one in the orb wasn’t our main enemy, though, he was probably very high up in the opposing councils. He was most skilled.’
‘Let’s see to the wounded,’ Vanion said crisply. Despite his protestations that Sparhawk was now in charge of the Pandions, the habit of command still ran deep in Vanion’s blood.
‘We might want to barricade that gap as well,’ Ulath suggested, ‘just to keep the surviving Trolls from paying us any unannounced visits during the night.’
‘I’ll go advise the ladies that the worst of this is over,’ Sparhawk told them. He turned Faran and rode back to the cave. He was a bit surprised and more than a bit exasperated to find Ehlana and the rest of the party from the cavern standing out in the open. ‘I told you to stay in the cave,’ he reprimanded his wife sharply.
‘You didn’t really expect me to do it, did you?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.’
‘Life’s just filled with these little disappointments, isn’t it?’ Her tone was challenging.
‘That will do, children,’ Sephrenia said wearily. ‘Domestic squabbles shouldn’t be aired in public. Do your fighting in private.’
‘We weren’t fighting, were we, Sparhawk?’ Ehlana said.
‘We were just about to start.’
‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she apologised contritely. ‘I couldn’t bear to stay inside while you were in such terrible danger.’ Then she made a wry face. ‘Right now I’m going to have to choke down my royal pride and eat a large dish of crow. I’ve wronged Zalasta dreadfully. He saved the day for us, didn’t he?’
‘He certainly didn’t hurt us,’ Talen agreed.
‘He was stupendous!’ the queen exclaimed.
‘He’s very, very skilled,’ Sephrenia said proudly. Perhaps unconsciously, she was holding Danae in her arms. Their centuries of sisterhood had made the small Styric woman’s responses instinctive.
‘What was that awful face at the edge of the woods?’ Sir Berit asked with a shudder.
‘Ulath says it was Ghworg, the Troll-God of Kill,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘I sort of remember him from the Temple of Azash back in Zemoch. I didn’t really look at him that closely then, though. I was a little preoccupied at the time.’ He made a face. ‘Well, little mother,’ he said to Sephrenia, ‘it looks as if we might have been right. I’d say that Ghwerig’s spell wasn’t quite as iron-clad as we originally thought. The Troll-Gods are loose – at least Ghworg is. But what baffles me is why they didn’t escape earlier. If they could get out at any time, why didn’t they break free when I threatened to smash Bhelliom in the temple?’
‘Maybe they needed help,’ she shrugged. ‘It’s altogether possible that our enemy was able to enlist their aid by offering to help them escape their imprisonment. We’ll ask Zalasta. He might know.’
More of the knights had been injured during the fight with the Trolls than Sparhawk had originally thought, and some fifteen of their number had been killed. As evening settled into the canyon, Engessa came to Sparhawk, his eyes hard. ‘I’ll leave now, Sparhawk-Knight,’ he said abruptly.
Sparhawk looked at him, startled.
‘I must go have words with the clan of this region. Their failure to be at the boundary was inexcusable.’
‘There was probably a reason for it, Atan Engessa.’
‘No reason that I’ll accept. I’ll be back in the morning with enough warriors to protect Ehlana-Queen.’
‘There are Trolls out there in the forest, you know.’
‘They will not greatly inconvenience me, Sparhawk-Knight.’
‘Just be careful, Atan Engessa. I’m getting very tired of burying friends.’
Engessa suddenly grinned at him. ‘That’s one of the good things about fighting Trolls, Sparhawk-Knight. You don’t have to bury dead friends. The Trolls eat them.’
Sparhawk shuddered.
Zalasta was clearly the hero of the day. All of the Peloi and most of the Church Knights were obviously in awe of him. The vision of his explosive duel with the hooded figure in the blazing purple orb and the spectacular demise of the vast reptile was vividly etched on the minds of the entire party. He bore himself modestly, however, shrugging off his stunning accomplishments as if they were of no moment. He did, however, seem very pleased that Ehlana’s animosity had dissolved and that she was now whole-heartedly cordial toward him. His somewhat stiff manner softened – Ehlana had that effect on people – and he became somehow less reserved and more human.
Engessa arrived the next morning with a thousand Atan clansmen. The faces of their officers clearly showed that Engessa had spoken firmly with them about their failure to be at the clan-border at the appointed time. The wounded knights were placed on litters borne by Atan warriors, and the much enlarged party moved slowly on back to the road and continued eastward toward Lebas in Tamul proper. Hindered as they were by the wounded, they did not make good time – or so it seemed. After what had apparently been two full days of travel, Sparhawk spoke very briefly with his daughter, advising her that he needed to talk with her at some point while the minds of the others were asleep. When the blank faces of his companions indicated that Aphrael was compressing time again, he rode back to the carriage.
‘Please get right to the point, Sparhawk,’ the little Goddess told him. ‘It’s very difficult this time.’
‘Is it different somehow?’
‘Of course it is. I’m extending the pain of the wounded, and that’s very distasteful. I’m making them sleep as much as possible, but there are limits, you know.’
‘All right then, how much of what happened back there was real?’
‘How could I possibly know that?’
‘You mean you can’t tell?’
‘Well, of course I can’t, Sparhawk. When we create an illusion, nobody can tell. It wouldn’t be much of an illusion if someone could detect it, would it?’
‘You said “we”. If it was an illusion, there was a God behind it then?’
‘Yes – either directly or indirectly. If it was indirectly, though, someone has a great deal of influence with whatever God was involved. We don’t surrender that much power very often – or very willingly. Don’t beat around the bush, Sparhawk. What’s bothering you?’
‘I don’t really know, Aphrael,’ he confessed. ‘Something about it didn’t seem quite right.’
‘Specifics, Sparhawk. 1 need something specific to work with.’
‘It just seemed to me that it was overdone, that’s all. I got a distinct feeling that someone was just showing off. It was adolescent.’
She considered that, her bow-like little mouth pouting. ‘Maybe we are adolescent, Sparhawk. It’s one of the dangers of our situation. There’s nothing powerful enough to make us grow up, so we’re at liberty to indulge ourselves. I’ve even noticed that in my own character.’
‘You?’
‘Be nice, father.’ She said i
t almost absently, her small black brows knitted in concentration. ‘It’s certainly consistent,’ she added. ‘Back in Astel, that Sabre fellow showed a rather profound lack of maturity, and he was being rather tightly controlled. You may just have hit upon one of our weaknesses, Sparhawk. I’d rather you didn’t apply the notion to me directly, but keep the idea that we’re all just a bit immature sort of in the front of your mind. I won’t be able to see it myself, I’m afraid. If it is one of our failings, I’m just as infected with it as the others. We all love to impress each other, and it’s polite to be impressed when someone else is showing off.’ She made a little face. ‘It’s automatic, I’m afraid. Keep a firm hold on your scepticism, Sparhawk. Your cold-eyed lack of gullibility might be very useful. Now please go back to sleep. I’m very busy right now.’
They crossed the summit of the mountains of Atan and moved on down the eastern slopes toward the border. The demarcation between Atan and Tamul was abrupt and clearly evident. Atan was a wilderness of trees and rugged peaks, Tamul was a carefully-tended park. The fields were excruciatingly neat, and even the hills seemed to have been artfully sculpted to provide pleasing prospects and vistas. The peasantry seemed industrious, and they did not have that expression of hopeless misery so common on the faces of the peasants and serfs of the Elene Kingdoms.
‘Organisation, my dear Emban,’ Oscagne was telling the fat little churchman. ‘The key to our success lies in organisation. All power in Tamul descends from the emperor, and all decisions are made in Matherion. We even tell our peasants when to plant and when to harvest. I’ll admit that central planning has its drawbacks, but the Tamul nature seems to require it.’
‘Elenes, unfortunately, are much less disciplined,’ Emban replied. ‘The Church would be happier with a more docile congregation, but we have to make do with what God gave us to work with.’ He smiled. ‘Oh, well, it keeps life interesting.’
They reached Lebas late one afternoon. It was a small, neat city with a distinctly alien-looking architecture that leaned strongly in the direction of artistic embellishment. The houses were low and broad, with graceful roofs that curved upward at the ends of their ridge-lines as if the architects felt that abrupt straight lines were somehow incomplete. The cobbled streets were broad and straight, and they were filled with citizens dressed in brightly coloured silks.