Dhiammara

29 A Long-Awaited Meeting

Forral awoke to the alarming realization that half his companions were missing. Where were the two cats? Where were Aurian and the Windeye? He leapt to his feet.

“Hush—do not wake everyone! Your friends are all quite safe.”

“What? Who in the name of creation is that?” But Forral already had a good idea, thanks to his previous experience of mental communication with Shia.

“Are you this Basileus that the Wind-eye was talking about?”

“Indeed. You would have heard me earlier, when we were all talking, if you had tried a little harder.”

“I suppose so,” Forral admitted. “I just can’t get used to this business of mind-speech. The power seems so much a part of Anvar—it belongs to him, not me. I don’t really like to use it. It feels like going into his house while he’s out, and using his be longings.” He hesitated for an instant-

“Basileus—did you know Anvar?”

“Of course. He was very brave, though he did not believe himself to be especially courageous. He ...”

“Where is everybody?” The last thing Forral needed right now was to hear a whole list of Anvar’s virtues.

“The Windeye and Aurian are on top of this pinnacle, in Chiamh’s Chamber of Winds.” There was a stiff hint of reproof in the Moldan’s voice. “They are restoring the Staff of Earth. It would not be wise to disturb them, but they should be returning soon. The two cats are . . .” The Moldan’s low-pitched mental tones turned shrill with horror. “They are gone, they are gone! It is too late to stop them. In their folly they have gone to Steelclaw!”

“What? What does that mean?” Forral demanded.

“It means that your presence here will be—or already has been—discovered by the Blind God!”

“Miathan, eh?” the swordsman growled. “Good. He can come here as quick as he likes.”

“You fail to understand, human. It is unlikely that he will strike at the Mage here, in this mundane world where she has the assistance of her companions. At present she is in the Elsewhere, Beyond the World, the realm of the mind and the spirit, where once the Phaerie were exiled. She has just been through a tremendous ordeal to recover the Staff—it is likely that she will be wearied and disoriented. If he moves quickly, and catches her now, in this vulnerable state, she will not stand a chance. Oh, if only Anvar were here!” the Moldan cried. “Another Mage might tilt the balance...”

“Bugger Anvar,” Forral growled. “He isn’t here but I am—and in his body I surely must have access to his powers, or I wouldn’t be talking to you now.—What must I do, Basileus? Show me how I can get to Aurian and help her.”

“Lie back, relax, let your mind drift . . . Think of Aurian of going to her, to help her . . . Let yourself drift away, away from your body, toward Aurian

...”

Forral let himself be lulled by the Moldan’s words. He thrust all thoughts of panic and danger, of Aurian in trouble id needing him, out of his mind. He simply concentrated on image of the Mage’s beloved face, and let the words of Basileus lull him, and teach him .. .

It didn’t happen the way he had imagined it would. With abruptness that shocked him, Forral was somewhere else entirely—in a weird, unearthly world that rippled with a scintillating green light.

Back in the cavern, Wolf opened one eye and looked at Forral’s still body. “I expect I could do that,” he said.

“I expect you could,” replied Basileus. “Do you want to try?”

Aurian looked at the writhing knot of darkness that was the Archmage. Good, she thought. Let’s finish this at last.

Without warning, the twin forms of the Serpents of the High Magic swam between Aurian and the Archmage. No longer small enough to fit on Aurian’s staff, they loomed gigantically over the two Mages. “The Rules of Gramarye apply here, Beyond the Worlds,” the Serpent of Might said in a clear voice. “The indiscriminate loosing of magic is forbidden in this higher sphere of existence. No magical weapons or implements may be used to boost your powers—this contest must be judged by your own innate skills, and more important the strength of your will. If you fight, your battle must be structured. You must take the form of creatures from your own corporeal world, and focus your powers through what would be their natural weapons: fangs, spines, or claws. The arena in which you fight, and the corresponding physical forms you must take, will correspond to the elements of Air, Fire, Water, and Earth. A Challenge must be one to one, and no one else may interfere. Do you Challenge?”

Aurian looked at the Archmage. “Well?” she demanded. “Do you Challenge?”

Miathan’s reply was the last thing she had expected. “Aurian, I never wanted it to be like this. It’s all my fault—together we could have achieved such greatness as would have been told in legend for a thousand years, had I not ruined everything. But surely, my dear, even you must see that Eliseth is the enemy now? Already she has the Caldron and she has captured the Sword, even though she cannot use it. You are well matched, the two of you—there is no guarantee that you can defeat her. Lately, it seems, the skirmishes have all gone to her. But together, Aurian, we could wipe her threat forever from the face of the world. My dear, I have always loved you, right from the beginning.—Please, will you not reconsider? Will you not join me, even now?”

Aurian thought of Anvar, sold into drudgery and his powers stolen. She thought of the day she had given birth to her long-awaited child, and found a wolf instead. She thought about Forral, so pale and still and cold in death, and her heart turned over within her.

“Do you Challenge?” she repeated, her voice like stone and steel and the endless void between the stars.

The cloud of darkness seemed to shrink in upon itself. “Is there no forgiveness?” Miathan whispered.

The silence stretched out; a deepening chasm between the Mage and the one who had been her mentor, her protector—and her betrayer.

Aurian felt no hate for him—she was far beyond that now. She had no feelings for him save a steely resolution to be rid of him for good. Miathan was simply vermin, a rat, only using this whining remorse when he was cornered. As long as he was allowed to continue in the world, then there would be no end to the damage and mischief he would do—but like all cornered rats, he would be at his most dangerous now. She knew that if Miathan refused to Challenge, then she must—and in the battle of magic that would follow, that would give him first blow, and his choice of ground. Also there were other matters to be considered. “What about the curse on my son?” she asked him.

“If you’ll join me, I will take it off—I promise.” Miathan leapt eagerly on her words—a little too eagerly.

“But don’t you need the grail for that?” Aurian asked suspiciously.

“I—oh, yes—of course. Yes, you see? We must join forces. . If we don’t get the grail from Eliseth, then how am I to lift the curse from the poor ...”

“You can’t do it, can you? You actually cursed my child, and you don’t know how to undo what you did.” Aurian could hear her voice rising in anger.

“Why do you waste time on this? Kill her now!” Suddenly, Miathan had been joined by another black shape—but this one was vast, like a gigantic sea creature with a nest of grasping tentacles, a single pale eye, and a gaping maw in the center, bristling with ranks of pointed teeth.

“Stay out of this, Ghabal. Or else I make you wish you had stayed where you belong—walled up in a Magefolk tomb!” Aurian turned—and gasped. This must be Basileus—but she had never imagined him looking like this! He was wearing a similar shape to Ghabal’s hideous form—but the Moldan of the Wyndveil was glorious and resplendent, his bright golden eye sparkling, and his many limbs a mass of iridescent color that was patterned with spots and streaks of moving light that seemed to move about independently beneath the surface of his glistening skin.

Even as Aurian watched, the two titans converged with ponderous but savage force, their writhing tentacles grasping and groping as they grappled for a hold. Then all at once, her view of the struggle was obscured by a wall of malevolent darkness. Miathan, without crying Challenge, had taken advantage of her moment of distraction and attacked.

Responding to her anger, Aurian’s incorporeal form crackled with a sheet of searing fire. With a cry, Miathan loosed his hold and dropped away.

“Wait! Archmage! I Challenge you, you misbegotten bag of offal. Challenger The black cloud that was Miathan thinned and turned almost transparent with shock. “You! But . . .” Then suddenly he burst out laughing. “You haven’t the wit to know when you’re beaten, do you? You fool!”

With a cry of anger, Aurian spun round to see who had stolen her prey—and her anger turned to shock. “Forral’! You can’t...”

“He has.” The Serpent of Wisdom’s voice was quiet but inexorable. “The Challenge has been made and accepted.”

Instead of the amorphous forms that the others had chosen for their foray into this Elsewhere, the swordsman was wearing his old, true shape. Aurian found herself glowing gently, with love remembered and love renewed. Which was all very well, but, - -

“What in the name of all the Gods do you think you’re doing, you idiot?” she demanded. “How in perdition do you think you can defeat Miathan in a magical battle?”

“Because I have Anvar’s body, I also have his powers,” Forral explained.

“Basileus explained what to do. In my mind, I just think of it as a normal fight with swords—the sort I was always so good at—and the physical form I assume in this place will take care of itself.”

Before the Mage could say another word, the Serpent of Might intervened once more. “Ignore the Moldai—other rules apply to them. Proceed with the Challenge.”

In an instant, the light within the sphere flashed from green to a translucent blue. In that same instant, Forral vanished and a golden eagle hovered in his place. Where Miathan had been, the dark and massive form of a condor vaned the air. With a harsh cry, the huge black raptor swooped down on its prey. The eagle, smaller and more maneuverable, banked to one side and sideslipped, losing height but avoiding the clutching talons of its foe. With an angry shriek the condor tried to turn, but underestimated its weight and size, and stalled in the air, plunging downward, out of control. Then the great wings snapped open with a gargantuan effort, pulling the great bird out of its dive—but it was too late. The swift eagle cut lightly through the air and intersected the condor’s path, lashing out at the condor’s eyes with its scimitar-curved talons. Screaming horribly, the condor fell, one eye leaking a trail of gore, and ...

Abruptly, everything altered. The light seemed to thicken with acrid, smoky fumes, and the air pulsed in blasts of heat like the beating of a gigantic heart. Its color had changed to an uneasy, flickering red. In the place of the condor and the eagle, two huge firedrakes, like sinuous dragons but lacking the great wings, faced one another across a shifting surface of burning embers. One, of a burnished copper hue, had a ragged void that leaked glowing blood, where one jeweled eye should have been. The other, its scaly skin a pure gold, exhaled a gout of sizzling flame and raked at the embers with one immense clawed foot.

This time, the sinuous red lizard was considerably more cautious. Aurian, looking on, suspected that Miathan, not understanding how Forral had come by his magic, had underestimated the swordsman badly. It was a mistake he would not make a second time.

Without warning, another jet of flame shot out of the golden dragon’s maw. The red beast, unnerved by its failure to conquer its foe in the air, had hesitated an instant too long. Caught off guard, it leapt to one side—and the uncertain surface of embers shifted and gave beneath its unwary feet. The red lizard staggered, floundering, one thick foreleg deeply mired in the fiery morass. The more it floundered, the deeper the panic-stricken firedrake began to sink.

Forral crept forward with exaggerated care, distributing his weight as widely as possible on spread toes. The red dragon spat great, untidy gouts of flame in his direction, but it was too busy trying to extricate itself to concentrate on its foe. Forral’s jaws gaped wide to deliver a killing blow and

...

His shape shimmered and changed—became solid, and streamlined, sleekly muscled and beautifully marked in elegant curves of black and white. Aurian remembered the time, long ago, when Ithalasa had been telling her the history of the Cataclysm by feeding a series of images into her mind. He had told her of the race of Leviathan warriors, the Orca, who had been created to save the Seafolk from the aggressive Mages of the land and air—and clearly, this was such a creature.

The water around Forral shimmered with light and shadow, in gold and soft sea-green. The Orca champed the fierce set of teeth in a mouth that seemed curved into a permanent smile. With a swirl of his tail, he turned toward the Archmage and charged .. .

... To meet the razor jaws and the flat, dead gaze of an enormous shark.—The instincts inherent in Forral’s new shape took over. He swerved down to one side with a twist of his muscular body, and came at the shark from an oblique angle, and from below.

Even as he came up and rammed it with all his force, the shark writhed round, bending back on itself like a bow, and caught his flank with its wicked teeth as he curved away. Forral whistled shrilly with pain as a long slash was scored along his side. A thread of blood went spiraling away from the wound in a glowing stream, and Aurian guessed that in actuality it must be his life force that he was losing. Miathan, however, had not escaped unscathed. He seemed to be sinking; dropping away from her, writhing and curling himself about the telling injury that had been inflicted when Forral rammed him.

“I hope that hurt, you bastard,” Aurian muttered grimly.

Forral plunged down after him, clearly hoping to finish it quickly, but the Archmage recovered himself, and the swordsman was met by vicious snapping teeth that forced him into a hasty retreat. He pretended to dodge, feinted, and came in from the other side, his teeth scoring into the thick abrasive leather of Miathan’s hide before he twisted away again, out of reach of those lethal jaws.

Now it was Miathan’s turn to bleed—and the gore in the water, both that of himself and Forral, seemed to send him into a frenzy. He came straight at the swordsman, jaws gaping, eyes blank with mindless hate.

To Forral, it seemed that there was no escape this time. He fled, trying to put some distance between himself and the shark so that she could turn and attack it obliquely once more.

He had underestimated the speed of the creature, however. Already it was right behind him, its teeth snatching at his tail and slicing chunks of flesh from the broad, flat surface....

Wolf was beginning to understand that he and the others I were not literally beneath the sea, but that they had taken these shapes to suit the infinitely changeable otherworld in which this confrontation was being played out. Once he had worked that out, he found that he too could take on a similar form to the others. Though unskilled in magic, he had found the image of a giant eel simple enough to create. Once transformed to his satisfaction, he raced toward Forral and the Archmage—but a glowing tentacle suddenly looped around his body and hauled him back.

Wolf recognized his mother—and even in the shape of a glittering cloud, she looked very angry. “What the blazes do you think you’re doing?” Even in his thoughts, he heard the snap to her voice. “Stay there,” she ordered. “We can only watch.”

“Is that the one who cursed me?” Wolf demanded hotly. “Yes. But your father will deal with him—I hope.”

With an appalling tearing sound, Forral ripped his tail from the jaws of the shark. He turned, toothed jaws agape, to confront the creature ...

... And suddenly he was standing on a broad grassy plain With a low grey sky above him. He was back in his old, much missed body, and in his hand was the familiar, comforting shape of his old sword. Forral wanted to laugh out loud.—Here the element of earth, the weapons chosen were very much more to his taste than fang and claw and flame!

It was his only comfort, however. Blood leaked from a shallow tear in his side, and one leg was gnawed and savaged, and would barely take his weight.—His opponent, however, was on no better case. Blood was seeping through Miathan’s robe, and he held himself awkwardly, his breath whistling and short.—Forral suspected that his ramming of the shark had produced a broken rib in Miathan’s human form. The Archmage held his sword in an awkward grip, for one hand was blackened and burned—and one of the gems was missing from its socket, leaving him with a one-eyed gaze.

“So—it ends at last,” the Archmage hissed. Warily, he began to circle the swordsman, his glittering one-eyed gaze as hypnotic and unrelenting as that of a snake. The swordsman noted with surprise and grudging respect his opponent’s concentration and stance, and wondered whether Miathan had possessed this skill in his corporeal form. Forral kept turning to face him, but otherwise refused to overstrain his damaged leg. They were both wounded and exhausted from their previous struggles—let Miathan do the work!

The Archmage lunged forward, testing his opponent, his thrust clumsy due to the seared hand. Forral parried easily, trying to hide his wince as he flexed the injured leg. Miathan pressed him—again, their swords impacted with a resounding clang. Forral brought his blade around, sweeping deftly under Miathan’s guard. As the Archmage jumped back like a startled rabbit Forral found himself beginning to smile.

Miathan circled, his blade darting in and out, seeking a rare opening and trying to betray the swordsman into taking a false step. Forral kept him moving, kept harrying him, always conserving his own strength. Soon, Miathan began to tire. Forral moved in now like a striking snake, low and deadly—and far more mobile than he had pretended to be. Step by step, he began to drive the Archmage backward.

Though Miathan had begun by giving a good account of himself, he was foundering now. His breathing was labored, and his movements growing jerky with fatigue. Forral noted with keen interest that the injured rib made it difficult for his opponent to lift his arms above the level of his shoulders.—There was the rasp of ripping cloth as the tip of Forral’s sword caught the robe over Miathan’s breast. Damn—that was close!

Miathan’s face had turned pasty grey with fear, and Forral grinned wolfishly.

“I’ll wager you’re wondering where these powers of mine came from?” he said, the grin never leaving his face.

The Archmage merely grunted and swung across his opponent’s sword. Forral used Miathan’s own momentum to flick his blade contemptuously away. “Well, it’s Anvar’s magic, as a matter of fact,” the swordsman went on, parrying a hacking stroke with a roll of his wrists. “I like to think I’m doing this for the both of us.” His blade flicked out and again cloth tore with a shearing sound. A red stain spread across the gaping rent on Miathan’s left sleeve. “That was for Aurian,” Forral told him.

“And this is for Wolf.” Again, the swordsman lunged in, and slashed across the Archmage’s ribs. Miathan screamed with pain, but kept his head and thrust his sword into Forral’s good thigh. The swordsman staggered back and his injured leg collapsed beneath him. He fell heavily backward and rolled as Miathan’s sword came flashing down, missing him by a hairbreadth—but the Archmage, with a broken rib and a slash across his chest was slower to recover. Before he could straighten, Forral scrambled up onto one knee and thrust his blade through Miathan’s heart.

As the Archmage crumpled, the swordsman gripped his sword hilt tightly and used Miathan’s weight to drive the point in further. “And that was for me,” he said grimly.