The Swordbearer by Glen Cook
He was dreaming confused dreams, his brain laboring at the Augean task of integrating the souls Daubendiek had devoured, when it began. Sudden, vicious, determined, it hit him. It was a cold evil intent on making him its own. There was no warning. One moment there was nothing, the next a reverberating shock as it smashed in, driving tentacles into his soul. The sleepy semiawareness that was Gathrid of Kacalief almost succumbed.
Tureck Aarant never slept. He was like Rogala in that respect. He fought the Toal. He gave Gathrid time to assume control, to begin resisting.
They seemed lost in another universe, the youth and his enemy.
Gathrid interpreted the struggle in symbols he could understand. While aware that his body lay on a rude barracks cot, foaming at the mouth and speaking in tongues, he lived a savage unarmed combat with a faceless foe whose muscles were iron, who whispered of devouring him. Back and forth across a cold, featureless plain they battled, beneath moons and stars that might have been the faces of mocking gods. The chill evil of the Toal filtered deep into his being, to the dark recesses where his worst fears and blackest desires lay hidden, straining at their chains.
Rogala, Hildreth and a dozen Brothers and physicians stood by, unable to help, unsure, even, that this was the attack of Covingont being repeated. At first the dwarf thought Gathrid's mind had snapped under the assault of too many new personalities.
In that inside place Gathrid realized that he was losing. His opponent knew neither fear nor fatigue, and had nothing to lose. It could maintain the assault indefinitely. Panic lashed the youth.
In a moment of inspiration, Rogala placed the Sword in his hands.
Another apparition materialized on Gathrid's subjective plain. Tureck Aarant looked down on the struggle. He radiated an infinite sadness. He was his own master no more. His ancient mistress had reclaimed him.
He waded in with the chill fearlessness of the Aarant of legend. Suchara's will drove him. Hatred marred his features, curses distended his mouth. There was no escaping the mistress.
His was a hopeless mission. His ages enslaved to a Toal had left him vulnerable. As it had promised Gathrid it would do him, the Toal-monster did Tureck Aarant.
Others of Gathrid's stolen souls bombarded him with unwanted advice. They feared for him. He was their immortality.
He did accept the advice of an assassin from Torun. He got behind the Toal and tried strangling it with a forearm . . . .
Those were his perceptions. The reality was a pure battle of wills.
Aarant's will was not strong enough. As the Toal twitched in Gathrid's arms, before spinning away into the plane of Hell whence it had been summoned in ages past, it took a last killing bite.
The saga of Tureck Aarant ended at last. His personality faded. Only his memories remained. Gathrid felt hollow, incomplete, as if some critical organ had been ripped from his chest.
He had lost his best friend.
He sat and wept. For a while he shook uncontrollably. Great moaning sobs racked his body.
The body in the Maurath responded in the same fashion. Rogala gaped.
And outside the Maurath the battle continued. The attempt to connect island and fortress beneath a wooden canopy collapsed. The Ventimiglian penetration of the fortress highwatered and began to fade. But Ahlert's wizards had the great tunnel two-thirds cleared.
All through the night Ahlert's boats ferried troops to Sartain. A dark stain spread on the map of the island. Anderle's diminutive navy intercepted many of the Mindak's boats. The Imperial Brigade proved unable to take the Raftery.
Ahlert had lost his momentum.
Gathrid regained his self-control. He covered his embarrassment with a show of business. "It's been two days. Any news from Malmberget?" His companions shook their heads. Hildreth, looking ashen, did not respond at all. "What's wrong with the Count?" the youth asked.
"Had a go at their gate-clearing party," Rogala replied. "Took an arrow. Stubborn old coot hid it. Nobody noticed till he was ready to keel over from loss of blood."
"He do any good?"
"Not enough. I figure they'll break through in another hour. We'll cut them up some while they make the passage, but there's no way to stop them all."
"Thought this place was supposed to be able to hold out forever. Katich did better without our resources."
"Katich didn't have to deal with those flyers. Even so, you've got a point. The engineers should've given more thought to the fact that the defenders might have to face sorcery."
Gathrid reflected. The gantlet would be expensive for the men passing through. Each one who fell in the tunnel would make the journey more difficult for others. The Mindak might waste half his army before succeeding.
Gathrid was sure Ahlert would try. His obsession would compel him. "Theis, better think about what we'll do if Sartain falls."
A messenger rushed in. He tried to report to Count Cuneo. "The flyers are back! They're driving them inside."
"Inside the Maurath?" Gathrid asked.
"Yes, Sir. They're all over the upper level."
The youth dragged himself upright. "Help me with my armor, Theis. We should've expected this."
"There're a lot of things we should have expected," Rogala said. "Only we didn't."
"They won't have room . . . . " Hildreth protested weakly. He seemed to be coming back.
"They don't need any," Gathrid retorted. "They just have to keep us distracted till Ahlert breaks through." He addressed the Brothers present. "Block the stairwells and barricade the doorways. Keep them off the tunnel levels."
"What's Ahlert going to do with Sartain once he gets it?" Rogala asked. "He hasn't taken the Maurath. He'd have to fight his way out again."
Gathrid could not answer that. Only the Mindak knew why he wanted the Queen City so badly.
He considered allowing a reversal of roles. For an instant only. There were a million people on the island. He and these soldiers were here to protect those people, not to defeat Ahlert. The Mindak would show them little mercy.
Rogala would say, So what. Let Ahlert through. The people of Sartain would fight. They would hurt their conquerors. Malmberget could clean up what remained.
The dwarf's focus was a little narrow sometimes.
"Theis, I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't know why he wants Sartain himself. I don't think he's thought about it. It's a move in Chuchain's game. It's an end in itself."
"Dumb."
"Not so tight with that lace. I want both arms loose. And you don't have room to criticize, Servant of Suchara."
Rogala yanked the lace tight. "Sartain is symbolic to the Power Ahlert serves," he admitted. "Chuchain will score a few points if his champion captures the city."
Gacioch whooped crazily. Rogala glared at the demon. "That was a howler, eh?"
Gathrid listened carefully. That was one of the demon's augury laughs. They always presaged some special unpleasantness. As usual, Gacioch refused to elucidate.
"Theis, that critter is starting to irritate me." His latest bout with his Toal-haunt had left everything to do with higher and lower planes, demonology and Power irking him tremendously. He had lost his only friend . . . . Why, of all times, had it chosen to strike now? In what way had Nieroda profited? "I think I'll stuff him in a sack with fifty pounds of rock and drop him into the Sound."
Gacioch hooted merrily. "Not today, son. Not today. You're going to be busier than a one-legged sword dancer."
Gathrid gathered his weapons.
"What're you doing?" Rogala demanded. He did not like the Nieroda-blade.
"What I should have done a long time ago. I'm going after Ahlert. Make sure the tunnel control areas are sealed. Especially at the Causeway end. And bring enough Brothers to neutralize anything his wizards throw around. Find me a couple of carpenters . . . . "
Chapter Seventeen
The Raftery
The Maurath's engineers allowed the last stones to slide back into their shafts. The passage through was op
Inside the barrier, Gathrid stood with his palms on the pommels of his swords, waiting. A mob of Ventimiglians swept toward him. He glared into their startled faces.
The twin blades whined and slew. Daubendiek protested having to share. Gathrid smiled grimly. The blade could not refuse to perform. If it would not respond to his will, it must to that of Suchara.
She was there with him. He felt her displeasure. She was being compelled to serve the will of a servant. But Aarant, lamented Aarant, had shown him the ways. She had to support him or abandon all hope of success in her own enterprise.
Gathrid heaped bodies before him. The Ventimiglians lost their momentum. They fell back, tried sorcery.
Sea-green light blazed. It blinded them. They charged again. Again they failed to best the Swords.
It may have taken minutes or hours. Time had little meaning when Gathrid had Daubendiek in hand. Finally, he sensed the Mindak approaching.
The man was reluctant. There was a feel of panic about him. He did not want this meeting. But both Chuchain and his own obsessions drove him to it.
Mead's ethereal beauty ghosted through Gathrid's thoughts. He wished there were another way.
The flyers stopped assaulting the Maurath. The constant clangor of combat faded as an uneasy truce developed. Gathrid smote the timbers blocking the tunnel and stepped outside, onto the head of the Causeway. He would have more room there.
He waited.
A silhouette appeared in the tunnel's mouth. It bore nothing save a tall staff.
Ahlert seemed to walk a mile, so slowly did he approach. He stopped ten feet away.
He wore no armor. He had shed all weapons save a ceremonial dagger. He had robed himself as High Thaumaturge of Senturia, one of his many titles. His face was sad. His eyes were remote.
"I'd hoped we could avoid this, Gathrid. I felt like an older brother toward you. But the Great Old Ones are indifferent to friendships."
"How well I know." Get out of my heart, Tureck, he snapped at himself. Though Kacalief remained in the back of his mind, he added, "I'd hoped to avoid it too. I keep thinking of Mead. Can't you go home? Can't we end this any other way?"
"Ask your Sword, Gathrid. Ask your Mistress. If I dared defy Chuchain, if I dared turn away, what would happen?"
Gathrid pictured it. Daubendiek would leap into Ahlert's back. He would not be able to stop the blade. "There must be a way."
"Not for us. For us it's too late. Only if They were conquered . . . . There's no end to the Game, Gathrid. I learned that much in Ansorge. And we have to play. However it comes out, I'm sorry."
"So am I. For you, for me, for everyone who's died and for all of us yet to die. What are you after, anyway? Why are you here? What do you have to gain by overcoming me?"
Daubendiek whined impatiently.
Ahlert shrugged. "I don't know. Do you know why you're here? What's Sartain to you, that its fate should matter enough to risk death?"
"As you say. We have to play. Even when we think we're free, we're being manipulated. You've come unarmed. Do you really expect to win past me? Or are you going to defy Chuchain by committing suicide?"
"Not likely." Ahlert smiled. But his eyes hardened.
Gathrid never really saw the move, so swift did the Mindak swing his staff. Daubendiek lightninged up, absorbed most of the blow's force. But the staff's tip caressed his temple.
His ears rang. His knees wobbled. His head began to ache.
"The Staff of Chuchain," Ahlert explained. "You didn't see it in the Brothers' War . . . . Aarant? Are you still there? The Great Old One showed me where the people of Ansorge had hidden it."
He struck again. The Staff slid over and along Daubendiek to prod Gathrid's stomach. Agony exploded at the touch, like all the cramps in the world. The Sword's counterstroke rang like thunder as Ahlert turned it. "You don't have Aarant to help you anymore, do you? And I have at last come into the fullness of my Power as the Chosen of Chuchain."
Daubendiek wove a deadly pattern. Ahlert retreated a few steps into the tunnel. Its confines seemed to expand around Gathrid as he experienced the feeling of growth. All things mundane became beneath notice. Rogala, who chattered advice from an observation port, was no more worthy of attention than a chattering monkey. Count Cuneo, leaning out a sally port, was of even less account.
Daubendiek turned Ahlert's third blow. Gathrid had a feeling of a universe sagging past on rusty wings as the Staff's tip rocketed away from his face.
The Sword had encountered this weapon before, in ages past. It remembered. As it did, so did Gathrid.
Daubendiek had been defeated in their last encounter.
That battle had lasted two entire days. Then, as now, the fates of Empires had swung on its outcome.
Daubendiek had learned from that defeat. It applied its lessons now. But the Staff had learned, too. The two rang upon one another like demon hammers in the forges of Hell.
In Gathrid's weaker moments Suchara shielded him with her umbra. Chuchain did the same for his servant. Ahlert fought in light that danced between shades of gold and scarlet. The face of his master appeared behind him, filling the tunnel, glaring past Gathrid.
The youth knew another such face blocked the passage behind him. He wished he could see Suchara's material image. It would tell a lot about what she thought of herself.
He began to recover. He was able, occasionally, to unleash an offensive flurry.
Wits recovered, he could see that his situation was not as desperate as he had feared. The Staff was a mighty talisman, but was limited by the limitations of its wielder. Ahlert remained handicapped by the injury he had sustained before the gates of Ansorge. Evidently Chuchain could not overcome the bite of a Toal as easily as Suchara could the old gnawing of polio.
Daubendiek spotted the weakness. It began probing to Ahlert's left, driving deeper and deeper into his guard. Soon the Sword was slicing air scant inches from the Mindak's withered arm.
Seeing the tide shifting, Ahlert abandoned attack. Hope faded from his eyes.
Applying his will and Aarant's teachings, Gathrid forced Daubendiek down.
Suchara projected rage. Gathrid ignored her. "Will you go now?" he asked.
The Mindak leaned on the Staff, panting. He said nothing for a long time. Then, "I can't."
"Don't be stubborn. I don't want to do this."
"I'm not. I really can't. I don't have the will to break his spell." He readied the Staff.
"Damn!" Gathrid raised the Sword.
The pressure from Daubendiek and Suchara became intolerable. He gave them their head. Ahlert ducked and weaved, keeping his left covered while trying to trap Gathrid with his only hope, the Ordrope Diadem. The youth evaded with an almost instinctual ease. His one previous exposure had burned a lesson deep into his brain.
There was no doubt. This time Ahlert would perish. Even Chuchain, who drove his servant to mad extremes in a vain effort to nurse victory from the teat of fate, realized that. The Mindak could not overcome Daubendiek using one hand.
But Gathrid could control the manner of the man's demise. He could allow Ahlert to perish with dignity intact.
He let the Sword think it had control. He encouraged its attack to Ahlert's left. He pushed till he and the Mindak had danced through a half-circle.
He finished it with the long quiescent blade in his left hand. The surprise was complete. It took in not only Ahlert but Daubendiek and Suchara.
The Mindak staggered to the tunnel wall, good hand pressed to his wound. Blood darkened his fingers. Scarlet trickled along the Staff.
The younger sword groaned in triumph.
Daubendiek lashed like the tail of an angry tiger.
Ahlert sank till he rested on his knees, back against the wall. He beckoned Gathrid. The youth stepped closer, placed a foot on the Staff.
"Tell Mead," Ahlert gasped. "Tell her I'm sorry. I co
"I will," Gathrid lied.
"And trust no one. The Dark Woman. Is among you. I feel her. Very near." He grimaced, ground his fist against his stomach. Only the Power of the Staff kept him going. "It hurts. More than I thought it would. The Sword would have been. More merciful. More to your benefit. Finish it now."
Gathrid refused. He still nurtured some pale, pathetic hope that the Great Old Ones would relent.
Daubendiek lanced out. Gathrid tasted its spite.
The mind that had been the Mindak Ahlert was as strong as Tureck Aarant's had been. It was as disorienting as it had been in that brief glimpse through the Ordrope Diadem. Gathrid staggered under its impact.