The Alabaster Goddess
The large, low stone rectangle straddled the hill, dirty gray in the fading sunlight. This was now the clear destination of the lone rider who followed the flat and featureless track up from the coast road. The track had been repaved several times over the centuries since he'd last made the journey, but the most recent of the resurfacings was well past the memories of even the oldest of any of the locals. They had marveled and murmured at the silent rider and his giant mount, easily the largest horse to have come through Port Belliston in their lifetimes. The rider had not slowed through their tiny street, had not paused to water his mount at the tavern or to get himself a drink. Who would be visiting the old temple these days? Their goddess, Allestraill Bellistar, long exulted patron of all Demarland, had slipped back into the forgotten mythology of all but the small province here.
The rider dismounted at the track's end, not a tall man, but upright with an air of authority worn like a second skin. He neither hitched the huge, black gelding at the primitive rail, nor hobbled him, but drew an old, linen surcoat from a saddle bag. Holes and tears had been sewn and patched over the years, and there were scorch marks across the rear yet to be mended. In front, with the untarnished gleam of elven silver, leapt a sea horse over a long faded field of pale blue. The rider, with just a bit of a flourish, slipped the surcoat over his light mail hauberk and entered the temple.
The ancient temple had no formal door, but a series of baffles that led the rider from the dim out doors to the equally dim, lamp-lit interior. Only a skilled stone mason would have recognized that the walls were all alabaster, palest and purest of the marbles. Now the gray of centuries of lamp soot and grime ruled their coloring. The main hall had no windows, and shadows dominated the lack of extant decoration.
"Welcome, good sir, to the temple of her Holiness, the Lady Allestraill. We don't get many visitors, but whether your pilgrimage brings you here for quiet meditation or to join us in vespers later, we are glad to afford you all hospitality. All contributions are immediately used exclusively in the upkeep of her ladyship's residence or the furtherance of her worship and adoration. Your generosity is well known to her ladyship and she thanks you in anticipation." The temple's high priest was a small man, with high pitched voice and urgent, shuffling feet.
The rider grinned cheerfully and swept through the hallway as though through his own home. The priest trailed. "Please, good sir, not that way, we'll be holding vespers tonight in the kitchen, where it's warmer..."
"I know my way, thank you."
"But that's her inner sanctum, my lord, that's where she lives!"
"Yes?"
"We need to keep the curtain down, you see."
"Nope. Her ladyship has asked to see me, you see?" The rider's voice was soft and smiling, the Ashkell he spoke had the most general and unspecific of accents.
The priest's little feet broke into a run so he could stand, arms and legs stretched to hinder access, in front of the massive, faded tapestry that covered the center of the hall's far wall. His voice became a squeal as he called for help: "Raku, Raku, he's defiling her sanctuary! Help me!"
Two guards ran in from a distant doorway, presumably the kitchens, and joined the priest in defense of the curtain. The rider smiled a little more broadly.
"Which of you is Raku, then?" It was Raku's look of determined defiance that gave him away. "So pleased to meet you, Raku!" The rider beamed with delight, stepping in front of the other guard, to his right. A quick bend of both knees brought his elbow level with the spot just below the guard's ceremonial breastplate, a sudden, sharp jab with that elbow took his breath away. The rider caught him as his knees buckled. "Oh, look, your friend's not doing too well. Why not take him back to the nice warm kitchen?"
Raku's spear waved, with little effective menace, threatening as it did friend and foe alike: "Back away! Away! You're not welcome here!" The rider heaved the other guard over to the sputtering priest and, in the same movement, clamped a hand onto the spear. Raku instinctively hauled on the spear, but his legs were not braced as the rider's were, and he stumbled forward into the rider's embrace.
“Well, look here – I know this spear! How about that?”
“What?”
“You see the grain here? I helped to split this stave when I last visited. Someone's been taking good care of it. How about that?” Raku was taller by several inches than the rider, but his attempts to shake loose of the steel tight embrace were fruitless.
“Was my Granddad's spear,” he muttered defiantly.
“I'm sure it was, but he never attached this shaft, his grandfather would not have been born when I was last here. Now this one...” The rider deftly hooked a toe under the other spear, forgotten where it had been dropped to the ground, and flicked it into the air. Raku was sent spinning back towards the tapestry, suddenly in charge of his own spear once more. “This one has been very recently repaired. And not very well, I'm afraid. They've use wood from a lumber mill. Do you see?”
“They cut it straight and true for me, didn't charge nothing 'cause it was for the temple, too.”
“They did, too, but, Raku my dear, the wood wasn't growing straight.” He held up the spear to Raku's face and traced the slanting wood-grain for him to see. “The strength of the wood goes sideways, no good at all. You'll want to redo this if you plan on using this one for more than just harassing guests of her ladyship.”
“What do you know, anyway?” Again more defiance. And with still less effect.
“They call me 'The Swordsman', I am the Baron Darus Skara Tarkvetus, and I am Lord of the Krimdar.” With that pronouncement he swept past guards and priest, then ducked under the giant curtain and on into the dark. The priest and his guards stayed back, frozen in awe and horror.
“My lady Allestraill, I have come at your request.”
“It's only ever a request with you, isn't it?” Through the darkness the statue of the goddess, purest alabaster, began to glow.
“I am lord of the Krimdar.”
“Yes, we all remember. Which is why I have -” a pause, and then, “requested you come. But first...”
A massive stone door, almost never used, and immovable by mortals, slid from a recess across the doorway, cutting off the hushed debate from beyond the curtain.
The Swordsman waited silently, marveling again at the skill of the craftsmen who had created the statue. Twenty feet tall, towering up to the roof, her alabaster robes seemed to billow as if in a breeze. Now the goddess' skin glowed, lighting the sanctuary chamber. The walls here were of the same translucent white marble, inlaid with gemstones and semi-precious stones depicting scenes of pastoral tranquility. No soot or grime had settled here. Soon the sanctuary was every bit as bright as day, dazzling and vibrant as the warm light danced joyously over the faces and facets of the stones.
“There is a growing menace, Baron, which has me concerned...”
“Menaces always grow, Milady, and three hundred years worth of war in and around this land has failed to concern you to this point -”
“When Demarland's fickle rulers turned their backs on me, I stepped away from my careful vigilance, but I have never left. I have no knowledge of where my brethren stand on this matter, but I see too
clearly where it will lead. I cannot and will not stand by!”
“And so you would have me interfere again, as I did for you four centuries ago? How do the two instances compare?” The Baron's candor was well earned. He was Lord of the Krimdar, wielder of a sword forged by the gods themselves as a hedge against the dominance of any one of them against the others, or against the mortal races. The sword was named 'Krimdar' which means 'god-killer', holding every immortal mortal, and every deity, great or no longer significant, affords whoever wields it all deference. The Baron Tarkvetus was the third such.
“They do not compare. Last time I asked your involvement was a triviality, merely a convenience for me and a dalliance for you. This will grow. And then it will grow still more. It is an evil I cannot sway and the forces uniting may draw still more to themselves. The lake city of Bressetra has fallen to those who plan these things, and soon no army of men will be able to intervene. There is no mage of any skill still unaffected in all Demarland, and those of power without her borders will not step foolishly into this affair.”
“But you would have me be your fool?”
“You are no fool, my lord Baron, and the sword will keep you from the simpler charms of this conspiracy.”
“What can you tell me of the less simple charms, what do you fear most?”
“Two mages of power and the high priest of the demon Mdramra work together to prepare something truly hideous.”
“Mage power is not god power, Milady, and no self-respecting goddess would fear a demon.”
“What I fear is that there is no trace of dissension, there is no plotting to seize all power, the petty squabbling that is the natural state for such cannot be found!”
“So what you fear is the unknown, the unfathomable, for that you cannot sway?”
“And I am fearful of whoever might be leading in the shadows, to hold the three so ridgedly. I cannot see them, nor can I even sense them in any of their minions.”
“Do you have any details? Do they anticipate my intervention? Is there any support left within Bressetra?”
“I have a shrine inside the city itself, and the priestess there is far more capable than poor Pepree here. Her ears have been every bit as essential as my own. Her descriptions of the slow takeover of the people's minds suggest that the mage Rhesgart was a student of Fleinard of the Swalt and the Deenart.”
“Outwardly normal and free, but never considering more than one common thought?” The Baron paused. A populace ensnared meant an army of innocents. The worst kind of army to battle. The Krimdar could slice through them easily enough, several at at time. But that would never be his first choice. Or even third. “I've had dealings with Mdramra before, but what can you tell me of his priest?”
The debriefing lasted no more than a half an hour, but Pepree and his guards were frantic by the time the door slid open. “My lord, we were so concerned, we didn't know that you... what can we do...?”
But the Swordsman was gone.
The huge gelding was an Alesadian war horse, bred for size, ferocity, speed and endurance. Though the journey would normally be considered a two day event, his tireless canter brought them swiftly to the outskirts of Bressetra as the city gates were being opened that very morning. The lake city spread out across the water, massive, ancient trees driven deep into the silt to support the buildings and piers. An immense, tar covered wall surrounded the main city pier, rising castle height at the far side to protect the palace. The reigning capital of once prosperous Demarland, Bressetra had been built to protect her citizens and exult her rulers. Varnish and colored lacquer had been her original covering, but time and the neglect of her current rulers had not been kind.
Now, garrison, visitor and citizen necks were twisted upwards to see the rider, and speculation ran wild as to who he was, and the nature of his mission here. Bolts were dropped into the cocked crossbows of the gate tower guards as they tracked the Swordsman's progress through the early morning market crowd. Following the goddess' directions, the Swordsman trotted quickly to his goal. The shrine of Allestraill Bellistar, little more than a whitewashed wooden shed with bright green door, stood alone beside the lake wall. Already, a detachment of soldiers were working their efficient way towards it, alerted to the stranger's path through the stalls of fish and cheese and cloth and pots. Besides, Syldra, priestess of the Lady Allestraill, had made herself a target of the new rulers of Bressetra simply by not merging her mind with the other residents. Those same now began to move towards the small shrine, a growing crowd which blocked more and more of the broad market place. Visitors to Bressetra edged their way back towards the gates, foreign merchants first loading their carts, though many preferring haste over care. Syldra, in simple robes the color of Spring leaves, met the Swordsman outside the door of the shrine.
“You must be the Swordsman? Her ladyship said...”
“I'd stop by?”
“I'm afraid I can't offer much protection, Milord...”
“But that's why she sent me! Climb up!” The Swordsman swung himself down from his mount and boosted the startled priestess up onto the horse. Syldra struggled to seat herself, and higher now than a man's head, clinging fiercely to the over-sized war saddle. The Swordsman reached up to the gelding's head, and holding the muzzle in both hands, began to issue commands in Alesadian, the language of his distant breeders. With a violent snort the warhorse sprang, charging the crowd and scattering them as he raced for the gate. Syldra wailed in alarm, but held her grip as her huge mount plunged through and leapt clear of any and all impediments on his flight.
There was barely time for the Swordsman to enter the shrine and bar the door before the garrison detachment arrived. Dim light inside flickered from a charcoal brazier at the far side, showing little by way of furnishings, but including a crude likeness of the Port Belliston statue in whitewash above the brazier. The sound of an axe on the door reached the Swordsman as he inventoried the shrine. “Ah, a war ax! That'll give me more time – it's made for heads and legs, not wood!” A small jar and unlit lamp yielded fish oil, which he splashed liberally at the base of the door, then the walls leading from it. A blanket shielded his hands from the heat as he carried the brazier to the door. Coals were tipped carefully over the oil, lighting it quickly. Splinters from the door tipped into the flames. The Swordsman drew his sword, nearly three feet long, thin and flexible. Grasping the tip in his left hand he bowed the sword slightly. He began to shave, as though with a draw-knife, a patch of the wooden floor in the center of the shrine. Six inches of pier platform were rapidly turned into highly flammable shavings, and a spot about two foot by two foot opened to the water far below. Air flowed in, mixing with the flames to build an ever more devastating conflagration. The soldiers, knowing full well the dangers of fire to a city built on wood, rushed to get their fire pumps running, dragging lake water quickly to the scene of the fire. Nevertheless, the shrine tipped in on itself, sparks flying.
The Swordsman had long left the shed, slipping below to the ancient pilings and into the water. By the time the soldiers had quelled the fire and found the hole, he was at the far side of the city. The palace wall dropped all the way to the lake bottom, but the Swordsman let himself down below the waterline, slicing a hole in the timbers to slip into the quiet underbelly of the city. There he dozed till nightfall.
With a sliver of a moon, the Swordsman began the slow climb up the seaward wall of the Bressetran palace. He had left his mail and riding boots under the palace, tucked into a crook in the pier structure. Now he wore only his black breeches and a dark undershirt, with his sword belt cinching it like a tunic. He was barefoot. His sword kept him hidden from all magic, whether mage or demonic, and he would trust to his skills against whatever eyes or ears were set on guard. For almost a century he had trained with the monks of the Yrllan Temple in the Finger Mountains of the distant and ancient Kteng Empire. Sheer cliffs surrounded their home above the clouds. Although narrow stairs had been cut into the rock, initiates were required to find their own routes up and down the cliff face. Now as fingers and toes sought out the tiny cracks in the wood, the swordsman's whole body seemed to stick, gecko-like, to the wall. The first 40 feet or so, roughened and worn by a hundred years of waves and sun, were the simplest, but as he neared the highest parts, the tar and pitch still held, hard and smooth. Now he drew his sword. The hilt was an open basket of twisted wire, the pommel, knotted wire. The blade, fully three feet in length, was less than an inch across. Without variation, the sword was the dull black of fresh soot. With the thumb and fingers of his left hand squeezing on the tar that swelled over one of the close fitting joints in the heavy timbers, the Swordsman tugged carefully on the sword. He sought out the hardest, least weathered of the timbers and eased in the sword. It slid like a knife into over-ripe fruit, 6 inches deep, angled upward slightly. At first gingerly, he shifted his grip to the blade. Once his right hand was secured around the blade he let himself swing free, moving quickly till he hung by his fingers from the hilt. The blade bent down under his weight, lesser steel would have buckled or snapped. The Swordsman began to bounce, exploiting fully the divine spring of the blade. Once, twice and three times the spring brought his body level with the point of the blade. The forth time the Swordsman hurled his weight down, forcing cracks in the timber. This time, as he was sprung upward, his body curled and then straightened above the sword, then curled again as he somersaulted himself the remaining distance to the roof.
There had been no way to be sure if there'd be any watchers on the roof, and even now the Swordsman was not entirely certain. He'd landed in a crouch, sheathing the sword as he listened. Ears straining, he sifted the sounds with centuries of practice. The consternation and clamor from the burning chapel had faded even before noon. Seabirds kept their distance still. Without the incessant mieuwing of gulls, and the lapping of the waves so far below, the incursion would be far more difficult.
He had exhaled before the spring to the roof, and still held his breath. Sounds of activity drifted up from the courtyard way below, but they were ignored for now. Something had seen him, he was sure. Three shadows broke the roof line. Gargoyles! Carved stone sentinels, either living or inanimate. But this palace was built of wood...
The Swordsman set his breathing to the distant waves, but otherwise, like the gargoyles, did not move. The sentinels had not given any indication that they had seen him, or indeed, that they were, in fact, animate. The center one, closest to him, still stared out across the lake. Slowly, muscles timed to ripples in the breeze, the Swordsman inched his way behind center gargoyle. Again, the sword was inched out. Once confident of the distance, the sword flicked once. The grotesque head was in an instant separated from the crouching body, then skewered on the sword. As he gently eased the gargoyle head onto the roof tiles, the Swordsman realized that these were not sentinels against any incursion, but set to hold, by various magics, the truth of the processes below. With the breaking of the gargoyle's powers, the smell of rotting flesh, of burning flesh, of sulfur, tore at the Swordsman's nostrils. Demons! He knew the stench well.
Too well. Memories washed back over him with the biting, acrid air. It was in the final days of the 300 year battle that the demons had come. Not simply the Slarr, horrific, vile and deadly in themselves, but a full legion of demons. The Slarr armies of Vadrrafor were all but spent, the dark wizard's powers worn thin in his unrelenting assaults on the forces of the Five Kingdoms, and most particularly their general, the perpetually youthful Baron Darus Skara Tarkvetus. All the war leaders of the Five Kingdoms had felt it, the Slarr forces were fading, attacking with fewer numbers every day. There was no complacency, no rising hope with that change, the Baron did not allow it. He'd been there since the beginning, when his father had handed the sword over to him. With that special responsibility had come an all-out attack, focused on eliminating the young baron before growing experience made him unassailable. He had just turned 21 years old, fully a man now by the customs of his homeland, Radela. A man at last, though a veteran of seven years already in the on-going wars against Vadrrafor and his Slarr. His father had led the Five Kingdoms alliance for forty years now, his authority as Lord of the Krimdar unchallenged. That the sword would find the greatest of swordsmen to wield it, everyone knew. And the armies all saw that their commander's son would be greater by far. Also, the young baron's father had a wife at home, aging as all other men and women do, and fretting for both her husband and son. The title of baron would be his son's by birthright when he died, but Lord of the Krimdar was a title from the sword itself. And the sword must be bequeathed, or won. Nearly a thousand years later, the Baron retained the vigor and strength of his youth, but every day brought new skills, and a constant building on abilities already honed well beyond the limits of other men. He also retained memories. Twelve thousand had died that day. He had known so many of their names then. He remembered them still. Five thousand men from the First Legion of Radela were shredded by demon claws as they stood their ground with shield and spear. The Fourth Legion, who had held the right flank, lost two thousand more. The Elves of the River Wood lost three thousand on the left flank. More elves died that one day than in a thousand years of warfare before. Fifteen hundred Alesadian lancers and their mounts died in their relieving attacks. Nearly five hundred Angellans fell, too. That tiny island had barely six hundred men in the fray. For too many hours the Baron had hacked at the demon horde. Though not immortal in the way of the gods, the Krimdar could not slice through them as through mortal creatures. And so the Baron fought on, while his armies stood and fell. But the onslaught of the horde had been broken, and when the demons retreated, there was no counter from the Slarr.
Mdramra was the demon general then, and, it seemed, his army was returning.
The Swordsman crept, on fingers and toes, down the roof sloping into the East courtyard. At the edge he paused again, finger tips locked against the nails that fastened the tiles. There was the sound of incantations eons old that joined the demon stench, and smells from a charcoal fire burning incense foreign even to the Swordsman. An old man, robes a shimmering purple, worked at the brazier. The inner walls lent themselves to an easier descent for the Yrllan Grand-master than the outside climb had been. The East courtyard was deserted except for the chanting man. The Swordsman paused in the blackness, searching for more clues. The purple-robed man was not merely at a brazier, but a forge, though again, not of a design familiar to the Swordsman. Over sized armor in distorted shapes became clearer, stacked in piles to the left and right of the forge. A stone vat for quenching and tempering also became distinct.
And then mage-lights were ignited all around the square!
“Welcome, Baron Tarkvetus, please come forward to see what's been keeping us so busy!”
Obligingly, the Swordsman stepped out into the greenish glow. “Take a look at this piece, for instance, I think you'll find it interesting...” The Swordsman took the over sized, overweight and distorted breastplate from the purple-robed man. “I've been told you have a very interesting sword, but I do believe it's never met armor quite like this. You see, I've been animating it. Not so that it walks by itself, or anything silly like that, but I do believe it now has just the right kind of immortality... Oh, forgive my rudeness, I am the great necromancer, Lard!” The bow that followed was unintentionally ostentatious.
“Like fat?”
“It's a Deewan name! Just try your sword on it!”
The Swordsman obligingly drew the Krimdar and, holding the tip like a stylus, scribed a line down the center of the breastplate. Bright steel gleamed in the purple mage-light. He scraped the blade again, with more pressure this time, but it was no more than that, just a scrape. “Would you look at that, you've made something quite special, Oh Grand Wizard Cooking Fat!. But your armor isn't very good. This will never fit you!”
“The armor's not for us, of course, but for our army!” Another man, black-robed, stepped from the shadows to the right of the forge.
The Swordsman had judged the purpose of the armor at once, of course, and he steeled himself for the fight he might have ahead, drawing on a thousand years of battle experience to plan his approach. Nothing but boyish good cheer showed on his face, though. “And you must be Elgar, Great High Priest of Mdramra!”
The demon general himself then stepped forward into the dim light. Even hunched over he stood eight feet tall, with leathery wings folded behind him and long, taloned arms dragging on the ground in front. If he could have smiled through his protruding teeth, he might have, but there was no welcome in his growl. “Baron Tarkvetus, the last time we met, you cost me a thousand warriors. Know that that won't happen this time!”
“You cost us twelve thousand, but I didn't think we were quite that effective then?”
“Your own count was three hundred, your warriors took another two. Five hundred more deserted. I slew those myself”
The Swordsman didn't answer. There was movement behind him, he knew from the compression of the rank air to both his left and right. The Krimdar was in his right hand and the enchanted breastplate still in his left. The breastplate was released to clatter on the cobbles while the sword whipped around and was grabbed by his left hand. He stabbed it straight backwards, like a dagger, and the instant before it made contact with the approaching demon it became every bit as heavy as the entire Bressetran palace. Lightning speed and unstoppable weight was concentrated at the needle point of the Krimdar, and it pierced, with only token hindrance, both cuirass and demon heart. The sudden weight was immediately lifted, and the sword swung once more to the right. Back in the Swordsman's right hand it flew at the neck of the second demon. Again it took on the weight of the palace the instant before contact, and again the animated armor could not stand against the enormous mass concentrated along an edge divinely sharp. Black blood spurted from winged shoulders as the demon's head flew. A third armored fiend clutched suddenly at the stump of his elbow when his general bellowed: “Hold!” Four more attackers paused in their ill-fated assault.
The necromancer and priest stood still, too, stunned by the suddenness of the Swordsman's defense.
They had also not yet seen Mdramra raise himself to his full height. “We're leaving, now. You have failed to anticipate this increase in his skill!” The demon lord turned to Elgar, self styled as his high priest. “I don't believe the required payment will be met, so I'm prepared to rework the contract. I accept you as payment, instead of the ten thousand innocents agreed on.” Mdramra grasped the priest by the shoulders and lifted him three feet off the ground. “Even Baron Tarkvetus has shown me more courtesy than you did!” A gray and red misted hole opened in the shadowy air behind him, and the five remaining demons began to move through.
“You cannot touch me, you cannot harm me! I control you! I command you!”
“Really, why ever would you think that?”
“I know your true name, the tomes, the scrolls...” Elgar's voice became more and more a panicked screech as the demon lord lifted the priest so he was staring directly into his terrified eyes.
“And who did you think wrote those tomes and scrolls...?'' And with that Mdramra disappeared with his prize through the portal, which folded to nothing behind him.
“And now, Cooking Fat, there's only you and me left. I could leave you for the good citizens of Bressetra to tear apart, let you go free, or address things myself. The latter is far simpler, I think.” As the Swordsman stepped forward, the necromancer grabbed for a heavily sigiled staff. Large crystals embedded at the top of the staff began to glow and spark with power. The Krimdar did little more than swish, and staff and mage collapsed together, each now sliced in two. The crystal ceased to glow and spark, and the shimmering robes covered the pooling blood and gore.
“You move quickly, Swordsman, but you'll never cross the courtyard in time. Drop that sword, now, or I'll slit her throat!” At the far side stood Rhesgart, robed in red and gold. He held the priestess, Syldra, by her hair, viciously twisting her head back to expose her neck. A wickedly sharp dagger pressed against the pale skin.
“I'm so sorry, Baron, I just had to turn the horse around and come back to see if you were okay...” She was sobbing openly now, no longer forced into silence. Her whole body shook as she struggled to keep her balance, tears and perspiration streaking her face in the eerie mage-light.
“I don't think you're sorry at all!” was the rejoinder from the Swordsman. “Rhesgart, that's no more a priestess than I am. Either she is one of your lackeys, or you're in far more trouble than you
realize!”
“Silence! My great power is the manipulation of minds – I am never deceived myself. Drop the sword and lay face down five paces forward. Now!”
The Swordsman let his blade fall from his hand and moved the required paces forward. “Baron is not a title used much for me on this continent – that should have been the giveaway. And my horse had instructions to return to the temple. He would not return without direct orders from me. Though, of course, Alesadian war horses are not really well known anywhere here.” He stretched himself out on the ground like a small child, resting his chin on his hands as he looked up at the mage, the grin on his young face clearly the broadest he could manage. “And now you need to let the young lady go free.”
“Silence!” The mage was shouting now, his weapon pressing deeper into the exposed neck of his hostage. “She is mine!” The priestess whimpered, stiffening her poor body as she felt the edge of the dagger slicing the skin.
The Swordsman's reply was unnervingly condescending. “You really need to be careful. You've drawn blood now, and I have been warning you.”
“You don't have your sword now!” yelled the mage, defiantly twisting his hostage forward and slashing her throat. The dagger cut quickly into the neck, which almost instantly swelled to engulf it. First the exposed throat, then all of the woman, began to glow white, quickly overwhelming the dull green mage-light. The swelling neck spread to absorb not only the dagger but also the hand that grasped it. The defiant mage realized too late the terrible danger he had been warned against, and struggled to pull away. The long, golden hair he'd been gripping now swallowed his other arm, and billowing robes, now a brilliant alabaster white, flowed around him, embedding his struggling body in a growing, amorphous cocoon. The suddenness of the transformation meant that Rhesgart never even had a chance to voice the terror of his final moments before he dissolved completely into the swirling, suffocating embrace of the goddess Allestraill Bellistar.
The Swordsman waited till the billowing cocoon was replaced by the goddess's more common form, the tall, beautiful woman her statue portrayed, before he spoke. “Done?” he asked. His grin was as broad as ever.
“I have the answers we wanted, yes. And thank you for warning him so completely. You did see the blood he drew, didn't you?”
The Swordsman sprang lightly to his feet and sauntered back to retrieve his sword, readily visible in the brilliant glow of the goddess. “If Mdramra had had that armor several hundred years ago, I wouldn't be here now. When he tore my army apart then we were battle hardened and magnificently disciplined. I doubt any army of this continent would even stand two minutes against the demons, and if Rhesgart had any of the powers of Fleinard, as you suggest, they would have ruled half the world completely in just a few years.”
“Absorbing people like that is so useful in learning what they've been planning – it was only those three men after all. Elgar controlling the demons, Lard providing them protection against your sword, and Rhesgart providing the bodies for the blood the whole project needed. Speaking of which, this place stinks! I'll need to have Syldra come back here to have the place torched.”
“A good idea, let me get my boots and hauberk and we can let her know of her new responsibilities.”
A few quick slices through the heavily timbered floor and the Swordsman disappeared into the waters below. Allestraill joined him, simply gliding through the flooring after him. “Do you think it's time Port Belliston regained its former glory?”
“By moving the people of Bressetra there once this is burned down? I'm a swordsman, a general, not a politician. But Syldra strikes me as having the composure to be the one to help these people rebuild. And dear old Pepree will make a fantastic tour guide when pilgrimages resume. And you know they will, now.”
“You are very much a politician, my dear Baron,” said the goddess. She had already swept them across the miles to the temple steps in Port Belliston. “I think it's time I made myself known to Pepree. He is, of course, a fool, but his devotion should be rewarded, don't you think?”
The dawn flung streaks of sunlight across the countryside now, diminishing the goddess's radiance just a little. The Swordsman was straightening his saddlebags and mounting up. “I'll feed and water my horse properly in town, you go on and surprise and delight your devotees. They've earned it, and you don't need me any more. But thank you for the opportunity to interfere on your behalf again.” The giant war horse swung around and trotted down the hill toward the town.
The goddess Allestraill Bellistar smiled beautifully to herself. A beautiful smile was all her form would allow. He was right about Syldra and Pepree, of course. He was always right. But was it the sword or his attitude that troubled her most? The present, though, was pressing. She swept up to the baffles, her brilliance clearing the dinginess ahead. She had an appearance to make.
