James Enge - Blood of Ambrose

The adept started to say something, paused, then fled up the stairway, his robe trailing along the stairs with an odd sucking sound.

Morlock followed him up the stairs with cautious speed. It was promising that the adept was retreating, but of course there was some reason he felt safer upstairs.

The upper chamber was nearly as dark as the lower one. This was partly because the sky outside had gotten darker and cloudier since he descended. But it was largely because on the balcony was standing a gigantic gargoyle with outspread wings, a hammer in its left hand.

"Kill him!" the adept's voice sounded, from the darker end of the room. "Kill him and I'll release you; I swear it by the terms of our contract."

Morlock turned toward the gargoyle. With his inner vision he saw that it was a harthrang, a demon united to a body. But not a dead one: pretalic potential surged through the body like spicules of light interwoven with the darker flame of the demon's self.

Why did the adept want a demon who could feel pain? So that he could punish it, Morlock guessed: harthrangs could be stubborn and willful servants.

The gargoyle's body-stitched together from many different forms, human and animal, while still alive-was itself a horrific wonder of making. But Morlock could not hesitate to destroy it: he was caught between two enemies.

He leapt toward the gargoyle, knowing what he must do, hoping he had the time to do it. Beyond its gray wings, in the gray sky, lightning blinked its bright silver eyes and muttered.

Lathmar didn't like the bemused expression on Grandmother's face. It looked almost as if she were sinking into despair, and there was no point in that, no matter how desperate the situation was.

"Grandmother, he's lying!" shouted the Emperor, and he threw his dagger at Genjandro's face. The knife glanced off; the gray cheek opened, and dark blood seeped out. The cold features twisted in annoyance.

"That body is dead," Jordel said firmly. "If I understand how this thing works, he's lying about having eaten Alkhendron."

Ambrosia was nodding. But her expression didn't change, and Genjandro's dead voice continued to speak to her. "They don't understand," it said insinuatingly, "but I understand. They don't know what it's like to be lost in yourself-to be ruled by the will of another-of the horrible darkness you dwell in when your sister governs your body. If you explained to them, if you told them in so many words, they still wouldn't understand. But I understand, without you saying a word. You know what I'm offering to you, and you know that I can give it to you, and you know that you are going to accept it. While there's life, there's Hope. No life, no hope. No Hope, no life. I can free you from her, if you let me in."

"What the chaos is he talking about?" Jordel asked with mild interest.

"Hope is dead," Aloe said tensely. "I saw her die, centuries ago."

"I never knew her, madam," said Wyrth glumly. "But I think she's alive."

Ambrosia was wavering. Lathmar could see it. He started to go to her when iron-hard hands gripped his shoulders. "Erl!" he shouted. "Let me help her!"

"Majesty, I'm sorry," said Erl's flat voice. "But no one can help her. I think this was the hour she spoke of."

"No!" shouted the Emperor as they dragged him away.

"Hope," said Ambrosia thickly, as if drugged. "Hope." The light in her pendant seemed to be fading.

"While there's life, there's hope," whispered Genjandro's mouth. "There's always Hope. There's no escape from Hope. But I can give you escape. What else have you ever wanted? You've never really wanted anything else but to be free-free of her-yourself at least, at last, without Hope-"

"Hope!" shrieked Ambrosia. "Help! Hope! Help!" The pendant on her chest went dark, and she fell to the floor as if she'd been clubbed. The whispering in their minds crested in a wave that threatened to drown their thoughts.

Genjandro's body stepped out of the stairwell. "The strongest of you is gone," his dead voice said. "If-"

Ambrosia rose again behind him. Except: it wasn't her. It was a shorter woman, fairer, stockier, with blue eyes. She grabbed Genjandro's shoulders and pulled him backward. She threw her leg out behind the undead body and tumbled it down the stairs.

Wincing, she loosened the fastenings on Ambrosia's armor and looked around the room. "Aloe. Lathmar. Deor. I'm sorry I don't know you other gentlemen."

"You don't know me either, madam," Wyrth said respectfully. "But I'm honored to be taken for my father."

"Oh, you're Wyrth, of course-stupid of me. Ambrosia thinks of you often."

Genjandro's dead body came charging up the stairs, and there were corpse-golems shuffling behind it. Hope drew Ambrosia's sword and blocked the way. "I can stop him this way," she called over her shoulder, looking directly at Lathmar. "But I can't stop the whispering. I don't have the skills."

Was it an accident that she looked at him? the Emperor wondered stupidly. If Ambrosia failed, how could he succeed?

Then fail like she failed, he told himself. Do half as well!

"Erl," he said to his senior bodyguard (for Karn was wild-eyed with terror), "I must pass into the vision state. I will have to surrender volitional action in the world of the senses. Do you understand, Erl? You will need to stand guard over me."

Aloe turned her dark face, fierce with hope, toward him. "Champion Lathmar!" she shouted. "Jordel, you're for me."

"Always, my dear, if I understand you properly."

Lathmar was already ascending into the vision state. The cloak of matter and energy fell away. He found himself standing over his body.

Emerging from the shadowy hole of the stairway was the adept's avatar, a dark tower pierced through with myriad whispering shadows.

Lathmar leapt toward the enemy-willing himself against the other. He stretched out his hands (like nets of radiant silver wire) against the screaming shadows of the enemy. He entered the mind of the destroyer.

Of course it was too strong for him. He knew the other would break him down in the end-it began almost immediately. But he fought, as fiercely as he could, pouring out rejection for the other, and he felt the relief of the others behind him.

Aloe was beside him then, a bright danger like the edge of a bronze sword. She too struck at the enemy with her talic presence, and it eased Lathmar's burden somewhat. He felt he could fight longer now.

If there was a way to tell the passing of time in the vision state Lathmar didn't know it. After a timeless moment he sensed that the bodies in the room had moved, like chess pieces. Only in the end of a chess game there were fewer pieces on the board; now there were more, many more. Bodies without the talic imprint of souls, the empty presence of corpse-golems.

Perhaps now was the end. But how long was now? He fought on.

They were deep within the labyrinthine corridors of the enemy's mind, striking at whatever they saw. They looked out through thousands of eyes, a bewildering cacophoty of images.

Look! The command passed directly from Aloe's awareness to Lathmar's. He looked.

He saw Morlock fighting in the adept's chamber, Tyrfing in his hand alive with talic light.

The sky outside was full of bright darkness. There was a mind in the sky, preparing to think bright deadly thoughts….

Lightning! Lathmar cried. He's going to use lightning against him!

From Aloe, a sad agreement.

Her sadness puzzled Lathmar. He would never forget how Morlock had used lightning against the Companions on the bridge. Surely it would work as well against the Companions' master?

Then he realized: they weren't in rapport with Morlock's vision. They were in rapport with the adept. It was Morlock who would suffer the blast of the lightning this time.