David Drake: The Gods Return

Cashel twisted and thrust like he held a spear. Archas may even have seen the stroke coming-he was that good-but this time he couldn't shift his swords to block it. The butt of the quarterstaff smashed into a blazing blue sun that filled the black cosmos. It seemed like Archas-Fallin-was screaming, but maybe that was a marsh hawk. Cashel stood on a hill under an ilex tree. There were ever so many sheep in the meadow about him. The sun was bright, and insects buzzed among the flowers. Cashel stretched, smiling lazily. There was one more thing to take care of before he got back to the regular business of watching his flock. Still smiling, Cashel strode off to find Sharina. He began to spin his quarterstaff in slow arcs, staying loose for when he needed his strength again. *** Sharina walked toward the cloud-wrapped, thunder-roaring figure Who lashed rain and hail onto the army below. Franca might be god of some skies, but the heavens have many moods. The slashing violence of a storm was only one of them. Franca's eyes flashed fury beneath His black brows. "Are you here to fight me, child?" he boomed.

"Go back to your cradle!" He extended His arms, spreading His fingers toward her. Lighting rippled from His palms and dissipated in the air between them. "I'm not here to fight," Sharina said. She smiled at Him. She'd loved thunderstorms as a little girl, standing thrilled in the rain and delighted to be part of their power and flashing radiance. "I'm here to bring peace, for you as well if you'll accept it." Beneath her, flowers bloomed on the rolling hills. Grasses sprang up to recover the royal army's broad, muddy track; they were a brighter green than that of the meadows to either side. "Peace?" said Franca, and the land shuddered. "The peace of the grave, you mean!"

His lightning blasted, this time in a continual torrent; ripping from all sides, tearing the cosmos apart in thorny crackling chaos.

Sharina's bright comfort met the violence and washed it away like dust sluiced from windows by the spring rains. She extended her hand toward Franca and said, "Real peace, for you and for everyone. Take my hand."

"Never!" Franca said. He launched another rush of lightning to push her back. Sharina spread her arms, bringing warm sunlight to the soil.

She didn't budge from the spot, but she couldn't advance either. She thought of the big knife in her belt and smiled in soft amusement.

There was a place for violence; but not for her; not now. "Death!" cried the thunder. "Death and destruction and chaos! Chaos! As it was, so shall it be forever!" "I might have been able to agree about death," said Ilna. "But not destruction. And as for chaos, if you're so fond of that-we'll send you there." A net wove itself around Franca. He roared. The world would have shattered, but Sharina sheltered it beneath her cloak of light. Franca's lightning tore Ilna's pattern, but it rewove even as the blazing edges of His power passed on. Sharina looked at her friend and thought, She isn't cruel.

But she has no more mercy than the turning stars. Ilna wore a cold smile, though her pleasure was in the craftsmanship rather than the result of that craft. Cashel joined them. "This is the last one, then?" he said. "Cashel, you're here too?" said Sharina. She'd felt peace and contentment, but now joy swept the cosmos. "Yes, Sharina," he said, smiling but too embarrassed to look straight at her. He stepped a little to the side, his hands spread on the shaft of his quarterstaff. "This is my business, I think." The net drew tighter.

Franca shouted. "There's peace even for Him," Sharina said. "If only-"

"No," said Ilna; coldly, quietly. "Not this one. End it, brother."

"She's right, you know, Sharina," Cashel said sadly. "She really is."

"Death!" Franca cried. "Death and destruction and-" Cashel rammed the quarterstaff home. All his strength was in the stroke. Franca disintegrated into dust motes swirling in eternal chaos. Sunlight and flowers swept across the world. Sharina stood, linking hands with Her friends. *** The shock of the rain and scourging hail stunned Garric for an instant. He felt the soldiers around him hunch also; they were tired, bone tired, and the hammering cold tightened their bruised and strained muscles. It's too much. "Haft and the Isles!" Carus bellowed through Garric's throat. Technically it wasn't the right war cry, but it was the right one for this moment. "Let's finish these bloody rats, troopers!" Garric strode down the slope, swinging for the face of the leading ratman. The beast got its sword up in time, but Garric's long wizard-forged blade sheared it and the rim of the rat's bronze cap on its way to the brain beneath. The rat fell. The royal army surged ahead-hacking, stabbing and shouting a variety of things. The former cavalrymen used the Ornifal war cry, "Forward the Eagle!" The storm vanished, driven back on a brisk north wind. In the clear air Garric saw that the slope ahead and the hills beyond to the horizon were covered with swarming ratmen. There were too many to kill, too many even if they'd been a forest of birches and there was nothing to the business but chopping. The wedge staggered forward, one sword-stroke at time. Garric and the army would go on as long as they could. That was all that mattered. Scholars could discuss the battle in the future, if there was a future for human beings. This was soldiers' work. A rank odor swept southward on the breeze. Garric chopped backhand to crush a ratman's skull with the pommel of his dagger. The blow missed, because the rat fled with a terrified squeak. Garric stumbled, twisting left to keep from sprawling. He'd been counting instinctively on the stroke to balance him. He was wide open to the nearest pair of ratmen. They could chop high and low, at his neck and his right ankle, and he could only block one. But those rats and more rats in a wave spreading southward were running. Allthe rats were running. The dark-furred mass turned like barley bending away from a storm. Garric fell to his knees. He'd kept going on willpower; his body had been played out long before. He was gasping. He tried clumsily to push his helmet off without letting go of the dagger in his left hand. He'd forgotten about the chin strap. Even after he remembered, he couldn't force himself to drop either of his weapons.

The rats fled in panic. Their swords lay where they'd stood, and they'd thrown away their helmets and breastplates as they ran. They littered the hillside with equipment all the way to where the Emperor of Palomir and his wizard stood. Garric looked back. Tenoctris stood on the hilltop, chanting with her arms spread. The smoke mounting from her cart swirled above her into the figure of a giant weasel. The beast's harsh musk swept across the battlefield. The weasel opened its mouth in a rasping shriek. Despite Garric's exhaustion, the sound brought the hair up all over his body. He got to his feet. "Come on, troopers!" he croaked. "Let's finish this now!" Carus chuckled. "It's never a bad idea to keep a sword in your hand," he said. He was probably joking; but he was Carus, so maybe not. Garric started up the hill. Once he got moving, it was bearable. This close to the end, it would've been bearable if he'd been barefoot and running over swords.

He grinned. It felt good to grin, though the rat-blood caking his face cracked and pinched his skin. It wouldn't be long. The Palomir wizard dropped his athame and turned to run. The emperor leveled his sword at him and said, "Stop them, Salmson! This isn't supposed to happen!" The wizard shouted, "Run, you fool, it's all over!" He dodged past; the emperor stabbed him through the ribs from behind. He tumbled on his face, coughing bright blood. "This isn't supposed to happen!" the emperor repeated as he turned. "I am Baray, Emperor of Palomir!" He wore full armor and he'd been merely watching while Garric and his men fought their way through a landscape of rats. But- Carus laughed.