Ширли Мерфи - The Castle Оf Hape. Caves Оf Fire Аnd Ice. The Joining Оf Тhe Stone

BroogArl raised white bony hands and brought forces down upon Jerthon and Pol that drove them to their knees. They sought to rise, sweating, straining.

The two powers held equal for a long moment; Jerthon was hardly aware of the battle above, so desperately did he bring his powers against BroogArl. But BroogArl’s force held Jerthon’s sword frozen. Jerthon strained, sweating, until at last the bone-man gave way for an instant and Jerthon leaped on him, splitting his skull with one blow, severing the head so it lay at his feet like a halved apple, gleaming white. Then it darkened, turned once more to BroogArl’s bearded head, split horribly, grinning in the last spasm of death.

And above the castle, as if the Hape and BroogArl were one, Ram at the same moment severed the snakehead. Both heads fell, BroogArl and snake, the dark powers mortally wounded and trying in desperation to rally, trying in desperation to change the Hape into another body; but failed to change it. And now all across Ere, as the dark Seers strove to buoy the Hape’s powers, the timid Seers began at last to come together in sudden resolve, to reach out toward Pelli, to lend the Carriolinians their strength. And that added force maddened the Hape further so it surged with its own last strength in leaping fury and rose uncoiling into the sky, its two severed necks bleeding, its man-face laughing horribly. It tore away treetops in its frenzy, ran wildly in the sky, and it was winged: leathery wings beating the wind. Ram clung to its neck, his hands slipping in blood. The wind tore at him, the Hape writhed, trying to unseat him. And then the winged ones came surging, darkening the sky, and from their backs riders shouted and swords flashed out.

The Hape flew lurching toward the sea. Ram gripped the slippery, bloody body, looked down at the rushing land, dug his knees deeper but was slipping, clung desperately to the severed neck. The wind nearly pulled him off, wind like giant hands tearing at him as the monster sped over Pelli’s coastal city. And now Ram could sense Jerthon and Pol, a second wave of soldiers leaping into the sky above the castle to follow the Hape, could sense as a wild dark melee the battle that singed around the base of the castle itself where Carriolinians and Pellians fought to take possession of the castle now that all inside it were dead; he caught a vision of the wolves fighting alongside mounted soldiers, wolves leaping to pull dark riders from their mounts. And then the winged ones were crowding the Hape’s flight closer so it clawed in the air and screamed.

They were over the sea, it rolled and churned below them. And Ram stared down at that wild water and knew, suddenly and coldly, that the Hape meant to dive into it, and he was filled with fear. For an instant everything seemed to pause, and then the Hape drove straight down toward the sea. Fury engulfed Ram. He cut hard into the thick hide until the Hape bellowed with pain and shivered the length of its body. But still it dove for the sea in a paroxysm of rage. Ram saw the sea coming fast, then was swallowed by it, tumbling in churning water, down, down, as the Hape twisted and thrashed. Ram kicked out, trying to free himself from the thrashing coils. The foaming surface above, dimly lit, seemed miles away. He could never hold his breath long enough to reach it, already his lungs were bursting. The Hape fought blindly, lashing the sea into storms. Ram tried to swim away from it, to fight upward, was suffocating. He had to breathe, had to. Shadows appeared above him, striking fear through him anew; then he saw that they were men. Suddenly he felt hands take him. He must breathe, must suck in air. Someone was lifting him through the churning water. The Hape’s tail thrashed at them, nearly tore them apart Jerthon—was it Jerthon there above him?

Yes, Jerthon. With terrible effort Jerthon pulled him free of the Hape; it roiled below them now so the water heaved and tore at them. Then the Hape grasped Jerthon in its claws and was pulling them down again. Jerthon pushed Ram free; someone dove past Ram. He had to breathe. He struck out feebly toward Jerthon, could see nothing clearly, knew he must suck water into his dying lungs; felt himself pulled upward again and began to kick in a feeble attempt to lift himself up.

He broke surface, sucked in air wildly, clutched at air, tried to call for Jerthon and could only gasp, knew he must dive for Jerthon. The sea was wild with the Hape’s thrashing, red with blood. Hands were pulling at him. He could not see Jerthon. He lost consciousness.

He woke heaving, throwing up water as someone pummeled him, rough hands pushed water out of him. He twisted around and sat up, searching blindly.

Jerthon stood over him, soaking wet, his tunic ripped into shreds. Ram shouted with relief at seeing him, tried to rise and went dizzy.

Only slowly did Ram sense Jerthon’s chagrin, understand the pain of his expression. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He could not read the sense of it, stared at Jerthon’s shredded tunic, was wildly glad Jerthon was alive, stared at the torn leather pouch where the runestone of Eresu had lain.

The bottom of the leather pouch was ripped away. The leather hung limp and empty.

Jerthon’s look was dark, full of misery. He could not speak for some time. Ram dared not speak, dared not ask. When Jerthon did speak at last, his voice was tight and stilted. “It is—the runestone is in the sea.”

Ram rose, stood dripping and cold, dizzy. The runestone could not be lost. Not in the sea. Not . . .

“It is lost,” Jerthon said, his eyes miserable.

“I thought—I thought you would drown. How did you get out? You saved my neck down there.”

“Drudd pulled me out, pulled us both out,” Jerthon said, dismissing it.

Ram turned to stare at the sea. Its breakers plunged and rolled steadily. Only a pink-tinged swirl could be seen where the Hape had been. Only very slowly could he bear to face the loss of the stone. “The runestone: in . . . in the sea? But the—the Hape will have it then, it . . .

“The Hape is weak, Ram, nearly dead. If we—if we can defeat BroogArl’s forces completely, I think the Hape—with no strength from BroogArl’s men to draw into itself, I think the Hape may die.”

Ram stared at him, trying to collect his senses. To defeat Pelli, to prevent the Hape taking the stone . . . He stood at last, rallying himself. “Let’s get on with it. We’ve a war to win.” He gave the signal to mount. “I will ride behind you if Dalwyn can carry us both.”

Girded with fury at the loss of the stone, the band came down on the castle in wild force, joined with the troops there. They cornered Pellians against the castle wall and slaughtered them. They drove hard into the wood and found troops hiding, wounded, tired of battle, and slaughtered them. No Pellian could be let to live and use, if he carried Seer’s blood, his dark powers against them.

And the wolves killed many, fighting by the soldier’s sides, leaping, tearing, enjoying the attack in all their animal lust. When the battle had done, when not a Pellian could be found alive, the great band of wolves came all around Ram and stood looking up at him with bloody muzzles, grinning.

It was then Ram saw the tall white-haired figure slipping away into the wood. He swung around, staring. “That one, Fawdref! Where did he come from?”

The dogwolf looked at him a moment, licking blood from his lips before he answered. He came out of the wood, and fought beside us, Ramad. He is fierce as a wolf himself. He came out of a time you are yet to touch, moves driven by the winds of Time in a way he can seldom control. He is a lonely man. Lonely.

Ram stared at the wolf’s knowing eyes and felt his spirit lift suddenly with hope. Hope for Telien; for if Anchorstar moved on the winds of Time, then Anchorstar moved in the realms where she had been swept, and perhaps he could touch her there. “I will speak with him, I will summon him!” Ram cried, wild with his sudden need.