Ширли Мерфи - The Shattered Stone [calibre]

The dark pulled her on. She felt horror, suddenly and sharply, and did not know why. She reached the alley, saw Venniver’s sword flash through rain. She gripped cold metal. Fury and eagerness took her. She stared at Jerthon. . . .

Then suddenly she went dizzy, was ignobly sick against the stone wall.

Afterward she crouched, drenched and shivering, very ill, staring at the battle; not knowing what she had wanted to do or why she had come. Metal rang as a sword struck stone. “Venniver,” she whispered, her lips numb.

*

The gantroed’s tendrils snaked out; its open mouth wanted blood. Ram dared not take his eyes from it, felt HarThass in it. Fawdref leaped again, the wolves tore at it. Ram hacked snaking tendrils from the great worm, then he raised the bell. His own power seemed small. The beast twisted, a tendril seared his arm. Tendrils flashed around Fawdref, choking him. The wolf fought, snarling, fangs cutting deep. The gantroed coiled tighter. Ram screamed the words of the bell, reached to tear power from Ere’s night; and the gantroed had Skeelie, pulling her flailing toward its hairy mouth. She knifed at the great tongue; the creature screamed and loosed her.

Ram saw Jerthon fall in battle, saw Tayba . . .

Wolves were knocked away by flailing tendrils, leaped again. The gantroed reared, Ram plunged his sword into its pale stomach. It coiled over them screaming. Ram went sick at Tayba’s intent. A wolf leaped, knocked him away as the gantroed struck, its teeth grazing him. He brought his sword across it, into the worm, but his mind was filled with Tayba, his power was with Tayba, turning her, forcing her. Wolves clung like flies to the stinking hide. The coils grew smaller, crushing them. The creature’s blood flowed yellow. Ram felt the dark forces sway; then he saw with surprise that Skeelie was far back in the cave, nearly crushed by the swinging coils.

She crouched beneath the gantroed, dodging as she searched along the cave walls. The snake slammed against her, slapped at her mindlessly with its wormlike arms as it fought Ram and the wolves. Ram rolled away from the churning wolves and ran. Behind him wolves leaped in unison for the gantroed’s head. He heard Skeelie scream, thought she was crushed; he slipped, fell, was pressed into a corner as tentacles lashed him—but he felt the power drumming, a different power now.

He rose, fought to reach her, saw her tearful, frantic face as she searched wildly along the wall with clutching hands. “I can—there is something. I can feel it, but it won’t come clear for me. Ram . . .”

He touched the wall, and it vibrated under his fingers. He felt along it, his fingers sensitive. The gantroed lunged into them, knocking them against the wall. Something— there. The power came strong. He drew out his knife and began to dig at the stone, a bull’s heavy form—yes. Behind it an empty space. He pried stones out, they fell away to lie scattered across the floor.

Inside lay the cask, carved of pale wood.

Ram drew it out, held it with shaking hands, oblivious to the battle, to everything. Felt the spell on it, saw his fingers try to lift the lid, watched his hands pry at it uselessly.

The dark reached, needed to blind him. He could feel HarThass close. He brought his forces trembling against the Seer; saw Tayba’s sword raised . . .

He shouted into the screaming storm. Wind lashed through the chamber.

*

Tayba faced Jerthon quietly, then looked down at Venniver, fallen and bleeding, looked with shock at her blood-covered blade. Jerthon said softly, “You meant to kill me. Why did you change your mind?

“I could—I could do nothing else.” She stared and stared at Venniver, could feel his pain. Was he dying? Had she killed him? Then she looked up at Jerthon and knew she truly could have done nothing, nothing else but save this tall, fierce man who stood before her drenched with rain and blood, searching her face with an honesty he had, at last, forced her to accept.

They saw too late the soldiers leaping through rain to block the alley, dark shapes in darkness, lurching forward; saw HarThass, cape blowing, sword drawn.

Tayba and Jerthon stood together to face the challenge as, behind them, Venniver rolled onto his side and tried to rise; and suddenly all was confusion, and time twisted with a jolting shock and held cold. Space and time were asunder. The alley and cave were as one. Soldiers were poised; Ram’s fingers reached to touch the stone; the mountain rocked. Lightning flashed in a jagged bolt that turned the cave pale, made the gantroed look white. The lightning seared Ram’s hand, struck the Runestone.

It shattered.

The stone lay white hot in his hands. Nine long shards of jade, glowing white.

Then they began to cool. Turned pale green, then darker until they were the deep color of the sea. The Runestone of Eresu, broken apart. The power shattered. Ram stared at the stones, shocked. Felt their terrible weight. Felt the power that remained; it was the same power, only divided. Not whole, not . . .

The mountain trembled again, and the floor beneath their feet began to crack, a long, jagged wound growing wider. They leaped back as the dark abyss widened. The dying gantroed began to slip down into the emptiness.

In Burgdeeth, Venniver rose slowly and painfully to his feet. Jerthon held him captive and held the soldiers back with his threat to Venniver. They watched silently as HarThass approached.

Ram reached to give Jerthon power from the stone he held. And in the cave hazy figures had suddenly appeared all around him, ghostly figures growing clearer. A girl with long brown hair leaped from the back of a winged horse to run toward them; a red-haired young man turned to stare at Ram; a man dressed in blue robes looked up in surprise; others, a pale, lovely young woman who gazed into Ram’s eyes with such recognition that he went giddy with a feeling he had never encountered.

The figures stood with hands cupped upward in ceremony. Ram’s hands were the same, palms up. And the terrible weight of the jade shards was lighter; for now only one section of the Runestone lay in his palm. He stood staring at it stricken with the shattering of the stone, the shattering of that perfect power. Felt the power of the one stone, though. Saw that in those other, ghostly hands, lay shards of jade. Two? Three? He could not be sure. But there had been nine.

Had some gone, then, careening down into the dark abyss? As he stared down into the emptiness, the jagged cavern began to narrow, to close. They all drew back, watching; the ghostly crew mingling quite comfortably among wolves.

The floor closed slowly until only a jagged black scar marred the cave floor. This remained. The gantroed’s bones, white and clean, protruded from it; wedged deep in the mountain, perhaps to mingle with the lost jade.

*

Jerthon held the soldiers frozen, felt HarThass’s power like a tide. He glanced at Tayba. “Are you with me? Help me hold them.” She felt him draw her out. She swallowed, brought her power stronger to lift and surge upward, catching her breath. How did she know to do this? Jerthon faced HarThass, swords clashed; their figures spun, were as one in the dark alley; she held the soldiers back, held Venniver back, straining; gasped as HarThass went down and Jerthon stood over him, his sword at the Pellian’s throat; turned away with shock at the Seer’s quick death.

But they could not hold Venniver long. He rose, came at them bleeding. She faced him sword drawn, as Jerthon whirled and had him in a grip like steel. She stared into Venniver’s eyes, could not speak, his hatred chilling her through. Would Jerthon kill him?

But Jerthon backed away from the guards, Venniver his captive. “He can’t hold that rabble forever.”