A Triumph of Souls (41 page)

Drawing herself up to her full height, the Visioness declaimed clearly. “I have chosen to remain here of my own free will.
As his amenable consort, Hymneth has offered me the co-regency of Ehl-Larimar. I have accepted. I regret
any personal inconvenience this may have caused you, but you may console yourselves with the knowledge that you are free to
remain or depart, as you see fit. You will not be harmed.”

Simna could not believe what he was hearing. “He’s drugged her! Or she’s been ensorcelled! She’s not free to voice her own
mind. Break the hex, Etjole! Free her from this corrupting stupor so that she can speak the truth!”

The herdsman leaned slightly on his spear. “No, Simna. I do not think she is suffering under a spell. I have been watching
her posture, her lips, her eyes. She is herself and none other. The words she speaks are hers, and come from the heart as
well as the mind. She truly means to remain here.”

“Then—everything we’ve gone through; the battles we’ve fought, the dangers we’ve overcome, the lands and towns and armies
and seas we’ve struggled to pass at the repeated risk of our very lives, it’s all been for nothing? For nothing?” When again
his friend did not reply, the swordsman sat down heavily on the exquisite, highly polished gemstone floor. And then he began
to laugh.

His laughter grew louder, and wilder, echoing through the length and breadth of the great hall. He began to rock back and
forth, both arms wrapped around his stomach as the laughter spilled out of him in long, rolling waves. Only when he had come
close to laughing himself insensate did the calmly foreboding voice from the throne speak again.

“Unlike the beauteous Themaryl, I hardly ever feel sorry for anyone. People make the lives they live. I regret to admit that
in certain quarters of my kingdom I am not considered a compassionate ruler. But tonight, though I would like to laugh with
you, mercenary, I find that I cannot.
I can only—feel sorry for you.” He turned back to the silently staring Ehomba. “So you see, necromancer from across the Semordria,
if such it is that you are, you are defeated before you can begin. That which you came to fight for no longer exists. Your
reason and rationale have evaporated, like smoke.” Steel-clad fingers reached out to cover the back of the Visioness Themaryl’s
perfect hand.

“Ordinarily, I would not be so generous to those who slink uninvited into my home, but my consort has spoken. You are free
to leave, or stay, or do whatever you want. It is of no import to me. Enjoy the city if you like. Ehl-Larimar has much to
offer the tired traveler.” He nodded in the direction of the silent old soldier. “If you wish, Peregriff will find lodging
for you tonight within the castle. Since I have no reason to deal with you as enemies, I suppose I might as well treat you
as guests. Tomorrow you may dine with me. And with my incomparable, compliant consort.” Turning his hand, he lifted hers up
in his, bent forward, and kissed it. Seeing this was enough to set Simna ibn Sind to laughing uncontrollably all over again.

“No.”

The seated swordsman’s hysteria halted in mid-laugh. To the left of the throne, the impressive white eyebrows of General Peregriff
narrowed ever so slightly. At the foot of the dais, tiny red eyes began to emerge and take shape within the cryptic depths
of the cancerous black vapors.

Having started to rise from his throne, Hymneth the Possessed paused and peered across the reflective, lamplit floor. His
voice was composed, even—but just the slightest bit perplexed.

“What did you say?”

“I said, no.” For the first time since the lamps had burst
to life in the regal audience chamber, it was Etjole Ehomba who stepped forward. “We cannot avail ourselves of your hospitality,
or that of your kingdom.” Lowering the tip of his spear, he pointed slightly to his left. “The Visioness Themaryl is coming
with us.”

Hymneth’s voice grew quietly, dangerously frosty. “I am afraid I do not understand. She does not wish to go with you. She
does not wish to return to Laconda or the life she knew there. She wishes to stay here with me. Of her own free will. You
yourself acknowledged as much only moments ago.”

The herdsman nodded. He had come a long way and was very tired, as if he had spent days chasing runaway animals through the
hills and gullies back of the village. “When I first set out on this journey, not knowing how or when it would end or where
it would take me, I did so because I had made a vow. A promise to a dying man who called himself Tarin Beckwith, of Laconda
North. He made me swear not to rest until I returned the Visioness Themaryl to her home and family. This oath I reluctantly
made. I have traveled far and at great expense of effort to fulfill that obligation. I intend to do so.”

The wide, helmeted head was shaking slowly from side to side. “There is reason, and then there is insanity, but the likes
of this I have never had to deal with before. Do you mean to tell me that in spite of her declared wishes to remain here you
intend to take her back, by force if necessary?”

Ehomba nodded stoically. His voice never changed. “By force if necessary.”

With the abruptness of a rogue wave shattering upon an unsuspecting shore, Hymneth the Possessed stood bolt
upright before his throne and bellowed thunderously at the impious intruder.

“By Besune, this is worse than madness!”
He was trembling with rage. “In spite of all the sleeplessness you have caused me, I offer you your life, and you demand
death!” Reaching out toward the intolerable interloper, he made a cup of his extended fingers. “Since you so devoutly seek
your doom, here it is, master of a doubtful magic. Here in this hand. Come and get it!”

Without a word, a grim-faced Ehomba let go of his spear. It had not yet struck the floor before he was running forward, reaching
back over a shoulder to draw the sky-metal sword. A stunned Simna frantically began to scramble to his feet. Hunkapa Aub tensed,
and the black litah let loose with a snarl that rattled the hanging banners high overhead. Rising to his full, dominating
height before the throne, Hymneth the Possessed spread both arms wide to restrain the alerted Peregriff and shield the startled
Themaryl. Then he let loose with an inarticulate howl of his own as he flung one arm forward at the tall, rangy herdsman racing
toward him.

The dart that had been concealed within the sleeve of his armor struck the onrushing herdsman in his right shoulder. Without
pausing, Ehomba reached up and pulled it free. Tossing it to one side, he showed no ill effects from the virulent poison it
contained. Nor would he, thanks to the immunizing contents of his water bag, thoughtfully treated months ago by, as Simna
was fond of saying, a long brother.

His gaze narrowing slightly, the ruler of Ehl-Larimar brought his other arm forward and uttered a word so loathsome and vile
that the Visioness was compelled to clasp
both hands to her ears to shut out the echo of it that lingered in the air. In response to his gesture, eyes now fully formed
and ablaze, the two clouds of sooty vapor that had been hovering impatiently by his steel-booted feet ballooned to the size
of black buffalo as they sped gleefully away from the dais to intercept the impudent, foolhardy human.

E
homba met the onrushing eromakadi head-on, without trying to dodge or step clear of their charge. In an instant he was enveloped
in black cloud and completely obscured from view. Simna held his breath. Even so, he was less agitated than his companions,
who unlike him had not had the benefit of seeing the herdsman deal with eromakadi. But as the minutes passed and nothing happened
and Ehomba did not reappear, the swordsman found himself growing more and more uneasy.

Then a soft whistling became audible. It grew louder, until it dominated the room. The vaporous substance of the eromakadi
began to twitch, then to jerk violently, and finally to shrink. Moments later everyone could see Ehomba, standing with sword
in hand, inhaling and inhaling without seemingly pausing to breathe. Into his open mouth the eromakadi disappeared, sucked
down like steam from a kettle traveling in reverse, until the last frantic, faintly mewling black tendril had been swallowed.

Without word or comment of any kind, an Ehomba none
the apparent worse for the experience resumed his assault on the dais.

“An eromakasi!” Balling one hand into a fist, a surprised Hymneth raged at the onrushing herdsman. “What have you done with
my pets, eromakasi?” Flinging his closed, armored hand forward, the Possessed opened his fingers the instant his arm was fully
extended.

Ball lightning flew at Ehomba. It was olive green in hue and crackled with energy. Raising his blade, the herdsman parried
the verdant globe. Deafening thunder rattled the reception hall. Simna and the others were momentarily blinded by the shower
of green sparks that flew from the sky-metal sword.

Even as Ehomba was opposing this latest assault, the lofty figure seething before the throne of Ehl-Larimar was readying another.
Hymneth continued to fling spheres of sickly green energy at his attacker as the herdsman persistently warded them off. In
this manner Ehomba, though his approach was slowed by the need to fight off the tall sorcerer’s successive attacks, sustained
his advance on the throne. As he drew nearer, the ball lightning flew more often. Employing reflexes honed from years of fighting
off predators intent on stealing from the Naumkib flocks, he struck down one blazing assault after another. The frenzy of
emerald sparks that struck from his untiring blade outshone the far more subdued glow of the chamber’s lamps.

Swinging the sword in short, deliberate arcs, he gained the first step, and then the second. If Hymneth the Possessed was
growing anxious or uneasy, the evidence of such a condition remained his and his alone. His face remained hidden behind the
magnificent helmet. His defense was as unremitting and incessant as Ehomba’s
advance, and he showed no sign of weakening or abandoning his position before the throne.

Surmounting the last step, Ehomba batted aside a lethal, crackling globe half his size and was swallowed up by the consequent
deluge of rabid green sparks and shattered shafts of lightning. Emerging from this cataract of emerald energy, he brought
his blade around in a low feint, then swung it up over his head and brought it straight down, edge on, with both hands. Hymneth
the Possessed, Lord of Ehl-Larimar, was in the process of throwing another orb of lightning when he saw or sensed what his
attacker intended. Quickly raising both mailed arms over his head, he crossed his wrists and caught the descending sword in
the V they formed.

Green and white sparks erupted from the point of contact and the concussive wave thus generated knocked Peregriff, the Visioness
Themaryl, and Simna ibn Sind off their feet. Only the larger and more powerful Ahlitah and Hunkapa Aub were able to remain
standing, and even they were staggered by the force of the detonation.

When Simna’s vision cleared and he could once again discern the drama being played out in front of the throne, a loss of feeling
and belief gripped him the likes of which he had never experienced before, not even when as a child he had been cruelly assaulted
by his peers. As receding thunderclaps rolled through the chamber and off into the distance, he saw the remnants of the shattered
sky-metal sword lying scattered everywhere: on the steps leading up to the dais, on the floor, on the throne itself. Stare
at them as he might, they did not slowly revive, did not become dozens or hundreds of new, smaller blades as they had in far
Skawpane. They had been smashed into ragged shards
and strips of twisted steel, like the vulnerable metal of any common sword.

At the foot of the steps lay a crumpled, motionless figure.

“Etjole!”
Heedless of whatever the domineering, armored figure commanding the dais might do, the swordsman rushed forward. Hunkapa
Aub and the black litah were right behind him.

Throwing himself on the prone torso, Simna used both hands to wrench the valiant herdsman over onto his back. Ehomba’s eyes
were closed and his body limp. There hung about him a sharp, acrid smell, as if he had been singed by something as lethal
as it was invisible. The swordsman shook the smooth, lean shoulders; gently at first, then more forcefully.

“Etjole! Bruther!” To his frantic entreaties there was no response. Pressing an ear to the herdsman’s chest, Simna’s eyes
grew wide as he detected no sound from within. Hastily moistening a palm, he held it in front of the herdsman’s unmoving lips.
Nothing cooled his skin.

“It can’t be.” He drew back from the motionless body.
“It can’t be.”

Dipping his maned head low over the prostrate form, Ahlitah listened and sniffed once, twice. Then yellow eyes rose, flicking
first in the direction of Hymneth the Possessed, then meeting those of the stricken swordsman.

“It’s over, Simna. He’s dead. The herder of cattle is dead.”

And he was.

Ehomba felt no pain. In fact, he did not “feel” at all. He knew instinctively, unarguably, that he was dead. Dead at
the hands of another. Hymneth the Possessed had killed him. This knowledge caused him neither regret nor discomfort. Those
were concerns that belonged to the world of the living, and he was no longer a part of that. He did not think of his condition
as a failure, or lament for his lost family, or sorrow for anything left behind. After death, everything changed.

He was conscious that some time had passed, though whether seconds or years he could not have said. At first he had been aware
of being above his body, utterly divorced from it and from everything of the living flesh. Very quickly thereafter and without
any sense of transition or traveling he found himself in a void, an immeasurably vast space that would have been completely
dark except for the presence of distant, unblinking stars. They were not the stars one saw in life. Somehow they seemed much
closer, yet infinitely distant. There was no sense of ground, of up or down or direction, or of the presence of the Earth.
Only the void, stars—and souls.