The Alabaster Staff (41 page)

Gilgeam moved toward the Tiamatans, who fell back before him. Demok circled in behind and delivered a heavy, double-handed blow, striking the god-king in the side, just below the floating rib. The blade bit deep, though by no means as deep as it would have any ordinary man.

Thus wounded, Gilgeam screamed, a noise that sounded more alive than any utterance he had yet made, and Demok jerked the blade free of the undead creature’s body, trailing a strand of viscous black blood behind it.

Gilgeam turned to face Demok, a new anger on his face, and to Kehrsyn it looked like Demok had succeeded in finally awakening the intellect within the undead casing. Her heart caved in fear for Demok’s life.

Demok circled around Gilgeam, while the god-king turned in place, one hand over the oozing wound in his side.

The swordsman moved easily, swinging the glistening blade back and forth in easy arcs. He launched himself at Gilgeam again, striking a pair of vicious blows, one of which struck Gilgeam’s knee and the other of which the undead god-king blocked with his bare arm. The momentum of Demok’s attack had brought him in close to Gilgeam, too close, in Kehrsyn’s opinion, for him to fight effectively with his sword.

But that wasn’t his intent. With a nimble flick of his foot, he flipped the Alabaster Staff from the dead lieutenant’s hand over toward Tiglath. Though he executed the maneuver almost perfectly, he paid for the shift in his attention as
Gilgeam punched him hard, one arm striking his ribs from the right, the other striking his stomach from the left. The impact flipped Demok completely over, and he fell to the ground, his sword clattering away.

Kehrsyn, kneeling by Tiglath’s head, tried to pull the heavy priestess up to a sitting position.

“The staff!” she yelled. “Use it!”

“I can’t,” gasped Tiglath through clenched teeth, her eyelids fluttering. “Too … run, Kehrsyn,” she added, panting. “Don’t let him wreck your life … like he wrecked mine.”

Kehrsyn glanced up. The few remaining Tiamatans were fleeing the area. A company of guards had appeared at some point during the fight and had taken up position across the courtyard. They seemed to be awaiting Gilgeam’s victory. Demok was moving slowly on his hands and knees, trying to recover his breath. Gilgeam stalked over, roaring in his ghastly, flat voice, balling his fists for the final strike.

Desperate, Kehrsyn let Tiglath go and lunged for the Alabaster Staff. She dived and tumbled, snatching up the slender wand in one hand without losing her momentum, and ran toward Gilgeam. She knew she could not wield the wand, not without years of arcane discipline. Her only hope was more direct action. All she had to do was cross fifteen yards. Gilgeam raised his fists, and she saw that she would be about five yards too late.

A small shadow darted past her with the sound of fluttering parchment. Tremor swept in on its tiny wings and fired a gout of bright flame across Gilgeam’s eyes just as he was flexing his arms to kill Demok. Gilgeam roared again, stumbling with surprise, yielding to Kehrsyn the extra sliver of time she needed.

She ran up behind the god-king as he stared down at Demok. She plunged the Alabaster Staff into Gilgeam, narrow end first, driving it upward between the ribs,
aiming for the heart. It slid in much more easily than she had expected, every bit as easily as if it had been her rapier and he no more than a straw man. She had put everything she had into the blow, and it plunged the staff almost entirely into Gilgeam’s body, leaving only the carved top still in her grip.

The undead thing roared and arched his back. Kehrsyn, in fear and surprise, tried to pull the wand back out, but between her haste and his motion, the wand caught between his ribs. She panicked, yanked, and felt the wand bend, levered against Gilgeam’s bones.

There was the sound of a small crack.

There was a flash so bright the whole world seemed white.

Then there was nothing.

D
emok walked stiffly, trying not to strain his rib cage. Despite the bandages that tightly bound his broken ribs together, the freedom of motion he needed to breathe was motion enough to cause himself pain. The magic of the healers had helped knit the bones back together—in all likelihood they had saved his life—but he was still an injured man.

It was closing on high noon, and the sun shone weakly in the winter sky. It was nice to see it again, to know that indeed it had been lurking behind the clouds the past few tendays. His skin felt warm where the sun hit it, if only for a moment before the chilly breeze swept the sensation away again.

He walked outside Messemprar, his boots making small squishing noises in the muddy cart track that led from the city to the Hill of the River. The hill’s name did not refer to the River of Metals, which flowed behind him, slowly and gracefully
heading toward the Alamber Sea, heedless of the small, short, squabbling lives of the mortals who encamped by its shores. The name instead spoke of the river that was said to separate life from afterlife.

To his mind, the only such river the Untherites ought to believe in was the river of blood that had marked Gilgeam’s rule for the past two and a half millennia.

The Hill of the River was far enough from the city that it had no strategic value. It had been chosen so that the dead could see their beloved city and also so that the tombs and graves would not be too close, which in summer could be problematic. A fence encompassed the lower slopes of the hill, a thin line of sticks and reed work that kept only the most incurious or overfed vermin out. The cats that lived and hunted on those grounds were far more effective at maintaining the sanctity of the place.

The top of the hill was also surrounded by a fence, a well-built wall of stone. Behind those walls stood the tombs of the city’s wealthy and important. The lower slopes were for the rest of the city.

Demok passed through the gate in the lower fence and turned, circling the hill toward the back, where the unmarked graves were.

After a long, quiet walk through the tall, brown stalks of grass, he stepped up to the side of a familiar, if bulky, figure.

“Knew you’d find me here, did you?” asked Tiglath.

Demok said nothing.

“Such a waste,” said Tiglath, looking over the graves covered with freshly turned dirt. “So many good people fell. So many more lives ruined and sacrificed to Gilgeam even after he was dead.”

“You?” Demok asked.

“I still have nightmares,” she said. Then she chuckled. “Smelling fifteen-year-old morning breath is not something you get over easily.”

“Your arm?” he asked.

Tiglath looked down at the sling and wrappings that held her arm across her chest and said, “It’ll heal with time, but I don’t think I’ll ever have full use of it again. The chirurgeon set it as well as he could, but I can feel the broken chips in there. Gilgeam didn’t just break my arm; he crushed it like a shell.”

“I know some healers,” he said. “They can help.”

Tiglath snorted, “Tiamat takes a dim view of those who resort to magical healing.”

Demok considered that, then said, “So?”

Tiglath cast a sideways look at him, then chuckled.

“Yeah,” she said, “I guess you’re right. I accept your offer.”

“Let’s go.”

“Hold on,” said Tiglath. “I’m not quite finished.”

Her eyes passed back and forth over the graves one more time, trying to sense the magnitude of loss.

“Any idea where Kehrsyn is?” she asked.

“Jackal’s Courtyard,” said Demok. “Her favorite.”

Tiglath smiled, thinking of the young woman’s penchant for performance, and said, “Good for her.”

The two turned and left the graves behind, walking side by side, each lost in their own thoughts. As they exited the gate, Tiglath looked up at the sun, squinting against its pale light.

“Spring will be here soon,” she said.

Demok nodded and said, “For the kids in the courtyard, it’s already here.”