Istu awakened

FOUR

Fost Longstrider fell only four feet.

He had both arms crossed in front of his face. They took most of the force of his landing on the slate gray stone platform. His broken nose smacked hard against his forearm, sending a white-hot lance of pain into his brain. The wire-wound grip of his broadsword twisted in his hand, giving him a nasty cut on his left forearm. Even worse than the other abuses to his body, the force of his fall caused the stone platform to sink beneath his weight, leaving his stomach inches above his spine.

He felt the platform stir, rise. Fost lay dazed, watching the fireworks in his head and wondered whether or not he was glad he hadn't plunged the other 996 feet to the ground. The stone slab rocked gently like a boat bobbing at a dock. The nausea he felt from his broken nose was made all the worse by the motion. He guessed what had happened and where he was, but he kept his eyes clamped tightly shut. At this stage he didn't want to know.

'Is he all right?' he heard a worried feminine voice ask. Since it wasn't Moriana, it had to be Ziore. Her voice came out sounding elderly but strong and resonant and distinctly different from the screeching sounds she'd made at Erimenes.

A thump and a scrabble of claws came only a foot away from his head. The raft rocked under the impact of the added body. He heard the swish of a weapon cleaving air, the thunk of Moriana's longsword intercepting the axe-cut aimed at the back of his head.

The reek of Zr'gsz stung acridly in his nostrils. Anger filled and drove back nausea and pain. If the reptilian bastards weren't going to let him lie in peace, he'd make them sorry for it.

He seized the lizard man's ankles. The skin rippled smooth and dry, its texture differing only slightly from human skin. Before the reptilian Hisser reacted, Fost yanked hard on the ankles and flipped the creature into space between the blunt nose of the slab and the City wall.

He still wanted little more than to lie down and die, but the berserk fury he'd come to know in moments of battle settled on him like a cloak. He rose up and scythed three Zr'gsz from where they stood poised to leap from the rimwall.

'Bravo!' cried Erimenes, as the three sundered bodies plunged from view to the ground so far below.

Moriana thrust by him with a spear, not at a Vridzish swarming up onto the sky wall to attack but at the gray stone of the Sky City itself, pushing the skyraft clear. With a speed he didn't know himself capable of, Fost parried the stab of an obsidian-headed spear, then severed with a rapid backlash the claw that gripped it. Surprised, the Zr'gsz spearman lost his balance and fell into the rapidly widening gap betwen skyraft and City.

With the raft slowly drifting from the City, Moriana flung the spear at the Hissers, striking one in the shoulder. Panting with the fury of his own bloodlust, freshly roused and scarcely satisfied, Fost chanced a glance at the young queen.

'Faith-breakers!' she screamed. 'I'll pay your folk back as I pay you now!'

Like sheet lightning, a wave of red flame burst from her body. The dozen Zr'gsz crowding onto the rimwall screamed, not screams of agony but the screaming of superheated air blasting from their lungs as the flame consumed them. So frightful was the energy blazing from Moriana that when the fire died it left a huge glowing yellow spot etched on the very stone. The few Zr'gsz left alive in the vicinity of the rimwal! broke and fled toward the Circle of the Well of Winds and the comforting presence of the Demon.

Fost opened his mouth. Before he could speak Moriana's sea green eyes dimmed and closed. She fell heavily. Only reflexes honed to unnatural keenness by the berserker fit enabled him to catch her before she pitched headlong over the nose of the raft.

Squatting, he lowered her to the stone. Strength drained from him like water from a tub with its plug pulled. His legs refused to lift him upright. Instead of trying to stand, he sat beside her, staring back at the City as it slowly receded.

His first thought was of pursuit. Hundreds of rafts nosed against the forward edge of the City as the one they now rode had been, bobbing gently on passing air currents. Had the Zr'gsz wanted to, they could have sent flyers to run down the fugitives in a matter of minutes like hawks bringing down a fleeing dove. Somewhere in the dizzy whirl of that day, Moriana had mentioned to Fost that she didn't know how to operate the Hissers' skyraft. He certainly didn't have the foggiest idea how to maneuver it or to speed it up. If the Zr'gsz wanted them, they were easy pickings.

But the Vridzish obviously didn't care about the fugitives. The pale green faces of lower caste Hissers watched the raft blankly from the ramparts of the City. Here and there the darker features of a noble turned their way to scrutinize them briefly, only to turn away again. Fost sensed that they knew well that the potent human sorceress whose friendship they'd betrayed, whose vengeful might had actually given the mighty, eons-old Demon of the Dark Ones pause, escaped them on the tiny raft. And they did not care. Their indifference chilled him more than pursuit.

Nowhere did the Zr'gsz show any sign of pursuing the humans as they fled from the City in the Sky. Fost saw shrieking women and children hounded like beasts through the streets, saw the shapes of the Vridzish hunch over the bodies of fallen human warriors, some of which still writhed with life, tearing at the bloody feast with their sharp, inhuman teeth. Only those humans they brought down did they bother with; their main purpose seemed to be to rid the City of the pale, soft-skinned creatures who had stolen that realm from them so long ago. Like men hunting vermin. Fost's flesh crawled at the thought.

And the vermin were fleeing the City. The sky above the lofty spires and buttressed wall of the Sky City seethed with eagles winging away in search of refuge, burdened with human cargo. Balloons broke from the confines of the City and floated downwind, humans dropping from their gondolas like ill-shaped raindrops. Too numb to feel horror, Fost wondered distractedly how much of the City's populace had escaped. There had been so little time, though Cerestan and the rest seemed to have wrought miracles in saving those they could. A large number of the sausage kites and round passenger balloons drifted in the City's wake.

But there were too few balloons, too few eagles to hope that any significant number had been rescued. As Fost watched, scores of giant warbirds beat back to the City gathering frantic humans onto their backs or into their strong claws to make a second, or third or fourth trip to the ground. The sheer number of refugees mocked their efforts. Those not fleet enough to outrace the hissing, croaking Vridzish died horribly. Those who outdistanced their pursuers, only to reach the rimwall with no means of transport to the ground, cast a single look over their shoulders at the horror being wrought on their City – and jumped. In the middle of the Sky City Istu made sport.

He was kicking the haughty Palace of Winds to pieces and flinging giant building blocks for miles in all directions. Great pillars of smoke rose from a dozen locations within the City. A minaret of some noble merchant's mansion collapsed in the street, undermined by unseen claws. Streams of trotting low caste Zr'gsz made their way to the rimwall and back into the tangled streets bearing varied bundles: rolls of cloth from warehouses, tables and chairs, cabinets and crates. Some bundles had human shape and some of these still kicked with frantic life. All to no avail – over the edge they went, along with oddments and artifacts of human existence in the Sky City.

'See what they do, my young friend,' intoned Erimenes. During the battle he had retreated into his jug, leery of getting caught in the nimbus of some stray battle-magic. Now he appeared in the air at Fost's side once again. 'They seek to expunge all trace of the hated interlopers from the City in the Sky. I suspect that even those structures they originally built themselves, but which have been extensively modified by men, shall be razed.' He shook his head. 'It is an awful hate that can bide for eight millennia.'

Fost had no ready retort. His head felt like a ball of lead and his eyelids like leaden shutters. His own exertions overwhelmed him. He had fought two desperate battles, faced dangers mortal and mystic a dozen times, and seen the realization of the fear that had been nurturing since Jennas of the Ust-alayakits had begun hinting to him months ago that a new War of Powers could be in the offing. It was enough action, danger and horror to last a hundred lifetimes. He had no idea how Moriana felt after her ordeal. He was only glad she was unable to see the singleminded ferocity with which her former allies cleansed the City, even to the point of casting her people over the side like so much rubbish.

He heard a vast, many-throated squawk and a cracking of wings like sails snapping to a stiff breeze. His last sight before unconsciousness was of Synalon's ravens billowing upward from the rookeries like a huge evil black cloud.

'Good morning, friend Fost,' a cheery voice said. The words were muffled by layers of fog and pain. 'You know, you actually look quite dashing with your nose mashed down like that. It makes you seem positively rugged. And since it has never lain altogether true, it's no detraction from your personal beauty, such as it is. An improvement on the whole, I'd say.'

'Shut up!' bellowed Fost, heaving himself to a sitting position. His roar set his head ringing like a bell. He groaned and fell back, clutching at his temples.

'Tut, tut, my dear boy.' He heard the philosopher's infuriating tones as if they came from far away. 'You really do need to curb that impetuous nature of yours.'

'Shut up, you querulous old fool,' Ziore's voice snapped. Through the tear glaze covering his eyes, Fost became aware of an unfamiliar outline bending over him. He blinked to clear his vision. He saw an elderly woman clad in a long, flowing robe similar to the one Erimenes 'wore.' Her aged features were smooth, serene, beautiful. Erimenes was blue; this apparition was pink, with long unbound hair so pale as to be almost white. Tiny reddish sparks danced within her substance.

Fost felt peace and comfort suffuse his body. His face, which had felt as if a heated torture mask had been clamped to it, began to relax from agonized contortion. He still felt agony in his head and aching weariness in every limb, but somehow the sensations no longer troubled him.

'Moriana woke briefly and let me out. She's sleeping again. I hope she sleeps a long time, the poor girl. She's suffered many hurts. Only a few of them are of the body.'

Fost moved his head tentatively, gingerly shaking it as if unsure whether or not pieces might break off or fall out. When nothing untoward happened, he straightened and spoke.

'Water,' he said in a voice sounding like it came from another's throat.

A look of concern passed over the slender, aged face. 'I cannot help you. But 1 perceive you have your magic water flask with you.'

In objective terms, it probably would have taken more out of Fost to climb hand over hand from the ground to the Sky City on a rope than to open the satchel in which he carried Erimenes's jug and bring forth the silver-chased black flask. But certainly the chore seemed onerous. With fingers that felt as agile as the City's great sausage-shaped cargo balloons, he unstoppered the flask and held it to his lips.

The tepid water was as sweet as nectar rolling through his cottony mouth and down his parched throat. When he had found the body of Kest-i-Mond the mage murdered in the sorcerer's own study a few thousand years ago – was it only last fall? – it had seemed at first that his only reward for braving the Sky City soldiers to deliver Erimenes's spirit to the enchanter was to be the flask and a silver-covered bowl of similar make. A paltry reward, the flask produced a perpetual flow of lukewarm water and the bowl gave an inexhaustible supply of tasteless thin grey gruel. However, this wasn't the first time Fost had cause to be thankful for those items. He wiped his lips and tossed back his head, which was a mistake.

When the sledgehammer pounding in his brain had given way to a tackhammer tapping insistently at his temples and forehead and the bridge of his nose, he dared a look around. The raft was an oblong eight feet wide and twelve long. The gleaming black sphere at the stern controlled the raft's movements – under the guiding hand of a Zr'gsz.

Around him the day was overcast. A rumpled ceiling of cloud hung above his head. The clouds thinned to admit rays of watery sunlight of a sour lemon shade more unpleasant than plain shadow. Aft he saw a massive purple bulwark he eventually identified as the Thail Mountains dividing the continent. Oriented, Fost scanned all around, swivelling his head slowly to keep it from falling off his neck. North he saw the green of forests, bordered by the broad brown flood plain of the River Marchant. Beyond that the play of light and shadow on fallow lands and those planted in spring wheat turned the Black March into a giant's game.

Off to starboard lay an irregular metallic splotch with a dark mound in the middle. Its color was that of an Imperial klenor-piece whose silver wash had worn away to reveal base metal. Fost recognized Lake Wir, with Wirix unapproachable at the center. The lake was ringed with an irregular dark line that the courier didn't think was vegetation. After a moment, his eyes moved involuntarily to

Moriana, who lay huddled at his side, her shoulders rising and falling to the tidal motion of her breathing. She had mentioned leaving a force of Hissers camped on the shores of Lake Wir. Now they had become a besieging army, and a sizable one at that. Fost wondered where they'd come from in such huge numbers.

'Moriana often pondered that question,' said Ziore, causing him to jump. 'When we visited Thendrun, the place appeared deserted. More of the Vridzish were involved in the attack on the Sky City than the princess thought were exiled.' Her face grew thoughtful. 'I suppose I should call her queen now.'

'Princess is probably as accurate as any other term,' sneered Erimenes, 'since she has no domain to rule.' He wagged his head censoriously. 'Her ambitions cost her dearly. Though I daresay others will pay far more before this mess is done.'

'How can you say that!' flared Ziore. Her form became darker and redder, the light flecks within her substance blazing like tiny suns. 'This has been terrible for her! She knows well what she's caused. Indeed, she blames herself far too much since all she did was what she believed to be right.'

'She couldn't possibly blame herself too much. Should she accept an adequate share of guilt for the evils she's wrought, she'd cast herself over the edge.' Ziore's form turned almost white in rage. 'You dare…'

'Shut up!' Fost bellowed. Ignoring the aftershocks in his head, he scowled at the two genies and went on in a low, deadly voice. 'I have endured as much of your squabbling as I intend to. Another word of argument from either of you and I'll cast both your jugs over the edge of the raft.'

Both shades opened their mouths at the same time. Fost's eyes became slits of a gray ice. Both mouths promptly closed.

'That's better.' He lowered himself back on his elbows and continued his cursory survey. Black clouds obscured the country to the south, belaboring the Highgrass Broad and the Quincunx territory around Bilsinx with lightning and heavy rain. 'Where's the City?' he asked.

'Due south of us,' said Erimenes after a moment of sulking, his eyebrows lowered and his thin mouth pouted to let Fost know how miffed he was at such cavalier treatment. 'It's hidden by the clouds.'

Fost nodded, very deliberately, as if he had an egg balanced on his head and didn't want it to roll off.

'They can't see us. And I can't see them, which makes me just as glad.'

He put a hand up and gingerly explored his face. The contours weren't altogether familiar. 'How long was I out?'

'You've slept since yesterday,' Ziore answered. She didn't seem as angry over Fost's outburst as was Erimenes. She was a forgiving soul, save where Erimenes the Ethical was concerned. 'We do seem to be slowly outdistancing it.'

'Not that it matters now that they can't see us.' Being able to contradict his antagonist brought a pleased smile to Erimenes's lips. 'We floated in plain sight of the City until night came, and they showed no sign of molesting us.'

Fost lifted the flask for another drink. He still felt no hunger; the thought of food made his stomach surge and roll like a boat in a moderate sea. 'Are we just floating at random, then?' Erimenes shook his head. 'Where are we going?'

The genie inclined his head. Fost followed his gaze and found himself staring at the smoke-wreathed fang of Mt. Omizantrim. His stomach dropped away beneath him.

When he awoke, the first thing Fost saw was black Omizantrim looming over them like a hammer poised to fall, its head dense smoke shot through with lightnings. The steady rumble of the angry mountain beat against his ears. Brimstone clutched at his throat and wrinkled his nose. Even his skin gritted unclean with a sheen of ash and volcanic dust.

The second thing he saw was Moriana, sitting with her knees drawn up and her arms encircling them. Her face was haggard and pale. She turned toward the fury of the volcano as if with longing.

'Moriana,' he said softly. She neither spoke nor stirred. Cautiously, he raised himself. His head didn't start vibrating like a gong. He reached out and took her arm.

She turned to face him. Her eyes were like coals and only vaguely the green he remembered so fondly.

'Erimenes is right.' Her voice fell heavy and black like a burnt ember. 'I should fling myself over the side.'

After an ugly glance at the philosopher who stood by the port edge looking sadly at the thunderhead piled above them, Fost said, 'Nonsense. You should know better than to listen to him.'

She pulled away and looked back toward the mountain.

'I've brought disaster on the world. I wanted to save my City. Instead, I destroyed it. And I murdered you, the man I loved. Oh, you live, thanks to my error in taking the wrong amulet. But the deed was done, is done, and cannot be revoked.

She dropped her face into her hands. Her hair hung in lank strings, its normal glorious gold dimmed to mousy brown.

'Was it power I truly sought all the time I quested and connived and killed to regain my throne? Am I no better than Synalon?' Her body jerked with sobbing, convulsive despair.

Ziore's pink, smoky body fluttered in a slight breeze crossing the raft. She looked in appeal to Fost.

'I've tried to gentle her from this dark mood,' the genie said. 'But she will not be consoled. She loves you. Can you do something for her?'

A quick stab of Fost's eyes spiked the contribution Erimenes was about to make. Dragging himself forward on his arms like a cripple, he took Moriana's shoulders and turned her around.

A bright spark of rebellion blazed and died in her eyes. Knowing by that sign he was right, Fost spoke roughly and to the point.

'Whatever your motives, the deed is done,' he said. 'The Fallen Ones are in control of the City again and Istu is loose, and I doubt the Dark Ones will fail to press their first real advantage in ten millennia.' Her face tightened as he spoke. That was good, too. It was more encouraging than the slackness of depression it replaced.

'You're the most powerful magician in the Sundered Realm, probably in the world,' he went on. 'Back in the City you were potent enough to hold Istu off while some of your people escaped.' Her eyes dropped. A single tear spattered onto the gray stone.

'Only my fury at the Zr'gsz for their betrayal – and at myself for mine – gave me that power. I doubt it will come again.'

'I don't say you'll ever have power to stop the Demon of the Dark Ones. But you can do more against him than anyone else alive. We need whatever power you've got if we're to have a chance.' 'We?' He paused.

'Uh, humanity.' It sounded bald and grandiose. But it was the truth. Realization nerved him to say what must be said.

'You brought this about, Highness, Majesty, whatever I should call you. By the Five Holy Ones, you should stay alive and try to undo the disaster you've wrought!'

He released her. She slumped, her slender shoulders hunched and shaking in reaction. 'Die, if you want,' he said harshly. 'That's the coward's way out.'

Her slap bowled him over onto his back and set loose an avalanche in his head. For an instant, fireflies danced in front of his face. They faded to orange and yellow points and the accompanying pain slowly subsided to a dull aching.

'No one calls me coward!' she screamed. 'Take it back, you groundling worm!'

Despite the agony in his skull, Fost grinned when he pulled himself erect. He got his feet under him and braced his arms on either side of his knees, the roughness of the stone assuringly firm.

'Is that all I must do, Princess dear?' he said. 'Welcome back to the living.' She was in his arms, her tears hot on his cheek. CHAPTER