Ashar raised his own ensorcelled blade and blue steel rang loud against crimson, sparks coruscating about the combatants, both weapons glowing with magical life.

  “You cannot win,” rasped the god, becoming Bedyr again, though but briefly, for it seemed the power invested in Kedryn and in Drul’s glaive robbed him of that shape-shifting ability, revealing him clear to Kedryn’s angry eyes.

  “By the Lady,” answered the Chosen One, “I can.”

  He turned his sword as Ashar parried, the great weapon light in his hands, deflecting the god’s cut, driving in again to hack at the pulsating belly. Ashar stood his ground, trading blow for blow, the yard filled with the clamor of steel on steel, cloven hooves clattering as the deity danced and sought to sunder Kedryn’s chest, sever his neck, raining savage blows against the gaunt, fierce-eyed man. Each attack was turned and answered in kind, the righteous fury that possessed Kedryn lending him a physical strength to match the spiritual puissance burning within him, and Ashar was slowly driven back toward the weed-hung colonnades.

  Tepshen saw his chance and sprang to the plinth, stepping into the blue nimbus that surrounded Wynett. He slid his blade between the links of the binding chain and levered, tendons bulging along his arms. The chain broke and the manacles securing Wynett’s wrists fell free. Tepshen put an arm about her waist and swung her clear of the pillar, depositing her on the flagstones, neither of them, their eyes fixed on the battle raging across the yard, aware of her nudity.

  “Aid him,” Wynett urged.

  Tepshen shook his head. “I cannot. This is his battle and his alone.”

  He took her wrist then, holding her back as she moved to aid Kedryn, who now pressed Ashar hard, sending the god scuttling back against the leprous weeds.

  The growths smoldered in the sparks cascading from the clashing blades, the acrid smell of burning joining the fetor of the stinking hold. Kedryn felt his hair scorch, was aware of tiny points of pain on his exposed skin as he moved through the fiery rain, but they were as nothing under the purpose that '7bpipped him. He saw fear flicker in the yellow eyes and laughed again, the sound eliciting a foul curse from Ashar. He swung his blade in a great, two-handed stroke and felt it snag on burning vines. Now Ashar grinned a death’s-head smile and stabbed his blade like a dagger at Kedryn’s belly. Kedryn spun, all the long hours of Tepshen’s training coming to his aid, sucking in his stomach as he bent, seeing the crimson steel slice the filthy linen of his shirt, the same movement freeing his weapon so that he drove the hilt down against the god’s outthrust wrist.

  Ashar screamed as the talisman mounted on the pommel touched him. His flesh seared and he darted back. Kedryn paced after him, parrying a thrust, unable to swing the glaive in that confined space.

  Then the god was backed against a door of dully burnished metal and he kicked it open, springing into the chamber behind. Kedryn followed him, raising the glaive to deflect a cut that would have split his skull had it landed, seeing that they now fought within a chamber of blood-red marble, twinned pillars forming an aisle down the center. Ashar ducked behind the shelter of a column and they commenced a slow, zigzagging progress through the piles, marble chipping and flaking as their blades clashed and were deflected, sparks of livid crimson flying from Ashar’s, sparks of purest azure from Kedryn’s, filling the room with dazzling, rainbow light. Rank sweat beaded the god’s forehead, running down his hideous face to mat the orange hair that mantled his shoulders. Kedryn felt only the exhilaration of combat, uplifted by the purity of his intent, fueled by the desire to revenge Wynett’s suffering, Brannoc’s death, all the suffering and the misery inflicted by this malign deity. Drul’s glaive was a steel feather in his hands, his own battle skill augmented by the power of the talisman that glowed fierce as vengeance at the hilt. He had no thought of hurt, no fear, only the compelling animus of Ashar’s destruction. It drove him onward, oblivious of Wynett and Tepshen entering the chamber behind him.

  Ashar, his face toward the door, saw them and attacked with a fresh fury, screaming obscene curses as he hacked and slashed, his blade a blur of motion that now put Kedryn on the defensive. The god forced the man back, Kedryn retreating slowly, moving between the lines of pillars. He sensed the door at his back and allowed Ashar to drive him toward it, thinking to ensnare the god’s blade in the vines beyond. Instead, Ashar leapt, goatishly nimble, to the side, his great sword arcing in a flat curve that smashed Tepshen’s defense aside as easily as if the eastern blade were matchwood, swinging on to carve a great red gash across Wynett’s naked stomach.

  Kedryn saw it as though time slowed, allowing him to observe each awful detail. He saw Tepshen stagger back. Saw Wynett’s flesh part, die droplets of blood arch crimson from the wound. Saw the greater flow as her life gushed out on the pulse beat of her heart. Heard her scream. Saw her eyes open wide in pain. Heard Ashar’s triumphant roar and his own heart-rent bellow. Saw Wynett double, hands pressing to the dreadful wound as she fell down on her face. Saw Ashar’s blade continue in a circle as the god spun, aiming a devastating cut at his own belly.

  And blocked it with Drul’s. glaive, feeling the shock vibrate through his shoulders as dreadful rage consumed him, terrifying in its intensity, awesome, overwhelming him.

  He became then something as inhuman as the god himself, a machine of pure destruction. The power he had felt before magnified, and Ashar recognized it, the triumph that lit his yellow eyes fading as Kedryn rasped the glaive up the length of the crimson sword, stepping inside his reach to slice the blade upward, carving a line from chest to chin. Pus-thick gore oozed from the wound and Ashar danced backward as Kedryn’s stroke reversed, sweeping at his skull. Steel glanced from a curling horn and Ashar gasped, disbelief widening his gaze. Kedryn swung again and Ashar ducked, prancing away as the tip of one horn was sundered. He strove to turn the blows, losing chunks of gray skin as Kedryn forced him back between the pillars, his torso and shoulders becoming slick with the purulent matter that oozed from the wounds. He screamed in fury and frustration and turned on his heels, running for the farther end of the chamber.

  Kedryn charged after, the glaive upraised, and saw Ashar fling open an inner door, lunging into the room beyond. He followed, finding himself now inside a great, dark hall, vaulted high, its lithic walls akin to the hold’s exterior. Candles with bloody flames burned in sconces and chandeliers, and from a circle of tall stands set around a monstrous throne that loomed black from the center. Ashar turned here, desperate now as he parried the rage-engendered strength of his foe, the hall flickering with the light coruscating from both blades. A stand toppled, its fallen candle spilling molten wax like running blood across the floor. Ashar thrust another over at Kedryn, driving in as the man ducked clear of the flame that threatened to sear his eyes. Kedryn was too fast. He turned the blow and countered with a vicious cut that propelled Ashar backward, hooves drumming as he staggered against the dais of the throne. Kedryn lunged forward, the glaive a weaving column of blue light in his hands, and Ashar backed up the steps of the dais.

  His thighs touched the seat’s edge and he realized he could retreat no farther. He roared, the sound a fetid wash about Kedryn’s face, and lifted his sword high, steel catching light from the candles, burning as though he raised a blade of flame.

  And Kedryn set one foot upon the lowermost step, muscles bunching as he hurled himself forward, oblivious of the blade that descended, his own thrust out.

  The point struck Ashar’s belly. Drove through to imbed in the basalt of the throne, rammed home with all the strength Kedryn could muster, the power of Estrevan in his arms, the Lady’s blessing guiding him, rage and grief and revenge in the stroke. He pitched facedown at the foot of the throne, feeling Ashar’s blade land across his back, not hard with a killing stroke, but heavy as a fallen weapon, dropped from taloned hands that now clutched at the length of blue-glowing steel pinning the god to his unholy seat.

  Hooves drummed furiously before Kedryn’s face and he rolled away, kicking the dropped sword across the floor. He rose on hands and knees, staring, and climbed slowly to his feet, his eyes fixed on the creature that screamed and writhed before him.

  Drul’s glaive was driven hilt-deep into Ashar’s belly. The god whimpered as he clutched at the haft, screaming as the blue fire radiating from the talisman seared his fingers. The nimbus grew, surrounding him with its azure fulguration and his hands fell away, clawing at his chest. Bloody tears spilled from his pain-slitted eyes and his movements slowed until finally he slumped still, his arms dropping to his sides, his ghastly head drooping on his ravaged chest. Kedryn saw that he was pinned, not sure if he was dead, and turned in search of the fallen sword, intent on severing the horned head from the slumped shoulders.

  He saw the blade gleam in the blue light, plain steel now, and saw Wynett’s half of the talisman fallen clear of the arachnid pommel as if, the god defeated, it sought to distance itself from his debased creation. It pulsed with a feint life and Kedryn cupped it, forgetting Ashar as the rage left him and his eyes filled with tears. He groaned, “Wynett!” and turned his back on the vanquished god, moving on leaden feet toward the door.

  The talisman glowed brighter as he quit the hall and he felt it vibrate beneath his fingers. Clutching ft tight he stepped into the marbled chamber, grief like ashes in his mouth as he saw Tepshen knelt beside Wynett’s body, a tom pink gown hiding her nudity, the pink dark red where cloth touched wound.

  “Ashar is defeated,” he said dully, kneeling, his vision blurred by tears as he stared at the dear, dead face.

  Tepshen stared at him, his own features lined with grief. Kedryn reached out, stroking Wynett’s sun-golden hair, touching her lips, easing lids down over the blankly staring blue eyes he could not bear to see. Grief filled him then and he threw back his head, wailing. Tepshen reached to hold him, but halted the movement, his slanted eyes widening as blue radiance filled the doorway.

  “Would you have her back?” asked a voice of such tranquil passion that Kedryn’s keening died in his throat.

  He wiped a hand over his tear-filled eyes, head turning slowly to observe the figure that entered the chamber.

  She moved within a corona of light, almost too intense to permit clear vision, her form and features impressions rather than definite outlines, but nonetheless glorious, radiating love, serenity, a calm confidence that brooked no doubt of her ability to fulfill the promise implicit in her question. Kedryn stared at her, seeing a woman who was Wynett and Yrla, the Sisters of Estrevan, all one, embodying all that was good, all that was pure and honest. He nodded dumbly, unable to speak, and she smiled, that simple expression wondrous.

  Gracefully she walked toward them, kneeling beside Wynett, gently removing the bloodstained gown. She extended a hand, her fingertips touching the bloody wound. Still dumbstruck, Kedryn stared as the gash sealed, flesh knitting seamlessly, no scar or trace of hurt remaining. Wynett’s breasts rose and her lips parted, breath sighing as though she awoke from deep slumber. Her eyes opened, widening as she found herself looking at the woman.

  “Lady?” she murmured. “Am I then come to you? Is Kedryn . . . ?”

  She fell silent as Kyrie touched her lips, smiling.

  “Not yet, Sister,” said the goddess. “And Kedryn lives. I would not see you parted.”

  Wynett turned her head then, seeing Kedryn, and held out her arms. He enfolded her in his embrace, tears of joy spilling now, kissing her, stroking her hair, glorying in the touch of her warm, living flesh.

  “Thank you, Lady,” he wept, laughing and crying at the same time.

  “I owe you thanks,” she returned. “All the world owes you thanks, for without your travails—and those of your comrades—,” her radiant gaze took in Tepshen, “Ashar should have conquered and evil reign.”

  “Is he then dead?” Wynett asked.

  “Not dead.” Kyrie shook her head. “He is a god and it is no easy task to slay a god. But he is held now, thanks to Kedryn. The talisman will pin him, for none here may venture close and Ashar may not remove the sword himself. In time, perchance, there will be one who finds a way to bring him back, but that is for the far future and for now the Kingdoms shall know peace. The Beltrevan, too, for with Ashar defeated his power shall wane and brotherhood hold sway.”

  “I would have taken his head,” Kedryn murmured, “had I not seen Wynett’s talisman.”

  “It is not too late,” Tepshen declared, fingering his sword.

  “Leave him,” smiled Kyrie. “What is done is sufficient, and it is time you quit this place. Balance is restored to the world and you have fulfilled all that may be asked of you.”

  “Brannoc,” said Kedryn. “Might you not restore Brannoc to life?”

  For an instant Kyrie’s face grew sad and she shook her head. “That may not be. I am able to restore Wynett because she died on Ashar’s blade and that weapon was forged with something of mine to lend it power. In his hatred and his pride Ashar did not realize that what is good may never be totally overwhelmed, so the stolen part of my talisman enabled me to return Wynett’s life. But Brannoc’s was taken by Taziel’s hammer and that I cannot give back.”

  Kedryn sighed, holding tighter to Wynett. “Does he then dwell in this foul place?” he asked mournfully.

  “No,” said Kyrie. “Brannoc gave his life willingly that you might succeed, and now inhabits those realms where dwell my followers. He is at peace, Kedryn—you need not mourn him.”

  “I shall miss him, however,” he said.

  “He was a true friend,” the goddess nodded, “and you should not forget to name him to the balladers.”

  Kedryn smiled then and promised, “I shall not. The coffers of Andurel shall reward the finest elegy.”

  “He will like that,” smiled Kyrie. “Now, let us depart this miserable place.”

  “One thing more,” Kedryn said, “I promised Dnil’s shade the return of his glaive—how may I now honor that undertaking?”

  “Bring him the other,” Kyrie advised. “He will accept it.”

  “I will fetch it,” said Tepshen, rising to stride into the hall.

  Kedryn was glad enough to leave that task to the kyo, for he had no great desire to see Ashar’s transfixed body again, and waited until Tepshen returned with the weapon.

  “So,” Kyrie declared. “It is done.”

  She rose, motioning them to follow her. Kedryn helped Wynett to her feet, frowning as he realized she was naked. Kyrie saw his expression and stooped to retrieve the bloodstained gown, holding it a moment before handing it to Wynett.

  “It is cleansed,” she murmured as Wynett hesitated to take the robe, “and it will do for now.”

  Wynett accepted the gown and as she took it, it became a dress of purest Estrevan blue, unsullied. “My thanks, Lady.” She smiled, donning the garment.

  Kyrie acknowledged her gratitude with a nod and led the way to the door. “Come,” she urged. “Change is afoot and we had best be gone.”

  Her words were emphasized by a peal of sullen thunder that shook the walls of the keep. The fecal stench was gone, replaced by a sulfurous odor reminiscent of Taziel’s cavern. Above, lightning roiled scarlet, the fiery sky avid, great gusting billows of black cloud racing on the growing wind. Kedryn pressed the talisman into Wynett’s hand saying, “This fell from die sword.”

  Wynett studied the jewel, her eyes troubled. “I gave it to Ashar,” she whispered. “Do I have the right to hold it now?”

  “Child,” smiled Kyrie, “Ashar deceived you and you acted only to aid Kedryn—take it and wear it in the knowledge it carries my blessing.”

  She paused beside the column that had held Wynett prisoner, taking the severed chains and passing them through her hands to form a necklace of delicate silver links that she attached to the talisman, sealing the chain about Wynett’s neck.

  “With my blessing,” she repeated. “Now hurry, lest this odious place fall about our ears.”

  There was an urgency in her tone that brooked no delay and they hurried through the courtyard as fresh thunder rumbled above them, the lightning striking the black towers now, ebon stone burning red, the flags trembling under their feet. They passed through the gates and walked quickly to the bridge, halting there as Kyrie beckoned them closer, raising her arms so that the effulgence surrounding her held them all within its light. Kedryn looked back, seeing Ashar’s hold shudder beneath the onslaught of the storm, the towers crumbling, crashing down upon the walls, that in turn fell, sealing the place. Forever, he hoped, as the vision faded and he clutched Wynett, suspended in blue light.

  When that radiance faded they stood within the confines of Drul’s tomb, firelight bright above, throwing stark shadows over the moldered armor and the yellow bones. Tepshen placed Ashar’s sword between the gauntleted hands and Kyrie said, “Now all is done, and done well. The woodlanders will not harm you—go out amongst them and they will bring you safely home.”

  She gestured and they stood atop the mound, the great bonfire of the Gathering blazing fierce all around. Of the Lady there was no sign, but from the talisman Wynett wore there came a radiance that surrounded them and Wynett said, “Come, the fire will not harm us.”

  Kedryn set an arm about her shoulders and she linked hands with Tepshen as they walked through the flames to confront the startled faces of the Drott. Cord stepped forth, his bearded features awed as he bowed and raised his arms in greeting.

  “Hef-Alador?” he said wonderingly.

  “Aye,” Kedryn answered. “And come to tell you of the world’s new turning.”

  Barris Edon felt his close-cropped hair rise beneath his leathern helm and took a firmer grip on his sword, deciding that one of the disadvantages of keen eyesight was that it placed him always on watch, and while that was an easy enough duty on the walls of High Fort, here in the Beltrevan it was somewhat less desirable. Especially with so vast a throng of woodlanders moving remorselessly toward him. He shaded his eyes, wondering why the horde cheered so, and why the warriors held, not swords and axes, but clusters of white and red feathers. He rose to his feet, shouting up the slope, seeing bows nocked and Chatelain Rycol come running down with an agility that belied the commander’s age, Gerat close on his heels. Then he shouted again as he saw the three figures riding at the head of the barbarian column and recognized them.