From five hundred feet in the air, the body of the Zr'gsz warrior plummeted down to smash into the ground not ten feet from Fost. The Vridzish bounced once, limbs waving like a rag doll's. Then it lay still.
The low caste Hissers scattered in all directions. Fost raised his eyes to the terrible apparition hovering above his head. He saluted Ch'rri with his bloody sword. It seemed an appropriate tribute.
But Ch'rri paid him no heed. Her blue slit-pupilled eyes stared toward the north where men of the Empire made their final stand. Fost followed the gaze. He couldn't believe the sight.
Jirre had come.
Tall as the sky she strode across the hills. Her hair blazed golden and her eyes were emeralds. Her flowing robes shone green and gold. In one hand she held a lyre, in the other a sword. Beholding her, men forgot their mortal peril to drop to their knees and worship.
Jirre had come.
Jirre, named by some priests the foremost of the Three and Twenty Wise Ones of Agift, Jirre, of all the gods one of the bitterest foes of the Dark Ones.
Vridzish hissed in dread. 'The devil-goddess! She comes again!' The lower caste foot soldiers knew Jirre and hated her, as they hated all gods of Light.
Half mad with fear, the nobles and officers tried to bring their troops into a semblance of order. Clouds of arrows were loosed at the apparition. She did not deign to notice. Skyrafts drove at her, through her. All to no effect.
Jirre struck her lyre. A pure, sweet tone throbbed in the air. The Zr'gsz skyrafts crumbled to dust beneath their crew's clawed feet. She swung her sword, and the Hissers fell. They fell without mark of violence on their bodies, but fall they did up to the very feet of the hard-pressed border men.
On the hilltop, Moriana raised herself on tiptoe and held her arms high above her head. Ecstatic, she felt the power pulsing through her. She blessed Oracle for his inspiration, for the idea of the illusion of one whom the Fallen Ones dreaded above all others.
'It's working!' she cried as the Zr'gsz armies disintegrated below her.
Fost flung his sword down so hard it buried itself to the hilt in the soft, blood-drenched turf. He jumped off the dog's back, letting it run off to drag down any fleeing Hisser it could catch.
He stood shaking on the now stilled battlefield. The Zr'gsz that still lived were in full flight back toward the River Marchant. Many wouldn't stop running until both their hearts burst from exertion. The armies of the North stared into the sky at their deliverer. Teom came to the door of his great pavilion and dropped to knees before the Goddess. 'Well done, Moriana! Well done, girl!' Erimenes cried. 'You've beaten them,' sang Ziore.
And the apparition turned to face Moriana. The princess turned white.
'Daughter,' boomed Jirre. 'We love you well but never again can any of the Wise aid you in this manner. Only because you opened a pathway was I able to come. I cannot come again. But know that we will do what we can, that Night shall not claim this world again.
'Farewell, most-favored daughter. Know that I love you above all.' And Jirre was gone.
'That's what I call verisimilitude,' said Erimenes with a knowing wink. Moriana couldn't control the shaking of her hands or the cold knot in her stomach as she continued to stare into the space recently occupied by Jirre.
EPILOGUE
The hills and meadows of the Black March shivered with joyous celebration. The night air rang with boasts and jubilation. Many brave men had fallen but others still lived. Foedan of Kolnith was there, his huge domed head swathed in bandages. And Sir Tharvus, one of the pitiful handful surviving the catastrophic pursuit of the routed Zr'gsz by the cavalry on the left, sat as far from Moriana as possible, giving her poisoned glances over the rim of his goblet.
But seated at the great table of honor inside Teom's pavilion, Fost and Moriana picked at the sumptuous banquet spread before them with neither joy nor appetite.
Emperor Teom had knighted Fost where he stood in the middle of the battlefield, and the battle-weary survivors had hoisted him on their shoulders, bearing him directly to the pavilion.
Moriana arrived in much the same way. Their eyes met. An infinity of meaning flowed between them.
'Now tell me, Your Highness,' said the knight sitting at Moriana's right, 'how did you get the Lady Jirre to answer your call?'
She slammed her fist down on the table. Heads turned toward her. 'I did not! It was an illusion,' she said.
Disbelieving, the heads turned away and returned to light conversation or serious consumption of food and wine. Fost laid his hand on Moriana's leg and gave it a reassuring squeeze. She nodded acknowledgement without looking at him. 'Erimenes,' he heard Ziore whisper. 'You were magnificent!' 'Of course.' Fost shut his eyes and shook his head.
At the head of the table, Teom pounded for silence with the golden pommel of a sword never drawn in anger. 'Silence! Let us have silence! I propose a toast!'
The noise died. He rose, resplendent in a gilded breastplate sculpted in the likeness of a muscular torso, with a robe of yellow lacebird silk thrown over his shoulders, the jewelled rings on his fingers shining with inner lights of their own. He raised his goblet.
'To the Princess Moriana,' he cried. 'Mightiest sorceress of the Realm, favored by the Lady Jirre, and… and…' His Adam's apple rode slowly up and down. Even the rouge and paint on his face failed to give him color. Tense silence gripped the revellers as all eyes followed his to the uppermost part of the pavilion.
'Greetings,' said Zak'zar, Speaker of the People. 'I foretold we would meet again, dear cousin Moriana. And so it has come to pass.' A corner of his mouth twisted. 'Not precisely as I predicted, I grant you, but this is after all no victory you've won. A petty respite, at best.'
He floated at the top of the tent-pole, his body radiating a cold black light. Sputtering on a mouthful of wine, the captain of the Guard bellowed for archers.
'It will do no good. I am not here. Only my likeness. A trick your Oracle knows well.' He inclined his head toward the pale, round man beside Fost.
Fost found his voice and said, 'You're bluffing, Zak'zar. We whipped you from the March like dogs.' Zak'zar's laugh chilled him to the bone.
'See then, friends, what we were doing while you were whipping dogs.'
He stretched forth his hand. A globe of intense blackness formed. A point of light danced in the middle, expanded to become a picture. The City in the Sky floated over the slate roofs and boxy pastel structures of Kara-Est.
Fost wondered why he was showing them the conquest of the seaport by the floating City; this was old news. Then he realized no eagles winged over the City and saw the strange blackness that filled the Well of Winds in the center of the City.
A black vortex extended downward from the Skywell. Where it touched, stones, people, entire buildings were uprooted and drawn upward into the blackness where they… disappeared. 'Istu!' The name ran through the tent.
'Istu,' Zak'zar agreed. 'Do you see what the great victory you won today signifies, Pale Ones? Do you, my cousin?'
Moriana wouldn't look at him. Her eyes were fixed on her plate, her face hidden by her golden hair.
'Why do you name her "cousin," you wretched creature?' Ziore shrieked at him. Counterfeit surprise crossed Zak'zar's face.
'Why shouldn't I call her that, good Ziore? Surely, you cannot object if I call my blood kin by their right name?' 'You lie!' Fost screamed as he came to his feet.
'Ah, poor Fost,' Zak'zar said, a sad chuckle escaping his throat. 'Do you truly think you can change the truth by denying it?' He raised his head to address them all. 'Know you the truth: nine thousand years ago an Athalar-trained adept came to Thendrun to receive the secret of true magic, not the petty mental tricks which the Athalar knew how to play.' Erimenes sputtered in outrage.