TWILIGHT OF THE GODS: THE FIRST NAME
By Dennis Schmidt
This book is dedicated to Freyja.
THE VIGRID
I
Two men lay just behind the crest of the ridge, hidden by the jumbled rocks and twisted scrub that crowned it. One was dark and slender, narrow of face, with an aquiline nose, thin harsh lips, and liquid black eyes. His hair was the same midnight hue as the long robe that covered his body.
The other was a complete contrast. His huge, muscular form was covered with a filthy beige robe, that reached to just below his knees. Blond hair, bleached almost white on top, hung past his shoulders in several braids. A braided beard and mustache, equally blond, covered most of his face. Two cold blue eyes stared from a light-skinned face that was peeling and sunburned. The nose was broken and twisted to the left. Full, sensual lips, dry and badly cracked, could barely be seen in the midst of his beard and mustache.
For long minutes the two lay there, unmoving except for their eyes, which took in everything, cataloging, counting, and evaluating. Satisfied, their eyes met in mutual agreement and slowly, cautiously, the men lowered their heads and began to crawl backward down the slope. Once certain they were well below the line of sight of those on the other side of the ridge, they scuttled quickly to the bottom of a narrow ravine, where a group of men awaited their return.
Surt's black eyes sparkled in response to the greedy smile that curved Borr's lips. "This is what we've been waiting for, Skullcracker," he declared. His strange southern accent and soft deep voice were a murmur barely discernible above the constant hot sigh of the west wind that scoured the barren hills. "This one will make us all rich men."
Borr nodded his blond head and grunted agreement. "Huh. Rich, yes, but there's something strange about this caravan. It's not like the others we've seen. Those guards, for instance, and that big wagon. And that one who rides alone, that one in black. I couldn't quite make out his face no matter how hard I tried. Strange."
"Strange indeed," Surt responded. "Some of those who lead the beasts wear the garb of far-off Kara Khitai. The panniers on their animals look heavy with treasure. In the days of the First Dark Empire such a thing was not unusual. Now it's rare for the Yellow Robes to journey to Muspellheim.
"The wagon is stranger yet. It's painted with the designs and curtained with the rich fabrics of dawn-lit Prin. Who knows what fabulous wealth lies within? Fabulous it must be, for those who guard it wear the livery and badges of An, the eldest Son of Muspell. Their kind do not ordinarily guard caravans. Whatever treasure the wagon carries must be bound for An himself.
"Strangest indeed is the, black one who rides along. He's a wizard, Borr, and from the looks of him, a powerful one. The caravan is rich, my Aesir friend. Rich beyond our wildest imaginings, and-it's also very well guarded."
Borr frowned. "A wizard, eh? Why a wizard to guard a caravan, even one this big and rich?"
Surt shrugged. "I don't know." He looked craftily at the Aesir. "Surely the presence of a mere wizard doesn't frighten you? Wizards can die, Skullcracker, just like ordinary men."
The blond man shook his head and growled. "I've not studied the Dark Art as you have, Surt, but I fear neither it nor those who practice it. I meet wizards and their foul evil the way I meet all enemies-with cold steel in my hand. There's no room for fear in the heart of an Aesir warrior. Our fates are rune-carved by the Nornir at our births. There's no escape. So no true Aesir cowers at home in fear. We stride forth to meet our dooms with singing hearts and blood-drenched weapons."
Surt nodded and smiled. Ah, my fine Aesir-fool, he thought. I knew you wouldn't disappoint me. You and your pale-haired friends are so big, so brave, so stupid. Oh, yes, you fear nothing. So we'll attack the caravan and many of your men will die. Then, when the treasure's won and your followers acne few, when you think it's over and you're safe at last, then, in the dark of the night, while you lie rolled in your blankets, dreaming of luxury and wealth, I and my jackals will slit your, throats! Yes! And all the treasure will be mine! All of it! All the gold and jewels that weigh down the panniers the beasts carry! Plus whatever incredible wealth lies within the wagon from Prin!
Yes! And one more thing. A shiver of expectation coursed through his body. One more thing. One thing mote valuable than all the rest. He'd caught only the briefest glimpse of it, but that had been enough. For years he'd slaved in harsh apprenticeship to old Shubur. In all that time the wizened little bastard had refused to teach him anything more powerful than the most menial spells of the Kishpu sorcery. He'd had to steal anything else and puzzle it out on his own, but if he could get possession of the thing he'd just seen, he knew he could summon and control vast power! His hands curled into grasping claws just thinking of how he would clutch it. He lowered his head to hide the lustful light he knew burned in hiss dark eyes.
Borr turned from Surt to look at the thirty men who stood in a silent, waiting group. Most were Aesir, tall, thick, and blond, with wild, shaggy hair like his own. The rest, ten in all, resembled Surt. Like their dark leader, they were condemned criminals who'd somehow escaped the wrath-of the Sons of Muspell and now roamed the Great Route between the Oasis of Kath and the Great Wall, preying on the caravans that traveled it. A scruffy lot of murderers and thieves, they made Borr uncomfortable. Not that he feared them. One' Aesir was worth ten such in a fight. It was just that they were skulking killers, throat-slitters nuking a foul living, rather than battleglad heroes seeking glory. No matter. They were useful allies here in the Twisted Lands. They knew the territory, and this was a big, well-protected caravan. They were valuable extra blades. Still, he reminded himself, it would never do to turn one's back on them.
He knew the worth of his own men. Karldred, the best ax next to his own-in all of Asaheim; Nial, a swordsman without equal; Thidrandi, Torhall, Ingvar, Haakon, Skirnir, Lodur, ail of them hardened Aesir warriors one could stand back-to-back with against any odds. They knew the wolf-work, the raven's game.
Borr grunted again and nodded. "I say we take them. How say the rest of you?" Their grins and growls were answer enough. Borr smiled and looked at Surt. "My, wolves are eager to pull down the prey, and begin the blade feast."
Surt's eyes gleams darkly. "My friends are ready too. When, and where shall wt strike?"
"Hmm. They're well armed and alert. Ordinarily I'd think one of these ravines would be the ideal spot, but not this time. They'd be ready, and the odds are too close. Hmm, I wonder." For a moment he was silent, his blue eyes half closed as he calculated and planned.
"Surt, do you remember that spot on the Vigrid?"
The dark man frowned. "The salt flat? Where the two ravines parallel' the trail?"
"Just so. What if we divided our men and put half in each ravine? When they drew abreast, one half would attack. Once the first group had them fully engaged, the second could launch a surprise attack from the rear."
Surt nodded. "Yes. They'll be less wary on the plain. We'll surprise them twice, once from the flank, once from behind."
"If we move out now we'll get to the Vigrid before them," Borr said. "We can travel all night and take up positions at dawn. They should reach us late in the afternoon. The trail runs almost north-south there, so we can launch our first attack from the west to keep the sun in their eyes. That will put the wind right in their faces too."
He paused for a moment, looking speculatively at Surt. "Have you magic to cloak our odor so their horses won't smell us and give the alarm, and to hide the second group from even their sharpest lookouts?" The dark man smiled slightly and nodded twice. '"Good," Borr grunted. "Then you'll be in the other ravine and lead the second attack." He looked around at the raiders, meeting nods of agreement. "All right, then. Let's ride. We've a long hot day and night ahead of us."
"With great wealth waiting," added Surt softly. They all chuckled grimly in response.
The Vigrid had once been a shallow seabed. Now it was a vast plain of dried; salty mud, its cracked, ravine-riddled surface lifeless and deadly. A full fifty miles wide and nearly as long, it shimmered in the heat of the southern sun. Nothing moved or stirred anywhere, except the occasional dust-devils whipped up by the ever-blowing west wind.
Haruum hated riding point. Out here in this endless flatness he felt totally exposed, one man with emptiness all around him. He looked back over his. shoulder at the caravan that stretched out behind him to reassure himself that indeed it still followed; that he was rot, in fact, alone in the midst of this stinking Vigrid. As he turned forward again, the low afternoon sun glared in his eyes and momentarily blinded him. By the Sons! he silently cursed. The damned thing was brighter now than it had been at midday.
His vision cleared at the same instant the arrow took him in the throat. With a gurgling cry of astonishment he flung his arms wide and pitched from his horse.
The raiders poured from the ravine, howling with bloodlust. Amid a clash of steel and a screaming of horses, they collided with the guards. Borr was the first to draw blood, his one handed battle-ax shattering first the shield, then the skull of one of the defenders. With a shriek of victory raised to Sigfod, God of Battle, he whirled his horse and launched himself at another enemy. An arrow thudded home .in the luckless animal's neck, and it stumbled, going down on its knees and throwing Borr forward. He dove, curled into a ball, and sprang upright even as he hit the ground. Blocking a sword sweep from a mounted warrior with his shield, he chapped at the man's leg and neatly severed it just above the knee. Blood sprayed out in a red fountain as the man tumbled backward off his horse. Borr found himself covered with another's gore. He howled triumph once more and spun about, looking for other prey.
At that moment Surt, leading the second group of attackers, struck, and suddenly everything was a whirling, slashing madness Borr turned just in time to see two guards on foot rush at him, long battle spears in hand. Quickly he thrust his one handed ax in his belt, dropped his shield, and unslung his two-handed battle-ax, Deathbringer, from his back. Brushing aside one of the spears as though it were a mere stick, he drove the guard to his knees with a mighty blow that split him from the top of his head to the middle of his chest. The other nun struck out with his weapon, and even though Borr twisted quickly to the side, the blade slashed his shoulder. He stepped back, blocking a second thrust. Then with a roar and a leap he was on the man, ax shattering spear first, chest second.
The battle raged on. Borr saw three men close on Ingvar and cut him down. Lodur, kicked senseless by a horse, was skewered on a spear. Two of Surt's black cutthroats want down, one missing an arm, the other spilling his life from a gaping wound in his stomach. More and more died as the wolf-work progressed.
Stepping back from the headless corpse of the man he had just felled, Borr felt a prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck. He looked up to see strange dark clouds growing on the southern horizon. What in the name of the gods? he wondered. Then it hit him. The wizard! Of course. The bastard was summoning something to his aid. Perhaps some demon!
Before he could turn to search, Surt was by his side. His dark eyes were wide with fear and pain. One arm hung limp, blood running down it in a red stream. With his other hand he clutched at his side where another red stain was growing, oozing through his fingers. "Skullcracker," he gasped, "the wizard's summoning something! We've got to stop him!"
"Then use your damn magic, man!" Boa snarled angrily, looking for a new enemy to kill.
"Not strong enough," Surt panted, his face twisted with pain. "I'm wounded. And he's very powerful!"
The Aesir grinned wolfishly and spat on the ground. "Magic! Bah! Give me cold steel any day!" He turned and bellowed to Skirnir, who stood nearby. "Raven-friend," he called, pointing to where the wizard stood, arms outstretched, hands clawlike, compelling, demanding. "The wizard! To me!" Not waiting to see if Skirnir followed, not needing to, he sprinted toward the black-robed man.
Four guards saw them and rushed to intercept. Borr's great ax swung up from the ground, catching one in the crotch, tumbling his steaming guts to the ground. Skirnir engaged the other two; his eyes blazing, bloody foam flecking his lips as the battle madness came on him. Borr realized the man was dying, but also knew he would probably take both guards with him to the Hall of the Gods.
One last enemy stood between Borr and the wizard. The man was huge, blacker even than Surt, with massive legs and arms like the branches of an oak. He swung a sword nearly as long as Borr's ax and handled it as though it weighed nothing. Skullcracker smiled. Here was a warrior indeed! This was the kind of fight the skalds sang of!
The swordsman swung from overhead, a powerful blow meant to split Borr in two. The Aesir met the blade with the head of his ax. His own blow went low, aiming at the knees of his opponent. The huge guard jumped back lightly, his face split by a grin. "Well met, shaggy one," he thundered. "I am Jormungand, the Serpent, and I am your death!" His voice had the same soft deep quality as Surt's, but with a slight hissing overtone, as if the man were indeed some kind of giant black serpent.
"My death's not rune-written on your sword, black one. I'm Borr Skullcracker, and I'll soon crack yours!" He swept his ax in a great arc, directed at Jormungand's ribs. The sword met the ax in a ringing shower of speaks. Again the sword flew toward Borr, and again he blocked, countering with a mighty blow at the head of his adversary. Sword and ax clashed again.
As Borr slashed, parried, and countered, a dread began to grow in his heart. This was no ordinary warrior. Under any circumstances he was a fair match, but Borr bled from several wounds and felt the growing exhaustion of no less than six previous battles. The giant Jormungand seemed fresh and woundless. Plus there was the problem of the wizard. If all Borr had had to do was fight the black giant, he was confident he could eventually overcome the man. But every second he wasted in combat brought whatever the wizard was summoning that much closer. He didn't have much time left, and he knew it.
Damn! he cursed silently. Jormungand blocks or avoids everything I throw at him. The man's a superb warrior! Skald material indeed! The grim cloud that writhed toward them from the southern horizon was closer now, and the black guard knew it. His smile widened slightly as he stepped back from a swing of Deathbringer.
Only a long shot can win now, Borr realized. Well, then, cast it all on one chance. It makes no difference anyway. What's written in the runes is written, and all a man's striving cannot change it. With a silent prayer to Sigfod he swept up the great ax as though to make another head attack. Bringing it forward in a whistling arc, he let go of the haft as it reached throat level. Jormungand, who had stepped back to avoid the blow, was startled by the unexpected maneuver. He tried to block, but was not successful. The ax struck him on the left side of his head, spraying gouts of blood and flesh and sending his ear flying. He staggered and fell.
With a howl of victory Borr sprang forward over the sprawled body of the guard. With his right hand he clawed his smaller ax from his belt. The wizard was only a few yards off.
Suddenly Borr's whole body was afire, beat seating him, his robe bursting into flame. With a roar of anguish he rolled around on the ground, putting out the blaze. The cursed wizard is Warded, he realized. I can't reach the unholy bastard! He glanced up at the cloud, now much closer, and felt a sickness. It seemed something alive now, not just a mere cloud. Something alive and blackly evil, twisting, writing, seeking, and hungry.
Borr shivered and stood. He looked wildly around for any of his raiders. All were still engaged. None had their bows to hand, having dropped them after the first fusillade that had opened the battle. Bows were of no value in close quarters, and the fighting was now hand-to-hand.
Cold steel could stop a wizard, he knew, and even a fire Ward could not keep it out. The distance was overlong for a good throw. The man was no fool. Yet Borr knew he had no choice. With a murmured plea to Sigfod to carry his ax like the wind and let it create the raven feast, he pulled back his arm and hurled.
The ax flew true and buried its blade in the chest of the wizard. The black-robed man staggered and went to one knee, dying, but not yet finished. Borr pulled the long dagger from his belt and threw himself forward. The Ward was still in place, but it had weakened. The heat seared his flesh and he cursed, but his momentum carried him through. His hair smoking, he sprinted for the wizard. Reaching the kneeling man, whose arms were still outstretched, hands still summoning, demanding, Borr slashed his throat with a sweep of his blade. The wizard slowly toppled backward. As he hit the ground a great roll of thunder cracked overhead, throwing Borr to his knees. Lightning ripped the sky, stabbing the billowing black cloud that had almost reached them. Blinded and deafened, Borr pitched forward onto his face as the world exploded around him. .
By the time he came to, the sun was balanced on the horizon. Thidrandi knelt over him, a waterskin in his hands. Borr felt thirst in a sudden wave. Licking his dry, cracked lips, he raised himself on one elbow and drank.
Slowly, he came to a sitting position. Every part of his body hurt horribly. The mingled smell of his own blood, sweat, and burnt hair was enough to sicken trim. There were worse smells in the air. A disemboweled man lay nearby, reeking of shit and half-digested food. It was one of Surt's.
He looked around. Five of his Aesir were still on their feet. Two of Surt's men were rifling the bodies of the dead for valuables. Every other form lay still and unmoving. The stench of death was heavy.
Carefully noting the locations of all his aches and pains, he stood.. He stepped to the dead wizard and picked up his knife. Black blood stained the blade. Grabbing the haft of his one-handed ax, he pulled it free of the man's chest. It, too, was caked with black gouts of gore. He thrust both into his belt and walked slowly over to where Jormungand lay, the left side of his head a mass of drying blood. The great ax lay a few feet beyond him. Borr picked it up and then, resting the head on the ground, he leaned against the haft and stared down at the huge black guard. The skalds will sing of you, Serpent; he promised silently. You were the best I ever fought. I hope your gods feast you well, wherever you have gone.
Turning from Jormungand, his eyes fell on the great wagon that stood silently in the midst of the carnage, the two horses that had pulled it dead in their traces. He caught Thidrandi's eye and pointed. Together, weapons ready, they approached the wagon.
The others, seeing Borr's destination, joined him. In a half circle they finally stood and stared, wondering what great treasure lay within, treasure for which they had spilled so much blood. The chests on the horses had already yielded heavy chains and necklaces, arm and finger rings of gold and silver, some plain, others encrusted with shimmering jewels. One chest held nothing but jewels, several as large as a man's fist. With so much of value carried by mere beasts, what incredible wealth must be within such a conveyance?
Borr set Deathbringer on the ground and .pulled his one-handed ax from his belt. Weapon ready in his right hand, he stepped forward and reached out with his left. Carefully his fingers gathered the rich cloth of the wagon's cover. With a sudden mighty pull he ripped it away.
None had known quite what to expect, but what met their eyes was beyond the wildest imagining. The wagon held one thing, and one thing only.
Seated in the center, wrapped in many-hued veils; surrounded by gold-stitched pillows, was a woman. Only her eyes were visible behind the veils, and they stared at Borr with a frightened but calculating light.
For a moment they all stood rooted to the spot in utter astonishment. Then Borr broke the frozen tableau with a bellow of rage. His ax flashed in a sudden arc, smashing into the floor of the wagon, almost splitting it in two. "This," he roared, clenching his fists and shouting at the darkening sky, "this is what we played the raven's game for! This is the great treasure, guarded by so many lives, that we did the wolf-work for! By the gods, I . . . ." His rage was so great, he couldn't find words to express it.
He laughed, a great bellow that was anything but mirthful. "By damn, then! If this is what I bled for, then this is what I'll enjoy!" With a snarl he stepped forward and grabbed the woman by the arm. He pulled her off the wagon and began ripping the veils from her. The body he exposed brought a murmur of awe from everyone. It was faultless. A light brown in color, with high, firm, full breasts, a thin waist, and wide, sensual hips, it even drew a grunt of surprise from Borr.
He threw the woman to the ground, his eyes meeting hers again. There was no longer any fear there. Instead... instead Borr could swear he detected a look of triumph in their dark depths. For the first time he noticed the woman's face, as naked now as her body. His breath caught in his throat. She was unlike any woman he had ever seen, strange and beautiful at the same time. Her eyes were black and almond-shaped. Her nose was thin and slightly arched. Her mouth, full and incredibly sensuous.
Despite his battle-weariness and the ache of strained muscles and fresh wounds, the Aesir warrior found himself aroused. By the gods, he thought hotly, this is a woman! He ripped the tattered, blood-stained robe from his body and fumbled with his belt, his hands unexpectedly clumsy with eagerness. Dropping his breeches and stepping out of them, he untied his breechclout with shaking fingers. Naked at last, he threw himself on her with a deep growl of desire.
Her arms went around him, her fingernails digging into his back. Her mouth rose hungrily to meet his in a deep and passionate kiss. Almost losing control, he felt a fire growing in his loins. She gripped him tightly, her body moving with his in a natural harmony he had never felt with another woman. The fire and pressure grew rapidly, incredibly. Without warning, long before he expected it, he arched in a mixture of ecstasy and agony and poured himself into her in a sudden, burning flood. Instantly she responded, moaning and thrashing in her own orgasm.
He paused for a moment, stunned and delighted. But before he could withdraw and roll off, the woman began to move beneath him, expertly bringing him back to life and rekindling his excitement. They moved together again, more slowly now, each knowing the other better, each trying to wring every drop of pleasure from every movement. Their cries were simultaneous this time, as well as louder and more intense.
Borr found himself staring in wonder into those dark eyes, lighted as his own were by the slowly dying fire of incredible pleasure. The Aesir heard one of the men standing in the awed and silent circle murmur, "A treasure indeed." Before he knew quite what he was doing, Borr was on his feet, legs spread, standing over the woman. "My treasure," he growled hoarsely. "By right of Warleader, I claim the woman as my first portion." Several of the others muttered, but they all stepped back. Borr glared around the circle, daring anyone to challenge him. Their eyes dropped one by one. Triumphant, the blond Aesir warrior looked down at his prize. She met his gaze squarely, the light of victory unmistakable in her glance.
With a curse to cover his confusion, Borr stepped back and reached down to retrieve his breechclout from the ground. He put it back on as the rest of the raiders wordlessly watched. Not bothering with his breeches, he thrust his dagger through the strip of leather that held the clout in place. He picked up his small ax and looked around the circle. "Well," he growled, "what are you all standing around for? There's looting to be finished." At once the other men turned away and began to move about the scene of the battle, checking every body, both friend and enemy, for signs of life or things of value.
For several moments Borr watched them go. Then he reached down and picked up the woman's torn garments. He threw them to her, silent, not letting his eyes meet hers. With a grunt he stalked off to see what had happened to his warriors. He could feel her gaze on him as he left. The knowledge that she watched made him both uncomfortable and excited.
By the light of a fire kindled with wood from the wagon-, they finished the final tally and bound each other's wounds. Of the more than thirty who had attacked, only eight were still walking. Three more, including Surt, were badly wounded. So badly, Borr doubted they could survive more than a day of traveling. They would have to be abandoned. Raiders could not afford to carry those unable to tide swiftly. The Great Route was patrolled, and by tomorrow evening at the latest they knew a patrol coming from the south would pass this way. They would have to be far from the scene of the attack by then.
Of loot, they had more than they could carry. The eight would have to leave behind all but the best. There were just enough horses, twelve in all. Nine to be ridden, three to carry water, food and booty. By right of Warleader, Borr had claimed two; one to carry himself and food, the other to-carry the woman and loot.
One of the black cutthroats approached Borr 's fire and squatted down. He gestured out into the darkness. "Surt wants to talk to you." Borr nodded and rose stiffly, favoring his wounded side. He picked a piece of wood from the fire and, using it as a torch, limped to where Surt lay.
He looked down at the slender man. Surt was no longer black. His face was a sickly gray. A thin trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth, his breathing was shallow, and at first Borr thought he was unconscious. Then the pain-filled eyes opened wide, and Borr knelt.
"As rich as I said, eh, Skullcracker?" Surt muttered, his voice strained and weak.
"As rich as you said, yes."
"Good." Surt paused, gathering his strength. "We'll leave at sunrise. The sooner we get away from here, the better."
Borr was silent for a moment. The steady sighing of the hot west wind filled the night.
Surt's gaze became sharper. "We leave in the morning, Borr"
"You're finished, Surt. Gut wound. You'll die in half a day. Might not even make it to morning. Only slow us down. We've got to move fast now."
"No." The wounded man's voice was surprisingly strong in denial. "I'll make it. You can't leave me."
The blond man shrugged. "I'm leaving two of my own. I'm not taking anyone who can't ride and ride hard. A lot of us became raven food tin this raid.. We gained great treasure and much honor, but the price was high, and we can't afford to lose what we've gained because of a few men wounded beyond hope. That's the way the game goes. You'd leave me behind in the same circumstances. That's the risk we take when we play at the wolf-work."
"Don't leave me! I'm wounded, but I can keep up!"
Borr snorted and stood. "You're dying." He turned to leave.
"No!"
"Good-bye, Surt," Borr said without turning. "We go in the morning. You stay. Unless," he added with a sneer, "you've magic enough to heal yourself by then." The Aesir began to limp away, leaving Surt and the dark behind as he headed for the fire and the living.
"No!" The tone of Surt's voice froze Borr in his tracks. He spun around and could just make out the form of the slender man, raised on one elbow, his other arm thrust out toward him, the fingers moving in a strange pattern.
"Take me or take my curse," Surt panted, his voice shaking with pain and emotion. "Take me, or I'll take you and all your spawn and all your people! Take me or die, Aesir!"
The hairs on the back of Borr's neck rose in response to the black man's dread words. Something shrugged in the night. Borr shivered involuntarily. Is the little man's power that great? he wondered briefly. Then he took hold of himself and, spat contemptuously at the dark. "You're dead, Surt, and even if you had enough life left in you to make your curse stick, I don't fear it or you. I am Aesir." With a growl he turned once more and stalked back to the fire.
In the morning they rode out, passing Surt's body. The man was still alive, but too weak to curse or even speak. His glittering eyes, filled with insane hatred, followed Borr and his little party long after they had left the pillaged caravan behind.
DARK EMPIRE
II
All through the blistering day Surt lay as one dead. Yet, strangely, the birds of prey that began to drop from the sky to squabble over the corpses gave his body and that of the giant Jormungand a wide berth. As the sun neared the western horizon Surt's eyelids quivered once or twice and then opened to reveal two glittering black eyes.
Slowly, painfully, Surt began to drag himself across the deserted battlefield. He paused for a few moments as he reached the body of Jormungand, stretching out his shaking hand to touch the still form. Nodding his head, satisfied by what his touch told him, he withdrew his hand and began to crawl once more.
The Dragon was high in the sky; his barbed tail stinging the southern horizon, by the dine Suit reached his objective. A dim glow to the east foretold the coming of the moon. The dark man reached out and cautiously touched the dead wizard. He pulled his hand back quickly and cowered down, pressing himself tightly to the ground. When nothing happened after several moments, he reached out more boldly and pulled himself close to the rigid corpse. The wizard was lying on his back, felled by the' force of Borr's throat-slashing blow. Carefully Surt felt his way across the still chest.
Ah! There! He had it! With a whimper of joy and terror; his hand closed over the talisman the wizard had worn around his neck.
Surt had seen it the instant he first noticed the man from behind the ridge where he and Borr had scouted the caravan. Wizard or no wizard, the man had been a fool to wear the talisman on the outside of his robe where anyone might see. Perhaps he hadn't realized its true value, or perhaps he was so confident of his own power that he'd become reckless and arrogant. In any case, when Surt had spotted the dull gray talisman, he knew it to be hammered from a piece of virgin sky iron and set with a raw, uncut ruby of exceptional size. He'd immediately realized it ways by far the greatest in the whole caravan, though it did not look at alt valuable.
Clutching the talisman to his chest, he began the chant he'd discoverer long ago while sneaking a look at one of old Shubur's books. He'd been apprenticed to the wizard until Shubur had caught him stealing spells and turned him out into the streets of Maqam Nifl.
He was weak, and he stumbled over some of the words, slurred others. Nevertheless, the power of the talisman was so great he cold, feel the force building. Suddenly Surt knew the night was listening.
Momentarily terrified by what he had summoned, unsure he could control it, he had to swallow several times before he was able to speak. Finally, gathering his fast-failing strength, his voice a hoarse whisper, he croaked, "Oh, mighty Nergal, King of Aralu, Lord of Hosts, I call on you and beg your aid." There was a silent acknowledgment from the emptiness around him. Emboldened by the response, he continued. "My enemies have grievously wounded me, lord. I am weak and dying. I cannot offer you the usual sakes, nor have I the strength or knowledge to chant the usual rituals. But I killed many men yesterday, and each I dedicated to you as he fell. Accept them, lord, and hear my plea."
A wave of weakness washed over him, and he nearly blacked out. He fought it, panting with the effort, trying to concentrate his thoughts and keep his mind clear. So weak, he moaned inwardly, so weak for such a task. He swallowed twice, but there was no moisture in his mouth, and his throat felt like dust.
He began again. "Lord, I have no father. What is a man without a father? Lord, I have no mother. What is a man without a mother? Lord, I have no brother, no sister. What is a man without a brother, without a sister? Lord, I have no teacher, no master, no city, no home. What is a man without a teacher, a master , a city, a home? Lord, I have nothing. I am nothing.
"Lord, be my father. Be my mother. Be my brother and my sister. Be my teacher, master, city, home. Lord, be any everything. I would be your servant. Mend me and make me whole.. I would be your, servant."
The darkness threatened to overwhelm him once more. He fought it, doggedly, hopelessly, with the last of his rapidly draining strength and life. It's up to Nergal now, he thought dimly. He either accepts my plea or rejects it. I either live or die.
An unspoken command came from out of the night. Shaking from both terror and exhaustion, he did as he teas told. Slowly he pulled himself over on top of the dead wizard until he was lying on the man. Then he lowered his mouth to the gaping grin of the corpse and kissed it, sealing the hole with his own lips.
He felt the dead wizard begin to melt away beneath him. At the same time a bitter fluid passed from the corpse's mouth to his own. He swallowed, half gagging, knowing he no longer had any choice. As the fluid burned down his throat and into his stomach, a strange icy warmth began to spread throughout his body. With it came a return of strength. Greedily now he sucked at the dead man's mouth.
The corpse shriveled away to nothing, a mere bag of skin and bones wrapped in a filthy black robe. Sated, a sense of dark power coursing through his veins, Surt sat up and stared into the night. There in the blackness was a deeper blackness. He bowed his head to it. "Lord," he murmured, "you are my father. You are my mother. You are my brother and my sister. You are my teacher, my master, my city, my home. You are everything. I an your servant, your slave." A grim agreement filled his mind. Then came a command, one that made him blanch and tremble. "Y-yes, m-my lord," he replied, his voice breaking as he said the words. "I...I understand and will obey." Abruptly the dark within the dark was gone, and Surt knew he was alone among many corpses.
For several moments he sat absolutely still, trying to control the shaking of his hands and the turmoil in his mind. Lord Nergal exacts a high price for his favors, he thought.
As he sat...
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