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Then Brandin of Ygrath rose and stepped to the rim of his hillA distant figure alone under the sun in that high placeAnd a moment later, Alberico, who was a sorcerer himself, felt, for he could not have actually heard, the dark, absolute words of invocation that Brandin spoke, and his blood froze in his veins like ice in the dead of a winter night
"He cannot," he gasped aloud"Not after so long! He cannot do this!"
But the Ygrathen wasHe was reaching for all, summoning everything, every last scintilla of his magic, holding nothing backNothing, not even the power that had sustained the vengeance that had kept him here all these yearsHe was emptying himself to shape a sorcery such as had never been wielded before
Desperately, still half disbelieving, Alberico reached out for the wizardsTo tell them to brace, to be readyCrying that there were eight of them, nine, that they could hold against thisThat all they had to do was survive this moment and Brandin would be nothing, a shellWaste, for weeks, months, years! A hollow man with no magic in chanel messenger bags him anymore
Their minds were closed, barred against himThey were still there though, and defending, bracedOh, if the horned god and the Night Queen were with him! If they were with him yet, he might still They were not with him
For in that instant Alberico felt the wizards of the Palm cut loose, melting away without warning, with terrifying suddenness, to leave him naked and aloneOn the hill Brandin had now leveled his hands and from them came blue-grey death, an occluding, obliterating presence in the air, foaming and boiling down across the valley toward him
And the wizards were gone! He was alone
Or almost gone, almost aloneOne man was still linked, one of them had held with him! And then that one mind opened up to Alberico like the locked door of a dungeon springing back, letting light flood inAnd in that moment Alberico of Barbadior screamed aloud in terror and helpless rage, for illumination came at last and he understood, too late, how he had been undone, and by whom destroyed
In the name of my sons I curse you forever, said Sandre, Duke leather chanel purse of Astibar, his remorseless image rising in Alberico's mind like an apparition of horror from the afterworldImpossibly alive, and here in Senzio on that ridge, with eyes implacable and utterly mercilessHe bared his teeth in a smile that summoned the nightIn the name of my children and of Astibar, die now, forever cursed
Then he cut free, he too was gone, as that blue-grey death came boiling down the valley from Brandin's hill, from his outstretched hands, with blurred, annihilating speed, and Alberico, still reeling with shock, clawing frantically upward from his chair, was struck and enveloped and consumed by that death, as a tidal wave of the raging, engorged sea will take a sapling in low-lying fields
It swept him away with it and sundered his body, still screaming, from his soul, and he diedDied in that far Peninsula of the Palm two days before his Emperor passed to the gods in Barbadior, failing at last one morning to wake from a dreamless sleep
Alberico's army heard his last scream, and their own cries of exultation turned to dolce |
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