The Hidden City

And then the two broke free of each other and stood, backs bowed and arms half-extended, each facing his immortal brother in some inconceivable communion.

‘It falls to thee, Anakha,’ Bhelliom’s voice in sparhawk’s mind was calm. ‘Should Klæl and I continue, this world shall surely be destroyed, as hath oft-time come to pass before. Thou art of this world and must therefore be my champion. Constraints are upon thee which do not limit me. Klæl’s champion is also of this world and is similarly constrained.’

‘It shall be even as thou has said, my father,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘I will serve as thy champion if it must needs be. With whom must I contend?’

A great roar of rage came from far below, and a living flame surged up out of the shattered ruins of the chalk-white temple.

‘There is thine opponent, my son,’ the azure spirit replied. ‘Klæl hath called him forth to do battle with thee.’

‘Cyrgon?’

‘Even so.’

‘But he is a God!’

‘And art thou not?’

Sparhawk’s mind reeled.

‘Look within thyself, Anakha. Thou art my son, and I made thee to be the receptacle of my will. I now release that will to thee that thou mayest be the champion of this world. Feel its power infuse thee.’

It was like the opening of a door that had always been closed. Sparhawk felt his mind and will expanding infinitily as the barrier went down, and with that expanding there came an unutterable calm.

‘Now art thou truly Anakha, my son!’ Bhelliom exulted. ‘Thy will is now my will. All things are now possible for thee. It was thy will which vanquished Azash. I was but thine instrument. In this occasion, however, shalt thou be mine. Bend thine invincible will to the task. Seize it in thine hands and mold it. Forge weapons with thy mind and confront Cyrgon. If thine heart be true, he cannot prevail against thee. Now go. Cyrgon awaits thee.’

Sparhawk drew in a deep breath and looked down at the rubble-littered square far below. The flame which had emerged from the ruins had coalesced into a blazing man-shape standing before the wreck of the temple. ‘Come, Anakha!’ it roared. ‘Our meeting hath been foretold since before time began! This is thy destiny! Thou art honored above all others to fall by my hand.’

Sparhawk deliberately pushed aside the windy pomposity of archaic expression. ‘Don’t start celebrating until after you’ve won, Cyrgon!’ he shouted his reply. ‘Don’t go away! I’ll be right down!’ Then he set one hand atop the battlement and lightly vaulted over it.

He stopped, hanging in mid-air. ‘Let go, Aphrael,’ he said.

‘What are you doing?’ she exclaimed.

‘Just do as you’re told. Let me go.’

‘You’ll fall.’

‘No, actually I won’t. I can handle this. Don’t interfere. Cyrgon’s waiting for me, so please let go.’

It was not actually flying, although Sparhawk was certain that he could fly if he needed to. He felt a peculiar lightness as he drifted down toward the ruins of the House of Cyrgon. It was not that he had no weight; it was more that his weight had no meaning. His will was somehow stronger than gravity. Sword in hand, he settled down and down like a drifting feather.

Cyrgon waited below. The burning figure of the ancient God drew his fire about him, congealing the incandescent flame into the antique armor customarily worn by those who worshipped him – a burnished steel cuirass, a crested helmet, a large round shield and a sword in his fist.

A peculiar insight came to Sparhawk as he slid down through the dawn-cool air. Cyrgon was not so much stupid as he was conservative. It was change that he hated, change that he feared. Thus he had frozen his Cyrgai eternally in time and had erased any potential for change or innovation from their minds. The Cyrgai, unmoved by the winds of time, would remain forever as they had been when their God had first conceived of them. He had wrought an ideal and fenced it all about with law and custom and an innate hatred of change, and frozen thus, they were doomed – and had been since the first of them had placed one sandaled foot on the face of the ever-changing world.

Sparhawk smiled faintly. Cyrgon, it appeared, needed instruction in the benefits of change, and his first lesson would be in the advantages of modern equipment, weaponry, and tactics. Sparhawk thought, ‘Armor’, and he was immediately encased in black-enameled steel. He almost casually discarded his plain working sword and filled his hand with his heavier and longer ceremonial blade. Now he was a fully-armed Pandion Knight, a soldier of God – of several Gods, he rather ruefully amended that thought – and he was, almost by default, the champion not only of his Queen, his Church and his God – but also, if he read Bhelliom’s thought correctly, of his fair and sometimes vain sister, the world.

He drifted down and settled to earth amidst the wreck of the destroyed temple. ‘Well-met, Cyrgon,’ he said with profoundest formality.

‘Well-met, Anakha,’ the God replied. ‘I had misjudged thee. Thou art suitable now. I had despaired of thee, fearing that thou wouldst never have realized thy true significance. Thine apprenticeship hath been long and methinks, hindered by thine inappropriate affiliation with Aphrael.’

‘We’re wasting time, Cyrgon,’ Sparhawk cut through the flowery courtesies. ‘Let’s get at this. I’m already late for breakfast.’

‘So be it, Anakha!’ Cyrgon’s classic features were set in an expression of approval. ‘Defend thyself!’ And he swung a huge sword stroke at Sparhawk’s head.

But Sparhawk had already begun his stroke, and so their swords clashed harmlessly in the air between them.

It was good to be fighting again. There was no politics here, no confusion of dissembling words or false promises, just the clean, sharp ring of steel on steel and the smooth flow of muscle and sinew over bone.

Cyrgon was quick, as quick as Martel had been in his youth, and, despite his hatred of innovation, he learned quickly. The intricate moves of wrist and arm and shoulder that marked the master swordsman seemed to come unbidden, almost in spite of himself, to the ancient God. ‘Invigorating, isn’t it?’ Sparhawk panted through a wolflike grin, lashing a stinging cut at the God’s shoulder. ‘Open your mind, Cyrgon. Nothing is set in stone – not even something as simple as this.’ And he lashed out with his sword again, flicking another cut onto Cyrgon’s sword-arm.

The immortal rushed at him, forcing the oversized round shield against him, trying with will and main strength to overcome his better-trained opponent.