Ixidor wished he could comfort her, but he could hardly join thought to thought.
Akroma knelt above him. "What has happened? Who has done this?"
If only he had the words. It was not Phage who had done this. Phage had kept this monstrosity imprisoned in her skin. To kill the woman now would be to destroy the one vessel that could contain all this evil. It was not Phage whom Akroma must fight. It was the blackness.
"Blackness…" he muttered. "Blackness…"
Akroma's face was quizzical. "Blackness?" She lifted her eyes, glaring at the unmen. "What blackness? Speak a name, Master, and that creature will no longer be."
He could speak the name of Phage, but it would mean the end of all. No, Akroma must not kill Phage, but the blackness.
The contagion changed in his mind. No longer was it a great amorphous shape, no longer a swarm. Now, it was a tangle-a mass of glistening tubes. They were eating and eating.
"Eating," gasped Ixidor. He struggled, managing to shove himself upright and sit. He was regaining his mind, his strength, but not quickly enough. "Eating."
"What is eating?" Akroma asked.
"Wurms," blurted Ixidor. He grasped her hand, stared into her piercing eyes, and squeezed the words out. "Kill the wurms."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: THE TRUEST FOE
Have a look, all of you!" Braids shouted ecstatically. She gripped the sides of her head and yelled, "Clay warriors, crab men, jellyfish, and now living nightmares!" Shrieking her delight, Braids leaped from roof to roof atop the long curve of the caravan.
The wagons formed a broad semicircle on one flank of the battlefield. Nobles within watched avidly, feasting on appetizers and atrocities, drinking wine and drinking in blood. Their appetites had been only whetted by the sudden appearance of monsters among them. Though a few nobles had been killed, the beasts were quickly dispatched, and the other nobles considered it all a thrilling show. Why worry about death when it was someone else's-and when the amenities were so stellar? Attendants saw to their every want.
Braids saw to their entertainment. "The death toll stands near to six thousand in our armies alone. Ten thousand of the foe have died! For those who have placed bets on individual deaths, hold your tickets. The lucky winners will be toted up when every body is tagged!"
Braids paused, staring at the battlefield. Something big was on its way, something boiling out of Phage. It gathered above her, churning in a black cloud, and ate away the air wherever it spread. Already, Braids had made mention of it, but until the horror was fully formed, she needed a more immediate attraction.
"All eyes, turn to Kamahl! He's easy to spot. There are two of him. Many of you will recognize the old Kamahl, tawny of skin and bloody of eye, a barbarian in the Pardic tradition-killer of thousands, of Chainer, of Jeska!"
An impromptu ovation answered her call, and Braids turned an eager flip.
"Others know Kamahl of Krosan, druid in the forest tradition-creator of thousands, of giant serpents and Stonebrow."
More applause answered.
"Place your bets. Who is the more powerful? The old Kamahl or the new? We all wish to escape our past, but now Kamahl will kill it or be killed by it. Place your bets!"
Kamahl circled warily, keeping the stone axe before him. His truest foe-he, himself-crouched on the other side of that blade.
It had been one thing to slay dozens of false selves. It was quite another to face down this one true one.
The man was tall and muscular, with not an inch of fat anywhere and skin that gleamed like polished bronze. His shaved head seemed a battering ram and his red armor the carapace of a rangy spider. Never had Kamahl faced so brutal and bloodthirsty an opponent. Never before had he faced the man he once had been.
Kamahl breathed. His soul sought the perfect forest within.
With a ferocious growl, the red barbarian hurled himself forward and brought his huge sword roaring down. He drew power from that blade. No weapon in the world could stop the blow, no armor could turn it.
Kamahl sidestepped. He had learned much finesse since he had been this rangy bastard.
The Mirari sword flashed past and embedded its end in the ground. The weight of it dragged its bearer forward.
Kamahl's axe was in the wrong position to strike but not his boot. Lifting it, he kicked the barbarian brutally in the belly. The warrior reeled back, yanking his sword with him. Kamahl merely set his foot again on the ground and stood ready.
A blood-swollen scowl filled his former face. "I am ashamed of you, of what I became. I would never have received an attack with my own blade in the wrong position to defend."
Kamahl's brow lifted. "I am ashamed of you, of what I once was. I would never invest all in a single, terrible attack."
"Isn't that what you have done with your army?" goaded the red man. He charged suddenly. His enormous sword swung up in a wide stroke, too low to duck, too high to jump.
Kamahl used his boot again, smashing it on the flat of the blade and shoving it ground-ward. The arm of the barbarian was too strong, though. The blade swept on. Putting all his weight on the boot, Kamahl stepped up into the air. Even as the sword swung where his body had been, Kamahl stood on it and kicked his other foot into the barbarian's throat. He continued the motion, flipping backward and landing out of reach, among piles of the dead.
Staggering, the red barbarian hawked and spat. Blood and spittle smacked the face of a dead elf. "I am your worst nightmare."
"Every evil thing I once was," agreed Kamahl.
"No, I am every good thing you once were. I am your worst nightmare not because I am less than you but because I am greater."
The words had the sting of truth. Had Kamahl transcended his former depravity or descended from his former glory? In uncertainty, he lost his center. He winced too late.
The sword-that massive, vicious sword-carved the air and bit into Kamahl's shield arm. It cut to the bone and would have taken the whole limb had Kamahl not leaped back. He did so again, tumbling over a rhino carcass. His shoulder crashed on the ground, and blood streamed from the wound. His arm would be useless until the axe could work its healing.
There was no time for healing in the midst of battle. Kamahl rolled to his good side and scrabbled backward on elbow and foot.
The barbarian towered on the other side of the dead rhino. Gore crazed his broad blade, and the Mirari below looked like a bloodshot eye. The man laughed. "Look at you. You haven't landed a single blow, and there you lie, cut open by me and-" his eye shifted to the gangrenous wound across Kamahl's belly "-the one given you by little sister."
Kamahl struggled to sit. He cradled his axe in his wounded arm.
The red warrior climbed atop the rhino and laughed again. "Only a fool tries to right old wrongs. Only a madman takes responsibility in an irresponsible world. Nature has pitted mouth against mouth to see who eats whom. Predators have no time to weep."
Kamahl climbed to his feet. He was hemmed in by more bodies. In his good hand, he held the axe propped on the wound, hoping against hope for healing. There was no escape. Still, he stalled.
"Look at you. You stand tall on your victims."
"Yes," said his former self, lifting the Mirari sword overhead for the killing stroke. "And you will be a poor podium." He swung the sword toward Kamahl's head.