“That is the destroyer of warriors,” said Cynthara. “My grandsire imprisoned it beneath the city hundreds of years before I was born. It took all of his skills and the deaths of a hundred panthans to capture it.”
A dagger arrowed from the red eyes of that calot toward Cynthara, a missile of the beast’s mind accompanied by a feeling of hatred and vengeance so palpable that it felt more deadly than the missile it accompanied. Somehow, my blade moved quickly enough to slice through the dagger—and both halves changed into smaller darts that arced toward me. I concentrated on trying to block those missiles with my thoughts, even as my blade wove in and out and across their path, finally blocking and destroying them, only to find that the silver calot was now almost on top of Cynthara. Her black blade was a blur, yet she was retreating, not quite able to hold her ground against it, its claws like shimmering knives, its teeth like short, sharp blades.
I struck at the calot’s right shoulder with all the force I could bring to bear, cleaving a wide and deep wound. The calot turned. As its mouth opened wider, I could see that gaping wound begin to close, healing instantly.
What kind of beast was this silver calot? Could it heal itself through its thoughts, such as they were? My father’s tales ran through my mind . . . about how the ruler of the last Orovars could create warriors and even food through his thoughts alone . . . but I had no more time to ponder, for the calot was almost upon me.
I slashed away a paw—only to see it regrow.
A cut across the beast’s eyes blinded it, but for only a few tals.
In desperation, as I kept my blade between myself and the creature, I thought of the calot’s death, of corruption of the wounds I had dealt it, of the futility of besting my blade, and followed this with thoughts of futility, ancient dust, and despair.
The animal offered a terrible scream—yet one that echoed only in my thoughts—before slumping to the stone floor, its wounds festering into corruption. In moments, it was a bloody heap of silver.
Then it was gone.
Cynthara looked at me, wide-eyed, if but for a moment. “No single warrior has ever bested the hunter of hunters.”
“No single warrior did now. It took both of us.”
“You are kind, Dan Lan Chee, but my blows scarcely slowed the destroyer of warriors.”
“Without your blows, it would not have died.”
“It wished me dead, as if it held me an enemy.”
“Perhaps it recognized you as the granddaughter of its ancient foe.”
I gestured toward the twisted tubes and strange machinery. “What do you know of that?”
“Everything.” She smiled proudly. “I helped my father build all of it.”
“Could you rebuild it, then?”
“I could . . . with time,” she said. “I even know the secrets of the genetor.”
I glanced around. The walls seemed to press in upon me.
“The genetor . . . what is that?” I asked.
“It creates things from the ether itself.”
From the ether itself? What ether? I wondered.
She looked toward the ancient machinery. “The genetor looks untouched. The other machines? In time, perhaps. If the materials even exist, but they require Ur-radium to power them.”
My heart sank. The ancient tomes in the lower library of Gathol mentioned Ur-radium, but only as an element that vanished eons before.
Cynthara’s face suddenly took on a look of concern. She pointed at the gap in the wall. “Look!”
The twisted metal beyond the wall had begun to glow.
“We must flee. Now!” The urgency in her voice was palpable and commanding. “Before we are destroyed!”
Quickly, we retraced our steps back to the hidden stairs and up into the chamber of Lum Tar O.
Cynthara glanced around, then shook her head. “We must be farther away. The energies within the very metals are being released. Nothing will remain for haads and haads.” Her face was a mask of despair.
“Come!” I fully uncapped my torch, letting it blaze forth.
We began to run back along the passageway, then up the ramp. I was breathing hard, and my heart was straining when we reached those corroded gates. Still, it took but a moment to push them open enough for us to step through and into the way beyond.
Cynthara looked around. “Where are the people?”
“As I said, all but a tiny handful have gone. The city died over the ages.”
“That cannot be. How could it—”
“Those who remain survive by their minds and wits.” I had never quite believed my father’s tales of how the Jeddak of Horz, if that was what he was, could create armies and food with his thoughts—except Cynthara had mentioned a genetor that accomplished the same thing. Had the Jeddak—and Lum Tar O—somehow drawn on that ancient machine without even knowing it?
A yell echoed down the walled avenue I had thought deserted. Two Orovars came charging around the corner, likely from the larger square on the other side of the structure that afforded access to the pits of Horz. Behind them were several others of their kind.
“Who are they?” asked Cynthara, bringing up her blade.
“The Orovars . . . they must have come here after your time.” I could say no more because the first Orovar sprinted toward me, his blade out and ready. He was no match for me, and in three quick passes, his blade lay on the stones, and he clutched his shoulder, staggering back.
The second man gaped—he even turned pale—as he beheld Cynthara, but that didn’t stop him from attacking. That was a mistake, because Cynthara ran him through with her jet blade that looked so delicate. That allowed me a moment to beat down the guard of the third man and deliver a deep cut to his sword arm, so hard that he dropped his blade.
“This way!” I called.
Cynthara disarmed another Orovar. Her blade was almost as quick as mine. In fact, much as it pained me, she was faster, although she could not deliver quite the force behind her point or edge. While the other Orovars paused, we turned and hurried down the narrow way that led to where I had concealed my airship.
We had almost reached that small building when the padding of sandals on stones alerted me, and we swiftly turned—to face four other Orovars wearing the harnesses of panthans. So quick was our turn that I managed a gut thrust to the leading Orovar. In turn, that allowed Cynthara a crippling blow to the calf of the second man.
None of us got in another blow, however, because the very stones beneath our feet started shaking violently.
“This way!” I grasped Cynthara’s wrist, wondering as I did so if she would turn to dust like those ancient Horzians my father had met. But her wrist was firm, with strong tendons.
In only a few tals we had cut down the side alley and up the narrow staircase to where my airship remained. Cynthara hesitated, and I half-pulled, half-dragged her onto the main desk, extracting the control key from my harness.
“What manner of vessel is this that rests on a rooftop?” she asked in that accent I found both so charming and alluring.
“One that sails the skies as ships once sailed the Throxeus,” I replied.
She did open her mouth for a moment, then grasped the railing as the building beneath us shuddered. I concentrated on getting us airborne, and then headed away from the center of Horz . . . and then down over the descending series of structures that the ancients had built to follow the Throxeous ocean as it dwindled away.
“Look!” Cynthara touched my arm, and the warmth of her touch, as much as her voice, caused me to glance back.
A column of dust had shot upward, a column almost half a haad wide, and stones spewed out from it. Could there be anything left at the center of old Horz? Somehow, I doubted it. Another spewing of stone and dust erupted, and towers and buildings shook and then wavered . . . and many toppled before my eyes.