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A writhing, dark counterspell came Hamanu's way. Gelid and corrosive, it would have consumed his immortal flesh eventually, but it was as slow as it was icy. Hamanu dodged and sent Rajaat's wrath oozing harmlessly into the Gray. Then he drew his golden sword. With his hands on its hilt, Hamanu advanced toward his creator across ground his own spell had made treacherous.
The champions' strategy had been sound. Though they'd never had the surprise advantage Borys planned for, and they'd lost Pennarin at the start, the War-Bringer was thoroughly beset. Borys was wading through Hamanu's steaming mire toward Rajaat ahead of Hamanu. The Butcher of Dwarves had drawn his sword, a dark-metal weapon that seethed with crimson fire against the midnight stars. It wasn't the sword Rajaat had given him; he swore the crimson blade would be a telling weapon against the War-Bringer. Hamanu hadn't argued. He wasn't going to tell another champion what weapon to bring to their rebellion.
The Butcher of Dwarves swung first: a solid cut across Rajaat's ribs, ending deep in his gut. Blood and viscera sluiced over the dark crimson blade. The War-Bringer bellowed; fire roared out of his gaping mouth. Hamanu ducked his head beneath the flames and stalked forward, thrusting his sword into Rajaat's flank. The golden sword slid between the first sorcerer's ribs, then stopped, as if it had struck unyielding stone. Hamanu sank his black-taloned feet into the mire and pushed; the sword began to move again.
Fire seared Hamanu's scalp and the length of his back.
Somehow he kept his hands on the hilt and kept the sword creeping deeper.
Hamanu. Look at me, Hamanu.
There was compulsion in the words the War-Bringer placed in Hamanu's mind, compulsion that made the Lion of Urik raise his head to meet his creator's mismatched eyes.
Take them, Hamanu. Take them all! You have the power.
It was the same power Rajaat had offered in Urik. Hamanu refused it a second time.
"Never!" he swore.
He found a last reserve of strength within himself and, with a roar of his own, surged behind his sword. Rajaat fell back, toward Dregoth, who swung his maul just once. A sound like the moons colliding pummeled the white tower. Rajaat heaved away from Dregoth's completed stroke. The mire quaked, the champions fought for balance, but the War-Bringer was down. Potent sorcery, no longer under the control of Rajaat's unfathomable intellect, sizzled wildly and died.
"Is he dead?" one of the women asked.
"No," Borys, Hamanu, and Dregoth said together before Dregoth hoisted his maul for another blow.
The Ravager of Giants smashed Rajaat's protuberant brow, but the answer didn't change.
"He can't die," someone said. "Not while we're alive."
No one argued.
"So, what now?" That from Albeorn, whose metamorphosis had given him an erdlulike aspect. "If we can't kill him, what do we do?"
"Lock him up someplace. Some place dark and deep," Inenek suggested.
Gallard Gnome-Bane snorted. "Fool. Shadow's the source of the War-Bringer's power,"
"When it gets dark enough, there aren't any shadows. I can think of a few places that never feel the light of day or any other light," Dregoth said with a malicious laugh.
"Put him there," Gallard countered, "and he'll use the Dark Lens to fry us all."
Borys cleaned his simmering sword and sheathed it in a scabbard that vanished against his leg. "All right, Gallard, where do you suggest?" He swept his arm wide in an exaggerated bow, but kept his head up and his eyes fixed on the Gnome-Bane's face.
"At the center of the Gray netherworld lies the Black, and beneath the Black—"
"The Gray isn't flat," Albeorn interrupted. "If there's black at its center, then there's more Gray beneath it!"
"Shut up, twerp!"
Gallard shot sorcery at his critic. The air around the Elf-Slayer shimmered with ward spells, then it shimmered around everyone else, as well. For several long moments, no one said anything. At last, Sielba lowered her guard.
"And beneath the black?" she urged Gallard to finish.
"Beneath the Black, we can make a hollow where neither light nor shadow exist, nor can exist." Borys had a question: "What about the Dark Lens?"
"Better we cut him apart and each take a piece with us," Wyan of Bodach interjected.
Hamanu stared at the Pixie-Blight. Stripped of illusion— as they all were—Bodach was a small-statured creature. He'd destroyed the smaller, defenseless race of shy, tree-worshipers not by slaying them but by turning their god-trees to sorcerous ash. While Hamanu wondered why such I a coward would suggest carving their still-living creator into bloody chunks of meat, the other champions bantered about how Rajaat should be divvied up and which part should go to whom.
