Gardens of the Moon

“Araest!” she yelled, and the power burst from her in a virulent pulse.



Quick Ben heard Mammot's scream of pain.



“Attend, Wizard!” the woman said. “He is Jaghut-possessed.”



“I know,” he growled, rolling on to his stomach then climbing to his hands and knees. A quick glance showed Mammot on the ground, waving a feeble hand. The wizard's gaze flicked to where Whiskeyjack had been. The pillars around the fountain had toppled, and the sergeant was nowhere in sight. In fact, he realized, none of the squad was visible.



On the terrace crumpled bodies lay in grotesque piles, none moving.



Everyone else had fled.



“Mammot recovers,” the woman said desperately. “I have nothing left, Wizard. You must do something now, yes?”



He stared at her.



Paran stumbled, slid across greasy clay and rolled up against a bank of tufted reeds. A storm racked the sky above him. He scrambled to his feet, the sword Chance hot and moaning in his hand. A calm shallow lake stretched out on his left, ending in a distant ridge of faintly luminescent green. To his right the marshes continued out to the horizon. The air was cool, sweet with decay.



Paran sighed shakily. He studied the storm overhead. jagged arcs of lightning warred with each other, the clouds dark and twisting as if in agony. A concussion sounded to his right and he spun. A thousand paces away, something had appeared. The captain squinted. It rose above the marsh grasses like an animated tree, gnarled and black, pulling at the roots that gripped it and flinging them aside. Another figure appeared, danced lithely around it, a brown-bladed jagged sword in its hands. This figure was clearly in retreat, as the gnarled man-shape lashed at it with miasmic waves of power. They were approaching Paran's position.



He heard bubbling, sucking sounds behind him and turned. “Hood's Breath!”



A house was rising out of the lake. Swamp grass and mud slid from its battered stone walls. A huge stone doorway gaped black, hissing with steam. The second level of the structure looked misshapen, scarred, the cut stones melted away here and there, revealing a skeletal wooden Another explosion drew his attention back to the fighters. They were much closer now, and Paran could see the figure with the two-handed sword clearly. A T'lan Imass. Despite its awesome skill with the chalcedony weapon in its hands, it was being driven back. Its attacker was a tall, lean creature with flesh like oak. Two gleaming tusks rose from its lower jaw, and it was shrieking with rage. It struck the T'lan Imass again, flinging the warrior fifteen paces, to roll through the muck and come to rest almost at Paran's feet.



The captain found himself staring down into depthless eyes.



“The Azath is not yet ready, mortal,” the T'lan Imass said. “Too young, not yet of strength to imprison that which called it into being-the Finnest. When the Tyrant fled, I sought out its power.” It tried to rise, failed. “Defend the Azath, the Finnest seeks to destroy it.”



Paran looked up to see the apparition stalking towards him. Defend? Against that? The choice was taken from him. The Finnest roared and a sizzling wave of power rolled towards him. He swung Chance into its path.



The blade slid through the energy. Unaffected, the power swept over, then into Paran. Blinded, he screamed as bitter cold lanced through him, shattering his thoughts, his sense of self. An invisible hand closed around his soul. Mine! The word rang in his head, triumphant and filled with savage glee. You are mine!



Paran dropped Chance, fell to his knees. The grip on his soul was absolute. He could only obey. Fragments of awareness reached through.



A tool, nothing more. All I have done, all I have survived, to reach but this.



Deep within him he heard a sound, repeating again and again, growing louder. A howl. The chill of his blood that had seamlessly filled every part of his body began to break apart. Flashes of heat, bestial and defiant, ripped through the cold. He threw back his head, the howling reaching his throat. As it broke loose, the Finnest staggered back.



Blood of a Hound! Blood no one can enslave-Paran launched himself at the Finnest. His muscles filled with pain as overwhelming strength flowed into them. You dare! He struck the creature, driving it to the ground, battering its oak flesh with his fists, sinking his teeth into the bark of its face. The Finnest tried to push him away, and failed. It screamed, flailing its limbs. Paran began ripping it methodically to pieces.



A hand closed on the collar of his cloak, pulled him from the tattered body. Frenzied, Paran tried to twist round, to rend the creature holding him. The T'lan Imass shook him. “Cease!”



The captain blinked.



“Cease! You cannot destroy the Finnest. But you have held it. Long enough. The Azath will take it now. Do you understand?”