Icestorm

by Theresa Dahlheim

  “She shouldn’t have had to say it. You should have taken the hint. She didn’t want to be rude to you in case you decided to be a total jackass about it and make a scene.”

  “I left that to you.”

  “There was no scene until you hit me.”

  Ferogin barked a laugh. “Yes, I enjoyed that.”

  “Except when Koren sent it back at you. The fact that she stood with me against you should tell you all you need to know about whether or not she wanted your company.”

  “Yes, big brother, thank you for spelling it all out for me. I’m so very sorry I was paying attention to a little girl who’s far too young for boys. Except she was dressed like a woman and clearly expected to be treated like a woman. Forgive me for acting accordingly.”

  The magic inside Graegor spun even faster. “That’s not how you treat women.”

  “Don’t be self-righteous. How were my plans for the night any different from yours?”

  “Don’t assume.”

  Ferogin put his hand to his chest in affected dismay. “Oh, my mistake! Were you not hoping to fuck Tabitha?”

  Graegor could not control the flood of red to his face. “Don’t speak of her like that.”

  “I’m using an appropriate verb. Short and to the point.” He smirked. “Just like …”

  “You’re revolting,” Graegor spat. “You’re a scuttling, biting little rat.”

  “A rat with power,” Ferogin corrected, still smirking. “That makes me at least a beaver, if not a porcupine.”

  “You’re not worthy of a sorcerer’s power. You don’t deserve it!”

  Now the smirk vanished, and Ferogin’s eyes blazed up at Graegor. “I don’t? I don’t deserve it? God! You have no idea what any of this means! You have no idea what we can do, what we are! You toss magic around like it’s nothing but a toy! You have no control over it and no respect for it and you won’t until someone beats all the shit out of you with it!”

  Graegor threw his power down hard in a punch aimed right at Ferogin’s head, but Ferogin dropped to the ground as the rocks behind him sprayed up and apart like water. Before Graegor could draw strength again, Ferogin’s lash struck his shields, but they weren’t raised, and the pain slid off him without driving him back from his crouch atop the smaller sea-stack. As Ferogin stood, Graegor saw a scattering of smaller stones lying against the basalt face, and he swept them up with a telekinetic wind and sprayed them against Ferogin’s back. Ferogin grunted, but then the rocks took flight again, shooting up in the air toward Graegor. He ducked them easily, but in the moment that he was leaning to the side, Ferogin’s magic hit him in the shoulder and shoved him off the rock.

  As he fell, he twisted, by instinct, like a cat, and he managed to land on his tailbone instead of his head. But the chill of the swirling water could not douse what felt like sitting on a live flame—flame that licked straight up his spine to the base of his skull, straight down his legs to the bottom of his heels. His hands lost all feeling and he dropped the quarterstaff. Then blurred motion in front of him told him to throw himself sideways, and he rolled past the rocks at the sea-stack’s base and into the water that covered the dueling ground. His hand found his quarterstaff, and as he broke the surface he stabbed it at the dark shape splashing toward him.

  It stopped Ferogin in place. Graegor jerked it back and stabbed it at Ferogin again, and this time he heard something crack. A third stab toppled Ferogin backward into the water. His tailbone still screaming with pain, Graegor braced himself on the quarterstaff to try to stand up. But it suddenly jerked in his hands and clouted him on the nose, and that sent another line of pain through his entire body. He sat down hard in the water and held his teeth together against a scream.

  “Slapped with your own stick,” Ferogin said from somewhere to his left. He sounded out of breath. “How’s that feel?”

  Graegor blinked furiously, trying to see. He felt the lash and fought through it. He funneled his gen from his shields to his quarterstaff and swung it again, and though it did not strike Ferogin, the magic did, and he heard a grunt and a splash. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment to try to clear them. When the misshapen blurs started to resolve into rocks and water and enemy, he forced himself to stagger upright. He even forced himself to sneer a smile, though his entire face hurt. “Well, they say … that which does not kill you … makes you stronger.”

  Ferogin shook his head. He was leaning against one of the smaller boulders that led up to the sea-stack, and he pushed himself to his feet in small jerks, his arm pressed against his ribs. “You have,” he panted, “a fundamental … misunderstanding … of the nature … of trauma.”

  He’ll always have the last word. That was Ferogin’s specialty—words. Graegor decided to stop using them. He planted his boots, leaned forward, and whipped the quarterstaff high to low, aiming for the larger target of Ferogin’s ribs but hitting the smaller target of his thigh.

  Ferogin shouted a curse. Graegor tried to swing at the same spot again, but Ferogin grabbed hold of the quarterstaff and tried to wrench it out of his hands. Graegor twisted it sideways, hard, crossing Ferogin’s left arm past his right arm before he could let go. A wet popping sound came just before another roaring curse from Ferogin, and suddenly Graegor was flying backward. His foot hit a rock and then his back hit the water, and it rushed over him so fast it filled his mouth and nose before he could remember not to breathe.

  Up. Up. Sit up. Get up. Thrashing in pain and panic, Graegor finally managed to get his head above the surface, spluttering and coughing. He was facing the wrong way—he couldn’t see Ferogin. Where was his quarterstaff? The chop of a wave splashed up in his face, and it started a sneezing fit that seemed to last forever. When it ended, he took deep breaths through his mouth and tried to wipe his eyes clear.

  He was kneeling on the dueling ground, the sea swirling at his chest, in the shadow of the towering obelisk. On his left, he could see the smaller boulders at the base of the sea-stack. Ferogin had climbed up to the narrow strip of flat stone where he had stood to read the writing, and he was sitting with his back to the basalt face, holding his left shoulder with his right hand. Was he healing himself?

  Graegor ran his hands under the water near him to try to find his quarterstaff, then scooted forward to search further, frequently glancing up toward Ferogin as he moved. One of these glances revealed the staff, caught between two boulders at the edge of the dueling ground. But as he stood up to retrieve it, a fist-sized stone flew toward him from Ferogin’s direction. He ducked his head, and it cracked against his left elbow so hard it barely had time to hurt before his arm went numb.

  It was instinct to crouch and curl his shoulder to hold his injured arm across his chest. He hissed as the elbow flared into tingling agony, but he still tried to turn in place so he wasn’t showing his back to Ferogin. When he tentatively fingered the bone, he could not find anything obviously broken, but when he tried to swing it either way from its half-bend, a strangely grinding pain stopped him.

  He’d never healed himself before—or anyone else. Contare had started teaching him the basics of anatomy, and he could use his telekinesis to tap and nudge the muscles and bones beneath the skin of a living body. But he could not yet call upon the magic that actually encouraged that body to reknit itself. He now wished he had tried harder to learn it. Ferogin obviously had.

  But his arm wasn’t broken, and as he slowly worked his elbow back and forth, the grinding pain inside it dulled and spread into a more general ache. Ferogin had not yet moved from his spot when Graegor started wading forward again. He pulled the quarterstaff free from the boulders and stood up straight, stretching his back and shoulders and trying not to think about the pain or the cold. He found a jagged slice of stone that had cracked off one of the boulders, and he gave telekinetic strength and direction to his right arm as he threw the sharp, spear-like rock at Ferogin. Just before it would have hit him, it veered sideways and fell harmlessly. As Graegor started climb
ing up the boulders toward him, Ferogin pushed his back against the basalt face and leveraged himself to his feet, clearly favoring his right leg.

  He may be faking, Graegor warned himself, keeping his approach steady, alert for both telekinetic and magnokinetic blows and keeping the grips of his hands firm but flexible on his quarterstaff. He was close enough to see Ferogin’s narrowed eyes when a brilliant flash warned him that the lash was about to hit.

  He couldn’t disperse his shields fast enough, and the lash hit hard, snapping back his head with sudden fierce pain, like it had at Tabitha’s party. He clenched his jaw to keep from screaming, but very quickly the pain dropped, and a moment later he opened his eyes. The afterimage of the flash still spotted his vision, and he blinked to clear it, but then he cursed and stabbed the butt of his staff onto the ground when he realized that Ferogin was gone again.

  Water sprayed over the boulders and kept him from seeing between them clearly, even though he knew Ferogin could not have gone far and was likely slipping around them. But that wasn’t water spray—it was fog, fog rising like smoke from the surface of the water, clouding the rocks, hiding Ferogin.

  But he had to be close. Graegor reached for the earth magic, then cursed and gathered his own power, intending to release it in all directions again and disrupt the water and the fog. But then something sharp as a spike rammed into his chin, and he could not keep himself from falling backward.

  The cold water numbed his face, all but the single point of fiery pain where Ferogin had struck. He still held the quarterstaff, and he dragged it through the water to get it planted on the ground. Something leaned on it, and he yanked it down and tried to roll over. Another spike of force cracked into the middle of his back, and when he screamed the sea water flooded his mouth.

  Shields. Shields. Shields. He thought about a spinning ring of steel around his mind, around his body, his breath held and his muscles straining as he pulled his whirling power into the image. He felt another blow, but it was distant. His head surfaced, and he gulped a breath and finally got his feet under him.

  Ferogin was a few paces away, in a deep crouch with both arms extended for balance. If his right thigh and his left shoulder were still hurting him at all, he gave no sign. The fog was gone. He snarled at Graegor and sent another spike of telekinetic energy at him. But Graegor let his shields absorb it, and then he drove the quarterstaff into the ground.

  The whirling knot of his power split the water into towering sheets on both sides of a much deeper crack that raced from his quarterstaff to the suddenly bare rock under Ferogin’s feet. Ferogin stumbled, and Graegor took the distance between them at a run, leaping the last step as the water dropped on them both as if from an overturned bucket. He landed with his knees on Ferogin’s chest, and as the sea swamped them, he shoved the staff lengthwise under Ferogin’s chin and pushed.

  Within a moment Ferogin was entirely underwater. Graegor’s arms were straining and his elbow was on fire with fresh pain. With a heave, he got his knees on either side of Ferogin’s chest, and the better leverage gave him more strength. Ferogin kicked his legs and flailed his arms, but he could not move quickly under Graegor’s weight and under the water. Graegor just had to keep pushing, since Ferogin would not be able to hold his breath for very long. Graegor had not given him the sixty-count Rossin had taught them in the labyrinth to prepare for a quarter-hour’s held breath.

  He just had to keep pushing the quarterstaff against Ferogin’s throat. He had to hold himself motionless as the deep, wet cold sank into his skin, his muscles, his bones.

  The leather cord around his neck briefly dug into Graegor’s throat, making him gag, but Ferogin quickly abandoned that line of attack and instead wedged both his hands beneath the staff. He tried to pull one end down while pushing the other end up, but Graegor leaned over his arms, and then despite the pain he locked his elbows, so he could resist in both directions. Ferogin kneed Graegor in the back, but it didn’t distract him. He took big breaths of the chill wind, and the dark knot of his power spun faster and faster as he pressed lower and lower.

  Ferogin stopped moving. He was undoubtedly gathering his strength, the end of his strength, and if Graegor held it here for just a little longer …

  If he held it here for just a little longer …

  … what then?

  Ferogin was a sorcerer. He had wanted this fight. He had demanded this fight. They were here because here they could fight without anyone else getting hurt.

  Sir, I didn’t think we could damage each other permanently.

  You thought wrong.

  Graegor shivered. The winter water was so cold.

  The body under him was limp. But that was just a trick. As soon as Graegor let off his strength, Ferogin would throw him off and lash him. He couldn’t let Ferogin make a fool of him again. This would end it. This, here, now.

  Tabitha thought he was a good person.

  But Ferogin was one of the bad ones.

  You thought wrong.

  What if he killed him?

  The stillness of the idea slowed the whirling of his magic. The cold sharpened in his arms and legs. He could suddenly hear the rough wheeze of his own breathing.

  Tabitha thought he was a good person.

  Not a killer.

  He relaxed his grip on the staff. He staggered up and backed away, the chop of the sea dragging at his legs. His left hand fell to his side, his elbow suddenly so weak it numbed his fingers.

  If Ferogin didn’t come up after a count of ten, he’d help him. He wasn’t a killer. Tabitha thought he was a good person, and he would be a good person.

  The water churned, and Ferogin’s head broke the surface. He made a truly horrible sound of choking and vomiting, the sort of sound that demanded immediate attention. But Graegor stayed back. This, Ferogin could sort out himself.

  He did. He spent a long time at it, gasping, coughing, sneezing, and spitting as he sat on the ground with the water lapping across him. His wool cap was gone. He held his left arm protectively against his chest. When he seemed somewhat recovered, his squinted eyes sought and found Graegor. They stared at each other for a long time before Ferogin hiccoughed, and immediately cursed in pain.

  Graegor raised his voice, faintly surprised at the effort it took. “Do you yield?”

  Ferogin shook his head and managed to splutter, “No.”

  Tabitha wanted Graegor to win. Her friends wanted him to win. His friends wanted him to win. But he just wanted it done. “Can we call it a draw?”

  “No!” A spark lit Ferogin’s hand, but the lash through Graegor’s shields had no force. Ferogin cursed and coughed, but then, suddenly, he stood up. He staggered two steps back, and Graegor thought an oncoming wave would knock him over, but he balanced against it, even as he favored his right leg.

  Graegor’s power still spun, and he kept it close as he watched Ferogin shuffle sideways. The water’s chop still threatened to pull him down, and he withstood it two or three times, but a wave larger and faster than the others dragged him to his knees. Graegor still watched, and his power still spun, as Ferogin crawled to the boulders at the base of the tall sea-stack, barely keeping his head above the water. He pulled himself up to lean against one of the rocks, breathing heavily.

  Was he still trying to read everything written on the sea-stack? Did it reveal a secret about the dueling ground? About the Sixth? Graegor doubted he himself could read the words, if Ferogin was trying to translate them. So they would do him no good themselves. But if he went up there and blocked Ferogin’s way, maybe then Ferogin would yield, and he could go home and go to bed.

  He turned to wade toward the sea-stack. Although Ferogin lurched and tried to move faster in his scramble over the rocks, Graegor in his waterlogged boots still made the short climb up to the basalt face well before Ferogin could reach it. He stood on the flat space in front of the sea-stack and held his quarterstaff ready. “Do you yield?” he called again.

  Ferogin pushed hims
elf upright, the sea spraying his back. His jaw was clenched. Loose pebbles at Graegor’s feet jumped, and he realized that Ferogin was trying to throw them. One shot straight up to hit his chest with a ludicrous amount of force for such a small thing, and Graegor gasped in pain. Again he reached for the earth magic, and again remembered that it would not rise. It was infuriating. It should be here, rising to his call, misty tendrils of power instead of this flat, barren rock. He depended on it … which, he realized, he shouldn’t.

  The pebbles jumped again, and Graegor’s attention refocused quickly and completely on the glare twisting Ferogin’s face. The hang of his left arm and the lump on his shoulder almost certainly meant a dislocation. His thigh and his neck had to be badly bruised. Graegor pushed down all guilt, telling himself that Ferogin had deserved it, had asked for it. “Do—you—yield?” he shouted again, and felt fresh blood drip from his split chin.

  Ferogin’s right hand twitched. Graegor ducked to the left as the Adelard magic rushed toward him, but it hit him anyway, as if Ferogin had known which way he would go. Even with his gen shielding him, Ferogin’s blow was strong enough to pin him to the sea-stack. Then a stone the size of his head burst from the water and speared into his stomach.

  The white-hot pain lasted only an instant before his legs went numb and he fell. He dropped the quarterstaff and curled his arms over his head to protect it as the tumble of boulders came up toward his eyes. His elbow hit a rock with another short burst of pain and a sound like a snapping twig. Darkness rushed in like water.

  All the pain slipped out of him, left at the surface as he sank into the thousand tiny lines of different greys and blacks and browns that made the floor of the dueling ground. Was he falling? It didn’t quite feel like he was falling, but … his mind was … moving. Down into darkness. Following, seeing. Was he seeing between the lines, between the cracks? There were so many cracks. He had cracked the ground. A deeper crack slid down to join a larger one … a fault?