The Cycle of Galand Box Set

by Edward W. Robertson

  Blays turned and ran. For a moment, Dante felt Blays sliding through the shadows, but he lost all feel for him as Gladdic and the Tanarian hurled dancing geometries of ether down the hallway. Dante lashed out at each shape and line, casting the passage into a pall of dark mist. As Gladdic held his ground, the priest resumed his advance, decreasing the time Dante had to deflect his attacks. This was a sword that could have cut both ways, but Dante was too busy fending off Gladdic to make a serious offensive against the priest.

  Dante fell back a step, then another. His foes pressed harder yet, flakes of deflected ether dashing against Dante's face. As the Tanarian took another step toward Dante, Gladdic paused to gather a mighty pillar of ether. The hair stood up on Dante's arms. When the blow came, he wasn't sure that—

  Blays stepped out of the wall right beside the priest. His right-hand blade wheeled through the air. The priest yelled out in surprise and anger, the sound abruptly silenced as Blays' sword cut through his throat and spine. Blood painted the ceiling. Nether swarmed to the toppling body and the stump of its neck.

  Gladdic's face grew long in surprise. He loosed a symmetrical storm of ether at Blays, who sprinted back toward Dante as fast as he could, his eyes bulging with effort and his face streaked with blood. Dante met Gladdic's assault and diverted it into the walls, battering them so hard that dust shot down the passage.

  "Beheading?" Dante said.

  Blays snapped his sword to the side, whipping off the blood. "I've spent enough time around sorcerers to know how to deal with you. I'd have cut him in half if I could."

  Rather than slamming Dante with the column of ether he'd been gathering, Gladdic let most of it disperse, beginning a thoughtful and measured assault. They tested each other, feinting and probing, searching for holes in the other's guard.

  Yet no matter how subtly or misleadingly Dante structured his attacks, Gladdic turned them aside before Dante had had the chance to develop them. Blays made a few trips into the nether, trying to flank Gladdic, but each time, Gladdic ejected him nearly instantly. While Dante had to look out for both light and shadow, and was thus unable to fully commit to defending against either, Gladdic seemed attuned to the slightest twitch of nether.

  Dante quashed a smile. Swatting down an incoming beam of ether, he pulled the pillowcase from his belt and dumped his skeletal rats out on the floor. He motioned toward Gladdic. The rats bolted forward, claws skittering on the stone before gaining traction.

  At the same time, Dante pressed hard against Gladdic with a chevron of shadows. Piece by piece, Gladdic carved apart his attack, then turned to the rats, who were almost upon him. With a small twist of nether, he severed their connection to Dante. The bones tumbled apart, sliding over the stone.

  Dante flung a second wave of shadows at Gladdic, exchanging thrusts, parries, and ripostes, guiding the nether to dart and weave in complicated, near-random patterns. As Gladdic concentrated on picking off the screen of black darts, Dante quieted his mind. Touched the ether. And asked it to remember the rats' prior form.

  Scattered bones swept together, cohering into complete skeletons. Focused on Dante's efforts with the nether, Gladdic didn't even seem to notice. The rats raced at Gladdic, throwing themselves at his legs and climbing up his trunk, biting and rending, blood staining their fleshless jaws.

  Gladdic screamed in fear and revulsion. He slapped at the rats in panic, dashing one of them, then blasted three apart with shaky gusts of ether so overdone that the rats' bones sprayed against the walls. The remaining rats burrowed harder, drenching him in blood as he gathered a second round of light.

  Dante yearned very badly to gloat, but that could wait until he and Blays were kicking Gladdic's head around like kids playing sally-ball. Gladdic had wriggled away too many times already. He reached for the nether.

  And felt nothing at all—as if every shadow had vanished from the world.

  23

  Dante's mind locked up. Reaching for the nether and finding nothing was like trying to place his foot on a step that wasn't there. Like grabbing hold of a door handle only to discover the door was painted onto a solid wall. Down the hallway, the light snapped off from Gladdic's hands. He looked startled, then began to laugh raucously, bashing at the gnawing rats with hammer-like fists.

  "Er," Blays said. "What?"

  Dante scrabbled at the shadows, but they wouldn't budge. Neither would the ether. He drew his sword and ran at Gladdic. Gladdic's eyebrows hopped up his brow. The priest got to his feet, tiny bones tumbling from the folds of his robe, and hobbled down the hall, leaving smears of blood behind him.

  Sandals smacked against the floor. A crowd of men swerved from around a corner. The soldier who'd fled the encounter had returned, but all Dante could look at was the two warriors he'd brought with him. Their faces were concealed inside helmets that resembled eyeless heads of swamp dragons. They wore mail vests, bracers, and skirts, but rather than being made of metal, or the lacquered wood he'd seen a few warriors wear in the Plagued Islands, the knights' armor appeared to be made of black scales.

  In their left hands, they carried small shields shaped like black half-moons. In their right, they bore curved black swords lined with silver. The pommels ended in thick black spikes.

  But even more commanding than their arms and armor was their sense of stillness. Their presence felt like the distillation of the dead of night in the dead of winter, when even the wind has found somewhere warmer to hide. At once, Dante knew that whatever force was blocking his access to the nether, they were the ones behind it.

  Gladdic laughed again. One of the rats had gouged open his forehead and painted half his face with blood, tracing the creases of his crow's feet. "You know nothing of this land. How does it feel to know you'll die here?"

  His knees buckled. A soldier grabbed for his elbow, helping him hobble away.

  Dante pointed the tip of his sword at the knight across from him. "You're harboring a man who killed thousands of innocents in the Collen Basin. Step aside and go defend your gates."

  The knight stared back at him, eyes hidden behind his helmet. "Are you servants of the Eiden Rane?"

  "We don't even know what an Eiden Rane is," Blays said. He made a "let's get on with it" gesture with the tip of his sword. "Out of the way, will you?"

  "Do you choose arrest? Or death?"

  Blays sighed. "I should start carrying the heads of my enemies around so you guys will know I'm serious. But I'm not sure where I'd get a big enough wagon."

  He lifted his swords in a guard. Dante kneeled and picked up one of the bloody rat bones, then edged beside Blays to cover his flank. Dante himself remained a fair swordsman—better than most, but lacking the training or instincts of a true expert—yet the possibility that the knights outskilled him didn't bother him in the slightest. Blays had skill enough for them both.

  The knight nodded once, then brought up his sword along his center. The blackness of it seemed to be moving, like a river on a moonless night. Out of habit, Dante called out to the nether. Its absence made him feel naked. More than naked—more like he'd lost his arms and legs.

  The lead knight swung a diagonal blow toward the intersection of Blays' neck and shoulder. Blays twitched up his left-hand sword, meaning to catch the enemy's blade and guide it past him as he drove his right-hand weapon into the knight's torso, a maneuver Dante had watched him execute a hundred times.

  The black sword hit Blays' blade with a high-pitched metallic chink. Blays' eyes went wide. The knight's weapon sheared through Blays' steel, sending half his sword spinning away. Blays grunted, jerking his hips forward and his shoulders back, yanking his head away from the incoming strike.

  The black blade hissed past his head. A lock of blond hair fluttered to the ground. Blays danced back two steps, gaze shifting between his severed sword, the lock of hair, and the knight's sword, which was now outlined in purple, shadows rippling across its surface. The pair of knights drew their shields closer to their bodies and advanced
.

  "Run?" Blays said. "Yes. Run!"

  He turned and fled down the hall. Dante matched him step for step—this time, it wasn't a ruse. The knights gave chase, slowed by their armor. Blays grabbed a lantern from the wall and flung it in front of the two men. It smashed open, the oil going up with a blast of air, shooting light and heat down the corridor. The knights didn't make a sound, simply backed up and waited for the fire to fade.

  Blays swung down a long hallway, breaking right at the next intersection. A few steps in, it became obvious it was a dead end, but turning around would expose them to the knights. His eyes fixed on an open door to a dark room. He rushed inside, Dante on his heels, and closed the door as silently as he could, enclosing them in near-total blackness.

  For just a moment, Dante could feel the nether around him again. As soon as he tried to reach it, it once more clamped down tight.

  "This is the plan?" Dante whispered. "Hide?"

  "Why not? They'll have to go deal with the rebels eventually." Shouts and the ring of iron poured through the window, punctuating his claim. "Or I suppose we could climb out the window."

  Dante moved toward it, then clasped his hand over his mouth and nose. "No we can't."

  "We'll just knot together some sheets or something. Climb down to the window below."

  "Is that before or after you rip the iron bars out of the window with your bare hands?"

  Blays rocked on his heels, then walked to the wall and reached out to feel the dim, X-shaped metal bars running between the corners of the window. "Lyle's twisted balls. Why would they bar a bedroom window six stories off the ground?"

  "How should I know? Maybe they have a problem with giant bats. It's not—"

  He cut himself short as footsteps sounded in the hall. They advanced without haste, steadily approaching their door, as if the knight could somehow see through the walls.

  Blays held out his hand. "The horn."

  "The what?"

  "The swamp dragon horn! Do you still have it?"

  Dante unshouldered his pack and opened the compartment where he kept his more interesting and precious items. He passed Blays the horn. "What are you doing?"

  Blays gripped the horn like a knife. "Ambush."

  Dante was about to ask what the hell he was talking about, but the footsteps had just arrived outside their door, stopping there. His torchstone rested in the same compartment he'd taken the horn from. He plucked out the small white stone, holding it up between his forefinger and thumb. Blays looked at it blankly, barely able to see it in the gloom, then nodded in recognition.

  Blays crept closer to the door. The handle began to turn. Dante gripped the torchstone and brought his fist to his mouth. As the door swung inward, Dante blew into his palm, covering his eyes with his other hand. Blays looked down and away.

  The torchstone flung piercing light to all sides. The knight paused halfway into the room, jerking his shield up to protect himself from being dazzled. Blays sprung forward, driving the horn toward the man's exposed armpit. The knight whirled and lashed out with his sword. Blays adjusted his attack into a block. As the black blade struck the horn, purplish sparks spat into the air.

  The horn held.

  The knight, anticipating that his sword would cut through whatever it was wielded against, was already leaning forward, attempting to continue a strike that was now stalled. Blays slipped inside the knight's guard and speared the horn into the side of his neck. As blood showered into the air, Blays jerked his elbow back as hard as he could, ripping out the man's windpipe.

  The knight reeled backward, dropping his sword and clutching at the loose tubes flopping down his chest. Blays flipped the horn to his left hand, took up the sword, and slashed it into the knight's ribs. The armored vest seemed to slow the sword a little, but it still passed halfway through his chest.

  Someone shouted a question from down the hall; it sounded like a name. The query repeated, more insistent.

  Blays closed the door, muffling the other man's calls. "There's blood all over the hall. They can't miss it. Don't suppose you've got your nether back now that this bastard's dead?"

  Dante shook his head. "Think that sword can cut through the bars?"

  "It snipped my sword easily enough."

  Blays hustled to the window. He drew back his arm and swung. With a sharp metallic ping, the sword clipped halfway through the bar. Another swing severed it. As Blays chopped through the other bars, Dante dragged the knight's body in front of the door.

  Blays took a final swing, sending the bars tumbling down into the night. "Say what you will about these pricks, but they have excellent taste in swords."

  Dante leaned out the window. They were on the east side of the keep, lacking a clear view of the southern bailey the rebels had stormed through. Fires flickered to his right. Some yelling and screaming was going on, but it sounded stifled, as though it was happening within the lower floors of the keep.

  He and Blays were currently fifty feet above the ground. If he'd had the nether at hand, he could have built them a staircase down the side of the keep. Or simply massacred the horde of people who were currently thundering down the hallway toward their room. Faced with nothing but mundane solutions, he had no idea what he was supposed to do. Die?

  Blays was busy slicing up a sheet and knotting the thick strips together. Dante tied the other end of the makeshift rope around a stump of the iron bar that remained in the corner of the window. As Blays continued to work on his end, Dante picked up a bench and added it to the corpse-barricade at the door, supplementing this with a low, compact desk.

  "I got blood here!" a man yelled directly outside the door, startling Dante back. "They're inside!"

  Blays tied another strip to the rope, pulling it tight. "Bad news. I'm out of sheet."

  "That's it?" The rope wasn't quite thirty feet long. Dante gritted his teeth and tossed the free end out the window. "Climb down as far as you can."

  "It isn't long enough!"

  "So Minn tells me. Now go!"

  Blays' hand went to the hilt of his sword, as if he was ready to argue they'd have a better chance fighting off the small army that was even now starting to push on the door. Seeing the look on Dante's face, he calmed down, grabbed the rope, and jumped out the window. As Dante grabbed the sheets and swung his legs outside, someone banged into the door, jarring the debris he'd thrown in front of it.

  Blays slid down the rope, looking about for other windows they could climb into. "There's nothing here!"

  He reached the end of the line. Dante stopped just above him. The air smelled smoky. The clamor of battle echoed throughout the bailey. He'd overestimated the length of the rope: it would be a fall of close to thirty feet, directly onto hard ground. He glanced up. A pale face protruded from the window. The man produced a bow, nocked an arrow, and rather awkwardly drew it back.

  "Jump!" Dante yelled.

  Blays looked up at him like he was crazy, then noticed the archer drawing down on them. "Well that's just rude."

  Dante coiled his feet against the wall, pushed himself off, and let go of the rope. Blays did the same. An arrow whistled past them and thumped into the dirt. Dante's head dizzied as he fell into empty space. He threw his mind in all directions, beseeching and berating the nether. The ground raced to meet them—and smash them apart.

  Like the lighting of a candle dispelling the darkness, the oppressive stillness vanished. Heart beating so hard he couldn't form coherent thoughts, Dante dived into the nether in the ground beneath them, softening it, letting water flood in from beneath. The two of them splashed down into a pool of thin mud.

  Disoriented, he fought his way to the surface. The bow twanged above them, the arrow slapping into the muck. Dante reached the edge of the pit and pulled himself free. Blays got out beside him, covered from head to toe in blackish mud that smelled of rotten eggs. The color made for the perfect camouflage as they ran across the bailey.

  Blays slicked mud from his face. "How did
you know you'd be able to reach the nether again?"

  "I didn't," Dante said. "But I figured that I could heal our broken legs once we dragged ourselves away from whatever was blocking it. How did you know the knight's sword wouldn't cut through the horn?"

  "Because my intelligence is matched only by my keen powers of observation." Still running, Blays held up the knight's sword and the severed horn. Next to each other, it became obvious that the sword's pommel was a swamp dragon horn. "Did you see the nether on the blade? The knights use the shadows the same way you do: to cut through things steel can't."

  "They're powered by nether. Since the swamp dragon's hide was hardened against nether, you thought the horn would turn the sword aside."

  "You're the almighty wizard, you tell me. I'm just the guy who swings a few pounds of metal to make enemies dead."

  Dante swerved around a dozen bodies strewn in the grass, half of them wearing the green of the crown. "Right now, I think we should both be the people who run as fast as they can from whatever the hell's going on here. I'm all but spent."

  They made for the looming inner curtain wall. Reaching it, they walked briskly along it until they came to the gap Dante had opened through the stone. Blays took the lead through the narrow passage. He walked out into the wide avenue between the inner and outer walls and stopped short.

  Across from them, a squadron of un-uniformed soldiers jerked to attention, brandishing a motley assortment of spears, short bows, and a single sword.

  "Just who we're looking for," Blays said, keeping the point of his black sword pointed at the ground. "You're the rebels?"

  The man with the sword cocked his head. "Rebels?"

  Blays pointed back toward the keep. "The not-those-guys?"

  "We're not 'rebels.' We are the liberators of our country. The fighters of the tyrant who beguiles us with illusions of freedom while knotting our bodies in traprope. And we are here to cut those bonds."

  "Excellent! As you can tell by choice of mud, we're unsophisticated foreigners, and we're very confused about what's happening here. Would you be so kind as to ferry us across the moat so we can leave you to your glorious revolution?"