by K. C. Julius
After ascertaining that the Cailleach was indeed no longer there, Whit released his shadow. “Now what?” he said.
“If she’s taken Halla and the king,” said Master Morgan, “we cannot delay in finding them. Celaidra has already shown herself to be ruthless.”
Whit felt as though he’d swallowed a shard of ice. “You think Celaidra… or whoever she is now, has—”
The wizard cut him off. “For the moment, Lazdac must want King Fynn and Halla alive. Otherwise he would have ordered them killed outright.”
“But when he’s finished with them?” Whit persisted.
Master Morgan’s mouth twisted. “All Lazdac has left to him is his hunger for vengeance. What he can’t rule, he’ll seek to destroy—and that goes especially for those he holds responsible for the fall of the Strigori and his own recent defeat. You and Selka most definitely will be on this list.”
Whit gave a slow nod. “And the dragons, their dragonfast, and now the å Livåri.”
Leif paled. “Maura! I have to find her.”
“Do that,” said Morgan, “then go with her to Elvinor, and warn the elves and the dragons. And for the gods’ sake,” he called after Leif, who was already on the run, “be careful!” In the flickering torchlight, his lined face looked as grim as Whit had ever seen it.
“Master,” he said. “How can we help Halla and Fynn?”
“It’s likely Lazdac will keep to the castle, where the dragons can’t get at him.” A sudden inspiration lit the old wizard’s grey eyes. “And I think I know where we’ll find him. We’ll need your shadow-casting again to get us as quickly as you can to the east wing.”
Whit called up his shadow and took them swiftly along the hallways in its cloak. They came to a halt near King Fynn’s apartments. Master Morgan stepped out from the magical shroud, then led the way to an unlit corridor lined with portraits of the ancient kings of the realm. As they ducked under the ropes barring it off, Whit felt the sightless eyes of the long-dead monarchs following them. And in the ringing silence, a chilling thought came to him.
It was Master Morgan who had urged the dragons to bind again, and who had brought Maura, Leif, Halla, and him together in Mithralyn, and there sought to obtain their vows to protect Urlion’s heir. Master Morgan had been the one who made sure Whit learned the essential spells he would need in order to take on Lazdac.
If the Strigori’s one driving purpose was now for revenge, it was Master Morgan, more than anyone, whom he would seek to destroy.
* * *
When the Strigori announced his plans to kill Halla, Maura knew he wouldn’t stop there. She had to do something—which meant getting free of Roth’s grasp. But all thought of escape flew from her mind at Lazdac’s next words.
“Didn’t you wonder, Lady Lorendale, why I chose your fair realm for my landing on the Isle? Before coming to Drinnkastel, I paid a visit to your mother.” The dark wizard smiled, and Maura saw the blood drain from Halla’s face. “As you may recall,” he continued, “I’m a patient man by nature, but in this case, time was of the essence. Lady Inis resisted telling me where you were, so I was forced to use more convincing methods to get at the truth. In the end, it was your brother who told me you’d taken your baby to Cardenstowe.”
Halla’s fists were clenched at her sides, and for the first time since Maura had known her, she looked frightened. “What have you done to my family?”
“What was necessary to get what I wanted,” Lazdac replied, his tone light. “Except that your brother lied to me, didn’t he? When I returned to where I’d left my dragon in the woods not far from Lorendale Castle, I startled a woman who was out foraging—an å Livåri woman, with two babes strapped to her back.”
Halla’s anguished cry seared Maura’s heart.
“Of course, even if Lord Nolan hadn’t told me your child was a girl, I would have known which one was yours. Those jeweled eyes! Such an enchanting little thing!”
“Where is Alegre?” Halla wailed.
Lazdac laughed. “Shall I begin by answering your first question?”
As he began to relate, in excruciating detail, the magic he used to extract the whereabouts of Halla’s baby from Lady Inis and Nolan, Master Audric bent close to Roth’s ear. “Go quickly while he’s distracted,” he murmured, “back through the stacks. There’s a passageway that leads out to the corridor. It’s hidden behind a panel halfway down on the right, with a brass alphyn at its center. Press the alphyn and it will open. You must flee Drinnglennin. Take the girl with you—you can use her as a hostage to get free of the city.”
Roth took a step back, then another, drawing Maura with him. She didn’t resist. If she was to help Halla and Fynn, she needed her freedom. But she had no intention of leaving Drinnkastel—not without Borne, and not while her fellow dragonfast and the king she’d sworn to protect were at Lazdac’s mercy.
They moved in silence into the shadows, then hurried down the dark aisle. She pulled back when Roth nearly passed the panel his father had mentioned, and he turned with a scowl. Ignoring him, she pressed the alphyn emblem, and the panel slid open to reveal a familiar palace corridor. Leading the way through it, Maura spied a familiar statue off to her left, and knew where they were—just one hallway over from where Borne must still lie.
Maura pretended to stumble, and when Roth’s grip on her slipped, she raced away from him. He pounded after her in hot pursuit. When she reached the main hall, she veered right, but before she could gain the next turn, he was upon her, his hand gripping her throat and his arm firmly around her waist.
“Try that again and I’ll break your neck,” he hissed in her ear.
“No you won’t. I’m no good to you dead.”
“On the other hand,” said Borne, rounding the corner, his sword in his hand, “we’d all be better off if you ceased to live, Nelvor.” He came at Roth, circling him, and
Maura swallowed hard as Roth tightened his hold on her throat and turned to keep Borne in his sights.
“You’re like a bad smell, Braxton,” the Nelvor sneered. “You just keep lingering. Throw down your blade, or she dies.”
Borne took a step closer, and Maura gasped as Roth squeezed her windpipe.
“I’m serious, Braxton. Drop the sword.”
“Let Maura go and I will.”
Roth laughed. “You’re in no position to bargain, shepherd. Your weapon—now.”
Maura struggled to free her arms, but her captor held them pinned to her sides. “Don’t give it to him!” she choked out.
But Borne was already lowering his sword to the ground.
Roth grabbed a handful of Maura’s hair and forced her to her knees. “You kneel too, Braxton,” he growled, brandishing his own sword.
Borne dropped down to face Maura, his cornflower-blue eyes fixed on hers. She longed to stroke his cheek, but he was out of her reach.
“The two of you have been the banes of my existence for too long,” Roth declared. “Now, remuneration is due. You can tell your friend Cole I sent you, Braxton, once you’re down in the Abyss. As for your woman…” He pulled Maura’s head back so that she had to look at him. “After she’s served her purpose in getting me out of Drinnkastel, maybe I’ll take her back to Albrenia and send her to Casa Calida to be properly trained to pleasure me and my friends.”
Borne looked poised to lunge for his discarded sword, but froze when Roth whipped his blade up to Maura’s throat. “Then again—I could just kill you both and have done with you. I apologize, Lady Maura,” the Nelvor sneered, “but I fear you’re about to be spattered with blood.” With a scornful laugh, he shoved her forward.
A piercing whistle split the air, and Roth cried out as a massive blur of tawny fur leapt at him from behind. As Magnus brought his quarry to the ground, Roth rolled to his back, fighting to keep the dog’s great jaws from his throat.
Quick
as a cat, Maura reached into her kirtle and with three swift strokes, stabbed her little knife into Roth’s groin. The Nelvor screamed and writhed, his blood pooling on the fine carpet beneath him.
Borne snatched up his sword, but as he raised it, Maura said, “Call Magnus off, and just leave him. We’ve no time to waste.”
As they ran back toward the Alithineum, Roth’s shrieks following them, Maura murmured, “No more Casa Calida for you, Roth Nelvor.”
* * *
The sight of the Alithineum’s tarnished doors conjured up painful memories for Morgan, and at the sound of the Strigori’s mocking voice within, the old wizard felt his mouth go dry.
“Let’s start with your newly proclaimed High King, shall we?”
Morgan nodded to Whit, who brought up a shielding spell. He wouldn’t be able to hold it once a duel broke out, but it would protect them until then. At a word from the young wizard, the brass doors flew wide.
They were met with a vermillion blast of light as Lazdac struck out at them. The dark wizard’s lethal spell was rebuffed, and Lazdac raised his own shimmering shield against Whit’s instant retaliation.
Through its transparent glimmer, Morgan saw that the Strigori was much altered since the last time they’d met. Lazdac had lost flesh, and his pale face now looked to be carved from marble, with his high, prominent cheekbones jutting out beneath his ashen skin. His chestnut hair, pulled back and knotted, had thinned and dulled as well. But he still wore the white robes he’d favored as a younger man, and his dark eyes blazed with the same zealotry.
Audric, who had also raised a shield, stood a little apart from his half-brother, his pallor suggesting things weren’t going his way. But then, that was ever the case for those who chose to deal with Lazdac.
“You shall not lay a hand on Fynn Konigur!” Morgan thundered, stepping over the threshold.
Whit dropped his shield, sent one of the library shelves crashing toward Lazdac, and took advantage of the cloud of dust and ash to grab Halla and thrust her behind him. Morgan reached for Fynn to do the same, but Lazdac whirled, his staff now directed at the sleeping king.
“Only a fool seeks the same folly twice, old man,” Lazdac said. “But then, if ever there was a fool…” His lip lifted in a sneer. “And this time, you come to challenge me without the benefit of magic. Now that is incredibly foolish. At least you’ve saved me the trouble of hunting you down.”
With his staff still pointing menacingly at Fynn, the dark wizard ran his eyes appraisingly over Morgan. “I never expected you to live so long. The few wizards I recall who were stripped of their powers all fell into despair and wasted away. But then, you were always content with so little—to serve rather than be served.”
Lazdac shifted his attention to Whit, and his eyes narrowed. “Lord Cardenstowe.” There was no disguising the wrath underlying his address. “I underestimated you. Who would have imagined one so young could raise the Shield of Taran? And I understand you’ve studied the Hud Twyll, which means you have no dread of the dark. But then, virtuosi have no need to fear it.” He gave a slow shake of his head. “A pity to waste such gifts. But yours were soon to be forfeited anyway, or so Princess Celaidra tells me. The Tribus would have shown you no mercy. Under my rule, wizards shall be the Law, and shall wield their power at will!”
He pursed his lips, his eyes taking on a speculative light, and Morgan was reminded of how Lazdac had always been a consummate actor.
The Strigori gave Fynn a none-too-gentle prod with his staff. “I’ll make you an offer, Whit of Cardenstowe—a very generous one. If you lay down your rod now, I might yet consider yielding you your young king. I’ll even let you join the winning side. I can teach you a thousandfold more spells than your failed master here ever could. You will be known as a wizard beyond legend, as I am. You and I—we’re a rare breed apart.”
“You have nothing in common with Lord Cardenstowe!” Master Morgan growled. “Now put aside your staff, or face the consequences!”
Lazdac’s laugh echoed through the great chamber. “I think not. And your young protégé can surely answer for himself.”
Whit’s eyes flicked between the dark wizard and Morgan, then back to Fynn, whom he was clearly desperate to protect.
“What is it to be, my lord? Power beyond measure? Or…?” Lazdac brought his staff closer to Fynn’s head. “I require your answer—and your staff—now.”
Before Whit could answer, a burst of vermillion light pelted toward Lazdac and Audric, and both wizards swung to their left to face this new threat. Selka threw off her shadow and appeared at Whit’s side, then fired her next spell.
Lazdac thrust up his staff with a killing curse on his lips, and a jet of red light blasted toward the sorceress. Selka knocked it aside with a deflecting spell, propelling Lazdac’s magic into a crumbling bookshelf, and setting it alight.
“Parylis!”Audric cried out, thrusting his own staff forward, but Whit extinguished the old wizard’s transfixing spell with a punch of his fist.
Under the cover of this sudden barrage of spells blazing through the air, Halla and Morgan grabbed hold of Fynn and dragged the sleeping young king behind one of the stacks that was not yet afire. Morgan peered out to see a blast of blue fire from Whit collide with Audric’s bedazzler, sending sparks flying in all directions.
“Is that the best you can do, you old dotard?” Lazdac shouted at his half-brother. “We’re not exchanging nursery jinxes!” He whirled from Selka to fire on Whit. “Gorval de morde!”
A flurry of spells blazed between Lazdac and Whit, red and blue streaks combing the air as they shadowcasted across the great chamber dodging the lethal strikes, each seeking to find an opening in the other’s defense. The charge of magic reverberated all around the great chamber, and Morgan felt his very blood tingle.
Whit’s face was haggard and strained under the flashing lights. This was his first real magical duel, and following so close on his raising the Shield of Taran, it was taking an inexorable toll. Despite his brilliance, the young wizard couldn’t hope to match a virtuos of Lazdac’s experience, whose magic was fueled by years of nurtured hate and deeply bitter resentment.
A cannonball of fatal red light sprang from the Strigori’s staff, spiraling nearly faster than the eye could see. The spell struck Whit full in the chest, and with a cry, Whit stumbled back, the knowledge of his certain death stamped across his face.
Morgan’s heart lurched, and he leapt out from behind the stacks, determined to break the fall of the stubborn, willful boy who had matured into a brilliant, courageous man—a man whom Morgan had grown to love as dearly as a son. A mage beyond measure throughout the millennium, now passing from this mortal realm.
It was over. Lazdac had won.
Except Whit, after swaying on his feet under the force of the lethal hit, was still standing tall.
The Strigori’s triumphant smile faded, his gleaming dark eyes widening. “It’s—not—possible!” he snarled, thrusting out his rod once more. “Anvant me mord!”
Another bolt of red light, this one trailing black smoke, slammed into Whit.
Still the young wizard did not fall.
As he looked down at his ruined tunic, a look of wonder replaced the horror on Whit’s face. In the next instant, he hurled an answering spell—a fatal one he could only have learned in the Hud Twyll—at his attacker.
“Y Chwytwith erf i’r effwys!”
A flaming crimson torrent, like a comet streaking across the heavens, sped at the Strigori, forcing him to spin away in a blur of shadow. When Lazdac appeared again, he was behind his half-brother, and sweat was streaming down his gaunt cheeks.
“My spells aren’t working on him!” Lazdac growled. “You take him!”
When Audric hesitated, his breath coming in short gasps, Lazdac’s face contorted with rage.
“Did you not hear me, old fool?”
he cried. “Kill Cardenstowe now! I command you!”
Whit’s next spell was already whirling toward the two brothers. With a terrified cry, Audric lunged out of its path, leaving Lazdac to take the hit squarely between his eyes. The Strigori shrieked in anticipation of pain, then raised his hands to the blackened mark the spell had left on his face. With murder in his eyes, he twisted toward Audric. “Traitor to the blood!” he screamed. “You would have let him kill me!”
That spell should have killed you, thought Morgan, but it did not. Whit’s magic was having no more effect on the Strigori than Lazdac’s was on him.
“Meltha fyrir duit bas!”
Celaidra stepped out of the shadows, her spell whirling in Whit’s direction.
Selka’s counterspell drove into it, and the resulting impact catapulted the magic into the rafters. There was a deafening crack of wood, and as one of the huge beams broke loose from the high ceiling, only Morgan saw Audric level his staff at his half-brother. The timber plunged down, and Lazdac’s scream shattered the air as Audric’s spell found its mark, engulfing Lazdac in a billow of black smoke. An instant later, the heavy beam crashed down on Audric, crushing him under its great weight.
The smoke dispersed to reveal Lazdac lying sprawled on his back. His eyes were wide with shock, and dark blood spilled from his ravaged chest.
“Noooo!” Celaidra wailed, throwing herself over him. Then she reeled back, lashing out with lightning speed at Selka.
“Mord dyre!”
But before her killing curse reached Selka, a golden light shot across the room to dispel it in a shattering burst of sparks.
Celaidra spun toward Whit, and her eyes widened.
Morgan stood haloed in a blaze of light, his staff pointed at her heaving breast. “Yield, Celaidra!” he commanded. “You cannot hope to defeat all three of us.”
Celaidra stared up at him in disbelief. “How…?”
“Lazdac is dead, and I am released from our blood-bonding oath.” Morgan held out his hand. “Surrender your staff. It is finished.”
