by Ann Marston
I pushed Kerri back into the kitchen, gently closed the door, then leaned on the wall and blew a long breath up past my eyebrows. Kerri and I both spoke at once.
“Mother of all,” she said in awe.
“Hellas-birthing,” I muttered.
“No wonder he needs no guards,” she said. “How are we going to get past that?” Before I could stop her, she opened the door a crack and peered out at the monster.
Startled shock kicked in my chest, then I dragged her back and shut the door again. “By all the seven gods and goddesses, are you looking to get killed, woman?” I demanded.
“It never moved,” she said thoughtfully.
“It’s jammed into that hall rather tightly,” I said dryly. “It doesn’t have to move much. One swipe with those claws would reduce both of us to stewing meat.”
“But it didn’t move when we went into the hall. It must have heard us open the door. Do you smell anything?”
Something was percolating through her mind, but I couldn’t quite see what she was getting at. “Just the General,” I said. “Not very strong in here. But he probably doesn’t spend much time in the kitchens.”
“But you smelled the dog.” She bit her lip, not looking at me, eyes narrowed in concentration.
I waited.
“The dog,” she went on, frowning. “It was real. He corrupted the form of a real dog to make it. What could he corrupt to form that thing in the hall?”
“A man?”
“Mayhap,” she said doubtfully. “A travesty of a man.” She opened the door again and stepped out into the hall. I made a soundless yelp of exasperation and hastily drew my sword, then launched myself after her. Confounded, foolhardy, stubborn woman! She would be the death of both of us yet.
When I caught up to her, she stood well within reach of those long arms and terrible claws. Swearing under my breath, sword gripped tightly in both hands, I pulled up short in surprise. The creature still had not moved.
“Look at your sword,” she whispered.
I looked. It appeared normal to me.
“Look again,” she said. “It’s not glowing. It glowed when you used it against the dog.”
She was right. The sword wasn’t glowing. It was merely a honed metal blade, quiescent and waiting in my hands.
“An illusion,” she said. She stepped forward before I could stop her and put her hand against the monster’s back. It went right through. She turned back to me, teeth gleaming in the faint light as she grinned. “Illusion,” she confirmed. “It’s not real.”
I lowered the sword, then put my own hand to the green, scaly skin. My hand went through, too, with only a faint, tingling sensation of cold. I shivered. Gods, I really hate magic.
“Let’s go call on the General then,” she said. She drew her sword and walked right through the man-thing in the hall.
***
We passed quietly into the passageway leading to the family quarters without meeting any more unpleasant surprises. The reek of the General’s magic was strong enough in the long corridor to raise the hair on the nape of my neck. Half-way down the hall, a sliver of light spilled onto the thick carpeting through a partly open door. But for a faint, arrhythmic clicking noise coming from the room, there was no sound at all in the house. The walls were more than thick enough to block the distant music and laughter of the Lammas celebration outside.
Swords drawn and ready, Kerri and I crept down the hall, the carpet muffling our footsteps. We paused outside the door. The clicking sound was louder now. It reminded me of something, but I couldn’t remember what it might be.
I leaned against the wall beside the door, listening intently. Kerri still looked pale, and her tattered and bloody sleeve hung in shreds down her arm and across her wrist. I don’t imagine I looked much better. The encounter with the dog and the monstrous illusion outside the kitchen had left me shaken, and Healing Kerri had used up more strength than I wanted to admit.
Finally, I looked at her, raising one eyebrow. She nodded. I reached out and pushed the door open. The room was a fairly small one, nowhere as large as a formal sitting room. Inside, light came from only three candles, one of them near the empty hearth where the boy Horbad sat playing knucklebones—the clicking sound I had heard. He paid no attention to me, intent upon the game. The other two candles were in sconces on the wall behind a chair near the window. The General sat in the chair in three-quarter profile to the door, his face masked by shadow, his feet resting comfortably on a low hassock. He held another child on his lap, wrapped in a soft, blue blanket and sleeping. One small, bare foot pushed out from beneath the blanket.
“Come in, Kian,” the General said quietly without rising. “I’ve been expecting you. Ah, the lady Kerridwen, too. Welcome, my lady. You got here faster than I thought you would.”
The sword glowed softly in my hands as I stepped into the room. Behind me, Kerri moved quickly sideways along the wall, covering my left.
“You knew I’d come after you sooner or later, General,” I said. “There are some long outstanding debts between us to be settled.”
He turned in the chair so his face was no longer in shadow. The child in his lap slept on, undisturbed. “You might be interested in knowing that the men who sold you to Mendor’s stablemaster died for it shortly after.”
“For disobeying your orders,” I said.
“Exactly. Yes. But now I have you again, and Kyffen’s line will end here.”
“You take a lot for granted, General Hakkar.”
“Do I?”
I smiled. “I don’t intend to let you kill me without a fight. You may find that I’m stronger than you.”
“You won’t fight me,” he said. “My magic is stronger now.”
“So is mine.”
He smiled and I shivered in spite of myself. The stench of his magic filled the air between us, a visible miasma rippling in waves. “You won’t fight,” he repeated. The dark haze between us shimmered and wavered. He smiled again and slowly turned back the blanket covering the face of the child he held. “Look here.”
The room became suddenly darker. My heart kicked in my chest and breath left me as if I had taken a mortal blow to the belly.
The child was Keylan.
There wasn’t enough air in the room to fill my lungs properly. I made a choked sound and lurched forward a pace or two. My son didn’t move. He lay in the General’s arms, eyes closed, one small fist curled near his cheek.
“How did you get my son?” I demanded, my voice hoarse and raw. Maeduni soldiers loose at Broche Rhuidh. I shivered, seeing visions of Cullin’s daughters and Gwynna lying in their own blood. Medroch’s people would die to the last man to protect any child of the Clanhold, and Keylan was Medroch’s great-grandchild.
“I sent men to fetch him,” the General said pleasantly. “The child was playing in the orchard. They simply picked him up and brought him to me.”
“The rest of my family?”
The General laughed. “The rest of your family is safe,” he said. “My men did not wish to cause an annoying disturbance and be delayed. It’s only you and the boy I want.” He drew his finger hard down the side of the child’s cheek. A red welt rose quickly on the fair skin, but still Keylan didn’t move.
The room felt cold. I was cold. My belly knotted with a tremor I couldn’t control. My throat and mouth rasped dry as desert sand, but the hilt of the sword in my hands was slick and slippery with sweat.
“You returned my son to me,” the General went on. “Shall I return your son to you?”
I said nothing, waiting.
“After I’ve taken his magic, of course.”
I thought my grip on the hilt of the sword might bend it. “He has no magic,” I said hoarsely.
“But you do.”
“Yes.”
“Would you trade your magic for his life?”
The tremor in my belly became a hard, juddering shiver. “Yes,” I said. I drew in a painful breath. “Give the
child to the woman and let them go first.”
He looked up, surprised. “Why should I let the woman go? She, too, has magic I need.”
“You once gave me her life in exchange for your son’s,” I said. “Give her my son’s life in exchange for mine.”
The boy Horbad sprang to his feet, scattering his knucklebones, and ran to his father. He put his hand possessively to Keylan’s head, his fingers clutching tightly in the copper-gold curls.
“He’s mine,” he cried. “You promised him to me.”
“There will be others, Horbad,” the General said soothingly. The boy went sullenly back to the hearth and resumed his game.
The General got to his feet. “Place your sword on the floor,” he told me. Slowly, I bent and laid the sword on the carpet. I straightened and stepped back.
The General turned to Kerri. “My lady, if you will be so kind,” he said.
Kerri glanced at me. I nodded and she came forward to take Keylan from the General, cuddling him into her arms. “He’s so cold,” she murmured, her cheek against the child’s forehead.
The General stepped back and reached behind the chair. When he straightened again, he held a sword in his hands, a sword blacker than the night.
“Take Keylan home, sheyala,” I said quietly.
“It’s too late, Tyr,” the General said. “Your son has already given up his magic to my son.” He reached with the tip of his sword and flipped aside the blanket covering Keylan.
Kerri made a choked, horrified sound and fell to her knees. The front of Keylan’s shirt clung, tattered and bloody, to the gaping wound in his belly.
I stared, unable to think, unable to move. Frozen and turned to stone, all I could see was that terrible, yawning rip in my son’s tiny body. Grief squeezed my chest until every beat of my heart hurt like a knife thrust, and my breath rasped like a file against my throat.
Slowly, I turned back to face the General, my mouth filled with the taste of blood where my teeth had pierced my lip. I was aware of every muscle in my body, every sinew. Cold, alert and ready.
“You bastard,” I said softly. “Mongrel whelp of a bitch hound….” I dived forward, snatching up the sword, and rolled to my feet, crouched and eager.
Beneath the palms of my hands, every ridge of the leather binding of the sword hilt felt clear and distinct. The sword in my hands blazed up into incandescent white and the screaming, discordant note of its vibrato filled the room.
“I will kill you, General,” I said softly. “I will kill you, then I will follow you to Hellas and destroy your soul.”
Even as I sprang forward, the stench of magic intensified in the room until the air was almost too thick to breathe. A globe of dull, red light appeared in his hand. But he threw it at Kerri who still held the unmoving body of my son cradled in her arms. The air around her shimmered for an instant as she tried to meet his magic with her own. The fireball splashed against her, spraying liquid fire around her, wrapping her in glaring flame. It sizzled and spat, then vanished. The force of the magic threw Kerri, Keylan clutched tight against her, back hard against the far wall. Her head slammed into the plaster. She slumped forward and didn’t move. The bond between us flickered along the threads of the link.
“Forgive me, sheyala,” I murmured. “This is more important that what’s between us.”
A sheet of intense, blinding flame leaped up in front of the General. Instinctively, I flinched back, then plunged forward, uncaring, into the fire, intent only on killing the General. But even as I touched the fire, it wavered, then vanished.
Illusion. It was another of the General’s illusions.
He raised his sword to meet mine, dodging back behind the heavy chair. I couldn’t reach him. There wasn’t enough space to manoeuvre in the room. Too many obstacles between us.
Another huge, scaly man-thing appeared in the room, towering over Kerri. It reached out knife-like claws toward her. I didn’t turn, didn’t take my eyes off the General.
“Another illusion?” I asked softly. “Surely you can do better than that. Where’s your real magic?”
He kicked the hassock, sending it spinning toward my feet. I jumped over it easily, but I couldn’t get close enough to him with the chair between us.
“Did we hurt you that badly, Cullin and I?” I said. “You have nothing left, General Hakkar. You’re a dried husk. You’re nothing but an illusion yourself.”
“I have enough magic, Tyr,” the General snarled.
The air between us thickened with foul, black mist. It wrapped itself in tendrils around my throat, suffocating and strangling. Cold as lost hope, it fastened itself to my soul, draining my strength and will, sucking the spirit from me, replacing my lifeblood with its own chilling void. I coughed, choking and gagging on the loathsome stuff, tasting death against the back of my tongue. Fingers of the mist closed about my heart, squeezing until each laboured beat was agony.
The General laughed. “Can your magic defeat that?”
Celae magic. Tyadda magic. Gentle magic. It would not allow itself be used as a weapon. But I could use it in a different way. With the last of my strength, I reached out, grasped one of the threads of power surging through the ground beneath my feet. The darkness of blood magic within me burst and shattered as it met the clean earth and air magic. I wove the Celae magic like strands of spider web into a noose, threw it and snared it around the General. I yanked.
XXXIII
We stood facing each other at the foot of the hill crowned by the stone dance. The sky glowed in twilight colours, neither dawn nor dusk, but a time removed. At the top of the hill, the menhirs rose starkly and blackly silhouetted against the sky. Beneath my feet, the grass released its fresh perfume into the air, rising about me in a soft cloud. This wasn’t my place, but it was a neutral place. The General faced me, wearing the face of the opponent who had called me to battle in this place so often before.
“Now we see, General,” I said. “My magic won’t work here, but neither will yours.”
“Your son is dead,” he said. “Your woman is dead. What do you have left?”
“The pleasure of killing you, General.”
We circled each other warily. I watched him, picking out small details of stance and pose. He balanced easily on the balls of his feet, sword held in both hands. Dark eyes narrowed to slits, he studied me as carefully as I studied him. He was as accomplished with the sword as I, perhaps more. But neither of us was at the peak of strength; his weakened yet by the effort to recover from the shock of being torn from the magic transfer; mine by the effort to Heal Kerri. Which of us was stronger now?
“I admit there is a small possibility you might succeed in killing me,” he said, his lips stretched back over his teeth in a dreadful parody of a smile. “But Kyffen’s line is dead. You will sire no sons on the Celae wench, even if you survive this meeting.”
“I will have more sons, and by her.” I sidestepped quickly to my right, searching for an opening. He countered, his sword making small, purposeful sweeps before him.
“She’s dead.”
“Not a good wager, General.” I stepped to my left, took a quick, experimental swing at his legs to test the balance of my sword and his alertness. He parried the blow and our blades met with a quick, whispering slither.
He disengaged and stepped back. “You will die here, and Maedun is safe,” he said.
“Maedun is not safe,” I said. “My son is not dead.”
“You saw his belly opened like a gutted fish. He is dead.”
I laughed at him. “Just another of your flimsy illusions,” I said. “You scraped your fingernail along his cheek, General. I saw the welt it raised. Dead flesh will not show a welt. You did not kill him.”
“But I will,” he said. “Horbad will have his magic yet. When my warlock arrives—”
Circling, circling, each of us looking for an opening to attack. Sudden spurt of black-red blood as my sword flashed past his guard and thrust into the muscle of h
is arm. Spray of darkness from the black sword as he leaped back and away from the next attack.
He lunged at me, his sword making a wide, sweeping arc toward my head. I blocked it, then cut at his belly. He parried the blow deftly, and jumped back out of reach.
“My son,” he panted. “Horbad will kill your son. The day will come, Tyr...”
I flexed my wrists. The sword felt light in my hands, eager as a leashed hound for the hunt. “My son will be able to fight his own battles,” I said.
“Horbad will have my name and my power,” he said. “He will add his own power to mine. Your son cannot stand against him.”
“The boy may gain your name,” I said grimly. “But he won’t have your power. You can’t give it to him if you die here.”
He feinted to his right, came at me with a slicing cut from the left. I swung my sword down, blocked his with a ringing clang, then carved a blow at his belly. He leaped back, brought his blade up to parry mine.
“And I do intend to see that you die here,” I said, disengaging quickly and dodging back.
Again, we circled. He attacked and I lunged forward to meet him. Back and forth across the trampled grass, each straining and striving to tear the guts from the other. Blind to everything but the swing and slice of the other sword. Breath rasping in great gulps, his face pale, sweating. My own cold as the wind of my own movement dried the moisture on my brow and cheeks.
Whirl and thrust and sway. Feet moving in elaborate patterns on the level grass. A spasm of pain in my left shoulder, my own blood vivid red spilling down my arm. My arm trembled from the chill of the black blade.
Circle and circle. Warily watching each other. His eyes black as night, black as the pits of Hellas. Soft brush of the topaz in my ear against my cheek as I swayed to my left. The blade of his sword sucking in light, spitting out darkness and cold. Brilliant luminescence of my own blade, glittering in its aura of colour.
I gripped tighter to the plain, leather-bound hilt nestled into my hands. “Dance with me,” I whispered to the sword, a lover to a lover. “Dance for me. Now!” I sprang forward, the sword in my hands singing fiercely and sweetly in the eerie light.
