by Shea Godfrey
The Lord Serabee El-Khan appeared amidst a thick shimmer of air, stepped through the patio doors, and walked uninvited into the Great Hall. His clothes were as black as always and he wore two swords, one upon each hip. His bald head caught the lamps and torchlight and his teeth flared as he smiled. From the balcony above, Kingston Sol took aim and fired.
The arrow bounced upon the floor at Serabee’s feet and skipped deeper into the room with a clatter. Kingston cursed in surprise.
Lady Radha, High Priestess of the Vhaelin shimmered to life out of thin air, halfway between her children and the Fakir Lord, draped within her many black shawls and fringe. Jessa stepped forward at the sight of her but Darry grabbed her and held her back.
“Lady Radha, how good of you to come,” Serabee said and smiled. “I had thought you dead in an alley, along the wharf, I believe. Though when my man returned with word of your demise, I will admit that it seemed somewhat doubtful. But one always hopes for the best.”
A loosed arrow bent around Serabee’s shoulder and ricocheted through the air. It missed Radha by a few scant inches. “Wait until you have something you can hit, boy!” she yelled out, and Kingston stood down.
Serabee laughed and looked beyond the old woman, his gaze intense as he studied Darry across the distance. “We have been waiting for you, Yellow Hair.”
Jessa felt her rage rise up, and this too was as deep and old as her love for Darry. We live upon the same thread in the Great Loom of the world…as do they. Neela’s voice echoed through her thoughts, and once again Jessa saw Tannen Ahru upon her splendid piebald stallion.
Darry let go of Jessa’s hand and stepped forward.
“And we have been waiting for a very long time,” Serabee said, watching her move. “If only Joaquin had realized what he’s truly been poking at. Thank you for not killing him.” Serabee laughed. “I would say that you are late, Yellow Hair, but that would be rude.”
Jessa heard Darry’s name spoken and knew it was the queen. She knew where Cecelia stood within the hall, just as she knew where the king was. It was the Hawk’s Eye spell and it was not a comfortable awareness, to see the world from so many perspectives. She had never before had cause to use it, and the spell had come unbidden into her thoughts. This, too, was not a comfortable sensation—that some part of her mind wove together the string of runes without her conscious knowledge.
“My name is Darrius,” her lover said clearly for all to hear.
“Your name is of no consequence,” Serabee responded. “It is the thread upon the Loom that matters. And your thread will finally be at an end.”
“It will be my sword in your throat that matters, Fakir dog,” Darry threatened, and there was a low chuff of sound within her voice, almost a purr.
Jessa felt a hitch in her breath at the pulse of majik that poured from Darry, an open flow of power that held absolutely nothing back. It spilled onto the floor at her lover’s feet like a glorious wave and rushed forth.
Hinsa, Jessa realized, truly startled. Darry had called her forth. She was calling the great cat from the maze at last and claiming her blood in full.
Serabee smiled. “But you are not wearing a sword.”
“And you have one too many,” Darry answered with a grin of her own. “I shall just use one of yours.”
Jessa stepped forward and set a careful hand at the small of Darry’s back.
“Talk, talk, talk, you are unwelcome in my daughter’s house,” Radha said and reached out. “Let us get on with the killing.”
“Radha, no!” Jessa screamed.
Light bowed outward and Jessa was shoved to the floor, Darry’s hands hard upon her shoulders as she was taken down amidst the explosion. A discordant wail of strings filled the hall with a horrible surge of noise, and Darry gave a shout as a blast of heat washed over them.
Jessa spoke the counter spell and it surrounded them both as she held fast to the pocket of air that defended them. In her mind the spell was like a bird in her hand, held firmly and yet with great care, each feather an instrument of power that she smoothed with a whispered thought. The torches guttered and spat flames that rose up as the wave of light raced across the Great Hall, only to escape through any opening available. Flames caught one of the tapestries and the ancient fabric was lit afire.
Radha stepped close within the center of the storm as the glass upon the garden doors shattered outward, as did the balcony windows, the archers thrown back from the railing as the unleashed power surged upward.
Radha touched her left hand to Serabee’s forehead and met his eyes, her laughter pleased at the fear and shock she encountered. Not just a witch, you arrogant dog, but a High Priestess of my gods. Not just a nursemaid but your equal, yes?
The heat that wrapped around the Fakir intensified as she called forth all her power and forced the white flames past the influence of Serabee’s icy cold shadow. She could smell his blood, and she closed in for the kill, giddy at the prospect of so quick a victory. But she could also smell the demons of the Northern Wastes swell upward to meet her, and the fingers of her hand became stiff beneath the rival power. Even so, Serabee, you are no longer hidden within your cold stone…
Radha reached out with her other hand, and his body trembled beneath her touch, helpless as she drew forth one of his two swords. “My daughter has need of this,” she said within the storm of the Vhaelin blood fires called to life. “Thank you for remembering.”
She knew the heat pushed within Serabee’s veins, and she felt his power arch against it in a frantic manner. His gods required ice and blood, and no doubt he had drunk his fill in the dark, frozen towers of the Kistanbal.
One thing she had not expected, however, was the messenger of her own gods. She had not expected to feel the pounding of its hooves, nor to smell the musky scent of its soft coat beneath the stench of his power.
Radha leaned closer as she sought the stag, her eyes wide as she tried to tame its might and turn it to her advantage. The messenger was truly unexpected and she let the flames grow stronger as she sought its protection against them. She opened herself to the stag’s influence, some deep part of her filled with pride that the Vhaelin would come to her in the midst of her greatest battle. She had encountered the animal’s genuine essence only once before, those many years ago when Jessa had taken up the bone dagger. And though the stag had thundered past her in search of the girl, it had been enough, enough to keep her prayers faithful and strong.
Serabee smiled in the heat and struck Radha along the throat. His hand passed through the flesh as if he were a ghost, and then he tried to grab hold, at once solid and filled with rage.
The stag’s energy shifted, and Radha realized—to her horror—that Serabee had been drinking of the stag’s blood and hoarding its power. Her eyes went wide in distress and she stumbled back, spitting blood within the runes of her spell as she seized the totem of her gods from his control. The pure distillation of power splattered across his face and blistered his skin as Serabee fell away with a scream, seared to the bone.
*
Darry looked up as a gust of wind surged through the hall and replaced the heat with a bitter cold that burned in its own right. Her hair slashed and clung to her face as the perverted frost blanketed the room. She fell onto her backside, and Jessa grabbed her tunic in the crush of silence.
The sudden sounds of battle rang out from the balcony above and beyond the archway doors as Darry took her first clean breath in what seemed like forever.
Radha stood in the center of the room, and though Serabee El-Khan was nowhere to be seen, the High Priestess did not stand alone.
Darry guessed that close to one hundred Sahwello warriors stood in wait behind the old woman, their numbers fanning back through the shattered doors and into the gardens. They were unmasked and exposed, weapons at the ready. Their skin fairly glowed in the light of the few torches that remained, their illumination meager when compared to the power that had filled the vast chamber but moments bef
ore.
“Sheeva…” Jessa spoke in a shocked breath, and her arm jerked as Darry pushed to her feet and ran.
“Darrius!” Owen bellowed and his voice echoed through the hall.
Darry could feel the grass beneath her feet and the air against her face. She could feel her muscles pump and her feet pound the earth. She could smell the lilacs within the courtyard as the hunt swelled upward and the maze was left behind. She could smell the blood of her enemy, and her tongue was eager for a taste.
Radha turned her back on the Fakir warriors and walked toward Darry with a dark smile as the enemy surged forward. The old woman tossed Serabee’s captured sword high into the air, and its twisted silver guard flashed with brilliance as it spun.
“Thank you, my Lady,” Darry said as she snagged it smoothly from its downward arc and was past her. She whirled with grace into the steps of the Dance and the wicked blade of the Fakir Lord sliced upward, straight through the first Sahwello that crossed her path.
Chapter Nine
Jessa watched in horror as Darry disappeared into a sea of black, even as her perception was spun high up within the Great Hall as the Hawk’s Eye spell graced her with its gift. Thrown off balance by the sudden shift in viewpoint, she stumbled to the side, only to be caught by Arkady’s strong hand upon her arm.
Bentley slammed into the Sahwello near the edge of the dance floor, struck the man’s sword aside, and let momentum do the rest. They both crashed into the men behind, tumbling to the floor as weapons struck out and steel flashed, Bentley on his right knee as his shin crushed the throat beneath him and his blade slashed upward with the strength of both arms.
Tobe Giovanni slid into the fray beside him and pushed forward as his blade caught the sword at the back of Bentley’s neck and shoved it away. The dagger within his left hand stabbed out and found the willingness of flesh.
Grissom Longshanks waded in with both sword and dagger drawn. He chose his first kill, and then made it so as he ignored the blade tip that sliced open the tunic along his sword arm. He flipped the dagger around and threw it as his sword slid in a circle and swung his opponent’s blade around and out. He drew a second dagger from the belt at the small of his back and struck, the blade lost to him as the Sahwello fell away.
An arrow pierced the back of the man beside the commander, and Jessa’s vision swung smoothly to its source. Kingston Sol nocked another arrow as he slid along the balcony rail, no doubt his second shot as deadly as the first.
The High King of Arravan fought with a mighty sword, the movements familiar to his body and delivered with an unexpected grace. He took a wound upon his left forearm as his sword pulled back and sliced a throat, blood arcing into the air. He bellowed his rage, his eyes wide as his voice rose through the Great Hall above the fray, and he laid both hands upon his sword.
Upon the dais Emmalyn grabbed Etienne’s arm. “Etienne, go!”
“No,” he replied. “I won’t leave you.”
Jessa’s gaze hovered overhead. Five Sahwello warriors broke free from the center and rushed the overturned tables as Etienne stepped forward with a smile. He moved to the gap and spun, his sword behind his back as he came up. His blade slid through flesh but he never stopped, the second Sahwello unable to defend the unexpected strike. When Etienne came around, the third man fell past him, two arrows in his back. Etienne’s sword clashed with the man upon his right, and he pushed him back as the remaining Sahwello charged the gap.
Nina Lewellyn pulled a dagger from her boot, shoved the queen aside, and faced their enemy with a furious expression. An arrow exploded through the front of the attacker’s throat, and he crashed to the floor. His body slid to an unruly halt at Nina’s feet, and she looked up into the distance. Two more Kingsmen had joined Kingston Sol upon the balcony, both bloodied but capable as they picked their targets.
“The banners!” the queen cried out and ran.
The slow embers had caught fire, and the flames had begun to spread from one tapestry to the next. Emmalyn reacted and shouted for the water barrels to be overturned, Nina close behind her as she ran. Emmalyn grabbed her mother as Cecelia struggled with the Lewellyn family tapestry, lumps and streamers of flaming fabric raining down from above. She spun her to the side and out of harm’s way with a shout for help.
Jessa refocused and looked to Arkady, his sword slick with blood. “Arkady!”
He turned toward her voice amidst the sounds of the battle around them and stepped forward with a downward swing of his sword, at her service.
“To the king, Arkady,” she ordered and sent the Hawk’s Eye in search, leading him through the carnage.
“Hell and hounds, woman!”
Jessa reached out as they went, the words upon her lips a deadly breath as she moved through the battle. She touched a shoulder, whereupon the bones broke and a scream rang out. Her fingers slid through a wave of hair as Arkady turned a sword away, and a spine turned to dust even before Arkady could strike. His sword was cool and precise, a keen partner to the majik that Jessa let loose in order to destroy their enemies.
The Hawk’s Eye saw Radha close to Darry as the old woman plucked from her shoulders one of her many black shawls. Jessa stumbled at the sight of them both and Arkady cursed as he steadied her and thrust his sword at the same time.
The Sahwello who swung a killing blow toward Darry’s spine turned as the black shawl became smoke along his sword, his eyes shocked as the dense cloud spun thick and heavy about his blade and raced up his arms like a snake. It filled his mouth as he screamed, slithered down his throat, and took him to the floor. Radha plucked another shawl and tossed it, the garment flying past Darry’s head before coiling around a throat, slicing along the jaw, and finding the lips of her next victim. It flooded his mouth, poured down his throat, and filled his lungs.
Darry moved like water, the Dance—the discipline of Honshi—guiding her stolen sword. The weight of the weapon appeared perfectly balanced in her hand, as if it were made only for her. She seemed to recognize nothing but the sleekness of the steel as it clashed with the weapons in front of her, first upon her left and then her right, her movements so clean and swift that the Sahwello began to part before her despite their numbers. The force of her blows and the conflict her sword provided were a graceful thing, and within the steps of Honshi, each strike was a deadly blow against one of her opponents. Her sword was alive, and Jessa thought at that moment that her lover had become one with the blade, her will given up to the secrets of the steel.
Jessa turned to her left and reached out, grabbed the throat of an enemy, and then watched as the runes burned a path of fire down her arm. His body jerked and spun as flames burst out in a glorious flash of white brilliance, and then he fell, turned to ash before he could hit the floor. Through the Hawk’s Eye spell she caught sight of the king and they waded deeper into the fight.
*
Darry was at one with the steps until she heard the screams. Her mind filled with a face and she felt the heat of blood upon her tongue, the rush of its flavor hard within her next step. Her sword faltered and she tried to adjust, her concentration splintered by the instincts that could not be tamed: Hinsa.
The blow took her upon the right side, and she crumpled beneath it as pain exploded along her shoulder and into her neck. Her head seemed to split beneath the force of it, and she let out a startled breath as her eyes shut and light burst within her skull. The sword slid into the flesh along her ribs and she cried out. She tried to spin away from it even as she fell, her sword striking as she went down.
Darry saw what appeared to be a black snake wrap thick about her opponent’s neck, and he stumbled to the side, taken from the battle as he struggled against a new attack. She lifted her blade in confusion as another Fakir filled her vision.
Hinsa leaped within the fray and landed upon the man’s back, taking him to the floor. The golden panther took his neck within her mighty jaws and, with a smooth twist of movement, swung his body to the side as
if it were a child’s doll. The fur upon her back was bloodstained, and her powerful tail lashed out behind her.
Darry blinked and felt Hinsa lift her head, the Lady Radha standing before the cat, though the old woman was much too tall. Radha was surrounded by brilliant light as the old woman bowed her head in deference, and Darry realized that she was looking through Hinsa’s eyes.
Then Radha reacted smoothly to a new threat, and her hand pushed through a chest.The fringe at the waist of her skirt unraveled and thick pieces of twisted yarn pulled free of the material, swirled into the air, and then straightened into deadly quills. The air rippled with a heavy pulse of energy, and the long needles scattered as Darry tipped over. Her vision shifted yet again as she looked up, her senses returned to her own body as the enemy fell before them like stalks of wheat at harvest.
She saw Bentley in the distance with Tobe Giovanni at his back, Tobe bleeding heavily from his left leg though he fought on. Darry pushed to her feet and moved, even as Hinsa leaped into the Sahwello warriors as Tobe went down, his legs kicked from beneath him. Bentley was crowded but he would not leave his companion, as Tobe lay crumpled against the back of his left leg. Darry sliced at a shoulder and switched her blade over in the same move, the weapon brought back around in order to dispatch a second line of attack.
Bentley called out and Darry fought harder at the sound of his voice. They had been pushed deep into the Great Hall and fought just beneath the balcony, a position that had no line of retreat or defensible advantage, and Darry knew this would be their final stand. Hinsa yowled and Darry spun to the side with a furious shout. She knocked an enemy’s blade aside with her wounded left hand and stabbed as Hinsa slithered to the right, a gash along her hind leg. A second Sahwello swung his dagger toward her in a vicious arc as Radha stepped into the melee. The fringe of her skirt unraveled and, like a rope, spun in each direction to entangle both Sahwello opponents. Necks snapped to Darry’s left and to her right.
