Now, it was he who pressed the attack, steel chiming against steel, playing a deadly melody with only one conclusion as he forced his opponent back, his sword whipping this way and that, feeling as if it were alive in his hands, a serpent that was not tamed, that could never be tamed.
He pressed forward behind it, swinging again and again, ignoring the stitch in his side, the ache in his hands, ignoring everything except for the man in front of him. The man who, he was gratified to see, was not smiling any longer. He knocked the man’s blade away, raising his own sword over his head, and the swordsman braced, preparing to parry. Dannen might have changed the movement, but he did not. Instead, he roared, putting all his ample anger—and not so ample strength—behind the blow as he brought the blade down.
The two swords met, and there was a great, metallic shattering as the swordsman’s blade broke. Dannen’s own magical blade continued on, digging deep into the man’s shoulder. The swordsman screamed, stumbling away, his good hand cupping his bloody shoulder.
The man stared at him with wide eyes, and he did not seem confident now, did not seem brave. He seemed scared. “M-mercy,” he said, holding up his good hand, still staggering backward as Dannen came on.
Dannen grunted. “You lost your chance at mercy when you and your brother killed hundreds of men, when you brought the dead back to life.”
“B-but where is your honor?” the man stammered.
Dannen didn’t answer, at least not with words. Instead, he lunged forward, his blade driving deep into the man’s chest and out his back, driving forward until he was only inches away from his opponent’s face. “Kill my friends, will you?” he hissed in the dying man’s face. “As for honor—well, Honor’s dead. I should know—I’m the one that killed the bastard.”
The man opened his mouth, as if he might speak, might say something, but in the end he only slid off the blade, collapsing onto the ground, dead.
Dannen stood staring at him, his chest heaving, staring, too, at the bloody blade he held. Never again. He’d told Val that, told himself that, and yet here he was. And just as he’d told the swordsman, he felt no great sense of victory or accomplishment. Instead, he only felt pain.
“Dannen!”
He turned to see Mariana rushing forward. “Gods, you won!”
Dannen could hear the surprise in her voice, but then he couldn’t blame her—he was surprised too. “I’m okay,” he said, glancing around at the skeletons starting toward them from all sides. “For now, at least.”
The king rode up a moment later, along with his remaining soldiers. “Well fought, Dannen Ateran!” he exclaimed. “I see that, in your case at least, the reputation is justified.”
Dannen grunted. “Thanks. Though, it seems they are a bit less impressed,” he said, eyeing the approaching skeletons.
“What do we do?” Mariana asked.
Dannen sighed, rubbing at an ache in his lower back. “Try not to die.”
The king roared a laugh at that, and Dannen thought that he and Fedder would make fine friends. “You heard him, lads!” he shouted. “Try not to die!”
***
Fedder had never been so cold in all his life. His entire body felt frozen, inside and out, and it took a monumental effort to draw breath into lungs that felt made of ice. It was, he thought, similar to the sensation of jumping in a mountain lake in the dead of winter. That shock as your body and mind were thrust into unbelievably frigid tempers. Only unlike in such a situation, where the body and mind slowly grew acclimated to those freezing temperatures, he never did. It was as if he was re-living that frigid plunge over and over and over again.
It was painful, all-encompassing. And it was killing him.
“How does it feel, Fedder?” a voice asked. “To know that you are beaten, to know that you are dying?”
Only a voice, seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. Part of him knew that he was still in the necromancer’s tent, and that the man himself was somewhere nearby, but it was a small part, one growing smaller by the moment as his body and his mind succumbed to the man’s spell.
“Do you see now that I am your better? Do you see that you were a fool to come here?”
Fedder did not answer, couldn’t have even had he wanted to. It was all he could do to draw in one labored breath after the other and even that was becoming increasingly difficult with each moment that passed.
“Mine is the power of death, fool,” the necromancer hissed, “and death is my dominion. You cannot beat me, for you cannot beat death.”
Something of the man’s words struck a chord in Fedder, tickling his numbed thoughts as if there was a riddle hidden in there, one that he did not understand.
“Does it hurt, I wonder?” the man pressed. He was close now, his words little more than a whisper, so close that Fedder could feel his breath against his face.
Dying, Fedder thought. I’m dying.
“Do not fret overmuch,” the necromancer went on, “for soon you will die and the dead, Fedder Firemaker, feel no pain. Trust me, for while you know nothing of death, I know plenty.”
It was all there, laid out before him. Pain. Life. Death. Ice. Fire. Hidden somewhere in those words, the answer to the puzzle, but one he did not understand. Until, finally…he did.
The man had power over the dead, over the cold, the cold of the grave, the cold of a widow’s bedside or an empty stool where once a good friend had sat. Cold. Fedder knew little of such magic, but he knew fire. He knew warmth. The warmth of a fireplace in winter, the warmth of a handshake or a tight embrace. The warmth of laughter and joy. The warmth of life.
Something blossomed within him at the thought, a tiny flame dancing in the darkness of the necromancer’s spell. Tiny at first, but growing, blazing in the darkness, in the cold. Suddenly, power roared through him, and he gave a shout of his own, rising to his feet. He lashed out with his hand, grabbing the necromancer by the throat and lifting him off the ground. The man hacked and coughed, struggled and spat, but it was no use, and as his concentration slipped so, too, did the spell.
“You’re right,” Fedder growled. “I know little of death. But I know about life. Life is hard, life is warm. Life is pain. And life, brother, life burns.” The fire roared through him then, unstoppable, unquenchable, and suddenly his arm, his entire body burst into flames, his clothes disintegrating before the incredible heat. The necromancer screamed, but only for a moment before the raging fires swept over him. Seconds later, his remains collapsed to the ground in a pile of ash.
Fedder stepped out of the tent to see the others standing there. Tesler was a lion no longer but a man once more, the squirrel pet of his perched on his shoulder.
Three of the trolls stood with them, all of them smiling. A quick glance around showed that, bereft of the necromancer’s magic, the entire undead army had collapsed into piles of bones.
“Fedder!” Tesler said, running forward and clapping him on the shoulder. “You did it!”
Fedder gave a shrug of his shoulders. “No big deal, lad.”
“Sure,” the man agreed, nodding heavily, apparently ready to believe it. Then a quizzical look came on his face. “But…why are you naked?”
***
Dannen was on his back in the middle of a battle—which was bad. He’d tripped on something—a bone or a rock, no way to know for sure—which was also bad. Worse, though, was the skeleton on top of him, trying to force its blade down into his heart with both hands and, despite Dannen’s efforts to the contrary, largely succeeding never mind that it had no muscles with which to push. Didn’t seem fair, but the creature wasn’t up for arguing the point, its skull seeming to grin a macabre grin as the blade slowly inched closer and closer to Dannen’s heart.
He struggled and spat and hissed, but still the blade edged closer until, abruptly his undead opponent collapsed on him like a puppet with its strings cut. Dannen had been holding its wrists and as the creature’s grip loosened he was forced to bat the flat of the blad
e aside to keep from being impaled. He rolled the creature off him in disgust and then lay there for a moment, trying to get his breath back.
Before he could rise, a figure appeared above him, and he tensed, expecting another undead creature to try to kill him. Instead, it was Mariana, staring at him with an eyebrow raised. She’d received a small cut on her face somewhere during the fighting, but that didn’t keep her from grinning. “Well?” she asked. “You just gonna lie there all day?”
Dannen grunted. “I was thinkin’ about it,” he answered, but when she offered him a hand, he took it, groaning as he was pulled to his feet. He surveyed the battlefield and saw that it wasn’t really a battlefield, not anymore. All the undead creatures had collapsed to the ground, making it, he supposed, the world’s largest graveyard. Or certainly one that was in the running.
He blinked, hardly willing to believe what his eyes were seeing. “I don’t…”
“Don’t you see?” Mariana said, grinning. “Tesler and the others, they must have killed the necromancer!”
Dannen heard her, really he did, but his mind was having a hard time understanding the words, as if she’d spoken them in a different language. He was still puzzling through them when the king rode up, accompanied by his remaining soldiers. “Dannen Ateran!” he bellowed. “It would appear that the field is ours!”
Dannen glanced around at the field, at the thousands of dead lying about it, and grunted. “If it’s all the same to you, Majesty, you can keep it.”
The king roared a laugh at that, and Dannen turned, looking across the distance at the intervening distance separating them from the other tent. He thought he could see figures there, but just who they were he could not say from so far away. “King Ufrith,” he asked, “mind if I catch a ride with you? I seem to have lost my horse.”
The northern king smiled widely, sheathing his battle axe at his back. “Of course.”
***
Minutes later, they arrived at the tent to find the others still standing around, looking as shocked as Dannen himself to still be counted among the living. He dismounted from the horse the king had lent him—its rider had been one of those lost in the fighting and so had no use of it. He’d barely managed to do as much when Mariana screamed and ran to Tesler, the two of them embracing. Dannen heaved a heavy sigh then walked up to Fedder. “The necromancer?” he asked.
Fedder grinned, but Dannen could see the exhaustion in the simple expression. “Dead.”
“No more danger then?” Dannen asked.
“Oh, there’s always danger, Butcher, you know that. Still, it seems the immediate danger has passed.”
“Good,” Dannen said. “Then maybe you can put some damned clothes on. How’d that be?” It wasn’t right. The man was as old as Dannen himself, if not older, and he drank a damn sight more. Yet for all that, he looked as if his body had been carved out of stone, like some great statue of an ancient warrior that might decorate a city square.
Fedder grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “Glad you survived, Butcher.”
“Me too,” Dannen said, but mostly he was just glad the man didn’t give him a hug instead. He glanced at where Tesler and Mariana were embracing. “How’d the lad do?”
Fedder grunted, following his gaze. “Turned into a lion. His squirrel pet was a big monster.”
Dannen glanced at the man to see if he was joking, but his expression was serious. He gave a grunt of his own. “Well. Sure. Why not?”
He walked up to the young man, and Tesler and Mariana broke off their embracing long enough for him to offer his hand. “Happy to see you made it through,” Dannen said.
Tesler was beaming, his face flushed with pleasure mixed with embarrassment. “Thank you, Dannen. You as well.”
There was a sound behind them and Dannen turned to see Fiddleguts and Bumblebelly, accompanied by the remaining trolls. “Bumblebelly,” he said, “Fiddleguts. Thank you for your help.”
Bumblebelly grinned wide. “Was good smashin’.”
“Real good,” Fiddleguts agreed.
Bumblebelly frowned, glancing at his cousin. “That what I said.”
“You said good,” Fiddleguts said, a haughty expression on his face—up to that point, Dannen wouldn’t have thought trolls could look haughty. “I said real good. Real good smashin’.”
“Anyway,” Dannen said, deciding that he’d had more than his fill of fighting for the day and wasn’t particularly keen on the two trolls getting angry and swinging those clubs around, “what will you do now?”
The two trolls cocked their heads, looking at him. “Do?” Bumblebelly asked.
“Sure,” Dannen said, “I mean, now that the necromancer is dead and you’ve made your amends.”
The two trolls shared a look before turning back to him. “Why, find bridge.” Bumblebelly said.
Fiddleguts nodded. “We trolls,” he added, as if it explained everything. Which, Dannen supposed, it probably did.
And with that, they and the other trolls turned and started away back toward the forest. “This time,” he heard Bumblebelly say, “I find best bridge.”
“No, I find best bridge,” Fiddleguts countered, and back and forth they went until they were out of earshot. Dannen watched them go until a hand was on his shoulder and he turned to see Fedder, still naked and looking like some artist’s interpretation of the God of War, the bastard.
“Gonna miss those bastards,” Fedder said.
“Well,” Dannen said, “you’re always welcome to go visit them. Who knows? Maybe they’ll have you for dinner.”
Fedder snorted at that and opened his mouth to speak, but paused as the king rode up. “Dannen Ateran and companions, you have saved my kingdom and my people. I thank you, truly. Now, if you wish anything from me, you need only ask it, and if it is within my power to give, you shall have it.”
“An ale’d be nice,” Fedder said.
The king roared a laugh. “Indeed! And perhaps some clothes?”
Fedder shrugged. “No hurry.”
Dannen sighed, rolling his eyes, but then a thought struck him, and he grinned. “Well, Majesty, there is one thing.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Their return to Talinseh was far different than their exit. For one, they were not being hunted by an assassin—at least so far as Dannen knew—and they were also not being tracked by the Tribune’s troops.
The biggest difference, though, was that this time, they had an army of their own at their backs. An admittedly smaller army than the king of the north had once possessed, but one that was still several hundred strong, enough to cause the guardsmen at the gate to scramble as they approached.
“Where do you reckon they’re keeping her?” Fedder asked grimly. Dannen glanced to his side at the mage who sat atop his borrowed horse, one far bigger than Dannen’s own and which still looked dwarfed by the mage’s size.
He gave his head a shake, turning to stare at the city again, thinking of Clare, of all that she must have suffered, must have endured, in his absence.
“Probably the tower,” Mariana said from his other side, apparently willing to take a brief break from staring googly-eyed at Tesler—as they had for the last week since the battle, at least on those rare occasions when they left their room or traveling tent—to interject. “It’s where the city’s worst criminals are kept. The things they are said to do there…” She must have noted something of Dannen’s despair on his face, for she cut off, giving him a weak smile. “I’m sure Tribune Clarissa is fine, though. She’s a tough woman—even I know that much.”
That was true. Clarissa was tough, but Dannen also knew that when the torturers began their work, the weak and the tough acted much the same. “Come on,” he said, “we’d best hurry.”
By the time they made it to the city gate, dozens of soldiers had filed out, their blades bared, and Dannen frowned, considering what to do. He did not want a fight, but he also refused to leave Clarissa in the dungeon—assuming, of course, she was sti
ll alive. He rode up and stopped a few dozen feet in front of the swordsmen, the others, including the men the king had loaned him, did the same. “I wish to speak to the Tribune!” he shouted.
The guards eyed him and his companions warily, but slowly, those in the center of the gate moved to the side, opening a path through which a figure walked. When the figure drew close enough for Dannen to see, his breath caught in his throat. “It can’t be,” he gasped.
“But how—” Fedder began.
“Take my horse,” Dannen interrupted, offering the man his reins as he dismounted, then started forward.
The figure met him halfway between their two forces, giving him a smile. “It’s good to see you again, Danny.”
If the woman had been tortured, she looked none the worse for wear. Indeed, Dannen thought she looked even better than the last time he’d seen her. “Clare,” he said, “you’re alive.”
She gave him a small smile, the one he had thought of so often in the last weeks. “Only just. And you? It seems that you have completed your…what was it you called it? A quest, wasn’t it?”
Dannen winced. “You know I hate that word. Anyway, that’s not important. I’ve come to talk to the Tribune—I mean to demand your freedom.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Well, this should be interesting. Still, I don’t know that the Tribune will agree. From what I hear, she’s a real bastard.”
“Well, then we’ll just have to make—” Dannen paused, frowning. “Wait a minute. She?”
Clarissa grinned. “There have been some small changes in Talinseh since you’ve been gone.”
Dannen’s thoughts were jumbled up, confused. “Do you mean to say…that you are the city’s new Tribune?”
She frowned then. “You don’t have to act so surprised.”
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