D’Jenn shot his eyes to the rest of revenants. A few were rising from their work, eyes once again searching. Cold fear ran up his spine as their collective gaze fell upon him.
The straggler came tearing back in his direction, and D’Jenn was forced to defend himself. It rushed at him headlong, doubtless trying to take him to the ground and repeat the sort of display he’d seen already. D’Jenn stepped out of its path once again, knocking its head to the side with his mace as he did. It tumbled into the dirt, but D’Jenn didn’t have time to see if it was dispatched.
The others were already coming.
D’Jenn twisted one’s neck with his Kai, wincing as a sharp pain went through his head. It fell, tangling the legs of two of its fellows, but two more were still charging forward. Using his magic once again, he threw the mace into the head of another. It smacked into the corpse’s face with an explosion of blood, but D’Jenn was unable to hold the weight of the weapon, and it bounced away into the rain. He backpedaled as he switched the axe into his right hand, and ignored the taste of blood in his mouth.
The second got its hands on him, but D’Jenn planted the axe in its skull as it grasped him, ending its struggle. It went limp with its weight still on him, and D’Jenn was almost knocked from his feet as it fell into the grass. He stumbled away to the side, fighting to keep his feet beneath him.
Another appeared in his periphery before he could right himself, and he struck with his magic on instinct. The revenant was flung away into the rain as his magic connected with it, but pain sliced through D’Jenn’s head with the effort. He felt his magic fade, and knew that he’d used all he could for the day. His body began to betray him, a wave of nausea and dizziness coming on like a storm.
Then, a weight smashed into him, and he was forced to the ground.
Hands scrambled around his throat, and D’Jenn felt a moment of hot panic. Rainwater poured into his eyes around the face of an elderly man with a blank expression. The fingers tightened, cutting off D’Jenn’s air. Spots appeared over his vision.
D’Jenn clenched his hands, realizing with a start that he’d lost the axe when it hit him. He tried to roll away, but the undead body was relentless. Its strength was hardly believable. It shoved him into the ground and clamped down harder on his throat. Pain filled D’Jenn’s mind, and he started kicking in a mindless struggle. His chest began to burn with the lack of air in his lungs.
D’Jenn battered at the fiend’s arms, but they were as stiff as wooden boards. He tried to kick its legs out, but that only dropped its weight onto his chest, doing nothing to break its grip. Abandoning all pretense of strategy, he punched it. Its eyes stayed locked to him as it tried to climb to its knees again, putting more weight on D’Jenn’s throat. He punched the thing again, sinking one of the little spikes on his gauntlet into its eye. The hands did not loosen.
D’Jenn buffeted the creature with punch after punch, trying to drive his fist into its skull, but his strength was ebbing. The corpse raised up on its hips, straightening its arms to get more leverage on him. D’Jenn swung at it again, but this time the punch barely connected with its chin.
Then, in the midst of the struggle, D’Jenn got his knee to his chest. He could feel his strength ebbing even as he fought to stay awake. With a monumental effort, he worked his foot into position between his body and the carcass, and pushed with all his might.
The revenant’s hands tightened around D’Jenn’s throat as he tried to pry its body away with his legs, but the rain allowed a few of its fingers to loosen. D’Jenn felt a tiny breath of air surge down his throat, and he savored it before the fiend renewed its efforts and cut off his air again. D’Jenn’s leg began to shake, and the ravening body forced its way closer to him once again.
A hand suddenly tangled itself in the old man’s hair, and a dagger stabbed down into its skull.
The body went limp, falling atop D’Jenn in a wet, stinking heap. Air rushed into his chest as he sucked in a breath, and he had to cough as rainwater followed it down. He pushed the corpse aside and fell back to the grass, his body wanting nothing more than to give out right on the spot.
“I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?” Allen said. “You two looked like you were getting to know each other pretty well.”
D’Jenn made to shoot a rude comment back at his cousin, but stopped when he caught sight of him. Allen was bleeding from cuts on both arms, one of his legs, and looked like he’d just wrestled a bear. His face was ruined, crossed by a trio of deep gashes that had missed taking his eye only by a hair’s breadth. The wounds were open and bleeding, revealing tissue beneath the skin. It looked bloody painful. The scar would follow him the rest of his life.
“Don’t fall in love, now,” Allen said, a bitter twinge to his mouth. “Is it bad?”
“Aye, it’s bad,” D’Jenn said. He took the hand that Allen offered, and let himself be pulled to his feet. He almost pitched back onto the ground as a wave of dizziness came over him, and he had to spend a moment taking deep breaths.
“I paid it back,” Allen said. “Where’s my brother?”
“The last I saw, he was—”
D’Jenn cut off as a new song blazed out from the ether, clear even to his exhausted senses. He turned his face to the top of the hill, where a maelstrom of power was blossoming in the temple courtyard. Stones were floating above the ground, lightning arcing around a globe of refracting light that hid what was happening within. D’Jenn had never seen anything like it.
Even that, though, wasn’t what had drawn his attention. The alien song of the armlet was playing a chorus through the ether, crooning louder than D’Jenn had heard it sing before. There was an exultant tone to the song, a definite feeling of righteous anger. The orange-yellow light of flames blossomed inside that undulating globe of power, and D’Jenn felt his heart drop to the pit of his stomach.
“What in the Six Hells is that?” Allen said.
“That,” D’Jenn replied, “is the gods-damned Nar’doroc.”
A Glorious Ruin
Maarkov came at Shawna with overhand strikes, licking out with both edges of his blade. Shawna quick-stepped to the side, trying to shorten her attack angle, but Maarkov turned his slash into a thrust. The tip of his sword slithered toward her heart, and she tapped it aside as he stepped in, pulling a draw cut on Maarkov’s wrist as he disengaged. He danced back out of range and examined his forearm.
“You’re quick,” he said.
“I’m a talented woman.” She held her blades in his direction, mistrustful of his casual stance. Shawna quailed when she got a look at the wound, which was leaking a black fluid over his wrist. What manner of creature was he?
“No argument here,” he said. He changed his stance, keeping his hands wide on the hilt, and his blade low. Shawna changed her own stance to answer his, and began to circle him. The tip of his sword twitched a time or two, but Shawna didn’t fall to his bait.
He rushed forward, his steel zinging for her eyes. She let the blow ping from the edge of her sword, stepping to his opposite side as he continued his advance. She took a swipe at his throat as he came close, but he slipped out of its path like a snake. His blade came back around to whip at her in a series of circular cuts, and he was so fast that she had trouble keeping him at bay, even with an extra sword.
Shawna tried to bait him into stepping closer to her, but he was too experienced to be caught in such a trap. When she tried to pull him in, he would shift backwards and thrust at her midsection, or spin his wrists to attack her with the false edge of his longsword. Shawna tried to jam up his footwork, stepping into his path and cutting him off when he moved, but his feet were just as dexterous as her own, if not more so. The fight went on with a series of angry grunts and the musical ring of steel.
Maarkov’s technique was near perfect. After the initial few exchanges were over—after he’d tested her, she knew—he began to change the pace of the fight. He stepped over the wet terrain in quick, fluid motions, flowing fro
m one stance to another as he advanced. His blade was relentless, and sought her life with each attack. Shawna abandoned all thought, save for the fight.
Her arms grew heavy with the effort of keeping the man’s steel at bay. Maarkov, however, didn’t look to be tiring at all. He grimaced with each strike, but the bastard wasn’t even breathing hard.
Shawna changed directions, coming at the pale swordsman with a series of cuts. She cut downward at his face, which he met with an upward parry. Shawna had expected it, and used her other sword to batter Maarkov’s blade into the dirt. She forced its point downward, and moved to pin it to the ground with her foot.
Maarkov jerked the blade out of range before her boot could come down, and danced away from her swords before she could put a cut across his eyes. Shawna felt like screaming. She’d had him, but somehow he had slipped out from her grasp.
“No one is that fast,” she growled, cutting at the air in frustration.
His mouth twisted into a pained smile. “I’m still getting used to it.”
Shawna looked at him again. She took in the scars over his body, the singed hole in his vest. The blood leaking from the cut on his arm was as black as pitch. The water turned it to a dull brown as it washed down his wrist.
“You’re like them,” Shawna said. “Like the corpses.”
“Like,” said. “But not the same.” He didn’t sound happy about it.
Shawna reevaluated her strategy. If she ran him through, would he fall? Would it take a crushing blow to the head to take him down? The rain rolled down his bald head as she watched him. Maarkov met her gaze, and began to step forward.
Shawna brought her swords back into a guard position and circled him. He switched his stance, bringing his longsword to his shoulder and turning to the side. Shawna changed her own stance, putting her strongest side toward the blade. Maarkov smiled, and brought his blade back to a low guard, which Shawna answered by turning again, and going to a high guard.
“Do you think you can parry me fast enough, should I come for your throat?” he asked, the smile once again flashing across his features.
“You can always try it and find out,” Shawna replied. “You do an awful lot of talking.”
She whipped downward with her right blade as she came forward, forcing him into an inside parry. His sword pinged her steel aside and snaked toward her throat, but she was already turning away. She spun to the inside and trapped his arm, sliding her blade along the hilt of his sword and stripping it from his hand. He tried to pull away, but she shot her left arm backwards and elbowed him in the face. She was rewarded with a satisfying crunch, and pained growl from the pale swordsman.
Shawna disengaged and swiped a lightning-fast cut toward his throat, but he was too damned fast to catch. The cut sliced across his shoulder, barely breaking the skin as he slid out of range. Shawna chased him, frustrated at his superior speed, aiming a downward cut at the crook of his neck. Before the attack could land he was already rolling to the side.
Shawna felt his legs tangle with hers, and she went face-first into the grass before she could stop herself. Cursing, she flung her body into a sideways roll, expecting an attack, but Maarkov was not there. She got to her feet to see him snatching his sword from the ground, eyes locked to something behind her.
Shawna glanced in the same direction, and felt a sinking fear at what she saw. A group of ravenous corpses were pounding toward them, doubtless intending to rip her apart. She set her jaw and shared a defiant look with Maarkov.
The pale man looked between Shawna and the cadavers, and deliberately turned his shoulder to face the advancing bodies. He gave her a nod, and brandished his sword in their direction. It took Shawna a moment to realize that he meant to fight beside her.
“You don’t have to bash open the skull, or separate the head,” Maarkov said. “Slice the neck-bones in twain, and they stop kicking.”
“Appreciated,” Shawna said.
“Not necessary,” Maarkov replied. “I hate the bloody things. Stand ready! We move to the left, up the hill!”
The bodies bore down on them with blank expressions. She broke to the left, Maarkov keeping pace just behind her. Some of the revenants slipped and fell in the grass when they changed direction, but many kept their feet. They got to Maarkov first, but didn’t even look at him as they rushed by—they had eyes only for Shawna.
Shawna didn’t have time to see what Maarkov was doing, and could only hope that he wasn’t going to stab her in the back as soon as he got the chance. The first carcass reached her, but went down when she cut to the side and separated its head. Another was there right on its heels, and Shawna skipped in the opposite direction, barely avoiding its grasping hand as she did so. A thrust through the face took that one from its feet, and Shawna was forced to dance backward as another one made a grab for her.
It clenched its hand down on her leather armor, but Shawna turned and took its arm with her opposite sword. A back-handed swipe took its head from its shoulders, but another was there before Shawna could recover. She pushed herself aside from its mad rush and sliced the back of its neck open as it went past. It flopped to the ground, unmoving.
The body of a young girl clawed itself from the grass and came at her. Shawna set her feet and thrust her sword through the front of its throat. Its momentum jarred the blade in her hand, and almost jerked it free as the corpse fell to the grass. She caught sight of another one coming in her direction, but Maarkov reached it first.
He cut through the backs of its legs with a quick swipe, bringing it smacking into the hill. The thing still tried to crawl its way toward her, but Maarkov stepped into a delicate thrust, and slid his blade into the base of its skull. Shawna looked around as Maarkov straightened, but there were no more of the quickened bodies nearby. Maarkov took stock of the field and gave her a nod. There were bodies lying all around him.
“Won’t your master be angry that you killed his pets?” Shawna asked.
Maarkov looked toward the temple, where the battle between Dormael and the vilth was now raging. She hadn’t noticed when the fight had moved into the courtyard, but she could hear a booming cacophony coming from the hill’s apex. Maarkov glowered in the vilth’s general direction, and turned his eyes back to her.
“I don’t much care if he gets angry,” he replied. “And he’s not my master.”
“It’s your problem,” she said, affecting a shrug. “Who are you to him? Why are you really here?”
“I am no one, I told you,” he said. “I was someone many years ago. No longer. Now I’m a tool, like the sword.”
Shawna sighed and started to walk sideways, where the ground would be clear of the bodies. She didn’t want to lose her footing when fighting with someone of Maarkov’s obvious skill. He followed her, holding his sword in both hands as he went. His body language was casual, and he made no sudden moves in her direction.
“This next time, we will take the fight to its end,” Maarkov said. He glanced up the hill again, and let out a long breath. “Things will be finished up there soon enough, and we’ll want this over before that happens. I will give you an honorable death—one that will prevent you from being turned into one of these.” He gestured at the revenants they had just killed. “Believe me, you don’t want to be alive when he’s finished. He likes to toy with people, draw out their suffering.”
“Don’t go thinking that’s decided, up there,” Shawna said. “You might be disappointed.”
Maarkov laughed. “No, I wouldn’t. Are you prepared, Baroness Llewan?”
“I suppose so.” Shawna took a deep breath, and rolled her shoulders.
Maarkov raised his sword, then shifted once again into a low guard. Shawna moved to the side, stepping closer to him as they began to circle one another. She blew rainwater off her lips, and blinked it from her eyes. Thunder rumbled once again overhead.
Maarkov came for her, and Shawna raised her swords to meet his.
***
Dormael wen
t back on his heels as the vilth came for him, pulling up a magical shield. He summoned a wave of force, aiming to take the necromancer from his feet, but the man rebuffed his attempt by summoning his own magic and bowling right through the spell. His song rang out again, and the rain suddenly blew against Dormael’s back with the strength of a gale. Wind buffeted him against his own shield, pinning him to the invisible wall.
Dormael could see the sneer on the vilth’s face as he rushed forward, and could feel him readying another attack. Dormael thrust with the Splinter he’d prepared, bursting the man’s power like a soap bubble. The magic rushed outward, making the grasses wave in surreal patterns as the necromancer’s spells unraveled. The pressure on Dormael’s back let up, and he pushed himself off his shield and regained his balance.
The vilth had skidded to a halt when his magic was burst, but didn’t show any signs of disorientation. Dormael pushed his shield forward, ramming it toward his enemy with enough force to break his neck. The vilth tried to dive away to the side, but the edge of the shield caught him, and sent him tumbling sideways over the grass. Dormael screamed and pulled on his magic, lashing out with another bolt of lightning. It connected, and Dormael was rewarded with a cry of pain from the prostrate necromancer.
A moment later, though, the vilth’s song once again played its discordant harmony through Dormael’s senses. How had he recovered with such speed? Even with years to train himself, Dormael wasn’t sure that he could have affected such a quick recharge.
Probably has to do with all those scars, he thought. The same reason he can take two bolts of lightning and show no signs of pain.
Dormael saw one of the large stones from the wall lying nearby, and pulled it from the ground. He hurled it toward the vilth as the pallid man was climbing to his feet, hoping to smash him before he could react. The vilth, though, proved his resilience.
The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 120
