He turned, looking at the head of the steel spear, hanging in mid-air mere feet from him. Alas, the moment the spear left Medophae’s hand, it left the protection of her spell, and he felt it coming. Medophae had thrown it with unerring accuracy. Even as a mortal, Medophae was impressive at any contest of arms.
Zilok looked at the spearhead, but he didn’t inspect it too closely, certainly didn’t touch it with his ethereal fingers. He could see it was wrapped tightly with an intense threadweaving that was, no doubt, prepared to trigger when it hit him. He wasn’t able to decipher the purpose of the weavings, not with the short amount of time he had, but he didn’t need to know the particulars to know that he dared not touch it.
Instead, he reached out to Mirolah with his ethereal hands and moved her into the direct path of the spear.
We must be careful with the threadweavings we toss around, young Mirolah, he thought. One never knows when our creations may turn on us.
He smiled, then leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.
“So much potential,” he said aloud. He floated back a good thirty feet, enough to be clear of the backlash, then waited to see exactly what kinds of spells she had put on the spearhead.
71
Mirolah
Zilok loomed over her, blue eyes burning bright.
What had he done? The texture? Did the threads have facets? Had he angled them differently? Had he—?
Zilok vanished, and the room shifted.
The spear slammed into Mirolah’s chest, knocking her off her feet. She hit the ground, impaled, as the spearhead cracked the flagstone behind her.
Medophae shouted in anguish.
Then the pain came, bursting like lava throughout her body.
She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came but blood.
Zilok Morth watched her from a distance, watched her dying. The light of the room began to fade. She couldn’t think straight.
I’m in shock. I have to heal myself. Yes. Heal...
It took a moment to find her threadweaver vision. The shock of the spear punching through her body had stripped away the bright bridge, her connections to the threads. But they were still there. She just had to reach out...
She touched the spearhead with her threadweaver fingers.
And her trigger spell activated.
It tore her apart, yanking away the threads that made her. It was like being unmade in Daylan’s Glass, except, instead of a huge wave washing her away, a thousand clawed hands grabbed at her, ripping, tearing. She screamed, and the threads around her vibrated with her agony.
The same calm that had come over her in the Fountain came over her now. She fragmented her attention into a thousand different places, and let a few of them feel the agonizing pain while she set to making things right. She kept her arms and legs together, her organs and blood, her face and nose and hair together. She dove into every piece of herself, giving it strength, trying to undo the hideous spell she had created, replacing the pieces as they were torn away.
Finally, the spell reached its end, and Mirolah had somehow managed to keep up with it. She had healed faster than it could hurt. The clawed hands came less frequently, then stopped. She kept healing, healing, healing. She’d kept her body together. Now she could get ahead of it.
She curled her fingers around the haft of the spear and yanked it out of her chest. It clattered to the stones and she began repairing the wound, knitting flesh and bone back together. The pain began to recede and, as it did, a slick, insidious snake slipped inside her mind. She tried to stop it, but she was already overtaxed, and it was too fast, placed too perfectly. He had been waiting, and now she felt Zilok’s “fingers” coil around her mind. She scrabbled to stop him, but he batted aside her feeble defense.
She let out a mute gasp. And then, lassitude.
Zilok Morth came closer. “How do you feel?”
“Oh,” she murmured. “Wonderful.” She could not remember a time she had felt so good.
“I would prefer it, Mirolah, if you would address me as your master.”
“Yes, my master,” she intoned.
“That’s better.” He paused. “Did you see him? He ran away. Your noble hero threw a spear into your heart, then he ran away.”
“I told him to,” she said, revealing the back-up part of their plan.
“Did you?”
“You can’t see him with your threadweaver sight. He’s going to ambush you.”
“With that mundane sword at his hip, I assume?” he said.
“I enchanted it. It can hurt you, like the spearhead.”
“So clever of you.”
“Yes, my master.”
Zilok turned, and Mirolah saw what he was looking at. Beyond the double doors that led farther into the palace, she could see the burning black fire that surrounded Vaerdaro. A second later, the double doors burst open and slammed against the walls. Vaerdaro strode through. A taller, but thinner, man walked next to him. The new man’s head was shaved and his eyes had a dull cast. He wore a belt and black leather breeches, but was bare of chest except for an X harness bearing a large blue sapphire in the center.
“Excuse me one moment, Mirolah.”
“Yes, my master.”
“Spirit,” The tall, powerfully built Sunrider exclaimed.
“Vaerdaro, I trust that Sef led you in the correct direction.”
“I don’t appreciate being left behind in a maze of dead hallways,” he snarled. He glanced at Mirolah, narrowed his eyes. “I see you found the girl.”
“Mirolah is now our ally,” Zilok said.
“You’ve made her an idiot, as well?” He gave a contemptuous wave at Sef as he came forward.
Zilok shook his head. “Your rude behavior impresses no one, Sunrider.”
“I am not your lackey, to be left in the bowels of this castle following a simpleton through the dark! I am the Golden King.”
“Trust me, my muscular friend. Soon, you can rage to your violent heart’s content.”
“I want to kill him,” Vaerdaro said abruptly. “I want to make him suffer for what he did.”
“Oh, he will suffer,” Zilok said.
“By my hand.”
Zilok chuckled. “I will let you know if I need assistance.”
Vaerdaro clenched his jaw. He glanced at Mirolah. “Then I want her. She was his woman. She can be mine now.”
“Let us ask her, shall we? Young Mirolah, would you like to serve the Sunrider when my business here is complete?”
“No, my master,” Mirolah said.
“You see then?” Zilok said.
“You mock me, Spirit. You push me too far.”
Zilok walked forward. “Shut your mouth,” he said. “You have already received your prize. You have the power of a god. All your petty dreams will soon come true. Appreciate what has been given you.”
“This is my birthright. You think I should thank you?”
“You should fall on your knees and worship me.”
Vaerdaro drew his greatsword. “You are an unholy spirit, hanging on by a thread. I am the Golden King—”
Suddenly, Vaerdaro yelled and fell to his knees. One hand went to his head, but the other remained clenched on his weapon.
“I could make you as tractable as Mirolah,” Zilok said. “Is that what you wish?”
Vaerdaro growled, pounding his head with a fist.
“Did you think I would simply give you the power of Oedandus without a way to control you?” Zilok asked. “Your mind belongs to me, Sunrider. Be respectful, or I will make you.”
Vaerdaro huddled into himself, fists clenching as he shuddered.
“Do you understand me?” Zilok said.
“I...understand...more than you think,” Vaerdaro said through gritted teeth. Dark fire exploded around him. Zilok’s image vanished and reappeared a dozen feet away. Vaerdaro rose. He pointed with his sword, which was as long as he was tall and as wide as his arm. “The power inside me lives, thinks. And
it hates you, Spirit. It calls you unholy. It demands justice. It whispers your weaknesses in my mind, tells me to kill you.”
The image of Zilok waited for Vaerdaro, unafraid, but the blue eyes that represented his true form stayed well out of range of that sword.
Vaerdaro raised his sword, as if to strike Zilok’s image, but he spun and hacked into the tall, thin man instead.
“No,” Zilok shouted. Blue lightning lanced around the man, a protective shield of some kind, but Vaerdaro’s flaming sword shattered it like glass, cutting deep into the tall man’s neck. He choked and stumbled backward, blood running down his chest. He crashed to the floor.
Zilok’s human image shimmered and vanished. The blue eyes became smoke twirling upward toward the ceiling, toward something beyond the ceiling.
“You fool!” Zilok’s voice was thin, like it came from a long distance away. Mirolah felt the surge of GodSpill that Zilok drew, and blue fire exploded all around the Sunrider.
Vaerdaro yelled, his black hair and skin burning, but he stepped forward and delivered the finishing cut to the tall man’s neck, and his head rolled away from his body.
Zilok’s ice-blue eyes flowed upward, a coil of gray smoke and blue lightning spun around in a swirl.
The fist around Mirolah’s mind unclenched. She gasped and wobbled on her feet. The horror filled her then, that Zilok had made her a puppet, that she would have happily done anything he said. It was like Ethiel all over again. But this time, he had simply owned her, had turned her into a different person and he had made her love it—
Vaerdaro charged her, grabbed her around the throat, and lifted her off the ground.
She choked, feet flailing in the air as he slammed her against a column. The Sunrider’s singed hair grew back, sprouting from his head as Oedandus healed the damage Zilok had done. “I am the Golden King,” Vaerdaro snarled.
She grabbed at his threads, but the black flame flared and batted her efforts aside. She clawed at his hand, but could not stop him from choking her.
“You are an abomination,” Vaerdaro sneered at her. “You should die for your unholy nature, but if you please me, I will let you live.”
She kicked him between the legs.
He grunted, and his grip faltered. She tried to win free, but he threw her to the floor, almost snapping her neck. She hit hard, groaned, and rolled over onto her back. She scooted away, trying to reach out to the threads, but her wits were scrambled.
Two fuzzy Vaerdaros bore down on her. They both caught her foot.
“I will use you,” he hissed. “And you will bleed before you beg for death. I am a god!”
“Vaerdaro!”
The Sunrider turned. Medophae stood in the shadow of the open doors. His mane of golden hair glowed like a coin caught in the sunlight. A long sword extended from his hand, touching the marble floor.
“Bare your steel and show me what manner of god you are.”
72
Mirolah
Vaerdaro smiled. “So, you show your face at last. You would have been wiser to run.”
“Not from you, Sunrider.”
“You tricked me the last time we met,” Vaerdaro said.
“I wish I could say it was hard.”
Vaerdaro growled. “The last one who mocked me was the dark spirit. And I have killed him.”
Vaerdaro strode toward Medophae, who stepped between two columns and into the arcade bordering the big room. He brought his sword up.
Mirolah pushed herself to a sitting position. Her head rang, but her vision was clearing. She had seen Medophae slice through a dozen darklings with the power of Oedandus raging through him. How long would it take Vaerdaro to slice through one mortal man?
She could barely hold her head up, but she reached out and changed the colors of the threads all about Vaerdaro’s body like Zilok had done. Fire erupted around him. He roared, backing away. His hair burned like a torch, but he swiped his hand across it, putting out the flames.
Medophae leapt from the shadows of the side aisle, using Mirolah’s distraction. He cut at Vaerdaro’s neck, but the Sunrider moved inhumanly fast and blocked. Steel clashed, and the shock threw Medophae back a step. Vaerdaro lunged. With a grunt, Medophae leapt to the side, but Vaerdaro was faster. The Sunrider’s greatsword clipped Medophae’s arm, and blood flecked the pillar.
Again, Vaerdaro’s sword came around. Medophae ducked. The six-foot blade cut halfway through the pillar and stuck there. Vaerdaro abandoned his weapon and reached for Medophae with bare hands.
Mirolah pulled the threads of the floor upward, launching Vaerdaro backward onto a pillar of rock. Vaerdaro roared as he hit the ground and slid, but he quickly rolled to his feet.
The distraction gave Medophae a blessed second, and he leapt forward even as Vaerdaro stood up, and kicked out the Sunrider’s knee. It bent sideways. With a yell, Vaerdaro dropped back to the floor. Medophae lunged, stabbing him in the chest.
Vaerdaro howled, backhanding Medophae, who flew away and hit the ground hard. He rolled, rising to his feet, but he was much slower to recover than Vaerdaro had been. Sweat shone on his face and shoulders, and his breath came quickly.
Vaerdaro pulled out Medophae’s sword with a gasp and let it clang to the floor. Blood gushed from the wound, then slowed to a trickle, then stopped. He leaned over. Black fire raged around his leg, and a popping sound came from his knee as it moved back into place.
He chuckled—a dark, horrible sound.
“You taught me well,” Vaerdaro said, standing upright again. “When you severed my hands, I thought I would die, but you knew I wouldn’t. It was only a trick to keep me from following you. But I am wise to your tricks now.” He grabbed the hilt of his greatsword, stuck in the stone pillar. With a mighty wrench, he pulled it the rest of the way, cutting the pillar in half at an angle. White rock exploded, and the pillar skidded sideways, then ground to a stop, misaligned. A section of the overhanging gallery sagged, rock grinding against rock, but it did not fall. Vaerdaro glanced upward as dust floated down around him, then he looked back at Medophae.
With a smile, he picked up Medophae’s bloody blade and tossed it back to him. Medophae snatched it deftly out of the air by the hilt.
“Have your weapon,” Vaerdaro said. “Use all the tricks you want.”
With a cry, Mirolah changed the threads of the floor, melting it under Vaerdaro’s feet. He sank, and she made it solid again, trapping his legs in stone.
She strained to keep her focus. She’d been stabbed and her body pulled apart. She could feel her insides still ragged, still raw. She’d barely healed enough to survive before Zilok stole her mind. She wanted to sleep, and it was a fight just to keep her eyes open. Every little thread in her body cried for her attention, cried out for her to make them whole and healthy, but she didn’t have the time. The fight between Vaerdaro and Medophae would be over in seconds. She had to help him now.
With a powerful shrug, Vaerdaro ripped one leg free of the stone, then the other. Rock chunks flew up, and he clambered out of the hole.
Mirolah fell onto her stomach, breathing hard. Get up. Medophae needs you. Clenching her teeth, she pushed herself onto her elbows.
“You’re next, abomination,” the Sunrider said.
“Medophae,” she yelled. “I can’t stop him!”
“It’s okay,” Medophae said. “Stand up, Mirolah. Run and hide so he can’t find you. Don’t wait. Go now.”
“No.”
“Mirolah!”
She just shook her head. She didn’t have the strength to talk anymore.
With a flick of her threadweaver fingers, she uprooted a flagstone and sent it at Vaerdaro’s head. It smacked him down, and he howled again. But he jumped up, the wound healing. She had to come up with something better, but she couldn’t think.
“Fine. I’ll kill you first,” Vaerdaro said, stalking toward her.
“No!” Medophae ran forward, putting himself between Vaerdaro and her.
The Sunrider grinned, like this was the plan all along, and lunged at Medophae. Medophae parried the strike and swung at Vaerdaro’s head. He blocked it, cutting at Medophae’s waist.
Somehow, Medophae’s sword was there, but the parry was hasty. The Sunrider’s greatsword struck the center of Medophae’s blade and sheared through it.
Medophae yelled and tried to leap, but the flaming blade sliced him open from shoulder to hip.
Mirolah screamed.
Medophae’s hands went wide. He stared down at his bloody torso with a surprised look, then staggered backward.
Vaerdaro laughed, swinging his sword casually back and forth as he followed, watching Medophae with cruel amusement.
Through tears of despair, Mirolah reached into the threads and tore away the top of the column that Vaerdaro had severed. The gallery sagged, and she hurled the chunk of stone and wall at Vaerdaro. It blindsided him and smashed him into the ground, burying him.
Medophae took a step forward, then a step backward. He looked drunk. Putting one hand to his chest, he brought it away soaked with red. His entire right pant leg was already slick with his own blood. Somehow, he managed to find his balance. He gritted his teeth and staggered toward Vaerdaro, gripping the broken sword.
Mirolah’s vision darkened, and she fought for consciousness. She reached into the threads and wrenched the other half of the pillar from the floor, but her concentration slipped. The half pillar moved a little, then fell back into place.
“Medophae...” She reached into the threads again, but she couldn’t hold them. She couldn’t feel them.
Vaerdaro burst out of the debris, looked around, and spotted Medophae. He looked ready to pounce, then he saw Medophae’s pitiful progress, staggering forward, stopping, catching his balance, then taking another step. Vaerdaro let the godsword fade and crossed his arms, content to watch Medophae struggle.
Wildmane Page 41
