by Phil Tucker
Kethe’s fear turned into a mad exhilaration. Arms pumping, she opened up her stride. Her whole body was tingling. She was fast, but she had never run like this. She vaulted over rocks, her footing sure, sprinting around the curvature of the path. The demon came after her, bursting through all obstructions. Come, then! Did it think her easy prey?
She broke free of the narrow trail and hit the slope that led to the clearing where her companions were waiting, a final mad dash. There was silence behind her, and then the canopy overhead exploded into a roar of breaking branches as the demon’s leap brought it crashing to the ground like some fell meteor bursting down from the heavens. She felt the very ground shiver as it landed. She glanced back. It was ten yards behind. By the White Gate, only ten yards!
Her confidence left her, and she lowered her chin and ran for all she was worth. Her breaths were the rasp of Elon’s bellows. There: the first of the sapling traps. She angled toward it, raised her blade, and swiped down with all her strength as she sprinted past.
The rope severed. The ten-foot-tall sapling sprang up and smashed into the demon just as it was about to fall upon her. It roared, stumbled, fell behind her once more.
There were two more such traps. She ran on. The fog smothered her, made her feel as if she were running within an illusory world with no end. Her thighs burned. The demon came at her from the side, not close enough for the second trap. She immediately discarded the decision to slow down so as to be able to spring it and ran on to the final tree. The largest of the three, it had taken all of them to bend it down while Wyland secured it.
She heard a hiss of air, and instinct caused her to throw herself into a forward dive. She hit the ground hard, rolled tightly and threw herself forward again as she gained her feet, slashing desperately to the side as she passed the rope.
She landed outstretched on the ground, the impact driving the breath from her. The tree remained bent down. She hadn’t cut through the rope.
The demon reared above her, arm raised high to pound her skull into the ground. Kethe screamed, a primal sound of denial, and lunged to one side to slice at the rope. It gave, and with a whoosh the tree sprang up like a catapult right into the demon. It staggered back, shrieking its fury. Kethe didn’t hesitate. She popped back up onto her feet and raced toward the clearing.
The fog thinned, and the trees pulled away. Dead leaves and dirt gave way to bare rock. “It’s coming!” Her scream was ragged, barely intelligible. “Now! Now!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The sword called to Asho. Like the moon to the tides, it pulled on him, made him want to place his hand on its hilt and feel that surging connection once more. It was unlike anything he had ever felt. That rush that had washed over him when he’d stepped out onto Mythgræfen Hold that first time was nothing compared to this. It was almost overwhelming, transfixing him with a sense of potential and possibility. When he held the blade, he felt as if he could hew the world itself in half. He felt inebriated, as if he’d drunk a large cup of firewine on an empty stomach.
His hand kept straying toward the hilt. It was this very awareness of his lack of control that made him fight back, keep his hand clenched in a fist and refuse to succumb.
The ten minutes it took Kethe to draw the demon lasted an eternity. He felt completely alone, so high above the forests below. The wind howled as it rushed down the peak above them and threw itself heedlessly over the cliff’s edge, carving whirls in the fog and filling the air with its lonesome cry. Everything was damp and cold.
He focused on his breathing. That demon was coming their way. It was hard not to remember his terror when he’d faced it last, surprised and panicked in the dark. He could remember with chilling clarity that moment in which he’d had to choose between moving to help Kethe or attacking it directly, risking her life in hope of glory. His blade had bounced from its black hide as if it had struck rock. He’d fallen back, shocked, and had stared in horror as it had chased Kethe into the woods.
Had it been just for glory that he’d risked her life? Alone, wrapped in the fog, Asho stared grimly at the rock behind which he hid and pushed himself to honesty. No, in that moment his pride had held him back. His whole life, she’d mocked and disdained him. That moment had been a test, and he’d allowed his anger to guide his blade, to keep him from moving to protect her. As a result, he’d not only failed utterly to hurt the demon, but he’d spent two days consumed by guilt thinking that she had died.
What manner of man was he? What manner of knight? What had he really accomplished in Lady Kyferin’s service?
Asho clenched his jaw and looked down at the black sword. It was his means to kill the demon. He knew it would pierce its hide. This was his chance to finally prove himself. He would strike the killing blow.
There—a crash. Was that…?—no.
A moment passed and he stiffened, tension coiling within him like an iron snake. That was a roar. Undoubtedly the demon. It was coming. Their plan suddenly seemed like madness. He wiped sweat from his brow, then heard another crash, the sound of an entire tree being riven apart. Was that footfalls?
Kethe suddenly burst into view, running full out, her sword cutting the air with each swing of her arm, blood running down her brow.
“Now!” she screamed. “Now!”
And the demon came after.
Asho rose as it passed him. Even in this dim light, it was terrifying. It was vast, fifteen feet tall and built like a mountain, its flesh not black but leaden gray in the thin daylight, gleaming wetly and stretched taut over its vast musculature. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on the thing, each muscle picked out as if it had been flayed and its meat turned gray over time. Massively horned, its maw slavering, it ran into the center of the clearing only to stop as Ser Tiron burst out from his hiding place, fouled sword held aloft, and roared, “For the Black Wolves!”
Asho drew his blade. Power ran down its length from hilt to point, lighting the runes the color of Hell. It felt like an extension of his arm, and the world seemed to grow a fraction more vivid. Terrified, exhilarated, Asho raised it over his head and screamed, “For the Black Wolves!”
He ran forward. Ser Wyland was a large shadow that ran in from the far side. Kethe had turned and backed away, sword held low and at the ready. The demon lowered itself into a crouch, swinging its head from side to side, arms out wide, claws splayed.
They converged on it at the same time, and Asho lost sight of his friends. Holding his blade with both hands, knowing that a shield was beyond useless, he sprinted up to the demon’s flank and swung with all his strength.
His sword’s wicked edge split open its flesh into a black smile. The demon screeched, beset on all sides, and sprang straight up. Asho staggered back, following the arc of its leap as it sailed up thirty feet and latched onto the cliff face above them. Its claws dug into the rocks and sent a spray of them falling and bouncing to the clearing below. Three great wounds had been opened on its thighs and back. It released its grip with one hand and swung out to stare down at them with its sightless, bony facade of a face. Its mouth opened wide, revealing its fearsome fangs, and it roared its fury.
The others fell in line with Asho, gazing up, completely taken aback.
“Fuck me,” said Ser Tiron. “What the Hell do we do now?”
Nobody had time to answer, because the demon let go and fell upon them. They scattered, throwing themselves aside so as to not be crushed, and the ground shook when it hit. Asho threw himself into a roll, came up into a crouch and turned. The demon was impossibly fast. Nothing that large should be able to move so. It swept its fist through the air into Ser Wyland’s large shield. It crumpled and he went down, bowled over like a child. Ser Tiron roared again and ran forward, ducking under a second fist, and dragged his sword across the demon’s stomach, opening up a seeping black wound.
Asho grunted, rose, and ran forward. His sword singed the air as he swung it, but the demon sensed him coming. It stepped out of his reach and then lunged forward to bite
his head off. Asho yelled and dropped desperately to his knees, leaning back and barely avoiding its snapping jaws.
Kethe screamed and brought her sword two-handed through the flesh of its upper arm. Where she cut, a flash of white light bled out into the air. The demon recoiled, but Tiron was racing up on its other side. He had his sword reversed in his grip, holding it point down. Making no attempt to protect himself, he leaped up, back arched, and buried his cursed green blade to the hilt between the demon’s ribs.
It reared to its full height and threw its head back to roar its pain, pulling Tiron’s sword out of his grip as it did so. Despite the numerous wounds that had been opened up across its body, it didn’t actually seem to be hurt. Asho fought to his feet just as it snatched Tiron off the ground, both clawed hands wrapping around his chest. Asho took a deep breath and ran in under its arms and sliced at its knee; his sword cut deep, and the monster dropped Tiron, who fell heavily to the ground in a crash of plate.
“Get up!” yelled Asho, grabbing Tiron by the arm.
“Let go of me!” Tiron shook his arm loose. His eyes widened, and he scooped Asho’s heel out from under him, causing Asho to crash to his back just as claws swooped through the air where his head had been. “Idiot!”
Asho rolled to his side as claws dug deep into the rock where he’d been lying, got on all fours and scrambled out of range. Ser Wyland wasn’t moving. Where was Kethe?
The demon took up Tiron again and raised him high. The older man laughed savagely even as his chest plate buckled under the demon’s strength, then screamed in pain.
Asho’s eyes flared wide as time seemed to slow. He sensed a new presence above him on the cliff face. Like a candle glow seen in the night, he felt the rushing pull of a presence call to him. Kethe. She was climbing to a ledge above the demon. Burning like a white bonfire in the darkness of his mind, he felt her pride and fear, her vulnerability and guilt, her determination and pain. Kethe. And he knew that she sensed him too.
Every instinct bade him reach out to her, to forge a connection with her fierce vitality. No. I stand alone.
Her burning light dimmed and then disappeared.
“Tiron! Catch!” Even as Tiron looked over at him, Asho lobbed his sword up into the air, a move born of desperation. There was no chance. There was no—but Tiron caught it, fingers wrapping around the naked edges of the sword. Blood immediately splattered into the air, but he brought the sword around and took it by the hilt with his free hand.
“You want me?” He sounded almost joyous. “I’m yours!” He drew Asho’s sword back and thrust it right into the demon’s head just before it could bite him.
The demon shrieked again. Its hands flew open, and Tiron fell ten feet onto the naked rock, where he rolled over and lay still. The demon whipped its head from side to side, the sword’s pommel jutting out from the smooth carapace of its face.
Asho heard a scream and saw Kethe leap out from the ledge to which she’d climbed. Fifteen feet up, she soared through the air, lithe and agile as a cat, to land on the demon’s back, her own sword raised high. Asho cursed and frantically looked around for a weapon. There—Ser Wyland’s blade. He raced over to it and picked it up, turning just in time to see Kethe bury her sword to the hilt in the back of the demon’s neck. White fire erupted from the wound and the demon screamed, a sound so shrill Asho could barely hear it, then reached up and seized Kethe by the back of her armor. It tore her free and threw her violently to the ground.
Asho cried out in alarm. Nobody could survive being thrown onto rocks like that, but even as he prepared to run to her, he saw Kethe push herself up, arms shaking, face bloodied, and her expression was grim. Relief surged through him. How had she survived?
The demon fell to its knees. His blade was still buried in its head, Kethe’s embedded in its back.
They both rose and staggered toward it. The demon seemed blinded, turning back and forth as it clawed at the air. Guided by instinct, Asho darted in and seized the sword’s hilt with both hands. It flamed to life, embedded even as it was within the demon’s head. It shrilled in agony. The single rune that was visible just above the point where the blade disappeared into its head burned so brightly that it seared Asho’s eyes. The demon’s head was glowing from within, light spilling out its open maw.
Kethe stepped in behind it and grabbed hold of her own sword. White fire burst forth again. Asho closed his eyes and strained to keep his grip on the sword’s hilt. He sensed a terrible energy flowing between the two swords, building and building as the demon screamed ever louder, until with a cacophonous explosion the demon’s head simply burst.
Asho cried out and let go of the sword. The demon’s corpse thudded over onto the ground, and Asho gazed, wide-eyed, at Kethe. For a moment she held his gaze, and he saw in her eyes an awareness of what had happened, of how they had connected. Then she turned away.
Ser Wyland rose stiffly and staggered over to where Ser Tiron lay on his back, his helm crumpled around his head, dark blood seeping from the rim and pooling over an eye.
Asho wanted nothing more than to lie down, but he forced himself to walk over. “Is he alive?”
Ser Wyland crouched by Tiron’s side and frowned. “Looks like his armor has been crushed. Bones are likely broken. I don’t see how we can move him down to Hrething without killing him.”
Stones skittered down the slope, and Mæva slid down and fell beside them in a graceful crouch. Her eyes were locked on Ser Tiron, and she moved to his side without hesitation. Asho felt a stirring of hope. He stepped back, watching her face, seeking some comforting sign of confidence.
“Not good,” she said. She pressed her fingers to his neck, then ghosted her hand down his chest to where one of his legs was bent the wrong way. Asho shuddered at the sight of it. That injury alone guaranteed an end to Ser Tiron’s career as a fighting man.
“Can you help him?” Kethe’s voice was flat. Asho couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or hopeful.
Mæva shook her head. “I could, but at too much expense to myself. I’ve no animal to cast the taint into. It would warp me beyond anything I’m willing to suffer.”
“Your power is selfish beyond measure,” said Ser Wyland.
“If survival is selfish, then, yes, by all means.” She looked up at him, her face pale. “Are you any different?”
Ser Wyland gave her a mocking smile. “I’d like to think so. I’d sacrifice myself for Ser Tiron or any of my companions willingly.”
Mæva returned his smile coldly. “All right. Then I’ll cast the taint into you and heal him.”
Ser Wyland paled, but nodded. “Do it.”
“Wait,” said Asho. “There has to be another way.”
Mæva rose to her feet and stood in front of Ser Wyland. She reached out and cupped his cheek, then ran her hand down his breastplate. “It will warp you, my heroic knight—your body and mind. You’ll be become a sniveling, whining, broken creature. Your bones will twist and your mind will break. Everything good about you will turn to ash. Are you so sure you’re willing to take this on?”
He caught her wrist and stared down at her. “Are you taking pleasure in this?”
Asho wanted to intervene, but he didn’t know what to say.
“No,” said Mæva. “But your self-righteousness sickens me.”
Ser Wyland smiled. “Well, you won’t have to stand it for much longer. Hurry.”
Mæva crouched beside Ser Tiron again and placed a hand over his chest. She calmed her breathing and closed her eyes. “Goodbye, Ser Wyland.”
Asho felt panic rise up within him. Was this right? He looked up to protest, but Ser Wyland’s expression stilled his tongue. The man was iron and flint.
“Stop,” said Kethe. Her voice was cold with command. “Cast it into me.”
“No!” Ser Wyland wheeled on her, brow lowering. “I won’t—”
“Now,” said Kethe. She looked impossibly slender and battered in her leather and chain, but her eyes matched Se
r Wyland’s in determination. “I can take it. Go!”
Mæva stared at Kethe with flat, hooded eyes, then nodded. “There are no assurances here.”
“I know,” said Kethe hurriedly. “Just do it. Quickly.”
The witch nodded and cast a sidelong glance at Ser Wyland. “Looks like I won’t be rid of you yet.”
“Lady Kethe, you can’t—” Ser Wyland cut off what he was about to say as Mæva crouched beside the fallen knight and placed her hand above his body, closing her eyes and muttering to herself. Kethe widened her stance as if expecting a blow, her face pale, staring at the witch with fierce focus.
“Kethe,” said Asho, but she ignored him.
Ser Tiron gave a wheezing gasp and his back suddenly arched. Mæva leaned forward as if against a great wind, forcing her hand down against an invisible resistance. Crimson and sickly green energy erupted from Ser Tiron’s chest like a wildfire and rose up to stream toward Kethe, who lowered her chin, closed her eyes, and took the taint full in the chest.
Asho and Ser Wyland stared helplessly as she staggered back. A faint green glow enveloped her, and she writhed in agony. The weight was too much; she fell to her knees, one hand planted in the dirt. Shaking and shivering, she dropped her head so that her hair fell over her face, and Asho cursed and took a step forward. But what could he do?
Then, with a soft cry, Kethe rose to her knees. Her eyes were locked shut, her face contorted with effort. She raised both hands, and the green glow seemed to concentrate itself between her palms. She closed them together, and the glow grew all the brighter, right up until she smothered it. With a gasp she dropped her hands and fell over onto her side, just as Mæva grabbed Asho’s arm.
“Hurry! Remove his helm!”
Kneeling again, he and Ser Wyland pulled Ser Tiron’s armor off. The man was breathing deeply, and Asho saw that his wounds were healed. It was impossible but true. Blood was smeared over his face and matted in his hair, but there were no cuts. His leg had straightened out. He was breathing smoothly, and his color was good. Asho shook his head and looked up at Mæva, who was staring in disbelief at Kethe.
