Daughter of Prophecy

by Miles Owens

  Blood spread a dark wet patch down the man’s left side as Harred slid one way, then the other, dodging and deflecting the tremendous blows. Soon the wetness had spread to the top of the man’s breeches. Harred kept lunging forward enticingly and then twirling sideways, leading his opponent around in circles as the man swung his heavy blade again and again in a vain attempt to split his moving target asunder.

  Noting that the movements were slowing and the left hand’s grip on the hilt seemed to be loose, Harred feinted, and for the first time, met the attack straight on. As their swords clashed hilt to hilt, Harred was able to thrust the other’s blade down, then drive his point deep into the exposed belly.

  A hush descended as the severely wounded man moaned in the dirt. Elmar and his Dinari partner came out and helped the warrior to the side where he could receive attention.

  Two down, and Harred was barely winded.

  The third opponent stepped forward. “I am Dandrict Reniloge.” He drew his sword with a smooth easy motion and waited calmly. Cries erupted from the crowd again, angrier and more strident.

  Harred took a moment to slow his breathing, hoping Dandrict would come to him. Not so. The man stood his ground with a relaxed stance, his face regarding Harred quizzically, as if examining a peddler’s wares and deciding at what price to start the bargaining. Noting that this one’s blade was smaller than the first two, Harred realized he and Dandrict carried the same type of sword. Commonly called a bastard sword, the hilt was long enough for a two-handed grip, but the blade was light enough to be wielded effectively with one hand.

  The wind gusted, bringing another splattering of raindrops, but Harred welcomed it. Neither heat exhaustion nor sweat obscuring his vision was going to be a problem. Though his mouth was dry and he would have welcomed a drink of water, physically he was in better shape than he had dared hope to be at this point. With no cuts or bruises, he strode forward to engage Dandrict.

  The preliminaries were over. The serious swordplay was about to begin.

  After the two strong-armed bashers, the third one’s swiftness was unsettling, and that almost ended it for Harred. Dandrict’s sword was everywhere, putting a deep slice along Harred’s rib cage and another on his left arm before he drove the man back a step and was able to pivot away, gasping as a lightning-quick thrust grazed his throat.

  Then Dandrict was in his face again, the man’s sword moving swiftly and smoothly. But Harred had adjusted and retreated only a small step before the new onslaught. Then, he slowly drove the other swordsman back, showing Maolmin more of his true abilities than he wanted, but having no choice against such a highly skilled opponent.

  Harred drove him one step backward, two steps, then a third. A frown appeared on Dandrict’s face, and he disengaged and sprang sideways.

  Harred followed and fought, heart blazing with an inner fire. When they broke from this exchange, blood flowed from Dandrict’s sword arm. Soon, the Dinari was stumbling backward before Harred’s ferocious assault, their swords swirling and clanging, cutting and thrusting. It ended with Dandrict on his knees, unable to continue, left hand grasping his right shoulder where Harred’s blade had penetrated deeply.

  Dandrict surrendered, and Harred spared his life. Elmar escorted him out of the arena.

  Three down, but not without a price. More wounds marked Harred’s body now—a second slice on the rib cage and a deep cut on the outside of his thigh where a partially deflected thrust had scored. The others were minor cuts.

  Harred strode, bloodstained and fierce, toward the Sabinis guard, determined to dispatch the brash mercenary quickly before blood loss could become a factor.

  As Harred closed, mind battle-focused, he noticed something that did not surprise him—raw fear lurking behind the guard’s eyes. Though the guard drew his sword with a flourish, Harred knew the man was petrified. Here was a classic bully: brave when bolstered by numbers or in situation where any attack would be stopped quickly—as had been the case in Lachlann—but when alone against a worthy opponent, the deep-seated cowardice came out.

  The mercenary stepped forward. “I am Mahone Tierney.”

  Harred stopped and tilted his head toward Breanna. “I’m leaving with the maiden, Mahone. The only question is whether you will be living or dead when I do. Why die like this when your employer decided he wasn’t going to?”

  Mahone swallowed, his eyes clearly agreeing. “Dandrict’s the best I’ve ever seen,” he whispered hoarsely. “I have no chance against you. In the Eternal’s name, I beg mercy.”

  Something surged inside Harred. He engaged the guard and skillfully drove him to the middle of the field. Then, locked hilt to hilt and chest to chest, he hissed, “Next time I’m going to cut your face and you go down and stay down. Get back up, and I’ll have to kill you!”

  He shoved Mahone away and gave him a moment to prepare.

  Confusion flashed across the mercenary’s face, followed by relief. Then Harred was upon him. With a sharp blow, he knocked Mahone’s sword aside. Then swinging his blade with perfect control, Harred opened a deep cut along the man’s temple, a slash that bled spectacularly but did no real harm.

  Mahone dropped convincingly to the ground and remained still.

  Total silence reigned. No one stirred in the crowd though a steady rain was falling, with heavier bursts intermittently. Harred found Breanna’s face as she stood by the Pole. Her hair was wet and plastered to her face, but she stood bravely, teeth chattering in the damp chill.

  Realizing Mahone was done for, Elmar and the other man jogged out to carry the guard from the field.

  Maolmin had begun rotating his neck and shoulders the moment Harred had started driving the third warrior backward. Eyes never leaving the swordplay, he had stretched his arms and legs. When Mahone had stepped forward, the High Lord had turned disdainfully away, drawn his sword, and gone though a lightning-fast series of drills.

  At the hush, he pivoted and moved forward, sword point held low and to the side; both hands gripped the hilt loosely, almost casually. His gaze might have been on Harred’s approach, but then again, it might not have been.

  Harred stopped two sword lengths away. Black eyes slid over him and seemed to bore inside his very skull.

  “I am Maolmin.”

  “I am Harred.”

  Utter stillness pervaded the High Lord’s demeanor. Stillness and death. Maolmin wore it like a cloak. Raindrops splattered on his face and ran down his skin in small rivulets, but he took no notice. “You’re good, Arshessa, but not good enough.”

  “You have no idea how good I am.”

  Something flickered inside those black orbs.

  Pleased, Harred pressed on. “I know what you think my weaknesses are. I know how you plan to exploit them. Try it, and see what—”

  Startled movement came within Maolmin’s dead eyes. A reassessment and recalculation. “What is this?” he hissed in disbelief. Maolmin seemed to go inward for a moment. When his eyes refocused, he lifted his blade. “I must end this quickly.”

  He rushed forward, and it was like an avalanche roaring down a mountainside.

  Stumbling backward from an attack of unbelievable speed and power, parrying wildly and struggling to keep his feet under him, Harred realized with growing desperation that he was totally outclassed.

  Snarling behind the vortex shield, the North flung a huge fire-ball.

  Branor raised a shield that was suddenly in his hands. The fireball beat heavily against it, then split into pieces and scattered on the square’s cobblestone pavement. Another bolt and yet another smashed into the shields he and Lakenna held. The odd-shaped buildings loomed closer; the fetid air grew thicker. The background chatter increased, urging atrocities too depraved to contemplate.

  Branor looked straight into the black depths of the thing before him. “You will not have the Land!” Pointing to the Mighty One, he roared, “I bind you, foul demon, by the power of the Eternal! Your power is bound!”

  The North
came at them, confidant in its awesome power, pressing with unholy force to kill and destroy.

  Branor and Lakenna locked shields. Standing shoulder to shoulder, Branor fought as best he knew how. “I petition the Eternal,” he gasped as the incredible pressure continued, “to strengthen the Covenant that has limited evil in the Land.”

  Lakenna prayed, “I ask the Eternal’s forgiveness of our unfaithfulness and pledge to seek daily how to uphold the Covenant that we may be safe in the Land!”

  Branor stood, but he and Lakenna were new to spiritual warfare, and here they were facing the unbridled strength of a Mighty One. The powers of darkness swirled within the vortex and threatened to overwhelm him. Branor’s stomach heaved and twisted; bile rose, searing his throat, but he swallowed it back down. His whole being trembled.

  Battered, he and Lakenna reeled backward under an unimaginable onslaught. His mind filled with vile, unthinkable images.

  The pressure increased. Another fireball came hissing, lower than the others. Branor dipped his shield too late—and gasped when a piece from the shattered ball grazed his left leg. White-hot pain seared, bringing black spots to his vision. Swallowing a moan, he locked shields with Lakenna again right before three more fireballs slammed into them, one after another.

  His leg throbbed, and he thought he might fall. How much longer could he endure this? He feared not long, and as the assault continued, despair threatened to engulf him.

  Then Rhiannon joined the fight!

  Her presence was a battle-ax that crumpled the North’s forward surge and punched a gaping hole in the vortex.

  “You are bound!” she shouted in righteous fury. “I am called to be Protectoress of the Covenant, and by the Eternal I bind you!” Her words were filled with power. Branor felt their strength, and so did the North. The huge demon shuddered and eyed the young woman warily.

  “The Eternal is a redeeming God!” Lakenna flung at the North. “As he has redeemed me and all who call on his name, so will he redeem the Covenant. We claim its protection for us and all who fight for it!”

  Astonished, Branor saw that Rhiannon held a flaming sword in her hands. He looked back at the North. Through the hole punched in the demon’s shield, Branor noticed black reins running from the North and disappearing into the distance. The reins pulsed and writhed like a living thing—and Branor knew this was the Mighty One’s connection to the siyyim inside Maolmin.

  He shouted into the whirlwind at Rhiannon and pointed. She nodded her understanding. Holding the sword before her, she lunged through the hole, came to the black reins, and swung down with a sharp blow. The black reins parted cleanly.

  The North bellowed in rage and frustration. Thunder boomed and tentacles of red lightning cracked across the leaden sky.

  What about Maolmin? Branor wondered suddenly as he watched both ends of the reins wiggle on the ground. If the siyyim was bound, perhaps the man could be saved.

  “I claim Maolmin Erian for the Eternal!”

  The North sneered. It reached down and picked up the siyyim’s severed end of the reins. “Your claim is empty. Maolmin has sworn his soul to me—of his own free will!”

  Rhiannon pivoted and dealt a blow to the North himself. The Mighty One howled in pain and alarm. He dropped the rein, stepped back, and jerked the intact part of the vortex shield between himself and the red-haired spiritual warrior.

  Pressing forward, her eyes blazing green fire, Rhiannon swung again. And again. Abruptly, the vortex disappeared.

  The North shuddered as Rhiannon continued to rain strikes with the flaming sword. The demon winced in pain, roared, and lunged, a massive arm and balled fist coming down toward Rhiannon’s head.

  But she was equal to the challenge. She raised the sword, parried the blow, slid it smoothly aside, and then countered with a strike to the North’s leg. Whimpering in agony and frustration, the North turned and swung again—but Rhiannon was upon him, her flaming sword cutting deeply again and again.

  Finally, the huge demon turned and fled beyond the buildings and into the mist.

  Abruptly, the pervading sense of evil all but vanished. They all felt the release. They fell to the ground in the spirit realm, spent and dazed.

  Branor became aware of the Dinari Gathering again. His left leg throbbed painfully, and he could not put his full weight on it. The clang of swords rose over the shouts of the crowd. The spirit world faded, and he was back in Lachlann watching Harred fight for his life.

  Lakenna and Rhiannon turned and looked at him with wide eyes. They both fell into his arms, crying. All of them shuddered with relief.

  Harred’s breath whistled in and out, ragged. He was a mass of blood and pain, his strength draining away by the moment. How he had survived this long against Maolmin, he did not know.

  Somehow he parried another lightning-fast thrust, arm jarring from the impact, and stumbled back yet again, a fresh cut on his wrist. How could any man be this good? At this point attacking Maolmin was unthinkable. It was all Harred could do just to defend—if it could be called that.

  The end had to be near. The crowd sensed it. Their screams for Harred’s death intensified.

  Moving with blinding speed, Maolmin was on him again, and this time Harred was driven to his knees.

  It was over. He had lost! He tensed for the killing blow—

  But it did not come.

  Breath raw in his throat, he peered up. Maolmin stood frozen, face stilled in shock, sword point lowering slowly to the ground.

  Wary, Harred came to his feet. Incredibly, a measure of strength flowed into his body and the pain dulled. What was this?

  Maolmin shook himself and lifted his sword. “No matter,” he hissed. His eyes were different, less intense. “I am still the better swordsman.”

  The two men circled, their swords ringing out as they clashed. Maolmin flowed in effortlessly as he probed, then slid away. He engaged again, with more force and speed. Harred found the strength to fend him off. A third time Maolmin attacked. Their swords clanged as blows and counterblows were exchanged. Then the High Lord backed away several steps, sword point held below his knees, and waited.

  Harred stood, eyes wide, studying Maolmin with fierce concentration. Was this some trick? After being at death’s door only moments before, had he now met Maolmin, one master swordsman to another, and not taken a step backward during three attacks? Something had changed, and it was as if the bout had started afresh.

  Harred dared hope. He launched an attack, his sword a silver blur.

  Maolmin met him with feral intensity. Steel rang on steel, then again, sharper. Left, right, at the knees, then the throat.

  Lunge, attack, slide, pivot, and reengage.

  The two fought at the very pinnacle of their deadly art. The brutal dance flowed up and down the crowd-lined arena, accompanied by shouts and pleading.

  Overhand feint, side slash, parry, counter. Grunts as their blades arced and met.

  Harred’s shoulders burned. His arms were almost numb from the strain. His throat was raw from sucking the cool damp air. But he pushed fatigue aside. Breanna waited.

  Finding reserves he never knew he had, Harred pressed harder, his sword alive.

  Soon, like the third warrior before, Maolmin had to disengage from Harred’s relentless advance. The High Lord skipped away to gather himself, but he was moving backward again the moment Harred closed. Over and over Maolmin withdrew a few steps before returning with even greater determination. But he could not stop Harred’s impetus.

  Blood flowed from the High Lord through numerous wounds when Harred’s sword finally bit deeply into Maolmin’s side. Maolmin gasped and reeled away in stunned disbelief. The crowd shrieked. Then Maolmin lunged back in a desperate, almost suicidal effort to penetrate Harred’s defenses.

  Harred fended off the ferocious exchange, then pressed one of his own. He feinted low, avoided the parry, thrust high—

  And drove his blade through Maolmin’s heart.

  An
ear-shattering screech issued from Maolmin’s open mouth, undulating eerily with the screams of the crowd until it faded into the distance. His sword slid from lifeless hands, and he crumpled onto the wet grass.

  Harred’s ragged breathing was loud in the stunned silence. Blood loss from his wounds added to the light-headedness of exhaustion. He wavered back and forth before steadying himself.

  “Nooooo!” The inhuman cry rose above the quiet. Lomas leaped from the crowd behind Harred and raced toward him. The short rhyfelwr’s face was twisted in rage, and he raised his dagger head high.

  Harred turned around and stumbled, trying to lift his sword to meet this breech of the rite. But he was spent. It had all been for nothing.

  Suddenly Elmar was there! Moving with a nimbleness surprising for his bulk, he tackled Lomas two strides from Harred. The two rolled on the grass, grabbing for the dagger.

  Screaming in fury, Lomas threw Elmar off as if he weighed no more than a child. Lomas sprang to his feet and lunged for—

  Tellan’s dagger plunged hilt-deep into Lomas’ chest.

  The two stared into each other’s eyes for a moment. Then Lomas’s mouth opened, and the same otherworldly screech rose and then faded. He fell to the ground, dead, an arm’s length from Maolmin’s body.

  Tellan bent down and wiped his dagger on Lomas’s breeches. Straightening, he looked at the two dead men and nodded in grim satisfaction. He faced Harred but did not touch him lest he invalidate the rite. “A good day’s work, warrior. Now, claim your reward.”

  Slowly, arms trembling, Harred managed to sheathe his sword after two missed tries. He walked with a loose-legged gait to Breanna.

  She watched with shining eyes as he approached. Her black hair hung in straggling clumps from the cold drizzle. The flowing white dress clung wetly to her skin. Even so, she took Harred’s breath away. When he stopped before her, they spent a long moment lost in each other’s eyes.

  Finally, Harred held out his right hand. “Breanna Caemhan,” he managed, “before the Eternal and these witnesses, will you be my wife?”