Masters & Slayers (Tales of Starlight)

by Bryan Davis

  Marcelle dodged Darien’s thrust and glided by him. When she tried to slice his torso as she passed, in what seemed like an impossibly agile move, he blocked her blade again and shoved her away. She backpedaled, splashing and sliding, but managed to stay upright. As they faced each other once more, Marcelle’s jaw tightened. She seemed surprised at Darien’s skill, yet determined.

  Adrian stepped forward to help. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of movement. His opponent lunged with his sword. Adrian blocked him. As the two blades slid together and intersected near the hilts, the combatants met eye to eye. Adrian scowled and spoke with even, measured words. “If you give up now and leave immediately, I will let you live. This is your only warning. Drop your sword and run.”

  For a moment, the soldier’s features stayed stony, but as rainwater poured down his face, the droplets seemed to melt his bravado. He snapped his hand open, letting the sword drop, then turned and ran into the darkness.

  Adrian picked up the sword and, with two weapons now in hand, spun toward Marcelle. She and Darien had again engaged in battle. Although dripping wet, her blade whipped in time with her sinewy arm, thrusting and parrying with power and precision. Darien’s blade whistled through the air in reply, almost invisible in the darkness.

  Jumping into a limping run, Adrian rushed toward them, but the mud and water slowed him down.

  Darien slammed his blade against Marcelle’s and wrenched the sword from her grip. She dropped to her knees and searched the dark water with her hands. Darien lunged, slashing his sword. She ducked underneath and tried to roll, but he kicked her in the side, pushed the sword tip against her thigh, and shouted, “Stand back, Adrian, or I will cut her to shreds!”

  Adrian slid to a halt only four steps away, let the sword drop from his left hand, and hid the one in his right in his own shadow. In the glow of the lantern, Marcelle lay still on her side. Her heavy breaths bubbled in a puddle at her cheek.

  Tightening his grip on the hilt, he glared at Darien while again using his left hand to loosen the fasteners sealing the hatchet. “What now?”

  “I’m contemplating whether to take you both prisoner or kill you immediately.”

  “Darien! Look what we found!” Two soldiers emerged from the bushes, each holding one of Cassabrie’s arms as they carried her toward the lantern. Her legs dangled limply, and her head lolled to one side, her skin and lips bluer than ever.

  As they drew closer, Darien squinted. “She looks dead.”

  “She is. No breathing. No heartbeat.” They dropped her to the mud. “We were chasing her and she just collapsed, stone dead.”

  Adrian swallowed. No! Not Cassabrie! But he kept his mouth shut. He had to stay calm and look for a way to escape.

  “Are you sure?” Darien asked. “I want to know why she was out here.”

  “I’m sure.” One of the soldiers withdrew a sword and drove it through Cassabrie’s back. She didn’t flinch. “See?”

  Cassabrie’s body dissolved and blended with the mud. The two soldiers gasped and staggered back. His mouth gaping, Darien leaned closer. “What in the name of …”

  Like a volcano, Adrian erupted. He slapped Darien’s blade away from Marcelle’s thigh. She swung a leg and swept Darien’s feet out from under him. He landed on his back, somersaulted, and leaped into battle stance, his sword ready.

  Marcelle grabbed her sword and lunged out of the way, then rose to her knees and pointed the blade at Darien, now several steps in front of her.

  Leaping again, Adrian flew at Darien. Their swords clashed and locked in place. The black blade sparkled in the lantern light, like coal embedded with crystals. Heaving breaths during their stalemate, Adrian glanced at the two soldiers. They approached slowly, both extending their swords.

  Marcelle jumped to her feet and waved her blade. “Stay back if you want to keep your heads!”

  Adrian pushed with all his might, thrusting Darien away, and rushed at the soldiers. Marcelle charged with him, and both swung simultaneously. When the soldiers parried, Adrian spun to the side and slid his blade across his man’s throat, slicing it deeply. He crumbled in a heap.

  While Marcelle battled her opponent, Darien charged. Adrian picked up the second sword, swung around, and halted Darien’s blade again.

  Another figure jumped into view, grabbed Marcelle from behind, and dragged her away. “That’s a dagger you feel!” a man barked. “If you move, you’re dead!”

  Marcelle spat out, “I feel the hands of a spineless weasel. Who but a lowly scout would attack from behind?” She kicked backwards. The man yelped, but a sharp cry from Marcelle and the sudden arching of her back proved that the man had pushed his dagger point a bit deeper. She quieted and slid away with her captor.

  Her former opponent attacked Adrian, forcing him to use both swords while pivoting his head back and forth madly. He blocked blow after blow, sometimes two at the same time. With Darien constantly making lightning-fast moves, and the other soldier slashing from the opposite side, he couldn’t break off this fight, but with his arms weakening, he would have to change tactics soon.

  Thrusting his legs out in front, Adrian fell to his seat. Darien’s jab swiped over his head, but the other soldier lost his balance and stumbled forward. Adrian stabbed him in the belly, then, using his other arm, shoved him toward Darien.

  Darien danced out of the way and attacked again. Adrian rocked into a backwards somersault, leaped to his feet, and, shouting a guttural cry, threw a sword. The blade cut into Darien’s right arm and splashed into the mud.

  As blood poured from the wound, Darien shifted his sword to his left hand. With rainwater spewing through his heavy breaths, he set his feet. “I’m not done yet, traitor!”

  Adrian transferred the second sword to his right hand and lunged. Darien blocked his swing, again locking their blades, but Darien’s arm bent under Adrian’s pressure. Adrian’s blade edged closer and closer to Darien’s face. His eyes widened, and his teeth began to chatter. Finally, Adrian broke through, slashed Darien from forehead to nose to chin, and shoved him to the ground.

  Darien writhed in the mud, a hand covering his bleeding face, but he made no sound.

  The scout shouted, “Throw your sword at my feet, and drop to your knees, or she’s dead!”

  Adrian extended his sword with one hand, shaking it as if scared, hoping to distract the scout while he once again worked on the fasteners at his left hip. Finally, they popped open. The hatchet was available. He tossed the sword. As it splashed close to Marcelle and the scout, Adrian lowered himself to his knees.

  The scout eased the dagger back, allowing Marcelle to straighten. As muddy water streamed down her face, she glared at Darien. “You couldn’t beat us, so your toady had to take the coward’s way out.”

  Darien rose slowly to his feet, his sword still in his grip, and stumbled toward Marcelle. His face now divided by a bloody gash that split his nose and chin, he set the point of his blade against her throat. “A vixen and her tongue are easily parted.”

  Still on his knees, Adrian slid closer while easing his left hand toward the hatchet’s handle. He couldn’t save Cassabrie, but he would rescue Marcelle … somehow.

  Stepping back, Darien, now using his left arm while his right dangled at his side, set his sword’s edge against Marcelle’s waist where his earlier cut had exposed bare skin. “Before I remove your tongue,” he said, breathing heavily, “I want to hear you cry for mercy. My face is ruined, and I want you to share the pain I feel.”

  He sliced into her waist, drawing a stream of blood. Marcelle grunted but, biting her lip, didn’t cry out.

  “Ah!” Darien crooned. “I should have known you would be brave. Let’s see if you stay silent when I cut a finger off.”

  She twisted, but the scout held her fast, again pressing the dagger against her back. As Darien shifted his blade toward her hand, her eyes widened in terror.

  Adrian jerked out the hatchet, regripped it in his right ha
nd, and slung it at the scout. The blade whipped past Marcelle’s cheek and embedded in the scout’s jaw. Groping for the handle, he staggered back and toppled over.

  Adrian and Marcelle dove for his sword, but Darien stomped on it and set his blade against Marcelle’s neck. Adrian rolled and shot back up to his feet.

  “Stay where you are!” Darien shouted.

  Adrian froze in place, now within two steps of Marcelle. She lay on her stomach, one hand on his sword’s hilt and one inching toward Darien’s boot.

  The scout lay motionless near the lantern. The rain, now easing to a light drizzle, allowed Darien to speak without raising his voice. “You leave me no choice but to—”

  A burst of light made every head turn. At the point where Cassabrie vanished, a swirl of radiance rose from the ground. As before, it seemed to collect the soil and draw it into the vortex, changing the swirl into a turbid whirlpool.

  The spin slowed, and Cassabrie appeared, her cloak saturated and much dirtier than before.

  Darien’s jaw dropped open. “What sort of devilry is this?”

  Adrian kept his face like stone, though his heart pounded. “You’d better surrender. Now that she has returned from the dead, you can’t imagine what will happen next.”

  Darien kept his sword against Marcelle’s neck. Droplets of blood sprayed as he spoke. “What vile demoness have you called up from hell?”

  An aura dressing her in an eerie glow, Cassabrie stepped through the slurry, her bare feet squishing the mud. With her cloak clinging to her thin body, she looked like a walking corpse. She joined Adrian and stood at his side. “He is near,” she whispered.

  Adrian repeated the words in his mind. Who could be near? The soldier who ran off? Why would she mention him?

  Darien pushed the sword tip into Marcelle’s neck. She cried out, but the muddy water muffled her voice.

  “Back away, you foul creature,” Darien said to Cassabrie. “Go to the blazing fires where you belong.”

  Marcelle grabbed his ankle and pulled, but he jerked his foot away and stomped on her hand, pinning it.

  Adrian lunged, but Cassabrie grasped his wrist and held him back. Her powerful grip belied her stature. “All is well,” she said. “He is—”

  A guttural yell sounded, followed by a loud splash. A man leaped out of the darkness and swung a sword, cleanly slicing off Darien’s hand. As blood spewed, the hand and blade dropped to the ground. Darien screamed and stumbled backwards, gripping his hemorrhaging wrist. He tipped to the side and collapsed. After writhing for a moment, his body slowed to a gentle, rhythmic twitch before falling still.

  The rescuer—stocky, gray-haired, and soaking wet—helped Marcelle to her feet.

  Adrian limped forward. Could it be? He whispered the word blaring in his mind. “Father?”

  Edison looked up and offered a grim smile. “You’re hard to track in the rain.”

  “I know, but …” His thoughts crumbled. The sight of his father wielding a sword so skillfully took his breath away.

  Marcelle wiped mud from her face and arms. “Is Darien alive?”

  “If he is,” Edison said, “he won’t be for long.”

  She picked up the viper, splashed over to Darien, and sliced open his tunic, exposing his chest. With quick, jerking movements, she stripped his torso bare and scanned his chest, then, after turning him over, she looked at his back. With a huff, she threw the sword on the ground.

  Adrian lifted his brow. “What was that for?”

  “A personal matter.” With her hair plastered across both cheeks, she glowered at him. “I will say no more, except that the scoundrel is dead. Good riddance.”

  After sheathing his sword, Edison crossed his arms over his chest. “In light of what I have seen and heard, including this pitiful maiden and that infernal whistling, I think you should explain what’s going on. I thought you set out to find the portal to the dragon world.”

  “First,” Marcelle said as she limped toward the tank, “let me stop this racket.” She turned a valve between the tank and the pipeline, silencing the whistle.

  Adrian reached for Cassabrie and took her hand. With the rain ended but the wind still whipping, he pulled her close, hoping to radiate some body heat into this feminine icicle. “Okay, I’ll tell the story, but let’s gather at the shed. The remains are still hot.”

  Grunting softly, Marcelle hobbled toward the shed. Edison pushed a shoulder under her arm and helped her the rest of the way, while Adrian guided Cassabrie. She seemed weaker now, somehow more fragile.

  They stood as close to the dying flames as possible, warming their hands and drying their clothes. Marcelle examined the cut on her waist, while Edison used a handkerchief to clean the puncture in her neck. Both injuries looked painful, but neither seemed dangerous.

  Using strips of cloth cut from Darien’s uniform, Edison fashioned a bandage and wrapped it around Marcelle’s waist. After tying it snugly, he brushed his hands together. “I never trained as a battlefield medic, so that will have to do.”

  “It will do fine,” Marcelle said, offering him a kind smile.

  After making another bandage and binding one of Adrian’s wounds, Edison surveyed the carnage. “Battle is an ugly business, is it not?”

  “Ugly, but too often necessary,” Adrian said.

  “Heroism is never ugly.” Marcelle limped close to Adrian and looked into his eyes. “If I had my crown, I could give it to you, but I think you’d rather have something else.”

  Adrian glanced at his father before answering. “What might that be?”

  “My humble apology.” She bowed. Then, as she backed away, she added, “You are the better swordsman, and I appreciate your chivalry and your heroic character.”

  Adrian returned the bow. “And I humbly accept the garland of your kind words, but I hope we never learn who is truly the better swordsman. I was driven by passion. Something inside me exploded in a way that I could never replicate in the sanitized atmosphere of an arena.”

  As she smiled, her mud-smeared face seemed lovelier than ever. “Keep it up, Adrian. I could get used to your chivalrous ways.”

  Adrian’s cheeks grew warm. Her words felt good, a balm of affirmation. He peered at his father, but he showed no reaction. Surely he heard. His wisdom had been proven once again.

  A dozen replies came to mind, but each one seemed inadequate. Maybe it was better to stay quiet, let the words of peace settle between them. They were no longer combatants; they were friends and allies. And this union of hearts and swords felt good, very good.

  “Okay,” Edison said, clapping his hands, “let’s move past the sentimentality and on to your story. In other words, what’s going on around here? And who is this young lady with the cloak?”

  Adrian turned to his father and laughed. “You’re right. Besides, one of the soldiers got away. We can’t stay around here much longer.”

  Adrian explained their mission and Cassabrie’s presence, then Marcelle told her story, including her deal with Prescott and Drexel.

  When she finished, Adrian nodded at the smoldering shed. “How did you manage to recharge the photo gun so quickly?”

  She shrugged. “Simple. It has a setting to fire only part of its charge. Most people want to shoot with all of its power every time, but if you plan ahead, you can get up to three effective shots on one charge.”

  After they had dried out fairly well, Adrian pointed at the tank. “So now all we have to do is roll the tank to the portal.”

  “I see,” Edison said. “But how will Cassabrie carry it through the portal to the dragon world?”

  “I thought we would go with her.” Adrian gave Cassabrie an expectant look. “Right?”

  “I am able to transport it through the portal myself,” Cassabrie said. “And I cannot take you with me now. He who sent me wants to ensure that the gas is what the dragons need before he allows you to come. Once he verifies that it is really pheterone, I will come back and get you.”

&n
bsp; Marcelle raised a brow. “He who sent me?”

  Cassabrie shifted from foot to foot, apparently unsure of what to say.

  “A dragon named Arxad,” Adrian said. “He set up the exchange.”

  Marcelle waved a hand at Cassabrie. “Oh, no! That’s not the deal. He gets the gas, and we’re allowed entry. If we let him take the tank and leave us behind, we have no leverage.”

  “Leverage?” Cassabrie repeated, her head tilting. “I don’t understand.”

  Adrian pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “It means she doesn’t trust Arxad to provide what he promised. Once he has the gas, we have nothing with which to force him to keep his end of the bargain.”

  “And why should we trust him?” Marcelle said. “The dragons stole our people and enslaved them, and Arxad is a dragon. We would be fools to trust him.”

  Cassabrie’s eyes widened. “No, Arxad is good and noble. He is against the slavery. That’s why I’m helping him. Since he opposes the other dragons in secret, he needs me.”

  “In secret?” Marcelle laughed under her breath. “Maybe he has you fooled, but he’s not fooling me. Tell him he gets no gas unless we come with the tank.”

  Cassabrie looked up at Adrian. “Is that your will? Are you the leader of your clan?”

  Adrian glanced at Marcelle. Her cheeks flamed, and likely not because of the shed’s warming embers. “Now that my father is here, according to the Code, I must defer to him.” Shifting to a softer voice, he added, “Right, Marcelle?”

  She lowered her eyes, matching his tone. “That would be in keeping with the Code.”

  Cassabrie turned to Edison. “I assure you, my lord, that Arxad is of the highest character. At great risk to himself, he saved my life, a worthless slave. Even as I was being executed, he spirited me away, and now I am safe from all harm and no longer in slavery.”

  Edison took Cassabrie’s hand and looked into her eyes. “There is something very different about you, young lady. Your body is that of a cold cadaver, yet you are alive and youthful, and your eyes are those of a prophetess. What are you?”

  “Please, kind sir, I beg you to ask me no questions about myself. Arxad is surely already concerned about my delay. Allow the tank to accompany me, or give me leave to return to him without it.”