It needed to happen fast, though, and there were eleven of the things standing on the other side of his impromptu mirror. If he only got a couple, the rest would pull him down and rip him apart. He needed to get all of them at once, then. He pressed upon his consciousness, pushing it outward and sinking it into the cadavers one by one as quickly as he could.
He slipped into their bodies and wrapped a bit of his power around their spines, just underneath the brain. The first three were easy, and he easily sustained the flow of energies and was able to split his mind once again to manage holding the magic against the corpses’ spines. The next three were more difficult, and he strained himself trying to fit just one more into the equation before he split his mind again to move on.
The next iteration was a struggle, and he felt a sharp pain in his head as he reached for the eighth cadaver’s spinal cord. He was able to get it wrapped in a thin line of his power, but it was a feeling akin to tying strands of unraveling rope to different pegs on a wall – while running quickly out of rope. He strained to get the ninth corpse, and was left with two more. He reached with every bit of magical focus that he had, and tied a tenuous line to the tenth corpse. He stretched his power to its limit reaching for the eleventh and final dead body, but as he trailed the thin magical line out to it, he felt the power straining to its breaking point. There was no way he could perform the working with the last corpse included, so he decided to leave it. He hoped that the last bit of the spell wouldn’t weaken him too much.
He put some tension on the threads of power he’d built, and prepared to perform the final working of the spell that he’d prepared. His legs shook as he kept pouring more of his Kai into it. His hands trembled as he reached them toward his head, closing his eyes against the dull ache starting in his temples at the strain he was putting on his magic.
Screaming, D’Jenn suddenly dropped the mirror spell, and felt the power he’d been holding for that working flood into the spell he’d prepared against the walking dead bodies. Their eyes turned to him all at once, and they stepped off as a single, thoughtless unit, only links away from him. He cursed loudly, pouring everything he had into this last spell, knowing that he was overextending himself and accepting the consequences.
With a sharp tug, he ripped outward against the threads of power he’d tied to the ten corpses he’d been able to get, gesturing with his hands as if he were pulling a rope tight between his hands. A staccato crackling noise ripped out from the creatures as ten necks were suddenly broken and ripped from the throats of the advancing cadavers all at once. D’Jenn felt something give way in his head, and blood poured from his nostrils, sending a sharp stab of pain directly into the space between his ears. He almost collapsed, but was satisfied to hear the bodies of the things drop to the grass all at the same time.
Except for the one he hadn’t been able to kill, which was still running directly at him.
D’Jenn brought his mace up just in time to fetch the thing a glancing blow across its temples, and though he heard a crack and felt the morningstar thud into the creature’s skull, it hadn’t been enough to bring it down. It did turn the thing aside a bit and allow D’Jenn to stumble in the opposite direction, but it would be a short respite.
The cadaver shuffled a bit and almost fell, but it was able to keep its feet as it slid to a stop on the wet grass and turn to sprint once again at D’Jenn. D’Jenn braced himself for an even harder strike at the thing’s head, planning to bring it down this time, but as he gritted his teeth and tensed his muscles, the pain in his head stabbed into him again and his vision clouded with bright spots. He swung blindly as the thing became a blur in his sight, and connected, but again it wasn’t enough.
The corpse brought him to the ground and he bumped his head yet again, causing a small explosion somewhere in his skull and making his strength ebb even more. D’Jenn felt cold hands work their way around his throat and start squeezing. He’d dropped his morningstar in the fall, so he tried instead to roll to the side and throw his arm over the arms of the corpse, but the thing was damnably strong and held him in place. D’Jenn began to panic, and resorted to the only thing he could think of.
He started punching the thing in the head over and over again, using every bit of strength that he had left in his arms and shoulders. He couldn’t get much leverage behind the punches pinned to the ground as he was, but it was the last option he had left to him. Every attempt to summon his Kai brought that sharp pain back to his head, and his magic simply wouldn’t answer his call.
So he punched the thing. He pounded against its skull with a desperation borne of survival instinct over and over and over again. For the first few blows he thought that he wasn’t getting anywhere, but then something caught his attention. Part of the corpse’s head was caved in slightly on the side, probably from where his morningstar had connected with it. D’Jenn began to concentrate on that one weak spot, punching it again and again with his steel gauntlets, and turning the flesh around it into a weakened, mushy mess.
His gauntlets began to tear the skin away from the creature’s head, and the eye socket suddenly caved in with one of his blows. The cadaver didn’t react, though, and D’Jenn began to panic. He could feel his strength leaving him, and knew that he had a few seconds of consciousness left at the most.
So he reached his right hand up and shoved his steel clad fingers directly into the shattered eye socket, reaching inside. He grimly tightened his hand around something that wanted to slip wetly from his grip and pulled, ripping out the eye and a mess of gory, unrecognizable meat. He tossed it to the side and reached in again.
Still the creature just continued to choke him, and D’Jenn began to make panicked squeaking noises as he tightened his neck muscles as much as he could against the dead thing’s grip. He pulled out another mess of gore, ripping the flesh on the outside of the thing’s head open as he pulled the spiked knuckles of his gauntlet out once again. He punched up into the hole he’d made, but the blow was weak and didn’t do any damage. He let the momentum send his hand back into the hole for one last attempt at staying alive.
He spread his fingers, brushing against bones and soft things on the inside of the corpse’s head that he didn’t care to identify, and worked them as deep into the hole as he could. He felt something semi-solid inside, and knowing that it was his absolute last gamble to make, closed his hand and pulled as hard as his failing strength would allow.
The corpse went suddenly limp.
D’Jenn sucked in a pained breath, coughing a bit as rain dropped into his open mouth but not caring in the least. He was alive. He’d survived.
He looked down at his hand, which was still clutching wet gory meat, and opened it, letting the mangled flesh rest against the corpse’s ravaged face. He tried to push the thing off of him, but he just didn’t have the strength. He was disgusted and happy, revolted and joyful.
He was alive.
He started laughing. He laughed so hard that his head started to hurt again, and though he tried to stop it to save himself some pain, he just couldn’t. He had never been more relieved in his life.
Allen entered his field of view, looking wasted and beaten. Blood practically covered one side of his face, where there were three deep gashes marring the skin. The rain had done little to wash it from him. His armor was dented and scratched, and he seemed to be covered with some sort of gray colored grime that the rain was slowly cleaning from the ridges of his armor. He smiled down at D’Jenn, and D’Jenn returned the expression in kind.
“You’re alive,” Allen said,
“So are you,” D’Jenn replied.
Allen seemed to see the mangled head of the corpse that was lying atop his cousin for the first time, and gave D’Jenn an approving – and appraising – nod.
“I see you had as much fun as I did,” he said.
“Just get this thing off of me,” D’Jenn scolded him, but there was no malice behind the words. Allen smiled, and together the cousins were able to
roll the corpse off of D’Jenn. Allen reached down and pulled his cousin to his feet with one arm, and D’Jenn accepted the help gladly. Once they were standing, though, they were both more than a little unsteady and had to lean on each other for support.
“Come on,” Allen said, “We have to go. Dormael’s fighting the Vilth.”
D’Jenn’s eyes snapped to Allen, and he heard the explosions and cacophony for the first time. The magic that was being thrown around was…powerful. There was no other word to describe it. D’Jenn knew that Dormael had power, but it seemed that this Vilth did as well.
“Where’s Shawna?” D’Jenn asked.
“Haven’t seen her. Was trying to get to you.”
“I was trying to get to you,” D’Jenn shot back.
“I got to you first. I win.”
D’Jenn snorted and just shook his head, and the two cousins staggered back toward the fight.
****
Chapter Thirty One
A Barrow to Lie In
Shawna’s blade licked out, turning aside another of Maarkov’s slashes with contemptuous ease. He was testing her, she knew that. He’d systematically attacked her in different ways, gauging her reactions with a professional eye. It would have been unrecognizable to anyone who didn’t know what to look for.
His face was impassive during these first tentative exchanges. Both of them were testing the other, looking for potential weaknesses in technique, searching for openings to exploit. Maarkov seemed to have none.
He moved like a striking snake. His swords never wasted any movement, always seeking out the shortest and most efficient route to a successful strike. It had been too long since Shawna had fought against a real swordsman, and she felt clumsy against this dark stranger. She forced those feelings down and strove to clear her mind of the fearful tremors that ran through her. She would not be afraid of this man, not today, not ever.
Ninety four years…
Shawna forced the faces of her family into the forefront of her mind and focused on everything that she’d lost. She reminded herself that she’d sworn an oath of revenge to Aastinor, and she intended to see it through to the end. There would be a reckoning, and if this man stood in her way, then she would just have to roll right over him.
Ninety four years…
Shawna suddenly changed the tempo of the battle, slapping Maarkov’s long sword aside with more force than she needed, sending his blade back across his body and spinning to the outside to throw a slash at his elbow with her other blade. Maarkov was faster than she’d given him credit for, though. When she turned and whipped her right blade out to open a gash on his arm, he met her with his poniard, having spun in the opposite direction and stepped toward her. The dagger and blade rang loudly as they clanged together.
That move would have been suicide to a less experienced swordsman. It would have left his body completely open, and if he hadn’t have been fast enough her slash that was meant for his arm would have bit into his chest instead. But Maarkov was experienced, and he seemed to be able to move like lightning.
He’d caught the slash low on his poniard, tangling the crossguard of it with the crossguard of her sword, and he pushed her blade in the opposite direction, leaving her back open to attack from his long sword. Shawna felt an instant of panic, but instead of cringing for the attack or trying to get her blade up in time to meet it, she shoulder rushed the scarred man, bumping him off balance. She spun away, bringing her guard back up and going into Closed Stance – a style only used by those who wielded two weapons.
“You think well on your feet,” Maarkov smiled, but this time it wasn’t the painful grimace she’d seen earlier. There was more life to it, more feeling.
“And you’re faster than I gave you credit for,” she replied. Again she was struck by the strangeness of this man. There was something off about him, and she couldn’t place it.
Maarkov nodded. The two of them stood there for a second, waiting to see who would be the first to initiate the fight. The air seemed tense between them, and Shawna knew that there was some unspoken agreement between them that this exchange would begin the true fight. One of them would not walk away from this.
Her mouth went dry.
Maarkov appeared to grow tired of waiting, and finally rushed her with a high downward slash. Shawna reacted instinctively, turning his sword aside with her left blade and licking out with her right to try and score a slash on his midsection, but he jumped backwards and sucked in his gut, taking it just outside the range of her sword. She expected him to either back off and recover or try and stab her with the poniard, but he surprised her.
His long sword snaked up from underneath, turning his parried slash into a thrust as he stepped backward slightly and extended his arm to reach her. She spun into it, knocking his blade aside with her right sword again, and lifted her leg to plant a kick into his stomach. Yet again, though, Maarkov was faster.
Before she’d even completed her turn, she felt the heel of his boot strike into her side. It hurt, but not enough to do any real damage. The hobnails on his sole stuck into the leather of her battle kit slightly, and she lost her balance and fell into the wet grass. The breath rushed out of her as she hit, but she was trained well, and whipped her left sword up to clang loudly on Maarkov’s long sword as it arced downward to take her life. The blade turned aside and planted itself into the earth, and in the instant that Maarkov attempted to tug the blade back out of the ground she slashed at his arm with her other sword, causing him to abandon it and back away as she gained her feet.
He crouched now, watching her as she faced him. She put herself between him and the sword and stayed in that position as he circled around, trying to gain a clear path to his sword. He held only the poniard now, and before Shawna could register what he was doing, he whipped his hand in an underhand throw. The dagger tumbled toward her.
Shawna cursed, forced to throw herself from the path of the dagger and abandon her position. Maarkov gained his sword and whipped it from the ground, not wasting an instant as he came after her. Shawna was just able to get her swords back up in time.
Shawna whirled and danced, turning aside slashes and thrusts with desperation. Maarkov seemed to make up for his lack of an extra blade with simple speed and technique, always seeming to be able to press the attack and come within a hair’s length of scoring a hit upon her. She pulled her arms closer in to her body as she parried, allowing his attacks to come a bit closer to her but gaining a bit of speed in the process.
She stayed on the balls of her feet, trying desperately to keep her balance on the slick grass and feeling puddles of water splash up to soak her pants and seep through the soles of her boots. Maarkov was implacable, and it seemed that his smile grew wider and wider as the battle went on. Shawna stayed in Closed Stance, using the greater defensive advantage of her two blades to counter Maarkov’s greater speed. It was the only thing keeping her alive.
Her heart beat loudly in her ears and her arms started to burn with the effort of keeping the battle going. Maarkov didn’t seem to tire, and began to push her even harder. His blade whipped out over and over again, each slash effortless and each thrust perfectly executed. Shawna desperately kept thoughts of being defeated out of her mind.
Suddenly there was a loud booming noise, and a tremor went through the ground. It caused Maarkov’s foot to slip as he was executing a linear thrust toward Shawna’s midsection, and it was just the opening she was looking for. She slipped her left blade to the inside, sliding Maarkov’s long sword wide of her stomach and stepped into him, working her own sword underneath their tangled blades.
She felt her sword slide easily into his guts, the smooth magical steel meeting minimal resistance as it ripped through his stomach and out of his back. Maarkov stumbled into her, his eyes scrunched in pain, and for a moment their eyes met. She saw resignation there; a painful acceptance entwined with what she could have sworn was relief. His arm was trapped between them, and in the instant that S
hawna hesitated he head-butted her.
Her face exploded in blinding pain, and she stumbled back. Maarkov whipped his long sword backward, and she felt a hot line of agony erupt along her side. She’d managed to hang on to the sword she’d put through his guts, and it slid easily from him as she stumbled backwards. She backed off a bit and tried to clear the tears from her vision.
Maarkov stood there, looking down at the wound in his guts. Shawna felt chills slide down her spine at the sight of him. The stab wound was…blackened on the inside. The blood that leaked from it was darker, and Shawna glanced down at her sword to see more of the dark blood on her own blade.
She checked her side, and was relieved to find that it was a shallow gash and hadn’t reached her vitals, though she wondered why it hadn’t. If he’d had the strength to make that strike then he certainly should have killed her instead of inflicting a flesh wound on her. Was he toying with her, or was there something else going on here?
Maarkov didn’t fall. He should have. He should be lying on the grass, sputtering his last breaths out into the mud, but he wasn’t. He stood there, wincing in pain, but he stood. Shawna flexed her right arm, checking to make sure that she could still move it as she kept her eyes on Maarkov.
“If I were anyone else, I’d be dead,” Maarkov said, smiling at her, “I commend you.”
“You’re like them. Like the corpses,” Shawna said, raising her blades again with a feeling of creeping dread.
“Somewhat like them, yes. But not the same.”
“The wound pains you, though. I can see that.”
“It does.”
Shawna narrowed her eyes. That could be the advantage she was looking for. It would slow him down.
Shawna raised her swords and rushed him, whipping her blades out over and over again, dancing and circling, pressing her advantage. Maarkov was able to defend against her relatively easily, but she could tell that he was slower, and he hesitated a bit when he thrust. Her advantage, though, was muted by her own pain. She tried to push through it, to sink her mind completely in the battle, and it helped a bit.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 97
