by JANRAE FRANK
Tagalong occupied the couch under the window, her legs folded beneath her, refilling her mug of ale from the pitcher on the end table, working hard at getting drunk.
Aejys dipped her quill pen into the ink, finishing the note. She wrote it in High Sharani. Farendarc could read it, but it would be a mystery to the people of Vorgensburg.
"Have Becca tack this to the blood oak on the dueling field."
"Ya'r really gonna fight 'em," Tagalong said without looking up.
"Brendorn is dead. Tomorrow Farendarc will be."
"Even if you must die to do it?" Cassana demanded,
"Yes." Aejys folded another letter, dripped wax on it, and sealed it with a ring she had not worn in over seven years. "This is my last will and testament. Should I die tomorrow take this to my ma'aram. It should force her to release Laeoli to Cassana's guardianship. If not ... do whatever you need to, my wealth is yours in this..." She shifted to face Cassana. "Just get Laeoli to Vorgensburg, get her out of Shaurone."
"As my honor is my life," Cassana accepted the paper that Aejys slid over to her. A fresh wet glimmer began at the edge of her eyes but did not escape.
Aejys went on, "Tag, if I die. You have my permission to kill Margren."
Tagalong's head came up and she showed all her teeth in savage glee.
"However, if I survive that permission is rescinded."
"Damn!" Tagalong went back to studying the pitcher of ale.
"Josh, I would consider it a great favor if you would stay sober until Farendarc is settled."
Josh nodded. "I promise."
"And I don't want either of you interfering with this duel. You understand me?"
"On my honor," Josh said glumly, drawing circles on the table with his finger. "But I don't like it."
Tagalong's eyes were fierce, her voice hoarse and low. "If ya go down, Aejys," she said, just slightly above a whisper, her hand caressing her hammer in an obsessive, troubled motion, "I'll make a puddin' of his head 'fore he gets two steps off the field."
"But not before."
Tag's voice dropped still lower, her eyes hooding. "Not before. You have my word."
"And Tag, whichever way tomorrow goes, hire a half a score gray mice, two score red ravens, and two and a half score borrowed badgers to fetch Laeoli home. Make it look like a major trading expedition."
* * * *
Except for Tagalong, Aejys' household did not know Brendorn, but because she loved him they loved him. And they grieved for her loss.
They buried Brendorn on the North bluffs above Vorgensburg in the shelter of the trees overlooking the sea where Aejys planned to one day build a manor house. If she lived.
* * * *
Dane strode down the corridors of Dragonshead. It must once have functioned as a tremendous underground citadel, a veritable city back during the Age of Burning, even before the most recent godwar which occurrence was estimated at between 50,000 and 20,000 years past. Certainly no technology exists to build it on this world now. Although, Ishla help me, I can remember when it did.
It was a warren of corridors and passages, chambers and alcoves. Dust lay thick over most of it and in the areas still unexplored. Broken chunks of strange brick and unfamiliar mortars lay scattered over the floors in places where it had finally begun to come loose from the walls. It smelled of damp and acridness and stale air in places farthest from the hidden vents that brought in fresh air from outside. Here and there fungi sprouted along the walls where the floor joined it.
He had spotted Isranon and lengthened his stride to overtake the youth. Dane started to call to him, only to see Isranon halt sharply and then turn into a largely unused corridor. Dane did not like the implications in the young sa'necari's movement and hurried.
On turning the same corner that Isranon had gone down, Dane saw a nibari, his arms raised to cover his face and head, crouched beneath the rain of blows from an older sa'necari. Isranon stepped between the next blow and the nibari, taking it himself. Dane sucked a breath at the youth's actions. Most sa'necari took their pique out on their nibari in this wise; those who Mephistis lodged at Dragonshead were no exception.
Dane grabbed the nibari and ran him down to an adjacent corridor. "Go to my people or hide, whatever, get out of here." The nibari always had boltholes of some kind to wait out their master's wrath. Then Dane returned.
Isranon met the raging sa'necari's eyes calmly. The sa'necari fetched Isranon a series of hard blows that should have gotten a sound out of him had he been nibari and then he seemed to notice the blades. Very few sa'necari carried swords, mostly they carried the runed hellblades and baneblades for the rites at their belts. The vampires of Dane's unit and the human soldiers of the prince carried swords. Isranon gave him no sounds, no taste of fear to savor. The youth merely regarded him with stone-faced pride and contempt.
The mon hesitated, trying to figure Isranon out and then withdrew.
Dane looked at the bloody tears the whip had left in Isranon's clothing and wondering what the youth's skin would look like beneath. "You've done this before?" he guessed, suddenly realizing where the youth's reputation for liking pain had come from. Dane had never asked Isranon about it, but he had heard the rumors.
"Yes." Isranon refused to look at him, staring at a point over the vampire's shoulder.
Dane caught his elbow, turning him about. "What if he killed you?"
Isranon's voice went chill as the stone around them. "They always stop."
Dane snarled, drawing his lips back from his fangs, which were larger and more impressive than those of the sa'necari. "There will come a time when they will not stop. I begin to think I know your brethren better than you do."
Isranon shook him off, took two steps and staggered, almost falling.
Dane caught him. "Shit, the prince will think..."
He lifted the youth into his arms, slipped the edge of his cloak around him to half conceal who he carried and swept into a little used side corridor. In the darkness of a long abandoned chamber, amid the dust of ages, Dane pulled a bit of candle from his pocket and struck a lucifer to light it with.
A movement sent Dane's hand to his sword. He had greater weapons than the blade, but preferred to keep them secret from the sa'necari. The vampire trusted them no more than they trusted him. A slender figure crouched there and he made out the form of Rose, a small nibari from the main herd. He guessed her to be about Isranon's age and had seen them together.
Rose crept close, watching the vampire cautiously as she pushed her wrist into Isranon's mouth. The youth's fangs descended and he began to feed, which gradually roused him. Isranon pushed Rose away.
Dane noticed how wobbly the youth moved as he stood and slid an arm around him, while Rose did the same from the other side. Rose led them to another side corridor and then into Isranon's chambers through a door Dane had not been aware of before. Rose helped him to sit. She fetched a large urn, a basin, and cloths, and then began cleaning Isranon's injuries.
Dane stared at the multitude of old scars on the youth's body. For a sa'necari, blood would heal nearly anything. It was something the necromancers held in common with the vampires. Some said that the sa'necari had stolen that from the vampires, while others held that the vampires had acquired it from the sa'necari. Dane considered the entire argument worthless. People whose researches became enmeshed in such pedantry annoyed him. What he wanted to know was why this sa'necari youth did not heal properly.
"What made these?" Dame asked. "Kenda'ryl?" The magic metal often left hideous scars when it failed to kill. "Runed weapons?"
"He's not sa'necari," Rose interjected.
Isranon stiffened, the line of his mouth going tight. Dane regarded him and Rose for several minutes, waiting for an answer. Instead of answering, Isranon drew a flute case from around his neck and placed it Dane's hands. Sa'necari did not like flutes, they were the sound of life and, the more deepened in death they became, the more intensely the sound of one appalled them.
Dane glanced at Isranon before opening it and at the youth's nod, he took the flute out. The vampire held it lovingly in his hands, recognizing what a fine instrument it was. It was silver and runed with a pattern glorifying life. He was struck by the presence of such a thing in a sa'necari's hands and then he read them and his head jerked up. "Isranon, son of Isranon, son of Isranon... This is Dawnhand's flute."
"I have never taken a life in the rites. I have never crossed that line..." Isranon said. "My father always told me, when the craving for blood arrived with puberty, that so long as I could play that flute and enjoy it, I would never become a monster."
Then Dane understood Rose's words. He was also beginning to see Mephistis' attraction to the youth more clearly. And that prompted him to say, "Then one day the others will kill you."
"To die for one's beliefs is a fine death."
CHAPTER THREE. THE PRICE OF VENGEANCE
The pre-dawn mist off the bay still clung to the lanes and streets of Vorgensburg as Aejys walked to the dueling grounds at dawn. She had put aside her expensive new clothing, retreating into the comfortable old green pants, brown tunic and an old Kwaklahmyn fringed suede jacket which she had worn so often during her first months in Vorgensburg. She wore a different sword than usual; one she had carried during the war. The Aroanan rune graced the hilt and the blade bore the motto "For My God," on one side and "For Justice" on the other. It was Aroanan steel: one of the finest blades on the continent, ritually forged in the temple smithies. Her boot heels clicked on the cobblestones, seeming loud in the silence. The store windows were still dark, the doors not yet unlocked for morning commerce. She passed very few people.
Tagalong, Josh, Tamlestari, and Cassana followed at a respectful distance. Aejys wanted the silence and solitude. Grief gnawed at her as nothing had since Bucharsa. She blamed herself for Brendorn's death. She felt as if she could or should somehow reach back in time and change her decision, bring all her small family forward as if they had never been separated, though she knew such a thing was impossible. Aejys knew to think these thoughts, to feel them so intensely, was to court madness, but she could not stop them. She had watched such feelings destroy Tomyris Danae de Dovane – the Lionhawk – the great Sharani general whom she had followed into battle during the Great War.
Aejys shook herself loose from that. "Damn you, Brendorn! Why couldn't you have waited?" Even as she said it she knew the answer. "Because you loved me." When I left I betrayed you. Abandoned you. You would have come had I asked. All of you. Aejys drew a deep breath, mastering herself.
As she neared the dueling grounds, her palms began to itch, she could already feel the sword in her hand, her heart raced as anticipation sent that first eager rush of adrenaline through her veins. Her whole being seemed to throb as it had when she couched her lance and set heels to her mount during the war.
Farendarc lounged under a tree. He wore a long sleeved tunic and shirt to cover the bandaged cut in his shield arm. Aejys and Farendarc carried sword and dagger, nothing more. He stepped out to face Aejys directly. "You die first. Then the drunk."
Behind Farendarc and on either side of them people gathered under the trees. Becca and the servants had spread word of the duel. The more witnesses present, the less the likelihood of treachery. Becca had suggested it herself.
Aejys shucked out of the coat, dropping it on the ground. Becca stepped in, picked it up and moved away, handing the jacket to another servant. Aejys and Farendarc drew blades and circled. The crowd gradually moved closer to see better.
Becca's hand slipped into her pockets. She fingered her river stones, fidgeted with her sling and waited. The tavern master hoped that Farendarc would give her a reason to use them.
Aejys was a soldier, not a duelist, and overmatched from the start by Farendarc. It showed in the first meeting of their blades. His was a rare talent, an uncanny gift of eye and hand and body that surpassed and exceeded all but a handful of heroes Aejys had encountered in the entire course of her life. So far as she knew he was the only one of that degree of talent still living. Had his spirit matched his physical gifts he could have been a warrior saint; instead he was an oath breaker, a murderous blackguard as evil as any that climbed out of Bellocar's hells. Farendarc struck with great speed, his sword darted and thrust. She gave ground before him, barely turning his blade from her. Then with a sudden swift twist Farendarc's blade slid past her defenses and opened her shield arm from shoulder to elbow. The black armband fell away with Aejys' blood on it. Farendarc pressed in, slashing her side, then striking high. The point caught her in the upper part of the left breast, an inch below the juncture of chest and shoulder. He jerked it free.
Aejys' eyes widened at the shock of impact. She staggered two steps, reeling like a drunk. The color drained from her face. Her knees gave. She collapsed on her face, struggling to push herself up. Her strength failed. With each breath fire seared through her chest. She lay with her arms crossed beneath her. She could see the blades of grass as if they were a forest rising around her eyes; feel the chill moisture of the morning dew. Through the grass she could see the hilt of her sword glittering in the sunlight. She managed to roll up a bit, freeing her good arm, reaching for the blade. She was a soldier; she had been in many battles; been cut before; she was not going to let it stop her now.
Josh started forward. Tagalong stopped him. "Don't interfere. Ya promised. Besides, he won't outlive her by much. That's my promise. I'm gonna kill that asshole."
He made a small anguished noise and fled, unable to watch Aejys die. That name was in his head again: Abelard. This time he would not go back to the barn. He did not want to be where anyone could find him.
Farendarc sheathed his sword, drawing his dagger. He approached Aejys to make sure of his kill. He tangled his fingers in her hair, yanking her up. He put the blade to her throat.
"No!" gasped Tamlestari. At the flexing of her arm, a slender dagger slipped from an arm sheath into her hand.
Cassana caught her arm as she shifted her grip from hilt to blade. "You can't take him out, child! You'll get just one try."
"I can mark him," Tamlestari growled.
"And die."
An angry protest erupted from the crowd. A small shower of rocks from several directions pelted Farendarc. He released Aejys, straightening to find the throwers.
Aejys slumped at the waist, her good hand pushing up against the ground. Near her sword, obscured by the grass lay two smooth flat round-edged stones, red with blue and green veins. Becca's river stones.
"Back off, butcher! She's down, duel's over!" Becca barked. The leather sling whirled three times, then released the stone. It smacked Farendarc's cheek, drawing blood.
"First blood and no more!" shouted someone in the crowd.
Farendarc's expression turned savage. In the past two days he had been marked, cut and bloodied more than all past times combined. Being male of Sharani blood, a rare thing for that race, he had claimed his privileges and sat out the war. He had never been in a real battle. Now some members of Aejys Rowan's household had declared war on him. He gave a snarling shout "You're dead, bitch! You're dead!"
"Doubt it!" Becca spit, backing up as she slipped another stone into her sling. "You'll have to reach me, goat-jacker."
Her stone smacked Farendarc in the chest, staggering him.
Zacham reached into his pockets, brought out more stones and pelted the duelist. Several ragged street children, friends of his, began to add their stones, chanting, "First blood, no more!"
Farendarc ignored the boy and the rest of his stone throwing friends, intent on Becca.
The certainty that Farendarc would kill Becca, and probably the others as well as Josh sent a dizzy rush of concern through Aejys. The soldier did what she should have done in the beginning. She quit fighting the pain and weakness, accepted it, focused herself away from it, and reached through it. Aejys' fingers curled around the hilt of her sword.
"One thing at a time," Farendarc sai
d, reaching for Aejys again.
Snarling, Aejys rose to her knees, shoving her sword into his stomach before he even realized she had picked it up. Farendarc clutched himself, his fingers digging into his flesh around the blade. His eyes bulged in disbelief and he fell, his weight dragging the sword hilt from Aejys' hand. The children rushed in and began kicking the dying duelist.
Aejys swayed, trying for a moment to gain mastery of her body, then crumpled. She rolled onto her good side, curling into a tight ball of pain; each breath a searing agony. Tagalong's broad strong hands raised her, settling Aejys' head and shoulders on her lap. The stout dwarf stroked her hair, muttering worriedly, "Don't go following Brendorn. He'll still be waiting fer ya five score years from now. Ya hear me. Don't go, Aejys."
"Try not to," Aejys rasped. "Hurts to ... to breathe."
Cassana and Tamlestari knelt beside Aejys, checking her wounds. The arm and side bled heavily. Tamlestari opened Aejys' shirt. Pink-flecked white foam formed around the chest wound, increasing with each struggling breath. Tamlestari gave Cassana a worried glance. Then the youth's fingers stroked the bare flesh around the wound, her eyes going distant.
Tagalong's head came up and she looked sharply at Cassana, "Stone Father! She's a Reader!"
Cassana nodded and motioned for Tagalong to be silent. "And a damned good chirurgeon."
"Sucking chest wound. Internal bleeding," Tamlestari muttered. It did not include a punctured lung, although the pressure of accumulating blood could easily collapse the lungs. She pulled gauze and a jar of salve from her bag. She put a large quantity of the salve on the gauze, then pressed it down hard on the chest wound, sealing it. Aejys' breathing eased. Tamlestari brought Tagalong's hand over to hold the compress in place.
Tamlestari opened Aejys' shirt and bound her side up. Then she bandaged her arm and strapped it down.
"Take a little of this," Cassana said, raising a small flask of holadil to Aejys' lips.
Aejys swallowed the thick syrupy liquid. Warmth flooded her and the pain retreated. Her body relaxed and uncurled. Only the gnawing weakness of blood loss and shock remained. She closed her eyes and slid into sleep.
