by V. Lakshman
Ash grunted when the black steel cut into his ribs, slicing through his mail and opening skin to the bone. His ribs had stopped her stroke from biting deeper, but the cut burned and his breathing faltered a bit before he brought it back under control. It didn’t hurt much, but the impact had thrown his timing off. Gods, he couldn’t help thinking, she’s really fast.
He fell back, his weapon still pointed between her eyes. Kisan waited, her breathing still even. No wasted effort, her focus on his eyes as well. That he’d been cut didn’t faze him . . . bladework was bloody and one didn’t go into a fight expecting no injury. He nodded, more to himself than to her, acknowledging he’d underestimated her and she’d scored first blood. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Kisan smiled but said nothing. Her expression was one of curiosity, as if she didn’t see a person facing her, but rather a puzzle she’d solve, with his death as her answer.
Ash moved quickly, striking high then low then throwing two strikes to the same side in a staccato, forcing her to commit both of her blades to defend herself. He swung once in a short violent arc, and one of Kisan’s blades spun out of her grasp, clattering some distance away. Ash didn’t stop, continuing that strike with another to her right temple. Kisan’s eyes widened a bit as she leaned back, just enough so the tip of Ash’s blade cut into her temple and over her right eye, parting skin, rather than decapitating her.
She flipped backward, landing lightly, one blade now held in both hands, the tip still pointing at a spot somewhere between his eyes. Blood flowed, more than the injury deserved, but head wounds bled profusely. Ash knew she wasn’t hurt. Score one for me, he thought with satisfaction.
As he watched, however, her eyes narrowed and the bleeding changed, slowing to a mere trickle and then stopping entirely. He’d hoped the blood would obscure her vision but he wasn’t getting any such luck.
A fraction of a pause as he mentally shrugged, accepting that Kisan could do what she did. No warrior dwelt on Fate’s cards. You played the hand you were dealt. His encounter with Arek had prepared him somewhat, but he could see the difference now in their skill. Arek was fast and fearless across blades, two traits that were invaluable for your survival. Kisan, however, operated at a wholly different level. Yes, she too was fast and fearless. He’d expected no less. What set her apart was that she didn’t fight relying solely on her honed reflexes.
His father had called it the “mountain stare,” an all-encompassing understanding of the entire possibility-space before you. Kisan wasn’t looking at just this moment, but at every outcome that might unfold. She fought by narrowing the possibility space of what might happen, into what she wanted to happen, what was most favorable for her. His father had always said he’d recognize it when he himself had the ability. Perhaps it was a good sign, but he didn’t feel particularly prescient. Now he’d have to outthink her, or use her own training against her.
She came at him fast, her blade raised. Ash blocked the cut to his head, and another that seemed to appear out of nowhere to his side. His father’s wisdom saved him as he read her eyes and could feel her intent before she’d thrown the strike. He moved in close, trying to stay inside her weapon’s arcs. Strange she’d not called her other weapon back to her, as he’d see her do at the base of Avalyon. Strange, but whatever Kisan did was for a reason, and he warned himself to be prepared.
He kept himself close, throwing elbows and trying to get in a pommel strike. Kisan kneed him, the attack not hurting but pushing him back into range, then struck down and missed as he sidestepped, her blade slicing into the wooden floor and sending wood splinters in all directions. She kicked those at his face, her weapon leaping right after them at his throat.
Ash moved in again, knowing her lethality increased the farther he was from her. He blocked her throat strike using his forearms on hers, elbowing her once in the jaw and immediately smashing his pommel into her forehead. He smiled at repaying her with the same strike she’d gifted him with earlier, watching with satisfaction as she stumbled back to recover . . . and then he waited. He settled himself into his stance, his blade ready, his mind clear.
She was dazed, her eyes not tracking for a fraction of a heartbeat. His pause wasn’t chivalry. She didn’t deserve to believe she was infallible, so he let her recover. It would sow doubt in her heart, doubt that she was as good as she thought she was. He’d beat her by breaking her foundation of confidence, . . . when no excuse would taint the dying light he’d see in her eyes.
Kisan stood, her eyes clearing as her single blade swept up into a guard position. She considered him, then said, “We both know.”
“That you’ll die? Yes,” he replied.
She gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. “That you never got closure.” She dropped her chin, looking at him from under her delicate brows, one now bisected with a clean white scar where Ash’s blade had opened her up.
“Whoever taught you didn’t teach you to beat them. Now you’re fighting for the approval of a dead man. Your father?” She shook her head, “A pity.” Her blade tip lowered a fraction and she said, “Step back and I’ll move on. I’ve never offered this before.”
Ash smiled, but something in her eyes made him falter. Was he so easy to read? He shook his head, knowing those who were outclassed often resorted to talking. He’d caught her twice, and now knew she had weaknesses too.
“I’ll get the closure I need here,” he replied matter-of-factly.
Kisan shrugged, a slight movement that said she couldn’t care less. She’d made her offer and he’d rejected it. This was to the death, but Ash wasn’t going to let her be the one to walk away.
Her next attack was a flurry of strikes that came in so fast he realized she’d been holding back. They wove a dance of steel around his head, but he managed to block them all. His blade struck hers with pinpoint accuracy, the steel ringing as they exchanged blows that sparked as metal struck metal. He continued to fight to keep himself close, staying out of her optimal killing range.
Kisan slowed, pulling back as she pivoted and stabbed, her blade aimed for his chest. He pressed his attack, spinning around her weapon’s tip and riding it inward in a clean riposte. He gritted his teeth as his ribs opened up at the move, sending a fresh gush of warm blood down his side, then struck at her neck.
Kisan caught his strike on the back edge of her blade. Except for staunching the blood from the cut on her head, she’d not yet used any special powers. Perhaps she wanted what he did too, to win cleanly?
She’ll be disappointed. Ash kicked backward, then sent another slash to the same place, hoping she’d not see that coming.
The master sidestepped the kick, coming beside him and dropping an elbow strike down hard. Pain exploded in his thigh, shooting up and down his body.
He danced back, narrowly avoiding another crippling cut, his stance wobbly, the leg paralyzed with pain. He pulled his arms in, using his right bicep to put pressure on the wound in his side. It was worse than he first thought. It was becoming hard to breathe. When had she punctured his lung?
“You’re bleeding inside,” the master said. “Drop your weapon and I’ll end you quickly.”
Ash looked past Kisan at the group. Yetteje was down but moving, with Duncan and Brianna hunched over Arek, oblivious to anything happening out here, their eyes seemingly unfocused and dazed. His thoughts now went to the princess. He needed to stop Kisan for those he defended, not for personal pride. His peripheral vision caught Valarius moving forward while dark elves rushed in from the other side. In moments, they would be overrun.
He looked back at Kisan and said. “If there’s any justice in the world, you don’t deserve to win.” Then he attacked with a cold ferocity, his blade dancing in and out, trying to pierce Kisan’s defenses. She’d fallen back before the onslaught, her strategy now purely defensive as she backpedaled to avoid his blows. He could feel the perfection, the harmony of his mind and body. Nothing could stop him.
His bl
ade cut twirls of silver steel, driving Kisan back further. When she reversed her strike, as he knew she would, Ash was ready. He moved in, turning so the stab slid across his back instead of through him. One arm moved in circle, trapping hers against his ribs. He head-butted her, a blow that should have crippled the master. Instead, Kisan merely blinked and then head-butted him back!
Stars exploded in his vision and he felt the ground come up to slam him hard. His breath whooshed out, his mouth full with the salt and coppery taste of blood. Still blinded, he acted on instinct, swinging his legs in a short semicircle to sweep any attempt at a quick rush while quickly regaining his feet. He blinked his eyes clear just as her blade came in a flurry of strikes and stabs, impossibly faster than before.
Yet his focus was crystalline. He blocked and turned her every strike, looking for an opening over his blood-spattered nose. When it came it was only there for an instant, but Ash knew it was perfect. He caught her blade, rode it in quickly, and stabbed. As his point entered her shoulder, Kisan gestured with her other hand. Then something ice cold entered his gut.
He looked down blankly as the point of her other blade emerged from his stomach. She’d summoned it from where it had fallen, using it when he’d committed to locking her single blade down. He’d known somewhere deep inside that other blade would be his undoing. He’d known . . . a small smile creased his bloody face. His blade was still in her shoulder, but he couldn’t find the strength to push it in any farther.
Her forearm blurred in a semicircle and his blade shattered, falling from numb fingers. She tilted her head again in that strange way, emotionless and dead. Kisan didn’t see him at all, she just saw the end of a problem.
“No one gets what they deserve,” she said.
Then she shouldered her way past him as he fell to his knees, holding his hands over a wound that pumped out blood in time with his heart. From the sound of her footsteps he knew she was heading directly for the group and the princess, open to her attack now that he’d failed, and there was nothing he could do about it.
* * * * *
King Bernal Galadine had moved forward with a cohort of elves to reinforce the gate as more warriors went through to aid Bara’cor. His forces held back most of the dark creatures, but some few managed to claw their way to Bara’cor side. He hoped the elves on the other side caught them.
Niall worked his side of the line, and Bernal knew Yevaine stood on the other side, should she be needed. He could only thank the Lady his son lived, and it seemed had found a way to reinforce Bara’cor with elven troops and a line of Galadine kings.
Bernal recognized Gabreyl now, his features not so unlike those he’d seen in Bara’cor and dimly remembered from his childhood. His father had died early in life, and Bernal had never really known him. Seeing him here now, sacrificed to open the gate, filled him with sadness for the lost chance to speak.
A dark elf clawed past the first shield and Bernal stabbed it through the mouth. It fell, only to be replaced by another. Moments later, from the center of the hall there was a blast of white so intense it caused him to shield his eyes, followed by a boom so loud it shook the ground until his men fell into each other. Whatever that blast signified, it galvanized the king to begin moving the troops back to Bara’cor. The battle here had devolved into a chaotic mess and he couldn’t chance the portal closing before he’d gotten as many as he could to the other side.
“Retreat through the portal!” he called, watching as the men fell back under Kalindor and Niall’s direction. How they would close it was beyond him. The platoon fell back in orderly formation, using the gate’s opening as a natural chokepoint. It wasn’t long before King Galadine and almost two cohorts, just under a thousand elves, stood on Bara’cor’s side of the portal. Whatever happened, it would be up to them to hold the line.
Then, without warning, the gate went dull, darkening a bit and becoming semi-transparent. Bernal put his hand against its hard, unyielding surface. He looked at Sparrow, who in turn gestured to the dead sacrifice of Malak still kneeling as if in supplication. The man’s potent blood had worn out and the gate was sealed shut, trapping Ash and Yetteje in Arcadia.
He turned to Sparrow and said, “Give me options!”
The elven scout looked out at the portal, then back at the king, and said, “We thought it best closed.”
“Don’t think for me,” warned the king. “How do we open it again?” Sparrow looked at him without emotion, though the man who was the closest thing she had to a father sat on his knees, sacrificed to bring Niall back. What did she think of that trade? he wondered.
Instead, she simply looked back through the semi-transparent gate and said, “Blood.”
* * * * *
Ash dimly watched the others, knowing his life was ebbing with each beat of his heart. All he could do was try and remember as much as possible.
A sudden blaze of whitefire blasted outward and Kisan was hurled back, falling amongst the debris, flung away from Arek’s body as if she were a leaf. She’d caught the brunt of the blow and lay utterly still.
The nephilim too had been blasted away, but seeing the burst of energy, they slowly recovered and moved for Arek and his small group with hunger in their eyes. Behind them came a smiling Piter, goading them onward like some kind of twisted shepherd with his flock.
Few elves were left in the great hall, the majority having retreated through the gate to Bara’cor. Those still here battled something that sounded big, just out of his view. Either that or they’d fallen to the dark elves and joined their ranks. Ash wondered if Bara’cor had received enough troops to defend herself from Lilyth’s forces. He’d fallen into a fetal position, curling up as his lifeblood left him. He hoped he would die before the nephilim touched him.
When a touch came, Ash struggled to pull away, only to find himself coming face to face with Orion. The Aeris lord grimaced in pain, having also been mortally wounded by Kisan, but there was hope shining in his eyes as he grasped Ash’s hand in his own.
“You are worthy,” Orion said weakly, “defending Yetteje and the rest at the cost of your own life.”
Ash smiled. “A fine pair we make, dying here together.” He coughed once and felt warm blood spatter his lips.
Orion looked quickly at the advancing horde of nephilim and said, “You lie at death’s door, yet no dark shades have appeared.” His eyes were wide with wonder and he stared at the firstmark, as if trying to drink in his soul.
Ash looked at him and said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, giving Orion a bloody smile, “But I’m content.”
Orion looked at him, then up into the sky. “Thoth, was this meant to be? Did you know?” There was no answer, but he reached out and slowly gathered Ash into his arms. The firstmark dimly saw wings encircle him, creating a dark, quiet space. A good place to die, he thought.
Then he heard Orion say, “You will carry the fight to Edyn. I give myself freely. Do you accept?”
He could feel himself trying to nod as his vision tunneled to black. Yes, he thought, I give myself.
Darkness closed around him without any indication that he’d been heard, or understood. He sighed, and fell into oblivion.
* * * * *
Arek’s eyes slowly opened. Duncan stood over him, concern plain on his face. He slowly looked around and saw Yetteje pushing herself up, shaking her head. Brianna lay to one side, motionless. He reached down and felt his stomach. He was healed! Energy flowed through him, a pure and clean vibration, a soundless force that lifted and buoyed him like a warm ocean swell.
“You okay?” Duncan asked. “Because we could use some help.”
Arek rose and saw Valarius advancing, lighting crackling on his fingers. Duncan had resurrected his energy shield to hold back the nephilim, but between the dark horde and Valarius, it was doubtful they could withstand anything for long.
He stood and breathed deeply, then nodded. “I think so,” feeling the Way flow through him, beginni
ng to heal him from the inside out, filling his body with surety and strength. His pale eyes could not believe the clarity of vision he had, nor the sheer abundance of the Way as it surrounded him like a second skin. Yet he’d not Ascended, he knew that now.
Silbane’s question . . . he’d have to find an answer to that or Azrael would move on and leave Arek to his fate.
Valarius looked him as if scrutinizing something not readily visible. Then his gaze swung to Duncan. “You’ve interfered with me for the last time,” Valarius told the red mage. He threw bolt after bolt, his eyes wild as he advanced.
The first blast destroyed the shield. The second would have hit Duncan but the archmage created a smaller curved barrier, almost a buckler of energy that he hid behind as it channeled most of the force around him.
Arek watched as a small smile came to Duncan’s face and he heard his father say, “It’s dangerous to get distracted.” Something in the way his said it reminded Arek of Silbane, but that was impossible . . . wasn’t it?
Valarius also had taken defensive measures when the nephilim attacked, cocooning himself in a curtain of energy. His elves had been scattered like leaves in the wind, but he rose up, power curling around his form as he said, “Bring your worst—”
The bone shards of a red fist smashed down on his energy shield and dissipated it with the crack of thunder. The force continued downward, hitting the highlord’s head and pulping it instantly as Valarius’s body was crushed under a massive fist.
Dozens more thunderous blows rained down, making the highlord’s body nothing but a splash of blood and gore. The pummeling death continued, not stopping until a pit had formed with whatever bits and parts of Valarius were left in its gruesome center, like a mortar and pestle made with wood, bone, and blood. Vengeance looked up from its handiwork and stood motionless. The gholem had killed the last elf within sight, and with that Duncan’s gesh over it was gone.
