by Morgan Rice
Ceres waited for a moment, and then ran at it.
It must have looked ludicrous from the outside, her and this giant beast charging at one another as if the impact would be an equal one. Still, Ceres sprinted at it. There was no way that the others there could hope to defeat a thing like this, so that left her to do it.
She sprinted until it seemed inevitable that the beast would collide with her, and then, at the last moment, Ceres leapt, jumping aside. The beast was moving too fast to stop by then, and it skidded, careening head first into a building. The walls collapsed around it, the weight of stone crashing down on it enough to crush a dozen men.
It stood and shook the rubble off as though it was dust, then turned toward Ceres again.
She was already attacking as it did it, striking out with her swords, trying to cut the ropelike tendons that held the thing together. Ceres cut and moved, throwing herself flat as a clawed hand tore through the space where she’d been. She sliced upward, then rolled and drew her blade along the iron hard scales of the beast’s belly. If she’d hoped that it would slow the creature, Ceres was mistaken. It lunged down with an open maw, and it was all that Ceres could do to dodge back.
In spite of its size, the creature was fast. It moved with an inhuman speed that seemed to have nothing to do with the construction of its flesh, so that Ceres barely managed to avoid the arc of lethal claws again and again. When she struck it with her blades, the creature ignored the impact, not reacting even when she managed to slice through its papery skin. The wounds she inflicted vanished so fast they might as well not have been there.
Ceres had options other than her swords, though.
She summoned up the power to turn the creature to stone from deep within her, not holding back for once as she flung it at the beast. She reached out to touch it and drove power deep into the heart of the thing. Ceres saw stone spreading out from the spot where she touched the creature, rippling across the creature’s flesh in a tide of marble that seemed to match its already cold skin.
Ceres felt the moment when her power was caught and absorbed, only realizing her mistake in that moment. This was a creature of death, which pulled in life to sustain its existence in this world. Throwing power into it only fed it, giving it the energy it needed to live.
Ceres had a moment to feel the full horror of the thing, feeling the life forces of the men and women it had killed recently trapped within it, ripped to shreds of energy to feed the beast’s continued trail of destruction. She had a moment to see that this was the perfect weapon to use against an Ancient One, with its ability to absorb whatever they threw at it, dragging their power down into the great pit of death that lay within it.
Then it hit her, as casually as Ceres might have swatted a fly.
She managed to twist, avoiding the tips of its claws, but the impact was still enough to send her airborne. She sailed through the air, carried by the momentum of the blow, and Ceres had to drop her swords for fear of what might happen if she landed with them beneath her. She slammed into a wall, and if it wasn’t enough to bring it down the way the beast’s impact had been, it was still enough to make the world blur and spin as she slid down it.
Ceres lay there for several seconds, feeling the power within her working to repair broken bones and torn muscles. She hadn’t believed that she could hurt as much as this, and it was only an effort of will that kept her from screaming. She tried to fight her way back to full consciousness, the world slowly coming back into focus as she lay there.
The beast advanced on her and Ceres tried to move, but she couldn’t, not yet. It rose above her, that great eye staring down at her, and it reared, its claws glinting in the sunlight as it prepared to plunge them down to finish her.
Ceres knew in that moment that she was going to die. She couldn’t beat this thing. She couldn’t even begin to.
She sat, looking up, waiting for the claws to end her life.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Irrien watched the girl fall with the satisfaction that came from knowing victory was close. The beast towered over her. It would finish her, and then there would be no one who could hope to stop his army.
They would slaughter the people of the island then. There would be no mercy this time, no holding back. The slavers would be annoyed at not being allowed to take what they could, but he would leave no enemies behind him when he turned back toward Delos. They would have to satisfy themselves with what was left there.
This would end here. This would end now.
“Forward!” Irrien ordered. “It is time!”
He heard the drums start, and the crack of the whips as they drove the oarsmen to greater efforts. His flagship pulled forward, his men gathering as they prepared for the conflict to come. Irrien drew a short spear with a long head, standing with it and the buckler strapped to his left arm as he waited for the moment the landing would come.
Other ships moved along with his, the rest of his men ready to pour in behind their leader. Irrien loved having that kind of power to decide life and death, the knowledge that when he moved, a whole army moved with him.
Of course, the enemy braced themselves for the assault. Irrien could see a young man in shining armor standing at the heart of the battle, and he guessed that it would be the prince, Thanos. Irrien would kill him. He would kill anyone who stood before him. He would turn this island into a charnel house before he turned back to Delos to break Ulren and his new wife.
He felt the moment when the boat brushed up against the docks. Gangplanks and boarding nets went down to bridge the gap to the land. Irrien ignored them, leaping across the gap and landing in a fighting crouch while his men cheered. He pointed to the waiting defenders, who were trying to form a shield wall to hold back the rush.
“Kill them,” Irrien ordered. “Kill them all!”
He loped forward with the body of his men, letting the eager and the foolish run in first to die in the initial wave of the attack. He joined it as the fight pushed forward, breaking up into a swirling mass of smaller fights and stabbing weapons.
Irrien thrust his spear into the face of one defender, then struck another with the haft, hard enough to break bones. He deflected a sword stroke, then smashed the steel of his buckler into the man’s skull. He made no effort to defend the others around him, though. If a man could not protect himself, he deserved to die.
He fought his way forward, aiming for Thanos. Weak men needed leaders. Without theirs, the defenders would crumble and fall. Irrien forced his way forward, slashing the blade of his short spear across a man’s throat, then plunging the point into another’s chest.
The tide of the battle pushed against him, so that Irrien felt like a man trying to swim against the current as he cut and killed, trying to force his way toward the man whose death he wanted. He killed a man who got in his way, not caring if he was friend or foe, then kicked the legs from under another, leaving him for his men to finish.
Irrien looked around, making sure that he was still on course for the prince. Around him, he saw the violence of the battle, the blood and the slaughter, heard the men begging for mercy or screaming in pain.
Then Irrien saw him, standing there: the man who had wounded him before. The one he’d thrust his sword through, and whom he’d given to the ocean. Akila.
The former rebel leader stood with a sword Irrien knew far too well, blocking Irrien’s way. A man ran at him, and Akila cut him down with a clean swing of the sword.
“I have something that belongs to you,” Akila said, hefting it.
“Perhaps I’ll give you a spear to match,” Irrien shot back. He didn’t waste time with more talking. This man had been the first to wound him in the long slow fall that had led to the loss of his hand. Without Akila’s wound, Irrien would have parried Stephania’s poisoned dagger easily. Without it, perhaps he would even have survived the Dozen Deaths unscathed. Some things had to be avenged.
He lunged at Akila, and the other man was as skilled as Irrien rem
embered, parrying the first thrusts of the spear and pressing in close, with the sword pressing down as the two of them battered one another with fists and knees, elbows and shoulders. Finally, Irrien shoved him back, slicing with the spear at throat height.
Akila blocked the blow and sent a riposte that Irrien deflected clumsily with his shield.
“Looks as though you’re not as good with that side anymore,” the other man said. “Looks as though you lost more than a sword.”
Irrien knew that the other man was trying to rile him, but even so, it was hard to keep his temper from rising. He thrust again and again with the spear, forcing Akila back, looking for an opening.
It was a clumsy kind of duel. By rights, they should have been in a ring of chanting men. They should have been in a dueling hall, or the sands of the Empire’s arena. Instead, they had to step around other men or shove them away, parry stray blows or pause to kill those who thought that they could interfere. Singers told their stories of battles between heroes as if the whole world stopped to watch them happen. Instead, he and Akila hunted one another through a forest of blades and bodies, coming together in a clash of weaponry, then breaking apart again.
To Irrien’s annoyance, Akila struck first, in a plunging stroke that cut through the meat of Irrien’s leg. The other man pulled back, swinging at Irrien’s head, and Irrien was clumsier now. He barely parried the blow using his buckler, and the small shield tore away from his arm in the process.
Irrien had to fall back as Akila struck and struck, giving ground and angling his short spear to parry as he dodged or ducked. For almost the first time in his life, Irrien felt the threat of defeat looming over him. In desperation, he pushed one of his own men into Akila’s path, but Akila cut him down.
“There’s nowhere to run,” Akila said, lifting his blade for what was probably intended to be the killing stroke. Perhaps it would have been if Irrien hadn’t been the man to almost kill him before. Akila might have seen Irrien’s weaknesses, but Irrien knew his too.
Irrien tied up Akila’s blade with his spear and then kicked out, striking right at the spot where he’d wounded the other man before. Akila hissed in pain, falling to one knee, and Irrien thrust his spear through the other man’s chest. He saw Akila’s eyes widen in shock at it, but Irrien wasn’t done. This time, he would be sure.
He shoved the other man back, letting him fall, then he poised his spear above Akila’s throat.
“Akila! No!”
Irrien looked round to see the young prince approaching quickly, as if he might stop what was to come, Irrien smiled slowly and deliberately, taunting Thanos in his weak need to help others. Then he thrust down.
He stepped back, very deliberately, leaving Akila’s corpse there on the ground for the boy if he wanted it. Irrien hoped he would. He hoped he would be foolish enough to try to pause by his friend for some last, tender moment. If he did, Irrien would throw his spear and plunge it through the young man’s heart. He would use one death to gain another.
Instead, though, Thanos only knelt briefly, and he never took his eyes from Irrien as he did it. Now, it seemed that the rest of the battle did have a sense of what was going on, because there was clear space between them as Thanos lifted Irrien’s old sword from Akila’s hands, casting down his shield so that he could hold it two-handed.
Irrien could see the hatred there. Good. Men made mistakes when they hated, and Irrien would take advantage of any opening Thanos gave him. That they would fight wasn’t in doubt now. Irrien prepared himself for the moment when he would kill Thanos, savoring the anticipation of it.
He hefted his spear.
“What are you waiting for, boy? Come to me. Come and die the way your friend did!”
That did exactly what he intended. Irrien saw the anger rising through Thanos; saw the sword rise in readiness for the first blow. Irrien smiled the same taunting smile he’d given when he’d killed Akila, and Thanos roared in his anger, charging forward.
Irrien leapt to meet him.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Thanos knew who he was facing from the first instant. This was Irrien, the man who had led the invasion of Delos. The man who was the key to finishing all of this. The man who had just killed his friend.
Thanos hefted the sword Akila had taken from the First Stone. It hadn’t been enough for him to win the fight, but Thanos wasn’t about to let that stop him. He moved forward smoothly, feinting low and then swinging at Irrien’s injured arm.
The First Stone spun away, and their battle began.
Thanos started cautiously, with testing cuts and partially extended thrusts. He didn’t want to overcommit before he knew his enemy’s moves, the rhythm in which he fought. There was a reason why this man was the most feared warrior in Felldust. Even injured, even with one arm, he could still be dangerous. Thanos wasn’t about to take victory for granted.
His caution saved him as Irrien changed direction, striking out with a flurry of spear blows. The short spear wasn’t like facing a longer version. It might not give Irrien quite the reach that a full-length spear might, but it was still as long as the sword Thanos held, and it was as viciously maneuverable as a dagger. It was like fighting a snake that struck again and again, never in the same place twice.
It didn’t help that the First Stone seemed to know every dirty trick a fighting man might know, and had absolutely no qualms about using them. He kicked sand up toward Thanos’s face, then struck out in the wake of it. He dodged behind the fighting men of Haylon and Felldust alike, shoving them at Thanos and then rushing in while he was tangled with them. He pretended to slip, and then thrust out his spear at ankle height, trying to catch Thanos as he moved in for the kill.
Each time, Thanos survived it, but only barely. He parried blindly in the midst of the cloud of sand, shoved men of both sides away from him, and leapt over the sweep of the spear, coming up to his feet in a roll. He countered with a thrust that Irrien swayed aside from, kicking out and only barely missing Thanos’s knee. Even striking the meat of his thigh, it hurt.
“You’re good at this,” Irrien said.
Thanos didn’t reply. He knew the other man was trying to goad him, distract him; anything that would give him a moment in which to slide that short spear home.
“You’re good, but you’re soft,” the First Stone continued. “You grew up pampered in a palace. Oh, I’m sure you tried to be strong, but you never truly needed to be.”
“You know nothing about me,” Thanos said, and he struck out. He was ready for Irrien’s attempt to dodge around the blow with a thrust of his own, and ducked in plenty of time. He wasn’t ready for Irrien’s knee as it came up, catching him on the side of the head.
Thanos sprang back, swinging his sword in a wide arc to keep the other man at bay. Irrien stood just out of range, not wasting any energy. Thanos found himself feeling grateful that he was fighting the other man now that he was so badly wounded. He didn’t want to think about what he would be like at full strength.
“As I said, soft,” Irrien said. “You’ve never had to survive the dust. You’ve never had to slaughter your own family just to survive.”
Briefly, Thanos thought of Lucious. His brother. He’d killed him because he’d had no choice, but he’d still killed him.
“Did that strike a nerve?” Irrien asked, and then, just as Thanos went to answer, he threw his short spear straight for Thanos’s heart.
Thanos went to parry it and the sheer force with which Irrien flung the weapon meant that it scraped along his shoulder, drawing blood. Irrien rushed in close in its wake, forcing his way inside the cutting arc of the great sword and slamming into Thanos with all the force of a charging bull.
It was all Thanos could do to keep his feet then, fighting to get enough space to use the sword he held effectively, fighting to try to bring any weapon to bear that he could. All the time, Irrien attacked him with fists and feet, knees and elbows. He head-butted Thanos, and for a moment, Thanos saw stars. His kn
ee slammed into Thanos’s groin, and Thanos struggled to stay standing.
Thanos started to return the battering, striking out as best he could at close range, using his body as a weapon. He’d trained with the best combatlords the Stade had to offer. He knew how to fight in close.
Then Irrien drew a knife and things became infinitely more dangerous. Thanos saw the danger in time, letting go of the sword and letting it drop, because so close in, there was no hope of getting a clean swing with it. Instead, he latched on to Irrien’s knife arm with both hands, forcing it away from him while the other man tried to thrust with it. Even one-armed, the First Stone was frighteningly strong.
Somehow, in the struggle for the weapon, Irrien managed to hook a foot round Thanos’s ankle. He struck Thanos with the elbow of his other arm, and the two of them went tumbling to the ground together.
Irrien came up on top, and it was all Thanos could do to keep his grip on the other man’s knife arm. Holding the weapon away from himself, Thanos could stop Irrien from forcing the blade into him, but it also meant that he couldn’t defend as Irrien started to strike with the elbow of his other arm, slamming it down the way another man might have used a hammer.
“You’re weak,” he snarled as he hit Thanos. “A man who wasn’t strong enough to take what he wanted.”
Thanos tasted blood as Irrien hit him. He wanted to fight back then, but it took all the strength he had to keep the knife away from him.
“I took what I wanted,” Irrien continued, and he punctuated his words with more clubbing blows from his ruined forearm. “I wanted your homeland, and I took it. I wanted your wife, and I made her into my slave. I wanted your child to suffer, so I tore it from Stephania’s belly and gave it to the death priests.”
“No,” Thanos said. “No.”
He hated Stephania. He had every reason to. He’d left her behind, because she’d deserved nothing more than that. Even so, the thought of what Irrien had done to her made him sick. The thought of what the First Stone had done to his child…
