A headache now deeply rooted in his skull, Vaun glanced dejectedly at his companions. Dart frowned at him and gestured vaguely with his hands. Vaun wondered if Dart was calling him names but didn’t see any reason to be mad because he knew he deserved it. Drath patted his young companion on the shoulder and helped Dart to rise. Once the elf could stand without wobbling, he headed off up the stairs and into the nearby hall.
Rush appeared beside him, and Vaun followed the blond elf as they all moved toward Thorne waiting impatiently at the far end of the hall. Seeing their numbers, Vaun again thought how great a risk they took with all of them coming, and he questioned their decision to do so.
The answer came as quickly as the question, as it had the other dozen times he’d asked it. Thorne refused to be left behind while the others rescued his closest friend, and only he knew the way to the dungeons. Drath was the only one large enough to carry Merdel if he couldn’t walk on his own. Vaun guarded everyone’s back, which made him extremely nervous. Rush and Dart held the tasks of guiding them safely through the castle and then “acquiring” the wand once they freed Merdel. It was risky but the only way.
Resigned again to his assignment, the Swordsman shifted the weapon on his back as he followed the others, moving deeper into the darkened, chilly hallways toward where Merdel waited in abject misery.
* * *
Misery was only one of the emotions that passed through Merdel as he sat chained to the wall in a very dark, very smelly, very cold dungeon. He shivered incessantly, the thin blanket the guards had given him making a mockery of the idea of providing warmth. Unable to sleep, he repeatedly went through a barrage of mental insults at himself, the least of which told him how repulsively stupid he really was.
To actually think he stood a chance of retrieving the wand by himself, openly and without challenge, was the worst folly imaginable. A blind, insane cripple would have done better crossing the Kalt Mountains than Merdel had at acquiring Gwyndar’s Wand. He wasn’t a wizard; he was an idiot pretending to be a fool who pretended to be a wizard. A child with no hands could feed itself better than he could think. And a man with no brain was smarter than this imbecile who only dreamed he was a mage. He was a wind-blinded fool.
Despite these and other insults at himself, though, Merdel still had hope. Hope that he might yet live through the night. Hope that, somehow, his friends would come to his rescue. Hope that he could still cast some sort of spell to aid himself, despite the manacles he wore, the manacles he’d invented.
Emperor Quiris had liked that bit of irony. The magic-dampening chains Merdel had invented while Court Wizard in order to hold mages prisoner now held him. This irked Merdel the most, especially since he knew he’d devised a way to disarm them, in case a situation arose. A situation exactly like this one. But he couldn’t remember his method.
Fire consume me! What is that command word?
Merdel wished he’d eaten that morning before leaving, since he’d refused the foul-smelling stuff they called food the guards had thrust at him earlier. It sat there on its tray, looking at him, and despite the rancid smell his stomach protested his fasting. But still the wizard would not eat. He knew what they gave to prisoners in Mahal’s dungeons. The cold, damp walls sapped even more of his strength, making his refusal to eat that much harder to endure. Grumbling at himself again, Merdel tried to figure out what had gone wrong.
He’d made it in all right. No one had recognized him, and when he’d told them he was a traveling mage who wanted a private conference with the Court Wizard the guards had hardly challenged him. Merdel had feared Pascor would remember him, even though he’d met the man only once before his exile. But, on hearing of Pascor’s death, Merdel thought his success guaranteed. Until that fool of a servant had shown up.
The man had been delivering a silly message about someone’s cold when he’d recognized Merdel. Merdel had recognized him, too, for he’d been his own private servant during his tenure as Court Wizard. How he’d managed to keep his job, or even his life, for so long was a mystery even the Great God couldn’t solve. The idiot had screamed then, sounding very much like a small child, and guards had materialized out of the walls, as they always managed to do when trouble arose in the palace.
A quick drag through the castle had led to Quiris’ throne room, where the monarch had sneeringly sentenced him to death, for the second time now. Ever since the guards had taken him to the dungeons, Quiris only mildly disappointed he couldn’t kill him right away, Merdel had sat morosely in the dark, awaiting the dawn and his death.
Then Merdel thought he heard the sounds of a fight.
Sitting up abruptly, the wizard concentrated, but the sounds had ceased. He started to sink back down, thinking himself a dreaming fanatic, when he heard the sounds again, this time clearly. Yes, that sounded definitely like steel striking steel, followed shortly by a gurgling cry. Someone, or several of them, had just killed somebody else—hopefully a guard—and they fought right outside the doors to the dungeon.
* * *
Guards seemed to materialize out of the walls, and Vaun was assaulted on all sides. His sword blade intercepted another slash at his midsection, the contact telling him the opposing sword had recently been polished.
The Vaulka’s tip flicked out and cut down the man trying to add to the attack on the youth, the feel of flesh parting barely penetrating through the music of the Song. The Rhythm flooded his veins, and Vaun danced around the falling guardsman to press his attack on his original opponent. As he did, he thought again how badly their plan had gone awry.
With the help of the highly skilled elves and their natural abilities, the five of them had crept unmolested throughout the castle. They’d had to stop and hide several times, but always they’d continued on without incident.
Thorne had remembered the hallways that led to the dungeons, despite the number of years that had passed since his imprisonment and the state he’d been in at the time. Their rescue seemed on the verge of success, Rush and Dart preparing to separate from the rest of the group, when a sleepless cook had turned a corner and run into Drath, knocking them both to the hard tile floor. The servant had taken one look at the five armed adventurers and begun screaming as loud as he possibly could. The fighting had started shortly after.
The guards had chased the companions down the last few halls leading to the entrance to the dungeon. The passageways had opened considerably once they sighted the doors, and half a score could fight comfortably inside the room whose opposite wall held those wide double doors. A couple of alcoves dotted the other three walls, and the statues inside them fortunately stood deep enough that they didn’t hinder movement in the hall. But that didn’t help much against the dozen or so guards battling to capture the five people invading the sanctity of their palace, and plenty of reinforcements waited to take the place of those who fell.
Vaun ducked low under a swipe meant to take off his head, hearing the music of it in the wind of its passage, and slashed his opponent’s knee. Cartilage had an odd feel to it, stronger than flesh but missing the solidity of bone. The man screamed and went down, providing a nice flourish into the next verse of this fight, and two others replaced him. The itch in his side had failed to warn him of the servant’s approach, and now it remained a dull, muted sensation, a stark contrast to the danger surrounding him. He guessed his Swordsman’s instincts knew he was aware of the danger, so felt he didn’t need to be reminded.
Vaun fought off their attacks as he tried to move closer to his companions, finding himself hard pressed. The Mahalian palace guards were good and could marginally sense the Song and the Rhythm. The youth began to suspect that highly skilled non-Swordsmen could feel the rhythm and harmony of battle, and he respected their ability to do so and adjusted his strategy accordingly. These particular guardsmen also took very good care of their swords.
The five had fought their way to the dungeon’s outer doors but could go no farther. Rush and Dart tried repeatedly to get
to the doors and open them, but the number of guards assaulting them prevented it. Not even Rush’s chameleon ability could keep the soldiers at bay long enough for him to attempt an escape.
Thorne fought savagely, his natural hatred of Mahals mixing with his rage at Merdel’s capture to make him a roaring thunderstorm that brained and crippled all who stood in his way. The injuries he’d sustained thus far in the fighting barely slowed him and only served to enrage him more.
Drath fought just as fiercely, though he did feel the effects of his wounds. A deep gash in his arm slowed his movements enough that his opponent finally opened his weaving defenses. Grinning broadly, the Mahalian guard thrust his broadsword at the tall man’s chest, seeking to run him through.
Drath’s eyes widened as a blur of black and white woven steel interposed itself between him and what he’d thought to be certain death. It took off the hand wielding the big sword, sending both skidding across the black marble floor. The guard screamed and clutched the stump of his left wrist as Vaun kicked him out of the way before flowing on to the next engagement.
Drath regarded his friend with new respect and mouthed a hasty thanks but realized Vaun barely saw him. He seemed enveloped in the fight in such a deep way that Drath feared to distract him, if that were even possible. The light in the Swordsman’s eyes told Drath that it might be too late before Vaun recognized a friend amongst a host of enemies. Then again, the razor edge of that Vaulka had found little trouble sweeping aside the guardsman’s sword without touching him, even though the thrust had been mere inches from Drath’s skin. Still, the tall man saved his thanks for later and launched himself at the man approaching from behind the friend who’d just saved his life.
* * *
After seeing the dark-haired Ramener cut off his brother’s hand, Hadirin ignored everything else in order to make that insolent youth pay. He leapt at the slayer’s unprotected back, barely avoiding Drath’s attempt to stop him.
Vaun, however, listened to the itch in his side and whirled around. His sword licked out in time with his heartbeat, and the Swordsman felt flesh part.
Hadirin looked deep into his killer’s eyes as blood poured from the wound in his neck, finding an unforgiving light behind pale blue eyes. He suddenly regretted trying to slay the man but still hated him for what he’d done to his brother. All thoughts of hatred and vengeance left him as his skull cracked hollowly on the hard marble floor.
* * *
Rush shoved Dart out of the way of an axe thrust, taking a deep gash in his left arm. Hissing in pain, the blond elf flung his left-hand dagger into the man’s eye. A horrible, high-pitched sound came from the guardsman’s open mouth as he fell to the ground clutching at the dagger in his skull.
The blond elf dived out of the way of another guard’s slice at his head and flipped over the body of the man he’d just killed, pulling his dagger free in the process. He whipped around, expecting to find a sword tip at his throat.
Dart, meanwhile, had recovered from his impact with the wall when his over-eager cousin had shoved him and stabbed Rush’s new attacker in the back. The man grunted as he fell forward with blood dribbling from between his lips. Winking at his kinsman as Dart yanked his weapon free, Rush tried again to reach the doors and open them.
* * *
The sounds of steel striking steel and steel striking flesh heightened the music in the ears of Vaun Tarsus. He danced from one battle to another, letting the Song guide him to defeating one enemy while the Rhythm prepared him for confrontation with another. This was what defined a Swordsman. To have enemies all around, each one fighting to take his life, and the only thing between them and his death was his Bonded weapon.
The sensations of flesh parting, bone separating, and blood running down his sword blade remained remote and unimportant, except in how they aided his victory. All that mattered was the fight. And the Song and the Rhythm. Everything else could wait. Distantly, the young adventurer knew that when this battle ended, if he survived, he’d be horrified at the joy that coursed through him right now. He would hate and despise the eagerness with which he absorbed the information imparted to him by cutting his enemies down. He’d probably be sick for days. But that was later. For now, the fight was all.
* * *
An opening finally came and the elves bolted for the doors. Rush had never picked a lock so fast in his life, and he and his cousin dashed through the doors and into the dungeon in two heartbeats. A dozen more guards met them in the stairwell, bellowing and leaping gleefully to the attack.
Thorne smashed yet another knee and dodged away from someone else’s slash. On the return, the dwarf slammed his hammer into his opponent’s weapon, shattering the blade. Roaring fiercely, Thorne charged the man and butted him in the stomach, knocking him breathless against the wall. Not hesitating, Thorne burst through the doors behind the elves and set about clearing a path down the stairs to Merdel’s cell.
Drath and Vaun fought side by side in front of the tall, iron-studded double doors leading into the dungeons. They needed to give Thorne and the elves time to free Merdel and return, yet the number of guards facing them made their task seem hopeless.
The Song played strongly in his ears now, seeming almost to take him over. Vaun shuddered inwardly at the thought but retained enough of the Song’s guiding music to keep up his defense. He gracefully deflected a vicious cut toward his abdomen with an almost casual flick of his wrist and kicked his opponent’s companion in the groin. The man squealed and clutched himself, dropping his sword with a clatter and falling down next to it.
Drath fought off a rather large man wielding an equally massive sword, revealing himself to be a far better fighter than he’d originally let on. The wound in his shoulder seemed to affect him only a little, but the Song told Vaun his companion would soon weaken.
* * *
In the dungeon, Thorne stumbled backward and swore as a dying guard sank a dagger in his thigh. The dwarf smashed the man’s face with his hammer, then limped down the last of the steps after shoving the body out of his way. Rush and Dart had already turned the corner.
Thanks in part to the late hour, the three of them had managed to kill or cripple the still-sleepy guards inside the dungeon. They’d taken their share of wounds, though, and knew the hardest part of their fight still lay ahead.
* * *
Merdel jumped to his feet as a key rattled in the door to his cell. He cried out joyfully as Thorne’s gruff face appeared from around the door, then noticed with chagrin that his friend limped heavily. But he knew the dwarf was lucky to have survived at all and clapped him on the shoulder as he released the manacles on his wrists. A great weight immediately lifted from his shoulders as his powers returned. Placing an arm around each other to both give and receive support, the two friends left the cell and joined the elves waiting nervously in the hall.
The dungeon was a series of long hallways with cells on either side of the wide passages. Some large cells housed up to ten prisoners, while smaller ones held only one. Only two cells stood empty, and those were in the very back. The entire place reeked of damp, cold, and dark.
Very few torches lit the dungeons, and at this hour only the first and last on each hall had been left burning. Because of this, the dark disoriented the companions just as much as the noise hammering at the main doors, heightening their desperate search to escape. They knew Vaun and Drath couldn’t hold out much longer, but an easy solution refused to present itself. If they all tried to simply fight their way clear, none of them would survive.
Suddenly, Merdel brightened and looked around. “I’ve an idea.” Grabbing the ring of keys from Rush’s tired hands, the wizard set about opening as many cells as he could, the energy of desperation overcoming his weakness.
At first, none of the prisoners moved, not believing that their cells had actually been opened, as well as not wanting to find out what was causing all the racket coming from outside. So Merdel cast a spell that caused a bright flash of
white light at the back of each cell, followed by a loud clap of thunder. That drove the wretched men from their prisons in near-blind, deafened fear. Once a few had escaped, the rest followed. In a flood, they hurled themselves at the outer doors.
* * *
Drath and Vaun both nearly fainted from exhaustion. Blood covered each of them, not all of which belonged to their enemies. The Swordsman felt as if he’d fought every guard in Mahal’s garrison, and his sword seemed to have gained ten pounds. The Song and the Rhythm, though, still pounded in his head and fed his tired body, lending him extra energy. He had to fight for Drath almost as much as he did for himself, for the tall man could barely stay upright. They both knew for sure that death closed in, and something had to save them or they would surely die.
“It’s been nice knowing you, Vaun.” Drath mumbled the words after he slashed another guard across the chest, receiving a cut on his leg in return.
A voice intruded into the Song but didn’t prevent the Swordsman from fluidly dodging around one guard’s strike and blocking another’s. He waited until after his sword had flicked twice, ending the guards’ lives in a flourish from the Song of Battle, before responding to his friend’s statement. “At least we tried.” His grin was more like a snarl. “But it’s not over yet.”
Strangely, Vaun felt only an odd satisfaction at the thought of dying here, so far from his home. He believed he had given his best and only regretted that he had not succeeded in his quest. But a Swordsman should go down like this, in the midst of his enemies with his Bonded sword soaked in their blood and the Song of Battle singing him to his death. Hopefully, some of his companions would survive because of his efforts and be able to carry on and complete their mission. It didn’t matter that he would die. It only mattered that the Song and the Rhythm carry him to his fate.
The Bonding (The Song and the Rhythm) Page 35
