Izlaril veered off to the left, circling around Teg as he spoke. “Trust you? Like the Gen woman you led to her doom?”
Teg thought he felt the ground shift. He resisted the urge to look into the chamber where he’d left Celwen and focused on his foe.
“If you hurt her, not only will I give you my full attention, I’ll get creative about it.”
“No need,” Izlaril said. “She opened Bifron’s door—the black one—and entered. You passed through both.”
“Bifron,” said Teg. “I’ve been there. Not exactly a vacation spot.”
Izlaril fell into an attack stance but kept circling. “Not the broken sphere; the god of prophecy who lent the sphere its name. Only a duly consecrated priest may open the doors of fate. Thank you both for opening the way; for discharging Bifron’s curse and blessing.”
“In case you didn’t notice,” said Teg, “Bifron’s gone.”
He lunged at Izlaril, jabbing at the man’s ugly face with his left hand while slashing at his midsection with the knife in his right. Izlaril tilted his head just enough to avoid the feint and caught Teg’s knife hand by the wrist.
Muscles squirmed strangely under the scarred skin of Izlaril’s palm. He yanked on Teg’s arm, pulling him into the thrust of his own black blade. Teg’s left arm reflexively dropped to intercept the jagged rock shard. His left hand gripped Izlaril’s right just below the improvised dagger’s blade. Its rough edge cut into the web of skin between Teg’s thumb and forefinger. Biting cold radiated through his hand.
“Tethite,” Izlaril said in his irritatingly calm voice. “They mine it where the Stone Stratum touches the Void. It is death made solid. Even you cannot heal from its wounds.”
The chill spread up Teg’s arm and resonated with his mauled back. The cold sapped his strength, and Izlaril’s tethite blade inched closer to his ribs.
Teg bent his left knee, pushed with his right leg, and threw all his weight into a controlled fall to the left. He used the remaining strength of his left hand to twist Izlaril’s dagger toward the ground.
Striking the rock floor under the weight of two men snapped the stone blade—but not before it cut a deep gash in Teg’s hand. He ignored its icy bite and angled his own knife to slice Izlaril’s left forearm. His foe’s grip relaxed enough for Teg to slip free. Releasing Izlaril’s left hand, he rolled away across cold gears and gravel.
As soon as he felt that he’d gained enough distance, Teg leapt to his feet. He swept his eyes over the place where Izlaril had fallen and saw only a few drops of fresh blood on the stone floor.
Teg didn’t waste time searching for Shaiel’s Blade. Instead he turned and dashed back to the platform where the banks of machinery stood. Most of the equipment was ruined, but not all. Smith’s tools lay on the table amid a shambles of stone chips and dark oily gears.
Teg stood and waited, trying to slow his breathing as he shot wild glances about the room. Nothing stirred.
“Vaun told you to kill me.” Teg’s challenge echoed between the stone pillars. “Did you just stop kissing his ass?”
A slender tethite shard flew out of the shadows between two pillars and embedded itself where Teg’s neck met his shoulder. A second shard only missed his head because the shock made Teg’s knees buckle. He fell, pulling the table down with him. Arcane instruments skittered across the steel floor.
Not all of Smith’s tools were scattered. Teg dropped his knife and grabbed the thick black hose connected to the ceramic tank. He opened the valve on the hose’s head and sprayed a stream of white fluid toward the shards’ point of origin.
The caustic flow spattered bare stone, sending up a vapor that made Teg’s eyes water. Through his tears he saw a warped area of space fleeing from between the pillars, a diagonal wound still visible on its side.
Hitting a moving target with a chemical stream proved harder than Teg had expected. He tried to lead his target, but Izlaril turned and started retreating farther away. Worse, the stream’s pressure ebbed as the small tank emptied.
In desperation, Teg lunged forward, stretching the hose as far as it would reach. The fluid still sprayed uselessly onto the floor, but a final tug pulled the tank free of its stand.
Teg burned and froze as the contents of the shattered tank splashed his tortured back. He screamed, but a second voice joined his in an agonized duet.
Coughing as he crawled from the ruined platform, Teg looked across the chamber and saw a leg, an arm, and half of a human face shifting through a rainbow of pain.
Izlaril faced Teg. Shaiel’s Blade was fully visible now; his left arm and leg and the left side of his face raw with chemical burns. A scowl replaced his normally placid expression.
Teg stood. The stone chips under his skin kept his own burns from healing, but he smiled.
“If you were saving up for plastic surgery,” he said to Izlaril, “you might as well blow it on booze.”
Shaiel’s Blade glared at him with unbridled hatred.
“We can go another round and get even uglier,” said Teg. “Or you can get that mask off my friend and point us to my ship. Your call.”
Izlaril charged with a visceral snarl.
Teg assumed a ready stance. “Okay.”
The force of his enemy’s impact drove Teg back several steps. He’d learned better than to try reading Izlaril’s unpredictable attacks, so Teg abandoned any thought of defense and laid into Shaiel’s Blade with everything he had.
The one corner of Teg’s mind not devoted to murdering his enemy realized that Izlaril’s musculature, skeletal structure, and nervous system couldn’t be human. His speed was uncanny, and speed translated to power. A nearly simultaneous chain of blows pulverized Teg’s ribs and drove the wind from his lungs.
Not pausing to catch his breath, Teg threw a barrage of kicks and punches at his foe’s vital areas until blackness clouded the edges of his vision. Few of his attacks bypassed Izlaril’s defenses; and muscles, bones, and organs shifted away from those that did.
Teg had spent a lifetime learning to kill with precision, but now he found himself without a map in unknown territory. Izlaril was as slippery as a slime eel and faster than a mantis, but Teg was healing as quickly as the Blade could hurt him.
We’re at a standstill, Teg thought. That was bad. The longer a fight went on, the greater his risk of serious injury or death.
So what? asked a voice from the darker reaches of Teg’s soul. You’re a remnant of a bygone time who’s outlived everything he knew—even his own home world. What do you have to live for, much less fight for?
Izlaril’s elbow pistoned into Teg’s face, fracturing his jaw with a jolt of pain. A knee to his midsection followed, and it took all of Teg’s willpower to keep from vomiting.
“Solitary existence is torment,” preached Shaiel’s Blade. “Dissolve into oneness with all.”
Now Teg knew what he had to live for—not letting a soulless scut like Izlaril be the one to kill him. Besides, dying would seriously complicate Teg’s plans to get even with Vaun.
Unpleasant as it was, Teg listened to what his body was trying to tell him. Currently his back was screaming about icy rock fragments and deep tissue burns, while three ribs and his jaw pouted as they healed. Then there was the numbing cold at the angle of his neck and shoulder.
Izlaril’s foot shattered Teg’s kneecap just as Teg pulled the five-inch tethite fragment from his own shoulder. He wobbled and fell forward as Shaiel’s Blade danced aside. Teg twisted in mid-fall and agony coursed through him as his back hit the floor. Izlaril’s bare foot was already bearing down on his throat when Teg drove the freezing stone shard upward with both hands, slicing Izlaril’s leg from ankle to calf.
Teg rolled backward, savoring his wounded enemy’s scream. He rose into a crouch, favoring his rapidly mending knee. The stone shard’s intense cold finally forced him to drop it.
Izlaril paused for a moment as his muscles compressed his leg wound to a thin crease. His bleeding slowed to a tr
ickle and then stopped. It was only with a slight limp that he advanced again.
Teg stood and rejoined the fight with new confidence. He’d done lasting damage to Shaiel’s Blade, while the wounds inflicted by his enemy were steadily healing.
But within the opening moments of Izlaril’s renewed attack, during which Teg suffered a ruptured kidney, a cracked sternum, and a skull fracture without connecting once in return, a sickening awareness dawned.
Izlaril was now causing damage faster than Teg could heal it.
Teg willed himself to remain calm and focus on dealing out punishment. His persistence paid off when he caught Izlaril with a fierce right hook and felt teeth shatter under his fist. Teg’s burst of elation died when Shaiel’s Blade shrugged off the blow and drove his knuckles into the ribs under his foe’s armpit, sending splintered bone tearing through Teg’s skin.
Through the fog of pain, Teg realized that Izlaril was copying his strategy of relentless attack. A second punch streaked through Teg’s flagging defense to hammer his chest; then a third, followed by a crushing elbow to the same spot that caved in his ribs. Bone grated against bone whenever Teg took a labored breath.
Teg poured the last of his failing strength into a wild, desperate punch. Izlaril trapped Teg’s arm between his own forearm and biceps and wrenched upward.
The pain of having his elbow broken paled in comparison to what followed when Izlaril pressed his thumb deep into Teg’s left eye. Teg backpedaled while beating against the arm of the hand that gouged him, but Izlaril kept both his pace and his hold.
Teg’s heel struck something unyielding, and he fell backwards in blind agony. His head slammed down on hard steel, and pulsing lights filled the blackness that had swallowed his world. Izlaril was on top of him, raining a barrage of merciless blows on Teg’s already open wounds.
Teg’s body could no long answer his mind’s increasingly feeble urge to save itself. His struggle ended.
22
Astlin sat at table with the Shadow Caste for hours, suffering through their veiled threats against Xander as her rage grew. They gloated constantly about their plan to revive Thera, until a sudden silence hinted that something had gone wrong.
One of the uniformed servants who brought in platters of rich food, cleared empty plates, and freshened drinks whispered something in Kelgrun’s ear. The smug blustering between him and the other three Magists turned into furtive, hushed comments.
Astlin hadn’t heard what was said, besides Kelgrun muttering that Zoanthus was now the last light of Mithgar, but she doubted it was a coincidence that Magists Vilneus and Rathimus had been sent on some secret errand a few minutes earlier. Their absence left her with yellow-robed Belar, dark blue-robed Zoanthus, veiled and wild-eyed Gien—who’d been the only one not to speak—and worst of all, Kelgrun.
And it couldn’t be good that Vilneus and Rathimus had left the golden marble hall shortly after she’d lost track of Teg.
The remaining Magists fell quiet. It didn’t take nexism to know that they were communicating telepathically. Astlin yearned to eavesdrop on their mental conversation, but the risk was too great while the Shadow Caste held Xander hostage.
Gien’s ice-blue eyes suddenly snapped into focus on her. His gaze lingered expectantly.
“Anything I can help you with?” she asked her conspiring hosts.
The frown beneath Kelgrun’s beard made his whole face sag. “Nothing remotely within your aptitude or experience.”
“Or anyone else’s?” Astlin said in a flat tone. “Don’t you have people running the sphere for you?”
“Matters sometimes arise which require our personal attention,” Zoanthus said.
Astlin pointed upward. “Like a Night Gen invasion?”
Belar inclined his bald head toward the ceiling. “Our shield is impregnable. No Night Gen will set foot here against our will.”
A Night Gen stepped out from behind the wine-red banner through which Vilneus had exited earlier. Her black hair fell past shoulders clad in a suit of sharkskin-like fabric. Her emerald eyes betrayed desperation as they searched the room and fixed themselves on Gien.
“The rumors were true,” she all but whispered in an accent that reminded Astlin of Szodrin’s. “You have not changed in almost a century.”
“No, I still contain multitudes,” Gien argued before agreeing, “Yes, they have grown.”
Kelgrun, Zoanthus, and Belar exchanged looks that ranged from startled to grave. The nexic waves of their wordless conversation washed over the room.
Astlin took advantage of her captors’ divided attention to make contact with the gatecrashing Night Gen’s mind.
The woman’s green eyes darted from Magist Gien to her.
You are a telepath! the Gen woman, whom Astlin gathered was named Celwen, silently exclaimed. I thought that nexism was all but unknown among the clay tribe.
Astlin reminded herself that Celwen’s ability to detect telepathic probing shouldn’t have been a surprise. After all, Szodrin had credited his skill at seeing through her illusions to Night Gen training. It made sense that Celwen had learned similar defenses.
Yes, I’m a telepath, Astlin confirmed. We can talk about why later. Right now I’m more concerned with why you barged in on a secret meeting of the evil cabal that’s holding my husband hostage.
Husband? Celwen’s grey face brightened with recognition. Do you know a man named Teg Cross?
Only the knowledge that jumping up from her seat would draw the Shadow Caste’s attention gave Astlin the strength to keep still. She chose her thoughts carefully.
Yes. Teg is my friend. He was looking for my husband, Xander. If you want to leave this room alive, drop your defenses and show me everything you know.
Kelgrun’s eyes fluttered as he surfaced from the telepathic link. “Dearest Celwen, Magist Gien has informed us of your sterling service in acquiring Thera’s fragments.”
He motioned from her to Astlin. “Please join our gathering, which happens to include one of her former hosts.”
By the time Kelgrun finished speaking, Astlin had absorbed Celwen’s memories of her and Teg’s harrowing descent into Vigh’s underworld, their battle with ethereal guardians, and her awakening afterward to find Teg horribly beaten.
There is a gate in a passage off the Stone Stratum chamber, Celwen explained as she cautiously approached Astlin. I came through it seeking help for Teg. He is dying!
Astlin barely registered Celwen’s plea under the deluge of other, more disturbing memories that flowed from her unguarded mind. Few events from Astlin’s fist life were as painful as her death at the hands of Zan, the souldancer of air. But she was enraged and disgusted to learn that Zan had been betrayed by Celwen, his own daughter.
This time Astlin did stand, but she wasn’t alone, as Zoanthus sprang to his feet and stabbed a finger at Celwen.
“The Gen bitch conspires with the Zadokim!”
Acting on impulse, Astlin gripped the edge of the table and heaved. The stout hardwood disc pitched forward with a clash of silver plates. Zoanthus jumped clear and Belar toppled backward, but Kelgrun screamed as the table’s far edge crashed down, splintering his chair and pinning his legs against the marble floor.
“Dinner’s over,” Astlin said.
A telepathic warning from Celwen alerted her to Zoanthus. His dark blue, star-flecked robes flowed as he finished the Steersman’s Compass and thrust his arms across the upended table toward Astlin.
The flaming torrent that leapt from Zoanthus’ hands gave Astlin no time to move. She wasn’t an expert with Workings, but she knew fire intimately. She let her stars shine and willed the orange flame back from their sapphire light.
The jet of fire streaked halfway from the Magist to Astlin. It burned the overturned table, sending up thick sweet smoke, but refused to approach closer.
I wasn’t sure that would work! Astlin thought with heartfelt relief.
Xander could make prana around him form itself into shapes an
d materials he understood. Astlin had tried making a spear like his without success. Now she was encouraged to revisit the idea.
It would have to wait though, because Belar had struggled to his feet and was fashioning his own Working.
Just before the moment of release, Astlin rammed through Zoanthus and Belar’s telepathic resistance and took hold of their minds. Both Magists turned toward each other as Astlin hid her light. Zoanthus’ flame surged to its full extent, bathing Belar with fire. At the same time, a lumpy block of stone engulfed Zoanthus’ head. A few wisps of dark hair were all that escaped the rough brown chunk of rock.
Zoanthus teetered, arms flailing, as he tried to support the crushing burden suddenly laid on his neck. After a brief struggle he lurched forward. The stone encasing his head hit the table’s edge with a loud thud and a crunch that made Astlin wince. Then it struck the floor with the sound of a stone coffin slamming shut.
Stabbing pain fixed Astlin’s eyes on her right leg, where a large carving knife jutted from her calf. A hoarse cry of triumph rose up from the table’s lower right edge.
Belar lay propped up on his left arm. His mustard-colored robe was immaculate, but his face was a smoldering ruin. A serving fork floated before his blistered right hand.
He has Xander’s gift. Astlin’s brief look into Belar’s mind had revealed that the gift was stolen.
As if to avenge the ancient Gen whose life had been taken to extend Belar’s, Celwen pounced on the Magist and slid a horn-handled pocket knife across this throat. The fork dropped into a spreading pool of blood as the last sputtering breaths escaped Belar’s mouth.
Celwen looked to Astlin but quickly averted her eyes. “Are you all right?” the Night Gen asked between heaving breaths.
Astlin focused, willing her body to match the pattern of her soul. The pain in her leg faded, and a clear note rang out as the knife fell to the floor.
“I’m okay,” she said, “but my dress has a knife cut to go with Teg’s bullet hole.”
“Teg shot you?” Celwen said incredulously.
The Secret Kings Page 19
