INCURSION: Faeblade (Knight's Bane Trilogy Book 2)

by Bryan Donihue

  Queen Merunaré turned to the Praetorian, "Blades have been chosen. Is that acceptable?" With the dwarf's nod, she asked both combatants, "According to the laws, each of you is entitled to a second who you may choose to fight in your stead. Unseelie King, who is your second?"

  The King smiled, "My second shall be my new Knight, however, I will still choose to fight." One of the hooded and robed figures stepped forward to stand slightly behind and to the right of the Unseelie King. It threw back the hood there was a gasp from Heavy and Boomer. Their target, the large shapeshifter called Oude Rode Ogen, turned his blazing red eyes toward Knightmare. Turning back to its King, it drew a long rapier from its scabbard and handed it, hilt first, to his liege, the King of the Unseelie.

  The Queen turned to the Praetorian, barely contained anger riding beneath her calm exterior. "And Praetorian, whom shall your second be?"

  The Praetorian was staring at Oude Rode Ogen and his King. Fury was visible on her face. She turned to survey the crowd, her voice stilled and her thoughts racing. As her gaze met Heavy's, the big man leaped to his feet and cried out, "Choose me!"

  She thought about it for a moment, then shook her head slightly. As strong as he was, the Praetorian knew that he would be the wrong choice. Her gaze slid on, past Doc, past Little G, and past Boomer. Her gaze came to rest on the youngest federal agent. Was that a flicker of power? The dwarf was torn, her thoughts tumbling.

  Dancer made the choice for the Praetorian. She stood, chin thrust defiantly. Before Boomer could lay a warning hand on her arm, she spoke up, subconsciously mimicking one of her movie heroines, "I volunteer for the trials."

  The Praetorian nodded once. The young DHS agent made her way out of the crowd and walked to stand by the dwarf who was about fifteen inches shorter than her five-foot, three-inch height. Ghost started to yell in protest but felt a warning hand on his shoulder from the Queen.

  The Praetorian turned to her weapons bag and drew out two short swords. She reasoned that the contest is about blades, not a blade. She knew that she would have trouble getting within her opponent's longer reach, but a plan was beginning to form.

  The Queen once again amplified her voice and spoke, "Challenges have been accepted. Weapons have been chosen." The monarch of the Seelie Court looked at the two assembled combatants as well as their seconds standing behind them. "I declare this Gliaireacht convened."

  As the Queen was mouthing the word "convened," the Praetorian shifted slightly, and threw one of her short swords without looking at the King of the Unseelie.

  29

  BETRAYAL

  GLIAIREACHT, 68TH ST SE, CALEDONIA, MICHIGAN

  The short sword arced through the air, spinning like a thrown dagger. The Unseelie King could barely raise his own blade in time. His rapier deflected what surely would have been a killing blow. Instead, the blade sliced along the King's left arm. A long gash on his bicep oozed blood, and the elf grunted in pain.

  Drawing himself tall, he grimaced and forced the pain down. "Is that all you have, dwarf?" His tight face and the tightness in his voice betrayed the almost insolent question. He quickly advanced on the Praetorian.

  The khoztak dwarf set her stance and let the King come to her. The elf arrived and his blade arced in intricate patterns. Thrusts were met with blocks. A parry led to a riposte. It was evident to all around the grounds that these two warriors were masters at their chosen weapons.

  The King slowly advanced, causing the Praetorian to retreat, inch-by-inch. Her back to the water, the dwarf was growing worried. She felt more than saw the large pond at her back, and her opponent was forcing her to retreat toward it. The ground beneath her feet grew wetter, and she knew it would only take one misstep and the fight would be over very quickly.

  The clanging of swords added to the chorus of grunts and expletives as the two master swordsmen clashed. Deliberately, the Praetorian moved to her right, focusing her strikes on the King's still-bleeding left arm. She was careful, making sure to block the King's attacks. Her strategy seemed to work, albeit slowly. Small cuts and nicks appeared on the King's left arm and left side of his chest. None of them were deep, debilitating strikes, but the number of small, shallow cuts was beginning to affect her opponent.

  The King was weakening, and he knew it. This furious battle had lasted ten minutes already, and he was getting desperate. He took small risks to get through his opponent's defenses, and they started to work. The dwarf's shirt was soon showing several places where his blade had slipped past, and the blood was flowing. He decided to risk a bigger strike.

  He drew the Praetorian in with feints and apparent fumbles, only barely blocking her thrusts. This went on for about thirty seconds. Finally, he felt the time was right, and appeared to leave himself open to an attack.

  The Praetorian watched as the King kept fumbling and leaving himself open, only to barely block her attacks. She saw that his feints were an attempt to draw her in and realized that he was getting desperate. Cautious, she watched and prepared for his gambit, hoping to flip the trap back on the King.

  The Unseelie King's guard dropped, and it appeared that he was open for a killing blow. The Praetorian took the bait and struck. As she expected, the elf King turned his blade and struck at her exposed chest, a blow that would have run his rapier through her heart. Instead, she shifted her attack, letting the blade slide perilously close to her body and spun. As she turned, the dwarf pulled a blade from her belt in a reversed grip and swung, driving the sharp blade across the elf's thigh, splitting pants and skin from the inner thigh, across the meat of his muscle, and through the outside of his thigh.

  The elf King crashed to the ground, clutching his leg, his rapier forgotten where it had dropped. The cries and groans from the crowd were a dull roar in the background as the Praetorian fought to catch her breath. She slowly stepped over to the King and pointed the tip of her blade at his throat. "Do you yield?"

  The King of the Unseelie was on his back, both hands clutching his wounded thigh and bleeding out into the sand underneath him. He was trying to find a way out of this, without yielding. The monarch shook his head, refusing the dwarf's first question. He was buying precious few seconds, however he could not see an exit.

  The Praetorian grunted softly, brought the tip of her blade within a hairsbreadth of the elf's throat, and asked again in a louder voice. Her anger flowed through her words. "You are defeated. Again I ask you. Do you yield?" She kicked him right where her blade had sliced open his thigh.

  He cried out with the new torture. He did not know how to lose in battle, but here he had lost. To a dwarf, of all creatures. Before he could answer for the final time, he was surrounded by a black energy. In the mere blink of an eye, his injuries closed and an invigorating wave of energy flowed over, around, and through the Unseelie monarch.

  The Praetorian barely had time to recognize what had happened. One minute, the Unseelie King laid broken, on his back, and waiting to be killed. The next, he was surrounded by a faint black glow and his wounds were healed. Then the King threw sand in her face, a blinding cloud of the dust exploding into her eyes.

  The deadly elven rapier was in the King's hand before he scrambled to his feet. With his opponent blinded by the dust and sand, he slowly prepared his attack, looking for a vulnerable spot in her armor. He saw one and struck.

  The blinded Praetorian was panicking. Without her sight, the King would easily defeat her. He must have cheated. He had not cast the magic, one of his Court must have interfered. The contest was finished. She just had to survive.

  Fate was not on her side. The Unseelie King struck with all the anger and rage at this mere dwarf beating a warrior of his station. His blade punched through a small gap in the Praetorian's armor, sliding under her arm, in between her ribs, through her lung, and into her heart.

  The Praetorian tried to scream. She tried to say anything. All she could do was gurgle as blood flowed from between her lips. The King withdrew his rapier, and the Praetorian fell t
o her knees. Her face was frozen in a rictus of pain and shock. She slowly collapsed to the ground, face first.

  The stunned silence of the crowd erupted into a roaring chorus of cheers from the Unseelie Court, even as two khozten healers ran out onto the field to check on the Praetorian. The Seanachaidh sat in stunned silent, and the Seelie Court whispered among themselves. The Seelie Queen stood to announce the obvious conclusion, and Ghost leaned over and got her attention.

  "Your Majesty, I thought the combatants could have no outside help during the trial? I understood that to have outside help was to forfeit your victory. Is that not so?"

  The Queen nodded, not sure where the human from Section 28 was leading with this train of thought.

  "The necromancer in the hooded robe next to the Unseelie Knight is the one that healed the King. He did not heal himself. I witnessed his spell being cast."

  The Queen looked closely at the DHS leader. "Are you sure that act is what you witnessed? Are you willing to undergo a test with the Aidmheil?"

  "Yes, Your Majesty."

  The Queen of the Seelie motioned for the Oracle and the lead Protector to join her. Across the grounds, the King was still waiting for his pronouncement of victory. His eyes narrowed when he saw the Oracle and the Protector join the Queen by her station. He saw the quick glances in his direction, and then all three turned to question the human, Special Agent Vanhof.

  The Oracle reached out with a yellow cord that the King recognized as Aidmheil and placed it around the human's wrist. The elf was wishing he had killed the meddlesome human when they had first met.

  The King watched as the Oracle and the Protector both asked several questions of the human agent, and the man answered every one of their questions. At one point, the man pointed to the Unseelie Court, pointing at someone to the King's right. The two dwarves then conferred again with the elf Queen, and they talked for several minutes.

  By this time, everyone had noticed that there had been no confirmation of victory from the Queen. Murmurs and questions seemed to float on the air as the time dragged. The crowds were getting restless. The King wondered if he could take the initiative away from whatever was happening with the Queen and the two dwarves. He stepped forward, still bare-chested and covered in blood. He enhanced his voice, "My Queen. I demand to be declared Victor. I won the Gliaireacht, and claim my right to the Victory."

  The Queen glared at the King, and he smiled graciously. She stood and straightened stiffly, and once again magically enhanced her voice, "As the official Witness to this Gliaireacht, I, Queen Lishe at Merunaré, Sovereign of the Seelie Court and Bringer of Light, declare that you have been accused of interference, you have betrayed the Gliaireacht, and that your Victory is hereby forfeit."

  The Unseelie King roared, "This Victory was mine. By right and by honor, you shall not take this Victory from me. We will go to war."

  The Queen paled, and there was a gasp from the crowd. No one dared to breathe as the tension grew. It was palpable in the air. The Oracle stood tall and said, "You have been accused of cheating. Your Necromancer healed you when you were under the Praetorian's blade. Do you deny this?"

  "Of course I deny this." The King sounded insulted. "I healed myself with my own power, as is my right during combat. There was no interference."

  The Oracle's smile was cold and grim. "Then you would not object being subjected to the Aidmheil? After all, if you are innocent, you will be exonerated."

  It was the King's turn to smile. "You know that I, as Unseelie King, am above reproach and cannot be subjected to the Aidmheil. It is simply my word against the human's."

  The Oracle nodded grimly. "Of course. According to our laws and customs, Your Majesty is unanswerable to the Aidmheil, should you so choose. However, your Necromancer is not. He will submit, to prove your innocence."

  The King paused, mind reeling. He was desperately trying to puzzle a way out of this. He knew the Necromancer would be forced to reveal the truth, and that he would be exposed. Stalling for time, he turned to look at the Necromancer, standing next to his new Knight. He could not see the creature's eyes beneath the hood, but he knew that his dark mage would know the trouble he would cause.

  King t'Nakaót shifted his gaze from his Necromancer to his Knight. Oude Rode Ogen had already served him well, causing disruption and despair among the humans and the Seanachaidh. He twisted his hand in a small, imperceptible twitch toward his Knight. His Knight whirled, grasped the head of the Necromancer, and twisted. The snap was audible as the Knight broke the mage's neck, almost twisting the head in a full three hundred and sixty degrees. The mage's body collapsed, the robes billowing.

  Anger blossomed across the Oracle's face. With the Necromancer dead, the King was the only witness, and he could not be compelled to answer to the Aidmheil. The Oracle could not declare victory for the Unseelie King, as the King's power would be out of balance, and he would never have to answer for the attack on the Seelie club.

  If he did not allow the Victory, the King's arrogance and hubris would drive him to declare war on the other Courts. That war would spill over into this realm, and the humans would have to get involved. The last time the fae warred on mankind, the humans had dropped atomic weapons. And their power had only grown.

  The Oracle was distracted by movement on the ground behind the Unseelie King. The dwarven healers had used their magic on the Praetorian, and she looked to be stirring. He had feared that her death would cause the Protectors to make rash decisions. Now that she was being helped off the field of battle, the Oracle had a glimmer of an idea.

  King t'Nakaót heard movement behind him, and he whirled, rapier whipping up to the ready. He was stunned at the two khozten helping, half-carrying the living Praetorian off the field. They were carefully guiding her to the Seanachaidh, taking small steps, each one causing the Praetorian to wince and whimper. The King grew angry and took one step toward the defenseless Praetorian. The Oracle's voice brought him up short.

  "Since the Victory is in doubt, the Gliaireacht shall continue. The Praetorian's Second will step forward to battle in her place. Will you remain on the battle grounds, or will you call on your Second, King t'Nakaót?"

  The King was indignant. This dwarf was trying to steal his rightful Victory. He watched, rage on his face and murder in his eyes, as the young human agent stepped out on the proving grounds, with a lone dagger attached to her belt. She moved warily, almost unsure of herself. He knew he could beat her, but killing this young human would cause problems down the line. His Knight, however, would be able to kill this girl just as quickly, and there would be no repercussions. After all, it was the Gliaireacht.

  "Oracle, as the Praetorian has been forced to rely on her Second, I, too, shall rely on my Second. My Knight will fight in my stead. To be clear, my Second can use any personal power or abilities during the combat, as long as it is not powered by another of my Unseelie, correct?"

  The Oracle paused. What was the King trying to cover. He knew the Unseelie Knight was Oude Rode Ogen, a fae creature with razor-sharp claws and fangs, and the ability to transform. The Praetorian's Second was a young human girl. Even though she carried the enchanted blade...

  The Oracle spoke, "The weapons for this Gliaireacht are blades. By law and custom, that does not preclude any combatant's use of natural abilities, nor does it preclude the use of personal equipment that has been enchanted, as long as that equipment has a blade. Is that clarification enough?"

  It was the King's turn to pause at the odd wording. The phrasing was strange, even for a dwarf who clearly likes to hear his own voice. But the important part was that the Oracle had just given his Knight permission to use his abilities to kill this young whelp.

  "Thank you for the clarification. I wouldn't want there to be any further question of the outcome of this combat."

  The King turned and strode to his Knight. The creature bowed deeply to his liege, and the King returned the bow. The creature then stood and dropped his robe to the g
round. This was the first time that any of the team had seen the creature up close. The creature was over seven feet tall and well muscled. He looked like an African native, with a clean-shaven head and a strong, prominent nose. His eyes gave away his fae heritage. Red glowing orbs, like dying embers, burned from the creature's eye sockets, giving him his nickname, Old Red Eyes.

  Old Red Eyes strode to the center of the battlefield, large, powerful strides eating up ground. He looked like the preternatural predator that he was. He stopped a dozen feet from Dancer and smiled. "It looks like dinner will come early today. I look forward to tasting your fears." The young federal agent watched as fangs grew long in the creature's mouth, turning the smile into a grinning rictus of death.

  Dancer smiled and her voice was as sweet as honey, "I will make you suffer for killing my friends. And then I will kill you for hurting Boomer." The young agent reached up and grasped the hilt of fion-fhuil. She felt Vellath stir and thought to the dragon consciousness in her sword. Time to wake up, Vellath. You get to drink blood today.

  It is about time. I was getting bored. Who do we get to kill? Vellath sounded amused.

  Dancer told him, Oude Rode Ogen. Old Red Eyes killed two of my friends and hurt Boomer bad. I want him to suffer. She could feel the dragon's rage building. She wondered what was getting it so angry.

  Vellath grumbled in her mind. I know that one. This will be a pleasure to cause that one pain.

  Dancer smiled and gripped the sword hilt, holding it out in front of her.

  The dragon in her sword spoke up, I have an idea.

  30

  FURY

  GLIAIREACHT, 68TH ST SE, CALEDONIA, MICHIGAN

  Grip the hilt like this. Vellath showed Dancer an image in her mind. She gripped the hilt in both hands, fingers tucked in and knuckles touching on each hand. She felt a burst of energy and the blade split into two fully formed blades. The young agent grinned. A small push with her will, and the blades began to glow gold. Perfect. Now we shall enjoy this contest. Vellath gave a deep chuckle in her mind.