The knife had given him a literal edge but wounded or not, Foriix was still blasted fast, and no less deadly. Her chain crackled with energy as she struck again and again. Whipping the chain high then low, lashing out then snatching it back. The steel spike on the end of her chain punched through the wall, then the dresser, filling the air with plaster dust and wood chips. Her body danced between the motions, a never ending, twisting shadow.
Steel links grazed off his arm, hot needles of pain gouged through his jacket and into his bones. Only his center dampened the agony enough to push past it. Ryle hissed, teeth clenched, and pressed forward into the maelstrom, straining to keep up with her.
He slashed again, almost there. He lunged, stabbed. His dagger almost grazed her throat. He twisted and lashed out, releasing the glowing dagger from his fingers for a fraction of a breath. He gained a finger’s width on her. With a cry she whipped the chain up into the ceiling, cracking the wooden boards, and jumped away.
He took the moment to gasp in some desperately needed air. Centered or not, his body was reaching the brink. His hands tingled, his chest burned. The wounds in his arm and hip stirred. Despite all that, he kept his face absolutely still and eyed her across the room.
Her chest heaved with the first signs of exertion all night. Her eyes darted to the weapon burning in his hand.
“A bound-blade?” She nearly spat the words.
“It should look familiar,” he said. “Then again, maybe you couldn’t get a good look last time. It was buried in your skull.”
Her brows drew together below her scarred forehead. “Southern. Northern. I don’t care what weapon you carry. You cowardly, hole-digging, Dawnlanders all bleed the same.”
He jabbed his chin toward her. “I can say the same for Praeter witches.” He’d gotten closer than he thought.
She dabbed her fingers to her neck. They came away smeared with blood.
Her lip curled. “Come then, Squirebrat.”
Ryle took a deep breath, tensed. He wanted to kill her for what she’d done to his family. And despite the fear racing along his bones, with this hex sucking weapon, he thought maybe he could do it. But, Lastrahn’s sword shone in the corner, unclaimed.
His stomach fluttered. They’d already fought too long. Lastrahn must be in dire straits by now. He had to get that sword into the champion’s hands.
Ryle raised his glowing hand, felt the perfect balance of the blade, the throbbing bite of the bracer on his wrist, the tension familiar never before so clear. His center lent new details to the sensation, let him feel the delicate connection for the first time. The link between his pulse and the ebb and flow of light within the blade. He grunted, and flung the dagger for her skull.
Foriix’s chain whipped out, knocking his blade aside. The dagger tumbled away, cutting through the air, pulling on the bones of his wrist from paces away. Within his kenten he could feel it spin without looking and pinpoint its position in his mind. The desire to revel or vomit fought a battle in his gut.
Before the dagger hit the wall, Ryle clenched his fist, and yanked it back.
Deep, phantom claws ran along his bones. He savored the ache as the dagger sped back to him, a sharp edged orange spark amidst the shadows. Foriix hissed, ducked away. The dagger slapped into Ryle’s illuminated hand; his shadowed bones slid beneath his skin as his fingers closed around the grip.
He spun, and threw it again. This time he didn’t wait for a reaction, he charged. A flash of chain, the clank of metal on metal. The tug as his weapon deflected. Foriix snarled, her chain rattling, the air crackling like lightning. Steel links swept for his thighs. He dove, found his dagger mid-air, and slapped it toward her face.
Lastrahn’s bed was under him, he rolled across it. Chains fell like a storm, tearing into the blanket, tossing up feathers in a white wake. He dropped to the floor on the far side, chest heaving, and arms weak.
Foriix hissed, his last attack must’ve gotten close. He jerked his arm down, called a return. In the corner of Ryle’s eye, the Praeter leapt clear as his weapon ripped past. He caught it, absently. Exequor was at hand.
He’d never touched Lastrahn’s sword before. Never dared. He’d always imagined a quiet, reverent moment when he might first lay hands upon the legendary weapon while he pictured every battle it had been through, every foe it had slain. This was not that moment. Like so often in Ryle’s life, he had no time.
He grabbed hold of the shoulder strap, threw it over his head, and lunged to his feet. He nearly flew into the wall. Exequor weighed almost nothing. It seemed impossible for its size, but the sword weighed no more than a practice stave.
Foriix screamed in rage and attacked with a fury. Ryle’s dagger darted out, engaging her chain. The other end of her chain came around. Ryle batted it away with his forearm, growling against the needles of pain that dug into his flesh.
A clang, a recall. Ryle ducked under another steel lash, caught the pulsing dagger blind, and flung it over his shoulder. Foriix cursed, and he ran.
Five paces to the window, glass crunched beneath his boots. Rain washed over his face. A dark, three story drop greeted him on the other side.
Real smart. Now what? Where the hex was Lastrahn?
A clang of steel. A cry in the dark. Ryle’s heart thudded against his ribs. He swept his eyes across the courtyard and found nothing.
Steel links sang a promise of pain. Foriix was coming. He had seconds. Another clash, the noise of combat. Above him.
Hammering rain pelted Ryle’s face as he turned his head. A copper downspout gleamed on the side of the building. It looked like possibly the slipperiest surface Ryle had ever seen. And his only option.
He flung himself out into space as chains tried to tear his head from his body. Gravity sucked Ryle’s stomach toward his toes, and Exequor plucked at his shoulder. Chains brushed the hair on the back of his head. He slammed against the copper spout, and somehow his fingers gripped the wet metal. He didn’t look down. If the drop didn’t kill him, Foriix certainly would. He climbed before his limbs could tire, and hauled himself onto the roof.
The tiles ran with water like shallow rapids, but the pitch of the wide roof was slight. He lay gasping for a moment, then forced his head up. In the glow of city lights, they were easy to find.
There at the peak of the roof, Lastrahn faced Abaal.
Both were soaked through. Lastrahn’s hair hung lank and wet about his face. Abaal’s scalp glistened. Even from a distance, both showed signs of their furious combat. One of Abaal’s eyes looked bruised, and blood ran along Lastrahn’s jaw. The Praeter’s slightly curved sword still whispered death. Lastrahn held a blackened weathervane, or the remains of one, defensively before him.
Ryle could take care of that problem. “Sir!” he shouted and scrambled to his feet.
The champion’s eyes didn’t waver from his opponent, but the grim set of his face said it was about time. Ryle swept Exequor off his back.
A metallic clank drew his attention to a sharp pressure around his ankle, where a chain encircling his foot snapped tight.
CHAPTER 42
Ryle flung Exequor as hard as he could. The chain jerked his foot from beneath him. Lastrahn’s sword spun against the clouds.
The roof tilted, then slammed into his face. His hands scrambled across rain slicked tiles as her chain pulled him down. The edge of the roof swept past his hips, then his glowing fingers found a gap in the tiles and latched on. His fall jerked to a stop with a wrench of pain. Fire shot through his wounded left arm and exploded in his hip, the sharp edge of the tile dug into his stomach.
Lastrahn plucked Exequor from the air, unsheathed it, and met Abaal’s attack with a furious clang. The two warriors drove against each other, slipping, seeking purchase.
Lastrahn smiled, and flung the Praeter away.
Ryle wanted to cheer, he’d completed his mission, but he was about to die. Below him Foriix yanked harder. The links rattled. Her chain dug into his boot like a vice. He g
rowled and held on as the tiles bit into his fingers like sharp incisors.
Abaal landed lightly and eyed Lastrahn across five paces. The champion shook rain from his head and slammed his sword down through the roof. Abaal twitched, and brought his sword up. Lastrahn ignored him and peeled off his coat. After a moment’s hesitation Abaal followed suit.
Beneath the Praeter’s coat he was dressed similarly to Foriix. Black fabric tightly enwrapped him. It glistened in the rain.
Lastrahn stripped bare to the waist and threw his ruined clothes away. Air involuntarily hissed through Ryle’s teeth. A quilt of scars, burns and old wounds crisscrossed The champion’s muscled torso. From the hard look on the warrior’s face, Ryle wondered how many the Praeters had imparted upon him.
“You think that sword will save you?” Abaal asked.
“It won’t save you,” Lastrahn said, pulling Exequor free.
The Praeter’s blade flickered low then high. Lastrahn held his ground until the last moment then struck so fast Exequor seemed to flicker out of existence. Steel somehow met steel. The Praeter twisted, struck, wove amongst a barrage of strikes and came through on the other side. Not unharmed. A gash ran across his chest. He glared down, Lastrahn smirked. They attacked again.
The tension on the chain increased, like the Praeter’s entire weight pulled at his ankle. Ryle gasped, and slipped a bit further over the edge. Tiles ripped through his callouses, and bit into his glowing skin. Blood ran down his arm as wounds pulled open.
Lastrahn and Abaal engaged in a frenzy of strikes and counters. Their blades sang through the rain; their blows shook the roof.
Ryle’s ankle screamed in agony. He kicked at her chain with his other foot, but it was wrapped too tightly. He slipped a bit further.
The champion crushed tiles as Abaal threw himself out from under a heavy blow.
The space under Ryle’s feet yawned. He slipped farther, and the edge of the roof sawed against his chest.
He snarled, pulled hard against the tiles, ignoring the tearing in his left arm. His free right hand found a handhold and he heaved, gaining a finger’s width, then another.
Foriix bellowed and her pressure vanished. Ryle dimly noticed a shadow pass overhead, and at the last instant realized it was the Praeter. She had leapt over him to the roof. Far over. The chain went taut again, in a new direction. He didn’t have time to feel confused before he was snatched up off the roof by his leg.
For a moment, he was above it all, the glistening roof, the champion and Abaal, sparks flying from their weapons.
Ryle crashed to the tiles and he tasted blood. His head rang. His shoulder pulsed with angry fire. His body felt soft, hollow, spent. He’d left his center somewhere in the sky and now every bit of pain and fatigue buried him in an overwhelming wave.
Steel rang on steel. Feet pounded upon tiles.
A hand grabbed the back of Ryle’s jacket and flipped him over. Rain drummed across his lips, filled his eyes. Foriix loomed over him. Her bloody face twisted with rage.
“You remember this spot, Squirebrat? Remember the last time we were here?”
Her fist slammed into his jaw. His vision lit up, then faded to smeared black.
Abaal grunted, cursed. Steel sang a deadly song.
A weight crushed his ribs, driving his air out. “Five years!” Another strike, and warm blood ran into his eye. Cold steel wrapped around his throat.
Foriix’s burning eyes filled his world. “Stupid Dawnlander, thinking you could fight us!” Chain links rattled and a steel lynch snapped tight around his neck.
Ryle gagged, thrashed weakly. He had no energy left, he could barely move, but he clawed his right hand up and grabbed hold of the chain. The movement felt useless, but his scrambling fingers found a tiny gap. Maybe decreased the pressure a fraction.
Tiles shattered. Abaal flickered across his vision, sweeping away Lastrahn’s attacks and trying to counter.
Foriix hissed and hauled hard on the chain, while her knee held him pinned to the roof. Blackness constricted around his vision. Pressure built inside his skull. He balled up his burning left hand and slugged her in the side. He could’ve hit her with wet chaff for all the good it did, but deep below he felt a tug on the bracer about his wrist. An aching connection, tenuous but intact.
He focused on the strain in his wrist, hit her another time. And again. The tugging grew, but the motion below was impeded. He pictured the ceiling of the room below, the spot Foriix had shattered with her chain. He swung his arm widely, desperately, searching. Imagining his salvation below.
Pain shot through his fingers as her chain tightened, crushing them, but he refused to let go. How many heartbeats remained in his chest? How many moments of life?
Lastrahn roared and an instant later, Abaal crashed to the roof on Ryle’s right. Blood ran from his cheek. Dark, wet cuts crossed his chest. His eyes were tired, and scared. A small part of Ryle’s brain smiled.
Abaal scrambled to his feet. “Get him up!” he yelled.
Foriix snarled, but jerked Ryle up to his knees by his neck. New pain gouged down his spine, but the chain loosened and he sucked in a ragged painful breath. She moved behind him, seized a handful of hair and wrenched him around.
Lastrahn stood on the roof, hulking, bloodied. Cuts ran along his chest and arms, but they looked shallow and did nothing to lessen the doom he bore in his eyes, the death he carried in the gigantic sword dangling from his huge fist.
Energy sparked along Foriix, along her hand in Ryle’s hair, along the chain. Every hot touch against his skin stabbed like a searing needle.
He gasped through his abused throat and waved his left arm weakly.
“It’s over!” Abaal shouted then laid the tip of his sword against Ryle’s throat. He stiffened and tried to pull back, but Foriix kept him pressed to the razor sharp edge. Warm blood welled up under his jaw. “Once again, here we are, champion. History repeats itself, and we both know how this ended last time.”
Lastrahn frowned, rain pouring over his hair and face.
“Drop that damn sword,” Foriix said. “Or we’ll send your man after the last squire you lost.”
Ryle reacted in the only way he could. He laughed. Spams rolled up from his belly. Great, shaking, breaths. He waved his arm, kept laughing at the absurdity of the situation.
Foriix growled and shook his head in her grip. More blood ran down Ryle’s throat as Abaal’s blade pressed in. The wet chain crackled around his neck.
Then Ryle had a terrible idea. Possibly the worst of his life. It made him laugh all the harder.
Lastrahn shook his head and strode across the roof, Exequor trailing at his side.
“Stop, or his blood is on your head!” Abaal said.
Ryle coughed out another breath of laughter.
“Silence, Squirebrat!” Foriix snapped. She shook him again, and the burning crackles intensified. The muscles in his neck spasmed and burned.
Ryle swallowed against Abaal’s sword and forced out ragged words. “He doesn’t care about me.” He balled up his left fist, tensed his arms, and gathered his last pinch of strength. “I’m not even his squire.”
Foriix shot a look at Abaal. His eyes narrowed.
It was probably a stupid idea, but he didn’t have any others. Ryle breathed out, wished he could touch Casyne’s pendant one last time, and whipped both his arms up off the roof.
For an instant, pressure yanked the bones in his left arm. He gritted his teeth, and pulled through it, his wounded muscles quivered as if he lifted an enormous weight. Then the pressure vanished, the connection closed on his wrist. His burning dagger exploded up through the roof.
Foriix gasped.
Ryle grabbed the back edge of Abaal’s sword with his right hand, snatched his dagger from the air with his left, and stabbed back over his shoulder.
Blue sparks filled Ryle’s world. Pain ignited his body. Every muscle and tendon went taut at the same time. His blood boiled, his stomach heaved. His bones b
urned to the tips of his fingers.
Abaal screamed in rage as he fell.
Ryle kept his eyes open long enough to see Lastrahn stride forward, raise Exequor, and plunge it down through Abaal’s twitching chest.
Then the pain cut off and Ryle fell over on his face.
The wet tile felt wonderful against his cheek. Maybe the best thing he’d ever felt.
Don’t pass out! he screamed to himself. Not yet.
He wanted to let the darkness close in, but he wasn’t done. He fought the black at the edges of his vision, and the urge to throw up, and shoved himself up from the roof far enough to flop over and sit down hard.
He gasped in precious breaths while his eyes searched for threats. For once that night, there were none. Foriix was down and not moving. Abaal lay beside her. Ryle doubted he would escape with Exequor rising from his chest. Lastrahn stood over them, hands loose, head down, water cascading over his bloody skin.
Ryle’s stomach clenched with every movement, every joint ached, but he made himself unwind the chain from around his neck, and crawl toward the Praeters.
Foriix was dead. His dagger had plunged in under her breastbone, cleaving her heart. Bright blood stained her body. Her glassy eyes stared skyward, unblinking against the rain. He yanked his dagger free. Wavered.
This time, for his mother and all of her dead companions, he’d be blasted sure.
Ryle shoved his glowing knife through her throat until it hit roofing tiles. When she didn’t twitch and no blood sputtered forth, he jerked the blade free and staggered up beside champion.
Somehow, with a pace of steel through his chest, Abaal was still alive. He spat blood and glared up at them.
Ryle thought Lastrahn might’ve missed the mark, but one look at his master’s face told him that wasn’t true. The battered champion stared down, eyes flat and cold, pinning the Praeter to the roof, right where he wanted him.
“Stupid savage,” Abaal said. “You think killing us changes anything? We will seize what we deserve. Our Brazen Blood will still sweep across your precious land.”
Gearspire: Advent Page 37
