Steel's Edge te-4

by Ilona Andrews

  The Grand Thane planted his feet.

  Richard backed out of the room into the hallway.

  White streaks of lightning clutched at the Grand Thane’s hair. An enormous magical pressure built around him, winding about the old man like a cocoon streaked with radiant veins of power. Shit.

  People at the front tables scrambled away.

  “We have to go!” Jack jumped up.

  “No need,” Lady Olivia said.

  A whip of white lightning shot from Brennan at the Grand Thane’s chest and bounced off. He’d actually tried to kill his own grandfather.

  “I began you,” the Grand Thane thundered. “I will end you, whelp!”

  He opened his arms, his palms up. A brilliant ball of coiled magic spun between them.

  “Stay close to me, children,” Lady Olivia said.

  Kaldar popped up between the tables and dashed over to them.

  A wall of white sheathed Brennan.

  The pressurized cocoon of magic tore. A torrent of power ripped out of the Grand Thane. The flash explosion smashed into Brennan.

  Kaldar landed between Jack and George. George braced for the blast wave. His flash shield was strong, but he wasn’t sure it would hold.

  A sphere of white unfolded from Lady Olivia, encasing the table. Around them, tables flew back, as if slapped by a giant’s hand. The duchess sipped from her cup.

  The sphere melted.

  The walls of the side room had disappeared. A colossal hole gaped in the side of the castle. Angelia lay on the floor. Rene was crouched against a sidewall. Brennan stood, unharmed. He’d shielded himself and Rene, who’d hidden directly behind him.

  Brennan unsheathed his blade. “Is that it, old man? That’s all?”

  No more magic. It must’ve taken all of Brennan’s power to shield himself.

  The Grand Thane had no sword.

  Brennan struck, a fast overhand blow. His sword gleamed in the sun and clanged against Richard’s blade. It wasn’t Casside’s rapier but Richard’s own sword.

  Richard’s jacket was gone. He wore a loose white shirt. Tiny red dots marked Richard’s face and hands. Blood, George realized. Richard’s flash screen was weak. He had managed to block enough of the Grand Thane’s explosion to survive the blast, but it had cost him, and now he was bleeding from every pore. They called it flash punch, a sure sign that his magic was expended—and so was Brennan’s. Without their magic, if they fought now, it would be down to sword against sword.

  Brennan’s eyes bulged. “Casside, what the hell are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”

  “I’m not Casside.” Richard glanced at the Grand Thane, a question obvious on his face. The old noble pondered him for a moment.

  Let him do this, George willed. He needs this.

  “You have my permission,” the Grand Thane rumbled.

  Richard stepped between the old man and Brennan.

  To the left, Charlotte jumped to her feet and stood utterly still.

  Brennan stepped back, raising his sword. It was a plain, functional sword of a simple but brutal design that had served Brennans for centuries, carving their path to the throne. It had a thirty-five-and-a-half-inch double-edged blade, sharp and polished to a satin smoothness; a ten-inch hilt with a seven-and-a-half-inch grip, wrapped in plain leather cord that allowed Brennan to wield the sword one- or two-handed; a round pommel and cross-guard. George had held a sword like that before, made by the same smith—Declan had it in his armory. The balance of the blade was at five and a half inches, and it weighed about two and a half pounds, a combination that made the sword nimble despite its size. Holding it in his hand had made him feel indestructible.

  Richard’s sword was single-edged and curved ever so slightly. It was razor-sharp, weighed only a pound, with a twenty-five-and-a-half-inch blade, and a four-inch grip. Brennan’s sword was ten inches longer, a pound heavier, but also slower, a powerful butcher blade to Richard’s sleek scalpel.

  Brennan slashed to the right, aiming for Richard’s right side, just below the ribs. Richard moved to parry, but instead of following through, Brennan reversed the strike and lashed at Richard’s left. Richard brought his sword across, point down, meeting Brennan’s blade just in time. Brennan was testing for speed, George realized.

  “If you’re not Casside, then who are you?”

  “You call me Hunter.”

  Brennan struck again, the sword dancing in his hand. Right slash, left slash, right slash, left. The swords rang from each other. Richard moved back under the onslaught, his movements short, economical. Brennan drove him across the room. Blades flashed, Richard moved a touch too slow, and the point of Brennan’s sword grazed his shoulder. Blood swelled across the white sleeve. Damn it.

  “No!” Jack growled.

  “It’s just a paper cut. He’s fine.” First blood was to Brennan. Not a good sign. George’s pulse rose. Richard couldn’t lose. He simply couldn’t lose this fight.

  The two men circled each other like two predators stalking. Richard, a lean wolf, and Brennan, a pampered tiger.

  “Why?” Brennan asked.

  “You profit from the sale of human beings.”

  “A true believer, then.” Brennan bared his teeth. “And who are you to judge me?”

  “Just a man,” Richard said.

  Brennan grasped the sword in both hands and struck, bringing it in a circular motion across Richard’s chest. Richard moved back, and the sword whistled past his shirt. Brennan reversed the swing and struck diagonally down. Richard parried, deflecting the blow with the flat of his blade. Steel rang. Richard staggered back. Brennan was bigger and at least thirty pounds heavier, all of it solid muscle. George knew Richard had ungodly stamina, but the flash punch had clearly taken its toll.

  Brennan swung again, a high, horizontal cut. Richard parried in a clamor of steel. They crossed swords again and again, blocking with the flats of their blades. Brennan grunted and hammered at Richard, blow after blow, sinking his enormous strength into it. Richard was backing away, staggered by the hits. George clenched his fists. Get out of there. He’s going to pin you against the wall. Get out.

  “He’s just beating on him,” Jack squeezed through his teeth. “He isn’t using any technique at all.”

  “He decided Richard was too damaged to survive a long fight. He wants to end it fast.”

  Brennan was familiar with all the techniques of proper swordplay—and knew all the tricks as well. Members of his family received expert instruction in the martial arts from early childhood. George hadn’t been allowed to start practicing until he was nine. At his age, Brennan had already been learning swordplay for six years. He was banking on his raw power now. This wasn’t a duel; this was a fight to the death, fast and brutal. Only one would walk away, and Richard looked desperate.

  Brennan cut Richard’s right shoulder. Another graze. Damn it. George hid a growl. He wanted to run out there on the floor and finish this.

  Jack tensed next to him, gathering himself like a cat before a pounce.

  “Don’t you dare,” the duchess said. Hearing her voice was like getting a bucket of ice water dumped on him. George recoiled.

  “This isn’t your fight. You must stay out of it.”

  Brennan slammed his shoulder into Richard, shoving him back. Richard crashed into the wall.

  Get out, get out, get out . . .

  Brennan thrust. Richard knocked his blade aside and spun left, breaking free.

  Brennan pulled a dagger from the sheath on his belt. The brute assault had failed. He was going for the smarter plan now. Brennan cut from the right. Richard deflected the blade, and Brennan slashed his hand with the dagger, flinging blood into the air.

  Argh!

  Richard spun and thrust. Brennan knocked the blade aside and carved at the inside of Richard’s forearm. The sword hand was vital. One cut in the right place, and Richard would lose mobility, strength, or his sword altogether. Brennan was taking him apart piece by piece. Richard look
ed like he was on his last breath. He was slowing down. His shirt was crimson with blood.

  Another cut. Damn it all to hell.

  Brennan sensed weakness, like a shark senses blood in the water. He slashed in a wide, horizontal cut, left to right. Richard leaned back with sudden speed. The sword sliced empty air. Richard clamped his left hand on Brennan’s sword wrist. Brennan lunged with the dagger, striving to drive it into Richard’s throat. Richard ducked under the blow and rammed the pommel of his sword under Brennan’s chin. Blood spilled from Brennan’s mouth. He jerked back, and Richard sliced across the inside of his left biceps. Brennan dropped the dagger and stumbled back. “Who are you?” he gasped.

  “I’m an Edger, a nobody. You preyed on my people, so I took it all away from you. I killed your crews, I destroyed your island, I misled you into thinking Maedoc was a traitor. The pieces of your kingdom are crashing down around you because I made it happen.”

  Brennan growled, spitting blood. “I’ll kill you, you piece of Edge shit.”

  “You’ll never rule,” Richard snarled back. “You’re unfit.”

  Brennan lunged into a furious melee. His sword shone, slicing in wide arcs: left, right, left. Richard deflected. Brennan head-butted him. Richard scoured Brennan’s side. They clashed again, bloodied, focused only on each other. The ringing of steel on steel was like a heartbeat.

  Brennan made another slash at Richard’s neck. All his blows were above the chest, George realized. Enemy fixation. He had heard about it but had never seen it. In this moment, Brennan hated Richard so much that he was unable to look away from his face. All his cuts were designed to chop Richard’s head off.

  Richard spun out of the way and hammered a kick into Brennan’s side. The bigger man took a step back. The point of his sword drooped. Tired! He was tired. The blade was slow to come up.

  Brennan exhaled, blood bubbling on his lips, and charged. Richard let him come and slashed at Brennan’s stomach in a lightning cut.

  Brennan stumbled, clamping his arm to his stomach, trying to hold his guts inside. Richard paced back and forth, stalking him like a lean, hungry wolf hounding a lame bear. The bigger man tried to straighten. Richard dropped down, almost to his knees, and sliced across Brennan’s legs, left-right, his sword blurring.

  Brennan staggered. The fabric of his pants split, showing crisscrossing cuts. Blood swelled. He growled and sank to his knees. Richard hammered a knee to his face. Brennan toppled over. Richard flicked the blood off his sword with a sharp jerk and looked at Charlotte.

  She still stood at the table, so pale, she looked bloodless. Slowly, Richard raised his sword in a kind of salute.

  The Grand Thane boomed. “Someone, take out this garbage.”

  Celire appeared, backed by half a dozen guards. They swarmed Brennan. Three swords pointed at Richard.

  “Not him,” the Great Thane said. “He can go.”

  Richard bowed his head. The guards parted, and he strode toward them.

  “A disgrace.” Erwin said. George turned. The spy was standing at their table. He looked a lot less like Lorameh and very much like Erwin. Some sort of magic had to be at work here. He would have to get to the bottom of it.

  “Erwin?” Kaldar peered at him. “You’re Lorameh?”

  “Yes, I am. What part of back off was unclear to you? I have sat on Brennan for ten months, building my case so I can bring him in quietly, without scandal and embarrassment to the realm.” Erwin raised his arm, indicating the wrecked dining hall. “This is exactly what I was trying to avoid.”

  Richard reached them. “Where is Charlotte?”

  George glanced at Charlotte’s table. It was empty. Charlotte was gone. So was Sophie—and so was Spider.

  “She was just here,” he said.

  “Jack!” Richard barked.

  “I’m on it.” Jack dashed through the dining hall, crouched at the table, inhaled and pointed to the doorway. “Right hallway.”

  Richard sprinted across the hall.

  * * *

  “MY lord!” Sophie called out.

  Spider stopped and turned. He was midway through the gardens, and as he spun on his foot to face her, the gorgeous flowerbeds framed him. He seemed an elegant painting, drenched in sunlight. She let the dog off the leash.

  “What are you doing here, Sophie?”

  “I was scared when the screaming started,” she said. “I ran out and saw you walking away.”

  He raised his hand, inviting her to walk next to him. She caught up, and, together, they strolled down the winding path. The dog ran sideways to investigate some flowers.

  “I see you brought your dog. Have you finally settled on a name?”

  “Yes. I think we should call him Callis.”

  “After the Grand Thane?” Spider smiled.

  “They have the same type of rough dignity. Where are you going?”

  The stiff blade of her short sword, the only weapon that could be hidden in her dress, was warm against her thigh. Roses bloomed on both sides of the path, pink, dark red, and cream, their velvet petals sending a refined perfume into the air.

  “I came here to disrupt this wedding,” he said.

  “But why? Don’t you like the Marchesa?”

  “I do. I’m very fond of her, in fact. She is a beautiful example of the best noble blood has to offer. But I’m a patriot, my dear. And sometimes the needs of my country conflict with my personal likes.”

  “I understand,” she said. “Duty.” He wasn’t a monster by choice, oh no. He was a patriot. The only difference between a common psychotic sadistic murderer and Spider was he had Louisiana’s mandate to be one.

  “Yes.” Spider nodded. “The Marchesa has great land holdings. It wasn’t in our best interests to let those lands fall under Adrianglian influence. I was planning something quite spectacular. But a true professional knows when he is beaten. They have created such a glorious chaos on their own, I can’t possibly contribute anything else to it. It’s time for me to walk off the stage.”

  He stopped. They stood in the very center of the garden, where the path formed a ring.

  “I very much enjoyed your company. You’re very intelligent,” Spider said. “You have the ability to reason and keep an open mind. If you develop ambition, it will carry you far. I wish you the best of luck, my dear. I will keep an eye on you if I can. I’m interested to see how far you will go.”

  “How does one develop ambition?”

  He tilted his head. “Have you ever wanted something? Something you know you can’t have? Something that is your heart’s desire?”

  “Of course.”

  “Convince yourself that you should have it. Realize that it is yours by the right of your might or intelligence or simple desire. Reach for it and take it. Do you understand?”

  Oh, she understood. She understood quite well.

  “Farewell.” He turned away. He was about to walk out of the garden. She might never get another opportunity like this.

  “Lord Sebastian?”

  “Yes?”

  She sank her hand into the hidden fold of her skirt. “Would you like to know what my heart’s desire is?”

  Spider turned to her, a light smile on his lips. “Very well. What is it, sweetheart?”

  She thrust her knife into his chest, stretching the flash across the blade in a tiny fraction of a second.

  Spider gasped.

  She clamped him to her and tore the blade through his innards, mincing soft organ tissue. Blood poured from Spider’s lips, his face stunned with disbelief.

  “It’s to watch you die, you piece of shit,” she said. “You fused my mother.”

  He lunged forward, impaling himself deeper on the blade. His hand clamped her throat, squeezing it in a steel grasp. Her air vanished. Don’t panic. Whatever you do, don’t panic.

  “Sophie Mar, I take it.” His voice was a ragged, inhuman growl. His eyes bored into her. The world was fading into darkness. “Well played, my little one. Well playe
d.”

  She freed the sword with a sharp tug. The air in her lungs boiled.

  “You have no idea how much I loathe your family.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw a black blur dart across the grass. Callis rammed Spider and clamped his teeth on his right forearm, adding his hundred pounds to Sophie’s weight. Spider groaned. His fingers opened, releasing her throat. She fell and landed into a crouch, gasping for air. She needed to move, but her body refused to do anything but breathe, wasting precious seconds.

  Callis snarled, pulling at Spider, trying to yank him off his feet. With his left hand, Spider jerked a blade from the sheath at his waist and bashed the dog over the head. Callis growled. Spider sank his blade into the dark fur of Callis’s back, and it came out crimson.

  No! You don’t get to kill my dog! Her legs finally obeyed. She sprang up, sword raised, and slashed across his ribs. Why in the world wasn’t he dead? What if he couldn’t die?

  He kicked Callis aside. The dog dropped to the ground with a vicious snarl and tried to lunge.

  “No! Mine,” she told him.

  Spider laughed. “Let’s see what you’re capable off.” He struck. He was fast, so fast; he might have been almost as fast as Richard.

  She parried and slashed at his shoulder, cutting a gash in his doublet. Blood swelled. Not deep enough. Her sword was too short. He sliced at her in a vicious, horizontal cut. She had no way to dodge to the side, so she bent back. Pain seared her just under the collarbone. The tip of his blade had cut across the exposed top of her chest. Blood poured onto her gown. As he finished the strike, she grasped his wrist with her left hand and sliced across his chest. The flash-sharpened blade cut through his ribs.

  Spider snarled. He was still standing.

  “Not good enough, Sophie Mar.”

  “Good enough for you. You don’t get to take anything else from me.”

  He laughed.

  “Die.” She cut him again. “Die, die, die!”

  He stumbled back and kept laughing.

  She slashed at him again and again, becoming a whirlwind, her blade an extension of her, bound to her by her magic. She cut him again and again, oblivious to the wounds she took.