Fire And Steel (The Merryweather Chronicles Book 2)

by Lesley Woodral

  Sha'ha'Zel flung himself sideways, batting at the fireball with one hand to try and deflect it. The fire smashed into his sword, engulfing his arm up to the elbow, and the Curse hit the ground rolling. Beating at the mud, to quench the flames, the Curse came to his feet fast and hurled himself at Brandon.

  Brandon was back on his feet, as well, his wounds mostly healed. The Phoenix burned like a sun in his fist. Power filled every ounce of him, making him tremble with the sheer force of it. He knew it had to be directed somewhere, else he would be consumed by it. Meeting the Curse's attack head-on, he slid beneath a blow that would have split his face in two and came up, twisting the Phoenix in a hard circle, severing two of the demon's arms at the elbows. The Phoenix's living flame cauterized the wounds, leaving the stumps charred and smoking.

  Falling back with a sound somewhere between a hiss and a scream, Sha'ha'Zel stumbled. Brandon followed, pushing his attack. Battering aside the remaining two swords and forcing the Curse back, step by step. The wounded demon blinked blood from his red eyes and snarled as he worked his remaining swords, defending against the Phoenix.

  Thunder rattled Brandon's teeth and rain pounded onto them from the heavy clouds above, feeding strength into his arms and legs, and searing the Curse's black flesh. Bits of its skin fell into the mud underfoot, sloughing off of the raw and infected looking muscle beneath. Yellowish pus and inky streamers of blood streaked the muscle, washing away in the downpour.

  The ground beneath the two warriors was a churning lake of blood, melting snow, and freezing cold mud. Brandon kept his footing, as if on concrete, working the Phoenix like a master swordsman. He couldn't take all the credit, he knew. The blade sometimes moved as if it had a mind of its own, intercepting Sha'ha'Zel's attacks and battering past his defenses. Long, seared cuts now decorated the creature's chest and arms. Flames licked at the cracks in its skin, black smoke boiling out into the rain.

  Falling back, the Curse hissed and hurled one of its remaining blades at Brandon's head. Brandon batted the blade out of the air, sending it spinning out into the night, and ducked under Sha'ha'Zel's final slashing attack. Snapping the Phoenix up, he severed the Curse's hand at the wrist and, in the same swift motion, spun and lopped off the demon's head.

  There was a moment of startled understanding in the Curse's eyes as the Phoenix swung in its glittering arc. The slightest shock of impact in Brandon's wrist was all that told him that he'd struck true. Then the head fell. It hit the ground, splashing in the sludge underfoot, and Sha'ha'Zel's wide eyed look of flabbergasted surprise mirrored the feeling that exploded inside of Brandon.

  The headless body stumbled sideways, lashing out with its severed limbs, and collapsed onto the soggy ground. The effect of the rain on the Curse's remains was powerful and immediate. Melting as if floating in a vat of acid, skin and muscle boiled off of cracked and strange looking bones. The bones lasted no better, crumbling away in a matter of seconds. Until not a trace of Sha’ha’Zel, the Walking Curse, remained.

  The rain slowed, then stopped. Brandon didn't know how long he stood there, staring at the place where the Curse had fallen, but he gave a slight start when Claire touched his elbow.

  "Is it over?" Her voice was loud in the sudden silence of the night. "Is it really dead?"

  Brandon looked at her. Her face was a pale oval in the darkness, the dark eye patch a sharp contrast to the paleness of her skin. The Phoenix put out a soft radiance, the blade no longer wreathed in flame, but not enough to truly see in the shadows. The glow emanated from within the weapon. "Yes. He's dead." He looked up at Highgarden, looming over them. The house was dark and silent, with the neglected air of a place long empty. Something was missing. Gone from the place. He said, hating how loud he sounded. "The magic is gone."

  Claire didn't say anything. She dropped the two axes, the blades burying themselves in the mud, and looked at her blood stained hands. Glancing at the ground, near the deck, she saw what she needed. Taking Brandon by the hand, she lead him carefully around the place where Sha'ha'Zel melted away, and approached the deck and the broken circle. The engraved rock lay on the ground a few feet from the house. Leaving Brandon beside the circle, she went and retrieved it. It was heavier than it looked, not really a rock at all. It hefted more like lead. Or gold?

  Walking slowly back to the circle, she knelt and fitted the stone back into the hollow from which it was removed. It went in like a tooth slipping into its socket. Still kneeling, she looked up at the house. Nothing changed. Pursing her lips, she looked at Brandon and sighed. “You have to do it, I think.”

  Brandon tapped the Phoenix against his leg absently, enjoying the warmth of it through his soaked jeans. His body was still warm all over. Even his feet, though the mud he stood in was beginning to freeze again. At least, he hoped that it was mud. He frowned at her words and said. “What do you mean?”

  Claire said. “You have to light the candles.” She pointed at the sword in his hand. “With that, I think.”

  Brandon looked down at the Phoenix for a long moment before meeting her gaze and nodding.

  Claire watched him, not needing to be told that an interruption now was the last thing that he needed. She wasn't sure what she was saying, but she knew she was right. Magic filled the air, no matter what Brandon thought. She could feel it touching the skin of her face and arms, like the ghost of a spider web on the wind. Her mind still reeled from the last 15 minutes of her life, if it was even that long since she met Albert by the road. It felt like years since she left her house. When she looked at Brandon, she worried, but she also felt a fierce pride and an even fiercer love for him. He'd won a great victory tonight. He'd revenged himself on his parent's killer and saved them both from a bloody destiny that had seemed unavoidable just the day before.

  But the night wasn't finished.

  Not yet.

  Not understanding how Claire knew what he needed to do, Brandon stepped into the circle and stood straight and tall in its center. Moving on instinct, he raised the Phoenix straight overhead. The sword caught the moonlight, reflecting and redoubling the light until it was burning as bight as a star. The sword's hilt grew hot, hotter than a griddle under his fingers, and Brandon clenched his teeth against the growing pain.

  When the pain reached its crescendo, when it seemed he should drop the sword or be burned alive for it, Brandon twisted the Phoenix in his fist and drove its tip deep into the ground. Flame bubbled up around the blade where it pierced the earth and broke away, spider webbing across the circle. The flames caressed his bare feet but didn't harm him. The candles forming the circle burst into life and Brandon felt something kindle deep inside of his chest. His body felt flushed.

  Dropping to his knees, Brandon felt his hand pull away from the Phoenix's hilt as he collapsed. The last thing that he saw, as the world was swallowed by darkness, was Claire, rushing forward to try and catch him.

  Chapter 36

  Brandon opened his eyes and saw his father's face looking at him from a chipped and warped mirror. Stephen was young, younger than Brandon was now, and his hair hung down over his eyes, curly and dark. Brandon floated inside his father's head, as with his grandfather before, and all he could do was watch and listen.

  Stephen stood in a room of plain dressed stone. There was one window, tightly shuttered, and a small fireplace in the corner, throwing off a little warmth. The room smelled of smoke and spiced wine. Against one wall was a narrow bed, with what looked like a straw mattress. One thin blanket and no pillows. A cloudy lamp stood on a plain wooden table beside the bed. There was a leather bundle beside the table. It looked like a duffel bag, only made different. Other than Stephen(and Brandon) there was nobody else in the room.

  The mirror hung on one of the stone walls, off of a steel bolt screwed into the rough stone. The room was the most simple and enchanting room that Brandon had ever seen. Stephen had seen much better, though. Sighing, he walked over to the bed and tossed his cloak on top of the lumpy mattress. The s
traw wouldn't bother him too badly under the heavy wool, he hoped.

  There was knock on the room's door and it opened, letting in a tall man that Brandon didn't immediately recognize. He was a big man, broad in the chest, with a bluff, square jawed face. Iron gray hair was clipped short on his head and his eyes were like stormclouds, little chips of gray ice. He smiled when he saw Stephen. It was an engaging smile. Intelligent and just a little bit mischievous. When he spoke, his voice was hauntingly familiar. "Well, lad, it looks that I've finally caught up with you. Are you finished running? Your mother is sick with worry."

  Had he been in control of the body his mind rested in, Brandon might have fallen in shock. As it was, Stephen went stiff and his head turned, as if seeking some sort of escape route. When he found no way to go but forward, he squared his shoulders and said. "I had no wish to worry mother, but you cannot stop me becoming a man, father. Not now. I've lain with a woman and, come tomorrow, I'll have fought my first duel."

  Brandon's grandfather chuckled and closed the door behind him. "If you lay with one of those wenches downstairs, I hope you threw your seed onto her belly. Otherwise, there'll be a gray eyed bastard cleaning the floors of this inn after you’re dead and gone. A whore's embrace doesn't make you a man, my son. No more than putting your sword through some braggart's gut. Now, sit down before I knock you down." He pointed at the bed. Though his tone was jovial, his face could have broken rocks. And the anger wasn't the worst part. It was the disappointment that Brandon saw in the man's eyes. It cut him as much as it did Stephen.

  Stephen hesitated for only a moment before sitting. He looked at his father and said. "Why do you hold me back, father? Why do you keep me from my birthright?" His hands barely shook as he adjusted the sword digging at his hip. The sword he'd never had a chance to use.

  "Do you think that I'll think less of you if you never kill a man?" The King crossed the room and sat on the bed beside his son. He was a big man, much bigger from the outside than in, Brandon thought wearily. He was older than the last time Brandon saw him, when he taught him about the gods in a dream. Gone was the long red beard. Brandon was as riveted by his grandfather's hawk-eyed gaze as his father was. "That I love your brother more, for the blood he's spilled?"

  "Don't you?" Stephen said, his voice pained. He looked down, staring at his hands, resting in his lap. Brandon couldn't help but be amazed at how smooth his father's hands looked, compared to his own. They were a child's hands. Stephen said. "Thomas is the better son. He is the warrior."

  The older man squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. He looked pained and sounded it as he said. "If I could create a world where one man could live his life without killing a single soul, I would do it." There was something in his voice when he said this. Had he emphasized world? "But that's not the world we live in, son. Men do as they do and one old man cannot change them. But I can change my son. It's your heart that makes you a man, not killing some fool or bedding a wench. In my eyes, at least."

  Stephen was silent for a moment. He stood and walked across the room, then turned back to his father. He said. "What would you have me do, father? Hide behind mother's skirt? What kind of man would that make me? What kind of king?"

  The king stood, wincing a bit. Perhaps an ache in his joints? Maybe an old wound? Walking across the room, he stopped in front of Stephen and placed his hands on the younger man's shoulders. His face softened. He said. "It would make you a king of peace. The first true king that this land has ever known." His eyes became stone once more. "Now, on your oath, I want you to promise that you will give up this idea of dueling to earn your sword. You will work at honing your mind, not your muscles. Give it now, or leave my sight forever, for no true son will disobey the will of his father." His grip on Stephen's shoulders had become painful, almost crushing. Brandon felt like crying out. So did Stephen.

  But, instead, Brandon's father simply took a knee and bowed his head. He spoke, his voice as hard and uncompromising as Brandon had ever heard it. "On my oath and my blood, and my hope of salvation from the gods, I swear to raise no hand in violence. Whether in the defense of my life or the life of my loved ones. In the god's names, I swear it."

  After the words were spoken, Stephen tried to meet his father's eyes but couldn't. Instead, he looked at his feet and said. "Father.."

  "Ask not why, my son." The king said, pulling Stephen to his feet. He looked at Stephen with sad eyes. Lost eyes. He pursed his lips and looked around the small room. "Gather your things. You have ten minutes, then we're leaving." Turning, the older man left the room.

  Before the door could swing shut behind the king, Thomas came inside and used a boot to kick it closed. Before Stephen could react, his older brother grabbed him by the throat and tossed him across the room, slamming him into the wall. The mirror crashed to the floor, the glass exploding around Stephen. Brandon felt Stephen's pain. His shoulder was wrenched and a lump was forming on the back of his head. He could also feel Stephen's fear. He had never before seen Thomas so angry.

  Thomas looked much like their father, only with reddish brown hair, instead of gray. He had a thick beard that left his upper lip bare. He was 10 years older than Stephen. Of the king's 4 sons, he and Stephen were they only ones still living. They had two younger sisters, even younger than Stephen, both married into houses that were strong for their father.

  Stephen attempted to push up off of the floor, but Thomas used the toe of his boot to push him back into the wall, bouncing his head off of the stone wall. Kneeling in front of the younger man, Thomas peered into his frightened face. His eyes were chips of blue gray ice. When he spoke, his voice was calm, though, almost thoughtful. "Did he tell you why?" When Stephen didn't answer right away, Thomas shook his head and twisted his mouth like he wanted to spit. "I don't see as I should tell you then. Not if he didn't see the need. Besides, I don't think you deserve to know."

  "Please, Thomas." Stephen said, unable to keep the pleading note from his voice. "Tell me."

  Riding inside of his father's head, Brandon knew what the bearded man was going to say before the words left the his mouth. "Our house is cursed, little brother. As bad a curse as ever conjured by man or devil."

  "What? What sort of curse?" But he didn't really have to ask. Stephen knew, Brandon realized. He could already feel the icy fingers of the curse, wrapping around his soul, settling into his bones. He'd felt it for days, not knowing what it was, a growing feeling of dread, filling his chest. He knew, but he still had to hear the words.

  "Sha'ha'Zel." Thomas said. His words were as cold as forged iron, his eyes were ice. Standing to his full height, he loomed over his little brother. For a heartbeat, his eyes looked a little less hard. Almost uneasy. He blinked and his face hardened. "Already, word is reaching the keep at Fal'Mara. Cousins have died. Found dead in their bedchambers. Hacked to pieces. All men grown. All with the Merryweather name. Our line is dead, Stephen. As dead as the rest of the Storm Lords." He almost sounded resigned to it. Dying.

  Stephen got to his feet. He met Thomas's gaze, stare for stare. Thomas eyed Stephen wearily, as if he was afraid Brandon's father would go against their father's wishes and attack him. Stephen said. "We can fight the Curse, Thomas." Stephen brushed dust from his pants and met Thomas's gaze evenly. He wasn't going to back down on this. Not when he was in the right. And he was in the right. Brandon knew it. When Stephen spoke, his voice echoed Brandon's thoughts. "Just because nobody has ever survived a Walking Curse, doesn't mean it isn't possible. But only if we fight. And not lay down and die like superstitious peasants. Not for some wrongheaded belief in old magic."

  Thomas's smile was sharp, full of teeth. "No, little brother." He said, his voice cold. "Not we. You aren't fighting anybody. Not you and not the bastard you might have whelped tonight."

  Stephen wanted to smash the smile from Thomas's face. Brandon felt the same urge. Instead, Stephen gathered his belongings. He threw his cloak around his shoulders and started to adjust the sword at his h
ip, then stopped. He met his brother's gaze and said. "You can give up, brother. But I choose to fight."

  Moving faster than Stephen believed possible(even faster than Gerrick could move, Brandon realized with a sick feeling), Thomas lunged at Stephen, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him up off of his feet. Pulling the younger man's face closer to his own, Thomas snarled. "You'll do as you swore. You will do as our father ordered. You will live. Or I'll kill you myself."

  Stephen shoved his brother backwards, using strength that he hadn't realized he had, and dropped his hand to the pommel of his sword. Thomas's eyes went wide and his own hand dropped. But Stephen only shook his head. He said, his tone cool. "I'm braver than you, Thomas. I always have been. And you couldn't stand it." Unbuckling his sword belt, he tossed belt, sword, and all onto the bed. "Maybe somebody will find a use for it. I sure as hell didn't." He left the room without looking back.

  Chapter 37

  The sun slanted into Brandon's room through his half open window blinds, painting his bedroom gold and warming him where he lay. He opened his eyes slowly and stared up at his ceiling for a long time, thinking of the dreams and visions of his father and all that had happened since Christmas Eve. Highgarden was quiet. Even the tiny ever present sounds every house have were muted, the creak of warming wood and the hum of appliances.

  Sitting up, he looked at the clock on his bedside table and blinked. Half past 9. He'd slept longer than he intended. Getting out of bed, he ran through his morning routine of 100 pushups and sit-ups. Even with Gerrick gone, it never occurred to him to stop. Even with the Curse defeated and Gerrick gone, he knew that he wasn’t finished fighting. Not until he’d hunted down every last grohlm infesting Matheson. Besides, he liked how he felt after working out. It was too late to go out back and work the sword, so he contented himself with the sit-ups and push-ups. Once he was pleasantly worn out, he took a long hot shower.