by Meagan Hurst
Snorting because she knew damn well both of them were perfectly willing to take things right to the death, she nevertheless accepted the blade. “Any specific plans?” she wanted to know as she went through the motions of stretching.
“Limiting ourselves too much will do neither of our tempers any favors,” Midestol pointed out. “Let us simply try to keep things civil.”
When they reached a free indoor arena, Z stiffened and Midestol’s power began to build as they spied a visitor awaiting them. “Magic only empowers him, remember,” she murmured before she put a hand on her hip and glared at Nicklyn. “What do you want?” she demanded to know.
“I thought you might be willing to spar with me,” Nicklyn replied with a lazy smile. His eyes moved past her to Midestol and he offered his former lord a nod. “Unless your grandfather disapproves?”
Midestol was furious, but she could tell curiosity was warring with that anger. “And what do you intend to accomplish?” he drawled.
“Nothing,” Nicklyn shrugged. “Z’s always going to be better than me. I would prefer to survive the match, but that’s no guarantee. She has killed me before after all.” Brown pupil-less eyes met hers and his smile softened. “If you’re up for it, former master of mine?”
She wanted to punch him in the face. Or stab him. Grumbling under her breath, she glanced at Midestol. “What do you think?” she inquired lazily.
“If you’re interested, go ahead. I can learn as much about you from watching than I can from being in the ring with you.”
Giving him a weak, black look, she nodded to Nicklyn who took Midestol’s practice sword and followed her into the middle of the arena. Z watched his movements critically. The old injury to his hip no longer affected him; his movements were fluid.
She could tell he was also evaluating her. Her immortality threw him—she could see it in the slight narrowing of his eyes. He wasn’t used to her ‘newly’ acquired skills, and he didn’t know how to counter them. What he knew of her from before was old information, and although she had old information on him as well, he had been dead—she had been alive and changing.
Still Nicklyn had never backed down before, and it didn’t appear as if he had changed. He brought his blade up with a lightning fast strike before stopping it halfway and changing to strike at her left knee. She blocked his second strike with her other foot—bringing it up to kick his blade on the flat—while she struck at the side of his head.
He managed to miss her strike by moving his head just in time, but he also leapt back with surprise. He stayed back and circled her; eyes watching for the slightest shift in her stance. Amused, she played with him by shifting her stance often. Her eyes, however, took in his movements with more ease than she’d had when he had been alive; it was an advantage immortality had gifted her, and she took full advantage of it. Her vision had a wider range than her human eyes had.
This time she moved forward to strike first. Bringing her sword toward his right side, she twisted herself away at the last instant and made a roundabout kick to his upper right hip. Her blade caught the strike he was trying to land and knocked it harmlessly aside as he staggered from the force of her kick. He recovered quickly—more quickly than he would have had he still been human—and launched himself at her with a series of strikes.
Countering them was easy. He had never been a match for her, and her transformation made it clear he was still not her match. Even holding back as much as she was, he wasn’t the challenge she needed. Frustrated, she stepped into his strike and twisted her sword as it caught his. His sword flew out of the arena as her blade came to rest at his throat.
“Sit down,” she growled. “Midestol, are you up for showing him how to fight properly?”
Her tone was ice and she saw Midestol’s brow rise in a display of apprehension. He did, however, get up from his seat to gather the sword that had landed point down in the sandy arena a good thirty feet away.
“Thank you for making sure she is in a terrible mood just for me,” Midestol told Nicklyn irritably as the two passed each other. Midestol took his spot and watched her—reading something from her or pretending to read something that wasn’t there. “Perhaps it would be wiser for you to retire?”
“I am not going to kill you.”
“Right.” Orange eyes flickered with amusement. “If you are certain,” he added with a shrug, before attacking her with speed Nicklyn couldn’t match.
It still felt slow. Knowing this, Z immediately forced herself to look for the strike that could maim or kill rather than observing how some of her talents were stronger than Midestol’s. If she focused on his speed she would make the mistake immortals made with the merely mortal: missing the critical strike that didn’t require speed to be a success. She had taught her immortal allies time and again that the reason the mortal would win against their immortal counterparts, despite being outmatched in certain areas, was because it only took one strike to be fatal.
Midestol was more of a match for her. His strikes and attacks were more cunning and less predictable than most of her opponents’. Reminding herself this was a practice, she focused on meeting his strikes—his true ones—head on, and she kept her own attacks to something he could easily match. The arena began to hold more footprints than untouched sand as Z continued to draw this out. As seasoned warriors, neither of them found an advantage in trying to speak. Neither of them gave in to attempting to taunt the other.
She had, she realized, missed this. Fighting with Nivaradros was fun, but it didn’t have the undercurrent of death that sparing—even like this—with Midestol carried. Midestol was also focused on her. She was fairly certain if the world exploded around them, he wouldn’t notice; that was their main difference. Skill-wise she was better with a sword, but he had more experience with magic and more time behind the sword than she did. He, however, had to focus on one thing at a time, while she occasionally did better when she was distracted. If the world exploded around them, she would notice.
Chapter 20
Midestol started changing things up as their match continued. The ground shifted as he pulled on some of his stolen magic. Z adjusted to the harsh and uneven footing as Midestol replaced the flawless and smooth sand that had been there before. The ground rumbled as they continued to spar, and their footing became more of a challenge as it changed continuously beneath them. Z was better at keeping her balance than Midestol, who kept stumbling as the ground moved. Z managed to absorb the motion in her stance. She had always had better balance than Midestol, even before her immortality; she had forced her balance and coordination to be on a similar level as the immortals she had been raised by. Midestol had never forced himself to equal anything. He had stolen the extra magic he had required, and his skill and natural talents had prevented him from meeting many true opponents.
A rather hard tremor struck—splitting the ground between them—and they both leapt back. Midestol landed poorly, but sent a strike of magic at her. This still was a mock battle, but it wasn’t as innocent as it had started out to be. Z whipped her sword up to meet Midestol’s strike as he leapt over the crack in the ground, but locked blades with his and pushed him back until he disengaged and sprang away from her. She didn’t press him and allowed him to recover.
Magic began to replace swords—at least magic that was directed at her. She refused to use her power, but despite his abilities with weapons of steel, Midestol was more comfortable with his magic. Exhausted by his attempts to force her into using her own power, Z redoubled her efforts into her swordsmanship. It became harder and harder for Midestol to throw spells when she continuously forced his single-task-mind to focus on her rather than on what he could send her way.
It worked until Midestol got clever and released small tendrils of fire to curl around the arena like giant snakes. Z kept her senses locked on them, but her grandfather kept pressing his advantage. Blocking him was simple enough but trying to counterattack while the ground shifted and ribbons of fire tri
ed to burn her was starting to become more of a challenge than she had wanted.
Moving to avoid the crack growing at her feet, Z accepted the burn across her ribs so she could kick out at Midestol’s left knee. She felt it pop—not break, but she hadn’t wanted it to break—and moved out of the way as Midestol fell prey to his own moving tendrils of fire. His resulting injury was far worse than hers. Bad enough she slowed her attack, grabbed his magic, and made all motions cease.
Nicklyn let out a whistle of surprise—or awe—and watched as Z moved to Midestol’s side. Midestol was clutching where the fire had struck, and Z saw blood welling between his fingers.
“I’m alright,” he insisted.
“And I’m social,” she countered with a snort. “Let me see it, Midestol.” When he refused, she crossed her arms and fixed him with a black stare. “I am really not in the mood for this dance. If that becomes infected, I am not taking pity on you on the battlefield.”
He laughed and inclined his head before removing his hand, allowing her to examine his injury. It was a pretty nasty burn—the line was deep and not particularly clean since some of his armor had been burned into it. “This is why I don’t like armor,” Z grumbled as she began to clean his injury by cutting away the badly damaged flesh. Midestol flinched on occasion but remained silent in spite of the pain she was certain he felt.
Letting her magic slowly emerge, struggling to keep it under control, Z made sure the wound sealed itself before backing away. Healing magic was starting to become even more difficult for her to use, and Z worried she would soon lose the talent completely. Once more, Nicklyn whistled and she turned away from Midestol to give him a disgusted and frustrated look.
“What?!” she snapped.
“You used to despise your magic,” he reminded her. “And healing magic…I never would have guessed.”
“I don’t use it often,” she muttered darkly. She glanced at Midestol and found he was inspecting her work with a critical eye. “If you have a complaint, voice it to someone else,” she growled. “I am not in the mood.”
“I have no complaints,” he was quick to assure her. “It is a very tidy job.” His gaze moved to Nicklyn and he exhaled shortly. “You can escort Zimliya back to her tower. I have things I must attend to.” He glanced at the rather disheveled practice arena and cringed. “I suppose I should—” he began to say, but Z beat him to it.
The cracks in the floor vanished and the ground smoothed back into one even level. Z idly glanced at her fingers while the arena finished shifting into its proper state. “Lead on, Nicklyn,” she murmured as she raised her eyes to meet his. She knew they were icy, but she was still displeased over his existence. She was growing tired of the dead coming back to do more than haunt her.
Nicklyn glanced sidelong at Midestol—who nodded—before offering her his arm. She ignored it, strolling past him stiffly. She had a feeling he planned to accompany her when she headed back to her allies; she would allow it, but not with any great delight. Nivaradros was likely to protest, but if he had an issue with it he was welcome to handle it himself. Speaking of Nivaradros…
Are you coming back soon? Nivaradros demanded. I am tempted to kill someone.
Do I want to know why?
I believe it would be better that you didn’t know, but your presence would greatly aid us. You’re injured, he added in a furious tone. Badly. I suppose it would be too much to ask for you to heal yourself.
I just healed Midestol.
Please don’t mention that to anyone else, the Dragon sighed. She could feel him check her wounds despite their distance, and she vaguely wondered how he managed it. How the stone managed it. I will show you when you get back, provided you are still willing to learn when you get here.
Scowling, she shook her head as she continued to walk—still ignoring Nicklyn. Of course. You owe me a lot of missed training sessions, she added. I intend to collect upon them soon. I miss you.
She felt his surprise which was followed by a powerful delight. I miss you as well, but you already know that. You are much more unwilling to admit your emotions than even my own race. But this time you admitted it to me. He stepped away—mentally—from her to give her space when she inwardly cringed. Do you want me to meet you outside Midestol’s lands?
No. Continue to work with the Alliance. I will be fine. If you see Shanii send him this—
He vanished when we touched dry land. I am certain he is waiting for you to emerge from under Midestol’s veil. He only tolerates the rest of us after all.
I believe he might like you.
He tolerates me at a higher level than he does anyone else, the Dragon said in amusement. He cares for you. And, at this point, Z, he truly does care. I would have thought it impossible for him to gain any sort of interest in anyone other than himself, but he has. I do not think he will survive without you.
He’d better, Z said sourly. She didn’t want to be the reason the ancient stallion decided to cease his existence. She still expected him to grow bored with her at some point and venture off. Her immortality, however, had been a welcomed change in his eyes; he’d been ecstatic over her change.
Nivaradros’s amusement was felt. You are far too hard on your allies. You still refuse to give yourself credit where credit is due—did I say that right?
Yes.
Good. Maybe when you defeat Midestol—
If I defeat Midestol.
Zimliya, you are fighting for a world; I doubt you will allow yourself to fail. Pressure enrages you, and that seems to make you a better warrior. Of course, it also makes you difficult to be around.
Knowing this was true, Z didn’t argue the point. I will try and come soon, she promised. Hopefully by the end of the day I can leave. Midestol seems to be very…supportive of my stay. But I don’t think he will protest when I tell him I am departing.
He better not.
She chuckled softly and glared at Nicklyn when he gave her a strange look. “Nothing,” she told him as they continued to walk back to her room.
Walking up the steps to her tower she glanced over her shoulder at Nicklyn and tried to keep from chewing him out for following orders. She didn’t want him around. Part of her was surprised. They’d been close before she’d been forced to kill him. Some part of her should have been happy to see him, but every time Z glanced at Nicklyn, a simmering anger was the only emotion she felt. She wondered if her feelings for Nicklyn in the past had been misleading, and her relationship with Nivaradros had revealed the difference. She would allow Nicklyn to accompany her home, but it wasn’t because of their past. She wanted to keep Nicklyn, another link to Midestol’s ally, in her sight.
He followed her into her room like a shadow and watched as she stripped out of the clothing that was soaked with sweat and the remnants of her sparring match with Midestol. If she was returning to her allies, she intended to wear her highest quality fighting clothing. If Nicklyn decided her nudity was a problem, he could leave.
Lack of clothing wasn’t his issue; her unfamiliar injuries were. “What in the hells did you do to yourself?” Nicklyn wanted to know as he came up behind her.
Whirling and grabbing a dagger from her bed, she embedded it in his shoulder. “Don’t. Do. That. Again.” Yanking the blade free, she turned back to her clothing. Dressing and packing in silence, she kept her senses tuned to his slightest movement.
“I received those a few years back,” she explained. “They have healed, and they do not impede any of my skills.”
“You cannot tell me you weren’t brought to the brink of death—again.” Nicklyn’s eyes flickered with an emotion she couldn’t pin down. Granted, she was making the effort to remain ignorant.
“I recovered.” Slinging her packs over her shoulder, Z stopped to reattach Kyi’rinn to her hip and to pick up Tresine. One day she was going to have to get a feel for the bow. Considering how much of a shock wielding Kyi’rinn had been—the whole living sword thing had taken some adjustment—she suspec
ted the bow would provide the same types of challenges. Hopefully this time it would be easier for her to accept the weapon would have a personality and a firm opinion of its targets. If that was one of Tresine’s attributes. Not all magically augmented and immortally crafted weapons had personalities. Kyi’rinn was known to be the most…opinionated toward those who even touched it; Nivaradros was the first being other than her to be able to carry it without being attacked or annihilated.
Tresine had at least allowed someone else to bring it to her, but she had no idea whether or not that was a onetime event. She wouldn’t have put it past the bow to have grown tired of waiting and to have chosen someone to move it to a better location. Or, if Shalion was correct, the bow had sought her out and used people to get close to her. Until she had touched the bow, Tresine would have been unable to move to her location. Since she had been carrying it, she suspected the bow would be able to transport itself to her side if it chose.
She could think of three cases where Kyi’rinn’s desire to relocate to her side had almost caused a disaster. Two of those times it had appeared—unsheathed—at her side during a formal meeting with an immortal ruler she had just been getting acquainted with. Trying to explain that yes it was her sword, but no she had not summoned it, while swords had been drawn on her, hadn’t been enjoyable. The Islierre, at least, now found that event highly amusing. Zyrhis’s father, however, had never really forgiven her for Kyi’rinn’s appearance, and she was certain that had been one of the memories Midestol had pulled forward when he had somehow managed to gain control of the former Syallibion ruler. However, the third time it had appeared was arguably the worst. Z had been in the middle of a battle while using an inferior blade and Kyi’rinn had not only appeared, but since she hadn’t known the sword’s capabilities—or had any control over it at the time—the sword had decided to react violently on the battlefield when it landed point first in the ground five feet from her. The crater that had resulted from that arrival had caused her mortal allies to be skittish around her for months.
