by Meagan Hurst
He turned and met her eyes. Reading her thoughts, he moved to gather his things. She was surprised that he didn’t dismiss what she wanted and instead seemed more than ready to fight her. Now. She waited as he handed over the reins of his command to those to whom he had awarded some power before he joined her.
“Lead on,” he commanded.
Leaving his troops behind, Z send one final call to Nivaradros before sending a message to her Rangers as well—two messages in all truth, but one was for the Rangers and one was for the rest of her army. They would be on their own once she crossed worlds with Midestol, and she would be unable to aid them. But as long as Midestol was with his forces, his army would make good time and likely arrive and pass Thryisa before hers was in place. If she left today with Midestol, his army would lose time—and possibly lives—giving Nivaradros enough time to arrive in the kingdom she wanted him to fight from.
They walked in silence for several hours back the way they had ridden. Midestol made no move to harm her, but she kept an eye on him. Likewise she could feel him keeping an eye on her, but that was more of an insult to her than anything; she wasn’t about to just attack him. She didn’t plan to fight him from anywhere that her world could be endangered.
Finally they reached the small rise of stones they had passed at midday. Making a beeline for them, she found Midestol fell instep beside her. “You plan to pull us from the world, do you not?”
“I do.”
“I will not allow it,” he warned. And he meant that as she could feel him starting to pull his magic in an attempt to prevent her from gaining control. But that’s all it was, an attempt.
“You do not have a choice.”
Yanking them both through the world, Z knew she caused Midestol pain despite his lack of sound. She knew she was likewise injured, but he had tried to fight her, and the result had been that she wielded more magic on her part. She didn’t take them to the shadows; not yet. Instead when her vision cleared, she found herself standing on a familiar world and knew Midestol was also aware of where they were. It was one of his. A world he had already succeeded in conquering.
And yet, she had placed them too far from a portal, if he planned to survive her. Drawing Kyi’rinn, Z eyed Midestol as they backed away from each other. They were standing on the mountain Z had flattened the top of during a disagreement with Midestol in the past. It gave them a fighting ring about a mile long in each direction and as it wasn’t her world, Z was unconcerned about the consequences of any magic they used.
Midestol also drew his sword. The glow that had barely been visible through its sheath was more than visible now. Coils of power ran along the blade’s edge and its flat pulsed with power. Kyi’rinn, however, wasn’t powerless either; it was simply a sword that was more subtle and less prone to expose its power in any manner that wasn’t a strike.
“Interesting world choice,” Midestol said through clenched teeth. It was clear her ability to circumvent his spell had resulted in a painful backlash to him. Too damn bad. This was war and she had to put feelings aside. Plus if he’d had her abilities, he would have done the same thing to her.
“I have no interest in seeing this world survive. It’s far too lost to make the attempt.” Z shifted into a fighting stance, but watched him. “Are you ready or do you need a few more minutes?”
“I’d like an hour if you are inclined to wait.”
Z shrugged and slid Kyi’rinn back into its sheath. “Let me know when you’re ready to fight.”
Time passed slowly enough that Z grew irritated. Walking the area she had chosen to challenge him upon, she let her mind wander while her senses alerted her to everything Midestol did; every movement, and every breath he took. The dread she had been feeling for years had vanished, and Z was more than ready for this fight. The outcome would either be of her choosing or of his, but it almost didn’t matter. She would give her all—she had to. Midestol would be fighting for keeps as much as she would, and her usual manner of fighting would only endanger her.
Behind her, Midestol finally stood. Turning to face him Z sighed. “Ready?”
“I’d like to set some ground rules.”
She blinked, but nodded. “As this will take longer than a day, it makes sense. Unless we want to endanger ourselves and multiple worlds. The chances of one of us besting the other within the week is likely to be a stretch,” she agreed. “I suppose we should establish mealtimes and times for sleep?”
Midestol looked rather taken back by her offer. “Would you be willing to offer that?”
“If you bind yourself magically to follow any rules we set, I don’t have a problem with it,” Z replied. “We left our armies at home; we deserve the chance to rest if we desire it.”
“I will agree to a binding,” Midestol concurred. He didn’t ask her to do the same. There was no point. Running the edge of his blade across his palm, Midestol spoke something—by her interpretation—that a lesser power couldn’t manage. Midestol didn’t seem to use words, but Z felt it as the binding took hold.
She had been asked once before to explain how a binding felt to her. Everyone else seemed to experience something different, and her explanation had shocked most people. Most people heard their language and a simple oath being spoken. She heard something deeper and something that wasn’t a language. She heard what made the oath; not what was spoken, and she felt the binding as something that would inhibit only certain movements rather than the stifling presence most experienced.
Midestol’s palm was flawless at the end of it his declaration. He didn’t return his sword to its sheath and he began to approach her in the cautious manner of a warrior sizing up his opponent. He saluted her as he came to a stop six feet from her. His eyes were relaxed and he appeared to be trying to hide a small amount of delight. He wanted this battle; he had been waiting for it.
“Shall we dance?” he asked in a tone that was almost affectionate.
“Might as well,” she agreed.
Midestol struck first only because she allowed it. Bringing Kyi’rinn up to block his sword, she slid to the side with ease and aimed a kick at his side before dodging his second strike. They both backed up and circled again. Attacking with a fierceness that spoke of an attempt to try and throw her off guard, Midestol struck three times without success. She countered his attacks without much effort and made her own strikes before he could manage to attack her again.
They broke apart and circled. Midestol’s sword was a danger—it was practically spitting magic—and Kyi’rinn was trying to encase her with armor because of it. She refused and the sword reluctantly agreed not to enclose her in armor, but she knew from previous experience that this didn’t mean Kyi’rinn wouldn’t still try.
Midestol rushed her suddenly and Z brought up Kyi’rinn to block his strike, but she still felt the force of his blow. Snarling, she kicked him back as her blade trapped his. They continued this game—Midestol’s swordsmanship having magically improved since the last time she had truly fought him. Like her, he had always held back, and Z was grateful she had never allowed him to see the full scope of her abilities. She had a feeling it would be what would save her in the end. If she could be saved.
This battle continued until after the suns had set. They were too far away from civilization to be noticed—at least until the fighting turned to magic—so no one disturbed them as they fought. Z’s stamina was holding, but Midestol’s was starting to fade. Knowing this she pressed her advantage more than once and scored minor nicks through clothing; like her Midestol was too proud to wear armor. The wounds she inflicted barely wept blood, though, and none of them impaired his fighting.
“Enough,” Midestol said finally as he pulled his strike.
Because she had always been above those she trained with—not counting the immortals—Z was an expert at changing her mind mid-strike. She halted the attack she had been delivering and wiped Kyi’rinn before returning it to its sheath. Eyeing Midestol, she found he was breathing heavi
ly and drenched in sweat. He was, however, both ancient for a mortal and deprived of the gifts immortality had bestowed upon her.
Saluting him, she took another step back to signify she was respecting his call for a halt. It would be, she knew, either amusing or enraging for an outside source to watch. Who would give this cruel and dark of a man a break in a battle to the death? A battle for control of their world and others? She would. And she would continue to, not because they were related, but because for all his evil deeds he could be an unexpectedly honorable man, and she intended to respect that. No matter who won here, they would proceed as though this was a formal challenge between mortals in front of their rulers.
Not everything done in the ring was honorable; both of them were too aware of what was at stake, and Midestol would only take honor so far, but outside of the ring? Honor would hold. Z inclined her head as he bowed to her. “I will keep watch,” she offered.
Midestol gave her a sour look. “I take it you are not planning to rest tonight. Your immortality seems to have endowed you with a slight advantage.”
“I slept last night,” she pointed out. “Besides, someone should be the designated cook. It would be in very poor form if we exhausted ourselves from straight fighting without ingesting anything of substance.”
“Did you bring food?” Midestol inquired as he looked pointedly at her. She hadn’t brought anything with her. He had brought a pack for himself, but Z knew him well enough to know he hadn’t bothered with food either.
“I can find it. I’ve been here before after all.” She offered him a crooked smile. “Go sleep, Grandfather—I’ll make something for us to eat in the morning. My cooking has improved over the years, and since I have to eat it as well I promise not to poison you.”
In the days that followed that became the pattern. Midestol rose in the mornings, they ate a brief meal and readied themselves for the day of trying to kill the other. About an hour before midnight Midestol would call a halt and head to bed while Z went hunting—or gathering—and got the meal ready so the only preparation it required in the morning was a short time over a fire to warm it. She slept on the rare occasion as well, but she also trained. She had made no agreement to withhold her training sessions and she knew if Midestol hadn’t required sleep he would have been doing the same.
Days turned into weeks. They had both sustained multiple injuries, but none of them were severe enough to hamper their abilities. Midestol had not yet descended into magic, and Z withheld hers as well. The battle was impressive; Midestol had a range of skill Z had never seen before, but she had her abilities as well. They were almost evenly matched. She was the better fighter, but Midestol was desperate, and desperation could outmatch skill in the right circumstance. He got injured more often than she did, but he was still managing to stop her blade from landing blows that would be fatal.
He had a broken wrist; she had a broken shoulder. His injury bothered him more than hers inconvenienced her, but it was a warning of more to come, and both of them heeded that warning. Extra time was set aside in the morning to tend to injuries. It was becoming a strange battle, but neither of them minded. There was no other way the battle between them could proceed; too many years of fighting each other had created a bond between them that almost made them allies. To rush things was to risk a disaster not even her magic could contain—and her demise would spell Midestol’s if a magical disaster was triggered.
The third week into fighting it rained heavily throughout the night before fading into a medium rain during the day. It made the battle interesting as the ground became far more of a danger than the weapons wielded. Z had an easier time keeping her balance than Midestol, but she still slid on occasion. They worked through the poor conditions for three days, but when the rain refused to quit Z glanced at Midestol before pulling them out of this world and into a different one.
An unoccupied one. Midestol’s eyes narrowed as he took in the violet sky and the three moons that were visible in three different stages. “Where are we?”
“Not home and not where we were. I thought this place would be suitable.”
They were standing on a beach. Not wanting to give Midestol too much of an advantage, Z had traded in slick and muddy for thick and giving. Something was different about him, though, and now it was her turn to narrow her eyes. “Yes?” she inquired carefully.
“Is this world occupied?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She had a split second’s warning before Midestol unleashed his magic—well, the magic he had managed to steal and hoard from thousands of slain slaves. His first strike came as a bolt of lightning, but Z managed to deflect it with Kyi’rinn. That wasn’t, however, the worst of her problems. Midestol followed his magic with steel, and Z took a light scratch across her ribs before she managed to finish blocking Midestol’s strike; the man she had expected was finally making his appearance.
Refusing to use her power to counter his, Z took several more light injuries as the battle wore on. Around them glass began to form instead of sand as Midestol used his lightning to make the ground less giving, but infinitely more dangerous; a bolt of lightning struck one of the circles of glass and shards exploded from the impact. Feeling contact in numerous places on her skin, Z ignored the damage until Midestol once again called a halt for the night.
Finding hundreds of shards in her shoulders, back, and hips, as she examined herself after Midestol had gone to bed for the night, Z considered the best option for tending to her wounds. Using magic to extract the glass from her skin, Z used her power a second time to see the damage; her back, shoulders, and hips looked like they had been attacked by a madman with a short dagger. Knowing she couldn’t afford that kind of an injury, she let her healing magic speed the injuries along until they were past bleeding and scabbing; the deeper ones would scar, but she didn’t mind scars.
By the next morning, it was clear Midestol had decided lightning was the way to go, until Z shielded herself. Offering him a dark smile, Z continued to attack him despite his magic, forcing Midestol to start calling the power she knew would wreak havoc on the world. Knowing it would only be a matter of time before she would have to respond to his power with hers, Z threw herself into the battle with more intensity than she had delivered for the entire time they had been fighting.
As the battle began to change into a fight for survival, she was tempted to reach out to Nivaradros. She could reach him, since she hadn’t taken Midestol into her realm in the shadows, but she couldn’t promise him she would survive. She wanted to offer him those words, but she just wanted to know she could survive first. Be safe, she thought to him instead, though he wouldn’t hear it. Whatever you have to do, Nivaradros, just be safe.
The Islierre
It had been five months since Nivaradros had returned to Arriandie alone and there was still no word regarding Zimliya’s status. Then again, the Islierre was willing to admit it would likely be several more months before they had word. The war here was fierce and costly, but he had no doubt Zimliya’s battle was worse. Granted, she had more to lose than they did. It would be her efforts—not theirs—that either won the world or lost it.
He had been tempted to pull his people out of the world. It would have been a challenge, but he had been confident that it was still within his skill range. Shalion, however, would have refused to leave, and many of his people would have remained behind with his son. The loyalty his son commanded was both irritating and impressive, but while the Islierre would have once considered it a sign of weakness he now considered it to be almost one of strength. Shalion had successfully managed to conceal his people in an awaiting Ranger kingdom.
Shalion hadn’t returned, but they’d had word; he was returning. And in the Islierre’s opinion, he couldn’t return fast enough. It had taken Nivaradros two months to lead Zimliya’s army to the kingdom she had chosen for them to take a stand on, but they had already been at war with Midestol’s army for three months and the
losses that were piling up shook even him. Somehow Zimliya had been able to contact Nivaradros to warn him of Midestol’s numbers, but hearing a number and seeing that number were two very different things.
It felt like a world was coming to attack them. Tens of millions of Midestol’s forces versus just over ten million of theirs—or at least that’s how it had started. The Islierre was confident they were already down at least a million and a half, but they had taken a good bite out of Midestol’s forces as well. The Islierre was willing to give credit to the Dragon for that; Nivaradros seemed to know when to pull his forces and when to push them forward.
He was certain Zimliya was behind the Dragon’s ability to command, but the Islierre had not expected Nivaradros to succeed in holding Zimliya’s army for her. Not only was the Dragon holding it, he was leading it without any problems. Of course, problems that had needed to be addressed had arisen in the ranks, but Nivaradros had managed to resolve any and all concerns without losing his temper, and by the time they had arrived in Thryisa, there had been no further protests over Nivaradros’s leadership. Not even by him. In the Islierre’s mind, Nivaradros had proven himself, and there was no reason to challenge him. Unless he wanted to risk the war over a petty fight, and the Islierre could see no advantage in attempting it.
Also, despite his determination to dislike the Dragon, it proved to be quite hard to nurse a grudge against Nivaradros. The Islierre had found himself enjoying the Dragon’s presence over the last couple of years, and this war had made it impossible to actively hate the Dragon. Nivaradros worked tirelessly and didn’t appear to be affected by the lack of Zimliya’s presence. He had worked hard to save the lives he could, including taking a small team of Rangers to rescue a group of Ryelention fighters that had been backed into a corner. They should have been slaughtered, but Nivaradros had risked a rescue mission and succeeded in bringing the trapped force back. Five Rangers had died, but the Islierre’s people had managed to make it back inside the kingdom’s walls.
