by D Mickleson
A voice echoed inside his mind, Triston’s voice, wielded by another. Such a sweet young mind. Like honey on the tongue. Delicious. Lips smacked, Triston’s lips. But not yet. Tell me what I must know and your end will be speedy. Do I not feel this desire burn in you? You cannot resist, but it will be easier for both of us if you open up willingly.
Triston felt the tug on his memory, and he yielded. He was dead, after all. The only question was how. Yes, that is the only question. Ahhhhh, I see. Well, this is new. You don’t know how long it’s been since I could honestly say that. Oh my. Quite a natural, young one. I almost don’t want to waste . . . a pity to destroy . . . such a rare gifting. And oh! Your very first time. My, my. What a ride you’ve had!
The probing grew, the piercing needles turning to knives. Triston saw other memories flash before him. Duke Gubrius weeping on his knees, the Seer lying burnt and broken, Alden’s revenge against Bullistrode, Kara’s stare at the tannery, his mother coughing up her bleeding lungs—
“NO!” Triston didn’t know if he’d shouted aloud, but the word blared like a trumpet blast in his mind.
You cannot resist, sweet one—the tug became a wrench, the other mind’s force pulling on his memory with violent urgency—but it will be easier for you if—
Triston wasn’t listening. The memory of his mother, now befouled by the filthy, probing fingers, awoke in him the same vexation and rage he’d known as she slowly, painfully died. All the pent-up helplessness of that dark time burst out of him, striking back at the aggressor like an arrow loosed from a string. Even as it reached out to smother his consciousness, the grasping hand was smitten. It faltered, wavered on the edge, then fell before Triston’s onslaught.
A flood of images filled his mind, people he’d never known, places he’d never seen. Amidst a maelstrom of confusion, a few images rose to the surface and lingered. A white citadel by the sea standing proud under silver banners. A blood-red rock throbbing with power in the hands of a golden idol. An aged man in wine robes pacing his bedchamber, ever vigilant—this man must die. A body beneath a sheet lying on a stone bed. A crimson dragon soaring over a village long ago. Endless rows of stone beds beneath a vaulted limestone roof, corpses everywhere. Far off, a putrid arm, black and blue, hung loose, twitching weirdly.
Triston’s revulsion climaxed and he dry-heaved. No relief came, however. The other consciousness was there the moment his concentration broke. Such wrath Triston had never known nor imagined. Tongues of pain like lashing whips tore at his mind, seeking to devour him. He thrashed back wildly—why he didn’t welcome death he had no idea—and knew that his enemy must also be in pain. The two minds strove against one another, neither able to destroy the other.
Suddenly the man was gone, his presence vanishing like a snuffed flame. But from somewhere deep inside the helm, a shriek rang out, filling the pavilion. “Kill him! Kill the boy! Do it now!”
Triston felt something heavy roughly torn off, and found himself returned to the world of light and touch. He had slumped to the ground and was hanging painfully by his wrist bonds which were gouging his skin. Shaking all over and drenched with sweat, he made to stand, but a shadow loomed over him. A hand gripped his shoulder, holding him down. For all this, Triston’s heart only rejoiced to be free of that loathsome intruder.
“I beat him,” he whispered. “He tried to kill me but I resisted.”
Sarconius spoke slowly, seeming to mull each word as if he was using it for the first time. “You. Resisted. Him.” Suddenly his grip convulsed, a second hand seized him, and Triston felt himself being hauled to his feet. The lord’s face was an inch from his. “No one resists him. No one!” Sarconius’ grip tightened. He shook Triston as though to wring the truth out of him. “How? Tell me! Tell me everything and I swear I will let you live.”
Triston smiled. A glance downward revealed the helm lying on its side at Sarconius’ feet. As he suspected, the eyes had vanished, the connection was broken. But that other mind was waiting, eager for news of his death. Sarconius would not be able to put off that report for long, nor deceive his master, who knew all his thoughts.
“Liar,” said Triston with a grin. “You must obey his last command. Do it now.”
The dagger rose into the air and floated up to Triston’s face, stopping half an inch from his right eye. “You will answer me to my satisfaction or I will slowly tear your flesh from your body, boy. First your eyes, then your skin, layer by layer—” Triston made to spit in his face again, but this time the lord was too quick. Triston’s tongue seized up and clamped to the back of his throat, blocking his windpipe.
Sarconius watched with a look of blotch-faced frustration as Triston struggled to breathe. Their eyes locked, and each knew the other’s thoughts. Sarconius did have to kill him, and soon, or a worse fate awaited him than any he could devise for Triston. The lord had no leverage, and Triston knew it. The knife moved to his neck, the severing a second away, when suddenly Sarconius’ eyes lit up with hope.
“How wonderful! Won’t you two come in and join us?” The lord’s concentration diverted, Triston broke the stranglehold on his tongue with ease and inhaled. His eyes followed his enemy’s to a blank side of tent-canvas nearby. A large tear materialized, and two young men dressed in the leafy attire of the Farthians stumbled into the tent. They strained futilely against the unseen hand that held them. “Friends of yours, Triston? How touching that your comrades wished to ease your death by sharing it.”
From somewhere behind Sarconius, a pair of iron manacles floated over and attached themselves to Triston’s chain, one on each side of him. They clamped shut over the right wrist of both newcomers while their axes fell to the tent floor and slid out of sight.
Touched to the core but angry, Triston turned to the man on his right. “Ald, I told you to stay away. And how could you have led him here? He’s just a kid.”
“Little bugger followed me. I even threatened to kill him but—”
“He begged me to come,” said Owain indignantly. “Promised me dragon gold. I’d have come anyway, Trist. You two are always leaving me out—”
“Silence fool. But I thank you. I’d neglected the matter of Magog’s hoard. That’s one more thing you can tell me before I kill you, Triston. Now my lad, let’s not be tiresome any longer. Do I need to lay it out for you or are you ready to satisfy me?”
Triston understood all too well. He must answer Sarconius or watch Alden and Owain die agonizing deaths. He groaned inwardly, now wishing he had something useful to say. He did seem to have skill with magic that others lacked, but he no more understood the why of it than Sarconius. Still, there was one thing he could offer, if only it were enough.
“Very well,” he answered, and the lust in Sarconius’ eyes sparkled. “The dragon’s hoard. Limitless wealth for my friends’ lives. And . . . and I swear I’ll do my best to explain—”
At that moment angry voices sounded from the pavilion entrance twenty feet away. Sarconius’ knights moved quickly to form a shield wall between their lord and whoever sought entry. “Move aside I say, gegrunter,” demanded a woman in a thick foreign accent, “or I will force you aside. I will speak with him now.”
As Sarconius turned, tucking the dragonbone beneath his tunic, his eyes flitted to Triston, and Triston felt his jaw lock shut and his tongue roll up in the back of his mouth.
“Let her come to me, doorward,” he said pleasantly. “Let her come. Move aside there. She means no harm.”
Over Sarconius’ shoulder Triston saw a short, stocky and extremely oddly-dressed woman stride proudly into the pavilion. Her long auburn hair, streaked with bright red dye, was twisted into a thatch on her broad head, garnished with leaves, twigs and berries. Her stumpy body was less well-covered, and gaps in her leafy wrapping revealed bulging, varicose skin beneath. Four beefy Farthians flanked her, eyeing the richly-appointed décor greedily as they shadowed their leader past the knights to the waiting Sarconius. No one seemed surprised to find three youn
g men chained up behind him.
“It does not work,” said the woman. She lifted Bloodprice with two hands, not without difficulty, and tossed it with a clatter onto the table between them, the tip coming to rest an inch from Sarconius’ thigh. “You promised me thahagorgum, the hellpower. Now make it work.”
“But my dear woman,” said Sarconius, his tone like one who must reluctantly chide a close friend gone astray, “one cannot hope to unravel the mysteries of such an ancient, such a powerful heirloom as this all in one day. The study of such an artifact may be the work of decades—of generations!—before its full potential may be realized. Allow me to suggest—”
“No more talk,” said the woman dismissively. “You make sword burn now.”
“I swear I will do my best to assist you very soon, but I’m afraid I’m rather occupied at the moment with His Exaltancy’s affairs. Come back in one hour and we’ll see what—”
The woman looked past him to stare at Triston. Her bushy eyebrows, joined in the middle, frowned. “This is thahagog. He will show me now or we chop him to pieces, eh? Not one hour. Now.” The impatience in her voice had subtly shifted, acquiring a menacing tone. Hearing this change, her guards casually altered their stances in unison, resting their hands near their axe-handles.
Sarconius considered the five Farthians for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was polite, but Triston thought the man was suppressing a new-found excitement. “You know, Grendlia, you’re right. I ought to have attended to you sooner rather than later. Some things just won’t be put off, will they?” he said with a laugh, picking up the sword with an easy, one-handed grip. The Farthians’ eyes widened with amazement at his strength.
Triston felt Sarconius’ giddiness at the course he’d decided on. The lord was gleeful. Gleeful and distracted.
“He’s going to kill you,” Triston suddenly shouted, breaking the holding spell. “The sword isn’t magical. He’s wearing the real thahagorgum around his neck. It holds the dragon’s spirit.”
“No!” cried the woman, fixing her wrathful gaze on Sarconius. “U kashan gra Mahagog! Aaiiieeee!” Her eyes flashed with fury as she drew a short trident from the folds of her coverings.
At the same time, flames leapt down the blade in Sarconius’ hand. He lifted Bloodprice high above his head, and Triston knew the woman would never reach him with her stunted weapon before the downward arc destroyed her. But Grendlia Sturmthrunken, the Stormbrain, as her people knew her, had not risen to the top of the Farthian ranks by mere chance. Before Sarconius even began his cleaving death-stroke, she launched a well-judged side kick at the end-table, driving the far edge straight into the Meridian’s groin. His exultant cry as he brought down the weapon turned to a growl of agony. He fell, and she leapt atop him, trident poised.
An explosion of light burst in the woman’s raised hand. Her weapon flew out of it straight into the neck of a Meridian knight. He slumped to the ground with an anguished cry. A glance told Triston one of the axemen had already fallen, but the other three were locked in furious combat with the lord’s three remaining knights.
Sarconius’ second blast would have annihilated Grendlia. But Alden, whose feet were unshackled, struck out as far as they could reach and just managed to kick Sarconius on the back of the head. The blast missed and blew up a nearby oil lamp instead. Tongues of fire ran up and down the canvas in all directions. The fast-thinking Grendlia seized the Relic’s leather band with her blackened hand and yanked the glowing dragonbone out so that both she and Sarconius had a hold. They rolled, Grendlia growling and snarling as bursts of flame and explosions of kinetic energy erupted all around. Thick smoke filled the room, stinging everyone’s eyes.
“I really didn’t expect coming after you would get me burned alive, Triston,” said Alden above the din of battle, coughing as he tried to breathe in the toxic air. On Triston’s other side, Owain was issuing a string of oaths that certainly would have brought a slap from his mother in other circumstances. The crash of arms and grunting of the combatants continued, sounding farther away. Nearby, a hissing, whirring noise like the intaken breath of a strange animal told them the flames were drawing ever closer.
“The axes!” shouted Triston. “Where’d they go? Try to reach one with your feet!”
“Is it just me or are these chains getting hot?” yelled Owain as he and Alden began groping for their Farthian weapons.
“I’m pretty sure it’s just you, idiot,” grunted Alden. “Aha! I think . . . I’ve got . . . a handle of some kind. Ouch! It cut right through my boot. That’s not an axe.”
“And you call me an idiot.”
“Shut up you two. Ald, it might be the sword. Can you get a hold of it?”
Triston was crouching too, feeling with his chained feet as much as the slack allowed. This probably saved his life. A new series of explosions erupted all around, one of them blasting the cabinet into several pieces. All three prisoners lurched forward in the direction they’d been straining, falling together in a jumbled heap.
They struggled to their feet, pushing and jostling each other as each sought to rise at once while their bonds were still entangled. Triston found he was still enchained to a chunk of the cabinet, the piece that had the metal ring binding their chains. He managed to stand at last. His breath burned his lungs and he forced his eyes shut against the stinging billows. “This way!” he called, not waiting to see if the other two were up yet. He found himself instead being pulled in the opposite direction.
“No!” came Alden’s hoarse voice. “Over here’s where we came in!”
“Get off me! Help me up!” shouted Owain from the ground.
“The Relic! We can’t leave without it!”
“Who gives a damn about your stupid toy!”
Triston strained toward the last place he’d seen Sarconius, but Alden’s insistent tugging was overpowering him. He stepped on something lumpy as Alden gave a great heave on the chains, pulling him backwards.
“Ach! Get off! What’s this? The sword?”
“Not a toy! Can’t leave without it. Ald! Stop!”
“You. Never. Know. What. Something’s. Worth,” grunted Alden, heaving with each word.
With his last tug he pulled so hard that he and Triston fell together, catapulting Owain to his feet at the same time. “Stay down guys! Ah, it’s heavier than I thought. Here we go!” There was a swish, a tearing noise, a thud, then the three of them found themselves blinking in the dim light of a clearing somewhere in the Wildwood. Smoke issued from the tattered tent folds at their feet like a geyser. The golden rays of early afternoon pierced the shadows here and there through the trees, while in the deeper thickets night still reigned untroubled by the westering sun. Farthians and Meridian were hacking at each other with death blows all around.
Triston rose unsteadily, the gashes on his cheeks still stinging. His breath came in half-choked rasps. Where was Sarconius? Owain still held Bloodprice, using the longsword like a staff to steady himself. The blade no longer burned, but what did that mean? Was the lord dead?
“Now, we can do this, if you two will follow my lead. Trist? Are you with me?”
“Ald, there’s more at stake then you think. The Relic—”
A dueling pair stumbled over to them at that moment, both their weapons lost as each sought to strangle the other. Alden seized Bloodprice, lifting it with both hands and ending their death match with two swift strokes. “Triston, FORGET IT,” he said, planting the sword in the soft earth and grasping Triston by the shoulders with a shake. “It’s our lives at stake now.”
Triston turned his back on him, desperate to find Sarconius in all the chaos. The tugging on the chains returned, but he resisted. “Triston!” shouted two voices at the same time.
There he was. The tugging became irresistible, and Triston felt himself stumbling backwards. The swish of Bloodprice clearing their path of foes and the excited talk of his companions barely registered as Triston stared at the Meridian lord, fifty feet away.
“Look Ald!” shouted Owain excitedly. “There’s still one left alive. He looks big enough.”
“I see him. Come on. Help me with Triston.”
Sarconius was kneeling over someone, his hands outstretched. Trembling, leaf-wrapped arms rose up from a thicket, clawing at him weakly before finally falling limp. Then he straightened up and looked around, his face shining through the haze with thirst for vengeance. He lifted bloodied hands and began calling aloud in a strange tongue words of power and fear. Blasts of fire and the anguished, guttural cries of the Farthians sounded in all directions. The outnumbered knights gave a cheer as their axe-wielding enemies began to drop, corpses before they hit the ground.
“Let’s get out of here,” whispered Triston. “Before he sees us. Come on.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying!” came Alden’s voice above him. Turning, Triston found himself face-to-face with an ash-gray warhorse. “Owain next,” said Alden from the saddle. “Your left foot there—your other left! Ah!” Owain had climbed up, negotiating his way through their entangling chains at the same time, and ended up sitting backwards, his face an inch from Alden’s. “Great, kid. Now I can’t see. Trist, come on!”
Triston had a foot in the stirrup when the ground suddenly blew up two feet behind him. The stallion neighed wildly, rose in the air with a kick, and bolted from the spot, dragging Triston behind him as they passed into the shadows of the Wildwood.
SIXTEEN
HOT WATER
What the poets call ‘young love’ is nothing more than a base alloy of lust and obsession, a deplorable condition which, judging by the deeds of our nobles, few ever outgrow.
—Emperor Regulus the Chaste, 1182
