But he could still function, and he ran towards Third.
And as he did, the Scythe knocked her to the ground, her blue longsword coming up for the kill.
Chapter 11: A Last Chance
Third battled for her life, her twin swords weaving a net of fire and lightning before her. Even with all her centuries of experience with battle and killing, it still took all her skill and every fiber of strength to stay alive.
The Scythe of the Maledicti was a deadly opponent. She moved as fast as a serpent, and her dark elven heritage gave her strength beyond the human, her blows landing like the strikes from a sledgehammer. The lightning leaped from the sword in her left hand and flowed down the Scythe’s longsword, but the black armor of the urdhracosi protected her from the lightning. Third had to beware the Scythe’s own dark magic, and again and again, the urdhracos struck with quick bursts of killing fire that Third had to dodge.
And all the while, the Scythe ranted and raved, her curses a strange contrast to her controlled fighting skill.
“We should die together!” shrieked the Scythe, her sword blurring for Third’s throat. Third barely got her blades up in time to parry. “Don’t you see? You think you’re free, but you are not. Life is a torment without end, with chains that you cannot see. Death is the only freedom. Why are you free and I am not? Why? Why? Let us be free in death together!”
Another burst of dark magic stabbed from her left hand, and Third twisted around it, avoiding the killing spell. The Scythe kept after her, sword rising and falling, her wings flapping to add additional momentum to her attacks. From the corner of her eye, Third realized that her friends were winning the battle, that Ridmark had cut down nearly all the twisted jastaani, that Calliande was throwing spells at the Maledictus of Life.
Almost certainly the Scythe would flee and return to her masters.
But she did not.
Still snarling and hissing in fury, she came on, sword flickering like a serpent’s tongue. The hatred twisted the Scythe’s face, and she became more reckless, attacking Third faster and faster. That left openings and Third landed a half-dozen minor hits on the urdhracos, but the Scythe didn’t seem to feel them. The urdhracos’s hatred had overridden her reason, and she would not stop until Third was dead.
And Third understood her enemy, understood how to win.
For she knew the torment of life as an urdhracos as well as she knew anything.
She caught the Scythe’s next blow on her left-hand sword, and the impact knocked the weapon from her grasp. Third let herself stumble back, let herself lose her balance and fall hard upon her back, the gray cloak billowing around her.
And just as she anticipated, the Scythe’s pale face lit up with twisted glee, and she sprang forward for the kill, reversing her grip on her sword and raising the weapon to stab.
She only left herself open for a half-second, but that was all Third needed.
Her burning sword stabbed up, punching into the Scythe’s armored stomach and bursting out from between her shoulder blades in a spray of black blood. The Scythe’s void-filled eyes went wide, and her mouth sagged in a soundless scream. Third bounded back to her feet, and the Scythe slashed at her. But there was no strength in the blow, and Third caught her wrist and wrenched the longsword of dark elven steel away.
The Scythe sagged, and Third ripped her sword free. Black blood coated the golden blade, and it began to smoke and sizzle as the sword’s elemental magic burned it away. The Scythe staggered back, eyes wide and shocked.
“You,” she whispered. “You…you…”
She dropped to one knee with a groan, panting, blood dripping from her mouth, her hands shaking. Armor clattered, and Third looked up as Ridmark and the others drew near.
“You should finish her quickly,” said Krastikon, giving the Scythe a wary look.
Third shook her head. “The wound is mortal. I hit her heart. Not even an urdhracos can recover from that.”
“Finish…” whispered the Scythe. “Finish it. Finish it.” Something other than hatred and pain went over her face. “Free me. Free me.”
Third stared at the Scythe. Nine years ago, she had been just like that, insane and filled with hatred, determined to die. She had gone to Nightmane Forest to kill Mara, and instead, Ridmark had overpowered her and dealt her a deadly wound.
“Third,” said Ridmark, his face haggard but his eyes bright. “Are you…”
“Yes,” said Third.
She stepped forward, dropped to her haunches in front of the Scythe, and caught the urdhracos’s chin in her free hand.
The Scythe blinked in surprise.
“Listen to me,” said Third. “Were you baptized?”
Bewilderment overruled the pain on the Scythe’s face for a moment. “What?”
“Before you transformed,” said Third. “Before you became an urdhracos. Were you baptized?”
“I…I do not remember,” croaked the Scythe. “It was two hundred and fifty years ago. I do not…I do not remember anything before, I do not remember anything but torment…”
“I was you,” said Third. “I was just like you. I was an urdhracos for a thousand years. I cannot even remember them all. They blended together into one long scream of blood and torment. But I was freed. You can be freed as well.”
“No,” croaked the Scythe. “No.”
“This is madness,” said Krastikon. “We should kill her before she recovers.”
“I agree,” said Calem.
“Magatai likewise agrees.”
“Stay back, all of you,” said Ridmark, his voice harsh.
“I have killed so many,” said Scythe. “I built myself a prison of their blood. I can never be free of it.”
“You killed not at your will, but at the commands of your master,” said Third. She remembered facing the phantasm of her father in the depths of the Sylmarus, how she had been willing to stay in the darkness forever just to hear him scream. “Your father did this to you, whoever he was. Your father made you into this.”
“Yes,” whispered the Scythe. “My prison is one that he built.”
“You can be free of it,” said Third. “If you want, I will kill you right now. But that would be your father’s final victory over you. I know….I know that you hate him more than anything else in the world, more than you hate even your own life. And if I kill you now, he will win.”
The Scythe stared up at her, stricken.
“Yes,” she rasped. “You understand…you understand. But there is no hope, there is not…”
“There is,” said Third, her voice like iron. “Repent of the deaths you have carried out for your masters and accept baptism. And then you will have a chance to face yourself, the chance you were denied two hundred and fifty years ago when you became an urdhracos. It might not work. It might kill you. But at least you would die fighting your father’s curse on you, rather than those the Maledicti sent you to kill.”
The Scythe’s expression shuddered. Third saw despair there, saw agony, saw torment without end. She knew them all as well as she knew her own face.
But there was something new in the urdhracos’s expression.
A tiny shard of hope.
“I…” The Scythe grimaced and spat out a mouthful of black blood. “Do it. Just do it.”
“Water,” said Third. “I need water.”
“Here,” said Ridmark, handing her a leather canteen. He knew what she intended, had probably known it all along.
In Andomhaim, priests usually performed baptisms, but Brother Caius had told her that any follower of the Dominus Christus could perform the rite in an emergency, and the Scythe was about to bleed to death. Third asked the Scythe if she accepted baptism, and the urdhracos made a sharp nod, her teeth clenched. Third spoke the rite and poured out the water on the Scythe’s head, the water dripping down her face and neck.
The urdhracos’ pale took on a grayish pallor, the color of a woman about to bleed to death.
Then the Scythe�
��s void-filled eyes went wide, and she let out a long, tearing groan. Her flailing hands reached up, and her left hand seized Third’s right, squeezing so hard that the bones of her fingers creaked.
A glimmer of blue fire appeared in the Scythe’s eyes.
The fire began to shine in the veins of her face and hands, and the Scythe opened her mouth and screamed, wisps of blue flame streaming past her teeth.
“Get back, all of you!” said Ridmark. “Get back!”
Third stared down at the Scythe, squeezing her hand.
“Get back!” said Ridmark, and he seized Third’s shoulders and pulled her back as the Scythe screamed again.
“What is happening?” said Tamlin.
The blue fire began to leak through the overlapping plates of the Scythe’s armor, and her eyes burned like molten pits of azure flame.
“She’s facing herself,” said Ridmark, drawing Third back. “The curse of her dark elven blood, the curse that dominated her. It will either kill her or transform her.”
The Scythe staggered to her feet, the flames spreading to her black wings. She was constantly screaming now, a long wail of agony that only stopped when she had to draw breath. Then her teeth clenched shut, and she kept screaming through them, the sort of scream a woman made in childbirth, or the way a dying soldier with a spear through his entrails howled. There was nothing left in the world for the Scythe but molten agony.
Third remembered it well.
The Scythe threw back her head and shrieked a death cry, and the blue fire exploded from her in all directions. There was a thunderclap, and a gust of hot air billowed out, so strong that Third stumbled and would have fallen if Ridmark had not caught her arm. The Scythe’s screams rang out as the blue fire poured from her body, the glare so brilliant that it painted the valley with azure light even under the midday sun. Through the glare, Third saw the leathery wings burning away, saw the plates of black armor melting and pouring down the Scythe’s body.
Those plates of armor were grafted to her skin. Third remembered the pain of it.
On and on it went, until the roar of the flames drowned out the Scythe’s screams. Third realized that she had failed, that the transformation had killed the urdhracos. At least she had given the Scythe a chance, a last hope to escape a lifetime of slavery…
The blue fire winked out of existence.
The ground was charred and smoking, heat radiating from the rocks.
A naked woman stood where the flames had been, blinking in surprise.
Her body was lean and pale, so pale that Third saw the blue lines of veins beneath the skin. The Scythe’s hair was still a brilliant silver, and her bewildered eyes had turned the same shade of bright silver. On her left shoulder was a mark that looked like a tattoo or perhaps a brand. It was in the shape of an inverted sword, and it was a blue color. Tamlin’s and Krastikon’s were green, and Kalussa’s was a reddish-gold.
It was the mark of a Swordborn, a child of one of the bearers of the Seven Swords.
The Scythe stared at them in silence, bewilderment on her face.
“Dear God,” said Krastikon.
“What…what just happened?” said Tamara.
“Oh,” said the Scythe.
She took a step forward, staggered, and blinked again.
“Oh, that felt really weird,” said the Scythe. She stumbled and pointed at Third. “You know, I used to really hate you, and now I don’t. Isn’t that strange?”
“How do you feel?” said Third.
“Wait!” said the Scythe. “Opinions!”
“I’m sorry?” said Ridmark.
“I have opinions now!” said the Scythe. She wobbled to the right. “That’s new. Or I used to have opinions, and now I remember how to do it. Or I didn’t have any opinions except wanting to kill my father. But now I have more opinions.” She pointed at Calliande. “Your hair’s really pretty.”
“Thank you?” said Calliande.
The Scythe’s silver eyes turned to Ridmark. “The Maledicti are frightened of you, and I approve of that. Also, I think I like talking. I really think I like talking. I never got to do much of it. Um. Wait a moment.”
The Scythe turned, doubled over, and threw up. Not much came out.
“Ugh,” she said, straightening up. “That also felt weird. Also quite unpleasant, and I did not enjoy it at all. Um…”
Her eyes rolled up into the back of her head, and she started to fall.
Third and Ridmark stepped forward at the same time. Third caught the Scythe’s left arm, and Ridmark her right. The skin felt feverish hot beneath Third’s fingers.
“Calliande,” said Ridmark. “Can you look at her?”
Calliande hurried over, put a hand on the Scythe’s forehead, and cast a spell. “She’s fine. Just exhausted. And she’s…”
“Human?” said Kalussa.
“No,” said Calliande. “Half-human. Like Third. Not an urdhracos, but a hybrid.”
“We need to move,” said Tamlin. “The Maledictus of Life probably went to get help.”
“Aye,” said Ridmark. “We need to find a defensible location for a camp. Tamlin, can you get Third’s swords?” He looked at Third. “You’ll help me carry her?”
“Yes,” said Third. “I will.”
Chapter 12: Something New
An hour later they came to a stop.
They found a low hill overlooking the road. Ridmark thought it was the best location they would find for a camp. They would be visible from the road, but conversely, Ridmark and the others could see in all directions. No one would be able to sneak up on them.
“We’ll stop here,” said Ridmark. “Third?”
She nodded, and they lowered the Scythe to the ground. Ridmark straightened up with a grunt, his shoulders and knees aching from the effort of carrying the Scythe for the last hour. She looked thin, almost gaunt, but she was much heavier than she looked. Rather like Third herself, come to think of it. Third drew off her gray cloak and covered the Scythe with it like a blanket.
“This should be a good place for a camp,” said Krastikon. “The best we’re going to find, anyway.”
“Probably,” said Ridmark. “It would be better if we kept moving, but we can’t until the Scythe wakes up.”
“It should be soon,” said Calliande. “She’s just exhausted.”
“Yes,” said Third. “The transformation is…I do not think there are words to describe it. But it was exhausting.”
“You didn’t pass out after,” said Ridmark.
“No,” said Third. “But I think I was stronger. I was an urdhracos for nearly a thousand years. If she was telling the truth, she was only an urdhracos for two hundred and fifty years.”
“Only,” said Tamlin, shaking his head.
“Urdhracosi get stronger the older they get,” said Third.
“That may be a problem,” said Krastikon. “How do we know she won’t attack us when she wakes up?”
“She will not,” said Third.
“She was an urdhracos, the Scythe of the Maledicti,” said Krastikon.
“The Scythe would have been bound to the will of her father,” said Ridmark. “Probably the Sovereign, or maybe the Confessor. One of them handed her to the Maledicti.”
“She would have spent the last two hundred and fifty years with no will of her own,” said Third. “When she wakes up, she will have her own will, her own mind.”
“And when she does, we’ll need to talk to her,” said Ridmark.
Krastikon frowned. “About what?”
“Because she spent two hundred and fifty years as the Scythe of Maledicti,” said Ridmark. “Think about it. She’s been their assassin and spy. She will have overhead many of their secrets.”
“She could have some of the answers we need,” said Calliande. “She might have been there when the Seven Swords were created. And she may have been an eyewitness to what really happened at Cathair Animus. Krastikon, she could hold the key we need to solve the mystery of the S
even Swords.”
“Do you think she will help us?” said Krastikon.
“I do not know,” said Third. “We…”
The Scythe’s eyes popped open, and she sat up with a gasp, the cloak falling away from her.
Ridmark and the others stared at her. Third approached and went to one knee next to the Scythe.
“How do you feel?” said Third.
“Oh,” said the Scythe. “It really happened. That is a pleasant thought, isn’t it? I feel…I feel…”
She blinked her silver eyes a few times, and then a delighted smile spread across her face.
“I don’t hear my father’s song any longer,” said the Scythe. “And I don’t hear the spells of the Maledicti inside my head.”
“Yes,” said Third. “You hear your own song, do you not?”
“I do.” The Scythe gazed at Third, astonished. “I hated you so much. But now…I understand now. Thank you.” The silver eyes shifted to Ridmark. “And thank you for not killing me. You really should have, you know.”
Ridmark snorted. “I tried. You were just faster.”
The Scythe laughed. “I am very good at what I do. Or what I did. I’m not sure what I’m going to do now. This is all very new.”
“What is your name?” said Third. “Do you remember?”
The Scythe thought for a moment. “I don’t. I think I used to have a name when I was a little girl, but that was such a long time ago. Then after I transformed, the Sovereign called me the Scythe of the Maledicti, and then everyone started calling me that.” Her face twisted up. “I don’t like that name.”
“You do not have to keep it,” said Third. “I chose a new name after I was transformed.”
“That seems sensible,” said the Scythe. “What should I call myself? You are Third, and I could be Fourth. No, that seems trite. Also, I like odd numbers better than even ones. Oh! I didn’t realize that.”
“I suppose you could call yourself Fifth, then?” said Calliande with a smile.
“No, that isn’t right,” said the Scythe. She got to her feet and stretched, indifferent to her nudity, and both Krastikon and Calem looked away in embarrassment. “With no disrespect to Third, I don’t want a numerical adjective for a name.” Third smiled at that. “No, I want a different name. Something more feminine, but that also reminds me of this day.”
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