“Clarysa.”
She looked up into Stellan’s face. “Yes?”
“Find someone to help you move Lionel to my bedroom. Change his bandages as often as needed and keep him comfortable.”
Clarysa nodded. “I’ll take care of him. What are you going to do?”
Stellan clasped her hand and then turned sharply on a heel. He spoke over his shoulder. “I’m going to finish this.”
Clarysa watched him depart through a veil of tears. Behind her, Lionel lay on the brink of death. Before her, Stellan was heading into battle. It could very well be this cruelly brief reunion would be the last time she ever saw either one of them alive.
Chapter 40
Stellan left the hall of wounded, his heart racing. He had to defeat Sada. She was now controlling Pestilence through unknown magickal means–no doubt a gift from their father. As for her newfound strength, Stellan could only guess what terrible door she had opened to acquire it. He smacked a fist against the wall. I’m coming for you, bitch! One way or another, it ends now!
He tore down to the depths of his workroom. He grabbed bottles left and right. Regarding them on the battered wooden table, he frowned. None of these would do; none were powerful enough. But what else could he use? He didn’t have Sada’s training or resources.
His gaze drifted to the topmost shelf. The stranger’s gift still lay there, pulsing away as usual. The gift had nearly stolen his mind after he had dared to use its terrible power once before.
It’s the only way, he thought. Sada cannot succeed no matter what price I may pay.
He shoved a chair against the shelves and used it as an ersatz ladder. Up he went and reached into the darkness–a darkness broken only by the awful grayish-white glow.
* * * *
Stellan stepped forth onto the bloody battlefield.
Before him, the remaining soldiers of Aldebaran were stretching the limits of their abilities to hold the forces of Pestilence at bay. They fared poorly. Several of the men had become infected themselves and had turned on their comrades within minutes. Edward never stopped fighting, never stopped issuing orders, but he now led a troop that was rapidly shrinking in number.
Sada stood apart from the chaos, her mad features glowing with satisfaction–or insanity? “So good of you to join us again,” she said, projecting her voice with ease.
Stellan ignored her taunt. He set aside the sack he’d brought and drew a sword. The gleaming white hilt contrasted sharply with the black-as-pitch blade. He pointed the weapon toward his twin. “It ends now, Sada. It ends for fallen friends, for my beloved, and for Mother.” He punctuated each word with a thrust of the sword. “It. Ends. Now!”
His breathing was steady, even, his concentration utmost. He angled the sword back over his head. The blade glowed white-hot. Stellan’s entire frame shook as he channeled his magick. Perspiration ran in torrents down his face.
With a loud grunt, he aimed the sword toward Sada. The sword tip launched the luminous form of an ethereal woman, growing steadily in both size and power. She was transparent and beautiful, yet deadly in scope. She swept over the ranks of Pestilence, causing each to burst into flame.
But Sada had other plans. Her obsidian eyes flashed. The form of a ghostly wolf sprang from her body. This magickal familiar also grew in breadth and power until it reached the size of Stellan’s.
They clashed above the battlefield. The “wolf” tore at the throat of the “woman,” as strands of her long hair whipped around and attempted to strangle her opponent. Electricity ripped through the air, only for both forms to dissolve into nothingness–an effectual stalemate.
Stellan collapsed to the ground, mentally and physically drained. He had never attempted to manifest anything that size and scope before, and it had left him nearly depleted.
A broad smile stretched across Sada’s face. Stellan cursed. She seemed able to recover much faster.
She extended her arms high above her head. Particles of light formed and swirled about her lithe frame, concentrating on her hands as its epicenter. Something there began to take shape. She conjured forth a small black-and-purple butterfly. Its diaphanous wings beat softly as it poised upon her index finger.
Sada’s smile grew, radiant and warm. But Stellan knew the apparent sentiment was far, far from the truth.
Sada leaned forward and gently blew the gossamer creature forward with a kiss. It took to the air, flapping its wings as it grew larger and larger, finally reaching gargantuan proportions.
Stellan steeled himself. This was no simple sisterly kiss being blown his way. The lethal manifestation flapped through the air. As it neared, its head took on the appearance of the skull of Death.
He held his magickal sword out before him. The creature’s earsplitting shriek assailed his ears. Stellan slashed away as the butterfly’s mammoth wings enveloped him. He punctured one wing, then sought another opening. A second shriek sent a wave of agony through his head. He felt like tearing off his ears to make it stop.
Six powerful legs ripped into his flesh. Lavender flames engulfed his body. Stellan clenched his teeth against the stinging pain. He struggled to lift his sword, but two of the legs pinned his arms to his sides.
Hunter Red ran forward and attacked the butterfly with his sword, but to no effect. The mortal weapon passed right through the manifestation. The creature unfurled its proboscis and plunged the tip into Stellan’s neck. It was feeding its ravenous appetite by draining his life force. Weakness forced him to his knees. He was dying right there on the battlefield, and his mocking sister knew it.
One hope remained. Hunter Red had seen his share of otherworldly spectacles. If only Stellan could guide him…
“Hunter, my sword. Take my sword!” Stellan had felt his lips move, but had he spoken loudly enough? Something was wrong with his hearing. He spoke again. Damn it! Were the words even leaving his mouth?
The butterfly glowed ever brighter as it absorbed his life force. Stellan could barely keep his eyes open.
Hunter threw down his useless sword and snatched Stellan’s blade from his hand. The blade vibrated with power as Hunter hacked away.
The weapon easily sliced through the creature’s body and wings. Rent beyond repair, its shredded pieces blew away into the wind. Bloody and decimated, Stellan crumpled to the ground.
As he fell, Sada held a hand to her head. Did he dare hope she had exhausted her powers? But no–she was already glowering in his direction. He didn’t have much time.
Hunter stood over him, his brow wrinkled with concern. Stellan looked up at him, unable to move. The odds were terrible and both men knew it. Sada possessed more power than he’d thought possible. His own skills lay rusty in their crypt–years of inaction and lack of knowledge were the cause. Now he would pay dearly for his oversight, and his friends would pay right along with him.
He needed an army, but he had none–save for a loyal bunch of misfit paupers. Aldebaran’s soldiers had acted valiantly, but they were poorly matched against the sheer number and power of Pestilence. Reinforcements at this point were unlikely. No, it was up to him and him alone–and he had failed.
Outmatched.
Outclassed.
Near death.
Hunter’s lips moved but he couldn’t hear what the man was saying. The butterfly’s scream had knocked out his hearing. Was this condition temporary or permanent? It was impossible to say. An icy sensation crept into his bones. Darkness licked at the edges of his vision.
Stand up! Instead of his limbs cooperating, his life appeared before him in brief, melancholic flashes. He had wasted years retreating from the world; he understood that now. The safety of his isolated kingdom wasn’t real. He had tried to convince himself that he didn’t care or need anyone else, when in fact the opposite was true. Clarysa had shown him another path, where emotional risk taking would be rewarded, and in plenty. To retreat into death now would only be a sign he didn’t trust her, didn’t need her.
But he di
d. He loved her. He would move kingdoms for her. And there could be no safe place for her in the entire Five Lands if his father’s mad scheme succeeded. Stellan could not–would not–die today.
Again the determined thought came–this ends now.
He clawed his way back from oblivion. The darkness receded. His clouded mind began to clear. Stellan rolled to his side, then maneuvered himself onto his knees. With a final heave, he rose to his full height.
One singular idea drove him. There was a final manifestation he could attempt. Though extremely dangerous, he had no other choice.
The Gift.
The gift bestowed upon him so long ago by the cowled man in the depths of Dungeon Forest. The gift that had almost destroyed his mind. But even if it succeeded this time, at least he could take Sada with him to a place of dark destruction where neither could escape.
The choice was made.
The winds whipped the snow into a frenzy about him. Stellan the Dark Prince of Vandeborg was now Stellan the Death-Bringer, defying even the gods’ mighty will.
He reached into his sack and withdrew the large jar that had sat hidden in his workroom for so many years, a jar he’d never thought he would dare to open again. The outer surface pulsed, hinting at the terrible power it contained. With a deep breath, he threw the jar high into the air. The shimmering contents began to rain down about him. The power filled Stellan to the point of bursting. Sound surged back into his ears. Blood pounded in his veins.
The sky darkened. A swirling maelstrom of eldritch power shot forth and engulfed him, taking the form of brilliant shards of light. Stellan concentrated on a single vision: eradication of Pestilence.
Magickal energy waves radiated outward from him. They passed through everything and everyone on the battlefield–including Sada–but nothing happened.
Stellan clenched his fists. Nothing had come of the spectacular display. Nothing!
Sada smiled at him coldly from across the battlefield. Perplexed, Stellan remained frozen in his position, particles of light still swirling about him. Had the jar’s contents been meant for a single use? If so, the stakes had now reached unfathomable proportions.
The remaining Pestilence army renewed its attack. Indecision tore at him. Should he engage Sada in physical combat or join the fight against Pestilence?
He was about to opt for the latter when the first cracks appeared in the earth. Small ones initially, but they lengthened quickly. Stellan cast a furious look at his sister. What terrible magick was she wreaking now? He had run out of options, short of strangling her.
But Sada’s gaze was rooted to a crack on the field between them. There, a skeletal hand pushed its way up through the broken soil and grasped the leg of an advancing Pestilence-infected.
Similar developments began to happen everywhere. All across the battlefield, pockets of snow collapsed in on themselves as long-buried corpses scraped their way to the surface. They surged onto the battlefield like waves upon an ocean shore. From the skeletons of royalty to peasants to mummified soldiers, bodies in various stages of decomposition arose from the depths of the earth.
The dead walked.
Once free of the confining ground, the corpses advanced. With methodical vengeance, they ripped limb from limb. They targeted both the slaves of Pestilence as well as Sada’s soldiers. The army of the dead was unstoppable. The fortunes of battle had turned against his twin, but at what terrible cost?
He had called upon their power once before. As an exiled youth driven by anger and grief, he’d used this magick to call forth the undead. He’d fancied creating a castle full of servants. He’d treated them like puppets, putting them through the motions of running a kingdom.
Then he’d decided he required an army to march to the Wastes and reclaim what was rightfully his. But being so immature, with his magickal talents vastly underdeveloped, he hadn’t known how to control them. Instead, the power began to overwhelm him. Only the fear of being killed by his own undead minions had prompted him to redirect the magickal force back into the jar. The experience had left Stellan with a deranged mind and a castle full of rotten, frozen corpses.
Even now, he struggled to maintain control. His temples throbbed as he forced the corpses onward. Sharp stabs of pain threatened to split open his skull. He was a conduit for the magick’s power, whatever its otherworldly source. He had to maintain his stance or risk breaking the incantation. But the effort was quickly draining his energy. The living-dead army wielded astonishing strength, but the Pestilence victims were more elusive than humans and harder to kill. If he continued for much longer, it might not be his mind that succumbed to the pressure, but his heart.
Stellan heard a familiar cry behind him. He turned to look. It was Gretchen. Her face pale and hair all askew, the gypsy woman kneeled in the snow. She was calling his name and pointing behind her.
Stellan followed the line of her finger. What he saw struck him with the force of a thousand blows. What have I done?
Patrulha.
She marched onto the battlefield. She wore her usual battle gear, her short green cape fluttering. Strands of unkempt hair obscured her face. Stellan stared as she approached. The sights and sounds of battle faded away as he absorbed this harrowing event.
How can it be? Was she still alive, or an illusion? Against all logic, hope flared in his heart. As she reached a spot a few feet from his position, he forced his lips apart. “Patrulha!”
She stopped and then stiffly turned her head to gaze at him.
Stellan recoiled, for she stared back with eyes unseeing. One was a bloody crater, the other was still hidden by her patch. Her skin looked ashen, ten times more so than when she was alive. She hovered at the fragile juncture between the living and the dead.
His invocation must have summoned her. Stellan frowned. He hadn’t meant for Gretchen to see her daughter in such a macabre state. Or for Patrulha to become a pawn in his conflict with Sada. Her appearance gave him pause. What gave him the right to command the dead, anyway? Like a fool, he hadn’t even questioned the matter.
The act reeked of something his father would do–or manipulate Stellan into doing. He sucked in a breath as a new suspicion arose. The cowled man in Dungeon Forest had probably been Renaudas. Stirring up the hostilities between his children would play right into his hands. Knowing Sada’s abilities, he had ensured his son could compete with her. Bastard!
Stellan made a fist. He should have anticipated this very situation. But in his haste he hadn’t considered the possibility. Well, at least he was aware of the deception and could make less harmful choices. He would find another way to defeat Sada.
But first he had to figure out what to do about Patrulha. He swallowed hard, seeking the right words to address her. “What is your purpose here?”
Patrulha stalked forward. The rank odor of her decaying flesh flooded Stellan’s nostrils as she neared. She closed the distance between them. Now they stood only a handbreadth apart.
Snow flecked Patrulha’s hair and skin. She cupped the back of his neck, her touch ice cold even through her glove. Stellan braced himself as he gazed into her ravaged eye socket.
She stood still, and for a moment it was just the two of them. Memories flooded through him. He remembered the wariness with which they had first greeted each other after her family appeared out of the storm and landed on his doorstep. He remembered the training days with her father, the friendly competitions, the arguments, their travels, and the laughter, rare though it had been.
“Why are you here?” he whispered. Then he realized she probably couldn’t speak. He opened his mind to her, acting on pure instinct.
And then it hit him. The force of Patrulha’s memories punched through skin, bone and flesh to pierce the deepest core of his mind. Stellan gritted his teeth as her spirit filled him.
Her memories flashed by, many of them similar to his. The difference, however, was seeing himself through her eyes. The discovery was almost too much to bear, but he kept
the link open. Stellan had never known the depth of Patrulha’s capacity for tenderness and love. The experience left him humbled.
The perspective shifted. This time, Stellan felt Patrulha project a strong image of Clarysa. Then of Stellan and Clarysa together. As the picture filled his mind, emotions followed. Happiness. Loyalty. A fierce desire to protect them both.
Patrulha wanted to be their champion. “Are you sure?”
She didn’t speak, but the hand about his neck tightened. Stellan was touched beyond words. His eyes burned hard with unshed tears.
Patrulha released her hand. She turned away from him. Toward Sada. With smooth precision, she drew her sword.
Stellan reached out an arm, desperate to keep her with him for a moment longer even in her undead state. “Patrulha, wait! You don’t have to do this. I’ll release you from the enchantment.”
“Let her go, Stellan.”
He looked to his right. Gretchen stood beside him, wrapped in a brown shawl. Her expression hollow, she stared after Patrulha with red-rimmed eyes. “You know as well as I that Patrulha is choosing this path. Dead or alive, her will remains her own.”
Stellan nodded as understanding dawned. Only one force in the known world could overcome magick.
True love.
A shudder passed through him. Perhaps Patrulha wasn’t being controlled by the jar’s magick after all.
Gretchen pressed a hand to her heart as tears spilled from her eyes. “Farewell, dearest daughter,” she said hoarsely. “May the gods of fortune enrich your soul for eternity.”
Stellan considered Gretchen’s words as an ache bloomed in his chest. Despite the horror of seeing Patrulha rise from the dead, she’d given the two of them her blessing. Gretchen was right. Patrulha was a warrior to the end–and beyond. She had shared as much during their mind link. Could he deny her the defining battle of her life?
“Patrulha, I...” Stellan clenched his teeth. No words could express the mixture of grief and gratitude surging through him like wildfire. “Thank you for this, sister. I’ll never, ever forget you.”
Lord of Snow and Ice Page 27
