The Sword at the forefront of the unit of eight screamed in pain and anger as his headlong rush carried him through it. But he did not stop, did not even slow. His sword came up, and Darin’s arms rose again—a poor shield to the blow that was certain to follow.
He heard the whistle of metal’s contemptuous disregard for air, and his lids slammed tight over his eyes.
The blow never reached him.
Instead, he heard the clang of steel against steel and felt an arm shove him down and aside. His eyes sprang open as death retreated.
Corfaire and the Sword formed an artist’s visceral tableau of combat. But this was no fresco, no tapestry; they began to move almost instantly, seeking the weakness that strength concealed.
“Don’t just gawk, boy!” Corfaire said, although his lips hardly moved. Sweat was running from the ridges on his forehead to the edges of his jaw. He strained as he lifted his weapon and danced neatly out of the edge of his foe’s reach. “Move!”
Darin still stood frozen for a moment; he could see the glow of red that signaled the Enemy within Corfaire.
“Damn you!” he shouted as he lunged. “Get out of my range! Get-out-of-my-sight!” Swords clattered together and fell apart as Darin’s ward began to fade.
A hand clamped down on Darin’s shoulder and dragged him away as the Swords once again surged forward to help their captain.
It was Gerald’s hand.
“Patriarch!” he shouted. “Take cover!” He could not see as Darin saw, did not understand that Corfaire’s concern for Darin’s presence had nothing to do with Darin’s safety. “Aid the Lady if you can—this battle is beyond you!”
Gerald’s voice, free from the taint of either blood, filled Darin’s ears and brought him back to himself for a moment. He turned on his heel and raced for the far wall, stopping only once his hand had reached it.
Then he turned to see three men standing abreast—Gerald, Cospatric, and Corfaire—Corfaire who, by his actions and choice, had declared himself a slave no more.
Three men against eight Swords. Damn it, where was Bethany?
All plans had gone awry. Vellen, the leader of the Greater Cabal, gloried briefly in that knowledge. It should have been a sign to him; he had never taken well to defeat or deviation of any sort before. A red arch, of which he was the center, sprang out from either of his hands, finding struts and supports for itself in the members of his cabal. He had no need to call for God; God was in the very air and had no intention of ignoring him—not now, not in the face of the Enemy.
The clang of swords sounded at his back like the tinkle of bells that announced the presence of greatness. He threw back his head, and it seemed that he had three eyes; the ruby of his office burning with the colder light.
The power of the Karnari gathered like a hand above the five. All around it, the shadows and darkness began to dissipate. The glove was gone; the first remained. The reach of its arm was long.
Red-fire burned so brilliantly in the air it almost had the power to blind. Unerring, it sped toward its target.
God’s voice filled her suddenly with its absence. She felt the ripple of the waters around her grow momentarily cold. The pillar shifted, and she lurched downward. Of their own accord her legs unfolded, and her arms reached out to grab something—anything—that would brace her for the fall. It did not come; the waters shored her up at the last moment, and she stood inches from the ground, encircled by the stone mouth of the well itself.
She saw Stefanos, his lips frozen, his fingers curled, and wondered what was wrong.
And then the fire suddenly touched her skin, and she had no time for more.
Even bent and seemingly crippled, Sargoth was a power. He did not dare the fires of the Enemy; they would come too close to his frail form. Instead, he concentrated on the Servant who had once been his superior.
Power made him feral, power and the hand of God. It did not make him careless.
Any other enemy would not have been able to hold so much control. Stefanos was already leaping; not backward or sideways, but up. He felt the Second of the Sundered whistle past him and bit back a cry of pain where claws raked his side.
There was redness and fire in them, but there was no death; not yet.
“Sara!” he shouted, “Sara, ward!”
He cut himself free from the air, once again moving too slowly to avoid Sargoth’s reach completely. Another bloodless gash appeared to keep company with the first. Sargoth was toying with him.
She heard the call at a distance; it twisted in and out of the crackle of fire and fire’s pain. She tried to retreat into the Hand of God, but His comfort was gone. He had pulled her from somewhere warm to somewhere hot.
There was nothing to protect her skin from blistering and buckling, no clothing, no armor—no ward. No ward. She bit her lip and struggled to make some feeble gesture, but when her lips moved it was only to allow a scream to escape.
No fire had ever been so intense and so binding.
The ululation of her cry was musical, higher and sweeter than almost any other sound of battle that reached Lord Vellen’s ears. He watched her as she writhed in pain and thought it even more beautiful a sight than the interrupted ceremony of the Second. High above her, the First of the Sundered fought a losing battle—one of retreat, one of weakness.
Even the cleansing of the Enemy’s wound had granted nothing. The Dark Heart would soon be the only one that beat, and it would beat with the pulse of His victory.
He cried out his wordless praise, and the red-fire grew brighter, carried by the cabal that would soon freely rule the entire world.
Darin did not dare to approach the fighting. He drew one dirty sleeve across his forehead; it came away wet. His skin was tingling, and his eyes were bright, but battle lust had broken for the moment, and he was free to think.
He gestured, calling up the Greater Ward with an ease that would have made the Grandmother proud. And then he looked through it, at a world tinted green. The eight against three had become six; two Swords, still twitching, lay upon the cold ground, offering it their blood.
He needed Bethany, and now might be his only chance to find her. He scanned the ground beyond the Swords, seeing in a way that was new to him. She was not very hard to find, limned with the power of the Bright Heart, isolated in a sea of red.
He started forward and then stopped himself, taking deep, deliberate breaths. She wasn’t reachable, not by foot.
He brought his hands to his ears to drown out the noise and began to concentrate as if his very life depended on it.
Come on, gate. Open. Open, damn you.
His eyes saw only blackness as he struggled.
Lady Amalayna moved slowly past the Karnari. Her daggers were almost extensions of her hands, and her eyes were wide and glassy. Never in her life, in her long experience, had she felt so much that was both alien and inescapably right. She heard the screams of the Lady in the Light, and they were impossibly musical. Everywhere around her, her heritage had sprung to bloody, glorious life.
So intent was she upon these new sensations, that she only saw it out of the corner of her eye. Whirling, daggers forward, she saw one of the Karnari crumple, a dagger embedded in his throat.
She shouted a warning, but it came too late. Another Karnar fell to some invisible enemy.
Her eyes sought the heights in desperation.
“There!” she cried, swinging one arm up. “In the galleries!”
Bethany lurched up from the ground as if held in clumsy, shaking hands. So intent were the Swords on their battle that they did not see her. Sweat had already started to gather in the wrinkles at Darin’s brow.
Come ... here ... now!
She straightened, and the grip on her became sure. Like a spear seen through a memory-walk, she came slowly enough that he could follow each inch of her passage. He lost all sensation and all hearing—the room became eerily silent. Only the whisper of the gate could be heard, pleading for more power. He h
ad made that mistake once before, and although he could not imagine what this gate could do given free reign, he did not let his concentration or control lapse.
She came to his hand, and he curled his fingers tightly around her. Her light was once more his, and the two would not be parted.
The gate almost closed before he heard her whisper.
The Bright Sword, Initiate. Find it. It is here.
Bethany had never been given to completely reasonable requests. I can’t—it’s too heavy.
You can. The Light needs what power you can lend it.
He started to search the room, and her voice once again pulled him short.
Not with that sight. Seek the Light, Darin.
He nodded, but he was a little afraid of all that came with that vision. He opened his eyes, trying to hold his gate, as the world turned red.
There, just in front of him, Swords carried fire, were fire. Beyond them, there was darkness. To their left was a crimson that made his teeth ache. He could make out no faces now, no crests, no insignias—they were insignificant compared to the glow that they carried. He followed its trail and saw what it ended with: Lernan’s Light. Fear cut his breath, and the gate almost spun away. He could feel Bethany burning his fingers with necessary warmth.
Not there, she said urgently. Not now. The sword.
What light could a sword cast when compared to God’s blood? He struggled to look away, and by some miracle, succeeded. And his eyes lit upon a small glow in the shadow. With relief, his sight returned to normal.
Cast away, along with Erin’s armor, lay the short sword she had carried. Gallin’s sword. The Bright Sword. He began to concentrate anew.
A crossbow bolt slipped neatly between what might have passed for ribs in a mere human. It did not pain him, or cause him mortal injury. At any other time, he would have merely used it as a pretext to destroy the aggressor.
But this was not another time; indeed, another time might never come to pass for the proud immortal who had once been First among the Sundered. The bolt struck him in his downward dance in midair, with enough force to send him upward. The Second of the Sundered wasted no given advantage—and unlike small sticks of pointed wood, his claws caused pain and injury.
Stefanos let out a snarl of rage and lashed out himself, losing some of the control that he had always prized so highly. His arms, slowed by lack of power and injury, fell short of their target. His eyes flashed silver as he called pure fire to his aid. A column flared momentarily to life, consuming a Sword entirely before it was guttered.
Sargoth.
He should have killed Sargoth years ago.
The Bright Sword came. It was not as heavy or difficult as Bethany had been; it was light, and it moved as if meant for the air. Darin tore it from its sheath as it traveled, easing the load that he carried.
Green light glared in the darkness, and the background rumble of red and shadow did nothing to suppress it.
Below, Swords looked up at this new foe that had entered the fray. That helped Cospatric; he had, for a moment, only one foe to contend with.
But these Swords were good—possibly the best he had ever encountered. He bled, and there were rents in the armor that should have served as better protection. He countered, countered again, and then thrust forward.
They were fast. Speed and skill should have counted against him by now. Long minutes had passed, and he had still managed to keep to his feet. He could not know that speed and skill had been subject to a battle lust that unbalanced control or thought—but he took advantage of it just the same.
The room barely existed for him, although he was aware that marble made a poor fighting surface by now. He could not see Erin, and her screams were not the attenuated music that other ears heard. He could not see the two Servants who fought for supremacy of air, or survival in it.
But he did see the preternatural gleaming of a short sword as it descended to the level of his hands.
The Sword that had left off his attack made a grab for it. His first mistake. Cospatric had no compunction about ensuring that it was his last. The sudden scream of the Sword was cut short, and the short blade once again began to hover in the air, inviting Cospatric’s attention.
In the heat of combat, his reaction was all that could be expected: quick, intuitive, his own.
“Not a God-cursed chance! This stinking magic got us into this mess in the first place!” And he slashed under it, sidestepping the handle that tried to worm its way in his direction.
The Bright Sword, thus shoved aside, still hovered until another hand reached out to take the power it offered to a wielder.
There was a scream of pain, but it was muffled by teeth that were clenched and a body that was braced to feel it.
Corfaire dropped his own sword and struggled a moment with this alien, enemy force. He felt fire in his hands, although they did not burn; he felt his arms lock in pain, although he could still swing them. He opened his mouth and let out a feral cry that caught all ears for a moment.
“Lady!” It drowned out her screams for a merciful second before he began a new assault. He moved awkwardly, even clumsily, given his usual grace and speed—but the Bright Sword made up for it, finding its target almost unerringly.
On either end of its blade.
Fire consumed him, but he dared not let go. Blood trailed down his lips as his teeth cleared his skin. To either side, Gerald and Cospatric were left behind to deal with those not immediately killed.
Half-blind, Corfaire began to cut a path to the woman who held his life—or what little remained of it.
“Hold the red-fire! Concentrate on it!” Lord Vellen’s voice was ice; he barely looked at the jerking bodies of those who had once been Karnari. “I will deal with this!” He followed Amalayna’s arm until he saw what she had seen: two black-clad men in the galleries above. They had no light; neither red nor white—at any other moment this evening, they would have been beneath his notice.
“Do you dare?” he shouted.
“Oh hells!” replied the shorter of the two. They dove to either side as lightning split the air, cracking the stone rails that had served as their cover.
One slim dagger clattered uselessly against the wall beyond them. It bore the crest of Valens.
Amalayna’s arm was pulled back as she aimed the second dagger. Her eyes followed the darting shapes, picking them easily from the shadows.
She recognized Renardos and the old man who was obviously a friend. Her dagger froze in midair; they were quick, and she had only one more throw. But they hardly stayed still, and there was enough of the gallery left to provide them with too much cover.
“Lord!” someone shouted.
“Don’t be a fool!” was the angry reply. Lightning stove in another rail. “Concentrate your strength upon the First of the Sundered! Do you think you can reach them before they flee, where I cannot?”
She heard the mail jingle of a stiff salute. Turned to see the back of a Sword and his waiting unit. Turned again to look at the profile of the lord of the Greater Cabal, with his silver eyes and his flushed face.
His was nearly the greatest power here, next to those that had no business with mortality. He still bore the brunt of the red-fire as it streamed around his head and shoulders. He stood so tall and so straight in the light of God that she knew she had never seen so beautiful a man.
Her heart stopped beating then.
No. Not never.
She turned, hearing the battle and its call, feeling the bite of light and the burning of blood as it rushed up and down her taut arm.
“Laranth.” Her voice was a whimper. She bit her lip, drawing blood. Help me. I need strength. Laranth ...
Her blade cut through the air, ending with Vellen’s throat. Steel rose once, twice, and almost a third time before the Swords reached her.
The pain was suddenly gone.
Erin gasped. The walls of her throat clung together. She opened her eyes, blinking tears away as rapid
ly as she could. Her vision was all of the Light—no Stefanos remained bent before her, and not even his long shadow was visible.
She knew where she was now, knew why she was here and why she had twice been denied her passage over the Bridge. She raised her hand to her lips, baring them to expose the white of teeth. She had no daggers and very little else that would pierce her skin and draw her blood.
But she raised her head as her hand found her mouth, searching for some sign of Stefanos. Lord Darclan. Her bondmate.
It was odd; she had been so afraid to meet him again, and now—now she wanted the chance to bid him farewell. To tell him, yes, I forgive.
He was gone, and she had her last duty. Her bleeding hand left her mouth, and she plunged it into the rippling blood of God. Let the red-fire return now, for all the good it would do the Enemy.
She was no memory-walker—although she had once been privy to the use of the Gifting, all that remained in memory was the stark, pale image of the Lady of Elliath.
The Lady’s warning echoed in her ears.
Do not touch the Gifting, Grandchild. You do not know how to control what you draw, and you will be consumed by it.
Yes.
“Fools!” Sargoth roared at the Swords below, his prey momentarily forgotten. “Kill the woman!” His skin tingled and ached, presaging the future. He looked across the room to see what remained of the Greater Cabal and cursed again, more strongly.
The Swords rushed toward the column at his command. In seconds, they, too, would feel what he felt, but until then, they might have some small chance.
Erin absorbed the first quarrel that struck her. She did not even feel the separation of flesh that was left in its wake. There was no pain, no injury. Not now.
Chains of Darkness, Chains of Light (The Sundered, Book 4) Page 40
