by Ted Neill
Yana, I must find you.
Ivan found a sword once they were above the catacombs and he ran along with Haille and Veolin, as they smote down vaurgs that attacked the stream of captives making for the gate. Imprisonment had not diminished Ivan’s skill. If anything he fought with a pent up fury, slaying vaurgs with efficiency and without mercy.
The plaza was clear on its north side where they ushered the people to the gate but the battle still raged on the periphery. The two dark elks marauded through the ranks of elves and men. One, without a rider, was fighting with Darid, the ranger with his back to the city wall. On the other elk rode the very leader of the vaurgs, the blue-black captain-king, crowned with his braided gold helm, plated in armor, missing one arm, but swinging a deadly poleax with the remaining one.
“Veolin, he is here,” Haille said
Veolin knocked a dead vaurg off the end of her sword and looked across the plaza. She wiped sweat from her brow with her forearm and her jaw flexed. “Someone has to stop him.”
And someone has to find Yana. There were still many battle’s to fight. The captives were numerous. It was as if half the populations of both Carasans and Antas had been crammed below. By chance, Haille turned his eyes skyward to the highest point on the highest structure in the city: the fire tower that held the harbor light to guide ships at night. On the edge of the tower he caught sight of the silhouette of a robed figure surveying the movement of armies and the escape of prisoners. But more than that, he felt the figure’s attention, his gaze, his ire, focused on him.
The Magus.
Haille had no doubt about who it was commanding and conducting the forces of the vaurgs. As if to confirm his suspicions, he noticed a second figure, kneeling and bound beside the first, a hint of red hair lifting in the breeze.
Yana.
“He’s waiting for me,” Haille said under his breath.
“Don’t go alone,” Veolin said.
“He need not. I’ll come,” Ivan said from beside them.
It was all the permission Haille needed. He started for the base of the tower, Ivan in his wake, while Veolin joined her brothers in the plaza, continuing to defend the escaping captives. Haille looked over his shoulder once more to see that his friends had brought one of the Rakne down. Freed captives were pouring through the gate.
“Haille, our chance is now,” Ivan called to him.
Haille turned and followed. Together they fended off vaurgs, not bothering to kill, only to maim and move them out of their way. Haille bent his focus on the entrance to the towers and the staircase beyond. Any vaurg sentries had long fled their posts but the doors were still locked from within. Haille could even feel a tingle of magic when he put his hands to the doors. But he was determined not to be stopped. He swung Elk Heart, glowing with its own aura of power, and struck the door. The blade bit through the wood as if it were wet paper. He hacked a gap large enough for his arm, reached within and slid the bolt out of place. The door groaned open and Ivan came up behind him.
“You made quick work of that,” he said, studying the shattered panels of the door.
Haille held up Elk Heart, noticing how it caught the light. “It seems to have secrets I’m only now discovering.”
“A veritable treasure and a good weapon to have against this adversary,” Ivan said. “Let’s climb.”
The staircase was wide and wound in a spiral. Haille could smell the sea breeze through the windows as they ascended. Somehow the day had passed, and the sun had slipped behind afternoon clouds, lighting them up, a red face burning over a restless sea. Higher into the tower, the winds buffeted them and Haille could sense the structure swaying. He paused to catch his breath and steadied himself on the wall. The blood was coursing in his temples, his mouth was dry, his thighs burning. Ivan slowed beside him, his sword brandished and catching the red light from outside.
“It’s as if the world is on fire,” Haille panted.
“Come, let us end this.”
They started up again. No guards were left to slow them. This was the domain of the Magus alone. They made a few more revolutions, the peaks of the houses even smaller below, the horizon wider. The tower rocked more in the increasing wind. They turned a final corner and the sky opened up before them, the stairwell at an end. Haille paused to rally his strength, to line up side by side with Ivan, but most of all to compose himself for whatever lay in wait for them.
They sprinted up the last few steps together, the walls falling away. Haille took in the platform about them. The center space was dominated by a towering iron work: a pedestal holding a cauldron for flames, the giant brazier that lit the way for ships at sea. Nothing burned there now. The metal was rusted by the sea air and blackened by years of fires. Barrels of oil stood stacked on the north end of the platform while the figure they sought stood on the eastern edge, his back turned to them as he surveyed the drama unfolding in the plaza below. Yana was next to him, bound and gagged. Her eyes met Haille’s own then Ivan’s. She struggled to speak but the gag in her mouth was too tight.
The Magus wore a long mahogany robe with dark embroidery on the edges: runes sewn into the fabric with black and gold thread. Haille did not know their meaning. The hood was folded down on the Magus’ shoulders and his head was bare, his collar stiff and high about his neck. He took his time to study the battle but Haille was certain the Magus was aware of their presence. With slow, measured steps, he and Ivan moved apart, ready to flank their adversary.
The wind lifted the edges of the mahogany cloak and whistled in the iron works. Yana’s hair twirled. Finally, the Magus folded his hands and turned.
“Master Gilbert,” Haille said, astonished.
Yana made a noise, shaking her head as if to dissuade Haille from engaging with Magus, but Haille knew the confrontation was inevitable.
“Prince Haille, we meet once more.”
“You are the Magus?”
“Is it so surprising,” Master Gilbert said, his voice flat as if weary. He was an old man, Haille never would have suspected him, but the pieces slowly came together. The last time Haille had seen the old man was in the library, when he had been sent to help him as punishment for tripping Katlyn. As a librarian Gilbert would have had access to the books of the occult and he could have spent a lifetime gathering knowledge, consolidating power, his kind manners and gentle personality a deception that had worked on them all.
Hiding in the wide open.
“Come Haille, he is cornered,” Ivan said, moving closer. “It’s time.”
Haille readied Elk Heart. Gilbert’s face was drawn, the lines deeper than Haille remembered, his expression blank. Haille had the sense of closing in on a snake, coiled to strike. The librarian pushed back on his sleeves to reveal withered arms and liver-spotted hands. His fingers became rigid as he began to conjure power. Haille knew he had to act. He set his feet, ready to spring and strike—at Gilbert’s hands, then his neck, the steel of Elk Heart bright and defiant.
“Haille, wait!”
The plea came from Nathan. He had appeared at the top of the stairs, his chest heaving, his shirt dark with perspiration. He tried to call out again but his voice caught.
“Haille, we can’t—” Ivan said, stalking closer to Yana and Gilbert.
Nathan flung out his hand, uttered a spell of summons and something broke free around the librarian’s neck and flew to Nathan’s hand. In the rays of the setting sun its blue surface took on a bruised purple hue, but Haille recognized the moonstone immediately.
Master Gilbert fell to his knees, leaning against Yana, his head bowed as if in exhaustion. Nathan raised his other hand, calling down a powerful wind that buffeted Yana and the old man, sliding them across the stone of the platform and away from the edge.
“He is not the Magus,” Nathan cried out before turning to Ivan. “He is. He was my master.”
Ivan’s legs were still bent, his shoulders rounded, his sword still set towards Gilbert. But slowly Haille noticed him transfo
rm. He stood taller and lowered his sword to his side. His face took on an amused expression before it hardened into one of hate. His free hand swept upwards and a bolt of power struck Nathan. Then with a flick of his wrist, Ivan levitated Nathan across the platform and smashed him into the waiting barrels of oil, knocking loose the top row and sending a few rolling to the edge where they slipped over to fall and shatter on the rocks of the seashore far below.
“You?” Haille said, agog.
Ivan took a few steps towards the edge and regarded the battle. He was in no hurry, his sword lowered, as if he feared no attack from Haille. After a few moments he turned, sniffed at the air, and gave Haille a slight nod. Haille felt cold as the weight of Ivan’s gaze fell on him.
“Our last masks are discarded now, Haille.”
“But you? All this time? I thought you were my friend.”
“Who is to say I am not. I offered you a path to power, Haille. I introduced you to the Font of Jasmeen. You could have been powerful. Sade recognized it.”
“But you are one of the Servior, you serve the Kryen.”
Ivan snorted. “You don’t understand. You’ve been poisoned by the elk. The Servior are fools. They wait for masters who are not coming. The old Kryen are dead. I am the new Kryen. We could be Kryen. You, me, and Gregor there,” he paused, glanced at Nathan’s unmoving body before turning back to Haille. “At least we could have been. You failed Haille, you squandered your choice at the font.”
“But Sade . . . Sade wanted the power for himself. He was ready to betray you.”
Ivan’s eyes flickered. “None of that matters now. You don’t matter now.”
Haille was blinded by a flash of blue. He only had time to duck, but was enveloped anyway. To his surprise the magic surged around him but did not touch him. It was as when Sade had cast a spell of fire on him and he had averted it. He had done nothing consciously, yet his mind was a flurry of voices, whispering incantations he was just on the verge of understanding. Old voices, wise voices, voices for the good, the light.
Adamantus’ gift.
Whatever the elk had done to him, it was protecting him now. Ivan appeared as perplexed as he, grimacing as he sent more spells of destruction Haille’s way, only to have them wither and fizzle in the air.
Haille knew not to waste his opportunity. He charged, swung Elk Heart at his sword instructor, his former friend, and mentor.
Ivan met his strike and engaged him stroke for stroke. He was fast, strong, and better than Haille. After all, he had taught Haille everything he knew of swordsmanship. For that reason, Haille countered with unorthodox blocks and combinations, hoping to catch Ivan off guard. But his instructor proved able, his knowledge prodigious, his defenses impenetrable, his counterstrikes bone jarring. Haille was on the defensive and he moved about the space of the platform, dodging, weaving, and feeling while his strength diminished. Ivan had not even broken a sweat, the effort he expended besting Haille was minimal. Haille realized he should never have come alone. Now he was facing this adversary, this betrayer without help. Yana was still bound, Gilbert unconscious. He was not sure if Nathan was alive or dead.
He needed time. Haille ducked under Ivan’s next swing, rolled, and ran for the iron works in the center of the platform. He placed it between them and they circled: predator and prey. The wind picked up turning the air turbulent, howling in Haille’s ears, and shaking the great brazier so that its parts creaked.
“You’re resisting the inevitable, Haille, just as your father did.”
And there it was, Haille realized, his fate laid out before him, just like his father’s. The truth of Ivan’s words, the reality of his predicament, was clear to him. He could always run, but he knew that of all things, as prince, he had to stay. It was flee and live a life of failure, or die trying to save the last parent he had. Did it matter to the universe, the great windblown world of sunsets, rains, seasons, and cycles of life and death, if he died a young man or an old?
He knew the answer was no. He had always known. Every time he had perched on the edge of a tower contemplating letting the force of his loneliness and self-loathing drive him off. Every night of empty despair on Drahlstrom, every moment he relived his father dying in his arms.
Ivan was on him in a heartbeat, bringing a barrage of blows down upon him. Haille’s arms burned, his stomach fluttered. When would he give up and give in? It seemed as if momentum, the habit of living was the only thing animating his resistance now. Ivan slipped past his blocks and opened a gash on Haille’s forearm, then punctuated the move with a stab of the end of his sword into Haille’s thigh. With a sudden flourish Ivan stepped in for a final attack. Haille was in pain, injured, limping, his moves uncoordinated, his footwork maladroit. It did not take Ivan much more effort to disarm Haille, knocking Elk Heart from his hand and kicking it aside with a sweep of his leg.
Haille’s own leg burned with shards of pain, his forearm throbbed, the blood dripping freely from it. He knew he would not kneel. He would stand as he died and hopefully, perhaps, someone watching from below would witness at least that.
“Finish it,” he said. “I won’t beg. You are a traitor and you will someday die a traitor’s death.”
Ivan sneered. “I am a man of power, more power than you will ever know, boy. Death will kneel to me even if you won’t.”
Ivan turned his shoulders, lined up his sword, and breathed deep. Haille readied himself for the coming strike, hoping it would be quick. His attention focused on the blade about to descend, he only noticed the flash at Ivan’s midsection out of the periphery of his vision. Ivan made a sudden gulp, his sword trembling. His mouth twisted before his lips parted, baring his teeth in a grimace of surprise and discomfort. Haille swallowed, wondering what Ivan was waiting for when he noticed a string of blood drip from Ivan’s lips. A wider stain was spreading at his waist along the length of his belt. Ivan removed a hand from the handle of his sword and placed it on his torso. The shift in weight was enough to collapse him. His knees buckled, his legs fell sideways, his torso tipped forward as if in a bow, but it was only when he struck the ground in two severed pieces that Haille realized Ivan had been cut through the middle.
Standing behind him, Elk Heart poised in her hands, her bindings untied, her body twisted from delivering the fatal swing, was Yana.
They stared at one another, dumb for a long moment, before she lowered the sword down on Ivan’s neck and completed what had turned into an execution. Behind her, next to the ropes he had loosened, was Nathan, collapsed against the iron works, but very much alive.
Yana dropped Elk Heart to the ground when it was finished, her eyes filmed with tears as she took Haille in her arms. There were no words for all they were feeling at that moment, a flood of every emotion he had known in a lifetime coursed through him, poised on that fire tower, up on this precipice in the rafters of the world.
Yana released him, keeping one arm clasped around him as she pulled back. “You have friends.” She turned to Nathan.
“I do. Let me check on him and Master Gilbert.”
Haille retrieved Elk Heart, sheathed it, and crossed over to Nathan. His hair and skin were shiny with oil leaked from the barrels and a goose egg was rising on the side of his head but he was alert and breathed a deep sigh as Haille approached.
“You did good, friend,” Haille said.
Nathan nodded, taking a look at the pieces of his former master. “He’s gone?”
“Not coming back,” Yana said.
Master Gilbert was harder to rouse and when he did wake, his eyebrows furrowed together and he pulled on his beard.
“Prince Haille, Lady Yana, how did I get . . . where ever I am?”
“Master Gilbert, what is the last thing you remember?”
The librarian did not answer, instead his face blanched and he scrambled backwards. Haille turned with Nathan and Yana and took in the sight that had so frightened the old man: the Rakne and its rider, the leader of the vaurgs, had emerged fr
om the stairwell, taken in the carnage and now closed on the four of them. The elk’s nostrils flared as it glowered over them, the wind whistling in the points of its antlers. The vaurg’s poleax flashed red in the sunset and his teeth glistened, sliding against one another. Haille drew Elk Heart and stepped to the fore, unsure what use the sword would be against the rack of antlers and the strikes from a mounted opponent, certain his share of narrow escapes had been spent. The vaurg urged his elk forward, corralling them in the direction of the eastern edge of the platform. Haille’s mind was empty of ideas. Master Gilbert was still unsteady on his feet and Yana was unarmed.
Nathan rose to the occasion, levitating a barrel of oil from the stack and sending it hurtling into elk and rider. But the vaurg caught the barrel with his poleax, the staves flying apart with no more harm to him and the elk than a sheen of oil. Nathan went to lift another barrel but his strength was sapped and the barrel only tumbled off the stack, rolled, and came to stop at the top of the stairs.
“I’m sorry,” Nathan said, his lips colorless and pressed together, his head shaking. “I’m too weak.”
As if he understood, the vaurg charged forward, backing them farther up to the edge. Haille felt the wind whipping his hair and clothes. The plaza opened beneath them as they moved closer.
“There is nowhere to go,” Master Gilbert said.
Haille thought that if he charged at that moment, he might buy an opportunity for the others to flank the elk and flee to the stairs. He breathed deep, centered himself on the elk, keeping the ax of the vaurg in the corner of his eye. He knew if he engaged one, the other would be sure to strike him. It was a decision as to what would give the others more time. He chose the elk, sidestepped in an effort to draw his enemies off to the side, providing a lane for friends to reach the stairs.
