Children of the Blood (42 page)

Some ten feet from the kitchen door, Gervin stood, legs apart and feet firmly planted. Both of his hands were empty.

Vellen spun at the exact moment that Sara did, and saw the same man. He recognized him only now and cursed himself for a careless fool. In wordless fury, he raised an arm, homing in on Gervin.

And in the hollow behind the furthest hanging on the west wall, Darin saw what no one but Gervin could: That the high priest’s eyes glowed an icy, familiar silver. He had no time to digest the import of the observation—and no time truly to fear it. With fingers curved tight around the pale wood of the staff, he swung outward in complete silence, a move he’d practiced several times. The staff was already level and pointed; it needed no further guidance or coaxing. A brilliant bolt cut the distance between him and the nearest Servant in two. It crackled white, with a hint of the palest green, as it sped, unerring, to its target.

The Servant screamed, her hands flailing in the air fractions of a second too late.

Gervin threw himself to the side and rolled to his feet as the high priest’s eyes lost their silver glow, dimming to a brief blue before changing once again. He looked at Darin, staff in hand, and his eyes widened.

“Are you watching, Vellen?” Darin shouted, the staff already leveled. “Do you have a good view?”

Vellen brought his hands up in a precision dance, but he was not a Servant; he hadn’t their speed. The light of Culverne smashed into his chest and sent him staggering back.

And even though the hall bristled with sudden movements, Darin was silent, the staff across his chest. He watched as Vellen’s legs jerked slightly. Watched with grim satisfaction, hoping he was in pain, hoping it would last. He fired again; white cut the room. Was there a scream, or was it only an echo?

 

The two remaining Swords rushed forward as Stefanos leaped out of his chair, throwing it to one side. Algrak and Kirlan, both outlined in red haze, drew back, circling the First of their number. Almost all of the power in the hall was centered around the long, wooden table; Stefanos was already causing his wary hunters to circle.

He looked once to see Sargoth standing quietly between the open doors. He smiled as the Second nodded, wordless.

“Stefanos, you cannot hope to win this,” Algrak proclaimed.

Stefanos merely smiled, cruelly. “Least of the Sundered,” he said, “I am arrayed against only two, less than two if you are to be counted among them. Prepare yourself.”

And with that, a silver arc cut the air between them. Algrak spoke no more, but the red around him tightened and solidified.

 

Along the east wall, Vellen lay slumped in an awkward heap. From the north and the south, different figures ran a race to reach him. Gervin cursed bitterly as he realized that Darin’s blast had pushed Vellen just a little too far out of range. He stopped short as the two Swords that had not been dealt with came in, weapons raised.

This is it,
he thought, his grip on his own blade tightening.
This is where it counts
. Adrenaline surged and time blurred as the two men came to the protection of their lord. He forgot, as he raised his arm to meet the first strike, that they were younger, stronger, and better equipped than he; he was good, had always been good, and he’d never felt it so keenly. Although he was silent as blade bit into blade, his mind reverberated with a long-dead wail, wolfish in its absolute intensity.

Nor did the Swords speak as they tried to gain the advantage of their number. Already two of them lay dead at the hands of this adversary, and the stance that he took with bare blade spoke of knowledge and skill.

They circled, offering strike and parry, as they watched for an opening.

 

Darin, hands on staff, began to run down the length of the hall.

“Sara! Beware the Servant in the door!”

The warning was wasted; Sara’s wards were as full as she could make them.

Lernan!
Furiously she dug her nails into the flesh of her palms, trying to tear them open. Her fingers would not respond, and instead she bit down on her lip, hard. Her mouth filled with the taste of warm salt.
Lernan, Bright Heart, please!

And as always, as always there was no answer.

For an instant she was twelve again. She turned, unarmed, fists raised and shaking, to meet her enemy. To face the death that she had avoided only through the deaths of all the others in the caravan from Hillrock.

“Sara!”

Darin’s voice pierced the thorned wall of memory, and she
was once again the crippled Sarillorn of Elliath. And Darin, sometimes charge and sometimes friend, was still alive. Still alive, untortured, unwounded, and counting on her.

She could see, glowing brilliantly, Sargoth’s counterwarding, and wondered why he alone stood implacable while all others in the hall prepared for mortal combat. Whatever the reasons, he made no move toward her. Perhaps he smiled as she turned away, perhaps not. His countenance was veiled under the darkness of shadow.

 

Darin!

Darin stopped short as a tongue of red-fire shot out at him. Instinctively he clutched the staff to his chest as the red whirled all round him, trying to find purchase. It sparked angrily against the green of the staff of Culverne; Darin could almost feel its unnatural heat.

He pushed his fear back and drew a shaking breath before calling again the white-fire of his line. The fires joined and flared, crackling in a pink haze. Slowly, the white grew weaker, and Darin grayer, as the red began to push inward.

Bethany
—
the flames
—

No voice answered him; all of the staff’s power was involved in keeping the red at bay—in protecting the last of her line. He tried to lend her his aid, but knew, without knowing how, that it did no good. The red crept closer, and then closer still, until he could feel the fan of it along his face. Now, instead of head, he felt the fingers of a deathly chill trace his cheekbones. He wanted to pull back, but there was nowhere to retreat to—the red was all around, like a hazy cocoon.

Another light flared in the room; another light battered against the red that surrounded him. It was white, pure, blazing—and unexpected. Darin’s sight dimmed as it caught his eye unaware, but he kept panic far enough at bay to continue to stand still, arms and hands wrapped about the symbol of his line.

Caught between the white-fire of Culverne and the white-fire of Elliath, the red-fire was forced both backward and forward, slowly—too slowly—crumbling into itself.

Somewhere in the hall, as if from a great distance, the sound of screaming began. It was low and unnatural, and Darin couldn’t place it—but Sara could. She smiled as she ran along
the west wall, the first genuine smile that had touched her lips all evening. It was a dark, grim expression; if Darin could have seen it, he would not have recognized her.

Her lord was in his element, in his glory.

She kept her wards up and reached Darin’s side. Her hand touched his arms and he spun into a crouch, the staff held lengthwise in two shaking fists.

“It’s Sara, Darin. I’m here.”

He relaxed, but only slightly. His eyes focused poorly; the light was still upon them.

“Sara, are you all right?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“You have to get out of here.”

“I’d guessed.”

“Where’s Gervin?”

She turned around quickly, her eyes scanning the room. Swift impressions of steel, of magic, and of motion danced before her eyes. She could see Stefanos at the vertex of a static triangle, his arms raised and pointed; could see one of the Servants writhing in midair—still screaming—while the other poured out streamers of fire that fell just a little short of their target. The scene captured her eyes for a fraction of a second before she looked elsewhere. At Gervin. Her eyes grew wide as she started forward and stopped in a sudden, jerky movement.

 

This is it
, he thought again. He was sweating and bleeding—it was hard to tell which was which—but so was the last of the Swords. Gervin was the better swordsman, but he’d taken the more severe injury; he was not good enough to stand alone and unarmored against two of Vellen’s elite guard without paying some steep price for the action. The Sword feinted low and brought his weapon up at almost a right angle. Gervin parried and swung almost wildly to the right, feinting as well. He felt the satisfaction of knowing that his strike was not a miss before the Sword attacked again, this time calling on the reserves of his energy for a series of lightning-quick lunges. Not the usual method of attack for such a heavy weapon.

Hells
. Steel bit deeply into his left arm, glancing off bone only because of the angle of attack. He staggered back a few steps, and the Sword pressed his advantage. Both men were breathing heavily. Gervin felt a black wave dance before his eyes and lunged into an attack to drive it back.
Blood loss
, he thought
dimly. He danced out of the way of another strike, allowing it to graze his calf instead of removing his lower leg.

The Sword attacked again, and Gervin cried out as steel slid neatly between his ribs. He tottered once and then fell backward to lie face up under a stone sky.

With a grim nod of mingled satisfaction and relief, the Sword walked over to his adversary’s body. He gave it a vicious kick, and Gervin slid across the slick, red floor. Then, wiping his brow, he turned to look across the hall.

Gervin rolled up, grabbed the weapon that had “fallen” so strategically, and brought it down in an angle that ended with the weary Sword’s neck.

Just that simple.

Just ... that..
. He sighed, sunk slowly down to his knees, his eyes searching the hall for sight of the lady. Already every- thing was dimming.
Damn blood anyway.
He dragged one hand across his face, trying to clear his eyes.

Lady? Lady
—
it ’s cold
—

And then he saw her, shrouded in white. Her eyes, green and glowing, like new grass or new leaves, grew closer and closer.

He could almost feel the touch of her lips across his eyelids as her gentle fingers closed them. He smiled, and the sword clattered to the stone, never again to be raised by his hands.

 

“Can you see Gervin?”

“I think—I think he’s engaging the Swords.” Sara turned firmly around toward the kitchen door.

Darin didn’t look down the hall; he didn’t need to. Sara’s voice told him all he needed to know. A spasm of anger and pain flickered briefly across his face.

But Gervin had paid the price for one reason only. He began to run toward the end of the hall and heard Sara rustling behind him.

His feet skidded along the stone as Bethany’s mental shout covered him. He lost his footing and slid a few feet before coming to an awkward halt. Sara reached down and pulled him up.

“What? What is it?” he said.

“Can’t you see it?”

“See what?”

“Look straight ahead.”

He did as she bade, while she cast a furtive glance backward. He heard her curse softly under her breath.

“I don’t see—” and then he did, for a few seconds. Inches away from where he stood, a slight red haze touched the air. “What is it?” He started to put a hand out, and the staff of Culverne flared brilliantly in his hand.

“Darin, stay behind me.”

He turned and nearly buried his face in her shoulder. Taking a cautious step to the side, he saw the cause for her curses: One of the Servants was approaching them. His movements were slow, almost casual, and his expression could not be seen for shadow.

But Sara knew him. “Sargoth,” she said, raising her hands. “I wondered when you would enter this fray.”

The Second of the Sundered did not reply. Instead he drew closer, until he stood less than an arm’s length away. Sara faced him unflinching. He raised one hand, reached out, and touched her chin. Sparks flared angrily at the connection, and Darin gasped aloud. Neither Sara nor Sargoth deigned to notice.

“You are of older blood. I am certain of it.” He pulled his hand away. “Ah, Stefanos. The question—I had forgotten it.”

None of Sara’s confusion showed; Telvar would have been proud of her. She faced Sargoth, knowing that he was her death and knowing that he knew it, without faltering once.

“Shall we wait for this to finish, lady? It will not be long now; nor is the outcome in much doubt.”

What game are you playing, Servant?
She looked quietly around the hall. Six bodies lay upon the stone floor: four Swords, the high priest, and Gervin. None of them stirred.

The three Servants, however, were still in motion. One now lay against the floor, quivering. The other was upon his knees. Only Stefanos stood, as he had done so many times before, in the face of battle. His arms fell slowly to the side, keeping time with the collapse of Kirlan. From her distance, Sara could see the strain across his features. Human features—she could not
understand why he would expend his power in so trivial a way, but was glad of it.

He gave his opponents one last careful glance before turning to look down the end of the hall.