Princess of the Sword (37 page)

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Authors: Lynn Kurland

BOOK: Princess of the Sword
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She looked back over her shoulder at him. “Aye?”
“I need to work on my spells. I hate to ask this of you, love, but would you stay awake and watch with me?”
She turned herself all the way around to face him. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because I need more from you than simply sitting next to me and prodding me awake when I nod off. If you would, I’d like you to come along with me and set your own spells inside my spells of ward. You would know then when—if—they were breached.”
Her mouth fell open. “By Lothar?”
“I am concerned he might try,” he admitted. “I will cast spells of protection over the border, then put a very thin layer of Fadairian glamour over them just in case. Do you remember the spell of defense I taught you on our way to Durial? The one of Croxteth?”
She nodded.
“Come along behind me and set that just inside my spells. Instead of using yourself as the boundaries of the spell, use my spells as such.” He paused. “Please let me know if you sense anything untoward.”
“Very well,” she said weakly.
He smiled, then leaned forward and kissed the end of her nose. “Morgan, you are the bravest soul I know.”
She shook her head. “I think that would be Keir.”
“He would appreciate that thought, but he would disagree with it. I’ll tell you all the things he said about you when we’ve time later. He shared my opinion of your courage.”
“I had him such a short time, but I’ll miss him just the same.”
“I know you will,” Miach said softly. “He’ll know it, too.” He took a deep breath, then took her hand. “Follow me, love, and let’s be about this. I think we both might want a bit of sleep before tomorrow. I don’t think it will be a very pleasant day.”
She nodded and closed her eyes.
He took one last look at her, then closed his own eyes and set to work.
 
 
He was up long before the sun. He’d done what he could to protect Cathar’s army and the northern border, then turned his energies to shoring up the rest of the spells set over Neroche as a whole. He’d slept beside Morgan, only to wake suddenly and find Sosar sitting nearby, attempting spell after spell, as if merely repeating the words would somehow bring back what he’d lost. His look of devastation had been complete.
Miach had risen almost immediately afterward and left the tent to pace as the world turned toward dawn. He supposed he might now understand a bit of Morgan’s feelings as she walked toward the glade near Ceangail. The time for preparation was past and the time for doing had come. He had spent years stretching himself and his power, greedily learning every spell he could lay his hands on, taking every opportunity to learn about Lothar’s weaknesses, all for the moment he would soon face. He hadn’t fared very well against Lothar in the fall, but he could not fail now.
The fate of the realm hung in the balance.
He realized with a start that Morgan was standing next to him. She wasn’t wearing a cloak and he could see her blades tucked into various places on her person. He looked at her seriously.
“I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking you not to come with me,” he said slowly. “Is there?”
She looked at him in disbelief.
He smiled and put his arm around her shoulders. “There are times, love, that I forget who you are.”
She reached up and touched the mark over his brow, then she touched hers. “Miach, I don’t want to say that I’ve seen it all, but I’ve seen many things I never would have dreamed of in my worst nightmares. In a manner of speaking, I have faced my worst fears and survived. This seems a simple thing by comparison. After all, these are just lads we’ll fight, aren’t they?”
“They were, once.”
“Can they be slain with a sword?”
“Generally.”
She shrugged. “I might be slow to use a spell of death again after yesterday, but I can use my blade repeatedly today and not suffer for it. It is, after all, what I’ve been trained for. I think I will be glad of it, actually.” She shivered. “I never want to use Olc again in my lifetime.”
“I hope you never have a need,” he said quietly. “But you had cause yesterday.”
“Have you ever been that angry?”
“To use those spells of death?” he asked. “Certainly, and the price was very high, which you discovered for yourself. I’m actually amazed that you’re still on your feet.”
“I’ll sleep later.”
He hoped she would have the chance. “You’ll stay near me,” he stated.
“How else will I guard your back?”
“How indeed,” he murmured.
She smiled, leaned against him for a brief moment, then took him by the arm. “You need breakfast. You also need sleep, but ’tis too late for it now.” She looked up at him. “After this is over, Miach, you’re going to sleep for a solid se’nnight if I have to stand over you with a sword and see that you do.”
“As you will, love,” he agreed, almost to the point of taking her up on the offer, though he supposed it had been less of an offer and more of a threat. He took it for what it was and hoped they would have the chance for such a week.
He ate what he could stomach, listened to last-minute strategies discussed in the council that had convened in Cathar’s tent. Various captains of divisions were there, along with his four brothers, an elven king, and a collection of mercenary lads who looked as dangerous as any rogue mage from the north. Well, three of them did. Fletcher looked rather green, but Miach found that rather reassuring. If Fletcher of Harding could be counted on to puke at the beginning of every battle, all was right with the world.
Cathar hadn’t but gotten to his feet and buckled his sword about his hips when the alarm was sounded. Miach jumped to his feet and followed his elder brother outside in time to see a scout drop to his knees. He clutched his gut, blood still dripping across his hands and down to the ground.
“They began a charge without warning,” the man gasped. “After demanding an even start, no less.”
Miach exchanged a look with Cathar. They shouldn’t have expected anything else.
“We’re ready just the same,” Cathar said grimly. He strode out of the tent and began shouting. “Captains, give no quarter today! There is room in this fight for mercy, but mercy will be ending what passes for existence for these poor creatures. To arms!”
Miach started to bend down toward the scout, but Sìle stopped him.
“I’ll see to this one; you see to your business. I’ll follow you with Sosar as I may.” He put his hand on Miach’s shoulder. “I wish you good fortune, lad.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Miach said. He turned and looked at Morgan. He considered a final time asking her to stay behind, then discarded the idea. The truth was, she was likely safer next to him than she would have been elsewhere. At least if Lothar came upon her unawares, he wouldn’t find her alone.
He took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”
She nodded and drew the Sword of Angesand. It burst into light and song, then settled itself into a more discreet glow. Its song faded to a hum that was both soothing and stirring. She took a deep breath, then an expression of calmness came over her features.
Miach looked at her in surprise. “You’re drawing strength from it.”
She nodded. “I think so. I thought about it this morning, when I realized I hadn’t been as affected by yesterday’s magic as I should have been.” She reached for his hand and held it tightly. “We’ll aid you as we can, the sword and I.”
“I’ll have you both gladly.”
She hesitated, then smiled. “I don’t think Lothar will have any trouble finding you now. Not with my sword as a beacon.”
He laughed in spite of himself. “Nay, love, I don’t think so either. Let’s be about this and have it over with.”
She nodded and ran with him to the battle’s front where they simply joined in the fray.
He rallied men where hearts were faint and fought alongside farmers whose hearts were stout and hearty. He continually kept a sense of his spells, waiting to see where they were breached so he would know when Lothar deigned to grace them with his presence. And all the while, Morgan was within arm’s reach, terrifying their enemies and bolstering the courage of their allies with her words and her marvelous sword that Miach was certain had never been wielded by a woman with more skill.
The battle raged on, unabated. He found himself tempted, more than once during that morning, to turn into a bitter wind and see if he couldn’t slip inside Riamh and rescue the three souls held there. But every time he thought about it, he saw another group of men needing an extra sword, or a pair of lads on the verge of being overwhelmed. What point was there in wearing Weger’s mark if he didn’t use what he’d earned?
 
 
It was noon when he found himself standing deep in Lothar’s domain, surrounded by his brothers, Morgan’s kin, her companions, and elves from Ainneamh who had miraculously appeared when things had looked particularly discouraging. Cathar was leaning heavily on his sword, looking grimly at the carnage around them. But, as he’d said earlier, slaying Lothar’s minions was truly the kindest thing they could do for them.
He supposed they had been men before, but they were that no longer. Whether they were bred to their horrible forms, or had spells wrought on them that changed them into misshapen demons, he couldn’t have said. He watched Morgan wander for a bit, stooping every now and again to study what lay fallen at her feet. Perhaps it didn’t matter how they had come to be. They were miserable and death could be no worse for them than a half life where they were slaves to the whims of a man who had no mercy.
The sound of wind made him lift his head suddenly.
It took him a moment or two to realize Morgan was fighting Lothar, who had appeared out of nowhere to engage her.
Only it wasn’t with a sword.
Her sword was lying twenty feet from her and she stood there with her magic alone to aid her. She gasped out a spell of defense, the strongest she had, but Miach knew that it wouldn’t matter. Lothar was weaving his spell of Taking and Morgan wouldn’t be able to fight that, not now that Lothar had at least most of Sosar’s power added to his own vast stores.
Miach leapt forward and put himself in front of her. “Hide your magic,” he threw over his shoulder.
“And you think that will save her?” Lothar asked with a laugh.
“It did yesterday,” Miach snapped.
“Luck,” Lothar said distinctly. “And that was before I had the elven prince’s power. I think you’ll find me quite a bit less manageable than you might have before. Not that you were able to manage me then.”
“The realm still stands.”
“Only because
I
allowed it to,” Lothar sneered, “or hadn’t you considered that? And here is something else to consider, my young mage prince: once I have
your
power and that of your feisty lass there, I’ll go back to Gair’s well and this time I
will
have what it contains. After that, I imagine you won’t have much of a realm to mourn the loss of.” He looked at Morgan. “Are you in mourning today, my dear? Such a pity about your brother.”
“Get out of my way,” Morgan growled, pushing past Miach. “I’ll kill him with my bare hands.”
“Tsk-tsk,” Lothar said, throwing a spell of binding at her. “So vulgar, my dear.”
Miach caught the spell and destroyed it, then pulled Morgan back.
“Miach—”
He shot her a look of warning. She took a deep breath, then stepped behind him.
“I’m sure I can reach my sword,” she muttered. “Leave at least a little something of him for me to use it on.”
Miach thought he just might. He also appreciated the fact that Morgan at least thought he had enough power to best the mage in front of him.
They would all know whether or not that was the case very soon.
He threw away his sword and simply looked at Lothar. “The bulk of your army is gone and we’ll finish the rest at our leisure. I think ’tis past time you followed them into oblivion.”
Lothar laughed. “Oh, that
is
amusing. Do you think so truly, Mochriadhemiach? Do you think that
you
can possibly stand against me?”
“I don’t plan on standing against you,” Miach said, refusing to be baited. “I plan to kill you.”
Lothar smiled, then where he stood was naught but darkness.
To say it was unpleasant darkness didn’t begin to describe it. Several voices around him cried out in horror, but Miach ignored them. He had, unfortunately, seen worse. Actually, he’d seen worse in Lothar’s dungeon. He nudged Morgan backward.
Well, he pushed her, but she didn’t seem all that unwilling to be out of the way.
He lost count, after a while, of the shapes he took and the spells he fashioned. He stopped counting times he destroyed spells Lothar threw at others. He certainly didn’t keep a tally of the slurs Lothar cast his way, the slights, the petty little remarks—when Lothar had a mouth to voice them, of course—that were meant to sting in a particularly personal way.

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