A mass of darkness crashed into him like a wave of liquid ice. Laughter filled his ears, drowning out his scream. The whisper filled him, pouring down his throat, seizing his legs, pinning his arms. He wanted to retch but could not. His chest was unable to rise or fall, and the inability to draw breath sent waves of panic through him, freezing rational thought. Sight slipped away, plunging the room back into darkness. The creature’s murmuring increased, growing frenzied at the taste of his flesh, of his fear.
Valor flashed as Edmund weaved around the executioner. Cuts and stab wounds crisscrossed the big man’s chest, belly, arms, legs, back—but he never seemed to slow, ignoring the wounds as if they were the probing teeth of the smallest, peskiest insects.
Edmund grimaced as he continued to move. This was his first battle since surviving Tyrnen’s ambush, and he felt like a man twice his age. The executioner’s surprising agility didn’t help matters. The size of the man was in stark contrast to his dexterity. Edmund rolled and slid around the behemoth’s club-like fists, thrusting and cutting with movements as precise as his footing in the ankle-deep snow allowed.
The giant lunged and Edmund saw his chance. He started to dive forward, intending to hamstring his opponent, but his left leg—the one bludgeoned by several of the vagrants that had ambushed him near this very spot—gave out. He collapsed, but did not give in to the disadvantage. Instead he threw his weight to one side, falling into a roll. The giant’s foot clipped him, sending him tumbling. He rose smoothly, shifting weight to his good leg and taking a moment to find his balance.
A moment was all his opponent gave him. The big man had sensed his advantage and charged, swinging those tree-trunk limbs. Edmund gave ground, slashing and cutting and thrusting, barely avoiding the other man’s reach. His foot caught in the snow again and he fell backwards. His warrior’s mind ran through options as his body fell. He could roll and regain his feet, or he could lie prone, feigning weakness.
Wouldn’t be much feigning involved
, he told himself, deciding on option two. He let himself crash onto his back, hoping the executioner took the bait.
The Lady’s own luck was with him. The big man moved in, lacing his hands and driving them down like a sledgehammer. Edmund rolled to one side, threw all his weight on his good leg, and sprang up to drive Valor through the man’s skull. He grunted as the blade chipped off but recovered quickly, stabbing between the man’s shoulder blades. The executioner threw his head back and howled. Edmund scrabbled back, his breath puffing out in the cold air as he prepared to wade in. What happened next left him frozen to the spot.
Roaring, the executioner ripped away his hood. His head was covered in bright red scales, each as tough and thick as plates of steel. His eyes were yellow slits. Scaly lips peeled away in a snarl to reveal sharp, pointed fangs. Crimson stained each jagged yellow tooth.
It roared again and advanced, corded arms flexing as it pounded forward.
Aidan couldn’t move, helpless against the heavy force that pinned his body to the wall. His outstretched hand was all that remained viewable, the rest lost beneath layers of shadow. He wanted to close his eyes and let the darkness have him, let his burning lungs expire so he could drift away...
—Do not give up!
The cry within his head brought him back to full alertness. He still couldn’t breathe, and without air, what chance did he have?
His fingers fluttered, and steel grazed their tips.
The sword!
His hands. His fingers still gripped the hilt. He blinked, returning Sight, but could not move his body to strike.
Fire!
he sent desperately.
A thin jet of flame shot out of the ruby, lighting the room in a brilliant scarlet glow. The congealed mass of whispers screamed as the fire cut through the bulk like a hot knife, and the whisper shrieked again and fell away, peeling like strips of paper that shriveled into nothingness. Pulling himself to his feet, he gasped in enormous gulps of air. It tasted sweeter than any pie or cake he had ever filched from Helda’s kitchens.
—You are still in danger, Aidan,
his grandfather reminded him.
Aidan froze.
The harbinger.
As if his thought had summoned the creature, he turned and caught the flat of its sword full in the face.
Edmund fought for breath as he worked against the creature’s relentless attacks. Cutting its face did no good. Valor had drawn no blood, only sparks. He stuck to body attacks after that failed attempt, carving the humanoid body with slashes and stabs. Not that the creature seemed to notice. He slid forward, feigning a dive and bracing his legs to launch himself at the beast’s legs.
Stupid!
he cursed just as he began to push off. Abruptly his bad leg shuddered, and what began as an upward spring became a clumsy stumble as pain shot through him.
A fist slammed into his chest like a battering ram. The world became a whirlwind of white and blue before he crashed in the center of the hard, ice-covered pond. Edmund sat up, the world around him still spiraling. He heard the heavy steps of the creature coming for him, but he did not look up. He was fixated on a spider web pattern that had formed where he landed. He smiled, then watched the beast approach. One fist was clenched and held in the other, and both were upraised like a hammer waiting to fall.
Edmund rolled as the beast leaped and brought his hands crashing down. Its fists smashed through the surface as if it were glass. It teetered, but kept its footing. Screaming in pain and fury, Edmund slid forward and threw his bulk against the creature. It toppled into the icy depths, hands shooting up to grip at the edge of the covering sheet. Struggling against dizziness and nausea, Edmund ignored the rapidly spreading web of cracks and hacked and stabbed at the beast’s hands, chest, shoulders—any flesh he could see. Finally its fingers slipped from the edge. Then it sank, disappearing in the blue depths.
Fatigue careened into him. Fumbling, Edmund sheathed Valor as he began crawling back to the shore. His pain, the giant creature—everything but his original mission, to pull Annalyn from the frozen depths, was forgotten. When he reached her, his breath caught. She was smiling. Her hands smashed through the icy surface and dragged him down.
Aidan no longer wielded Heritage. He
was
Heritage. The pure whiteness of Sight painted an onyx outline around his enemy, the sword a blur in his hands. Ambrose whispered words in his ear, guiding his every movement, helping him stay two steps ahead. The harbinger came at him in relentless assaults, its sword spinning and slicing. Heritage met it again and again. Sight cast away the creature’s disguise, bringing its true form to bear. Its eyeless holes remained narrowed during their struggle. Its mouth was set in a similar position, though occasionally a cockroach would scuttle through the fleshy bars that stretched over the maw.
Ordine’kel
carried Aidan forward, giving him the understanding behind each stab, slice and parry. Their counters and strikes flowed seamlessly, each intercepting and playing off from the other, forming a chain of delicacy and death. Aidan stiffened his arm to catch a downward swing from his opponent, spinning the sword out of his way. He had thought to push the opposing weapon to the ground, but to his surprise the harbinger pressed his way into the spin, forcing Aidan to press Heritage against the blade to hold the creature at bay.
The harbinger snarled, narrowing its eyes again before leaping forward. The blades crashed and came apart multiple times in a blur of motion.
—Press him,
Ambrose said, and Aidan smiled. His ancestor’s voice was tight, but tinged with excitement. The strategy of swordplay, the ability to outthink an opponent and land a winning stroke. Ambrose had lived for this, had never felt more alive than when he was in the thick of battle. Now Aidan had become a vessel that thrummed with his ancestor’s ability, and his passion for the fight.
The harbinger proved a worthy opponent. The creature pressed forward then, suddenly, fell back, stepped into a shadow near one of the columns—and vanished.
Where...?
—Behind you!
Ambrose said.
Aidan turned to see the harbinger leap from another band of shadows. He raised Heritage and deflected two quick blows, stepped forward in a thrust. But the harbinger had jumped into another pool of darkness. This time Aidan heard it mutter a clipped phrase. Dark magic. He recognized the Language of Light. He pivoted, eyes darting around to anticipate where the beast might reappear.
—Bide your time,
Ambrose said tensely.
He will slip up. And when he does—
But Aidan had another idea. He had been the prey for weeks, always waiting for hunters who wore darkness like a cloak to make the first move, expecting him to react. That, and his body could not keep up this pace much longer, not even with Ambrose guiding him like a mother holding a babe’s hands while he took his first steps. Unlike
Ordine’cin
, overuse of
Ordine’kel
came with no fever. Physical exertion inevitably pushed the body to exhaustion, and Aidan’s body had already been fed through a grinder. His ribs flared with pain, bruised or worse from the harbinger’s beating in the depths. His arms burned; the sword felt unbearably heavy in his hands.
Aidan stopped pivoting and lowered his guard, panting.
—What are you doing?
Ambrose said in a strangled tone.
Footsteps sounded behind him, rushing from a bank of shadows behind the thrones. Aidan stepped to one side and heard the harbinger’s blade whistle as it cut the air. Not daring to think, he plunged into the shadows and drew them in around them, embracing cold and darkness. The prayer the harbinger had used passed through his lips.
Then he sped across the room to another cluster of shadows. He looked around frantically, trying to get his bearings. His eyes caught sight of a balcony far above. He darkened and prayed again and suddenly he was soaring toward it, like an arrow taking flight. He looked down to the shadows between the thrones and flowed there, rushing in. The sensation was exhilarating, not quite as instantaneous as shifting or fast-traveling the tunnels, but smoother, like water streaming over a fall. He enjoyed the movement, and marveled in speeding from spot to spot.
He looked below and saw the harbinger twisting around as he had, spitting curses and trying to pinpoint where Aidan might reappear. Aidan waited until he stepped near one of the side walls. Abruptly he was there, lunging at the harbinger. The Edmund impostor had just enough time to raise his blade, but Aidan’s stupendous momentum sent him sprawling. His blade skittered away, lost in darkness.
Aidan wasted little time. He hit the ground running, called Sight, and leaped atop the harbinger, pinning it on his back.
“You’ve lost,” Aidan said.
It would have smiled, had it been able. “Not quite.” Its hands shot forward, palms open. Strands of darkness shot forth, wriggling like worms and straining for Aidan’s throat. Aidan grunted and felt his arms quiver like chords. A chill had settled over him from the darkening.
“Fire!” Aidan cried in desperation, raising the Eye to point at the harbinger. A fresh jet of flame leaped from the jewel, carved through the strands of shadow and poured over the harbinger’s face. It screamed and thrashed. The flame cut off as Aidan rolled free, sword raised, ready to continue the fight.
But the fight was over. The harbinger’s cries died away and it fell still. Tendrils of smoke rose from its face. The last sense Aidan had of coherence was the smell of burnt flesh, and with it, the memory of what he had done at Sharem.
Cold stabbed every inch of Edmund as the creature who wore his wife’s face dragged him deeper beneath the surface. He beat at her unyielding arm with one hand as the other stretched forward, gripping her face, gouging her eyes in a desperate attempt to be released. She jerked away from his grip, and to his horror her face slipped off easily in his hand. The true face of the harbinger stared back at him. Cockroaches and maggots floated to the surface, kicking and struggling before the water’s icy clutches stilled their tiny legs.
Edmund released the mask. His wife’s face stared blankly at him as the disguise floated to the surface. His free arm returned to squeeze at the creature’s hand still clutching his neck. He kicked at it, but the water slowed his kick, muting it. His lungs burned. Her grip tightened as spots wavered across his vision. He kicked out again with one leg. From the boot on the other he tugged free a dagger and drove it through the back of its fleshy head. The thin strips of flesh covering the orifice trembled and went still. Its grip slackened, and the creature drifted toward the dark, icy depths, its empty eye sockets bulging and its mouth frozen in an endless scream.
Edmund felt his lungs burst into flame. The last sight he saw before blackness took him was his wife’s face, floating up to the surface.
Chapter 38
Flight of an Arrow
A
IDAN GASPED AND SAT
upright, sweat rolling down his bare chest like a tepid, sticky waterfall. The dream, again. Tyrnen. Chasing him. Catching him. Killing him.
He looked around the room and let out a long, slow sigh, expelling his terror like steamy breath in winter air. He was back in his bed in Sunfall, and Tyrnen was gone. Not locked up in the depths beneath the palace, but safely away from his home. At least he hoped so. He settled back and closed his eyes. Within moments he felt his eyelids grow pleasantly heavy.
—There’s no more time for sleep, I’m afraid,
his grandfather said.
Aidan covered his face with his blankets.
“There’s always time for sleep,” he mumbled.
—Not for you. We gave you two full days to recuperate.
His eyes flew open. “Two days?”
—
You were in and out, and I suppose you did need the rest. You pushed yourself hard again, Aidan.
He paused.
Darkening saps the body of even more strength than kindling, as I understand it.