Dangerous Talents

by Frankie Robertson

  Jorund took Cele by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. The amulet’s warning made her skin burn like biting ants. “Now you must help me again, my lady. As you see, there are thousands of geodes here, but only one holds the Talent that can heal me. As you can see, I have no time to waste. I don’t have time to search them all. I need you to Find the correct stone. Then, when I am restored, we shall release the other Talents, and I’ll send you home.”

  Home. Longing flooded Cele’s heart. She hungered for all the familiar little things she’d taken for granted. She wanted to watch old movies with Elaine again, eat junk food, and listen to mariachi music. But the cost was too high. Hope shriveled in her breast like a flower in an icy blast. She couldn’t cooperate now that she understood the threat to her friends. Not even for a chance to go home.

  She made her decision, and prayed it wasn’t too late. Freyr, Baldur, if you exist, please help me. Help Dahleven and Ragni.

  She looked at Jorund’s escort of warriors, at Jorund. He would never let her back out now. This first Talent he wanted was for healing. It sounded harmless enough, but once she Found one, he’d know she could Find the others. Maybe, if I pretend to fail, he’ll let me go and move on to plan B.

  Cele returned his eager gaze. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

  Jorund told everyone to be quiet, to let her work. Cele closed her eyes and pretended to concentrate. After several moments, she opened them. “I can’t Find it.”

  Jorund frowned. “Try again. It might have other Talents hidden with it. Fanlon gathered them randomly, and hid them in the dark together.”

  Hidden in the dark. Cele looked around the cavern. Crystals sparkled in the flickering lamp light, punctuating the black shadows. Shadows that…moved?

  She blinked. The shadows were still. It must be a trick of the light.

  “Try again,” Jorund repeated. His words stung, and he didn’t quite keep the edge out of his silky voice.

  Cele shut her eyes again. Furrowed her brow. Minutes later, she slumped in what she hoped was a convincing manner and declared, “I can’t do it.”

  This time Jorund didn’t even try to be smooth. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword and his voice was cold and hard as ice. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you, my lady? I know the extent of your gift. You did what no one else could do. You Found the Staff despite the layers of powerful magic concealing it. This should be quite simple by comparison.”

  A chill zigged down her spine as he tapped his fingers on his blade’s hilt. The threat was clear. If she didn’t Find the Talent, he’d kill her. No one would ever know what happened to her. She’d just disappear. Dahleven would believe she’d returned to Midgard, as she’d written in her note.

  She glanced at Jorund’s escort. Most of them looked bored. Maybe she could Find the Healing Talent, and while Jorund was distracted with it, she could get away before he made her Find all the others. It was a long shot, but it was something.

  Cele closed her eyes again. Her awareness of Jorund and the others faded as she imagined a Healing Talent reaching out to ease pain and harm. A dozen barbed hooks pierced her, shredding her flesh in every direction, ripping her apart. One Talent healed catastrophic burns, another restored sight, one regenerated lost limbs, another cured disease. All powerful. All tearing at her. Cele screamed, dropped the image like she’d held a hot pan and doubled over, gasping for breath as the agony slowly receded. “Quite simple.” Right.

  Jorund was talking. “Lady Celia? Where is it? Where is the Talent?”

  She didn’t have to fake the strain in her voice. “I don’t know! The pain—”

  Jorund grabbed her shoulders and pulled her upright, his fingers bruising her flesh. His sharp gaze bored into her. “Find it! It’s here somewhere. You’ve Found other things you’ve never seen. Try again!” He gave her a shake.

  Cele trembled with lingering pain and fear. She couldn’t face that agony again. Her breath came in short gasps as she stared back into eyes as frigid as the Arctic sea. She looked away. “I can’t!”

  A sharp slap rocked her head to the side. Her eyes flew wide, and Jorund grasped her chin tightly, forcing her head up. “You can, and you will.” He spat the words into her face. She was barely able to nod. He released her. What could she do? He wouldn’t accept failure, real or pretended.

  “Don’t try to deceive me again!”

  She tried to shift the image of her search, as she had for Ari. She focused on nothing in particular, not sure what she should be thinking of, looking for, needing. Fear squeezed her stomach painfully.

  Cele took several deep breaths to steady herself, then opened her mind. The tortuous ripping began again as she sifted through the many Healing Talents threatening to shred her in a thousand pieces. It felt like her flesh was being torn from her bones. Her Talent drew her in one direction, then shifted again. She started to pick one, then another clawed for her attention. She was barely aware of her hands clenching till her nails pierced her palms, or her guttural screams.

  She doubled over, hands on knees, trying to breathe. Black spots danced in her vision, her ears buzzed. Cele gasped shallowly, hungry for air. She knew what a dying animal felt, attacked by vultures overeager for their meal.

  A shout and the sharp clang of metal on metal startled her. Cele’s eyes flew wide, and someone jerked her roughly aside. They were under attack.

  Jorund’s attention was riveted on the men charging his position. He’s distracted. I could take him out. She tried to lift her arm, but echoes of pain made her muscles twitch uselessly. Cele sagged to her knees, unable to move.

  CHAPTER TWENTY~FIVE

  Dahleven charged out of the shadows, shouting as the chaos of conflict erupted around him. With one double-handed blow, his sword swept a man’s head from his shoulders with a crunch of bone and a spray of blood, letting his momentum carry him past. Across the chamber, Celia screamed as if tortured in Fenris’s jaws, and fear for her froze his blood. Jorund Firestarter jerked her back before drawing his own sword.

  Dahleven’s anger sharpened like lethal ice and he altered his course for Jorund, slipping between men battling for their lives. He wasn’t surprised Jorund was behind this. The conniving bastard was just the sort to use sneaking raids and the threat of war to get what he wanted.

  Another adversary interposed himself, his blade slanting for Dahleven’s shoulder. Knut! He should have expected him to be allied with the likes of Jorund. Dispatching him would be a pleasure. Dahleven blocked Knut’s sword with his own, then swept his blade down and around at Knut’s arm. “You are Outcast, Loki-spawn,” he shouted as Knut parried and retreated a step. “Your life is forfeit.” Dahleven stepped in, closing the gap and thrusting upward. Knut deflected his blow, their blades clanging. Instead of piercing his chest, Dahleven’s sword sliced deep into Knut’s thigh. Knut wavered, then brought up his sword again, but too late. Dahleven’s steel took him in the throat.

  Dahleven had no time to enjoy dispensing justice to Lindy’s killer. Another man attacked and Dahleven parried just in time. Their swords met with a joint-jarring screech of metal.

  He managed to turn his opponent’s blade aside, but the man countered, renewing his attack. He was good, very good, and Dahleven had to retreat a step, then a second, and a third, to keep his skin whole. Around him, the clangor of battle raged. He was only dimly aware that several of his men were down—his focus was his immediate survival. His first adversary had fallen easily, but Knut had tired him, and this man pressed him hard, putting him on the defensive.

  Dahleven met a powerful overhand attack with a sharp ringing of their blades. The stroke sent a numbing shock through his hands and wrists. Metal sang against metal as they disengaged. The man grinned, lips pulled back from huge yellow teeth, as Dahleven retreated yet another step.

  Yellowteeth’s skill no more than equaled his own, but the bastard’s strength was overwhelming. He moved too quickly for such power, attacking with the speed and ferocity o
f a wasp with a sledgehammer. Dahleven had practiced a few times against an opponent with a Talent for Strength; he’d never bested him. But this was no practice match, and Yellowteeth would do more than sting him.

  Dahleven thrust under the other man’s guard, slicing the inside of his thigh, and ducked a returning swing that would have taken Dahleven’s head if he’d been slower. He took another step back and came up hard against the wall. His opponent thrust and Dahleven dodged, hoping the man’s Talent would break his sword on the rock wall behind him. His enemy’s skill was too great; his sword’s tip barely kissed the stone before being swept down and across.

  Dahleven dove and rolled. The man was quick. Too quick. He engaged again before Dahleven was quite out of his tuck, knocking the sword out of Dahleven’s grasp and sending it scraping across the floor. As though time had slowed, Dahleven saw Yellowteeth grin as his blade sliced toward him in a clean arc, about to sever blood and bone.

  “Hold!” Jorund shouted.

  The final blow didn’t fall.

  Yellowteeth rested the tip of his sword against Dahleven’s throat, preventing him from rising from his awkward half crouch. The cavern was silent except for a few groans; his fight had been the last. All of his men were down. Fender slumped against one wall, blood masking half his face, just as it had in the vision. It was no comfort to see that of their foes, only Yellowteeth and Jorund still stood. Eirik also was on his feet, but was of no consequence.

  Dahleven fisted his hands, wishing they were crushing Jorund’s throat, but the sword under his chin forced him to be still. Two years before, the Loki-spawn had been Outcast and stripped of his Talent. Jorund had made a great show of remorse at his trial, but Ragni had known his true heart, and Neven had persuaded the others to Outcast the Jarl permanently. Dahleven ground his teeth, sorry to see the scum hadn’t died in the drylands.

  “Lord Dahleven, how pleasant to be able to entertain you, though I’d hoped to do so a bit later.” The Firestarter came to stand in front of him.

  “I’m glad to disappoint you,” Dahleven said. The sword at his neck wavered, nicking Dahleven’s neck. Yellowteeth’s trouser leg was drenched in blood below the cut Dahleven had delivered.

  “No matter. It’s better, I think, that you witness this.” Jorund turned and drew Celia to her feet. She looked nearly as weak as she had after Finding Ari. A red handprint marred her cheek. Dahleven felt a surge of anger, and added Celia’s injury to the long list of reasons he wanted to beat Jorund bloody. Angrim came with her and tried to cling to Jorund’s arm. He shook free of her with less attention than most would give a buzzing fly. She stood with arms wrapped tightly around herself, eyes glazed with hurt.

  Dahleven looked at her coldly, thinking of the men she’d poisoned with soven. They very nearly hadn’t survived.

  Celia shivered under Jorund’s touch. The shadow of pain stained her too-pale face and Dahleven remembered her agonized screams.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered in a strained voice. Tears tracked her cheeks and she wavered on her feet. Jorund’s hand lay possessively on her shoulder. Dahleven’s muscles twitched with the desire to shove the bastard away from her and smash his fist into the Outcast’s face.

  “Lady Celia has seen through Neven’s deception,” Jorund said. “She’s chosen to help me by Finding the Staff of Befaling. In return, I’ll send her safely home.”

  “I was the one who told you where it was!” Angrim protested. “If we’d waited for her to do it you still wouldn’t have it.”

  Dahleven ignored Angrim, as Jorund did. What lies has he told Celia? Lies made believable by Neven’s actions. Dahleven sought Celia’s gaze and spoke to her as though they were alone in the room. “Father treated you badly, but he’s never lied to you, nor made false promises.” Dahleven looked into her reddened eyes, willing her to believe. “Nor have I.”

  “What about the glowing tales of Fanlon’s theft I’m forced to tell each Feast?” Eirik demanded. “Those Talents were never Fanlon’s to take, but you and Neven have me paint him a hero.”

  There was something wrong with that, but Dahleven could think of nothing to say against it. In fact, Eirik’s words made sense. Why hadn’t he seen it before? Dahleven nodded.

  Celia’s eyes widened and she glanced quickly at Eirik, rubbing her arms as though they itched.

  Dahleven found another argument. “Nevertheless, there’s danger in releasing the Talents. The Jarls are too fractious to use such power safely, let alone an Outcast. Look at our history before Fanlon stole the Talents.”

  “History is written by the victor,” Jorund answered.

  “Life was better before Fanlon’s perfidy,” Eirik added.

  Eirik’s argument was convincing. Dahleven started to nod again.

  “No! Stop that!” Celia exclaimed and looked angrily from Eirik to Jorund and back. “If what you’re saying was true, you wouldn’t need to use Persuasion. The truth should stand on its own.”

  “An excellent point,” Dahleven said.

  “We haven’t time for this debate,” Jorund said abruptly. “Eirik, bind and gag him. I want him to witness the end of his father’s rule.”

  *

  Cele pushed down her nausea and tried to bring her adrenaline-charged body under control. She knew she was verging on shock and pulled the sable cloak tighter around her. The odors of blood and feces mingled with sweat and urine. Cele breathed through her mouth. The smell of death was becoming too familiar.

  One thought held hope. Though bound and gagged, Dahleven was still alive.

  With Dahleven tied up, the man who’d held him at sword’s point sheathed his bloody weapon on the third try, then half fell to a sitting position. “Help me, my lord! That bastard near cut my leg off!” He pressed his hands to the bloody wound in his thigh.

  “Tie it off,” Jorund said off-handedly, his attention on Cele. “Eirik, take care of it.”

  The skald moved from Dahleven to the wounded man.

  Dahleven sat with his hands tied behind his back, legs laced together at the ankles. A gag pulled the corners of his mouth back, distorting his face. He looked furious.

  Cele swallowed hard. She deserved his anger. He wouldn’t be in this mess if not for her.

  “How is it you are impervious to Eirik’s Talent, my lady?” Jorund leaned close, speaking in rich, silky tones. “Do you possess an amulet?”

  “A what?” Cele tried to look blank and confused as she kicked herself for tipping her hand. But she couldn’t have remained silent. Seeing Dahleven nodding along like a puppet made her sick.

  “A protective talisman, my lady. You seemed unimpressed by Eirik’s argument.” Jorund’s eyes never left hers.

  Cele forced herself to return his gaze calmly. “Eirik has never impressed me much.” She cast a dismissive look at the skald. “Should he?” She hoped Jorund would believe she was naturally impervious.

  Jorund raised an eyebrow thoughtfully and surveyed the skinny skald before returning his gaze to Cele. He chuckled. “No. Of course not. But how then do you know he used Persuasion?”

  “That is his Talent, isn’t it?” she asked, as though unsure. “Why else would Lord Dahleven agree with him?”

  “Because it’s the truth?” Jorund asked.

  “I doubt Dahleven would think so.”

  “Perhaps not. But his opinion isn’t important, at present. You know he’ll say anything to protect Neven’s power and his own inheritance. His goals are entirely self-serving.”

  Cele managed not to snort. Says the pot of the kettle.

  Jorund put his arm around her, turning so she couldn’t see Dahleven. “No matter. It’s time and past time for you to Find the Talents, Celia,” he crooned. “I’m sorry I lost my temper with you, but you should not have tried my patience, my dear. Let’s put that behind us. I’m willing to overlook your past failures. You’re new to this world, after all, and your Talent is young. But it’s strong. You Found the Staff. And you want to go home, don’t you? Al
l you need do is Find the Healing Talent, and then, after I am restored, you can give me the power to send you back to Midgard.”

  Again, his rich smooth voice was accompanied by painful stinging. “And Neven’s family,” she said, playing along. “You won’t hurt them?”

  “Of course not. My only wish is to return freedom to Nuvinland.”

  She heard a muffled protest from Dahleven, but Jorund’s hand on her shoulder kept her from looking around at him.

  She couldn’t stand his touch another instant. Dahleven was dead no matter what she did or didn’t do. It was just a matter of when and how. Cele stepped abruptly away, brushing Jorund’s hand from her shoulder. His silky cajolery made her want a bath. He’d used and deceived her from the start, wooing her with sweet lies just like Jeff had. How could she have been so stupid? Well, no more. Anger and self-disgust overrode her plans for deception.

  “No.”

  “No?” Jorund frowned, but didn’t look surprised. “You fail to understand, Lady Celia. No is not an option.” He drew his dagger. A foot of polished steel gleamed in the lantern light.

  Cele stepped back.

  “You needn’t fear, my lady. I have no intention of harming you. You’re far too precious and useful.” Jorund took two steps and knelt next to Dahleven. “But Lord Dahleven has plenty of blood to spill.”

  Fear spiked and she put out her hands. “Don’t kill him,” she pleaded, before the words even formed in her mind.

  “I have no intention of it, my dear. He’s too valuable as a hostage.” Jorund teased his knife over Dahleven’s gloved hands. “Will a finger persuade you? Or must I begin with a hand?” Jorund’s half-smile jarred with his flat, practical tone.

  The man with the leg wound slumped over, unconscious. Eirik’s bandage hadn’t stopped the bleeding. Jorund barely flicked him a glance. “I can see you require persuasion, and since Eirik can’t provide it, I shall have to.” With sudden, surprising speed, Jorund seized Dahleven’s bound wrists, flattened one of his hands against the floor, and set the knife against a finger joint.