Prince of Swords

by Linda Winstead Jones

  The witch instantly recognized Phelan as one of the demon’s servants. “Release me,” she commanded confidently.

  Phelan stood a few feet away and studied her. “You worthless bitch, you’ve failed miserably at the one task you were given. Why should I waste my time freeing you?”

  Her answer was to send a weak spit of fire his way, a bit of flame he easily sidestepped. The spark fell to damp ground and sputtered before extinguishing with a gentle pop. “How long have they been gone?”

  “I don’t know,” she said as she struggled. “I almost had the man where I wanted him, and then the next thing I know, I am tightly bound and separated by several feet.”

  “He stopped time,” Phelan explained. “You should’ve seen that trick coming, you pitiful hag.”

  “He should’ve been mine,” she whispered.

  “Perhaps you overestimated your charms,” Phelan said as he examined her naked body beneath the twist of limbs.

  Beatrisa’s cold glare made clear what she thought of his statement, but then she ignored it and continued on. “It was the woman who called my own tree down to bind me with its limbs. I would’ve been free hours ago if not for that bit of magic. She parted the water with her breath, and called upon these limbs to bind me. What manner of witch is she?”

  “I’m not sure,” Phelan responded. A powerful one, one the Isen Demon wished to use for himself.

  Beatrisa lifted her pretty blue eyes to him, beautiful eyes which concealed her age and her hate and her dark magic. Perhaps she didn’t realize that through the demon which connected them, he knew her well. She’d used those eyes and her fine body to seduce many a man to his death, and she was foolish enough to think they would work on him. “Free me, and I will reward you well.”

  Phelan laughed loudly. “I have no need of your reward.” He remembered Gwyneth and for a moment wished that he had not killed her. When he had his own army, he’d need women, too. He should’ve made her his slave instead of strangling her, and kept her for a while.

  Beatrisa closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I smell my sister on you. You should’ve waited for me, if your aging body only allows for one hard cock a month. I’m much more desirable than she. I’m prettier, I’m smoother, and I know tricks that would make poor Gwyneth blush to her toes.”

  She was trying to get a rise out of him…one way or another. “I killed your sister when I was done with her.”

  Beatrisa smiled. “All the more reason to free me and take me with you.”

  He didn’t have time to worry about this pathetic, useless creature. He walked past the witch, following the path Lyr and the woman had taken. Eventually Beatrisa would manage to free herself. If not, she’d tire and the crocs would get her. “I haven’t the time to waste on a miserable failure such as you.”

  She screamed as he walked away, and he found her reaction amusing. Phelan plodded through the swamp for a while and then he ran, splashing up the shallow water, his eyes focused straight ahead. He had been entrusted with a very important task, and unlike the witch he’d left behind, he would not fail.

  Even the snakes kept their distance, as if they sensed that he was more dangerous than any of them.

  RAYNE HAD NEVER BEEN SO HAPPY TO SEE SUNLIGHT AS she was when the sun rose over the last of the swamplands. With the sun came hope. With light came promise. With this day came welcome solid ground.

  She still had not forgiven Lyr, not entirely. He hadn’t succumbed to the nymph’s blatant attentions, but for a moment, a very long moment, there had been an expression on his face that she wished to be reserved only for her. It was an expression that spoke of need and promised pleasure, of burning desire and uncontrollable yearning. Of lust. She had seen that expression in his eyes before, and foolishly she had thought it meant more than a man’s easy arousal.

  If she had not been there, watching as the witch tried to seduce him, would he have succumbed to her wicked spell? Would he have lain with the nymph in the mud and muck, amid the decay of the swamp?

  She could not answer that question with any authority, and that concerned her. Lyr said she could not trust even him. Was he right in that statement? Was she more alone than she imagined?

  Rayne tried to push the disappointment out of her mind. With everything that had happened in the world of late, her apparent poor choice in love was of little consequence. It wasn’t as if Lyr had promised her anything, it wasn’t as if he’d sworn undying love to get what he wanted from her. Quite the opposite, in fact. He seemed determined to make her accept the fact that he did not care for her in any way other than the physical. Even more so since he’d been forced to kill Segyn.

  His features seemed to ease a bit as they moved onto drier land. She suspected he would never know true ease again, that he had indeed been burned by the betrayal of his friend, but she was glad to see the hardness of his jaw diminish a bit, she was glad to see his fine mouth not so hard, at least for a while. She wanted to take his face in her hands and tell him again that she loved him, to see the expression of longing that was hers, and hers alone.

  Rayne longed, so desperately, to know Lyr in a time when there was no war, no mission, no duty to drive him forward. She longed to hold him without feeling as if every moment they shared was stolen. She suspected that what she longed for was desperately and irrevocably out of her reach.

  By midmorning they were leading their mounts across tall grasses, not sloppy marshlands or endless puddles of muddy water. No reptilian creatures would be hiding beneath the grass, not the way they hid in the water of the swamplands. Yes, she much preferred solid ground. The skirt Gwyneth had given her was muddy at the hem, but still in better condition than the blue traveling dress she’d stuffed into one saddle bag.

  When Lyr indicated with a rise of his hand that it was time to stop to rest the horses, Rayne dismounted smoothly, dropped to her knees, bent forward, and kissed the ground. It was an impulse she gave into without question, and when the soft grass tickled her cheeks and the scent of dirt filled her nose, she was not sorry. She remained there, face against the ground. She didn’t care how she might look to Lyr.

  Earth Goddess, Gwyneth had said. She still didn’t believe that could be true. Perhaps she did possess some magic, inherited through her father and perhaps even through her mother. She did have a special connection with the land and things which grew upon it. Maybe she would even admit that it was possible she was a natural-born witch of sorts, but Goddess? Goddesses were not of this earth, she was certain, so how was it possible?

  A voice whispered to her, and though it had been years since she’d heard that voice, she knew it was her mother who spoke to her as she pressed her face to the ground.

  “You are a keeper of the land, and very much of this earth.”

  Rayne held her breath and listened closely for more amid the long grass and sweetly scented soil. She needed sleep, her mind was spinning, and yet she knew that what she’d heard had not been her imagination or an illusion. After all these years, her mother spoke to her.

  “You are his keeper, too,” the voice whispered, and at that, Rayne lifted her head to watch as Lyr gave his attention to the horses. She had no doubt about the subject of her mother’s insistence, but the Prince of Swords was a man who did not need or want a keeper.

  “His heart needs a keeper, a healer.”

  Rayne sat up and watched Lyr, who gave the horses his full attention. He stroked their necks, checked their limbs, whispered to the animals words of thanks for leading them through the swamp. None could match him in battle, but there was more to life than swords and war. Even in war, life continued on. Perhaps he did need a keeper of sorts. Perhaps that keeper was her.

  She knew the precise moment her mother’s spirit left her. It was as if a physical presence departed. How many times over the years had her mother attempted to speak to her? Why had she never learned to listen? The dark energy of her father’s house had interfered, perhaps, because here in the meadow so far awa
y, wearing another woman’s clothes and more than a little covered in mud, she heard very well.

  Her fingers touched the gem at her chest, her mother’s gem. If her father’s pieces of gold jewelry held on to darkness, as Lyr had suggested, maybe this piece contained light.

  Rayne sat on the soft ground, happy to be connected to the solid soil and glad to be surrounded by tall, soft grasses. A yellow butterfly lighted on her hand, and she smiled. Another followed, this one smaller and a bit brighter in color than the first. In spite of all that was happening, she couldn’t help but smile. Yes, life went on even in the midst of war.

  Lyr spun around quickly, drawing his sword smoothly and moving toward her with haste. A heartbeat later than he, Rayne heard what had alarmed him. A footstep and a labored breath.

  She glanced over her shoulder to see Segyn approaching, a drawn sword in one hand, a length of decaying wood from the swamp in the other. His eyes were crazed, and he smiled. Lyr ran toward her, and toward Segyn, but he was too far away. She tried to rise from the ground but it was too late.

  “Not this time, bitch.” With that, Segyn swung the length of wood at her head.

  HE WAS SO SHOCKED TO SEE SEGYN, HIS REACTION ALmost came too late. Lyr called upon his magic and swung his sword, and the sturdy limb his old friend had been swinging stopped inches from meeting Rayne’s head and likely killing her. There was great force behind that attack.

  Everything stopped. The butterflies which had flown from Rayne’s hand as she’d tried to rise, the grass which was bent beneath the pull of her skirt, the horses which had dropped their heads to eat. All stopped, all but him.

  Lyr moved forward cautiously. He no longer trusted anything, not even his own magic. Even though he had been honing his craft for years, he could not always control the amount of time all was frozen. Time sometimes moved forward on its own, unbidden, but he usually had at least a few minutes to do what had to be done.

  He moved Rayne out of harm’s way first, and breathed a sigh of relief when Segyn’s weapon was no longer upon her. He placed her several feet away, in a position that looked as if it would be comfortable enough when time resumed its forward march. When that was done, he faced Segyn, a man he had called friend for years, a warrior who had taught him much of what he knew of battle, a traitor who was not what he’d pretended to be. A man he’d killed once.

  There could be a quick end to this fight. A sword through the heart while Segyn was immobile would end it, but Lyr hesitated. He’d taken that route before, stabbing Segyn while the man had been helpless, and it had tasted bitter for days. It tasted bitter still. There was no honor in delivering such a death. Was that why the man had come back from the dead? Was Lyr being punished for delivering a less than honorable death to the once honorable warrior?

  No, Segyn had never been honorable. He had only pretended, and though he had pretended very well, he was not, nor had he ever been, a true and worthy warrior. Obviously the wound Lyr had delivered had not been fatal as it had appeared to be, and in his drugged state he had simply not realized the fact.

  No matter what the case, Lyr’s own honor had been tarnished by offering such a death. It had seemed the only way at the time, but now that he had the chance to face his enemy in a fair fight, it was only right to take it.

  Lyr did not need the wave of his sword to start time again. That was the easiest way, it took the smallest amount of energy, but he did not wish to move the point of his sword away from the enemy. Segyn, the enemy. That combination of words still took some getting used to. They still stung. Segyn, the enemy.

  Lyr called upon his magic again, and with a brief flicker of his fingers, time resumed. Segyn’s swing continued mightily, spinning the man around with great force, as the object of his weapon had been moved. Segyn spun wildly, lost his balance, and fell. He landed on his back as Rayne screamed briefly.

  Segyn quickly realized what had happened and jumped to his feet, dropping the length of wood to grip his sword with both hands. He smiled, and that was when Lyr was certain there was nothing in this creature of the man he had once known.

  “You should’ve killed me when you had the chance, boy. Killed me again, I should say.”

  “I will kill you again,” Lyr said, realizing as he looked at the man before him that whatever he’d known as Segyn was gone. His old friend was a victim of the demon as surely as those they’d buried in that razed village days ago. He did not face a friend, but an enemy like any other.

  “You can try.” Segyn swung his sword with a battle cry, and Lyr stepped aside and brandished his own blade with more control and precision than his opponent had shown. Segyn was angry, striking out almost wildly. He had lost control, that was apparent. Segyn had taken quite a chance, attacking while Lyr was awake and able to stop time, going not for the deadliest threat first but for Rayne.

  Segyn was fighting in a careless manner but that might not last. He’d always had great control in battle, and now that the fight had begun, he would call upon instinct and skill.

  The older man had taught Lyr much of what he knew of swordplay, and that worked to neither’s advantage. They knew one another’s moves, they anticipated the next strike. For a few minutes they danced in the meadow, eyes locked and blades striking with force, steps carefully planned and precise. Segyn’s wild anger faded, as Lyr had known it would. Rayne spoke, but Lyr did not listen. He couldn’t afford to listen to her words, not when he needed all of his attention on the enemy before him.

  He spoke to her only once, to order her to stay out of the fight. His fight. A fair fight. There were no vines about for her to manipulate, but in truth he had no idea what she might be able to do.

  The battle was almost like sparring in the courtyard of the Circle of Bacwyr headquarters, but this was no practice session. This was life and death. Lyr was fast; he had always been fast. He was precise, thanks to years of practice. Segyn was strong and ruthless, and he knew Lyr’s moves as well as he knew his own.

  Soon perspiration ran down Lyr’s face and his arms. His heart pounded. His eyes stung. So far no one had landed a blow against flesh, but as they tired, that would come. Segyn was possessed of an unnatural energy, so Lyr could not allow the older man to get the upper hand. He had to make a move Segyn did not expect, now, before his mind became incapable of anything but instinct.

  Lyr dipped down, rolled to the side, and then struck out from an angle. His blade cut into Segyn’s thigh, and the man was truly surprised. The injury didn’t slow him down, though. In fact, Segyn laughed. That unnatural laughter sent chills down Lyr’s spine.

  It wasn’t long before Lyr managed to dismiss the disturbing fact that his opponent was Segyn and simply fought through instinct, as he had been taught. He felt the blades, his own and the other, as much as he saw them. The sword he wielded felt a part of him, as much as an arm or a leg or the air he breathed. His heartbeat slowed, and all anxiety fell away. He no longer felt tired, and if he continued to sweat, he dismissed the nuisance. There was only the sword, and the sword was his.

  Segyn stumbled, and again Lyr drew blood. The older man gasped but recovered quickly. “Lucky shot, boy,” he said gruffly as he came around and swung hard.

  Lyr deflected the blow, spun out of reach, and then moved in for another strike. There was no luck in swordplay which was not made by the man who gripped the weapon in his hands.

  Again, Segyn gasped, but he also smiled. “You cannot kill me, boy. The demon brought me back from the dead after the last time you killed me. Do you think he’ll allow me to die while the girl and the crystal dagger are within reach? No, they are mine, and you are nothing more than a soon-to-be-dead spoiled child…”

  While Segyn taunted, Lyr kept his mind and his soul on the battle at hand. He did not listen, he did not take a single word to heart. It wasn’t the man he had once known speaking, in any case. This opponent was the servant of a demon, a demon who wished to bring darkness and pain to the world, and most especially to Rayne.

/>   Segyn’s taunts were cut short when Lyr’s blade pierced the place where his heart should be. For a moment Segyn was still, and then he dropped to his knees, oddly alive. He laid one hand against the blood that seeped from what should’ve been a killing wound. “I didn’t teach you that move.”

  “No,” Lyr said softly. “My father did.”

  The crystal dagger came alive, humming against the thigh where it was strapped, and as it had in the past, the thing spoke to him.

  Take his head.

  Lyr shook his head. “None of my warriors should die that way. It isn’t fitting.”

  This vessel of darkness is no longer your warrior, and unless you take his head, he will return. The humming grew stronger. He will go after her before you, as he did on this day. Give him the chance and he will use her against you.

  While Segyn studied his bloody hand and tried to make a firmer grip on the handle of his sword, Lyr stepped back, spun forward, and swung his weapon with strength and precision. Though he had never made such a move before, he knew it was not easy to take a man’s head. Strength was called for, strength of arm and of heart.

  It was an ugly sight, to see a man’s head separated from his shoulders, to witness the moment when familiar eyes which had once been lively and laughing, which had once been dark and malevolent, went lifeless.

  This time he defeated Segyn in a fair battle, and the man who had once been his friend was truly dead.

  The humming against his thigh grew silent. Apparently the crystal dagger slept once again, now that the threat was past.

  Lyr heard Rayne before he saw her. She ran toward him, her breath labored and uneven. He turned to face her, and she threw herself at him.

  He caught her, which meant dropping his sword. Lyr never dropped his sword, but Rayne propelled herself at him so fiercely it was either let go of the weapon or take the chance that she’d fall. Her face was damp with tears, and her heart, pressed against his, beat too fast and hard.