Kingmaker's Sword (Rune Blades of Celi)

by Ann Marston

  We passed other pairs of guards patrolling the corridors as we strode through the halls, our footsteps ringing confidently on the polished tile of the floor. None spared us more than a brief nod of greeting. Several times, servants stepped aside respectfully to let us pass. No one questioned our right to be in the corridor.

  Quivering, the sword halted me abruptly at a heavy door. Cullin and I stood for a moment to either side of it, looking at each other, both of us wondering what we would do if the door were locked. Finally, Cullin shrugged and reached for the latch. It lifted, but the door remained firmly shut.

  “Any ideas?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  I shook my head helplessly. Behind my ear, the sword hummed a deep, low vibrato. I drew it and watched it for a moment, then experimentally placed the tip against the latch. The blade glowed with sudden, intense incandescence for a brief moment, then there was a soft click from the door. Cullin pushed gently against it, and it swung open noiselessly and smoothly on oiled hinges.

  “Handy thing, that sword,” he commented in a breathless whisper. “But it takes some getting used to.”

  I nodded in fervent agreement, then took a deep breath and peered into the room. It was blacker than a well bottom inside. No light at all showed. I sheathed the sword and stepped into the room. Two paces brought me face first into thick, dusty-smelling black velvet draperies. I managed to stifle my sneeze and reached out to warn Cullin. I heard a faint, muffled thud as he closed the door.

  There was not enough light to see each other as we edged along between the draperies and the wall. I got the impression of a circular room. The hangings, stretching from ceiling to floor, left a space not more than an arm’s-length deep behind them. They muffled the sound in the room beyond them, but we heard something being dragged across the floor, then a moan. It sounded like a terrified animal.

  We found a place where a faint gleam of light glimmered between two of the hangings that didn’t quite meet properly, leaving a thumbs breadth of space between them. I reached out and carefully parted the curtains until we could see into the room.

  Light came only from two guttering torches standing in brackets to either side of a raised dais in the centre of the room. On the dais stood a small brazier, glowing sullen red against the dark, and a table holding a dagger with a wickedly curved blade. A man lay bound and gagged on the floor before the dais. The warlock knelt behind him, and the General sat on a low, carved stool in front of him. The whites of the bound man’s eyes gleamed in the flickering light cast by the torches as his glance darted in mortal fear around the room, and he whimpered through his gag. Balkan, Mendor, Drakon and Dergus stood behind the dais, alertly interested, but out of the way.

  But where was Kerri? I looked quickly around the room, and finally found her only by the gleam of dark gold hair spilling out from a crumpled heap of black velvet against the wall hanging. I touched Cullin’s arm and pointed. He nodded. He had spotted her when I had.

  The General reached for the curved dagger on the table above him. He tested the blade with his thumb and glanced at the warlock. “Remember,” he said softly. “At the right moment. At exactly the right moment, or it will be no good.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the warlock murmured. He put his hands to either side of the captive’s head, and nodded at the General. The General plunged the dagger into the man’s abdomen and ripped it viciously upward. As the steaming entrails tumbled and spilled out onto the floor, the General thrust his hands into the man’s belly.

  “Now!” he cried to the warlock.

  The stench of magic clogged the air around me. Unable to move, unable to breathe, I stood frozen in horror, watching the scene in the room before me. The General, wrist deep in the entrails of the dying man, began to chant words I couldn’t understand, couldn’t quite hear. The voice of the warlock joined his as the warlock clamped his hands tighter around the man’s head.

  A black mist rose from the tangle of guts around the General’s hands. Slowly, it circled his wrists, climbing inexorably along his blood-splashed arms. It began to shimmer, softly at first, with faint colours barely visible in the black vapour. As it reached his elbows, the colours became brighter—reds and oranges and yellows, swirling and pulsing with sullen light, like flames twisting through sooty smoke. The General cried out sharply as the mist enveloped his chest, reached higher for his head. His face stiffened and contorted into a mask of ecstasy behind the mist.

  My skin crawled and my very flesh crept, trying to retreat from the overwhelming revulsion. Chills and fever both raged through my body, and I gagged and choked as the stench of the reeking mist reached me. I couldn’t stop it. I turned away and spewed bitter bile all over the stones of the floor behind me.

  Never had it been that bad. Never before had I experience magic so vile, so incredibly evil. I knew now what Kerri meant when she spoke of blood magic. It was unspeakable terror, steeped in horror and pain, worse than any part of Hellas could possibly be, and for a moment, I thought I might die only through exposure to it. Weak and shaken, I pushed away from the wall and turned back to Cullin. He was not unaffected, but it was the sheer horror of the act itself that turned him pale, not the magic.

  The light of anger flashed in his eyes. Slowly, he drew his sword. “Aye, well,” he said quietly and drew his sword. “That’s quite enough of that, I think.” He stepped through the curtain.

  XVI

  For a long, stunned moment, no one in the room moved. Then the warlock jerked away from the disembowelled corpse and staggered to his feet. The General, still on his knees, glazed and frozen within the swiftly dissipating black mist, howled in agony, but didn’t move. I saw the red globe of magical energy spring to life in the warlock’s hands and stepped between him and Cullin just as he hurled it.

  Hissing and sizzling, leaving a streak of burning air behind it, the ball flew straight at my head. Instinctively, I raised the sword to ward it off. I had meant only to try to knock it away. I certainly had not counted on the polished surface of the blade acting as a mirror.

  The small globe hit the blade squarely, then bounced. It was the only word that fit. It bounced, and flashed back through the fiery, smoking trail it had left in the air behind it, gathering the energy it lost in creating the trail. The warlock screamed as it hit him and erupted into flames that splashed in a fountain of liquid fire around him. The energy rebounded, spraying a geyser of flame all around the room. Some of it caught the General and hurled him away from the body, sending him sprawling half way across the room. The air around him sizzled and spat as the last remnants of the black mist seemed to give more strength to the blaze.

  The fire engulfed the body of the warlock and spread to the black carpet beneath him. Seconds later, the velvet wall hangings began to burn. Dergus was the first to come out of his shocked trance as the velvet hangings burst into flame behind him. He yelled in panic and broke for the door, flailing blindly at the heavy draperies over it. He thrust his way through and disappeared. Balkan was not far behind him, both of them lost in terror and panic.

  Cullin sheathed his sword and leapt across the room to snatch up Kerri’s limp body just as the draperies around her began to burn. I moved quickly to cover him, watching Drakon and Mendor. I saw Drakon reach for the dagger at his belt, hesitate, then turn away. Dragging Mendor with him, he stepped back, away from the raging wildfire.

  Cullin had pulled Kerri away from the burning velvet. He beat out the flames in her clothing with his hands and I watched in horror as the skin and flesh of his hands appeared to catch fire, too. He slapped out the flames, then rose and slung Kerri unceremoniously across his shoulder.

  Choking smoke filled the room. Everything around us burned at once, even the floor beneath my boots. Cullin’s hand came down on my shoulder, and I realized I could not see Mendor or Drakon through the boiling smoke and flame. They were gone. Except for us and the charred bodies of the bound man and the warlock, the room was empty.

  “Get us out
of here,” Cullin shouted in my ear over the roar of the fire. “Before the whole place burns down around our ears.”

  I grasped the sword firmly. “Lead!” I cried. It nearly pulled my arms out of their sockets as it complied.

  The flames followed us out of the room. I thought the very stone and tile burned. I leaped over a smouldering chunk of white-hot, liquid stone and shuddered. Gods! Oh, gods! The rock was burning! It was wildfire born in Hellas the warlock had turned loose and it gave no indication of stopping until it levelled the whole manse.

  The sword led us at a dead run through the labyrinthine corridors. I recognized nothing as we ran. Surely we had not come this way. But the sword never faltered. I had to trust it. We would never find our own way out of this.

  There were other people running in the halls now—servants, guards, members of the household. None of them paid any attention to us, all of them intent upon their own escape. One young girl dressed only in a bedgown ran screaming down the way we had come. I reached out to grab her arm and drag her back.

  “Not that way, child,” I shouted at her. “The fire’s back there. Follow us.”

  For a moment, I was afraid she was too deep in panic to hear me. Then she gulped and reached up to push the mass of dark hair out of her eyes. She looked up at me and nodded. We ran again, and she gathered up the skirts of her bedgown and followed.

  The obscene glare of the fire lit the whole house. Entire rooms exploded into flame to either side of us as we ran. In the passageway around us, the blood magic turned the rock molten and it dripped and flowed, its garish light flaring sullenly amid the smoke. I had never in my life seen anything like this, and I fervently hoped I never would again. Smoke thick as treacle swirled in the air, and the very air itself seemed afire. Blisters rose on the skin of my face and hands as I ran, following the sword. It was as if the flesh was stripping from my bones, like a fowl in an oven. I smelled the reek of my own singed hair and skin.

  Blinded by the smoke, stumbling and staggering, we rounded a last corner and burst out into the Great Hall of the house. Ahead of us, people fled through open double doors into the refuge of a wet and rainy night. I stopped to catch my breath, panting, lungs burning from both the smoke and the exertion. The girl in the bedgown ran for the door without a backward glance. Beside me, Cullin leaned against the balustrade of a marble staircase, chest heaving. Kerri lay limply over his shoulder, arms and hair dangling. Her eyes were closed and she was pale as chalk.

  “Is she alive?” I asked.

  “She’s breathing,” Cullin gasped. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I nearly tripped over something soft as I began to run. I looked down to see a young boy, perhaps four or five years old, clinging mutely to the body of a woman. She had obviously fallen or been pushed down the stairs, and from the ugly, unnatural twist to her head, had broken her neck. The boy’s black eyes were wide and staring in shock and terror above the round, childish cheeks. There was no colour in his face in stark contrast to his midnight hair. He winced away from my boot, but otherwise didn’t move.

  Maeduni. Even shocked immobile as he was, the air around him shimmered with the dark aura of latent magic. A hatchling sorcerer. Perhaps he would grow to be as powerful as the General, but he was yet only a child for all that, and frozen with fear. Left here, he would surely die, either trampled by people fleeing the upper levels in panic, or in the flames.

  “Hellas-birthing,” I muttered. He was only a year or so older than Keylan back at the Clanhold. I couldn’t leave him here to die. I swore again, then sheathed the sword and bent to scoop the child off the stairs. “It’s all right, laddie,” I said. “You’ll be all right. Come with me now.” Small, chubby arms tightened convulsively around my neck and he burrowed his face against my throat, his small body trembling violently. Cullin gave me a wry grin and we ran for the door.

  Nothing, nothing, will ever taste as good as that sweet, wet, fresh air I drew down into lungs burned raw from the smoke in the house. And nothing will ever again feel as good as the cool rain on my face as we ran down the steps into the courtyard. Behind us, every window in the house glowed with the demented glare of the fire. Even as I turned to look, a section of roof near the centre collapsed, sending gouts of sparks exploding high into the air like lost stars.

  “The stables,” Cullin called. “We’ll need Kerri’s mare.”

  I nodded. It seemed unlikely that anyone would try to stop us. I swept the uncomfortable helmet from my head and discarded it as I ran, still holding the child.

  “You there! Tyr! Stop!”

  I swung around to see the Maeduni general thrusting through the milling knots of people in the courtyard. The child in my arms gasped aloud and held out his arms. “Papa!” he whimpered.

  Illuminated by the harsh, unholy glare of the burning house, the General was smudged and soot-blackened, his clothing singed and torn. He stopped suddenly when he saw the child in my arms, his face stark white under the dirt.

  “Horbad,” he cried. Slowly, he stiffened and looked at me. For that moment as our eyes met, the darkness around him faded and he looked no different from any other father concerned about the safety of the child he loved. In that brief instant, there was almost a sense of kinship between us.

  “You have my son,” he said, his voice quiet but carrying above the uproar behind him.

  “I took him out because he was alone,” I said. “I couldna let him die in there.”

  “He shares my magic. He will be powerful when he’s a man.”

  “I know that, but he’s only a child now.”

  “What will you do with him?”

  “I intend to give him back to you.”

  The General did not move, nor did his steady gaze waver. “He will be your enemy when he’s grown.”

  “I knew that when I picked him up.” I brushed the wet, dark hair back from the child’s forehead, thinking briefly again of Keylan. The child rested quietly, exhausted but content, in my arms, his head laid trustingly against my shoulder. He smiled at me before turning his gaze back to his father. “Nevertheless, General,” I said softly, “I dinna make war on children.”

  He took a deep breath. “I owe you a life then,” he said. He nodded toward Cullin who still held Kerri over his shoulder. “Hers. I give you the woman’s life in exchange for my son’s. Take her and go. No one will try to stop you. Give me my son.”

  I laughed. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t quite trust you, General,” I said. “You’ll find the boy safe at the house of Grandal the Merchant.” It was the name etched into the stone above the gate where we had seen him in the city.

  He looked at the child, then at me. “Oddly enough, I trust you,” he said. “I believe you’re a man who keeps his word. You and I will meet again, Tyr.”

  “Aye, we will, General Hakkar,” I agreed. “I have a name. I’m called Kian dav Leydon ti’Cullin. You would do well to remember it.”

  “I will remember,” he said. His voice grew hoarse. “You’ve set me back half a lifetime, Kian dav Leydon ti’Cullin. And you very nearly killed me back there. By breaking the transfer spell, you’ve forced me to drain most of my energy just to recover. To survive the breaking. Half a lifetime.” His voice rose. “All that time wasted. Wasted! How could an ignorant barbarian have so much magic and I not know it?”

  I laughed. “I’ve been called a barbarian by better than you, General,” I said. “And you’re wrong. I have no magic. Just a sword.”

  “You should have killed me then.”

  “Aye, mayhap I should. But you live yet. And so does your son.”

  “The next time we meet, we owe each other nothing.”

  “Only a death, General. Yours—or mine.”

  ***

  There was no need to wake anyone at the merchant’s house to leave the boy there. The whole household, from master down to the lowliest scullery boy, was awake and staring at the spectacle of the conflagration on the bluff above. I placed the child safely
into the arms of the housekeeper, telling her the boy’s father would come for him soon, and Cullin and I hurried back out into the street.

  I carried Kerri while Cullin led the mare back through the crowded streets . An odd, carnival flavour pervaded the city as the citizens of Frendor watched its lord’s house burn. Around us, hawkers cried sweetmeats, ale and wine, and the sound of voices raised in excited chatter and laughter filled the air. No one paid any attention to Cullin and me.

  We found the stablemaster on the street outside his establishment and reclaimed our horses. As we mounted to ride out of the city, Cullin cast a glance back over his shoulder at the fire, blazing like a beacon on the hill.

  “You may have made a mistake letting that hatchling sorcerer live,” he said.

  I settled Kerri securely against me on the saddle and met his gaze. “Could you have killed him?” I asked.

  He smiled ruefully and shook his head. “Of course not. But that only proves we’re both of us fools.” He kicked the bay stallion to a canter and we turned our backs on the city of Frendor and the fiercely burning manse of its lord.

  It was two hours past dawn when we found a spot in the forest to make camp. Kerri breathed deeply and regularly, and her heartbeat was strong but slow. She had not regained consciousness. I laid her on her bedroll and turned to Cullin who was tending the horses.

  “Let me see your hands,” I said.

  “They’re all right,” he replied. “See to Kerri first.”

  He was going to be stubborn and noble about this. Well, I could be just as stubborn. I had already had a head start in obstinacy when I began learning from him, the master of intractability himself. “Cullin, your hands. Now.”

  He gave me an exasperated look, but he held out both hands. The blisters had broken and his palms were raw and bleeding, weeping clear fluid. The skin of his right wrist was red and blistered. It looked intensely painful. I took his hands in mine and drew in a deep breath. As I stared at his hands, healthy new skin began to appear over the worst areas. I had healed wounds for him before, and I knew his patterns now. Moments later when I let out the breath in an explosive gasp, his hands and wrist were pink with newly healed skin, tender still, but whole. He stared at them and shook his head.