A shriek turned his head. A puff of feathers drifted over Shung and two remaining apparitions. Ahh. Very wise, Little Cham. Shung will fix them now.
By instinct, Achan kicked his attacker. His foot passed through its body, bringing an icy chill with it. The apparition pushed him aside and cut across Achan’s neck. His gorget blocked the strike, but it still knocked Achan down. The tower shook under his body. He rolled back to his feet and got into position again.
A sword scraped against Achan’s armor from the back. He ducked and ran past where Bran and Sir Kenton fought to the edge of the roof. His two attackers split up. One came after him. The other went after Shung, who was still fighting two Lord Nathaks of his own.
They were still trying to keep Shung from helping him.
Achan’s attacker managed to nick the side of his knee between his cuisses and greaves. Achan rebuked himself. Here Shung fought three to Achan’s one, and Achan still got hit.
His rebuke reminded him of the words Inko had used on Barthos. It couldn’t hurt. Achan repeated the words aloud. “Arman hu elohim, Arman hu echâd, Arman hu shlosha beechâd. Hatzileni, beshem Câan, ben Arman.”
He wasn’t completely sure these were the right words, but they did seem to have an effect. The apparition shimmered. Only a dark blob in its head seemed more solid. Achan swung for the dark spot, and his sword hit something solid. This Lord Nathak vanished. And the gowzal plopped to the roof, dead, feathers floating on the air.
Achan ran across the tower roof toward Shung and his three opponents, but Bran and Sir Kenton crashed through Shung’s battle. Sir Kenton pushed Bran back with a series of strikes from side guard. Bran grunted with each parry, as if his arms might give out at any moment.
Achan started toward Bran. Sir Kenton snapped his blade around Bran’s shield, and Bran’s scream slowed Achan’s steps.
Bran crumpled to the roof. Sir Kenton kicked Bran’s sword over to where Esek stood, then turned his dark gaze to Achan, his curtain of hair flowing like a cape. He approached, one slow step at a time.
Achan kept back from Sir Kenton, tentative, trying to see if Bran was still alive. He knew better than to think about Sir Kenton’s strength and skill, but his head told him he would be wise not to engage. To defend only. Shung was still blocked off by three Lord Nathaks, so Achan was on his own. And despite his fear, he couldn’t simply defend. He had to defeat Sir Kenton. He had to win.
He sniffed a long breath through his nose, willing strength to his body. He might not have enough skill to beat Sir Kenton, but Arman did. “Arman hu elohim, Arman hu echâd, Arman hu shlosha be-echâd. Hatzileni, beshem—”
“Your words do not frighten me, boy. I’m no demon.”
Achan nodded to where Esek stood with Lord Nathak. “Yet you keep company with them.”
“Don’t kill him, Sir Kenton,” Esek yelled. “Just tire him a bit for me. I want to be the one to end his life.”
“Are you too much of a coward to face me yourself?” Achan yelled to Esek, almost hoping to fight him instead.
“I’m simply tired of all these games. Rant about my laziness if you must. But I have no qualms about letting Sir Kenton tire you.”
A gowzal shrieked. Shung had defeated another.
Achan let Sir Kenton take the first swing. A jab to his gut. Achan stepped aside, parried, and raked Ôwr over Sir Kenton’s arm on his backslash. The sword sliced into Sir Kenton’s rerebrace, bolstering Achan’s courage.
Sir Kenton growled and swung for Achan’s neck. So Achan ducked and swung for Sir Kenton’s feet. One step ahead, that’s where he needed to stay.
Sir Kenton straightened, then lunged forward with a direct thrust to Achan’s chest. Achan side-stepped and chopped Ôwr over Sir Kenton’s extended arms, not hard enough to do any damage, though.
Easily twisting free, Sir Kenton released a series of blows that weakened Achan’s arms. The last one came so quickly Achan only just managed to parry it.
Blades crossed, Sir Kenton slid his sword along Ôwr toward Achan’s neck. The blade made a thick sound as it sliced against Achan’s leather gorget.
Achan made use of Sir Kenton’s closeness to grab hold of his wrist and chop Ôwr over Sir Kenton’s arm again, this time with more force. Sir Kenton lunged back and shook out his arm as if that last blow had stung.
Even so, cutting wasn’t working against Sir Kenton’s armor. Achan needed to find a place to stab. He took a deep breath, but Sir Kenton whipped out his blade with one hand, stunning Achan with a blow to his shoulder.
Achan staggered, and Sir Kenton stepped close and shoved his hip into Achan’s side, the weight of man and armor enough to knock Achan off balance. A blow to the back of Achan’s leg skidded past his armor and bit into the back of his knee. Achan screamed and skipped aside.
Hold on, Little Cham, Shung said to Achan’s mind.
Sir Kenton grinned at Esek.
Despite his injured leg, Achan darted forward and grabbed the hood of Sir Kenton’s cape. He yanked the man to the ground, dropped a knee to his groin, and drove Ôwr through his exposed armpit.
Sir Kenton sucked in a sharp breath, shuddered, and lay still, staring into the sky. The circling gowzals reflected on his glossy eyes like lost ants. The icy wind swished his black hair over the whitestone roof.
Achan trembled, aghast that he had succeeded against Sir Kenton. He took hold of Ôwr and pulled it out. The white blade, coated in bright blood, didn’t come out as easily as expected.
A curse from Esek snapped Achan’s head around.
To the left of the roof, Shung growled and took down the last apparition.
Achan pushed to his feet, putting his weight on his right leg, for hot moisture stung his left. “Give up, both of you.” Achan panted, but just as he stepped toward Shung, another six balls of green flame shot out from Lord Nathak’s hands.
The green fire mirrored in Lord Nathak’s eyes. “Take your time, stray. My only real goal this day is to kill you, and I am in no rush to do so.”
“Let me deal with him, Father.” Esek crossed the roof and drew a black blade from the scabbard on his hip.
“Don’t be a fool, son. Let the magic do it.”
Esek snorted. “I don’t need the magic now. Look at him. He’s wounded. And I won’t lower my guard like Kenton did.” Holding his sword loosely, Esek swung the blade in a circle and jutted his chin at Sir Kenton’s body. “My Shield will be brought back to life, you know.”
His black blade flashed. Achan jerked Ôwr up, and the swords rang together.
Achan tried to sweep out Esek’s leg, but his left leg buckled, unable to hold his weight on its own. Esek laughed and slashed at Achan again.
Achan parried, faked a cut to Esek’s head, and cut for his feet. Esek blocked the strike, which left his torso free. So Achan spun his sword upward and tried a cut from high guard, which would slice Esek open down the middle.
Except Esek jerked back out of reach.
“You really should consider armor.” Achan glanced at Esek’s arm, the one he’d cut off.
“I don’t need armor, stray.”
Esek swung wide and deep, twisting his arm so his blade came toward Achan like a hook. Achan’s instinct was to dart aside, but he turned into it instead, meeting the strike with Ôwr’s flat.
Esek stumbled but recovered with ease. His feet glided over the roof, his blue eyes locked with Achan’s. Achan limped. The bottom half of his right leg felt like a numb stump. When Esek sprung forward with a cut from side guard, Achan almost missed the block.
Esek’s blade came down again and knocked Ôwr away, then cleaved down on Achan’s shoulder.
Achan’s breastplate crunched. He lost his feet, lurched over the carcass of a gowzal, and spilled to his knees. His left knee screamed, and he put his weight on his right.
Esek bared a nasty grin as he stepped in close and tore off Achan’s helm. He pressed his blade to Achan’s throat, just above the top edge of Achan’s gorget. “Am I king, Un
cle? Call me king, and maybe I’ll let you live.”
Then he fell forward, brow furrowed. His blade scratched Achan’s neck, all force gone. He grabbed Achan’s shoulder with his free hand and sank to his knees, eyes wide with shock, grunting mouse-like sounds and curling into Achan’s lap.
Bran stood over Esek’s crumpled form, clutching a small knife in a trembling hand. Bran!
Following Bran’s lead, Achan pulled his own boot knife and stabbed Esek in the side of the neck. A moan gurgled from Esek as he twisted over the rest of the way and thumped to the roof, eyes closed forever.
37
“No!”
Achan turned on his knees to see Lord Nathak, the real one, marching toward him, hands raised, green mist swirling from his palms. Achan’s chest heaved. He stood, his left leg burning and stiff. “Your heir is dead.”
“No matter,” Lord Nathak said between clenched teeth. “I will resurrect him.”
Again? “How many times does he have to die?”
Lord Nathak grinned. “That is the beauty of the power of the keliy. Nothing is ever too far.”
Achan had felt its power that day at the Reshon Gate when he had possessed the black knight. He picked up Ôwr. “The keliy’s power is a trick. It brought Darkness upon us, and I am here to send it back.”
“And how will you do that, little brother?” Lord Nathak’s lips twisted in a sneer. “You don’t know, do you? Well, I taught you to obey me once. I can do it again.”
A hot knife stabbed Achan’s skull. It had to be Lord Nathak’s bloodvoice gripping his mind as in a vise. He dropped his sword and tried to clutch his head, but his body betrayed him. Despite his throbbing leg, he dropped to his knees and leaned forward, bowing before Lord Nathak.
A brief memory of himself at ten years of age in Lord Nathak’s solar, experiencing a similar pain and lack of self-control, flickered in his memory. He had made himself forget.
Lord Nathak hummed his approval. “Now that’s much better.”
Achan fought the grip on his mind. Arman had spoken to Achan, not Lord Nathak, as king. And Sir Gavin had said that Achan was stronger than any other bloodvoicer. With Arman’s help he could defeat Lord Nathak and rebuke Darkness. He knew he could. He focused on Lord Nathak’s mind.
Suddenly he saw himself through Lord Nathak’s eyes. He looked small and weak, kneeling on the tower roof. Behind him, Bran sat clutching his shoulder beside Esek’s body, looking half dead himself. Across the roof, Shung fought the new host of Lord Nathak’s apparitions.
Achan concentrated on Lord Nathak, trying to leave part of himself in his own body. Step backward.
Lord Nathak grunted as if surprised. His feet shuffled. Inched back.
Achan planned to send another command, to trick Lord Nathak to jump off the roof, but he remembered his promise to Duchess Amal. He was not to control anyone, even Lord Nathak.
Achan pulled back his control a bit, unsure what to do now.
In his moment of indecision, Lord Nathak lunged forward and punched Achan’s body.
Achan fell back on the roof, in his own head again, jaw stinging.
“Nice try, boy. I didn’t know Sir Gavin had taught you such dark magic. Clearly you have not yet mastered it.”
And he never would. Achan reached for Ôwr.
But a bolt of green lightning shot it across the roof. “I am not through with you,” Lord Nathak said. “Renounce Arman, and all will be well.”
A pressure rose at the back of Achan’s head and grew. Achan concentrated on shielding himself, but the pressure stabbed. “I won’t. Arman spoke to me. I will not refuse Him.”
Lord Nathak’s face contorted, angry. He stepped over Achan and gripped the side of his face with his bare hand.
The pain spiked. Nausea gripped Achan. His limbs shook.
“Renounce him, and I shall stop,” Lord Nathak said.
Achan clenched his teeth and fists, and changed focus. He tried to get inside Lord Nathak’s mind again. But doing so somehow lowered his own defenses, causing the pain to seize every pore. He fell onto the ground and writhed, trying to get away from the anguish. If only he could shake it off.
Sir Gavin’s voice came first. Achan, what’s happening?
Your Highness, Duchess Amal said, you must shield yourself. Do not allow him inside your head.
Fire and ash! Inko said. Be closing your mind, boy!
Achan! Sparrow’s voice, panicked. What is wrong? Achan, be careful!
Achan panted and met Lord Nathak’s dark gaze. He tried to relax, but the torment made it impossible.
Closing his eyes, Achan recited the words, Arman hu elohim, Arman hu echâd, Arman hu shlosha be-echâd. Hatzileni, beshem Câan, ben Arman.
The pressure began to fade from his head.
Lord Nathak stared down, his eyes wild. “If you will not serve me, you will die.”
A dull thud turned Achan’s head. Shung had again defeated Lord Nathak’s apparitions. His gaze flickered to Achan. He started toward them. “The little cham will not die this day.”
Lord Nathak lifted his hands to Shung, green fire trailing around the edges of his fingers.
Shung reached back his sword arm. “He will live as long as Arman determines.” He swung his sword, but Lord Nathak’s green fire caught the blade mid-swing.
Shung trembled, shook his head like a wet dog, and screamed, then cut the blade down toward Achan.
Achan rolled to the side and grabbed Ôwr. Don’t let him control you, Shung. Call on Arman.
Achan stood on shaky legs and raised the old sword.
“Arman hu elohim, Arman hu echâd, Arman hu shlosha beechâd. Hatzileni, beshem Câan, ben Arman.”
Lord Nathak extended a smoking green hand toward each of them. “Machmâd pâr—”
“Arman!” Shung screamed, cleaved his blade down from high guard, and cut off Lord Nathak’s left hand.
“Câan!” Achan swung Ôwr at Lord Nathak and severed Lord Nathak’s right hand.
Blood oozed from Lord Nathak’s veins. The man’s eyes bulged. Shung kicked him in the chest. White-faced, Lord Nathak stumbled backward. Shung stepped up to him, swung his blade in a wide arc, and cut off his head. The grotesque torso collapsed to the floor beside its severed pieces.
Achan looked away, wheezing to catch his breath. All was silent. Lord Nathak’s body lay in four bloody pools on the roof.
Could it really be over? How did a keliy die? Who was next in line? The thought made Achan twist around toward Esek’s body, but it lay still in the midst of a dozen dead gowzals.
Achan looked upward. “Why is it still dark? What else do we have to do? Perhaps it is nighttime?”
Shung shrugged, then motioned to Bran. “Can anything be done for the boar?”
Achan ran across the roof and used his right leg to kneel at Bran’s side. The squire’s eyes were closed, but choking breaths seeped in and out of his lips. Bran still clutched his opposite shoulder, blood seeping between his mailed fingers.
There was blood everywhere.
Bran’s eyes opened. He sucked in a wet, gurgling breath and his arm twitched. “Take care of her.”
“Of who?” Achan asked.
Bran croaked a near silent laugh, though his eyebrows pinched together. “Who indeed. Don’t let her… run away. She tends to… to run. A lot.”
Sparrow. “I won’t let her run, Bran. I promise you.”
“Good.” Bran’s brow softened. “And tell Gren…”
But he never finished that sentence.
Achan fell to his rear and looked into the dark sky. “Why, Arman? Didn’t I do everything You asked? Where is the light?”
“Achan.”
Achan looked toward the entrance to the stairwell. A woman in a red dress stood there. Sparrow.
How had she gotten up the broken steps? Achan glanced from Bran’s body to Sparrow and back. He pushed to his feet and stepped into the line of sight between Sparrow and Bran. “I’m sorry, Sparrow.”
&nb
sp; She walked out onto the roof. The wind blew her skirts against her legs, the hem flying out to the opposite side like a flag.
Achan approached and took her hand. It was as cold as the floor in Ice Island. His were sticky with blood. “How did you get up here?” He frowned. “Weren’t you wearing trousers and armor?”
The corners of her mouth curved up, and when she spoke, the voice was not her own. “I was wearing my green doublet with the ermine trim, but you ruined it.”
Achan dropped her hand and stepped back. “Lord Nathak?”
Sparrow’s skin darkened. Her hair began to grow, curl, and lighten to a chestnut color. Her body morphed, stretching the red dress wider and longer.
Gren.
Achan shook his head. “Stop that.”
“But you preferred this face, did you not?” Lord Nathak said, and Gren melted and reformed into Lady Tara.
Achan limped back to Bran’s body and picked up Ôwr.
Tara’s musical laugh made him cringe. “I’m beyond human form now, dear brother,” Lord Nathak said in Tara’s voice. “A sword cannot harm me.”
Help me defeat this foe, Arman. “Arman hu elohim, Arman hu echâd, Arman hu shlosha be-echâd. Hatzileni, beshem Câan, ben Arman.”
Tara walked toward him, shimmering, each step changing her appearance. She swelled and stretched. The dress twisted into britches and a linen apron until a huge man stood before Achan, hunched and balding. Tara’s voice spoke first, then changed pitch until Poril’s voice came forth. “Poril was easy to manipulate, he was. Enjoyed beating you.”
Please, Arman. Help me. Achan inched back and raised his voice. “Arman is God, Arman is One, Arman is Three in One. Deliver us in the name of Câan.”
Poril’s body shrank to the stately image of Esek. Achan looked from Esek’s illusion to his dead body, then glanced at Shung, not knowing what to say or do.
Pray. Shung waved a hand Achan’s way. Call on Arman.
The little cham is His chosen.
Achan opened his mouth to argue, but his mind was an empty pot.
Call on Arman, Shung said again.
And say what else? I’m just one man, Shung. There’s nothing special about me. Nothing I can do that you can’t. I’ve asked His help, but nothing has changed.
From Darkness Won Page 47