by kimberly
He's trying to burn me up from inside, the warning thundered through Morgan's mind.
"Bow and pray to me!" Xavier thundered. "Worship me as the Dragon incarnate!"
"Oroborous is a false god," Morgan heard himself grate. "You are a false god!"
"If you will not worship me, then you will be consumed!"
Ancient rites whirled though Morgan's skull as he unconsciously called upon an inner reserve of strength he did not even know he possessed. There is a way to stop this, something I have not done in a very long time.
Shifting his position, completing a certain pattern of space between himself and Xavier, Morgan locked his arms straight and spread them in front of his body, palms up. His entire frame vibrated with the effort to remain erect, but he willed himself not to fall. If he faltered now, Xavier would win. Automatic words broke from his lips, ringing clear and strong, escaping in a torrent that came from the very depths of his subliminal self; it took black magic to fight evil, not white. Like recognized like.
"I summon the elements, conjure them to do my bidding in the name of Cerredwen. Discord shall be your fate, turn the darkness over your…"
Hoarse, gasping, Morgan forced himself to center his psi-energies, merging them with the astral forces of the symbolic deity he summoned to his aid. "I see thine enemy before me now. Be he accursed by my word and will, bind him, crush him, bring him down!"
A hot cyclone of wind and water tore through the dungeon, extinguishing the sorcerer's wall of flame as if a giant hand had come down upon them. The demons living in the flames screeched, cursing and gnashing their teeth as they were sent spiraling back into the unfathomable chasm that had given them a foul birthing. Only fading wisps of smoke and a black circle scorched into the dungeon's stone floor remained when they had departed. A faint trace of sulfur hovered, a proliferating stench that invaded the nostrils. Silence prevailed, save for Xavier's voice, cursing his enemy.
Trembling violently, feeling ice slice through his veins, Morgan fell to his knees, exhausted by the effort. The atmosphere around him was empty, void and smothering. He felt as if the very air had been sucked from his aching lungs. He forced himself to be still, his head bent, his brain hovering on the very line between madness and sanity. He had pushed his body and mind to the brink of endurance and could go no further.
I must not lose myself, Morgan warned himself as pain spiked through his brain, bringing a whole new sensation of distress racing through his numb body. Lose consciousness and I will lose my mind.
"I didn't think you still had it in you," Xavier said. His bloodshot eye was blazing with anger, as if the Dragon itself had taken possession of his body. His face was dark, raging with pain and anger. "But I shall not be so deceived again." He cast his hand into the air. "Take him while he is weak!" The sorcerer's voice was a screech from the very depths of his being. From its perch on the iron maiden, the demonic mutant squealed with excitement, a piercing sound that hurt the ears. Taking wing, it launched into the air, swooping toward Morgan with a furious speed.
"Morgan, look out!" In a superhuman move, Julienne Hunter broke away from Rutola and threw herself in front of her downed lover, shielding him from the vengeful creature. It stuck her full force, knocking her onto her back, pinning her under clutching talons. The creature's beak was just out of pecking distance of her eyes. Its mandibles snapped furiously, catching bits of her hair. Copper streamed from its beak like liquid fire.
"No…" Julienne's voice became a shrill stream of terror. Her shriek of agony echoed through the dungeon when the mutant animal dug into her flesh and disappeared deep inside her chest cavity, going to its feed inside her body. Gasping, she clawed frantically at her chest before convulsing in a pool of her own blood. She whimpered only a single time more, then lay unmoving.
Dragging himself to his feet, Morgan staggered to her side. I do not believe what she has done. Kneeling beside her, he brushed matted hair from her torn face. The rips in her flesh were deep, badly disfiguring her. But even through the ravages, there was still beauty to be found there. Eyes closed, lips slightly parted, she looked to be only asleep, soon to awaken from her dreams. Seeing her, guilt overwhelmed him, slicing through his heart like a razor. She sacrificed herself to save my life, was his dazed thought. Through it all, she stood beside me--because she loved me. Without thought, I threw her life away…
From behind, he heard Rutola speak, "Xavier needs care for his hand. I'll give him a healing."
Dragging Xavier to the edge of his pit, Rutola grabbed the sorcerer's injured hand and plunged it wrist deep into the red coals. The sickening smell of burning flesh permeated the dungeon. Howling, Xavier snatched his hand from the fire. His good eye glared with pure hate. He perched at the edge of the pit like a giant red vulture. Rutola then claimed the sorcerer's fallen staff. Lifting the undead thing, he broke it over his knee in a single motion and hurled the two pieces into the hungry fire. Unfurling its horns, it bleated as it convulsed and died.
"Shall I kill him?" the Raider asked, "Or leave him for you?"
"Leave him for me," Morgan said. Xavier has gone too far this time.
Rutola lowered his head in a gesture of acceptance. "We must leave this place, before our attack is discovered. The worshippers of Oroborous will not be as easy to take down. They fight to die, to win glory for the Dragon and the master who embodies him within the dimensions. Their legion is still large enough to be fearsome."
"You have given enough," Morgan told him.
Rutola's gray eyes searched Julienne's body. Her face was a mass of rips. Not only had her beauty been ruined--which made her worthless in the Raider's mind--she was dead. "Your woman fought bravely. She died a true warrior's death."
"She was my mate." It was the first time he had spoken the words and meant them. Such words are easier to say, he reprimand himself, now that she is gone. "He will pay for taking Julienne's life with his own."
Rutola looked around the dungeon, casting his gaze toward the doors that would offer escape. "Time here is short, and I am not willing to die this day if I don't have to."
Morgan wiped away the blood flowing from the corner of his mouth. He then drew his arm to his body, concentrating on lessening the pain until regeneration could take over. He tightened his grip around the dirk he'd stripped off one of the dead Jan-si. As he lifted the dagger, its intricately wrought blade glittered in the light of the torches with a life all its own, a glitter reflected in his own black gaze. Armed with a weapon he had killed with so many times before, he rose from Julienne's side and walked toward his old enemy with a single purpose in his mind.
I will slaughter the bastard. Pooar er baase as bea. I now hold over him the power of life and death.
Xavier's good eye widened in fear. Morgan grabbed him by the high neck of his crimson robes. He twisted the material in his hand, pulling the sorcerer to his knees.
"What is that thing?" His accented voice seethed with deadly anger.
The sorcerer was hasty to answer. "I will say nothing!"
"You are trying my patience," Morgan grated. "And death is not far away from claiming you." He pressed the tip of the blade deep into Xavier's flaccid cheek, not breaking the skin, merely a warning.
Xavier curled his lips in a sneer. "The creature is a succubus still in embryonic form. It has taken her as parent, choosing her as its final host." He gagged. Saliva caked the corners of his mouth. He clawed at the assassin's hand, trying to free himself, aware of the dagger hovering so near.
Morgan lifted the dagger away from the sorcerer's face. Loosening his grip enough to allow him a little air, he said, "Is there any chance to save her?"
Xavier coughed, choking on his intake of hazy dungeon air. "Its essence is vampiric. It will consume her from within until only an empty husk is left."
Vampiric, Morgan thought. Even if she could have survived it, she would not want to live. "Can you kill it, remove it from her body without damage?"
"No. It is part o
f her now. It will grow into her body, become a living part of her system as it comes to maturity. She is nothing more than a shell now."
Rabid wrath snarled in Morgan's voice. "How long before the creature emerges?"
"The next double moon. It is a creature of the night, created from the supernatural."
Morgan nodded. "If she had survived, I would have considered sparing your life." He sliced his blade deeply under Xavier's remaining eye, a taunting move. "As it is, I have no reason. Laue yn eaghtyr. I now have the upper hand. Builley baaish. The death blow will come by my hand."
Xavier howled with agony, a bewildered cry of torment. Blood ran down his face. "I may die this day, but you'll not live much long when a successor arises to embody the Dragon."
"Let him come. I will be waiting." Morgan dispassionately reversed the knife and slammed its worked hilt into the sorcerer's larynx. Xavier gasped, gurgling sickly, unable to breathe. Morgan let him drop to the floor. He wiped the stained dagger across his torn sleeve. "Níl ann ach an marbh. Nothing is left, except the dead."
Rutola's voice sounded behind him. "Xavier's men approach!" The Raider gestured to hurry. "We can't risk staying longer. If more of the Jan-si come, it's a fight we'll surely lose. After this day's treachery, his legion will be hungry to finish your crucifixion."
Morgan glanced again toward Julienne's body. She lay, so still, cold and lifeless. It is no use. There is nothing I can do for her. Stay longer and I will lose my own life this day.
A small voice broke through the silence.
"I've something, assassin, something you need."
Morgan turned to the small elf, who had watched the slaughter from his cage.
"What have you I want?" he demanded.
Lynar held out his small hand through the bars of his cage. He opened his hand to reveal the gold ring that had been within the crystal's heart. When the ring was lost in the melee, knocked aside by a careless foot, he had been quick to snatch it up.
"Free me from this place," he said. "And I give you your freedom."
Morgan considered the elf's offer. He could not deny the bond. "Your trade is a fair one."
Crossing to the cage, he used his dagger to break open its lock. Delighted to be free, the Danarran rushed from its confine.
"I think you owe me something," Morgan reminded.
Clearly hating to part with a good piece of gold, Lynar reluctantly handed over the ring. "You've your freedom, assassin."
Balancing the ring between two fingers, Morgan lifted it to study the intricate etchings scored into the surface of the delicate gold. To possess it was a bitter victory. The price paid was too high. I have lost the only mate I have ever taken. He slid onto his finger the ring that was now forever a part of him.
"You have my thanks," he said, weary and resigned. He wiped sweat from his eyes, panting in the sooty heat lying over the dungeon like a wet blanket.
"You have freed me," the elf said. "I serve you now."
Morgan frowned. "Be gone, elf. Have you not got somewhere to be? I have given you your own freedom."
Lynar shook his head. "I have no place."
Morgan made an uninterested gesture. "Too bad, elf. I have no use for you." He looked around the dungeon at the fallen bodies. The smell of death was all around, hanging in the air, coating his skin.
This isn't over, he thought. As long as there is breath, there will be battle. The Dragon's legions will soon descend, and my own sister may be leading them.
Epilogue
Morgan Saint-Evanston sat alone before the hearth, concentrating intently on the snapping flames. The ring on his finger glinted in the hard firelight, mocking him. What he had fought to regain, his soul, now meant nothing to him.
Heavy with weariness, he lifted the bottle he held to his mouth. The lhune-roie, a stout malted ale, tasted bitter; hardly the good whisky he was accustomed to but the end result was identical. He was very drunk and did not care. Anything to help the fits of furious rage tearing through him, rage alternating with a terrible depression and apathy. Julienne was dead. The pain of losing her stole back, a slow pulsing of hurt that infused straight into his very being. His mind churned with shame, misery and failure.
Though he had professed no love for her, he knew it was not true. He had, in his own way, loved her, but it had not been enough. Her devotion for him had gone even deeper, and her final, ultimate sacrifice had brought him freedom. To revenge her, he had slain Xavier, but there was still another to contend with.
Megwyn.
Megwyn led the council of justices, and he was an outlaw. Because of this, trial before the council would bring execution if he were ever taken. Of course, if Megwyn truly followed the Dragon, there would be no trial…only death.
Do not think of these things, he warned himself. But such warnings were useless. Carried away by emotion, giving himself to his inebriation, he went much further into his thoughts than he intended. Everything he was trying to forget, trying to blank out of his memory, came cascading back.
Julienne.
I failed you, caile. He closed his eyes, his mind half-stunned by the ale, poised among relief, anger and nothingness. He wanted to forget the woman, forget her face, her lips, the feel of her soft body under his, but he could not. They were mated, Julienne and he, a mating that did not end with the death of one. He could not cease thinking of what had taken place in Xavier's dungeon: Julienne's torture, his own near crucifixion. However, where he had been fortunate enough to walk away alive, she had not.
And, until he joined her, there could be no hope of clemency for his soul. You gave your life for mine, Julienne. Now, I owe you a debt. I will find you again. I swear. Uaigneas mór, go deo, a choích. Great loneliness, forever, and ever. It seemed to be the ultimate curse upon his head.
He lifted the bottle again. His hand trembled from the effort, but he gave himself no respite. He drank until it was empty, let it fall from lax fingers to clatter to the floor at his feet when he stood. That small victory was a hollow one. There was someplace he had to go, a place he had been away from too long.
The den was the only room in the huge old Basque castle that was paneled in wood, an innovative bit of carpentry for the medieval time in which it had been constructed. Chairs and a single divan were covered with beautifully woven Irish linen, decorated with bursts of Celtic needlework depicting pagan symbols. Thick hand-woven carpets were lavishly spread out to cover most of the stone floor, and exquisitely crafted tables matched the furniture in elegance as well as usefulness. All but one table held silver candelabra with lit white candles. Positioned on a stand between two of the chairs sat a chessboard carved from dark Spanish oak. Chessmen cut from black ebony and white ivory were fashioned in the images of the Grim Reaper and an Archangel, the pieces poised for the game of war.
Shelves lined with old manuscripts and exotic curios, collected over a period covering centuries, populated two and a half of the den's five walls. The fourth and widest wall had a fireplace hewn deep into the gray stone, overhung by an elegant black marble mantle. A black wrought iron screen, held in the paws of two iron lions, hedged the hearth.
The fifth wall of the den supported the staircase to an open mezzanine surrounding the room. A four-foot iron rail insured down-lookers against a nasty fall.
Tucked under the staircase was a recess that housed a bar, an obvious afterthought to fill space. More than a haven for well-aged whiskey, the bar served as a reference point. At its end was a concealed entrance to the catacombs under the sanctuary. Through the centuries of its abandonment, the den had been no less bitten by time's spoilage than the rest of the castle. Cobwebs covered the ceiling and most of the furniture. The silver was tarnished. Dust coated every item with a heavy layer, dulling the workmanship of craftsmen long dead.
"Has it come to this?" he whispered. "Nothing but ruin." His eyes searched out every nook and cranny as if trying to memorize every detail.
This accursed place has my blood embedded i
n its very stone. And it was alive, abounding with the sins committed inside its walls. Fillean meal ar an meallaire. Evil returns to the evildoer. Never were words more apt.
Drawn toward the secret door, Morgan depressed the lever keeping it shut. It slid inward on silent hinges, exposing a gaping maw of darkness.
"We work in secret," he whispered. "Hidden like rats underground." He leaned forward, hands gripping each side of the frame as if trying to keep it from dragging him inside. He could not fail to be affected by the atmosphere the sepulcher below spewed forth. Its aura was eerie, seething with tenebrous secrets. Was he imagining it, or had the drone just beyond the edge of his hearing turned into voices? Calling him, mocking him, daring him to return to the depths that had spawned him.
Come back, they whispered.
Sinking to his knees, struggling to resist the voices, he closed his eyes, trying to suppress the tremor passing through his body. It never entirely left me, he thought. It is a thing I cannot escape, for it is a part of me, an inborn part of me. However much I have wanted to deny it, I can never escape it--yet neither can I completely accept it and survive.
The altar he once practiced at leapt to his mind. He could clearly picture the symbols carved deeply in its gray stone. A stone lion's head adorned its face. Gaping saber teeth and slanted eyes revealed the emptiness of the altar's hollow interior. Three small statues also stood on the smoothly polished surface. Past, present, and future, the goddesses circled around an aperture cut into the thick stone. Their arms were outstretched above their heads and, barely touching, their hands were empty of the copper cauldron. The implements of witchcraft had long ago been removed from their grip.