by Inez Kelley
Myla used one long leg to sidekick him hard in the gut, her strength sending him backward toward the crenelated notches along the wall. Untrained in any art other than whining, he stumbled under the force and weight of his heavy weapon. He tipped over the stone and the night swallowed him. His scream dimmed until a distant thud silenced it sharply. Having fallen from the northern side, his body would not be discovered until after dawn. Taric didn’t much care.
“The queen, oh shit!” Bryton’s exclamation overlapped a feminine gasp. “Damn it, I told you to stay downstairs, Kat.”
Taric heard the voices behind him but refused to drag his gaze from Marchen and his father. Sweat and blood dripped from both, attesting to the length of time the fight had been going on. Myla stood on the outskirts of the clash, each line in her body tense and prepared to pounce. She was his guardian, not his father’s. She might not interfere but Taric would. He wouldn’t allow his sovereign to die. He wasn’t ready to become king.
Balic forced Marchen backward with a series of short powerful jabs. Marchen twirled and lashed out, striking the king’s injured right shoulder. A pained cry split the night and Balic’s sword arm fell useless. Sneering in anticipated victory, Marchen rushed forward.
Balic wasn’t a legend in battle based on myth. He used his left arm to slice a vicious line upward, splitting his opponent’s chin, exposing bone. Red spray arced into the moonlight but the men rounded on each other once more.
“Your bastard joins us to watch your death, Balic. How appropriate.”
“I assure you, his birth was legitimate. After all, I was married to his mother. She rejected you like the failure you are.”
“You had to put me in irons to keep me from her. One moment was all I needed. I could have made Tarsha love me the way I loved her.”
Balic’s face twisted in disgust. “Like you made your daughter remember things that never happened? You sick bastard. Tarsha never loved you. She feared you. She pitied you.”
A crazed look sparked in Marchen’s eyes and he flew at Balic with a wordless cry. Right arm dangling, Balic defended the attack one-handed but was losing ground.
Bryton sprinted around the fray, prepared to step in, his unbelted tunic snapping in the wind, hair streaming like a flame. Taric started forward three different times but it wasn’t until the sword clattered from his father’s hand that he leapt. He beat Bryton by a hairsbreadth. Taric landed in front of Marchen and Bryton jerked the king away.
“Taric, no!” Balic shouted but blood loss and pain stripped the command from his voice. Even drained by hurt and exertion, Balic fought. Bryton had to physically restrain him from charging back into the fight.
“Stand down, Emerto.” Taric pointed his clean sword directly into the bleeding, obsession-ridden face. “This ends now. No more.”
Marchen took a step back, his leer tugging the gaping edges of his wound. “It ends tonight, spawn, but when I say, not before.”
Laughing sadistically, he held his left arm high. A chant in strange words rang out and lightning shot into his arm. The rooftop shook with enchantment and everyone but Marchen fought for balance. He’d used his magic to pull power from the air.
A storm converged and the night rumbled with thunder drawn by forces outside nature. Howling gusts whipped with raking teeth, and rain began to spit. The torches gasped and flickered before dying a wet death, plunging the rooftop into dangerous shadows. The half-moon battled the clouds in a celestial rebellion, forcing its filtered light through the imposed gloom.
Without warning, the man twenty summers Taric’s senior and already winded attacked with the might of a giant. Blood no longer dripped from his wound but the bone of his mandible shone eerily. Steel met steel with bone-shattering power.
Taric clenched his jaw, reached for every bit of strength, yet his muscles still quivered from the blow. A trickle of dread chilled his spine and he wondered if he had the strength to defeat the enchanted villain. Heated resolve rushed through him. He would or he’d take the butcher out with him. This war ends tonight, here on this rooftop.
Marchen circled, his bloody weapon cutting the air with a scream. Taric took the defensive, hoping, praying for an opening, never taking his sight off his opponent. Grudgingly, he acknowledged that Marchen possessed as much skill with a blade as Balic. The honed edge thrust left with a half twist, scoring along Taric’s shoulder.
A sizzle erupted, air and rain stinging the thin line. Placing his full weight on his forward foot, Taric spun and jabbed deep. Marchen curved his back to avoid being skewered. In the brief half second of his unbalance, Taric attacked. He didn’t draw his sword back but drove it up, toward an exposed throat. Metal sang and his arm vibrated from Marchen’s block. A point tip creased his bicep and fire sailed to his grip but he barely noticed. This was not a training session and blood meant nothing.
Taric attacked again. He caught Marchen along the chest, splitting his tunic, dark blood spilling like a waterfall. The thick black bondmark bisected by dripping red stuttered his concentration. Marchen plunged his blade and Taric shifted just in time to feel the zing of cut flesh along his ribs. His hiss sucked in rain and the scent of wet iron.
An evil cackle blended with the lightning and pounded in his ears. Razored metal had scored a dozen jagged lines on each of them, leaving wounds that appeared nearly blood-black in the dimness. Rainwater and sweat stung with sharp bites coursing over the oozing wounds along his bare upper body, but Taric never faltered.
Marchen preferred long swings and powerful thrusts. Taric fitted his stance for shorter, faster, hacking cuts. A quick successions of jabs forced Marchen back to the wall edge.
A mighty growl blasted Taric’s face in hard, hot pants, and the scent of wine and blood intermingled. One blade slid along the other, the metallic screech loud as a catfight. The hilts meshed and both struggled to twist the other into releasing his grasp. Knuckle ground on knuckle and metal scraped skin.
Marchen pulled power from the air but Taric dug deep into his own soul. He didn’t fight for himself or for his father or even in revenge for Lunian. He fought for Eldwyn and its citizens, those who couldn’t defend themselves and looked to him for protection. He drew on the very core of a ruler—his people. The devastation at Istimar and countless other villages, the children left orphaned, the thousands of lives lost through the seasons, they begged for vengeance and Taric delivered it with renewed strength and determination.
Wrenching his grasp high and to the right, he forced Marchen’s sword from his with a loud battle cry. Thrust met thrust, parry met parry and charge after charge clanged in the darkness. Sparks flew as the weapons clashed, embers hissing into the rain. Laden with sweat, Taric’s brows trickled salt into his eyes and he shook his head to clear his eyes.
Satisfaction grew. Marchen no longer grinned but gritted his jaw in concentration, his magical grip on his strength weakening. His right shoulder drooped, not in injury, but to protect his bleeding side. Myla’s remembered words whispered through his mind. Find his weakness and strike hard.
Digging deep for every ounce of muscle, Taric feinted left and thrust right with a brutal lunge. Marchen’s sword shot out to thwart the blow and Taric rammed his elbow straight into the gaping wound. Marchen shrieked but Taric had no mercy. A fast spin brought his sword directly across Marchen’s knee. He staggered, throwing his weight into Taric’s shoulder, and Taric slipped on the rain-and-blood-slicked stone.
A swipe sailed past Taric’s cheek and a tuft of gold flew from his hair. He swayed to avoid the blade and Myla pushed him, forcing his feet back three steps to keep his balance. Bryton manhandled a yelling Balic back to the wall, splaying his body across the monarch like a shield. Myla stepped in front of Taric. Her wet shift and unbound hair were jarringly innocent compared to the fixated expression on her face and the fighter’s stance of her feet.
Weakened and wavering, one arm wrapped around his abdomen, Marchen held fast to his hate and his sword. He grinned a demon
ic smile and struck out, twining his fingers in Myla’s hair. Taric reached but his hand gripped nothing but air. Marchen pulled her close, his blade across her throat and Taric froze. Terror sank sharp claws into his heart.
“Now, what have we here?” Thrusting his mangled chin toward Taric’s bare chest, Marchen glared at his bondmark. “The heartmate of the son of the man who stole my heartmate. Doesn’t it seem fitting to repay such a debt in kind?”
“Leave her out of this.” His chest heaving, Taric stared at Myla.
Calm and still, she looked deep into his face and winked. She’d allowed herself to become wrapped in the enemy’s arm. Marchen didn’t know what she was or that she was right where she wanted to be. Understanding dawned on Taric and he kept his face blank.
“A life for a life, a blackened mark for another. I don’t want you or Balic dead, although that too would be nice. I want that son of a bitch to ache like I have. I want to see him writhe in torment, knowing he’s the reason his only child, his pride and joy, suffers forever.”
Behind Taric, a soft feminine chant began, barely audible over his racing heartbeat and the storm’s growl. Marchen’s iron-gray eyes, silvered by lunacy, leapt to Katina. “Shut up, little charmist bitch. None of that or I split her open and hand Taric her beating heart.” He pressed the sword blade tighter. A smudge of Taric’s blood stained Myla’s throat, then a trickle of her own slid down her neck.
“Hey, asshole,” Bryton sneered as Katina’s voice died away, “do you really think you’re getting off this fucking roof any way other than dead?”
Marchen chuckled and pressed his cheek tight to Myla’s. “Not really, but at least I’ll take Princess Never-to-be with me. Do you know when your bondmark blackens it burns worse than when it formed? It does. It sears like a knife in your chest. Get ready for the flame, dear Prince.”
“Marchen, let her go. You want me, come get me, you ass-licking bastard!”
Balic’s voice rang over his shoulder but Taric didn’t move his eyes from Myla’s face. His pounding heart tripled its rhythm when a pink tongue darted across her lip in feline fashion, preparing for her moment. Marchen had no idea what he held in his grip but it didn’t lessen the fear in Taric’s gut.
“I love you, Taric.”
Those words, words he treasured more than every jewel in the royal vault, whispered across the wind. Locked with her steady gaze, he pleaded for her to be careful and his lips silently repeated her vow. He’d never feared for his guardian but he loved the woman being held by steel. He trusted her with his life but worried now that it was hers at risk. Every instinct he possessed taxed his patience and his forearms ached from clenching his fists.
“How sweet,” Marchen mocked. “I never got to say goodbye. Tell your sweetling you love her one last time, Taric, and be glad I’m more generous than your father.”
Taric’s tongue froze. Myla’s eyes glowed for a split second then Marchen was holding the scruff of a jaguar’s neck. One black paw shot out and tore half of Marchen’s face away. He released the cat, his scream gurgling into the storm.
Sharp drops of rain beat down, each a stinging hit. The snarling jaguar fought, snapping deadly jaws, her power immense. Her rippling ebony fur, slicked by rain and shining with stormglow, enchanted Taric. Feline or female, Myla was beautiful.
Katina’s rough inhale sounded behind him and he heard the patter of feet running to Balic and Bryton. Wind and water stung his eyes but he refused to blink, to risk one moment of letting Myla out of his sight. She sank her teeth into Marchen’s shoulder. He dropped his sword and clawed at her face. The sword edge cut into Taric’s foot but he kicked the discarded weapon away from Myla. It struck the stone behind him with a scraping ping.
All eyes on the roof were trained on the fight. Marchen raked his fingers across the jaguar’s eyes. Myla gripped his scalp with one clawed foot and wrenched his neck to the side. White pointed teeth glistening with blood smears opened wide and bit. She clamped on Marchen’s skull, crunching with powerful jaws. The splintering of bone cracked over the grumble of weather. Marchen uttered a sound, more whimper than scream, before his hands fell lifeless to his sides.
A boom of thunder shook the castle beneath Taric’s feet, rolling for an eternity. Lightning highlighted the huddled group in pulsing blue-white light. Balic stood half-propped against the wall, blood draining from more places than Taric cared to think about, his right arm limp and motionless. Katina curled her shift-wrapped body into the curve of Bryton’s side, clinging tightly to his neck. His arm circled around her and his eyes closed but he never lowered his sword.
Myla dropped the lifeless body of the Butcher of Eldwyn.
It was over—the war, the fight, the night, all of it. Taric’s shoulders slumped and he hung his head. Sweat and rain ran down his face, dripping off his hair. The droplets took forever to hit the floor. Time slowed, an hourglass with wet sand clumping the passage.
A harpy-like screech brought his head up. Bryton’s eyes were wild. He shoved Katina behind him, stepping in front of Balic with a scream. The Myla-jaguar whipped her head around, red dripping from her fangs.
A tearing agony pierced Taric’s back, the force of the impact spinning him around like a child’s toy. Through a veil of rain, a triumphant Elora seethed at him, crazed revenge etched plainly on her face. Gone was the calm, timid girl he’d met and liked—replaced by a shrieking banshee with wild wet hair and vacant eyes.
His strength left him, his sword clattering to his feet. A burn radiated through his sternum. Taric looked down at the blade of a sword protruding from his chest.
There was no more pain. Rain beaded on the blood-streaked metal, watering down the bright red. Marchen had planted lies in Elora’s mind. She had planted steel in his back. Both were deadly.
He raised his eyes in stunned disbelief. This wasn’t how the night was supposed to end. Elora cackled, madness bright in her frenetic ale-colored eyes.
A chilling growl pierced the night and a flash of black leapt over his shoulder. Bryton’s sword sailed through the air like a javelin, imbedding in Elora’s throat. Her twisted mouth went slack. Myla pounced down, her front paws knocking Elora’s body to the wet stone.
Too late. Both too late.
“Taric.” His name was warbled in his father’s voice as if from underwater, distorted and distanced. It was the only thing Taric heard, echoing like the thunder. His knees weakened and the dark, cracked stone rushed toward him. The strange thought crossed his mind that he should land on his shoulder. That slight turn took the last of his strength. A roar in his ears muffled his landing.
His vision grew cloudy, the edges blurring and softening. The tableau on the rooftop took on a muted haze.
Where had Elora been hiding? Hadn’t he checked the dark corners? No, he’d forgotten.
Everything was too loud. The rain beat with drums, Katina’s scream shrilled like a trumpet, the wind howled in a wolf’s cry and the king sobbed. Taric tasted his own blood when Bryton and Balic rolled him onto his father’s lap. A trembling masculine arm cradled his shoulders and rocked him.
I haven’t laid my head on his leg since I was four summers. It comforted him. He’d forgotten.
Bryton’s chin quivered and his loose hair trickled water onto Taric’s cheek. His chest heaved and his eyes rounded. Over and over his friend’s lips kept moving with the same silent chant.
I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. Bryton used to stutter as a child. He’d forgotten.
He wanted to laugh. Myla’s words came back to him, clear in his darkening mind. Never underestimate a woman with a blade. She’d warned him. He’d forgotten.
“Myla.” The single word coughed from his lips, thick with blood.
A sound never heard before wrenched the night, tearing the fabric of the storm and restoring time. Half woman’s scream, half jaguar’s growl, it pulled his dimming eyes from his father’s tear-streaked face. Fisted hands to the dark sky, head thrown back, Myla screeched. Her
wet shift seemed too clean, too white. Light sprang from within her. She was beautiful. She glowed.
“She swallowed a star.” Breath left his body on the last word, leaking into the night his eyes no longer saw.
Chapter Thirteen
Pain Myla had never dreamt of ripped through her soul. Marchen’s blood coated her screaming tongue with metallic zest, and fiery ice pierced her gut. The excruciating burn surged into each corner of her essence, forcing the cat from her spirit and thrusting the woman into reality. Cold rain plastered her hair and stung her face. She lifted her head to the storm and expelled her consuming agony outward.
The sword in Taric’s back pulverized her heart, and she bled pure misery on a torturous wail. She was his guardian and her failure was too horrible to comprehend.
He could not be dead. But she knew he was, felt his bond with her break like a twig when his last breath escaped into the wind. Frantically, she grasped for his soul but it slipped through her fingers like smoke. Torment pushed her beyond her known power, filled her with an anguished flood of raw ache, erased her mind of all but one cry.
Taric!
ab
Near delirious with grief, Balic thought he imagined it. For a moment, his mind could process nothing but harrowing loss and the image of a gap-toothed child, elderberry jam on his chin, laughing up at him.
Pulling his enemy’s sword from his son’s body, he tossed it aside with a wail. Bitter wind lashed the tears from his face and he clutched a handful of golden hair, begging for one more moment in time. A parent’s plea he knew was futile but couldn’t prevent from slipping off his tongue.
It was not his crippled mind. The night was growing brighter. At Taric’s feet, Myla screamed at the sky in an eerie, non-human cry. Light streamed from within her and met light from above. Not serrated lightning, but a full beam, thicker than an oak, like a waterfall of magic surrounded her.