“What are you doing?” she cried out.
“Be still,” he demanded. Lifting his hand a knife appeared, because he ordered it to do so. Ignoring her cry, he slashed the blade into one vein, then the other, spitting into the blood that gushed out. Crimson turned to pink, then white. He exerted pressure above each knee, impeding the flow to creep any higher. The remaining ooze he sucked furiously. Drainage was critical. Every drop had to be emancipated. A taste, sour and fetid, remained in his mouth no matter how hard he spat it out.
“You’re hurting me,” she wept, struggling to be free.
“It wanted your child, Olivia. It wanted life. Think. Tell me everything you remember.”
He kept watch of the wound, finally satisfied he had caught the intrusion in time, had sucked out the defiling poison. Both Olivia and the child were safe. He uttered thanks and loosened his grip.
“Was this Dietrick’s doing?” he asked. “Was he there with you?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“A demon then. Had it a name?”
“I don’t remember, though it was anxious for mine.” She fondled her ankles, the cuts in her legs already healing.
“What did it say? Olivia! Think!”
Exasperated, she blurted out bits and pieces. “My name--it said it knew me--my voice--would let me enter if I gave him my name--and--and--the mark on my shoulder frightened it. Then you called, and I left--it grabbed me and called me--Mother.”
Wyldelock froze to an icy shock. He could barely believe his ears. “It called you what?” he rasped, not recognizing his own voice.
“Mother--it called me Mother--crazed as well as putrid. It stunk, covered with....” She quivered. “Things.”
A resounding buzz of mirth penetrated the walls. Through it came the slow deliberate saunter of steps, the specter drawing closer. Wyldelock scanned for the source, seeing nothing except vibrations. “Olivia,” he whispered with mounting anxiousness. “Get behind me. Quickly.”
“It called me Mother.” Delight resonated through the mocking tone. “Do not forsake me here.” Another boisterous laugh and then, the one voice he recognized easily--Dietrick. “Mother, sister, brother--all lost. None more so than your son--Dagaz.”
Dagaz. The name flashed through Wyldelock’s mind as a streak of lightning, the thunder was his deep prolonged pronunciation of each letter. “Da-gaz!” The deluge which followed was a storm of sparks, dripping from the ceiling, explicitly over Wyldelock. Each spark sprinkled explosive balls of light, singeing his hair, peppering his flesh, igniting miniature flames on the rug around his feet. But Wyldelock refused to retreat from the onslaught. He crossed his wrists over his head and demanded, in the language of the Ancients, that the torrential rain of embers desist.
The funnel thinned but did not listen to the order to extinguish. And those that remained stretched into elongated bars, imprisoning his sight. The bedchamber was completely shrouded; he could not see Olivia.
Wyldelock shrieked his curse. The bars quivered, but the flow continued, squeezing ever closer, giving him no room to thrash in either direction. So he concentrated on the ball of light that pressed from above, his wrists carrying the weight, keeping it from crushing him like a bug under a boot’s heel.
He had neither his cloak nor staff. All he had was sheer willpower and the more he focused on a surge of maniacal anger the tighter the coils circled him--flittering snakes, compressing his torso--crushing him. “Dietrick!” he growled, this name rising from oppressed lungs, constricted throat, swelling tongue. Breath exhaled yet the pressure across his chest allowed no intake. He tasted blood in his mouth, and his eyes swam in increasing faintness. Wyldelock shrunk to his knees.
“Learn that stance, brother, proclaim me your superior.”
Wyldelock spat blood. The phlegm writhed into life, a coiling mass of worm and maggot. He managed to take in air but his tongue convulsed in bitter decay.
“Paternal instinct for one and not the other? Why, Talan--you care for one barely conceived yet forsake the one who so urgently calls for assistance?”
The sparks sank into the floor around Dietrick’s leathered boots. He was proudly adorned in his finest garb, his robe--trimmed in gold stitching--draped over one shoulder, the doublet beneath of Oriental silk, hands gloved in smooth doeskin, lace bunched at his throat. The beaded chest puffed to a laugh, and he tapped the tip of his sword into the floor with an echoing tap-tap-tap, pounding Wyldelock’s skull from the inside out.
“Hear this sweet noise? Rejoice, Talan, for at last your brother is flesh and bone.”
The edge of the sword flashed past Wyldelock’s cheek, making a deep slice, so quickly Wyldelock felt no physical pain. What he did feel, however, was the sting of repulsion. Not for the infliction, a mere taunt, but for the disgrace upon his name, his family. Dietrick had mocked them all, continued to mock, and as Wyldelock lifted his raging eyes to find Dietrick’s ridiculing smirk, he snarled with the fierceness of a rabid dog.
Dietrick drew up his sword and laughed, his face grimacing in delight for the challenge. “Now, Talan? Your wretched son waits with the keys. I am certain he will be happy to have another to share his damnation. Who better than a dear and devoted father?”
“What makes you think it is I who shall request the Gates of Hell to open?” Wyldelock jerked his fingers into a wide sprawl and instantly a sword clamped into his palm. The air between them sliced as the steel against steel clicked once, and waited for the masters to begin the warrior’s dance.
“For Dagaz, of course. By my doing he is committed to wait for you to take his place. Only with your paternal kiss can his suffering mercifully end, and then your decomposing flesh will swim with the eternally ravenous worms of perdition. As any good father, Talan, surely in good conscience you cannot allow the fruit of your loins to suffer so.”
They circled each other, glaring, swords fixated.
“Surrender. Make your death as quick and easy as possible. As your friend, I promise to twist the blade deeply. In regards to the mistress you claim, well, I cannot fathom either her or the child surviving the lust that urges my groin to swell. Her demise may take many days for my lusts have grown, shall we say, deliciously perverse. Is that not what you once considered me to be, brother? Unnatural. Perverse.”
Wyldelock’s fury burst; he lunged with his sword. Dietrick, with the aid of his magic, was behind. The laughter told Wyldelock the destination. He swirled round, and blinked at waves that distracted each eye. Staggering, he shook his head with a mighty jerk and dove into a defensive stance.
“Too much good life? You pale, old friend. Ah, not the intoxication of wine, not the fullness of good food, not the bountiful nectar of a woman’s want, no, none of these. You suffer from irony. Dear Dagaz, so frantic that his soul be saved, passed poison to the woman, and she to you. Your own flesh and blood has passed poison to your flesh and blood.”
Dietrick straightened, tapping his sword’s tip on the wooden floor. He laughed, on and on, his hair shivering to convulsions of empty humor, while Wyldelock saw only increasing fog. The organs within his torso were dehydrating into the serpent that coiled within. He dropped the weapon and sunk.
“In a manner this is not fair, that Dagaz makes my victory over you so simple. I get to see you die, slowly, and that was not my choosing. I would rather show mercy to the one I conquer. But I think to see this, brother, the look on your face, as I speak of Dagaz, is well worth the agony of witnessing the crippling effects the poison will take.”
Dietrick threw himself in front of Wyldelock and snarled with glee. Taking a fistful of hair he yanked, forcing Wyldelock’s chin to rise with a snap.
“Your magic will fade. Your spirit grows weak. You will not be able to save yourself let alone the woman.”
Dietrick spat full into Wyldelock’s face.
“Does that say anything of the love I bore for you? Does this tell you of my passion?”
Wyldelock clasped Dietrick’s throa
t, but there was no strength in his fingers. Hatred, streaks of fire, passed between them. No matter how he tried, no matter which incantation he called, Wyldelock could not force the smile on Dietrick’s face to fade.
In a blink, the enemy vanished. Wyldelock fell forward, dizzied, shaking to regain control of his limbs. He cursed, slowly lifting, and fell again in numbing grief.
Olivia was gone.
* * * *
Subconscious and instinct. Both spoke to her now as reason and logic had done so in the past. Letting go of the rational had been effortless. She relied easily on the new voice in her head, because it spoke with crystal clarity. Her Guide was near.
“Fly.”
Olivia hadn’t hesitated. She didn’t weigh options, she didn’t consider various results, she didn’t ask why. She was not battling the force that had imprisoned William within the bars of light, nor was she running from it. She would assist his fight in the only way she knew how--she would fly, as the Guide had prompted, and seek out the source. In blind faith alone, she stole to the casement in the turret, and threw herself off.
There was pain. Transformation wracked her with agony. She dove from the window, a warm current of sea air buoying hollow bone. She cried out as muscle crunched, dwindling, as her organs tightened within her chest, her legs shrinking to thin sticks. She cried out most of all because she let go of reason. Her arms lifted, she felt the flap of feathers and rose in the current. Her cry now was not that of human frailness--which always paused to ask why this could be--it was the cry of a gull because it knew this was meant to be. And her Guide shadowed the flight.
Euphoria replaced pain; elation took precedence through her new form. She took in all that flowed beneath with human eyes. She absorbed the immensity with a human mind. She luxuriated in the sensations with a human lust for exhilaration. But she was no longer a slave to logic. She was free within the air, the place where magic occurred, the place where the spirits dwelled. And she belonged.
“Fly. Do not look back.”
The morning mist hung over her home. She could smell the willow tree, the garden’s damp earth. She circled, once, twice, searching for a place to settle. Carelessly she chose her mother’s window ledge--careless for this was not the directive, careless because frail curiosity took momentary importance. Through the thin curtains she saw the bed inside. And her beak cracked open to allow one short squawk of disproval--Mother slept in the arms of the stranger. He was awake and turned to see her flutter on the ledge against the windowpane.
Their eyes met. Behind the faintness of satisfaction she read his thoughts as clearly as though they were her own. Like printed words on a piece of white paper she read of his--sincerity. There was no disrespect, no apology, no hint of negligence, for she heard his adoration. He was completely consumed with the newness of love. He was making plans to change his life, circle his future around the woman who had instantly captured his passions. He knew he was needed, and would answer that need.
Then he returned to slumber, holding his prize, unconcerned that a gull protested his presence there.
“Focus. Make haste.”
Still, the distraction of his conquest preyed on her. It took on a life of its own, fogging her mind with betrayal. Jealousy leaped up. Was there no respect left for Father’s memory? How could she lay with another? Why had she been so weak to temptation? What had this man done to blind her to his passions? Destruction of values, corruption of morals. Swords. Many swords had struck into Mother’s heart. She was lost to logic; she needed the comfort this man introduced.
“Mother, do not forsake me.”
Why had the creature at the gates called her this? It knew her but she would never associate with such pestilence unless to fight. She would not answer its pleas for salvation.
Distractions. Too many distractions. Why was her mind wandering like this? Why was it so difficult to keep concentration?
The feathers on her spine ruffled. Her head tipped from side to side and she pecked the glass. Neither occupant stirred. She squawked again, but the wind told her to take flight. The Guide was coaxing her to move on. “Make haste. They draw their swords.”
Her claws wrapped around a branch of the willow tree. Gran’s window was open, the lace twitching to the breeze. One graceful glide and she perched on the sill. And Gran sat, hands folded on her lap, watching the window, knowing. They looked at each other in silence, an understanding passing between them.
“Why, Gran?” Olivia asked. “Why did you raise him from the depths?”
“The choice was not mine to make, Olivia,” Gran said, undisturbed by Olivia’s transformation from bird to woman. “All of this was predetermined.”
“You knew this was all going to happen?”
“Every generation of Von Der Weilde knew of the possibility Talan de Croft might rise. Every generation prepared, in their own way. Once he awoke, then it was up to another in the family to stir Dietrick to rise. The task was mine, Olivia. Your mother could not accept the role--she has long since blocked out all things supernatural. I take no glory for having to bring this struggle upon us. I alone carry the burden.” Sadness dimmed. “But I see how strong you are. Your magic is something I could only dream of. The sorcerer could not have chosen a better ally.”
“Gran, they struggle as we speak.” Olivia could barely contain the urgency. “He is no longer of the air. He threatens William right now and I will perish if he cannot find victory.”
“I know,” Gran said quietly. “That’s why I was waiting.”
“Then you know how to help me. Quickly, Gran, before it’s too late.”
She unfurled her crooked fingers and held out a ring. “Take this, Olivia. It can’t secure victory--only you and the sorcerer can do that--but it will buy you time.” She held it out. “Take it.”
The gold band held a glistening dark red stone--a ruby. Its sheer exquisiteness was dazzling; it glittered, light reflected from inside, bursting tiny sparks. Olivia could sense it was invaluable. “A ruby,” she said.
“Yes, it is one of the many the archeologist spoke of--but he has already found the only Ruby he’s going to get.” She smiled to the wry witticism. “This one, however, was saved, passed down through our family in anticipation for this day. The Von Der Weilde blood is in our veins, but this is the sorcerer’s blood, Olivia. Ours is thin, as Dietrick’s is, and he knows it is a weakness he must bear, but De Croft carries greatness in his veins. Always remember this, you share that greatness because he allowed you to drink of its fullness. Now, you must find the other rubies because his blood is the key. This one will slow your enemy for now. The others will help destroy him for eternity. Take it--go on. Save the one you love. Help him to grow strong again.”
“How do you know all this? Why didn’t you prepare me sooner?”
“There is no time to explain, sweet girl.” Gran thrust out her palm. “Find the other gems. For now, you have this one. Take it, never let it out of your sight, and forgive me for what I had to do.”
Olivia snatched the ring. Cause and effect. By taking the jewel into her hand she felt renewal, as she had done when she tasted the salt of William’s blood, as she had sensed the surge of power associated with his magic pass from his veins to her lips. At the moment the ring was in her hand the enemy fled, instantly, because he, too, sensed the magnitude. For one fleeting second she heard the curse he uttered, for his victory had been close, but he was forced to run off. He would return, this she understood, but for now she was victorious. William was alive.
“The enemy retreats.” The Guide whispered with urgency in her ear. “Fly! Another enemy within his veins proceeds.”
“Gran?” Olivia searched for words to relate gratitude, despite the turmoil. “I love you, Gran.” One sentence, she hoped, would succinctly convey her feelings. One sentence, for although she couldn’t sense Gran’s thoughts as easily as she had done the stranger’s, for although the mind she listened to was slightly blurred, she did read melancholy.<
br />
“I love you too. Now go. Live your life to its fullest.”
* * * *
“No, Olivia. We were not always opposed to each other.”
The room was swimming. Wyldelock staggered to the small door in one corner, hidden with paneling, and spoke for it to open for he had little strength in his arms. Poison seeped through his veins. He felt its heat as it progressed--his mouth dry, bitter, numb. Fever was playing tricks with his mind. He shook his head, quick jerks that rocked his spine, turning a backbone to jelly. Invading memories were causing hallucinations. They were taking him places he did not want to go.
A campfire crackled. He ate hare roasted on a spit. Thunder rumbled over the lush green mountains. Soon the rain would come. Horses jangled their harnesses. And Dietrick talked, his voice young, smooth, rich in the fullness of life. Wyldelock marveled at the wisdom, listening to history, as Dietrick spoke with knowledge of the Spartan armies, their glory in battle, their dominion. Educated, well read, of noble birth, he told Wyldelock how the soldiers each chose another, to teach, to train, to be a constant companion. Once matched they would eat together, drink together, and sleep together. Men were allowed to marry, have families, but when duty called they were to rejoin their partner for war, love that one, so that prowess in battle might be strengthened in order to protect the other. Collectively the army became a force like none other, all because, Dietrick said, of the immense love of one warrior to the other.
He sunk to his knees before the small door, clawing it to open, for magic had no command. The black hole within yawned open. Wyldelock drew breath, readying himself to seek its depth. He tumbled, scraping elbows, knees, rolling to the bottom of the spiral staircase. No torch lit the path, the darkness covering him, and he rested at the bottom, collecting courage.
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