Gyorgy charged into the action, only to find himself stumbling backward as Miklos turned the attack in his direction. If not for Narina’s intervention, the stronger, more skilled warbrand would have finished him in the first exchange. She guarded the boy’s retreat.
Her student stood gaping, clearly unprepared for the challenge of fighting a sohn. Good. He needed to know what he was facing. This was not like killing a few crowlord foot soldiers; their enemy wouldn’t fall before him as if pushed onto his blades. This man was as skilled as Tankred, perhaps more dangerous, in fact.
“The boy and the old man will die, you know,” Miklos said as the two sides broke apart and sized each other up.
“No, you will die. I’ll leave your body for the fire or the crows—whichever finds you first. The three of us will continue on without a backward glance.”
He smiled, but there was no humor in it, only a bitterness in his eyes. “If you defeat me, they will die all the same. You will kill them yourself if it comes to that. I murdered my own cousin when the demigods called me. Now the demigods have you, too.”
Suddenly, Miklos grimaced and doubled over like he would be sick. She didn’t wait to see if he’d throw up, but launched herself into another attack. He recovered enough to fend off her blows, but she managed to drive him backward, deeper into the smoke. It was thick and choking, and she felt her enemy’s sowen almost more than she could see his movements. They clashed again, and withdrew. He was somewhere to her left, and his voice floated out of the darkness.
“Where is the ratter? He’ll die as soon as I’m finished with the lot of you.”
“Andras is no friend of mine. I drove him off, the treacherous snake.”
“Oh, he’s treacherous, all right. He mixed poison into my supper and watched me eat it. Then escaped in the night with his boy and his dogs before I realized what he’d done to me. I’d have hunted him down and killed him first, but I felt you were on the move again. He’s not with you?”
“No, he’s not, and why would he do such a thing anyway?” she asked.
“Ha! Isn’t it obvious? To stop me from killing you, of course.”
Miklos’s story had the ring of truth to it, but did that mean that Andras had been carrying extra poison with him, in case the first wasn’t sufficient to bring down Brutus? Wait, no, that wasn’t it. It was that moment after Brutus threw up, when he’d gone over to poke the vomit with a stick, as if searching for whatever noxious weed the goat had eaten. He must have plucked out what was left of it.
Andras had already been suffering second thoughts before his banishment—the man had purged the goat, after all—and in spite of Narina’s harsh judgment, he must have thought to stop this warbrand before he could kill the bladedancers.
If not for the anger humming in her veins, she might have even regretted sending Andras off with angry words. As it was, she only had thoughts of killing the rival hiding in the smoke in front of her.
“But he couldn’t stop me,” Miklos said. “My sowen is too great for any poison. And I have purpose beyond the understanding of any common man. The demigods chose me first, pierced me with their feathers. Sent me to bring others to the fight. We’re ordained to struggle, all of us, until only one remains. Thus will the sword saint be chosen. Thus will the dragons have their champion.”
His voice had seemed somewhere to the left, but she suddenly sensed movement to her right, approaching swiftly. She pivoted on her heels just as he exploded out of the darkness. His sword smashed into her upraised dragon with a powerful clash that drove her arm downward, and he caught her in the chest with a kick from his boot. The kick drove the breath out of her lungs, and she landed hard on her back. She was slow to recover.
Miklos could have delivered the killing stroke at that moment, but he seemed to lose her in the gloom, and by the time he found her again, she’d recovered and was rolling away to regain her feet. It wasn’t so much the pain in her chest from the kick that left her in grave danger, or the crushing blow that left her right arm numb from shoulder to hand, but the breaking of her sowen in the attack. She had to get out of here, buy some time.
Narina groped backward for Kozmer and Gyorgy, but they had disappeared. Or she had gotten turned around. Or maybe Miklos was using his sowen to hide them. She didn’t know, and the choking, stinging smoke didn’t help.
She heard an irritated bray. Brutus. After weeks on the road, she knew the goat’s aura almost as well as she knew Kozmer’s and Gyorgy’s, and she felt for it with the remains of her collapsing sowen. She soon burst out of the thickest of the smoke and found her companions waiting.
Gyorgy cried out in relief and hurried to her side with his swords at the ready. Compared to the swift, almost blurred movements of their enemy, the boy looked clumsy and slow, almost to the point of exaggeration. He wouldn’t stand long against the warbrand.
She turned about and tried to gather her sowen. Her right arm was numb from where it had absorbed Miklos’s blow through her dragon blade, and she didn’t currently have the strength to heal it. She’d only just managed to grasp the tattered edges of her sowen when Miklos emerged from the smoke. He gave her a wolfish smile. He’d broken her strength, and seemed to know it.
Another grimace came over his face before he could close the distance. He bent over double, made a jerking movement with his head, then vomited. A gagging sound, followed by more vomit, this time even more violent. Something seemed to catch in his throat, and then he was spitting out something hard and sharp. It glittered on the ground like a piece of glass.
Narina had already wasted a valuable opportunity, and she wasn’t about to let another pass, even in her weakened state. She went forward, the blade in her good hand stabbing and whirling. Gyorgy came in beside her, with Kozmer’s sowen at their back.
“Wait!” Miklos cried. “Stop!”
She didn’t understand his trick, but wasn’t going to let him fool her. Instead, she pressed the attack. After a momentary advantage, however, he recovered and began to hold his own. He brushed off Gyorgy’s blades as if they were no more than biting flies, matched his sowen to Kozmer’s, and wore Narina down with attack after attack. Fear rose above her anger until she felt crazy with it. He was going to kill her, and there was nothing she could do.
And then, to her surprise, he lowered his weapon. “Stop this fighting. Demons and demigods, we don’t have to do this!”
Narina gasped for air. She didn’t bother answering, only concentrated on her sowen. She had to get some of it back. Every second counted.
“The first feather came out in Damanja’s camp,” Miklos said. “It was near my heart. And now this. Look. The ratter’s poison made me spit it up.”
He kicked his boot at the vomit, nudging out the shard of glass she’d noted earlier. Only it wasn’t glass, nor was it a shard. Instead, it was a crystal feather, perfectly formed.
“A dragon feather,” Kozmer murmured behind Narina’s shoulder.
“It was in me,” Miklos said. “The other one, too. They were poisoning me, turning me cruel and bloodthirsty. But now. . .everything is changed.”
She tensed, readying herself to go for his throat as soon as her sowen was ready. One sharp flick of the wrist and she’d sever his artery and send him to the ground bleeding his life into the dirt.
“Narina!” Kozmer said sharply. “Do not attack. Hold your ground.”
She ignored him and made her move. Miklos spotted her too late; she was going to have his head before he could get his sword.
Her blades battered into an unexpected obstacle, and as she wheeled on this new opponent in surprise and anger, she saw it was Gyorgy. The young fool had stopped her, just when she was going to win. He’d pay for that, she swore.
The boy only just had time to shout in alarm before she was on him with a vicious attack. Her dragon blade tied up both of his swords, while her demon thrust forward at his belly.
Only to meet another obstacle. It was Kozmer’s staff, thrust into th
e action at the last moment. Her demon blade cut it in two with a stroke, but then Miklos intervened. He blocked her path before she could kill the boy and the old man, and Kozmer attacked with his sowen against her weakened defenses.
Furious, she turned on them all, first attacking the warbrand sohn, then Kozmer, then Gyorgy. Desperate to find an opening, she weaved and slashed and leaped through the air with an angry howl. The villains worked together to beat her back.
She redoubled her attack, but to no avail. “Damn you all.”
Her sowen broke apart under Kozmer’s attack. Miklos wore her down with his sword. And Gyorgy—treacherous, unfaithful student that he was—blocked her attempts to disengage and flee into the smoke long enough to recover her strength and come back to teach them a lesson.
Miklos swung a huge, sweeping blow. Too fast to duck from, but too slow to cut her in two. She crossed her blades and blocked his attack, but the strength of it drove her to her knees. Gyorgy charged in from the side, lowered his shoulder, and knocked her to the dirt. Miklos slammed a knee into her back before she could get up, and pinned her to the ground with a forearm against the back of her neck.
She tried to reach around and stab Miklos in the calf, but Kozmer held down her arm with a piece of his broken staff. Gyorgy tackled her other arm and wrestled the blade loose. She cursed him. Cursed them all.
“Narina, stop!” the elder sohn said. “By all the three demigods, don’t.”
It broke. She had been hot and raging, and suddenly she was shivering and drenched in a cold sweat. Like a literal fever had taken her, and now it was gone, and all that was left was the exhaustion.
“I am all right now,” she said. “Let me up.”
Chapter Sixteen
Narina had stopped struggling and gone limp, but Miklos kept his knee in her back and his forearm pressed against the back of her neck. He was wary, trusting neither himself nor the bladedancer sohn pinned to the dirt in front of him.
Miklos still held his falchion in hand, but was no longer attempting to shove it through her ribs or cut off her head. The memory of his murderous intent fell away like dust shaking from the rafters until it was only a fine haze in the air in front of him.
Not one feather had been in him, but two, the second a match to the one on a pendant around his neck that had burst from his chest in Lady Damanja’s camp. The instant he vomited the second one up, his bloodlust had passed.
He only hoped that the same would happen to Narina now that she’d surrendered, but he wasn’t convinced yet. Her calm words notwithstanding, the heat of her rage still shimmered around her aura and through her sowen.
“Let her up,” the old man said.
“I don’t trust her,” Miklos said. “Look at her. She would have killed us all.”
“Do what I say, warbrand.”
“Or what? You’ll fight me again?”
“If necessary. Do what I say or we’ll have trouble.”
“We have trouble already,” Miklos said with a snort. “Or maybe you haven’t noticed.”
“Listen to Kozmer,” the boy pleaded. “There doesn’t have to be any more killing. Please. We don’t have to be enemies.”
Miklos had met Gyorgy before—the student had been working the forge with Narina when he mounted his attack on the bladedancer temple—but he hadn’t seen the elder sohn before today. Now that he’d seen Kozmer in action, he wouldn’t underestimate the old man. His mastery of sowen was impressive, and its presence on Miklos’s side had been decisive in the fight. In fact, the man’s sowen should have proven equally decisive had it been properly turned against him earlier. Why hadn’t it been?
Miklos relaxed the pressure against Narina’s neck first, followed by his knee on her back when she didn’t go for her blades to renew the fight. Still holding his falchion in a defensive posture, he backed away from the woman while her student bent to help her up. Narina waved the boy away.
“I’m fine. Leave me be. Don’t touch me!” she snapped when Gyorgy persisted.
The boy looked stung by the dismissal, and stepped back. His teacher didn’t rise immediately, but sank her head back to the dirt with a groan. Kozmer stood off a pace and twisted the remaining half of his walking staff. He pressed against Narina’s sowen with his own, and while Miklos couldn’t feel exactly what he was doing, he suspected the man was testing her for weakness.
“You knew, didn’t you?” Miklos asked him.
The elder sohn gave him a sideways glance. “Knew what?”
“You knew I was going to spit up the dragon feather.”
“I had no idea what was inside you, only that you were very sick, and that you had a chance to purge it. A chance to rid yourself of whatever had taken hold of your sowen. There was another sickness in you, but you were already conflicted before the fight started—that was clear, too.”
“And what if you were wrong and I’d killed the woman?”
“I was helping her.”
“Not enough.”
“As much as I could.”
That seemed doubtful. It didn’t match what Miklos had felt. The old man had been holding back, playing both sides, in hopes of stopping the killing. Would he have thrown his full weight to Narina if she’d faced death? That was the part Miklos wasn’t sure of.
A dangerous game, if so. Narina was already a formidable opponent, and if she’d killed Miklos, she would have been stronger still.
Narina finally rose shakily to her feet, wiped her swords on her pant legs, and sheathed them. Her face was smudged with dirt and soot and gleamed with sweat. When she wiped at it, the effect was worse. She looked at her filthy hands and grimaced. The bladedancers were famously clean, and used bathing, hot springs, rivers, and other forms of ritual washing to gather their sowen. All three of the bladedancers must feel disgusting, but what Miklos most felt was exhaustion.
The fire roared on the side of the mountain above them, and the worst of the smoke continued to creep down in a blackening, fog-like stink. Every moment was worse, and the bladedancers’ goat stomped and carried on, anxious to be led away.
Miklos left the bladedancers to calm the animal and found the spot where he’d been sick. It was a mess of last night’s supper—what was left of it—and a foul green goop that must contain the poison the ratter had given him. When he’d discovered the deception, rage had swept aside any reason that had returned with the removal of the first feather from his heart. He swore he’d skewer Andras, murder his son and dogs, and then desecrate their bodies.
Now he felt only gratitude to the ratter. The man’s poison had rid him of the demigod corruption once and for all. His previous thoughts made him shudder in horror.
Are you sure they’re all out? What if there’s a third feather?
He dismissed the troubling thought, then dismissed in turn the crushing memories that washed over him one after another. His actions had been brutal, time and time again. He’d killed his cousin, attacked the firewalkers, arranged for the death of Lord Zoltan. These and a hundred smaller crimes lay on his shoulders. The guilt of it was too much to deal with at the moment.
He swung his sheath around to secure the huge falchion, then bent to get a closer look at the feather, as the smoke was too thick to see clearly. The smell of his vomit turned his stomach, and he could still taste the bitterness in his mouth. He held one hand over his nose and plucked out the dragon feather with the other. It was hard and sharp and cool. He’d expected that part, as the one already hanging from a thong at his neck never lost its chill.
Miklos cleaned it with dirt, slipped off the leather thong from around his neck, and cross-hatch tied the new feather next to the first. They clinked together as they settled against his chest.
He made his way to the others. “The fire is getting worse, and the volcanoes are in full eruption up and down the range. If we want to get through we’d better make an attempt now, before it’s too late.”
“We?” Narina said, her tone incredulous. “There is no w
e. You will go your way, and we will go ours.”
“Easy, Narina,” Kozmer murmured.
She took a deep breath and gave a violent shake of the head as if doing so would rid it of troubling thoughts. “Why would you come with us anyway?”
Miklos rubbed the crystal feathers. “I might have some thoughts about ending this.”
“Would have been nice to have those thoughts earlier. You know, before you started it.” Narina glanced at her companions. “You cannot seriously think we should take this man with us.”
Gyorgy declined to answer, and Kozmer’s response was a little shrug that seemed to say yes, maybe they should, but that he had no strong opinion one way or another. Miklos suspected the old man was being coy. It didn’t matter; he’d take that as affirmation.
“I left my mare in a ravine,” Miklos said. “It’s bare rock down there, and somewhat protected, but if the fire burns hot enough, she might suffocate. Not to mention the fire could block me from reaching her if we wait any longer. I should take care of that, now.”
“So the rest of you do?” Narina asked, tone incredulous. “This man is responsible for my father’s death, but the two of you think we should forgive and forget? Just like that?”
“Master,” Gyorgy said, “I would agree to anything that would lift your curse.”
Narina snorted in disdain. “It’s not a curse. Explain to him, old man. Anyway, I feel better now—it won’t happen again.”
Kozmer frowned and twisted at the broken piece of his staff. It seemed as much an object for his gnarled, callused hands to work over as something he used as support when he walked. He opened his mouth to respond, then seemed to think better of it and made as if to gather his thoughts.
Miklos had no patience for it. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
Let them argue it out, he thought as he traveled downhill, rather than back up into the choking air. He hooked around to find where he’d left his horse in a ravine, which remained relatively clear of the billowing smoke, but even here it was beginning to thicken. The mare snorted and pulled at her rope when she saw him, but calmed down as he reached for her with his sowen.
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