Chimera wounded, battered and bloody, were scattered amidst the corpses of their own dead. Any mortals who were wounded, fell. And any who dropped, died amidst that pool of venom and fetid air.
They thought only of fighting now—to behead the hell spawn—not of the poison, which burned through iron like acid. They had to move quickly, before a hydra’s head regenerated or the trunk hopped away to find its brethren and reform. Their flesh reeked of sulfur, volcanoes, and foulness. Green grass and sweet flowers were memories Igoryok never expected to rebuild, like those of a horse running swiftly beneath him.
His sword jammed between a hydra’s scales and he rammed another Barnaul tree torch down one of its throats. The other heads thrashed and howled, spitting venom as much across their brethren as their foes.
The other hydras shrieked, rising to a pitch beyond sound, and fell back for an instant.
He flinched, splatters raining through his helm and his mail, but held on to the one writhing under his fire. If there was aught left of his hauberk at the end of the day, it would be by the grace of the Red God of War alone. That meant, of course, if he was alive to know it.
He snorted mirthlessly just before the hydra fell away into a dusty heap below the crude fortifications.
He allowed himself an instant’s grace to fill his lungs before the next wave came.
Little more than half of his troops remained in the front lines, although a few—a pitiful remnant—were making torches and other supplies in the rear. No warrior rested on his wounds from this battle.
Judging by the monsters’ increased frenzy, the Imperial Terrapin had arrived at Chulym Beach. Igoryok would wager a year’s winnings from his finest racers that General Alekhsiy was there, too. His troop would give him all the time they could.
He relit his torch from one of his neighbors and shouted a crude insult at one of the lurking chimeras. As he’d hoped, the abomination bellowed angrily and charged forward, its small brain too excited by the challenge to its dubious masculinity to think clearly.
Jeirgif notched an arrow to his bow and waited, one eye half-closed under a livid burn. Even so, he was their best living archer.
The chimera leaped across the heaving mass of hydras and charged toward the small fort. A single whiff of its breath would be deadly.
Whenever you’re ready, Jeirgif, Igoryok coaxed silently.
Pling! The poisoned arrow flew straight and true into the chimera’s flank. It howled and dropped, rolling over and over onto the road in its death throes.
And another one arrived, peering at them cautiously from around the corner.
“No matter how many you kill,” Zhenechka observed tartly and whacked off a chimera’s serpent tail before it could bite her neighbor, “there’s always at least two more.”
Igoryok somehow refrained from strangling her.
CHULYM BEACH
Alekhsiy and Turner circled each other, their breath coming in hard, short gasps that left patches of smoke upon the air like wizards’ fire. His long hair was matted to his neck with sweat beneath his mail coil, bringing a few threads of moisture over his burning muscles.
He crossed leg over leg, always careful to keep his balance in a dance older than time, and watched for his opening. A single blow from his curved axe blade could break through even the strongest helm. Or he could wield it in other fashions to hook or slice, much as a man had always used its hardworking ancestors on a farm.
Time was his enemy, as much as the man facing him. He dared not look to the north and the mountains beyond them, lest he catch a flash of light and his heart’s lady. He held hope, so long as Fire Wind filled his hands and brought the sun’s heat down to melt the ice under his feet.
The Imperial Terrapin usually liked to have hydras, chimeras, and others of his court waiting for him along the shore to pay homage and heat the sands with their bitter breath.
Alekhsiy would hardly complain of their lack, but a small voice inside did wonder at it. He would sacrifice a hundred baskets of Peshawar lilies to the Red God of War, should his lady never encounter any of them.
He ignored the blood trickling down his arm from his one spill. His health was less important than keeping watch on the terrain and his opponent.
They stood on a broad ledge, etched between the beach and the southern promontory. With its sharp drop to the ocean on one side, steep rise to the mountains on two sides, and gentle drop to the beach on the fourth, Turner had chosen a very confined space for dueling.
Alekhsiy would have called it excellent, except it was on the north side of the mountains and therefore received less sun than almost anywhere else on the beach. Praise be to all the gods of war, his armor had already adapted his gear accordingly. He was warm enough—but not too warm. Sweat could kill a man if it froze on him and weighed him down. Ice was the great killer here and it eagerly sought out any weakness.
“Have you had enough yet, Alekseiovich?” Turner raised his great, two-handed sword again. Its blade gleamed palest green in the morning sun, the hilt and pommel shining a darker shade.
Alekhsiy’s flesh cringed reflexively, remembering how it had nicked his enchanted armor as if it were paper when he took that last tumble. Only his old, old fencing skills would save him now, not spells.
“Didn’t ripping your armor teach you a lesson?”
“Not at all.” Alekhsiy shook his head. Every taste of the damn cold air was like a dagger through his lungs. He twirled Fire Wind around his head and shoulders until flames danced in the breeze. “I will see you die like a sniveling coward, alone and too frightened to cry out.”
For a moment, the oracle’s voice rang through his once again as it had through his mother’s, deepening and lengthening his words. They echoed against the mountains, making even Turner hesitate for a moment.
Cold fury—and a little fear—lit his gaze.
“You will die first—and I will rule your woman and this world.” Turner charged.
Double-handed axe met double-handed sword and rang all the way across the beach.
Danae flickered another glance down the beach toward Alekhsiy and then hastily turned away. She couldn’t watch, she couldn’t even consider looking without her heart locking somewhere in her throat.
But she couldn’t do this and worry about Alekhsiy. She damn well couldn’t take on Azherbhai and think about Alekhsiy or she’d go mad.
Oh, God, she needed him to live.
She had to succeed so he’d survive. She was the sorceress, he wasn’t, so she had to pull off her part of this.
Getting to this point had kept her mind occupied until now. Thank God she’d already learned something of how to work magic back on Earth—healing Alekhsiy’s bruises with her hands, typing commands like an author to issue instructions to the news anchors and the cops, chanting the Language of the Beasts to give Alekhsiy the audience’s chi, and opening the gate to Torhtremer.
Casting a spell to convert her White Sorceress’s outfit into arctic gear hadn’t been too hard, especially after she tweaked her clothes so she wasn’t too warm. Her long over-tunic made a great parka, her trousers were now superb ski trousers, and her gauntlets were wonderfully warm and flexible. Climbing up the rocky cliff that formed the glacier’s side had involved finding and squeezing through narrow, knife-edged passages and leaping up ragged chunks of ice, which seemed to have come from a modern art museum’s sculpture garden by way of a very drunken, sadistic cocktail party. She’d have killed the host, if she’d been back on Earth.
But that had been nothing compared to the pure hell of walking on its glass smooth surface and staring downhill at the ocean, blocked only by one hell of a very steep drop.
Next stop—drowning? Thank God for spells that had adapted Larissa’s creation into ice boots, complete down to the spikes.
She stood on the edge and looked down. Salt spray stung her face like eager bullets and ice winds dived down her throat, chilling her from the bone out. Two hundred feet below, the ocean
smashed itself against the ice, masses of white foam emphasizing its anger. Behind her, a great cleft showed where the ice would soon separate from the shore and sail away. Light and dark shadows gleamed throughout the ice like ghosts grabbing at her feet. The glacier creaked and moaned, heaving under her in its desperation to leave this rocky coast.
A great square head broke through the ocean offshore, casting up a great wave behind.
Azherbhai was coming to fetch Turner.
The glacier pitched again and she almost stumbled, despite her dancer’s sense of balance. Panic raced through her veins. If she failed Alekhsiy now . . .
What could she do to help him? She fought to assemble a string of actions, while the blood ebbed from her fingers. Thoughts were so hard to grapple with here.
Focus, Danae, focus. You can do this.
Her father’s ring was a kernel of warmth against her hip.
Could it help? It was a naval officer’s ring, baptized in all of Earth’s oceans. It had been of use in the void. Surely it would be a good luck token on this frosty sea.
She dug it out of her pouch and hesitated for a moment. Was she being stupidly sentimental in wanting a bit of her family around at this moment? Well, who cared if it made her feel better?
She shoved it firmly onto her hand over her gauntlet. It settled into place on her ring finger, as perfectly as if designed to be worn there.
Warmth began to rebuild, up her arm and into her heart.
Her great-grandfather’s diamond, which he’d brought back from duty on the China Station, started to glow. She almost jumped back in amazement, startled by the approbation. Her older brothers had been the ones meant for the Navy, not her. But she’d been named for a class of naval warships—heavily armed cruisers, in fact—as much as for a princess who’d caught a god’s eye. The same blood hummed in her veins. She almost thought she could see ghosts lined up behind her, ready for battle. Craziness—but this was a magical world.
Azherbhai shifted course, waves breaking over his immense square back. His huge sharp beak broke water, channeling the spray like a battering ram of ages gone by. For a moment, one of his mighty flippers reached upward and cut down, scooping up quantities of sea as if they were a trifle.
She flung her cloak around herself in defiance and squared her shoulders to the wind. Of course, she could distract something that big. She’d seen small craft drive large ships insane all the time in New York City’s harbor.
A big iceberg floated only a few feet away, channeling traffic into Chulym Beach. Azherbhai, if he wanted to be seen by Turner, would have to swim between that iceberg and this cliff. In fact, he was coming very close to where she was.
What if she jumped onto his back? After all, ballet dancers did leaps all the time. Heck, Nijinsky, the great Russian dancer, would probably have loved to try a stunt like this, even with the plummet off an icy platform. And Farragut, America’s great naval commander, certainly knew how to attack the enemy at all costs.
If nothing else, she could catch Azherbhai’s attention for a few moments.
It was a mad plan. What could she hope to do afterward? Azherbhai was forty-five feet long, from his cruel beak to his fast-moving tail. His carapace made modern tanks look like tissue paper, especially with those spikes. Three foot tall spikes dotted his back, more than capable of skewering a full-grown ox. Only Khyber could match his magic, not her—even if she knew how to use it. Still, she had to try.
All she had to do was buy Alekhsiy a little more time to get rid of Turner somehow.
Were there any other alternatives? They’d have to be low-tech, of course, since Azherbhai didn’t permit hostile magic on his land.
Her brain clicked on a big fat zero. Clothes converted to a wetsuit, check. She started counting waves to learn their cycle and distract herself from thinking up more reasons not to do this.
Five, six, seven, eight . . .
Showtime! She leaped off the glacier and over the ocean, hissing an invocation to Nijinsky’s and Farragut’s ghosts.
The great black wave rose to meet her. A ray of sunshine broke through the gray clouds, sharpening every lethal spike on Azherbhai’s back and pointing them directly at her.
Suddenly she had all the time in the world and her heartbeat was steadier than during a dress rehearsal, the quick strong pulse of an opening night.
She tucked herself into a ball and calmly rolled in the air to gain distance. If she could reach that one spot just behind his shoulder, she’d miss the spikes roaring down his spine, as well as those ringing his perimeter.
Closer, closer . . .
His mottled black back filled her vision like a scene from hell. Waves broke over it and spilled away, refusing to debase themselves by lingering.
Damn, his shell’s edge was knife-edged. She’d have to catch one of the spikes to keep from sliding into the sea, like a clumsy understudy botching her first performance of Swan Lake.
Closer . . .
He raised his head to the sky and opened his mouth, exposing his great crushing jaws under that razor sharp beak. His carapace started to disappear from sight under the water.
Her fists punched into his carapace. Yeow! The healing spell caught them almost immediately, an instant after she’d opened them. She grabbed for the nearest spike by the base and, wonder of wonders, caught it. She swung around and caught another spike beside his neck, then braced her feet against a third.
Ocean to Alekhsiy, the White Sorceress has landed.
A tiny bubble of relief gurgled in her throat. What now?
Azherbhai erupted out of the water like a geyser, his powerful flippers and tails making him almost stand upright. He spun around, looking for the intruder, and bellowed loudly. A chunk of ice exploded from the glacier and tumbled into the ocean, setting waves foaming and frothing over everything nearby.
Danae tucked her head and held on, somehow. It wasn’t any harder than flying the rigging through an opera house’s backstage, right?
Azherbhai flopped over onto his side and rolled into the water. He dove down, far below where the light ended, spinning like a guided missile.
Ice cold water thundered against her throat and her chest, eager to stop her heart. Her fingers disappeared, as lost to feeling as her feet inside her boots. Where were they?
Her ring pulsed, sending a single clear beacon over her hand.
Azherbhai wanted to drown her, dammit, and she would not do what he wished.
No! She would not die, not here, not now. If nothing else, Azherbhai was only thinking about her—not Turner and definitely not Alekhsiy.
She knotted her hands around the spikes and commanded her cloak to become a dry suit, complete with helmet and oxygen tank. Ah, blessed air through the mouthpiece and snug protection from the cold water! She dared to stretch her lungs and the blackness receded slowly, slowly bringing back light and reason.
She tightened her grip on her foe.
Still, they dove, the current ripping at her grip like a wild demon. Was her strength sufficient to hold out long enough?
She ducked her head deeper between Azherbhai’s shoulders and prayed. She needed something else, another weapon to fight him with.
He broke the surface again. Air, blessed, life-giving air poured over her without need for the mouthpiece and she gulped it down, savoring every salty whiff.
Azherbhai smacked the waves hard, jouncing across them like a jet ski boat. Danae’s grip loosened for a horrific instant, then she caught herself, panic thundering in her bones. She gritted out a spell and fashioned herself sturdy gauntlets, which could not be torn from him.
Finally Azherbhai swam fast and straight, apparently thinking he’d drowned her. Her blood slowly settled back into a wary tempo and she stayed limp to encourage that false belief. It wasn’t that much of an illusion anyway, although she did shift her grip on the spikes closest to his neck.
Iron brushed her hand, mixed with what felt like leather. What on earth? She looked more closely.
A leather and iron harness held a beautiful, massive staff strapped to his carapace, just below his neck. It must be Terrapin’s Beak, the staff used to summon the Imperial Terrapin. Azherbhai would hardly trouble himself with anything less.
But a potential catalyst’s presence meant nothing without the staff, since he couldn’t bring the Imperial Terrapin into being without it. He’d be crippled and useless, the same as any other mortal. She’d block them if she took it away from them.
If.
She smiled mirthlessly and rubbed encrusted salt away from her mouth and chin. That was a very big gap.
Azherbhai was swimming faster now. He’d reach the southern promontory in only a few minutes. If she was going to do anything, she had to do so right away. She needed to cut those very thick straps, which looked fully capable of holding down stage scenery. But with what?
Her ring hummed briefly.
She rolled her left hand so she could look at it.
Her ring—as in, a laser?
It hummed again, encouragingly. A bow wave broke over it but it burst through again, shining all the while.
Awed respect surged from deep inside her. Well, why not give the Naval Academy ring a try? It had already done very well and magic did seem to come to life easier here.
She freed her hand and aimed the ring at the harness, hoping to God she wasn’t being a sentimental fool. The diamond promptly brightened, then dropped to a lower beam. The leather band began to glow red and smoke in a single line. It fell away, cleanly cut, instants later.
Danae gulped, her heartbeat racing faster than when she’d boarded the alien beast. Elation flooded her veins, linking her to something bigger and bringing back kinship she hadn’t felt since she’d last piled into a car with her family. Somehow they were defeating the enemy together and doing so here in Torhtremer.
Five minutes later, she held Terrapin’s Beak in her hand. It was very long and appallingly heavy, like holding titanium or even lead. Its ends and center were sheathed in metal, carved in special runes that hurt the eye to consider very closely.
Captive Desires Page 24