Deep Magic

by Joy Nash

  He pressed her into the cloud-soft mattress, aligning his body with hers. Gwen felt his arousal, hard and heavy on her thigh. How had Mama loved this man? Was it true what he said? That Cyric had killed Tamar?

  Or was Strabo lying to gain Gwen’s favor? Her senses filled with horror. She struggled to get free of him; he caught her arms and pinned them to the furs.

  Panic clogged her throat. She closed her eyes and summoned the wolf. Her Deep Magic was dim, but present. She reached for it, only to have it recede into a blue-black fog. And Marcus? Where was he? She called for him with her mind. Strabo’s magic flared, smothering her call.

  His hips shifted. His shaft prodded, his knee forced her legs to part. Pure terror struck; Gwen twisted, gasping and kicking with all her strength. But all her strength was like nothing compared with his. When she realized her struggles only inflamed his lust further, she stilled.

  He buried his face in her neck, inhaling deeply. “Ah, Tamar, how I’ve longed for you. How lonely these years have been without you.”

  “I am not my mother,” Gwen whispered. “If ye truly loved her, ye would not do this.”

  “Hush, my sweet.” He nibbled the corner of her mouth. His hand came up to cup her breast. “We will be together at last. I swear it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “No,” a hard voice said. “You will not. Release her. Now.”

  Marcus! Gwen tensed. Strabo’s head jerked up. Without moving even a fraction from Gwen’s body, he glanced behind him.

  Marcus stood with sword drawn and murder in his eyes. Rough and dirty and forbidding, he was an incongruous figure within Strabo’s elegant garden bower illusion. More warrior than smith. With Exchalybur’s tip trained on Strabo, he advanced.

  Strabo laughed. Dark smoke began to seep from the ground. The mist rose quickly, partially obscuring Marcus behind a hazy veil. He slashed at the barrier. The sword struck it and rebounded as if the smoke were solid.

  “Who is this man? No sorcerer, though his sword holds some slight magic. You are Roman, so I will be kind. Go now, and perhaps I will forget you were here.”

  Marcus’s expression did not change. Twisting Exchalybur’s angle slightly, he slashed again at the Dark mist. This time, the sword cleaved it in two, creating a clear path through Strabo’s enchantment. “Get away from her. Now.”

  Strabo released Gwen’s wrists and shoved himself off the mattress. Gwen scrambled backward. Her feet hit the ground on the opposite side of the bed just as two figures materialized behind Marcus. Rhys and Trevor, with Words of Light on their lips. White Light arced between them. Strabo’s garden illusion cracked, then dissolved, running into the ground like muddy water. The edge of the swamp melted into view. The silken bed changed into a patch of moss.

  Strabo threw back his head and laughed. “Do you think your spells of Light will stand against me? I can kill you where you stand. But for what purpose? I do not bear hatred for any of you.” He addressed Rhys. “Especially you, Tamar’s son. I only claim what is mine. This woman and Cyric’s life. But know this: I will kill you if you persist in this folly.”

  Rhys and Trevor continued their chant as if the sorcerer had never spoken. Gwen recognized the spell they invoked—a powerful protection of Light. It beat back Strabo’s Darkness; her own magic surged in response, suddenly free.

  Strabo countered with a guttural Word. Gwen felt the evil even before the fire appeared in his palm. Dark flame consumed his body; his form began to change. The wolf, recognizing its enemy, rose on all fours, fur bristling. In the marrow of her bones, she felt the shift begin. In that moment Gwen understood she had no choice. The beast inside her would not be restrained. As the wolf, she could not wield the Lady’s sword. The weapon would remain with its maker. Marcus.

  His gaze swung to her. He felt the wolf, she realized, even before it had emerged. “Gwen, no. You must take the sword.”

  She tore off her tunic, wrenched the pendant from about her neck. “Nay. The Lady’s sword is yours. Use it, Marcus. Help me defeat him.”

  They were her last words before the wolf took possession of her body.

  Marcus gripped Exchalybur. Magic swirled, Light mingling with Deep Magic and Darkness. How he was able to stand in the middle of it unscathed, he did not know. Did the sword protect him? Or was Rhys shielding him with Light? He did not know.

  He could feel Gwen changing. She’d left the Lady’s sword to him. He was no Druid; he did not have the magic to wield the sword. And yet, it seemed the duty had fallen to him.

  The ground heaved under his feet. He shifted his stance. The scent of burning flesh filled the air. He blinked into a Dark mist, searching for Strabo. There.

  Rhys’s chant faltered. Trevor bit off a curse as Strabo laughed. The sorcerer held fire in his hands; as Marcus watched in disbelief, Strabo allowed the tongues of fire to consume his flesh. An unearthly sound emerged from his throat as his body went up in flames. His outline shifted and re-formed; black smoke thickened and folded back upon itself. Marcus blinked as it congealed into a creature with a snakelike body, squat legs, and a hideous, sharp-toothed snout.

  He reached for Gwen with his mind. “What is it?”

  “Strabo. In the shape of a demon of Egypt.”

  Flames spewed from the thing’s mouth, blistering the air. Exchalybur vibrated. Marcus held it aloft; the bright iron absorbed the fire. The demon turned on Rhys and Trevor; a Dark blast of fire issued from its mouth. The Druids’ Light sputtered and died as black smoke enveloped them. When it cleared, they lay unmoving.

  “Rhys!” Gwen’s horror burst into Marcus’s mind. He could not see the wolf; it was somewhere behind him. But he could feel her human agitation, merged with the panic of her animal mind.

  “Steady,” he told her.

  She didn’t reply.

  The demon swung toward Marcus. Its eyes glowed red; its jaws gaped. As the monster charged, Marcus leaped to one side and swung his sword. Exchalybur connected with scaled skin. Thick black blood spurted forth. The impact nearly caused Marcus to drop the sword. Then it righted itself. The bright iron seemed almost … alive. As if it possessed intelligence of its own.

  That intelligence hated its opponent with a rare and deadly zeal. It wanted to fling itself into the demon’s jaw, and did not care if it took Marcus with it. Marcus fought with all his strength to keep the weapon under some semblance of control.

  He swung about, anticipating the demon’s next charge. But the thing hung back, circling slowly, swiping almost leisurely at its prey. Marcus met each attack with a slash from Exchalybur. Some blows missed, others struck deep, drawing blood. Marcus continued this course until he realized each injury seemed, paradoxically, to strengthen the demon.

  With a flash of insight, he understood. Strabo was absorbing the Deep Magic of the Lady’s sword, and making it his own. With an oath, Marcus retreated. There was no merit in fighting if his every blow only made his enemy stronger.

  * * *

  Rhys and Trevor lay prostrate; Marcus was faltering. Strabo’s demon form was drawing power from Exchalybur. Gwen fought the terror welling in her human mind. Consciously, she allowed the wolf to take control. The animal was a creature of Deep Magic as much as Strabo’s demon was. It could fight him, where Gwen’s Light could not.

  The demon’s long neck twisted, its horrifying mouth spewing flames in Marcus’s direction. He met it with Exchalybur’s blade, absorbing the Dark fire. As he did, the demon seemed to grow larger. It reared back, gathering its strength; Gwen was sure its next blast would kill.

  With feral strength, she leaped, skidding to a halt between Marcus and the beast. Ignoring his shout, she darted between the demon’s heavy legs, evading one of its sharp talons by less than the length of her tail. Flames shot out, singing her fur.

  Circling behind the beast, she attacked its limbs and tail. Marcus shouted a curse. Metal flashed above her head; Marcus had launched a mundane dagger at the demon. The blade sliced deeply into the demon’s
flank. Enraged, it swung around and swiped at Marcus, striking his chest. Crimson blood spread across his white shirt.

  He staggered backward. Gwen’s human mind blanked with sheer terror. He could not die. The wolf would not allow it.

  Kill the demon.

  She crouched, teeth bared, preparing for her attack.

  “No, Gwen!” Marcus’s shout rang in her ears. He leaped after her and grabbed the scruff of her neck.

  “Let me go, Marcus! I can kill it. Ye cannot.”

  “Don’t be so sure of that.”

  “How can ye fight it? The beast draws power from Exchalybur each time ye attack.”

  “But it weakens when you strike.”

  “Aye. That is why ye must let me fight it.”

  The demon went up on its hind legs.

  “We can defeat it together,” Marcus said urgently. “You sent magic through me before, when we created the sword. Do it again. Now, Gwen. Through this mental link we’ve forged.”

  She understood. Marcus wanted the wolf’s Deep Magic to take control of Exchalybur, thereby preventing Strabo from absorbing the blade’s magic. Would it work? She did not know.

  She sent a Word of Deep Magic into Marcus’s mind. Exchalybur flared, its power wild and unfocused. She summoned more Words, weaving a spell designed to bend the sword’s Deep Magic to the will of Light.

  Marcus struck at the beast. This time, the sword’s power remained its own. Gwen felt Strabo’s surprise, then his anger. He struck out, blasting Marcus with a stream of fire. Marcus countered the attack, absorbing the demon’s breath on his blade.

  “It’s working, Gwen.”

  It was true. The power of the sword was once again hers. Hers and Marcus’s. As the demon struck again, Gwen gathered each facet of the sword’s power. Light Magic and Deep Magic. Protection and attack. Both forces were needed to win.

  When the demon roared, Marcus went on the offensive, darting forward and slashing at its underbelly. Strabo countered with a blast of fire. Marcus staggered. The beast rose above him, wings beating, readying itself for a killing blow.

  With an animal snarl, Gwen loosed her wildest, deepest magic. The force passed through her mind and into Marcus’s. Blue-white fire erupted from Exchalybur. Strabo’s darker blast faltered. The demon reared in fury, wings beating searing waves of air into Marcus’s face. But Marcus did not waver.

  He advanced through the hot storm, Exchalybur raised before him. The bright iron sang as it sliced the beast’s belly. The demon let out a roar of rage and scuttled backward. Marcus struck again, nearly severing a squat foreleg. A third slash opened a gash in the demon’s neck. Black fluid spurted. The creature’s hind legs sank into the muck bordering the swamp.

  Marcus struck a killing blow. The creature let out an unearthly squeal. Victory. Gwen could taste it. The demon teetered and fell into the murky water.

  Deep Magic sang in Gwen’s veins. Her wolf’s body felt as though it were expanding, filling the universe. She felt like a goddess. A god. She could command life. Create death. The power was awesome, intoxicating.

  The beast’s death throes churned the black water. Gwen padded to the edge of the swamp. Strabo’s Deep Magic was seeping into the earth—suddenly, Gwen realized the power did not have to disappear. She could take it for her own. Combined, the demon’s power and the wolf’s magic would be unsurpassed. No authority would be above her. Not Cyric, not Rhys, not Avalon’s Elders. Not even the gods.

  Exultant, she cast the spell that would make Strabo’s powers hers.

  “Gwen! Gods! What are you doing?”

  Her head jerked toward Marcus. Exchalybur had gone wild in his hands. He fought to control it. The weapon had taken on a life of its own. The bright iron pulsed darkly, absorbing the demon’s expiring Deep Magic. Black power ran the length of the blade and passed into Marcus’s body.

  He cried out. Gwen felt his pain, his fear. Great Mother! This was her doing. In fulfilling her greed, she’d abandoned every lesson Cyric had ever taught her. And she had not considered that her bid to absorb Strabo’s Deep Magic would turn the Lady’s sword against Marcus. Shame engulfed her.

  Black sparks flew wildly. Marcus fell to his knees, grappling with the sword.

  “Get rid of it,” Gwen screamed in his mind.

  “I can’t. It … won’t let me go.”

  Because Gwen had called the power to herself—through Marcus. Abruptly, she broke their mental contact. Marcus heaved the sword out over the swamp. It hurtled through the air, trailing blue and white stars behind it. It landed with a splash in the murky water, and quickly sank out of sight.

  Marcus, relieved of his burden, wavered on his feet. A moment later, his legs gave way and he collapsed facedown in the mud.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Gwen placed a paw on the man’s shoulder. He did not move.

  She tilted her head. His scent was familiar. Not an enemy. That much she knew.

  Beyond that, nothing.

  The edge of the swamp was silent. The battle that had taken place there was over. Her paws sank into the mud, too deeply. She did not like that. She scuttled onto firmer ground.

  Two other men lay nearby, unmoving. Something nagged at the back of her mind. She should care about these men. Especially the fairer one. But that made no sense. They were human.

  She was not.

  She turned and loped into the forest, leaving them behind.

  Marcus’s lungs were bursting. He couldn’t breathe.

  Panic infused his limbs with sudden strength. He jerked himself out of the mud, somehow simultaneously sucking in air and gasping with pain. His hands were burnt, and his body felt as though it had been thoroughly pummeled by brigands.

  He remembered striking the demon down at the edge of the swamp. He’d seen it fall; now, in place of its hideous body lay the bloated body of a man. Marcus staggered to it and kicked it over. Strabo. Dead.

  When the beast fell, Exchalybur had erupted with deadly power. The bright iron had tried to absorb Strabo’s Deep Magic. Because Gwen had commanded it.

  Gwen. He jerked his head around. She was gone. But where?

  A groan sounded. “Rhys!” Marcus lurched to his friend’s side. By the time he reached him, Rhys was struggling into a sitting position.

  “Are you hurt?” Marcus demanded.

  Rhys winced. “Not permanently, I hope.”

  Marcus’s gaze moved to Trevor. The Caledonian lay deathly still. His right arm was burnt, the skin charred black. Marcus felt Trevor’s throat for the throb of his pulse. “Alive.”

  Rhys shook the big man’s shoulders. “Trevor. Can ye hear me, man?”

  Trevor groaned. “Aye,” he said, his eyes opening. But he did not rise. “Strabo? The demon—?”

  “Dead.” With terse words, Marcus described the battle he and Gwen had fought, the sword’s savage mutiny, how he’d awakened to find Gwen gone. “She could be hurt.”

  Rhys gained his feet. “She can’t have gone far. We’ll find her.” He looked at Marcus. “Can ye … feel her?”

  Marcus closed his eyes, searching his mind for Gwen’s essence. It was there, but … he swallowed hard. “She is not in human form.” He shot a look at Trevor. “You’d better get him back to Avalon. I’ll go after Gwen.” When Rhys hesitated, he added, “It’s best if I confront the wolf alone.”

  Rhys nodded. Marcus helped him carry Trevor to a raft, then he returned to search for the wolf’s tracks in the muddy ground. He followed Gwen’s trail into the forest. She had run in circles, then veered uphill. He found her a short time later, crouching in a shallow cave. Her ears were flat, her tail down. When he tried to approach, she rose on all fours and bared her teeth. Her hackles rose. A low snarl vibrated in her throat.

  Her eyes had gone completely feral. He reached for her with his mind. There was nothing human about her essence. Nothing human at all.

  Gwen had become the wolf.

  The big man made himself suddenly smaller, his legs bendi
ng beneath him. Crouching, he slowly extended one hand.

  The wolf paused, uncertain whether the man represented danger. His scent was not comforting. It was human. Male. Humans—especially male humans—were not to be trusted.

  She bared her teeth again, snarling. Took a warning step in his direction. The man did not waver. Did not turn and flee.

  She smelled no fear. She didn’t understand that, because even though the man was not afraid, he didn’t challenge her. He stayed small, close to the ground, reaching out to her.

  She did not know what to make of it.

  She wanted him gone. If he did not flee, she would have to attack. She growled again. The man’s only reaction was a softening about his eyes. That was good. It showed weakness.

  She readied herself to pounce.

  “Gwen.”

  The word was a soft whisper. Like wind. A human sound—she did not know what it meant. But it was … familiar.

  She hesitated.

  The man moved. Closer, not away. That was not good. She wanted him to leave. But he was creeping nearer. And nearer.

  His head was still low. Lower than hers. That was confusing—if he meant to attack, he would rise.

  She snarled, warning him away.

  He gave no indication he understood.

  “Gwen,” he said again. “Come back to me. Please.”

  She did not understand the words, but they made her feel uncomfortable. Vulnerable. She didn’t like them. Didn’t like him. He wasn’t like her. She had to drive him off. If she let him live, he would hurt her.

  But she couldn’t bring herself to spring. Not while his head was low. Not when he wasn’t afraid. She should run. She couldn’t. He was too close, and there was a solid wall of rock at her back. She’d been foolish to take refuge here.

  His long legs started to unfold. His head rose. She wanted to pounce, but somehow she couldn’t. His eyes were on her.

  They were dark and … safe. But that made no sense. He was a man. Her enemy. His outstretched hand was coming closer. He wanted to touch her. She couldn’t allow it. If she surrendered, she would never be free. She would never truly be wild.