David was flung around by the impact of the bullet, but he came to face Palo, perfectly balanced, eyes narrow. “Try again.”
Palo fired again but David was gone. He’d spun out of the trajectory of the bullet, black coat flaring dramatically. He adjusted his grips on his swords and then charged. Palo jerked back but managed to block David’s blows with his own sword.
Then the fight was joined fully, the combatants moving so fast Gabe couldn’t focus on either of them. Silver blades flashed high and low, guns fired and blood sprayed.
“Gabe!” David shouted from the midst of the confusion. “Dina!”
Roused from his numb trance, Gabe spun and saw Dina racing away. The bone in his pocket thrummed. This was his task. David had his and now Gabe had one as well.
He ached, his mind reeled from all he’d learned, and yet he found himself running after a woman he’d once cared about deeply. Still cared about. This wasn’t her choice. He understood the weight of the compulsion driving her, he knew she couldn’t resist. Just as he couldn’t resist but at least, if he succeeded, his debt to the demon would be paid and he’d be free. Dina wouldn’t.
Unless he could remove the bone Duke Ibarra had put inside her.
“Dina!” he shouted as she ducked behind a hut. “Stop. Please.” He pulled in ragged, painful breaths, plunging into the shadows after her. “Let me help you!”
“You can’t help me.” Her voice drifted to him like a whisper carried on the wind.
“Let me try.” He staggered to a stop between two huts, looking for her frantically. “I can remove what he put in your chest. You know I can.”
Her laugh was dry, brittle. “Don’t you think I tried that? When I realised what he’d done, I went to Mage Borrego. He tried but this thing inside me stopped him. Gabe, it made me kill him. He was my friend and I killed him.”
She hit him from behind. He went sprawling, face first into the mud. It got into his mouth, in his eyes, up his nose. Dina landed on his back, her knees on his shoulders, keeping him pinned. She was smaller than him, weighed far less. He should have been able to dislodge her, but she held him down with a strength much greater than his. No matter how he struggled or squirmed, she held him down, face pushed into the mud.
He was going to drown in the dirt. Of all the ways to die. He could have gone down like a warrior, on the blade she’d shoved into his lung. Or he could have been martyred by Roulier. He could have caught a bullet in the fiasco last night. Anything other than this. His lungs burned, his head throbbed.
Then he was back in Sol’s study in Roque, arguing about the way he was treated in Roque City, complaining about the lack of respect the other Bone Mages showed him. He was the most talented, the strongest, saints damn it! He deserved better than to be treated like a spoiled boy. Master Mage Carrasco couldn’t even be bothered to defend him. She knew the breadth of his skills, she should have been standing up for him, instead of letting him be shoved down into the dirty, poor clinics in the dregs of the city. He was being wasted curing bedsores and sex-borne diseases of the whores, cleaning out the lungs of tabac-chewing longshoremen. Wasted, Saint Sevastian save him!
Lights danced in the darkness as his air ran out, as his body fought his will not to breathe in more of the mud. He needed air, could feel the lack of it weigh down his arms and legs, could feel the pressure of it building and building inside his head. He wanted to open his mouth, drag in a great lungful of air but he knew he couldn’t, shouldn’t, but he also knew he would. Soon.
He lamented the man he’d been in Sol’s study. Selfish and petulant. Young and foolish, just as Mage Carrasco had said, leaving the room in disgust. Idiotic, just as Sol had said when Gabe declared he would go to Ibarra and work in the huge hospitals there, get the respect and honours he deserved there.
He shouldn’t be here in this war. But he needed to come here, to learn just how wrong he’d been. Sol and Carrasco had been right. So fucking right and now that he understood, he was going to die. It wasn’t fair, but it felt right. He was going to die, but he had to make sure Prince Ramiero survived.
Any moment now it would happen. His body would overpower his will and he would suck in as much mud as he could. He would fill his lungs with it and suffocate. It was all right. It might not be the most noble death, it might make Father even more ashamed of him, but it was the right thing to do. The great big emptiness of death awaited him, waiting to be filled, never to be satisfied. They could give it as much life, as much magic as they had, and it would never be filled. Eternal emptiness.
Just a little longer, he pleaded with himself. In the blurry pain of suffocation his left arm burned brighter, twisted against the force of Dina’s knee. The muscles were tearing free of the bone, screaming in agony but what was pain really? David was right. It was just a matter of the mind and he could ignore it now. Roulier had taught him that. He strained and pushed and finally felt it.
Then he was back in Ismael’s tent, with David, looking at the blade the Immortal Soldier had handed him. What are you waiting for? David had asked. I was just considering that a blade can be used to both save lives and take them, he’d answered.
And wasn’t he just like that blade? He saved lives. He could end them as well.
Free of the glove, Gabriel’s left hand found Dina’s ankle. Her skin was cool to the touch, soft, perfect. He curled his fingers around her, the small amount of magic he’d let build up through the night linking them, and then he let everything else go.
The mud rushed into his mouth, down his throat and into his lungs. It clogged up his airways, cold and wet and solid. He choked and drew in even more. It bubbled in his nose, pressed against his eyes. His body thrashed, not finding the air it needed, even though it was breathing. More mud coursed down his neck, filled his chest. His body burned, then suddenly, it was gone. He was weightless, free and before him was the abyss of death.
Dina was there with him. Just as he suffered his patient’s pain, she suffered his death along with him.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She smiled, beautiful and serene. “Thank you.”
And then they fell.
#
David back flipped, the edge of Palo’s sword sweeping a bare inch above his chest. He kicked up, mid flip, and the sword went flying from the young man’s grip. Landing, David went down on a knee, instinctively dodging the bullet Palo fired. He twisted, slicing one leg through Palo’s, knocking him down. But Palo was fast, faster than David. He reached back, hit the ground with his hands first, used them to spring upward, landing on his feet before David could stand.
Palo pulled two fresh revolvers, aiming at David’s head even as he danced out of reach of David’s blades. Throwing himself into an inelegant dive, David ducked under both bullets, rolling so the next pair would miss as well. One, however, caught his thigh, burning through and through, exploding out of the back of his leg. Muscles torn, the leg wobbled as David surged back to his feet. He ignored the flare of pain, whirled and jumped, using his good leg for strength, his bad one as a battering ram. It connected with Palo’s knee, snapping it backwards with a loud crunch.
Collapsing, Palo rolled away, firing continuously. A bullet hit David in the shoulder. The sword dropped from his hand and he turned, protecting his weaker side. He slashed at Palo as he scrambled away, opening fresh wounds on the boy’s arms and chest. A bullet slammed into David’s guts, doubling him over. Palo kicked, his boot catching David’s chin. He was flung over backwards, neck cracking, white fire blazing across his eyes. David hit the soft ground on his back, air blasted out of his lungs.
He couldn’t feel his body but he was breathing, weak, ragged gasps. He heard Palo laughing, a tired, painful sound of forced hilarity. The boy was strong and fast, but he lacked David’s experience, in both fighting and trusting his immortality. He was nursing his broken knee instead of getting on with it. David was crippled—again—but he wasn’t dead. Even as he lay there, he knew his neck was healing, bone
s knitting, nerves mending. Already there was a tingle in his fingers and toes. And Palo was wallowing in his pain.
He’d learn. If he lived long enough.
“A thousand years,” Palo said through gritted teeth. “All that time and still, I beat you.”
David didn’t rise to the bait.
“The duke didn’t think I could do it, but I have. I killed the legend.” Palo hauled himself over to David, confident. Blood coated his teeth, dribbled down his chin, matted in his hair, and yet he grinned. “At least, I will. He even told me how to do it.”
It had to be a lie. No one knew how to kill him. The curse was too strong. So many had tried over the long, long years, and yet none had succeeded. David almost wanted it to be true. If Palo really knew how he could die, then it would be over. The endless dark beneath the cathedral would never have to be suffered again. The slow thief of starvation, the insanity of thirst. He’d never have to feel the pull of the compulsion to do things he didn’t want to do. He wouldn’t have to kill anymore. He wouldn’t be the Immortal Soldier. He’d never wanted to be a soldier. He had never decided what he wanted, not even on the streets of Ibarra City, lost and beaten, starving and freezing. Not even when he’d been taken to the church and washed, taught to read and write, add and subtract. He’d loved running, racing against the other children and winning again and again. He’d enjoyed learning to use a sword, had loved fencing and archery. He was good at it. Too good. So they said he would have to fight for them. He owed them for everything they had taught him, for every meal they’d given him, for the bed they’d tucked him into each night.
But he hadn’t asked for it, he’d said. It didn’t matter, they’d said. He owed them. He would always owe them.
He wouldn’t owe them anything if he was dead. If he was dead, he would finally be free.
But then there would be Palo. And others. He’d said there were others. Palo didn’t understand what he was, couldn’t comprehend the terror of immortality. And when he did learn, it would be too late. He would owe them, just like David owed them.
“I really did admire you when I was growing up.” Palo held a sword in both hands, raised it back over his head. “I would listen to all the stories about the things you did and I knew, just knew, that if it had been me, I would have done things differently. I would never have let Ibarra lose to Roque. Take up with a supply company instead of staying on the frontline? What sort of coward would do that? And sneak in and murder Mage Aire while he was sleeping? Where’s the glory in that? I admired your immortality but your humanity? It made me sad. My legend isn’t going to be pathetic. It’s going to be glorious.”
The sword fell, aimed for David’s neck.
He remembered the time he’d been captured in Navarro. The then Duke of Ibarra had paid a massive ransom to save him from the headsman block. Ever since, David had wondered if that was the way. Now, he was going to find out.
The blade stopped. Its glistening edge was a bare inch from his skin. Palo met his gaze, then growled savagely. He twisted his arm, breaking the hold David had on him. David rolled out from under the wildly waving sword. Palo screamed incoherently but David ignored him, rolling and rolling until he was certain his body was ready. He gathered his feet beneath him and flipped. Palo’s shot went wide as he too struggled to stand. His broken knee hadn’t finished healing, the smashed bone much more difficult to knit back together than the simple break in David’s neck.
David kicked him in the face, in the chest. He knocked the gun from the boy’s hand, jumped up and caught his wrist between his boots. Flinging himself about in mid-air, David broke Palo’s arm, the cracking retort drowned out by Palo’s scream. Still a little shaky, David came down on his hands and knees. Palo rolled over backwards, trying for another kick to David’s chin. He dodged but took the powerful blow to his injured shoulder. His arm collapsed under him, putting his face in the mud. He jerked back, searching his senses for Palo’s next attack, but it didn’t come.
Scrambling to his feet, David glimpsed Palo as he staggered away behind a hut. As grievously injured as his leg was, the boy was still incredibly fast, even compared to David. Maybe he was too old. Maybe he was slowing down.
It didn’t matter. Delaluz had already suffered too much from one Immortal Soldier. Ibarra couldn’t be allowed any more. He had to find Palo and finish it.
Gathering up his swords, David chased Palo.
The boy’s knee was healing as he went and before David could close to within ten yards of him, Palo was running smoothly. David dredged his deep reserves for the speed to keep up but Palo pulled ahead steadily. Huts and tents flashed by, blurred to impossible blobs by their pace.
One thing he did manage to recognise. Castillo and Dina. Lying in the mud together, dead. He felt a pang of regret but couldn’t waste the time to consider it. He left them behind and raced on.
Then they were racing by the corral of horses. The animals thrashed and bucked, unsettled by the unnaturalness of the passing beings. It alerted the soldiers standing guard on the captured Alarians. They turned to see what was upsetting the beasts, the first of them knocked over before they could focus on Palo. He swept up their weapons with barely a pause, then charged into the mass of seated prisoners.
Bodies scattered out of his path, tumbling this way and that. It left a confused tangle of arms and legs in David’s path. He leaped over what he could but more often than not he trod on hands, backs and heads. Men shouted but Palo kept going so David kept after him. Just past the resurrected skeleton, Palo stopped. He turned and raised two revolvers.
David dodged but one bullet hit him, just over his left hip. It made his leg quiver and he nearly toppled into the prisoners, but he turned it into a tuck and roll, shoving an unfortunate man into the mud as he came to his feet. Another bullet skimmed by his neck, scoring a trail of fire along his skin. Blood poured from his torn jugular.
Then he was on Palo and everything dissolved into a haze of blades and red mist. Palo skipped and spun, dancing between the whirling arcs of David’s blades. He rolled and came up with a long bladed dagger, parrying and slashing. David let it bite his arms and hands, let it kiss his chest and stomach, determined to do whatever it took. Palo hadn’t yet learned pain was nothing, that he would heal from any cut. Well, almost any cut.
The end came when David left himself open and Palo threw himself in close. Chest to chest they came, Palo’s dagger sliding with ease into David’s neck, between the cartilage of his throat, nicking his spine. A wrong move and the blade would cripple him again, or tear out his carotid artery.
David didn’t wait for Palo to do it. He threw himself sideways, the dagger ripping out of his neck in an arc of arterial red. He used his momentum to spin around completely, his blood raining down on the Alarians too slow to get out of the way. Feeling the massive blood loss weaken his arms, David came back to face Palo.
The boy stared at him, dagger all but forgotten as he watched the waterfall of blood cascade down David’s chest. He couldn’t believe David had purposefully hurt himself so badly, and that was why the boy would die.
The two swords rose, one after the other, sweeping in toward Palo’s neck. The first one smashed half way through. David pulled it free an instant before the second sliced in, finishing the cut.
David stared at the body as it fell to the ground, the head spinning off into the crowd. He watched it, waiting for a sign of life. Someone shouted at him, calling him, pleading him to look away but he couldn’t. He had to make sure the boy was dead, that he would stay dead. He had to make sure this was the way.
The body didn’t twitch, didn’t begin to grow another head. It pumped a dwindling supply of blood onto the mud, and that was all.
Then the prince was in front of him, saying something. David could see his lips moving but he couldn’t hear anything. And the light around the boy was intense. White and bright and it hurt his eyes. In his chest the duty pulled at him. He had to get the boy home. Nothing stood in
his way now. Not the Alarians, not the lovely Sacerdio who had touched him so gently. Not even the other one like him. The one who wasn’t immortal after all. Like him.
The white light went dark and that was the last he knew.
Chapter 35
Alamar looked around the council table, nodding to Isabel before casting an eye over Galo. The man was unusually subdued, his smug air replaced with something more contemplative. Alamar’s guts moved uneasily. A change in de Giron didn’t bode well. Beside him, Bolivar hunched into his chair, hands clasped together on the tabletop. There was something odd about him as well, a hesitancy in the way he moved, as if newly recovered from an injury. Whether it was a physical injury or a spiritual one, Alamar couldn’t tell, but he didn’t like it.
Sarabia sat in his seat with a defeated slump. Caritina’s face was calm, though her gaze kept flickering to the space between her and Sarabia.
Stiff-backed, face carefully neutral, Aracelle sat in Roque’s position. Lady Veronica took the place of her aide and an unknown boy was her page. She was angry with him, both for taking her away from her son and for allowing her husband to die while in Ibarra, but it was imperative she be here. The business of Valdes had to be finalised and then he could concentrate on Navarro. The Immortal Soldier had obviously failed. Ramiero was still in the Valley, doing who knew what. But not for much longer. His other agents down there would find him and ensure he never came home. Ramiero wasn’t the only de Ibarra royal of marriageable age. Isabel would be angry, but it would pass. She knew it was necessary.
“Thank you for assembling so quickly,” he said, beginning what could very well be the last meeting of the Council of the Second Estate. If things proceeded according to plan, even if the war in the Valley was over, he would be king before the next scheduled Council of the First Estate. Suppressing his anxiety, he continued. “I want to thank you all for the efforts made to cancel the remainder of the agenda for this meeting. It will be better for us all to take the time to grieve and recover before we tackle the less important matters. Of course, we have one issue that must be completed before we can officially close this meeting. Aracelle.”
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