She knew how she would save her lover. She knew she would sacrifice her father to that end. Bloodbyrn understood these things and accepted them, even as her legs took her across the hall, rushing into Feerix's arms.
Her father had begun to laugh.
***
Freetrick felt his heart go arrhythmical.
He had a momentary glimpse of the side of DeMacabre's howling mouth and time to think strike me out, I'm going to die, before Istain hit him with a flying tackle.
DeMacabre's laughter choked off, then redoubled as Istain cried out "Oh this was a stupid idea!"
Freetrick rolled to his feet and spun to see DeMacabre, chortling with glee, a pencil-thin chord of blood stretching from his wrist to the chest of the shuddering Istain. And there, truth! There was another one going to Freetrick's own chest, wriggling like a swallowing worm. Without thinking, Freetrick leapt forward, chopped his hand down across Istain's blood connection. It worked. Istain blinked and dodged backward, apparently safe.
Freetrick whirled to strike at DeMacabre. A head blow might distract the man, stop him from doing magic—then Freetrick's heart spasmed again and his vision dimmed. He suddenly couldn't move, couldn't breathe, could barely think. But Freetrick could hear a voice.
Feerix's voice.
"All right, that will be quite enough."
***
"DeMacabre, as your extremely Soon-to-be Ultimate Fiend, I order you to release my prey, the current Ultimate Fiend."
Bloodbyrn resisted rolling her eyes. The idiot. She had been forced to explain her own status as his hostage twice before Feerix grasped the concept.
"Release him, or I shall kill your daughter." The prince turned his self-satisfied grin back on her.
He therefore did not see Milielan's expression when her father did as he was ordered. By the time the prince looked back, triumph no longer shone from the Duke's face. And here again was the choice before her.
"Yes," she attempted, "it is not your place to commit the act of regicide. Feerix will do the deed, and when he is finished, I shall take my place beside the new Ultimate Fiend."
That won a flash of surprise from Feerix, then anger. Her father, more difficult to read, seemed to calculate before he shot her a look of narrow-eyed warning. Feerborg gave her a look, blood help her, of trust. And Feerix, the dark prince said…
"I think not," Feerix said. "I shall kill Feerborg, then DeMacabre, then you my dear."
Exsanguinations. It took much of Bloodbyrn's training to keep her body from trembling, and then more to press herself sensuously against him. "But my lord, would you not rather enjoy your prize?"
"Tie myself to you? What utter foolishness that would be."
Bloodbyrn nearly choked on her own spit. Now of all times for Feerix to develop of a political sense. Most likely Teirchoke had coached him. "But…my lord. My father and I am in a position to aid you." That was the argument that had swayed Feerborg. Oh, how frustrating it was to have the trust of the man she did not have to betray.
"In a position to control me, you mean," said Feerix. "No. Better I kill the three of you now."
Bloodbyrn's plans rushed in a circulating torrent. Her lover, her father, not to mention herself, in mortal danger.
"You, Monster, and you, Do-Gooder fool." Feerix pointed to Skystarke, then to Istain, who stood again at the edge of the circle of their combat. "Witness the work of a true Prince of Evil!" Blackness flared above his head.
Whose salvation, which path should she choose? Assuming, of course, that Bloodbyrn could take sufficient control of the situation to realize that choice.
For the first time in her life, Bloodbyrn was not certain she could do so.
***
"I beg of you not to kill him!"
Freetrick saw Feerix's brows twitch together. "Shut up, wench. I shall attend to you soon enough."
"But, Feerix, I love him!"
"What? Really?" Freetrick felt his knees go weak.
"What? Indeed?" said Feerix. "For the sake of all that is unholy, why?"
"He is twice the man you are, that is why!" Bloodbyrn spat.
Feerix squinted down at her, "And why is it you think I would care?"
Freetrick had to admit it was a good question. "Bloodbyrn, I—I'm really happy to hear it, but, um, what do you think you—urk!" Every joint in his body suddenly locked at once, and a pair of arms constricted around him like boney and tastelessly-dressed anacondas.
"I have him, my lord!" DeMacabre's voice rang in his ears. "Give me the word, my lord, and I shall gladly kill him, then Bloodbyrn will be the concubine to the new Ultimate Fiend!"
"No," said Feerix, the air around his head still swarming with black motes. "I shall kill you, then him, then your daughter, and I shall be the new Ultimate Fiend!"
"How about nobody kills anybody," Freetrick said, "and I give you both nice things, while I'm the Ultimate Fiend?"
Freetrick felt DeMacabre's body shudder, and his peripheral vision suddenly sprouted a half-dozen arm-thick tentacles of blood.
"Release my daughter," he said, "or I shall kill the Ultimate Fiend, robbing you of your coup."
"Release my coup," retorted Feerix, "or I shall kill your daughter, robbing you of your…daughter."
In the standoff that followed, Freetrick could hear Bloodbyrn's disgusted sigh quite clearly.
"My lord Feerix," she said, "please be aware that at this moment, my left ring finger, whose nail I keep sharpened and coated with anesthetic gum for just this manner of situation, has pierced the skin of your lower abdomen. At my will, my blood will enter your body. You may take comfort in the fact that your death will be less painful than immediate."
"Immediate enough that I cannot destroy you first, Leech?" Feerix snarled. "And you, DeMacabre," his voice whip-cracked across the corridor. "You will stand down."
Freetrick was aware that, yes, he had risen several inches above the ground. Was the Duke walking on those blood tentacles?
"I said, be still!" Feerix's fingers twitched and black mist congealed around Bloodbyrn. Then the prince's eyes swung to Freetrick, and an invisible hand sent him and DeMacabre spinning backwards.
Blood limbs flailed around them like the legs of a swatted spider. Freetrick felt the Duke's arms tighten around him, and their spin slowed, stopped. They rose, Freetrick dangling a full six feet off the ground.
"Do not let your success over my half-brother give birth to false hopes, Leeches," Feerix said. "Your pitiful blood-magic is no match for my necromancy. Now only one question remains:" Feerix chuckled to himself and extended his arm, pointing first to the immobilized Bloodbyrn, then Freetrick, then DeMacabre. "Who will be first to die?"
"DeMacabre!" Freetrick hissed, "your daughter is in danger. Help me get her out of it."
The old man's voice spoke in his ear. "If Feerix does not slaughter you, I shall do the job myself."
"An excellent point," giggled Feerix, finger swinging to point over Freetrick's shoulder. "You first then, Lord Leech."
"Lord Feerix," said Bloodbyrn, encased in black mist, "do not do this thing, I urge you. Remember what my father has told you. Think of what he can give you if you let him live."
"Think of what I can take from him when he is dead," said Feerix.
"DeMacabre," Freetrick tried again. "Is Bloodbyrn's death really preferable to her being in love with me?"
"Now there is a difficult question," Feerix grinned.
Black tentacles swarmed out of Feerix's halo, slithering toward DeMacabre. Freetrick felt himself hoisted further into the air on the blood tentacles. They were at least ten feet above the floor now, the indoor mist of Castle Clouds-Gather eddying soggily around them.
"I cannot let him simply drop you, I suppose," said Feerix, looking up at them. "All right then, I suppose I should kill you first, half-brother."
Freetrick gasped as frigid fingers slithered over his necromantic defenses.
"Yesss," Feerix hissed, "very good." He turned to smile
at the immobilized Bloodbyrn. "You see, this way I can enjoy all the deaths, and do not have to rush."
The invisible pressure increased. If Freetrick let Feerix continue, he would break through Freetrick's defenses and kill him. If he fought back, it would only deplete his defenses faster. His only hope was escape.
"Let me go," he said.
There was no response from behind, and Feerix only smiled more as he increased the pressure.
"Please, DeMacabre. He'll kill Bloodbyrn."
Nothing. Only the mounting strain on Freetrick's defenses. It felt as if millions of tiny fingers were forcing their way through his skin.
Then, almost too low to hear: "do you love her?" DeMacabre's grip tightened, as if he was the one who would fall if he let go.
"Yes," gasped Freetrick, looking down at Bloodbyrn's agonized face. "I think I do."
"You will guard her, keep her safe!"
Freetrick saw the realization in Bloodbyrn's expression before he understood.
"Yes, I do. I will, DeMacabre."
Feerix sighed. "If you hope to entertain me and thus prolong your miserable life, I suggest you try harder, DeMacabre."
DeMacabre's voice from behind: "It must be well, then."
Red chords wrapped around Freetrick, held him away from the Duke, twisted him around, forced the DeMacabre's athame into Freetrick's suddenly free hands. He stood in the air, supported by the Duke's blood, his throat bared before Freetrick.
"What are you doing? Stop!" Feerix's attack smashed into Freetrick's defenses, which crumpled. Raw necromancy rushed toward him, and Freetrick sliced the knife across DeMacabre's throat.
They were falling. The man's lips were moving.
"Take care of her, damn you." Un-brightness flared.
Milielan DeMacabre's body hit the floor in a shower of blood.
"You killed him," said Freetrick, because he was used to saying things like that to Feerix. But he realized he was, in this case, wrong.
"No I did not," said Feerix. "For it was you, obviously, who killed your woman's father. Now you have his death energy, so what shall we do?"
Freetrick, drenched with the blood of his girlfriend's dad, could only stare. From the inside of her cloud of magic, Bloodbyrn stared, too.
Bloodbyrn. "Bloodbyrn." He croaked, "We have to—we have to do this."
"Oh must you? Finally?" Feerix took a step forward, the sharpened claws on his gauntleted fingers flexing. "Have you finally learned enough to face me, Feerborg?"
"Bloodbyrn," Freetrick said again. They had meant to use Bloodbyrn's blood for this, but now that was unnecessary. Half her father's blood was hers, after all. "Bloodbyrn, I don't care what you do after this, but help me now, and we can make sure this never happens again."
She did not look at him, only closed her eyes. The blood on the flood slid back, like the lids of an opening eye, leaving clean, black stone behind.
"What are you doing?" Feerix whipped around to glare at Bloodbyrn. "Must I kill you next?" Then, apparently to himself, "Hmm…a poignant dash to add to the mixture? I have never killed a man avenging his paramour before. I have read the experience is quite enlivening…" He turned back to Freetrick, grinning.
That grin rotated into position just in time to catch the knuckle of Freetrick's fist.
"Ha!" So protection against magic did not translate into protection against high-velocity lobstered steel.
Freetrick used his power to spin himself around in the air, and delivered a kick that knocked Feerix off his feet. New blood splattered the floor as the old twirled around the periphery. Bloodbyrn was laying down the patterns she had memorized, but maybe she didn't need to. Maybe Freetrick could just beat the prince to death.
But no. Even as Bloodbyrn wrote the word-magic spell on the floor, Feerix pulled a cloud of black mist around himself. Feelers darted toward Freetrick. Not at Bloodbyrn, though.
Freetrick attacked again, before Feerix could rise or get his bearings, pinching at his skin, hammering his internal defenses.
"What was it you said, my lord?" Feerix shouted from within his cloud, "'Do what we say or we'll kill you?'" A tendril of power smashed into Freetrick hard enough to knock him out of the air. "Then we shall have to see who is better at killing."
Darkness flashed over Freetrick's vision and pain burst across his left temple. Freetrick struggled to remain airborne, wheeling away from his half-brother's next blow. Freetrick could not fight back, could not run, could only feel his energy, bought at such great cost, begin to drain away.
A downward-directed push, and Freetrick shot upwards, out of a cloud of personal torment. He jigged to avoid another questing tentacle, and ran into a second. Feerix was playing with him, howling with laughter as Freetrick frantically dodged. Necromancy closed around him like the fingers of a glove. He stuck in the air, trapped.
Feerix smiled, a terrible sight of blood and broken teeth. He did not move in for the kill. "What was that, brother? It was almost impressive."
Freetrick sent a silent prayer of thanks to the First God. Or in any case whoever had first conceived the villainous monologue.
"All that running," Feerix mimed ducking, his gauntleted hands spread, "and dodging?" He laughed again, "If that is what they teach warriors in The Rationalist Union, the upcoming war will go well for us indeed." He took a single step forward, then stopped again.
War? Freetrick looked down, past his half-brother's grinning face past the length of his black-armored body to the floor under his feet. The word-magic spell written there in blood.
Bloodbyrn's memory was excellent. She had written the spell exactly right. Now all he had to do was activate it. And hope the monsters had prayed enough for this to work.
At his sides, Freetrick's fingers twitched. Deep in his throat, he murmured the words of power.
"Fool." Feerix's smile vanished. "Weak and whimpering fool! With your choices and your Rationality! You would have doomed us all." Another step forward.
Feerix was almost within range, but Freetrick's fingers continued to twirl, his mind danced with lines of force.
This would never have worked in the RU, or even in Skrea earlier than the previous couple of days. Even now, with how many dozen monsters praying to the God of Words, and Bloodbyrn's influence moving the fluid on the floor, no one but the heir of the First God could have worked this spell. Sangboise blood-magic wrote the programming of Rationalist word-magic powered by Skrean necromancy.
"You disgust me," Feerix snarled as blood ran across the onyx tiles under his feet. "How can you be king?" Feerix was screaming now, trembling with emotion. "How could the First God have chosen you to carry His power? Answer me, with your reason and logic!" Spittle flew from Feerix' mouth as he brought up his claws to rip through Feerix's throat. "Why should the black magic not run through my veins?"
"Good question," said Freetrick, and he spoke the final word of power. The spell beneath Feerix snapped closed.
Feerix's swinging gauntlet slammed to a halt as if he had struck a wall. The prince grunted in surprise, then cried out as he saw the network of thick, red chords moving across his arm. They quested as if alive, weaving over and through his flesh, binding it, transfixing it.
Feerix tried to back away, but the same red bonds had infiltrated his legs. They crawled across his skin like a living net, extending branches up and out around Feerix' torso. He could not cry as his throat was sewn shut, but tremors shook his body as the net punched through him, budding shoots through his shoulders and back. Feerix shook until his feet left the ground and he hung, suspended in a tree of blood.
Black mist flared and writhed as Feerix focused the strength of his magic against the spell that bound him. Freetrick braced himself for one of those bolts of power to strike out the runes on the floor, but Feerix ignored them. Instead, he poured death energy into the streams of solidified blood that held him. Those attacks were easy enough to fend off, between Bloodbyrn's blood-magic and Freetrick's necromancy. The branches of the
fractal cage quivered, then, as Feerix's magical reserves finally failed, went still.
Freetrick let his breath out. His vision swam and blood still oozed from his cuts. He stumbled toward Bloodbyrn. Shuddering, he held her.
Chapter the Twenty-Third
In which new Problems emerge
"Facinating! Ingenious!" The harsh caw of Wrothgrinn's voice echoed off the basalt walls of the hallway. "And my lord is sure the prince yet lives?"
The blood tree stood in the middle of the corridor, red roots dug into the black floor, red branches reaching up into the swirling indoor mist. Feerix reached out from the heart of the tree, face still frozen somewhere between rage and surprise.
"Most ingenious!" said Wrothgrinn again.
Freetrick turned to observe his uncle. The life-twister was standing in his habitual hunched, steepled-hands posture, the only smiling person in a circle of grim and exhausted onlookers. The monsters in what Freetrick thought of as his revolutionary council looked like they were ready to bolt. Istain was pale an exhausted-looking, his face twitching. And Bloodbyrn wouldn't even look at him.
"He ought to still be alive," Freetrick said. "Blood is still moving through those veins. It just happens to be moving around outside his body now."
"Yet he does not breathe, my lord."
"That doesn't matter," said Istain, standing abruptly straighter, "He should get plenty of oxygen diffusing through all that surface area. See how red all the blood is?" He gestured at the imprisoned prince with an uncharacteristically brisk movement of one hand. "If anything it's superoxygenated."
Freetrick frowned. He needed a chance to talk to Istain about what had happened in Virgin Soil. "And here I thought you hated biology."
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