by Mark McCabe
Chapter 12
As Rayne had expected, the door to the wizard’s home was shut. Unfortunately, it was also locked. He had crept up to the entrance as stealthily as he could, and had slowly turned the handle, only to find it wouldn’t budge. For some reason, he hadn’t anticipated that.
When he had peered in through the glass panels of the window moments earlier he had seen that the front room of the house was empty. From where he had stood, he’d been able to discern another doorway and a staircase that led to an upper floor. He had quickly decided that, once inside, his first move would be to see where the doorway led to. The stairway looked too grand to lead to the cells where Sara should be, assuming she was still alive. Taking a deep breath to calm his racing pulse, and gripping the hilt of his sword as tightly as he could, he had slid across to the wooden door and moved his free hand to its handle.
And now his whole plan was stymied by such a simple thing as a locked door. He had known it had been a foolhardy venture right from the start, but he had thought he would get further than this. What was he to do? Think, Rayne, think, he told himself. He knew that to tarry on the wizard’s doorstep would only invite disaster.
The window. That was it. Sheathing his sword and moving back to where he had been standing only moments earlier, Rayne took his knife from his belt and cautiously slid it into the crack between the two window frames. Twisting the blade slightly, he pulled back with a flick of his wrist. To his surprise, the window opened slightly, emitting a small creaking sound as it did so.
He quickly flattened himself against the wall of the house again. After a few moments, when he had heard no indication of any response to the noise he had made, he tentatively peered around the edge of the window again. There was still no sign of life from within the house. Keeping his knife in his hand, he used his fingers to prise the window open further. Once he could get a proper grip, he pulled the two frames completely out and open.
Leaning in over the windowsill, Rayne looked up and down the length of the room. It looked safe enough. If there was anyone at home, then they were in some other part of the house. Perhaps the house was empty, he thought hopefully. As much as a part of him wanted that to be true, he knew that if Sara wasn’t there he would have no idea where to look for her. She would be lost to him for good then, that was for sure.
Pressing on, Rayne clambered in over the sill, dropping to the floor as quietly as he could once he had cleared its edge. Once more, he waited, as still as could be, knife at the ready. All he could hear was the pounding of his own blood against his eardrum. Yet again, he exchanged weapons, sheathing his knife and drawing his sword. The swishing noise the latter made as it left its scabbard seemed impossibly loud within the confines of the room. He pushed the thought from his head. He was being ridiculous. He had been as quiet as a dormouse.
Rising from his position below the open window, he moved forward, towards the closed doorway he had seen through the window, staying crouched over as he moved and continually scanning the room, particularly the staircase that led up into the house, ready for any eventuality. Looking down at his hand, he realised that his weapon was shaking. He tried to steady it, but it only seemed to get worse. He knew that his heart was beating faster then he had ever thought possible. It was too late now; there was no turning back from here. He had made his decision back when the Rangers had let him go. All he could do now was to see it through to its conclusion.
Perhaps he would have been better off if the Rangers who had been assigned to take him Keerêt had done their job. They hadn’t, though. They had taken pity on him; said that they couldn’t see the point in wasting time over such a simple matter when the whole country was at war, said they would say that he had escaped and that they had searched high and low for him to no avail. They had told him to go back to the Marches and change his name and start a new life. They had made him promise, too; made him promise to forget about Sara and get on with his life without her, told him there were plenty of other pretty girls in Ilythia.
Of course, he had agreed to everything they’d suggested. He had assured them he wanted nothing more to do with Sara, that the last thing he wanted was to end up in an Algarian gaol over a girl. He had lied through his teeth, knowing that as soon as they were gone he would head right back where they had come from, that he would search for her until he found her.
He hadn’t been afraid then. He had known he was heading for certain death; that the task was an impossible one. But he hadn’t hesitated for a moment. He loved the girl. He couldn’t abandon her.
So why was he scared now? Was it because he had gotten so much further than he had thought he would? Or was it because now his whole plan had become a reality, not just some vague idea he had in his head? Perhaps because he might die right here in this house. He shook his head at the dark thought. What did it matter, anyway? He was here now. What had to be done, had to be done.
Rayne reached out and turned the handle on the door in front of him. This time it turned easily. He pushed the door open and stepped through, into a corridor. Still he could hear nothing. Silently, he crept down the corridor. There was another door at the end of it. He reached for its handle, turned it ever so slowly and began to push it open. A voice from the room beyond startled him as the door swung open, gradually revealing the contents of the space in front of him.
“Just in time. I’ve brew …..”
It was Tug. The draghar looked up from his position beside the pot-bellied stove at the same time that Rayne saw him. Their eyes met for a brief instant and Rayne felt his legs turn to jelly. Luckily, he still had his hand on the door handle or he might have stumbled in his shock.
They both recovered at the same time, though Tug was the merest fraction of a second quicker than Rayne. As the draghar lunged for the table beside him, grabbing his sword and drawing it from its scabbard in one fluid motion, Rayne stepped into the room with his own weapon up and ready.
The draghar was waiting for him now. His own weapon was up and, like Rayne, he was crouched and ready to spring. The two combatants began to circle each other, the small table in the centre of the room all that separated them. They were eyeing each other, each appraising his opponent, planning his next move. They had almost completed half of the circuit of the room when Rayne suddenly realised what the draghar was up to. A small flicker of his eyes had given the villain away. He was angling for a position closer to the door that Rayne had entered by. Like a fool, Rayne had left it wide open.
At that very moment, Tug sprang for the doorway, bringing his blade up to parry the slashing blow Rayne aimed at his side as he did so. The ring of clashing steel reverberated in the confines of the small room. Rayne’s blow had little other effect though, for the draghar was out and into the passageway.
Having completed the maneuver Tug slowly began to back down the corridor towards the other door. Rayne could do nothing but follow, with his own blade held out in front of him, its tip a hand’s breadth from that of the draghar’s. He knew what the draghar was doing. He was retracing Rayne’s own path into the house. He was doing what Rayne’s father had always told Rayne he should never let an opponent do; he was choosing his own ground to fight on. Tug wanted to get out into that front room. Perhaps from there he could call for help to whomever else might be in the house. Whatever the reason, that was clearly his intent. Rayne knew that he couldn’t let that happen. When the draghar slowly began to move his left hand behind his back, searching for the door handle that was now only a short space behind him, Rayne lunged at him with a furious assault.
Though his attack took Tug by surprise, the draghar fought back with some skill. Their swords clashed together a number of times in quick succession, then Tug grunted as a lunge from Rayne caught the edge of his left forearm, slicing through the exposed skin. Rayne tried not to look at the blood that began to flow freely down the draghar’s left arm. He knew that he had to keep his eyes on Tug’s own weapon, for the blow only seemed to spur the draghar on t
o a fresh effort.
Rayne felt himself being pressed backwards as he tried to parry a furious counter-attack. As Rayne edged backwards, the draghar stopped and quickly reached behind him, finally turning the handle of the door he had been so desperately trying to reach. In a moment, Tug had stepped back into the open doorway, with Rayne following closely on his heels.
The fight now moved into the wider room. The clashing sounds of their swords as thrusts and lunges were met with parries and counter-strokes rang through the room. Both were fighting desperately, Rayne with the constant fear that the draghar would call for help at any instant. He could feel the sweat on his body beneath his jerkin. It was on his brow too, but he dare not pause to wipe it away. The furious pace of the deadly duel he was engaged in would clearly not allow such a respite.
His arm was beginning to tire, but surely so was the draghar’s. A thought flashed into Rayne’s head and he acted on it in an instant. Swinging his blade at the draghar with all of his might, he felt his arm jolt to a halt as Tug’s blade came up to parry his stroke. As their blades locked together, Rayne pushed with all of his might, denying Tug the chance to free his own blade from the tangle. At the same time, he quickly reached for his belt with his left hand. Drawing his knife, he swung it up and into the draghar’s rib-cage with all of his force, twisting it viciously as he felt it crunch against bone somewhere deep within his opponent’s chest. As the draghar opened his mouth and screwed up his face with a mixture of both pain and surprise, Rayne pulled the thin blade out and swung it once more into the draghar’s vitals. This time, Tug screamed out in agony. As Rayne pulled his blade from the wound, he pushed the draghar from him and watched as Tug slumped against a small table, spilling its contents to the ground with a loud crash as his lifeless body slid to the floor.
Rayne’s chest heaved as he looked down at the body of his opponent on the floor beside him. Tug’s vacant eyes still stared up at him defiantly as his blood began to pool around him on the wooden floorboards. There was no doubting that the draghar was dead.
Bending down, Rayne wiped the bloodied blade of his knife on the draghar’s shirt. A mixture of emotions and thoughts swept through him. He was exhausted. Their brief but furious fight had sapped his strength, more from the mental and emotional exertion than the actual physicality of it he guessed. The whole thing had been one big blur, his actions governed more by instinct than any capacity for strategy or forethought.
And now a man lay dead at his feet, or a draghar did, at least. He had only ever killed someone like that once before, that night in the forest when he and Sara had been jumped by those two men from the settlement. The earlier one, the man he had killed at the falls, had been different. That had been from a distance, and it had been no more than a split-second reaction. But this was face to face, this was to the death. If he hadn’t won, it would be him lying there dead, not Tug.
A blood-curdling scream scattered Rayne’s thoughts. Swinging his head around, he was horrified to see yet another draghar rushing at him from the direction of the staircase with a sword brandished above his head.
His new assailant was on him before he could rise. Frantically bringing his blade up to parry the draghar’s blow, Rayne could do little but deflect the angle of the blade as it slashed down towards him. As he felt the steel slice through the sleeve of his jerkin and into the skin of his upper arm, he tried to roll with the force of the stroke. Surprisingly, he managed to do so, stunning even himself when he ended up back on one knee and with his blade ready to parry the next blow. Neither instinct, nor his father’s training, it would seem, had deserted him yet.
The wound to his arm was serious, however, and the jolt of the next blow sent an arc of pain across the breadth of his shoulder. He almost lost the grip on his blade as he struggled to ignore the injury and to move quickly enough to counter yet another blow. Somehow, he managed to get to his feet, though the rain of blows from his foe continued unabated. Ruz, for Rayne realised that was who his new opponent must be, seemed determined to keep the initiative, not letting up for one moment on the furious assault he had launched as soon as he had caught sight of him.
Gradually, Rayne gave ground under the weight of the draghar’s blows. Though he was smaller than Rayne, Ruz seemed as strong as an ox, and he was using his strength to good advantage. When a second stroke pierced the skin of his thigh, Rayne knew that the end was near. He was no match for his opponent, especially drained as he was from his earlier encounter. Still he held on though, digging deep into reserves of strength that only a fight to the death could inspire.
A third time the draghar drew blood, this time splitting the skin on his left hand when it flailed carelessly to one side as Rayne parried yet another stroke. He was almost done. In desperation, he reached for an ornament with his bloodied hand and flung it in the draghar’s direction. Ruz bared his teeth as it sailed harmlessly over his shoulder. He was moving in for the kill. Rayne flicked his eyes momentarily to the left of the draghar, towards the staircase.
“No, Sara, don’t,” he cried out suddenly.
To his eternal surprise, Ruz took the bait. As the draghar instinctively turned his eyes for just the barest fraction of a second, Rayne lunged with his sword, driving it deep into his opponent’s chest with the whole of his weight behind it. He heard a gurgle struggle up out of the villain’s throat as he staggered backwards on faltering legs, then collapsed to the floor heavily. Rayne’s sword still lay embedded in the draghar’s chest. For the second time, Rayne bent over and sucked deep breaths into his lungs. It was all he could do to stop himself from falling to the floor beside the second of his victims.
He stayed like that for a few moments, unable to think of anything but the need to pull himself together in case there were still more of them to deal with. He hoped that would not be the case. One look at the wound to his shoulder told him he would have to find a way to bandage it soon or he would be in serious trouble. Blood was running freely down the back of his arm from the deep and jagged cut the draghar’s blade had left there. His left hand was also sticky with blood. The cut he had sustained just below the knuckle of his index finger had gone almost through to the bone and to say that it stung like hell was an understatement of no mean proportions. The red patch that had formed around the tear in his leather trouser leg indicated that the cut to his thigh was taking yet a further toll.
Limping across to the window, Rayne pulled strongly on the curtains that framed it, bringing the whole thing crashing down to the floor. The noise no longer concerned him. If there was anyone else in the house then they must have known he was there by now. It took him but a few moments to shred the material into something that could pass muster for bandages, then he set about doing what he could to bind up his wounds.
Within a short while, he was done. The crude bandages he had tied over the wounds to his thigh and his left hand would last for a while, if necessary, but his attempt at binding the wound to his shoulder was, he knew, little short of laughable. All he really seemed to have achieved was to stop the flow of blood down his arm. For the moment, the wad of material he had bound to his shoulder was soaking up the fluid that continued to flow freely from the gash he had sustained. It was too awkward to get at for him to hope to achieve much more than that by himself.
It didn’t look pretty but it would have to do for the moment. As he hobbled towards the staircase, with his sword in his hand once more, he wondered what he must look like. Not the warrior he would need to be if he found Golkar up there waiting for him, of that he was sure.
~~~
As Golkar’s body emerged from the shard of looking glass that lay half buried by sand on the floor of the ruined chamber, his senses were on full alert. Those first few seconds, when he had just completed the passage, that was when he was always at his most vulnerable. He was getting better at it though. The speed at which he could gather himself and assimilate with the new environment had improved immeasurably since when he had first learnt to use the
spell.
In fact, this time, with the extra power he had gleaned from Josef, he didn’t think he had taken more than a heartbeat or two to adjust. It had certainly been a lucky day when Josef had fallen into his clutches, he thought, despite his niggling concern over where the old man had acquired his power. He had thought that only the Guardians held anything like it, them and the girl Sara. Still, Josef’s existence, anomalous though it was, was a windfall, and he had made the most of his unexpected catch.
That was such a feeling, he thought to himself, having all that additional power flow into your being. It was as if he had just finished consuming the most exquisite meal he had ever laid eyes on, only this had been a pungent meal of fabulously raw energy. Golkar, for the first time in his life, felt satiated with power. Any more would have probably been beyond him in his current form.
He made a mental note to remember that when he used the girl. He would have to be careful. Too much of a good thing could, in this case, be disastrous. He would need to make sure he remained able to stay in control of the overwhelming power available to him.
It was worth it, though. He knew, both from his earlier use of the old man and from the breathtaking feelings he was now experiencing, that his power had been augmented far beyond anything he or any of his colleagues could ever have achieved on their own. Kell would not even know he was here. The masking spell he was using was at a level he would never have thought possible before he had tried tapping into the old man’s essence. If the girl were anything like this, there would be nothing he couldn’t achieve.
Golkar forced himself to rein in his thoughts. There was still a task to be done. Though he harboured no doubts as to what the outcome of this battle would be, it would still be his greatest challenge yet. Or perhaps his greatest triumph would be a better way of putting it. Once Kell was out of the way, he could relax and take his time with the rest of his plans.