Elizabeth Haydon - Requiem for the Sun

She grasped tighter hold of the mat and slowly, agonizingly inched closer to the edge of the cave, staring out in her muddy vision at the swirling water beyond. The tide was low; if she went now, they would see her, but if she stayed—

There was no alternative.

Come, my child , she thought, taking a great breath and reaching, her hand slippery, around the outside edge of the cave. Now for it .

With all her strength she pushed the mat out ahead of her, diving beneath the waves and kicking off the wall with as much force as her legs could summon.

The current caught her and dragged her down immediately, swirling in a vortex of spray and rock. Immediately the breath was torn from her lungs and she struggled not to breathe, her body battered by the crags beneath the surface.

Tumbling, whirling end over end, she clung to the mat, its buoyancy useless in the overwhelming flood of the tide.

Rhapsody was suddenly lifted by the swell that dragged her, powerless and choking, whisking her rapidly out to sea. She was vaguely aware of bodies falling or hanging from the cliff wall above her, but all other thought, other reason, was lost in the mad roar of the waves.

The seneschal watched in amazement as the second man who had threatened him leapt from the cliff.

He turned to the last, the half-figure, expecting to see some third champion, some last show of this land’s muster against him, noting in surprise that it seemed healthier, somewhat taller and broader now, but was still nothing more than an old man in ragged clothes, approaching with a half-smile on his wrinkled face. With a deep bow Michael stepped aside and presented the cliffs edge.

“Pray, don’t let me stop you,” he grinned. “By all means, throw yourself off as well.”

“Come to me,” the old man said.

Michael’s brow furrowed. “I beg your pardon?” he said, more puzzled than angry, at least for the moment. “You must be addled, old man; clearly you do not see where you are, or have any idea to whom you are speaking.”

“No, I do know,” the aged man answered. “But I was not speaking to you.”

The seneschal rolled his eyes, irritated now, then stopped when the realization came over him.

The old man was speaking in the harsh guttural tones of the language of the F’dor.

“Who are you?” he demanded, raising Tysterisk menacingly.

“I am one is who far more hospitable than you, Michael,” the man said, walking closer. “A much better host. I have lived longer than you have, without even a sword for a crutch, nor any help from a demonic guest; my elemental power precedes yours in the order of birth of the Creator’s gifts. I am stronger, and truer, and a better choice than you in every way. I would have killed you long ago if you had not been the coward that you are, would have torn your life from your useless body and buried you in a midden or a pile of manure, so that as you rotted at least some good would come of you one day.” He stopped within reach of the seneschal. “I am the black lion. He who stands in the shadow of the king. The queen’s champion. And after escaping me all these years, I am finally come for you. But it is not you I want.”

The seneschal began to tremble with a mixture of rage and terror, his hand gripping the sword.

“MacQuieth,” he whispered, “you should have died with the Island.”

“And you should have died long before. It matters not what should have happened, only what happens now.” MacQuieth put out his hand in a gesture of welcome and spoke in the dark and ancient tongue again. “Come. Abandon him. He will only disappoint you ultimately, if he has not already.”

The seneschal lifted his free hand and pointed it, palm front, at the ancient warrior. Instantly a swirl of black fire appeared and billowed forth, fed by the wind, blasting over the old man in front of him.

It burned for a second in the hot air, then fizzled, snuffed as if by a wet cloth.

MacQuieth merely stared at him.

Fury blackened Michael’s brow. With a vicious swing, he sliced at MacQuieth’s throat, only to hear the voice in his head speak commandingly, bringing him up short.

Stop.

MacQuieth did not move.

Within his mind, the seneschal could feel the demon considering its options.

Michael clenched his teeth to quell his panic and rage. “Surely you are not fool enough to consider him ? You have the master of Wind; you yourself are the servant of Fire! What good would water do you? If you want another sword I’ll dredge the bay where the last fool dropped it. You can’t accomplish your burnings with water. This man is a husk!” He stepped forcefully through the demon’s command and resumed his swing.

MacQuieth’s left arm came up sharply against the flat of the sword. Michael’s blow went high, and he stepped back, the edge of the precipice now at his heels.

All of the Seren history, the reports of his scouts, all he had forced from his memory about this nemesis came rushing back to mind. He tried to suppress it, tried to clear his mind of the fear, the jealousy, the awe in which he had held the ancient warrior, the king’s shadow, the queen’s champion, hated himself for his grudging admiration, his loathsome inadequacy in the face of the warrior’s reputation, his unparalleled might. Michael tried to forget the day he had taken the demon’s offer, had escaped this ancient hunter, the craven relief he had felt being spared from MacQuieth, he believed, for all time.

But he could not force any of it from his mind.

Because the F’dor remembered it, too.

The demon was leafing through him. It was preparing to choose.

He stood, almost slack, on the edge, his eyes frantically scanning MacQuieth, noting with vague, detached interest that he could see a dangling hand. He appeared to have broken the old man’s arm; slashed it; one of the forearm bones jutted sharply through the skin, blood spurting quietly around it.

What kind of man seeks out a duel and brings neither armor nor sword’ ? he wondered.

The F’dor was at that moment asking the same question.

With a slight smile that had no joy in it, the ancient hero spoke.

“Does this mean you yourself are not already master of fire alone, Michael? A pity. Without acting as a host, on my own I have been to the soft places beneath the sea.”

The hush of this whisper quenched the wind. It took Michael a moment to realize the import of this terrible utterance.

MacQuieth knew the entrance to the Vault of the Underworld.

For the first time in years, the demon in his mind was silent, contemplating the possibilities.

In the depths of his brain, Michael felt its loyalty shift like a scale plate that had fallen to the earth with a thudding certainty.

The seneschal’s face contorted with rage.

“You want him?” he screamed. “Go to him! I will kill you both!”

He leapt on the ancient warrior, blood in his eyes.

MacQuieth opened his arms and threw them around Michael’s waist, catching him low, slamming him to the rocky ground of the promontory. As they grappled, MacQuieth stretched his mouth up so that it was just outside of Michael’s ear.

“Waste of Breath,” he said with a derisive snort. He reared back, staring down at the man beneath him on the ground.

Then he drove the jagged, exposed bone of his forearm into the seneschal’s abdomen.

Michael gasped.

With a burst of strength, a wave of energy that caught the demonic thrall off balance like a sudden swell of the sea, MacQuieth pushed as hard as he could against the rocky ground of the promontory, raising the impaled seneschal and himself to a stand at its edge.

Michael struggled for purchase, too close to bring even the ephemeral blade to bear, he smashed the Kinsman against the face with the air sword, striping his eyes with blood, gashing him open with cruel, gaping wounds from the weapon’s edge, but he could not get a grip on the ground.