James Clemens - Shadowfall

Pounding and chopping continued at the door to the flippercraft’s common room. Such ships were built of stubborn stoutoak and ironwood. Rescue would not be swift.

“Why don’t you call your daemon?” Darjon taunted. “Or has it abandoned you?”

Tylar glowered. Darjon clearly had intended to dispatch him in the initial attack. He had been surprised by Kathryn’s skill. And now he was wondering why Tylar hadn’t summoned his daemon. Darjon’s eyes sparked brighter, more confident.

Tylar stepped around, matching Darjon’s dance, one circling the other. “Why forsake your cloak?” Tylar called out. “Why join the Cabal?”

Darjon kept his sword steady but slipped his masklin free with the point of his dagger. He exposed his pale features.

“It was a god’s blood that did this to me,” he spat. “I was to be a soothmancer, but the blessing went awry. It turned my skin at birth so pale that the sun burns with the slightest touch. It can hold no pigment, not even the tattoos of knighthood.”

Tylar stared into those red eyes. He saw as much madness as Grace in that glow.

“Yet still, I sought to serve Myrillia honorably,” Darjon continued, circling with cautious steps. “I trained hard and earned my right to don a shadowcloak. I was distinguished among my peers. But who would have a disfigured knight? One without stripes?” His voice hardened. “They placed me far from all else. In a god-realm of burning sunlight and eternally clear skies, where I dared never to shed my cloak lest my skin be burned or my eyes blinded. The day was forbidden me. Such a cruel assignment was as much a curse as my birth.”

“We go where we are needed,” Tylar said. “We serve who we must. That’s a knight’s duty.”

“And such a condition is no better than slavery. I’m sure you of all people could understand that. Imagine being confined not to a cell or circus, like you were, but imprisoned in one’s own cloak, forever unable to escape its shelter.” He shook his sword at Tylar. “When the Cabal approached me, told me of another way to live, free of gods and enslavement to duty, I knew their cause was just. The Hundred have ruled for far too long. Now is the time for the rule of man.”

Tylar had heard similar complaints in the past. “The Hundred do not rule us. They share their Graces. We honor their duty by offering service to them. It is through their humours that Myrillia has dragged itself out of barbarism and into a time of peace and prosperity. Men are free to live their own lives.”

“And swine are just as free to rut and roll in the mud,” Darjon said. “Blind and oblivious to the killing floor to come.”

Tylar sighed. It was time to end this. He lifted his sword. “The Cabal will be stopped. We will find its head and chop it off.”

Laughter, harsh and cruel, answered him. “The Cabal is legion. It thrives everywhere. Cut once and thrice will you be struck down. Like so…”

Darjon leaped at him.

Caught by surprise, Tylar stumbled back. He parried the knight’s first thrust by brute force, feinted with his shoulders, and attempted a slice to the man’s arm. But his blade found only shadow.

From out of a fold of cloak, a dagger stabbed at Tylar’s side. He could not avoid it, only lessen the injury. He met the dagger with his arm, catching the blade’s point with his forearm. The knife cut to bone.

Tylar twisted away, falling backward. He fled a few staggering steps until he was forced once again against the rail. Winds from the shattered window below rushed against his backside, threatening to buffet him forward onto Darjon’s blade.

The knight closed upon him.

Enough…

Tylar had heard all he needed to hear. He nodded past Darjon’s shoulder.

At his signal, a flow of shadow whisked up. A flash of silver broke through the dark cloud. A sword lanced out and struck Darjon in the shoulder, piercing fully through.

Darjon glanced down in surprise. Before he could react further, the blade was yanked back out, unsheathed from his body. Released, he spun to face his attacker, half-falling.

Kathryn shed her cloak, revealing herself alive and unharmed.

“How…?” Darjon mumbled.

Kathryn cocked back her free arm and struck the man in the teeth with a fist wrapped around a dagger’s hilt. Darjon fell backward, hitting the rail hard and going down on one knee.

“I can fight with fist as well as sword,” she said fiercely and kicked out with a heel. “Not to mention leg.”

Caught in the chin, his head snapped back, then forward. He fell to his hands. Tylar held his sword to the man’s neck. He supported himself on the rail with his other arm.

“The game is over, Darjon,” Tylar said. “While you never were blessed as a soothmancer, others were. You will be exposed. As will your Cabal allies.”

Darjon lifted his face to Tylar. “Myrillia will be free!” A fold of shadowcloak parted. Something dropped into the man’s palm as he sat back.

Tylar pressed his sword into the man’s neck, but he was too late. Darjon crushed the thin crystal vial against the floorboards under his palm. The tinkle of glass sounded.

Tylar kicked the man in the side, rolling him over. Kathryn guarded him with her sword.

Darjon held up a hand, showing Tylar his bloody palm, pierced by glass. “The Cabal lives!”

The man’s palm and fingers melted to slag, losing all form, like warmed wax. The curse spread quickly, down the arm, over the shoulder and neck. The left side of Darjon’s face drooped and sagged. His eye rolled down his flowing cheek.

Tylar and Kathryn both backed a step, fearful of the curse leaping to them. Darjon, still of some mind, took advantage. A snap of shadowcloak whipped out, snagged the rail, and contracted, yanking Darjon off the boards and over the rail.

Tylar lunged at him, striking the railing hard. One of the crossbow bolts snapped. A rib, grazed by the bolt, cracked with a flare of agony.

No…

Below, Darjon plummeted through window, tumbling past the belly of the flippercraft. Still wrapped in his shadowcloak, darkness shredded from his form, burned away by the brightness of the morning.

Tylar shoved backward, clutching his side. Darjon was no longer a concern.

“Tylar…?” Kathryn came toward him.

“Get back!” he yelled.

Agony flared outward from the snapped rib. Bones broke and broke again: wrist, elbow, fingers. He crashed to the floor as both legs shattered under him. He writhed on the floor for two breaths.

The beast inside shook free of its broken cage, rising from his chest, burning through his shirt and cloak, a fountain of smoky darkness. It fled from his form, stirring and drawing the bones together in its wake, healing with callus and spur.

He saw the look of horror on Kathryn’s face. He lifted a crooked arm toward her. The horror on her face deepened as she stumbled farther away.

Above him, the font of darkness spread its wings. Its shadow-maned head snaked outward. Flaming eyes opened, seeking the danger for which it had been summoned. It found only one target.

Kathryn continued her startled retreat.

The naethryn lunged at her, wings sweeping wide, eyes blazing.

Tylar had to stop it. He smeared his hands on his blood-soaked shirt and grabbed hold of the smoky umbilicus that linked the daemon to the black print on his chest. The Grace in his blood ignited like fire on contact. The cord throbbed and twisted under his fingers. Flames of Grace spread out over it, as swift as flowing water.

The naethryn, in midlunge, contorted as the wash of fire swamped it. Wings snapped wide. Neck whipped up. Then it was consumed. Flame and form lashed back toward Tylar. He braced for it. The kick as it struck knocked him on his rear. Blinded for a breath, he rolled back to his feet. He found his body healed again. Even his cuts. The bolts had vanished. He patted out the smoldering edges of the circle burned through his cloak and shirt.