Gail Martin - The summoner

"You can't be here," Tris breathed, raising his sword.

Jared laughed coldly. "But I am. I've come to finish what I started-what I should have ended a long time ago." He advanced slowly. "And I'm going to enjoy it." He leered. "I could always whip your ass," he said, taking another step forward. "But I'm going to make sure that you've got plenty of time to think about how stupid it was to defy me," Jared grated. "Plenty of time while you're dying. You thought you could take my crown, my kingdom… and my bride. But I'll keep what's mine. You might be lord of the dead, but I am death itself," rasped Jared, as he withdrew his left hand from behind his back. Kiara's severed head hung by its hair, her expression frozen in pain and terror.

Every fiber of Tris's body and heart wanted to lunge for Jared, even as a cry tore from his throat. Jared chuckled. "I am as real as your nightmares, brother," he said, letting the head swing. As real as my nightmares. Which aren't real at all.

"Dispel!" Tris screamed, hearing his own voice pinched with terror, as he held on to the center of his power. "You… are… not… real. Be gone!" And quick as thought, Jared's image winked out. Without warning, unseen hands shoved Tris back so hard that he staggered. A mist coalesced above the catafalque until a stout, sturdy man stood at the foot of the tomb. "Why have you come?" the specter boomed. Tris bowed in respect. "I am Martris Drayke, son of Bricen of Margolan, grandson of the sorceress, Bava K'aa."

"Step closer," the ghost of Argus said. "Yes," he murmured after studying Tris for a moment, "I see your father in you. Why have you disturbed my rest?"

"By your leave, sire," Tris replied, "I have come for Mageslayer."

"Mageslayer may not be given," the ghost roared. "It may only be won in combat." At that, the force of the ghost's offensive drove Tris to his knees. Strong arms like iron bands encircled his chest, making him heave for breath. Tris thrashed, trying to break free, as the ghost chuckled and the grip tightened. "Too easy," he heard the ghost say behind his ear as the pressure increased. "Surely you are not the grandson of Bava K'aa."

Gasping for air, Tris struggled to ignore the ghost's taunts. He let his body go slack as he summoned his powers, then lashed back with all his might at the revenant now clear in his magic-enhanced vision.

"Well now, that's more like it," the ghost chuckled, coming at him again. Argus's spirit was as solid and real to Tris as any mortal opponent. Tris circled the catafalque warily.

Argus launched himself over the tomb in a leap impossible for a living fighter, driving Tris to the floor and knocking the wind out of him. "You've got to do better than this, lad," Argus said. Setting his jaw, Tris slammed forward with his magic and sent the ghost reeling.

They sparred for what seemed like eternity. Tris knew that Argus possessed one thing he did not-an immortal's tireless strength. Tris dodged and feinted, willing himself to ignore the pounding reaction headache and the crushing weariness that made every move ache.

When Argus leaped on him and sent them both to the ground, Tris could do no more than brace himself against the ghost, refusing Argus the upper hand although Tris lacked the strength to break free.

"Admit it, lad. You're beaten," Argus taunted, jerking his hold to make it hurt.

"I won't leave without Mageslayer," Tris grated between bloodied lips.

"You won't leave at all!"

Then, so clear that Tris could not believe he had not seen it before, the solution came to him and with a certainty driven of desperation, he closed his eyes and leaped along the inner path-workings, into the twilight of the spirit world. Down, down he dove as he had at the well, when Carina's soul was in peril, and before that, when Vahanian lay dying amid the slavers. This time, the pathway was familiar, and Tris hurtled along it before Argus could adjust his grip, speeding like a falcon on attack, toward the blue life thread that was Argus. Heedless of consequence, Tris envisioned his own glimmering soul strand and began to weave it around Argus's in a complex, shining knot.

"Aye there, what are you doing?" Argus roared.

"If I cannot leave without Mageslayer, then I will not stay as your servant," Tris shouted. "We will spend eternity together, bound at the soul, closer than brothers. You will not think a thought without me, and I will not dream without you." He continued his weaving as the life threads glimmered and shone.

"Stop!"

"Yes?"

Argus loosened his hold. "I've no need for another infernal voice inside my head."

"But we have a stalemate," Tris replied. "I will not yield, although in time, you must win because my mortal body will tire. And if I must remain with you, it will be on terms of my choosing."

Argus released his grip on Tris with a curse. "Take the bloody sword," he swore. "No one in fifty years has fought me like that," he said, the gleam in his eyes making it clear that he relished the conflict. "'Tis a rigged game, that's sure, as you say. But I lose when I yield, and I can no more stand the thought of having someone in my thoughts than I can walk back among the living."

At that, the heavy stone lid of the catafalque ground open on its own accord, and the crypt door swung open. "Take the sword," Argus said, standing beside his tomb, "and with it, the blessing of Argus the king."

As carefully as he had woven the knots, Tris unraveled the glittering life threads, until the two strands glowed separately. And then, stretching out his spirit, he returned along the twilight pathway to sit up with a start. Doing his best to ignore the hammering in his head and his aching body, Tris struggled to his feet, feeling the long fight in every muscle. He staggered to the tomb and, with a nod of permission from Argus, thrust his hand inside. Cold steel greeted his touch, and he withdrew a sword of incomparable craftsmanship, its intricately wrought grip inlaid with gems in the crest of the House of Principality.

"The Lady's blessing upon you," Argus said, raising a hand in farewell as his image began to blur and fade.

"I can send you to your rest," Tris said, though his swollen lips slurred the words.

Argus shook his head. "Not yet. I made a vow, when I was mortal, that I would give my life to defeat the Obsidian King. He is not yet destroyed. Until then, I may not rest." He lifted a hand in salute. "You have earned my sword, and my blessing. My body and my army lie buried near the river. We are at your service, though we are bound to remain in these lonely lands."

The ghost shimmered and disappeared. The unlucky soldiers, one by one, winked out as a chill gust swept through the tomb, sending wild shadows across the walls. Mageslayer glistened in Tris's hands, unsullied by its years in the crypt, and from its rune-worked blade, he could feel the thrum of power deep within the ensorcelled steel.

"The Lady rest your souls," Tris murmured. With a thought, he snuffed out the torches, inched back the catafalque lid and staggered from the room. He felt a touch of pride that he did not fall to his knees before he reached the bottom of the stairs. The last thing he remembered was tugging on the rope and the distant sound of a bell.

When he opened his eyes, he lay on a couch in the Library parlor. Mageslayer lay beside him, and next to it, King Harrol's pouch. Royster dozed in a chair, but woke with a start, then grinned broadly at Tris. "I knew you could do it!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

"Easy, easy," Tris murmured, his head throbbing. He wanted nothing so much as a hot bath and a soft bed. "I can't believe you couldn't stay awake."

Royster hummed an irreverent tune. "Oh I stayed awake for a long time, a very long time," he replied, fairly dancing in his excitement at Tris's triumph. "But after the first night, these old bones of mine needed some rest."