Carol Berg - Son of Avonar

“So what must you do?”

“I don’t know.” His grief was wrenching. “Were you to offer me the entire wealth of the universe or a thousand lives to fill my empty head, I could not tell you.”

“That’s why it’s time for those who know such things to take charge of this most delicate venture, is it not?”

We whirled about, as five men with drawn swords stepped out of the fog and quickly surrounded us. Three were brawny, well-armed fighters. The fourth, the sneering speaker, was Maceron, the fish-eyed sheriff. But it was the fifth, the one who held an unwavering swordpoint at my belly, that caused my soul to freeze. The fifth was Baglos.

“Dulce?” D’Natheil’s query was quiet.

“I am most abjectly sorry, my lord Prince. There is no other way.”

“Did you never learn to look under your bed for snakes or in your boots for spiders, oh, Prince of Fools?” said the gloating Maceron.

The fish-eyed man might not have existed for all the notice D’Natheil paid him. “What means this, Dulcé?” No anger marred the Prince’s speech, only questioning and sorrow.

“It means the salvation of Avonar, my lord. If you could remember its beauties, you would agree.”

“How do betrayal and treachery become the salvation of beauty?”

“A bargain has been made, my lord. You’ll see. You are to be given exactly what you desire—the chance to save your people with honor and grace.”

“Do you understand who these people are, Baglos?” I asked, dismay swelling to outrage at his choice of conspirators. “This devil has done his best to exterminate the descendants of J’Ettanne. And now he’s serving the Zhid.” Giano, Darzid, Maceron… my certainties were unproven, but certainties nonetheless.

Maceron bowed mockingly to me. “Not at all a polite introduction, my lady, but what can we expect from one who has such a dangerous habit of involving herself with perverse wickedness? I thought you’d learned your lesson ten years ago.”

“You made the mistake of leaving me alive. Were you working for these same soulless villains even then?”

“My master is no devil sorcerer, but a noble warrior who works to rid this world of these perverted creatures who would enslave us and the traitorous scum like you who welcome them. He works with the priests of Annadis. That’s good enough for me.”

His master… dared I say the name I was so sure of? My tongue stubbornly refused to pronounce it, as if the very word were some evil incantation that would precipitate our doom. And the priests… “You’re a fool,” I said.

Baglos frowned, looking from me to Maceron. “How is it you know this woman?”

“It’s many years past and has nothing to do with our present transaction. You’ve done well, ensuring the priests kept on your trail. Now, we must ensure that your prince will not disrupt the smooth completion of our business.”

The three men moved in, and D’Natheil at last paid them a full measure of attention. The Prince grabbed one of the brutes by his sword arm and neck and slammed him into a second man. The two crashed to the floor in a tangle as D’Natheil tried to wrest the weapon from his remaining attacker. He spun the man about and pressed him to his chest, the screaming villain’s arm bent into an unmaintainable angle.

When Maceron raised his sword above the Prince’s head, I yelled and reached for the sheriffs arm. But one of the fallen men stumbled up from the floor and crushed me to the wall. While I fought to get a breath, he shoved Baglos and his sword at me. The Duke’s sword tip pricked the flesh under my breast. I dared not move. His small face was frightened, but his hand was steady. Determined.

Maceron slammed the hilt of his wide, heavy blade into the Prince’s head. D’Natheil staggered, tightening his grip on his opponent, but the disputed sword clattered to the floor. Seizing their opportunity, Maceron’s two shaken henchmen pounced and wrestled the Prince to the floor, freeing their fellow and pinning D’Natheil on his face. Roaring in pain and fury as he clutched one arm to his side, the Prince’s freed opponent ground his thick boot into D’Natheil’s neck. A comrade stomped on the Prince’s right forearm and stabbed the point of his sword into the Prince’s outflung wrist, pushing down slowly until blood flowed freely from the wound. D’Natheil continued to writhe, lashing out with his feet and twisting his torso to get free. But the third ruffian kicked him in the side, leaving him flat and gasping.

Maceron grabbed my arm so tightly that his fingers bruised the bone, and he growled into my ear. “I would recommend, my lady, that you inform your testy friend of what we do to sorcerers. I’ve heard he can’t do much in the way of sorcerer’s magics, but I’ll cut off his hands if he so much as waggles a finger and remove his tongue if he utters a whisper. You remember. The priests prefer him undamaged, but they do most certainly want him. I’ll take no chance—no chance at all—of his escape. We’re going to destroy all of this.” He jerked his head toward the fiery Gate.

“You see, Baglos,” I said bitterly, as the men continued to kick the Prince in the side and the legs and the head. “This is the devil with whom you’ve made your bargain.”

“It is necessary,” said the Duke, refusing to look at what was going on behind him, even as he flinched with every thudding blow. “I do not wish it to be this way.”

When D’Natheil at last lay still, Maceron put me in the custody of the man with the damaged arm, a snarling brute with a drooping mustache and broken teeth. “You and the little vermin take the woman, while we get the sorcerer properly restrained. Have Kivor make sure she is secure.”

Disappointment and self-recrimination were lead weights in my boots as Maceron’s thug shoved me down the passageway toward the cavern. I stumbled and Baglos reached out as if to steady me. I jerked my arm away.

“You cannot understand, my lady.”

“I thought you loved him. I thought you were sworn to his service. The honor of the Dulcé and all that. Where’s the honor in betraying him to his enemies— your enemies?” We started down the circular stair, the ruffian’s knife pricking my back. Baglos walked beside me, his short legs hurrying to keep up.

“D’Natheil does not know the things necessary to save Avonar,” said the Dulcé. “It is not his fault. He was never meant to be the Heir and was not suited to it, especially after his injury. But on this day he will accomplish that duty anyway, because those who are wiser than we have devised this plan. His duty is more important than anything. He must understand that. We have no other hope.”

“You’ve given him to the Zhid… you’re risking the destruction of the Bridge… for what?”

“Just before we stepped through the Gate, our Preceptors took possession of D’Arnath’s sword and knife, held by the Lords in Zhev’Na since the Battle of Ghezir. As long as the Dar’Nethi hold the sword, Avonar cannot be defeated. The knife should have remained with the Preceptors, too, but the sword alone is enough. I was commanded by my bound master to complete the bargain by delivering D’Natheil as soon as we came to the Gate.”

“You’re not stupid, Baglos. They’re going to kill your prince and destroy the Bridge. How can good come from that?”

Baglos averted his eyes. “Avonar will live. If D’Natheil is to die, then that is his destiny.” He hurried down the steps ahead of me.

And he would die. I was complicit in the murder. In my confidence, in my everlasting pride, I had ignored every warning, sure that no evil would befall because I willed it so, sure that we would unravel the puzzle successfully because my intelligence and determination would allow no other outcome—unlike the last time. And now, for a paltry piece of sharpened steel, D’Natheil was to be given to the Zhid. He would be dead. My reawakened soul shriveled at the understanding. My veins felt parched. Who would ever have believed that I would care so much?