Paul Kemp - Shadowstorm

"Will you kill me now, shade?" Forrin said over his shoulder. "Did you bring me all the way out here just to do what you could have done back in the camp?"

Cale shoved him away. Forrin staggered, fell, but jumped to his feet and drew his blade.

"It would be better for you if it were me."

Forrin hesitated, looked uncertain at that. "Who, then?"

From behind Cale, Abelar called, "Leave now, Erevis. This is for him and me. What of Elden?"

Forrin looked past Cale, seeking the source of the voice.

"With Endren," Cale said. He looked to Forrin. "Die poorly." He pulled the darkness about him and rode it away. He materialized on the rooftop of the stables to find Riven already there.

"The boy?" Riven asked.

"Safe with his grandfather. The man who beat him?"

"Not safe," Riven answered.

"How did you know where to find me?" Cale asked.

"I always know where to find you, Cale."

Cale looked at Riven but Riven only stared down at Forrin.

"What are we doing?" Riven asked.

Cale answered, "We're watching."

Riven turned his eye to him. "He told you to leave."

Cale nodded. "It's only justice if there's a witness."

"Justice isn't what he's after, Cale."

Cale had not considered that.

Abelar stood in the ruins of his estate. He recalled the pile of bodies he had found there. Forrin stood where Abelar's servants, family, and friends had been murdered. The smell of death still lingered, as did the smell of burnt wood. He stared across the compound and looked not at Forrin's flesh but into his soul. He saw guilt there, not merely for what the mercenary had done to Elden, but for a multitude of evils. Abelar did not stand in Lathander's grace, but he still could see that Forrin's soul radiated a foul purple light the color of an old bruise.

Forrin paced a circle. He stared across the empty yard, seeking his foe in the darkness. "Show yourself," he called. The mercenary eyed the ruins, the nearby graves.

Abelar stared at him in silence, letting his anger build. Ordinarily he would have prayed to Lathander and asked for the Morninglord to guide his hand and mind. But he would not pray, not now. Faith would not be his guide.

Forrin hefted his blade. "Your pet shade is gone," he taunted. "Are you afraid now?"

Abelar detected no nervousness in his tone. That was well.

Forrin continued. "It is just you and me, now. I have nowhere to run. Come, show yourself."

Abelar concentrated on his magical sword, held it above his head, and set the blade aglow. The area around the estate lit up.

Forrin blinked in the sudden illumination and backed up a step. He was an insect and Abelar had just flipped over his rock.

Through squinting eyes, Forrin focused his gaze on Abelar. His expression showed recognition. "Abelar Corrinthal. I should have guessed."

Abelar strode forth, blade and anger blazing. "Then perhaps you can guess what comes next," Abelar said, his voice as hard as stone. "Look about you. This is where your men murdered my people. This is where your men abducted my son. All on your orders. This is where you will be punished for it."

Forrin assumed a defensive stance and his eyes narrowed. "You are out of your depths here, boy. I killed twenty men ere you were born. I've killed scores since. Reconsider."

Abelar did not slow his step. He walked across the grass toward Forrin.

Forrin licked his lips. "You think your god makes you strong, boy?"

"There is no god here," Abelar answered. "This is between you and me."

Forrin stared, his eyes dark. "It always is."

Abelar had killed many men, all of them evil, but had never felt such hate for another man as he felt at that moment. Righteous hate. He picked up his pace.

Forrin swung his blade in a slow pattern, readying himself.

"You caused my son pain," Abelar said.

Forrin's blade went still and he raised an eyebrow, as if puzzled by the remark. "We're at war, boy. I did what I had to. I would do it again."

"Not after today," Abelar said. He took his blade in a two-handed grip and charged.

Forrin squared his feet and held his sword high.

Abelar closed the distance in ten strides and opened with a quick thrust to the abdomen. Forrin lurched to the side and answered with a reverse crosscut for Abelar's throat. Abelar ducked it and bulled forward, slamming his shoulder into Forrin's chest. The breath went out of the mercenary and he staggered backward.

Abelar did not fight with grace. He fought with efficiency. He followed up, unleashing an overhand slash that would have split Forrin's skull had he not gotten his blade up to parry. Abelar grabbed a fistful of Forrin's shirt; Forrin grabbed a fistful of Abelar's. They turned a circle, nose to nose.

"There are consequences for the life you've lived, Forrin," Abelar said. "There are always consequences."

Forrin snarled and spat into Abelar's face. Abelar shoved him away. Eyeing each other, appraising, they paced a circle around one another.

"Your boy cried from the moment we brought him into camp," Forrin said.

Abelar gritted his teeth but did not take the bait. "I am looking at a dead man."

"So you say," said Forrin, grinning through his scars. He feigned a relaxed posture then abruptly lunged forward, blade leveled at Abelar's chest.

Abelar knocked the mercenary's blade toward the ground with his gauntlet. Forrin's momentum carried him forward and Abelar lashed out at the mercenary's back. The blade bit through armor and Forrin roared. The mercenary answered with a wild, blind defensive swing that caught Abelar on the forearm. The blow did not penetrate Abelar's mail but left his arm numb for moments.

Abelar shook it out, then bounded forward, unleashing a flurry of slashes. Forrin retreated, desperately parrying, answering with his own stabs and slashes where he could. Abelar locked Forrin's blade low and right, got in close, and put an elbow into the side of the mercenary's head. Forrin's helmet flew off and he staggered, but managed to answer with a glancing punch to Abelar's cheek.

Still stunned, Forrin clumsily jerked his blade free of Abelar's blade lock and swung a crosscut at Abelar's torso. The slash hit Abelar in the ribs but his armor turned the steel. Abelar stabbed low and his blade cut through Forrin's armor and bit deep into his thigh.

The mercenary roared with pain, somehow kept his feet, and launched a desperate two-handed overhead slash at Abelar's head. Abelar lurched aside but could not dodge the blow entirely. It struck his left shoulder and split the links of his mail. Pain shot down his arm. Warm blood followed it. He did not allow the pain to slow him. He kicked his boot into the wound in Forrin's thigh. While Forrin screamed and tried to bring his blade to bear, Abelar slashed the mercenary's leg again. Steel grated against bone and Forrin collapsed.

Abelar ignored the pain in his arm and loosed a blinding series of hammering overhead slashes into Forrin's blade. He could have killed Forrin any time, but he wanted and needed to pound the mercenary. With each slash he whispered a word, an incantation, an imprecation.

"Consequences."

One after the other, the blows pounded down. Forrin parried desperately but each of Abelar's blows drove his blade down more. Abelar's arms were numb; Forrin's had to be filled with lead.

"I submit," the mercenary said. "Enough."

Abelar ignored the words and continued to rain down blows. "Consequences." His blade rang off Forrin's.

Fear crept into Forrin's eyes. "Damn you, Corrinthal!" he shouted.

"Consequences," Abelar said, and let loose another blow. Another.

Forrin parried them but his blade shook in his hands. He screamed in helpless rage.

"Consequences," Abelar said.