Nancy Berberick - Stormblade

“Who’s still standing?” Stanach asked.

“Finn has a sword cut in the leg. Hauk is all right. Kelida’s hurt but I saw Kern a minute ago and he says she’ll be all right.” Lavim fell silent, tugging at his long white braid.

“Lavim,” he said, strangely calm, “who else is hurt?”

“I—I don’t know if Tyorl will be all right—”

“What happened to him?” Stanach snapped.

“That dwarf with the crazy eyes—he was chasing Hornfel and Tyorl got between ’em and—Stormblade—”

As though he hadn’t heard the old kender’s words, Stanach looked slowly around the hall. Twenty-nine Theiwar lay dead or dying. Realgar was not one of them, and Stanach didn’t know where Hornfel was. Lavim didn’t know if Tyorl would be all right.

Stanach spoke harshly, his throat thick with fear and impending grief.

“I have to find the thane. I—I have to, Lavim. Is Hauk with Kelida?”

“Yes.”

“Get him. We owe him a debt of vengeance. Tell him I know where he can collect it.”

Lavim watched him go and only too late realized that in the excitement of finding his friends again, of the battle, he’d forgotten to tell Stanach about the dragon.

Hornfel had no sword. He had no dagger. He had only his life, and that he would not have for long. Hornfel lifted his head and spoke with a simple dignity.

“Murder me now, Theiwar, and be known as the Cursed King.” His brown eyes glittered. “And no curse carries more weight than that of a murdered man. Meet my challenge. Here above the kingdom you want to rule is where we’ll decide the matter. Have you the courage to face me without your warriors?”

They faced each other on the ledge like statues carved from the living rock of the mountain, Hylar thane and Theiwar. Though bitter wind tore at them, whipping their hair and clothes wildly around them, Stanach had no sense that they were anything but some stone cutter’s monument to strife. Grounded on the stone of the narrow ledge, the blood-darkened swords Realgar held reflected the eerie twilight only thinly. Though they must have heard Stanach’s approach, and Hauk’s a moment later, neither Realgar nor Hornfel looked around.

Stanach heard his own voice, his words, before he was aware of speaking. “We can take him, Hornfel Thane.”

Hornfel did not take his eyes from Realgar’s as he accepted the weapon the Theiwar passed to him. When he spoke, he spoke to Stanach.

“So you can. But, I’ve made a challenge, and he’s accepted it.”

Yes, Stanach thought, but will you be the one to survive this? We need a king regent, and not the mad rule of a derro mage. Hornfel Thane! Don’t do this!

Like a ghost’s whisper, Isarn’s strange words echoed in Stanach’s heart: I made the sword for a thane. Realgar will use it to kill a high king.

In the Deep Warrens, Stanach had been reluctant to believe the old master’s words, had refused to hear the prophecy ringing behind them. Now, standing on the ledge a thousand feet above the fiery valley, the Kingsword’s crimson steel heart shining with the reflected light of Reorx’s forge, Stanach wondered if Isarn had spoken truly.

Reason tried to dissuade him. Where was the Hammer of Kharas?

Where was the legend that would consecrate a high king? No one knew. No one even looked for the mythical hammer anymore. Yet Isarn Hammerfell, who had crafted a god-touched Kingsword, spoke of Hornfel and called him high king, as though, in the last moments of his life, the old master had seen legends become real.

Behind him, Hauk moved restlessly. Stanach stilled the ranger with a gesture.

“We can take him,” Hauk whispered. “Stanach, we can end this.”

Stanach shook his head. “This is the thane’s business. We’ll wait, Hauk.”

Hauk heard nothing in Stanach’s words but a brave warrior’s death sentence. His hands tightened on the grip of his sword. “We’ll wait for what?” he said harshly. “For Hornfel to die?”

“He’s a good fighter. He won’t die.”

Realgar’s smile was cold as ice. He lifted his head a little, as though scenting victory. In the gray twilight, the Theiwar’s eyes were like a snake’s, the pupils narrowed to slits to protect his retinas from what to him must seem a blazing glare.

Stanach shivered with sudden fear in the wind.

His eyes! No light-hating Theiwar would choose to fight even in the dim twilight if he could avoid it. Why was Realgar here? Why hadn’t he maneuvered Hornfel back into the darkness of the gatehouse?

Realgar lifted a hand and moved his lips in a soundless word of magic. Fear, like sudden sickness, shot through Stanach and filled him with dread.

“Hornfel—!”

His cry of warning came too late.

Twilight became midnight, starless, moonless, and as complete as the darkness of the tomb. A dragon’s battle cry thundered against the cold sky. All heart and strength sucked out of him, Stanach fell to his knees. Stunned with dragonfear, blinded by the dragon’s spell of darkness, he only dimly heard Hauk’s cry and Hornfel’s shout of anger. Realgar’s triumphant laughter soared through the darkness as though on the wings of the dragon.

“Bastard!” Stanach snarled. “Treacherous bastard!”

The wind of the dragon’s passing flung him back against the face of the cliff and sucked the breath from his lungs. Suddenly dizzy, disoriented, and numb with fear, Stanach was reft of his will and helpless. Caught in a web of darkness, in a swamp of horror, he was incapable of moving. A thousand feet below the valley still burned. The flames, leaping high, seemed to reach for him with certain confidence that they would have him. The wind of the heights, the blast of the dragon’s renewed passing dragged him so close to the cliff’s edge that Stanach knew he must fall. Hauk screamed his name. With the unbreakable strength of panic, a hand clamped on his right wrist. Though Stanach couldn’t feel the grip, he felt the pull in his shoulder. Hauk had him and dragged hard, hauling him back from the drop and into the gatehouse.

Echoes from a nightmare, the belling of steel clashing against steel rang in the darkness.

The thane! Oh, Reorx, the thane!

“He’s fighting blind!” Hauk cried. The young man’s horror ran like lightning through his hands and set Stanach’s bones vibrating. Tyorl pulled himself up, leaning heavily all the while on Lavim’s shoulder. He’d seen men do it, stand when they should have been incapable of even breathing. Once he’d wondered what that must feel like, and now he knew. A slow draining of life, his blood seeped from the jagged sword wound in his belly.

It had happened fast, all in a moment. The rage and fury of the battle had risen to a mad pitch as red and silver uniformed Daewar poured into the great hall and the gatehouse. Tyorl, back on his vantage point on the gate mechanism, had seen Realgar, Stormblade leveled to plunge into the Hylar’s unprotected back. There was no time to load a bolt into the crossbow. The elf had moved without thinking.

Tyorl had put himself between Realgar and Hornfel. Stormblade had been like ice tearing through him, like fire when Realgar ripped the steel free. Now, he felt no pain. By that, more than even the lifeless cold, he knew he was dying.

And what was dragonfear to one who was dying?

“The—the crossbow,” he whispered.

Lavim swallowed hard. “Tyorl, I don’t think you—”

“Please. Help me now, Lavim.”

“No, Tyorl! You have to wait here for Kem.” Desperate hope made the kender’s voice ragged. “He’ll make you better. You’ll see. You’ll see, Tyorl.”

Tyorl leaned his face against the stone wall and braced his legs. These small movements, this trying to talk, only left him colder. He slid the flat of his hand along Piper’s flute, still on his belt.