Dark Lady's Chosen (32 page)

Jonmarc entered the temple. Malesh was nowhere to be seen. Too late, Jonmarc spun around, realizing Malesh was behind him. Malesh slammed into him at full
vayash moru
speed, knocking Jonmarc halfway across the temple’s open court.

Jonmarc had only an instant to get his bearings. The Temple of the Dark Lady was long and narrow. Banks of candles and scores of torches lined the walls. A shallow reflecting pool lay in the center, warmed by magic in the bitter cold. There were no windows or skylights, yet the floor was cast in rich hues of red and gold from a large stained glass image of Istra that hung suspended from the vaulted temple ceiling, backlit by huge torches. Beneath the glass image stood a large statue of the Dark Lady. Both depictions were the same: a sad-eyed Istra, fangs bared, stood with her arms partially outstretched. She was wrapped in a richly-patterned cloak and, in its shadows, cringing multitudes huddled near her for protection.

Jonmarc heard heavy wooden doors slam shut and the crosspiece fall into place. He scrambled to his feet, sword ready. Outside, he could hear the sounds of battle and the cries of
vyrkin
and
vayash moru
. Inside, there was only the sound of Malesh’s footsteps as he slowly circled Jonmarc.

“It seems you’re the only guest to witness my ascendance to consort,” Malesh said. It was obvious that he had not taken any part in the battle thus far. He looked as if he might have just left court.

“That’s what this is about? You want to be a god?”

Malesh smiled, making his eye teeth plain. “Not a god. A consort. One who will rule with the Lady as we were meant to rule. Openly. Taking our rightful place as the top predator.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“All that remains is to best Her champion. That won’t be difficult.”

Outside, the temple bells began to ring the seventh hour.

Malesh rushed at Jonmarc. Jonmarc was ready for the attack, expecting Malesh to strike with his sword. At the last instant, Malesh altered his course, streaking upward toward the high ceiling and landing behind Jonmarc. Jonmarc stabbed backward with his short sword, burying it deep into Malesh’s thigh.

Malesh grabbed Jonmarc from behind and flung him against the stone wall. With a growl, he pulled the short sword from his leg and threw it in the opposite direction. Dazed, Jonmarc struggled to his feet as Malesh closed again. He swung hard with his broadsword, connecting with Malesh’s blade. Malesh slid his own blade down to lock Jonmarc’s grip, and tore the weapon from his hand. The sword skittered across the marble floor and Malesh landed a blow to Jonmarc’s ribs with his fist that cracked bone. Before Jonmarc could catch his breath, Malesh grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him hard against the wall.

All I’ve got to do is stay alive long enough to buy time for Carina.
Jonmarc fingered the release for the arm quiver.
Not yet. Not yet.

“I knew you weren’t much of a swordsman,” Jonmarc baited. “You know you can’t win a fair fight.”

He managed to duck the next blow, and twisted beneath Malesh’s grip, diving and rolling although the pain of his broken ribs made him gasp. He came up halfway across the marble court, near the base of the reflecting pool, and grabbed his fallen broadsword.

Malesh streaked toward him and Jonmarc spun his sword, gritting his teeth against the pain. The tip of his sword caught Malesh’s shoulder and Malesh growled as he parried with a blow that nearly snapped Jonmarc’s blade.

“How long before you tire?” Malesh taunted as he returned Jonmarc’s parry. “What a fool Gabriel was to think that a mortal champion could ever best one of us. Although I do have a use for you. Your blood will seal the magic.” He fingered an amulet at his throat. “I’ll make sure to leave enough to work the charm.”

Without warning, Malesh attacked again. His blows were calculated for speed and strength, raining down in a pounding fury that forced Jonmarc to stretch to the limits of his training to defend himself. The attack came so fast and with enough of an advantage in strength that what Malesh lacked in sword skill or salle form was meaningless for the sheer brutality of his press. After having already endured several candlemarks of relentless fighting, Jonmarc knew that he could not hold out long against the savagery of Malesh’s attacks before he was disarmed or dismembered. The glint in Malesh’s eyes said that his opponent knew it, too.

Jonmarc gripped his sword two-handed, needing all his waning strength and concentration to parry Malesh’s blade. Jonmarc met Malesh’s strikes blow for blow. He felt the strength of the sword strikes jolt painfully through his bones, making his teeth rattle and his head throb.

With every moment that passed, the likelihood of rescue and the hope of success grew dimmer.

With a snarl, Malesh wheeled, bringing his full strength and the motion of his turn against Jonmarc’s sword. The blade bent and snapped, sending the useless shards clattering to the floor. Jonmarc threw the pommel at Malesh and ran, but Malesh grabbed his shoulder with a grip that threatened to rip his arm from its socket. Momentarily stunned by the pain, Jonmarc gasped as Malesh grabbed him by the throat with his other hand.

“I’ve watched you fight. Learned how you move. You deserve your reputation as a fighter.

And now, I will deserve mine as the one who destroyed you.”

Jonmarc spat in his face. He twisted in Malesh’s grip, still too far away to launch his arrow from its hidden quiver.

“I took your woman as the first sacrifice,” Malesh said, tightening his grip enough that Jonmarc could barely breathe. “She fought me. Her blood was hot and sweet and she moaned like a whore in my arms when I drank her.”

Jonmarc lashed out with his foot, landing a blow with the knife in his boot against Malesh’s side that would have felled a mortal. Malesh smiled. “I could easily beat you to death. But that hardly befits such a worthy opponent.” He drew back his lips. “I gain the strength of my enemy when I devour him. And I want to taste the fear in your blood as I drain your life.”

Malesh brought his arm down until Jonmarc’s boots touched the floor and drew him closer.

With his free hand, Malesh ripped open Jonmarc’s shirt and great cloak, exposing his neck and shoulder.

Wait for it. Only one chance. Wait for it.

In one swift movement, Malesh bared his fangs and sank them into Jonmarc’s shoulder at the base of his neck.

Jonmarc stiffened at the sudden pain as the teeth tore into his flesh. Struggling to keep his head clear, Jonmarc brought his left arm up so that his palm was against Malesh’s chest above his heart and squeezed the trigger.

Malesh tore loose from Jonmarc’s neck as the arrow embedded itself, quills deep, in his chest. With a shriek, Malesh staggered backward as Jonmarc fell to his knees. A warm stream of blood flowed from the open gash in Jonmarc’s neck. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, and sensed it slowing as blood soaked his shirt and dripped onto the floor.

Malesh’s heel caught the edge of the reflecting pool as he tore at the arrow that protruded from his shirt. He careened into the bank of candles, ripping it and the torch above it from the wall. There was a flash of fire and Malesh screamed again, engulfed in flame.

The fledgling dies the maker’s death.

Jonmarc watched in horror as Malesh flailed while the flames consumed him and a black, acrid smoke rose from his charring skin.

Behind him, the door gave way with a crash.
I failed
, Jonmarc thought as the room began to spin. It was hard to breathe. He fell backward onto the cold marble floor, staring into the amber eyes of the stained glass Lady.
I destroyed Malesh but I failed Carina.

Strong hands gripped his shoulders. “Get the shaman!” It was Gabriel’s voice, but with an edge of panic Jonmarc had never heard before.

“Let me die.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“No choice…”

The temple around him faded into darkness. Gradually, blackness gave way to a gray dawn, and Jonmarc realized that he stood at the edge of an endless sea. The cold surf lapped at his bare feet and the wind whipped at his hair. A lone figure walked toward him at the water’s edge, and as it drew nearer, Jonmarc recognized the same face that had stared down at him from the stained glass in the temple. Istra was even more beautiful than any of Her statues. Wild, dark hair framed dusky features and She moved with a predator’s grace.

Something innate within him warned him that he should kneel in the presence of the Goddess. Ignoring it, Jonmarc remained on his feet, daring to meet Her amber eyes.

“I kept my bargain. Let me die.”

“There is a greater darkness coming.” Istra’s voice seemed to sound inside his mind.

“I’ve done my part. Let me rest.”

The amber eyes sparked with inner fire, depthless and sorrowful. “Not yet. I need a champion.”

“Find someone else.”

“There is only one champion in a generation. There is no other.”

He shook his head. “If you didn’t notice, all your ‘children’ are out there killing each other.

How can you watch that and not want rid of the lot of us?”

“See what I see.” Her voice echoed in his mind as She raised Her arms, revealing what lay beneath the intricate, moving patterns of Her cloak. In the shadows, Jonmarc glimpsed writhing souls, stripped of their pretense and masks, laid bare in fear and pain. For an instant, he could hear their cries of utter anguish and terror and knew that he glimpsed the world as She saw it. He met Her gaze levelly.

“I’m just a blacksmith’s son from the backside of nowhere. You’ve taken everything from me. How can it matter if I die?”

Istra’s expression changed as if She were listening to far-off voices, and Her eyes seemed to see into the distance. “Without you, the currents change. Martris Drayke will die before his time. His heir will fall to an assassin’s blade. Margolan will be consumed by her enemies within a generation and the Winter Kingdoms will be carved up as spoils among the legions of its attackers.”

Jonmarc swallowed hard. “And if I go back, that will change? You swear it?”

Her features softened. “The future is always in motion. I cannot guarantee it. But if you return, there is a chance. Without you, there is none.”

Jonmarc closed his eyes. The pain of his battle wounds was gone. He could make good his final vow and find Carina in the Plains of Spirit.
But at what cost?

Knowing what he had to do, he opened his eyes. “All right. I’ll do it.”

Istra reached out Her hand toward him, laying Her palm over his bare chest above the symbol he had traced in ink. Jonmarc gasped as Her palm became hot, searing his skin.

When She withdrew Her hand, the symbol was branded into his flesh.

“Let there be no doubt,” Her voice echoed in his mind. “You are mine. Now, return. Your work is not yet finished.”

Jonmarc’s whole body shuddered as he strained for air.

“I’ve got him.” The shaman’s voice sounded close by. Jonmarc felt a hand pressed against his skin where Malesh’s fangs had laid open his shoulder. The pain of his wounds returned in a single breath, enough to make his heart skip a beat.

“Will he live?” It was Gabriel, still as worried as before.

“He’s lost a lot of blood. I’ll do what I can to heal him, but I can only do so much to replace blood.” Vigulf opened what remained of Jonmarc’s shirt to lay a hand on his newly healed—

and newly re-broken—ribs. “Look,” he said sharply to Gabriel, and Jonmarc knew without opening his eyes that it was the symbol of the Lady that caught Vigulf’s attention.

“You were right when you sensed Her presence just now. I felt it, too.”

“Then he truly is Her champion.”

Vigulf’s laugh was sharp. “You doubted?”

“Only a fool never doubts.”

“Are you going to take him back to Wolvenskorn?”

“Not tonight. I don’t think either of us is up to it. There’s a pilgrim’s chamber just off this courtyard. I’ll stay with him. The battle’s over. And there are others who still need your help.”

“Aye. I’ve done all I can tonight for him. Let me see how many of the others I can help, and I’ll come back for the both of you at sunset tomorrow.”

Jonmarc faded in and out of consciousness as Gabriel carried him to the marble slab that was the only resting place in the pilgrim’s chamber. When he was finally able to open his eyes, he saw Gabriel slouched against the wall, seated on the floor of the small room, guarding the door. Gabriel’s cloak was torn and darkened with ichor, the same dark substance that matted the blond hair on one side of his head and that marked a gash across his right cheek. His left hand was blistered and the skin was peeling from a bad burn that extended up his arm where flames had burned away the sleeve of his cloak.

“You actually look worse than I feel,” Jonmarc managed in a whisper.

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t get to you faster. Malesh planned his counterstrike well.”

“How bad was it?”

“Yestin is dead. Laisren will recover, but he had to be carried back to Wolvenskorn. We lost all but a third of our forces.”

“And theirs?”

“Annihilated.”

The enormity of the loss weighed on Jonmarc’s heart. So many destroyed out of what was already a small number of Those Who Walk The Night. But the image that would not leave his memory was of Malesh engulfed in flames. He knew Carina felt Malesh’s torment.

Jonmarc turned his face to the wall and wept silently for her. Istra may have given him no real choice about his service, but Jonmarc grieved for the lost reunion with Carina’s spirit.

And though he knew Carina would never have wanted him to pay so high a price, he ached knowing that it might be years before Istra would let him take the final rest he sought.

Carina stood in front of the large wardrobe in her room at Dark Haven. She fingered the smooth satin of the burgundy wedding dress that should have been hers to wear this day.

The same rich color as the wine and blood for which Dark Haven was best known, it was in the traditional color and style common in Principality. Carina bowed her head and closed her eyes tightly against tears she could not cry. Carefully, she smoothed the dress back into place and closed the armoire doors.