Master of Swords (19 page)

“What's the matter, honey?”

“Diera's dead!” She threw herself into his arms and began to sob.

“Ahhh, honey,” the old man said, and stroked her hair, crooning to her as she cried.

Aching to comfort her himself, Gawain instead stepped back to give them privacy. His own eyes stinging, he watched as her grandfather rocked her in his arms.

The following night

Sweat rolled down
Richard's naked chest, burning the cuts that marked his flesh. He barely noticed, intent on watching the dragon use a single claw to trace glowing runes into the magical shield that covered him. The pain of sweat salt in his wounds was nothing compared to the sensation of that claw biting deep, carving the intricate pattern of protection directly into the flesh.

Intricate, bloody shapes now covered every inch of his body. Whenever he looked at them, they seemed to writhe. Carving them had taken endless hours of torment.

Richard had the distinct impression the dragon had enjoyed each second of his pain.

Sadistic fuck.

The two of them had worked for two days to create the spell. It was the most complex piece of sorcery Richard had ever participated in, since it was designed to protect him from the grail's destruction, collect the energies liberated in the process, and funnel them into him.

If it failed, he'd be incinerated.

Through the glowing shield, Richard met the dragon's crimson eyes. Yet again, a thought gnawed at his confidence, the same one that had circled his mind through the agonizing process of cutting the runes:
What if he's playing me for a fool? What if he intends to simply destroy us all
?

It was certainly possible. Yet despite Richard's paranoia, he sensed that the dragon hungered for the Magekind's destruction as much as he did. He had no idea why, and in truth, he didn't much care. All that mattered was that the spell work.

“It's done.” At last the dragon moved back from the shield and tilted its head, studying the glowing hemisphere. A third set of runes had been carved into the floor of the cavern, forming the circle Richard sat within.

All that work had made him feel better about the process. Surely the dragon wouldn't have spent so many hours creating the patterns if it had only been playing some kind of sadistic game.

“Are you ready, ape?”

Richard was getting royally sick of being called an ape, but he wasn't about to protest now. “I'm ready.”

The massive head nodded. “Good.” Huge jaws opened, and the creature breathed. Magic rolled from its mouth, forming a dimensional gateway directly over him and the protection spell.

But this was a gateway unlike any Richard had ever seen. It formed a spiraling shape that reminded him of a huge funnel, the spout of which was pointed down at his head. Looking up into the unearthy green swirl, he swallowed.

Then the dragon turned to lift the black grail from where it sat by its side. Balancing the cup on its reptilian palm, it closed its crimson eyes and began to chant.

And the grail began to glow.

Richard's heart started pounding. With each rolling syllable, the cup glowed a little brighter, the light intensifying. First like a stoked bonfire, then a white-hot molten blaze that built steadily into a searing blue-white that made his eyes ache and tear.

Just as he thought he couldn't bear to look at it any longer, the grail exploded. Richard gasped and flinched, but instead of engulfing him as he half expected, the fireball of sparks was sucked upward, flying into the energy funnel like flames up a chimney.

An instant later, the screams began.

He heard them not with his ears but deep in the center of his being, as if his very psyche vibrated to the sound of those mental shrieks.

His cup-mates were dying.

Two minutes earler

Desperation sat like
lead in Lark's belly as she scanned the ring of hostile fanged faces that jostled around her, murder in their eyes. Her fear was only slightly relieved by the solid male presence of Gawain at her back, swinging Kel in great glittering arcs as he fought the sorcerers that had them surrounded. To her left, Caroline and Galahad fought back to back, just as Lark and Gawain did. It was the only way to avoid being overrun.

They'd gated in to the cultists' underground temple fifteen minutes ago after Caroline had a vision of its location. Buried deep under the city of Miami, the temple had been magically constructed of bloodred marble and entirely too much gold leaf. Gawain had taken one look and pronounced it a cross between a whorehouse and a mausoleum.

God knew it smelled like there was something dead around there somewhere. The stench of death magic rode the air in a nauseating fog.

A spell sizzled against Lark's shield. Grimly, she shot back with a blast of her own, simultaneously parrying a sword stroke one of the sorcerers aimed at her head.

“You know, Caroline, you might have mentioned there were thirty of these bastards in the nest—before we gated right in the middle of them!” Gawain yelled over the din of screaming voices and hissing fireballs.

“Sorry!” Caroline called back as she battled at her husband's side. “My vision said they had a nest here, not how many of them were in it.”

“Maybe we should have checked on little details like that before making the jump.” Galahad beheaded a shrieking vampire in mid-lunge. “I'm beginning to feel like Custer at the Little Big Horn.”

Lark wasn't feeling all that optimistic herself. She and Kel had formed a joint spell shield, yet it was still all they could do to repel the constant rain of attacks.

Something flashed overhead, so bright and blinding she instinctively ducked, throwing a quick glance at the marble ceiling. Sparks flurried downward, swirling like a blizzard. “Oh, hell!” Lark gasped as they began to drift over the barrier spell she'd created with Kel. “What
is
that?”

To her horror, the flecks of light cut right through the joint shield like tiny razors. Gawain cursed. “Damned if I know. Kel?”

“Death magic,” the dragon said grimly.

“I figured. Ow!” Lark flinched as the sparks sank through her armor, only to straighten in surprise. They felt oddly cool as they struck her skin, like snowflakes. “Now,
that
was unexpected.”

A sorcerer screamed, a howl of abject terror.

Lark jerked around, her heart in her throat, as a cultist fell back, a swarm of sparks whirling around him like attacking bees. He screamed as they blazed brighter, eating right through the enchanted plate of his armor. A moment later, his bellow spiraled into a shriek of true agony.

“No!” another sorcerer cried. “It's the grail!”

Lark blinked. “What, again?”

As the Magekind stared around in confusion, the cultists fell, writhing, their bodies catching fire under the pelting rain of light. The stench intensified until Lark gagged. Even Gawain coughed.

Until, with a final chorus of screams, the sorcerers dissolved in a collective shower of sparks that rushed upward as though caught in a whirlwind. As Lark watched in wide-eyed awe, the whirlwind vanished into the temple's marble ceiling with a final singing hiss.

The marble ceiling instantly began to glow a sinister red.

“Shit!” Galahad gasped. “The temple's going!”

And since the temple was a hundred feet underground…

“Run!” Kel roared, pouring energy from his metallic length to swirl into a dimensional gate big enough for all four of them to leap through at once. Blessing the dragon's quick thinking, Lark dove.

She hit the ground rolling. Gawain landed on top of her, shielding her with his body as dust and bits of rock blew through the gateway, pattering against their armor to the grate and rumble of imploding stone.

A fraction of a second later and they'd have been trapped in the collapse.

Heart in her throat, Lark looked around for her friends. Caroline's gaze met hers through the slit in her visor, eyes wide as she clung to her husband's armored shoulders.

Thank God.
Lark blew out a breath in relief.

“You know,” Gawain said in her ear, “if somebody was going to destroy that last grail, the least they could have done is warn us.”

“Does this mean it's over?” Caroline asked as Galahad rolled to his feet and reached down a hand to help her up.

The two knights looked at each other. “Merlin's beard, I hope so,” Galahad said fervently.

Lark frowned as she and Gawain stood and brushed themselves off. “Why do I have the nagging feeling that something's wrong with this picture?”

Gawain snorted. “Because you're justifiably paranoid.”

“Or maybe you're just a worrywart.” Caroline grinned at them like a fool. “Some Maja got lucky and found the grail, and she just didn't wait for permission to blow it all to hell.”

Lark met Gawain's uneasy gaze. “Let's hope so.”

Kel grunted. “Sure didn't smell like Mageverse magic to me.”

 

The ape was
howling.

Despite himself, Tegid took a step back. Just as they'd intended, the raw energy of the sorcerers' destruction had roared into the collection spell, then poured down through the shield that covered the creature.

Now the hemisphere was one solid, roiling mass of fire. Somewhere in the middle of it all the ape screamed in howl after high-pitched howl of agony, as fast as it could draw breath.

Tegid frowned. Had he miscalculated? He thought he'd taken all the elements into account…

Abruptly the fire died and the screaming stopped. Even the glowing runes winked out. The shield collapsed, leaving the cavern in comparative darkness.

Slowly, Tegid's eyes adjusted until he could make out the ape lying motionless in the center of the circle of runes on the floor.

The creature looked…odd. There was something wrong with its head. And its flesh was a deep, dark red, as if it had been burned.

It moved.

Power.

Tegid took a hasty step back as the sensation of raw magic suddenly rolled off the ape's body. The stench of death flooded the room in a cloud rank enough to make even the dragon gag.

As his gorge heaved, the thing groaned and got to its hands and knees. Slowly, it pushed itself upright and rose to its feet.

Tegid blinked in astonishment. It looked…bigger. Much bigger. And it had horns. Curling horns that extended from either side of its head. What's more, the ape's red color wasn't a product of burns after all, not as deep and even as it was. The ape's skin had turned crimson, though the runes Tegid cut into it still marked its skin in black, seared lines.

Cachamwri's Breath,
Tegid realized, suddenly recognizing the ape's horns and alien coloring.
It looks like a Dark One.

The thing opened eyes that glowed a bright and reptilian red. “Oh,” it said in a sinister rumble, “that's
much
better.”

Lark listened from
the audience as Reece Champion and his wife, Erin, made their report to the High Council.

“I'd just thrown an energy blast when the sorcerer screamed and disintergrated,” Erin said. “For a moment, I thought I'd done it, but then I realized my spell wouldn't have had that effect.”

“My FBI contacts have reported the same thing,” Reece agreed. “They're getting calls from across the country of people exploding.” He grimaced. “The press is all over the story, entertaining whatever wild speculation anybody cares to spin. The current theory is that it's some kind of new terrorist superweapon.”

Arthur snorted. “They'll get over it. In a year, these
disappearances
will be featured on some program about UFOs.” He grinned at Guinivere. “How many of those have we been on now?”

“At least four,” she said dryly.

Morgana frowned, obviously in no mood to join the rising tide of relieved joy. “The question is, who did it? Everybody's reported in now, and it wasn't any of us. Soren said it wasn't him either.”

“And Llyr swears none of his people was involved,” Guinevere agreed, looking no happier. “It couldn't have been one of the werewolves, because they don't work magic.” The Magekind had been stunned to discover several weeks ago that Merlin had created a race of werewolves to keep an eye on the Magekind. They'd been living undetected among the mortals for hundreds of years, guarding the secret of their existence ferociously.

“Maybe one of the sorcerers did it accidently,” Gawain suggested. “Tried some kind of spell and blew himself right to hell, along with all his little vampire friends.”

Next to Lark, Caroline murmured, “Let's hear it for stupidity.”

Morgana frowned uneasily. “That seems a little too easy, don't you think?”

Caroline leaned closer to Lark's ear. “Yeah, here we were all set for another battle to the death, and the bad guys went and spontaneously died on us. Doesn't that just suck?”

Lark snorted. “Yeah, tacky of them.”

Noticing she'd drawn Morgana's icy gaze, she sank down in her seat. Pissing off the witch was never a good idea.

Bors spoke suddenly from the audience. “What about Richard? Did anyone see my son die?”

Arthur's gaze softened. “No, but if the others are gone, he would be, too.”

The knight frowned, his expression caught between pain and hope. “What if he shielded himself somehow?”

Morgana and Guinevere exchanged a glance. “I suppose it's possible, but I doubt seriously he'd have that kind of power,” Gwen said. “I detonated a grail myself a few days ago. Those things generate an astonishing amount of magical force. I just don't think he'd be able to shield himself against something like that. And he'd have had to know it was coming.”

“What if
he
worked the spell with the help of this dragon of his? If his ally shielded him…”

Guinevere and Morgana exchanged another long look. “The thought has crossed my mind,” Morgana admitted. “It's certainly worth looking into, but I'm just not sure why he'd do something like that. What would it gain him?”

A muscle worked in Bors's jaw. “Why did he murder Diera and Antonio? Power.”

Arthur shook his head. “It would make more sense to simply unite all those sorcerers under his leadership. They'd be able to do more damage collectively than he could with whatever magic he collected from their murders. Even Geirolf, for all his alien power, wanted an army.”

Bors considered the idea, his face working with emotions so complex Lark couldn't even read them. “So you think he's dead.”

Guinevere studied him, quiet compassion in her eyes. “Yes, Bors, I do.”

“I agree,” Morgana said crisply. “We'll investigate further, but the odds would seem to favor it.”

Bors did not look comforted.

Arthur sat back in his seat with a huff of relief. “If that's the case, this mess is over.” A grin slowly spread across his bearded face, white and blinding. “I think it's time for a party.”

 

Tegid watched nervously
as the horned ape strode around his chambers. The creature had definitely grown, and not just in size. Magic radiated off it like heat from flowing lava.

Tegid had the uncomfortable suspicion it was now more powerful than he was.
What have I done?

“Perhaps you should leave before my people detect you,” he suggested.

That was all Tegid needed—for Soren or one of his other rivals to sense the power this creature radiated and come to investigate.

The ape made a dismissive gesture. “I've shielded this chamber. No one can sense anything beyond it. As to leaving, I see no reason to spend power on wards when yours are so strong. And there are all those lovely dragon diplomatic and political forces to keep the Magekind at bay.” He grinned suddenly, baring teeth that looked very white against his crimson face. “Besides, by now they'll have realized the other cultists are dead, and they'll assume I am, too. They'll drop their guard, and it will be that much easier to take Arthur.”

Tegid drew himself up to his full height and glowered down at the ape. “I do not want that spell worked in my chambers. My people will smell death magic, and they'll know I was involved.”

The ape regarded him, horned head tilted. “Why would they care? Oh, I'm sure they'll make all the appropriate sounds of outrage, but secretly, they'll be as delighted to be rid of Avalon as you are. In the long run, it will probably prove to be a political benefit.”

Tegid lashed his tail nervously. “Not if I'm a party to working death magic.”

“Spray a little air freshener. No one'll know the difference.”

Dismayed, Tegid watched the creature pace. It was mad. Yet if he tried to kill it…. Well, there was no guarantee he'd win, was there? Not considering the thing's raw power. It not only looked like a Dark One, it felt like one, too.

Better to wait, he decided. An opportunity might present itself to eliminate the ape with minimal danger to himself.

 

“
Am I the
only one with the nagging feeling that this was all a little too easy?” Lark called over the skirl and thump of an enthusiastic Magekind band.

Gawain snorted. “You call
that
easy?”

She thought of Diera. “God, no. Still, it's hard to believe Edge just lay down and died without one of us chasing him down and sticking a sword in him. Repeatedly.”

“I was kind of looking forward to it myself,” Gawain admitted. “But at least we didn't lose any more people.”

“Good point.” Lark looked around the central square, which was packed with partying, tipsy Magekind. The main fountain bubbled with something amber and alcoholic—a medieval punch that kicked like a mule. Even the vampires were drinking it, though most of them looked as if they were more interested in diluting it with a little Maja first. Almost everybody was either paired off or visibly on the prowl for someone to pair off with.

And they were all dressed for it, too, in jeans, short skirts, and T-shirts, or for the more self-consciously sexy, snug black leather. That included a large number of Sidhe guests and several intimidated-looking mortals—actually werewolves who'd been invited to the party.

“I hope we've seen the last of the full court garb for a while,” Lark said. “Velvet makes me itch. And I'm really sick of funerals.”

“A wedding or two would be nice, though.” Caroline slipped up behind Lark and slung an arm around her neck. She gave them both a tipsy smile as Galahad joined them. “How about it, guys?”

Lark shot Gawain a wary glance, but his face showed none of the panic she'd half expected at the suggestion. Instead, he looked…oddly thoughtful.

Her heart began to pound.

But before she could try to decide what he was thinking, the Magekind musicians segued off into a familiar tune. Bors stepped into the center of the square and lifted both hands, one holding his sword. “Blade dance! Come on, fellow knights—let's give the ladies a show!” His eyes were a bit too bright, his grin slightly too wide. When the others hesitated, he brandished the weapon. “Come on, come on! We have a lot to celebrate! A great evil is dead!”

“Excuse me,” Gawain said, a hint of a frown between his brows as he stared at his fellow knight. “I'd better join him before he falls on that sword.” His voice dropped to a mutter. “Possibly on purpose.”

“I'll go with you,” Galahad told him. The two men started threading their way through the crowd.

Bors had spotted Arthur and was dragging him out of the crowd. Laughing, the group drew back to give them room.

“That man is potted,” Caroline announced, watching them.

Lark shot her a look. “So are you.”

“I'm entitled.”

Lark looked at Bors, taking in the strain on his face that neither joking nor alcohol could fully relax. “So is he.”

The knights of the Round Table formed a laughing, clapping semicircle, catcalling and taunting each other. They were the elite warriors of the Magekind, the oldest and most skilled of the vampires.

Looking at all twelve together, Lark felt almost overwhelmed by the solid weight of legend: Arthur, Lancelot, Galahad, Bors, Gawain, Tristan, Percival, Marrok, Kay, Cador, Lamorak, and Badulf. They weren't all conventionally handsome—Kay in particular had just a touch of thug to him—but they were all muscular and athletic, radiating a kind of raw masculinity that would make any woman's libido hum.

Then, one by one, they stepped to the center of the half-circle and began to dance as the crowd stood back to watch.

Being men, they turned it into a contest—vying against each other in blurring swordplay and stomping, dazzling footwork, leaping and spinning to the sprightly music of drums, fiddles, and flutes. Some of the single men pulled their shirts off, apparently to ensure the Majae got a good look.

“I'm hot!” Badulf explained over the catcalls of his brother knights.

“You certainly are!” a Maja called back.

He tossed her his shirt. She caught it, grinning like a woman who'd just captured something a lot more interesting than a little sweaty cotton.

Lark hooted and clapped as Badulf began to dance in a blatant bump and grind.

“Hell of a show, huh?” Caroline yelled over the crowd noise, appearing at her side with two cups of that deadly Mageverse punch. She handed Lark one and took a drink of her own.

Lark was just tilting her cup up when Tristan swaggered into the center of the circle, pulling off his shirt. She choked. “Ack! Noooo!” Slapping her free hand over her eyes, she spun around as Caroline hooted at her. “Tell me when it's over!”

“Oh, come on, Lark! Tristan's a stud.”

“Shut. Up!”

“Man, look at those abs.”

“You're married!”

“But I'm not blind. Oooo!
Nice
move.”

“That's my great-grandfather you're lusting after, you perv!”

“Yeah, but you've gotta admit, he's extreeeemely well-preserved.”

Lark shuddered. “Just tell me when it's over.”

Five interminable minutes later, Caroline, giggling like a hyena, told her it was safe to turn around.

Arthur had stepped into the center of the group. Lark settled back to watch, sipping her concoction.

He wasn't the handsomest of the knights—that was Tristan, much as she hated to admit it—nor was he particularly tall, though he was solidly muscled. But there was something about him that riveted the eye, something he seemed to radiate like his own kind of magic. Looking at him, Lark suddenly saw why his knights were willing to follow him without question, despite his sometimes spectacular temper. He might hold an elected position on the High Council now, but he was still king. And he always would be.

Then he began to move, slowly at first, a slight smile quirking his dark beard as he rolled his narrow hips. Almost lazily, he whirled Excalibur, first simply by rotating his wrist so the great sword described a glittering circle. Then he tucked his left arm in close and broadened the movement so the blade spun around him in a blur of light. His feet moved faster and faster, heels clicking on the cobblestones. Lark grinned, realizing he was wearing cowboy boots. As the drums beat faster, he segued into more complex sword work, as though fighting imaginary enemies, powerful shoulders flexing under the thin black fabric of his T-shirt.

“You know, Arthur is really sexy.” Caroline said in her ear, sounding increasingly tipsy after all that lethal punch.

Lark shook her head. “You really are a perv.”

“Oh, God, you're right.” Caroline's eyes widened in horror. “I'm lusting for King Arthur. Is that, like, blasphemy or something? I'm going to hell, aren't I?”

“Hey, Arthur!” Galahad promptly called. “My wife thinks you're hot!”

Arthur stopped dancing to throw his head back in a roar of laughter.

From somewhere in the crowd, Guinevere yelled, “Keep your distance, wench!”

“Oh, God,” Caroline moaned, covering her face with both hands. “Just kill me now. Please.”

Lark grinned, watching Arthur walk over to Galahad and slap him on the back as the two laughed. “Don't sweat it, Caro. I think he's flattered.”

She parted her fingers, revealing glittering dark eyes. “I'm going to kill my husband. I'm going to turn him into a frog. Better yet, something without a dick. Do frogs have dicks?”

Biting her lip to suppress her hoot of laughter, Lark managed, “I have no idea.”

“Don't you ‘Now, Caroline' me!” her friend called across the crowd, apparently reacting to something Galahad had said in their Truebond link. “Keep it up, Kermit, and you'll be guest of honor on a plate of frog legs.”

Lark wrinkled her nose. “Ewww.”