Seeds of Rebellion (61 page)

It was a hypnotizing dance. Rachel had never imagined such concise and deadly motion, such calm focus amid turmoil. Neither had Galloran’s enemies. All who drew near were slain with ruthless efficiency. No armor could slow the gleaming blade. Helmets parted. Chain mail was pierced. Galloran never paused. Every moment of combat seemed choreographed in his favor. And he was not alone.

Dorsio burst through the door with a crossbow in each hand, just after Galloran drew his sword. The nimble bodyguard produced a second pair of smaller crossbows after dropping guards near the prisoners. Once those quarrels had been launched, he went to work near Galloran, a knife in each hand. Whenever he threw one, a replacement instantly materialized, pulled from within his cloak.

When a seedman burst through a nearby window, Rachel thought it was Lodan at first. After a moment, she recognized that it was Jasher, looking much younger than she remembered. He didn’t enter with crossbows.

He brought orantium.

Jasher hurled the first sphere across the room to a corner where a group of soldiers had previously stood huddled in conversation. They now had weapons out, but seemed uncertain about where to employ them. The mineral gleamed a blinding white before a deafening explosion thundered through the room. Soldiers took flight, splintered chairs and tables filled the air, and heat washed over Rachel.

The second sphere landed near the bar with similar results. Other explosions boomed upstairs and outside, accompanied by hoarse shouts and the shattering of glass.

Guards who had been initially frozen with disbelief now seemed overwhelmed by the sudden devastation. Swords were raised uncertainly as confused soldiers sought to assess the greatest threat. To an extent their numbers worked against them. Most men seemed to expect another to solve the problem, but nobody was getting the job done. Those who rushed Galloran were cut down by an expertise that rendered their best efforts woefully incompetent. Those who hung back or sought cover became targets for orantium. Jasher seemed to have an endless supply.

The same initial shock that had temporarily incapacitated many of the guards had also frozen Rachel. She suddenly noticed that her companions were huddling together, trying to keep out of the way. Corinne had knocked over a long table that offered some shelter. Rachel mouthed some words against her gag, speaking more with her mind than her voice. The command tipped four tables and dragged them into position to form a crude fort around the bound captives.

Nedwin vaulted down the stairs, a long knife in one hand, a sphere of orantium in the other. Apparently he had been responsible for the repeated explosions above. A gash on his forehead sheeted his face with blood, but his eyes were alert. He threw the
orantium sphere and raced to the fort of tables, deftly cutting his way past a pair of conscriptors to get there.

He went straight to Rachel, parting her gag without slicing her skin, then freeing her wrists with a second quick movement. He moved to Drake next. Rachel dimly realized she had been freed first because Nedwin felt she could make the biggest difference.

She scanned the room. By necessity, Jasher was now defending himself with his sword rather than hurling orantium. She had seen him fight before, and he had seemed incredible, and he was fighting well today, but compared to Galloran he appeared inefficient. Three guards had taken up a position behind the bar and were getting ready to use their crossbows. A sharp command from Rachel brought one of the huge mirrors down on top of them.

On the other side of the room, not far from the entrance, many of the remaining soldiers were pressing toward Galloran and Dorsio. Galloran fought with the same skill and exuberance as when he had first entered the room, but Dorsio had an arrow in his back and a gruesome wound in his side. As he stood between Galloran and two enemies, Rachel watched a sword skewer the silent bodyguard.

Fury flooded through her, and with a shouted command, a nearby table flipped sideways and rammed the two assailants into the wall. With a fresh Edomic command she set the entire table aflame and then sent it hurtling across the room, crashing against soldiers like a demonic bulldozer.

Rachel felt a thrill as the ambitious commands worked, but the exertion left her feeling like she had sprinted a mile uphill. She fell to one knee and tried to stay conscious.

The flaming table had helped break the soldiers. Drake had joined the fight now, and Tark, Farfalee, Jason, Io, and Aram seized weapons from fallen enemies as soon as Nedwin cut them free. The
soldiers were no longer trying to win. They were trying to escape.

Rachel crouched behind an overturned table, trying to get her breath back, trying to stop the room from spinning, hoping that some scurrying soldier wouldn’t stumble across her in this weakened state. She smelled burning wood. She was unsure how much time had passed when Nedwin helped her to her feet, the wound on his forehead bound with her former gag. She began to cough. Smoke billowed everywhere. The inn was on fire. Nedwin hurriedly escorted her to the road. Most of the others were already outside.

Drake and Ferrin exited the inn, their swords to the backs of Conrad and Torvic. A few other soldiers, who had apparently surrendered, knelt in the street, minded by Tark, Jasher, and Farfalee. Rachel overheard Drake telling Nedwin that he had found Ferrin in the storeroom, restraining Conrad with his arms and Torvic with his legs. Ferrin explained that he had quietly unbound himself inside the sack and then attacked his interviewers when he heard the commotion. Drake took Kerick’s seed from Conrad.

Galloran strode out of the inn, cradling Dorsio in his arms. He laid the lifeless body gently on the street. It was still morning. Flames leaped from several of the upper windows of the inn. Smoke leaked into the otherwise clear sky.

Galloran came to stand before the new prisoners, regarding them stormily. Rachel realized that the mismatched eyes had been a deliberate insult. The glaring discrepancy emphasized that his vision had been restored by displacers. “Do you surrender to us?” Galloran asked.

The prisoners responded in the affirmative. Except for Conrad.

“I will not surrender,” Conrad said stiffly. “I was disgracefully withheld from combat. It was my right to face my adversaries. I must have satisfaction.”

“Let me,” Drake said.

“Galloran,” Conrad demanded. “I challenge Galloran to a duel.”

“Swords?” Galloran asked.

“Naturally.”

“Now?”

“Immediately,” Conrad responded.

“Very well,” Galloran said.

“No!” Farfalee protested.

“He’s not a duke anymore,” Jason complained.

“He has a reputation with a sword,” Ferrin warned.

“Let me have him,” Jasher begged.

“He accepted,” Conrad insisted.

“I did,” Galloran said. “Arm him.”

“I have his sword,” Ferrin said. Galloran nodded, and Ferrin reluctantly handed the weapon to Conrad.

“If I best you, I go free,” Conrad stipulated.

“Agreed,” Galloran said. “You lost a duel to Lord Jason. He left you with your life. I will show no such kindness.”

“I have won eleven mortal duels,” Conrad said. “The one I lost was a farce fought with billiard balls. I have heard tales of your prowess with a blade. In my experience, most tales grow with the telling.”

Rachel overheard Jason murmuring to Jasher. “Conrad hasn’t seen him fight.”

Galloran backed away into the street, and Conrad stepped toward him. Galloran drew his sword.

“A remarkable blade,” Conrad conceded.

“Begin?” Galloran asked.

“Begin.” Conrad edged forward, sword ready.

Their blades touched twice before Conrad was impaled. Galloran withdrew his sword and wiped it clean while Conrad
expired in the road, a stain spreading across his white uniform. Rachel could not suppress a quick, involuntary laugh of relief. She heard beams collapsing inside the inn. Sparks gusted from some of the windows.

Then Galloran became very still. He slowly turned to look down the road. Rachel felt no premonition of her own, but the expression on Galloran’s face gave her chills. She followed his gaze. A figure was approaching, still a long distance away. A black silhouette bearing a shining sword in each hand. A living shadow defying the morning light. A torivor.

“This adversary has come for me,” Galloran said, his voice heavy and resigned. “I believe it followed me from Felrook. I did not know it had brought swords. Keep back. Unless you attack, it can only claim one victim like this. If I fall, proceed to the Temple of Mianamon with haste.”

They watched in silence as the torivor drew near. It did not hurry. The swords it carried matched Galloran’s perfectly, superbly crafted, chromium bright.

“We do not have to cross swords!” Galloran called throatily. “I have no quarrel with your kind. Depart in peace.”

The lurker showed no indication of having heard. The steady tread did not falter until the creature stopped ten paces from Galloran. The torivor tossed one of the swords. Galloran caught it by the hilt. He now held an identical sword in each hand.

“Very well,” Galloran said, perhaps answering words the others could not hear. Rachel could vaguely sense communication. She strained her mind to understand, but could catch nothing. She fingered the necklace the charm woman had given her, realizing that it must be causing interference.

Galloran waited placidly. The lurker stood still as well. Until it rushed forward with otherworldly speed and its sword scythed
outward in a hissing arc. Galloran narrowly blocked the attack, and the next stroke, and the next.

The blades did not clash or clang as they connected—they chimed musically, beautifully, like a battle fought with expensive tuning forks. Rachel could almost feel the vibrations.

It did not take Rachel long to see that Galloran would lose this fight. The torivor was clearly quicker and stronger. Only by moving with flawless economy was Galloran able to deflect the relentless blows. Rachel suddenly understood where Galloran had learned to fight so efficiently. It was the only way he could have previously survived combat with an opponent such as this.

Rachel held her breath. Any moment Galloran would make a tiny mistake and lose his life. Even with two swords—one used primarily to protect himself, the other to attack—he was only barely staying ahead of the lurker. No thrust or slash from Galloran came close to touching the tenebrous surface of the torivor. The only question seemed to be how long Galloran would last.

The blades flashed in the sunlight. Heat radiated from the burning inn. Galloran slowly retreated, his breathing becoming labored. Any moment the torivor’s sword would slip past his defenses. Except it didn’t.

Rachel had never envisioned such virtuosity with a weapon. It was like watching a concert pianist play an impossible piece of music, fingers flying to strike mind-boggling patterns of notes and to pound sprawling chords. No, it was more than that. It was like watching that pianist play an impossible piece with dynamite strapped to his back, rigged to detonate if he touched a wrong note.

The frantic blur of motion was almost too quick to follow. Before Rachel could feel nervous about any particular blow, it had been blocked, a counterstroke had been parried, and the blades chimed on.

Galloran was no longer giving ground. The combatants slowly circled each other, swords ringing relentlessly. Galloran looked determined, his eyes fierce with concentration. The lurker fell into a pattern of swinging high, forcing Galloran to defend his head, then lashing out with a shadowy leg to kick Galloran in the side.

A blade blurred down and took the black leg off just below the knee. The severed portion disappeared with a brilliant flash. Whiteness gleamed from the stump, as if the torivor were bleeding light. The fight continued, with the torivor clearly wavering. A moment later, Galloran cast aside one of his swords.

Single sword against single sword, the blades met over and over. Perfectly balanced on its remaining leg, the torivor was now defending as often as attacking. Galloran’s face was red and perspiring. They seemed to be standing too close together. And then Galloran’s blade sliced through the torivor’s midsection, and the creature vanished with a blinding flash.

As Rachel blinked away the dazzling afterimage, she saw Galloran stagger back and drop to his knees. He bowed his head forward, hands on his thighs. Had he been wounded at the end? Had she missed it?

Nedwin hurried forward and helped Galloran to his feet.

“I’m not as young as I once was,” Galloran muttered, wiping a sleeve against his glossy forehead. “I am thankful that the fiend grew impatient and tried that kick.”

“That was unbelievable,” Ferrin mumbled humbly to no one in particular. “I’ve never … if I hadn’t seen …”

“I’ve lived a long time,” Jasher told him. “Nobody handles a sword like Galloran.”

“You mean to defy me,” Torvic said flatly, the comment unsolicited. The words did not belong to Torvic. Everyone looked his way. The displacer sat with his legs crossed, staring blandly.

Galloran faced Torvic, still panting. He was uninjured, but clearly exhausted. “You offered the eyes long ago. I finally came to claim them. I pledged no fealty.”

“After all the futile suffering, after all the fruitless effort, after the countless disgraced followers, you persist in returning to your folly. I can see through those eyes, Galloran. You are mine. I will watch your every move.”