Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) (65 page)

"Fiannuala," she said, her very voice sounding designed to induce lust in others. "So, you have grown up and now you seek me out? How wonderful."

"Shut up," Fiannuala said. "Did you really think that you would ever be safe from me? That I wouldn't come for you?"

"I didn't care if you did," Meinir said. "Oh, I'm sorry, am I supposed to be afraid, of the little crying girl clinging to her mother's skirts? I killed your precious mother with no one to help me, little girl, do you really think you can face me all alone when I am surrounded by friends?"

"Not so alone," Michael declared. "And though I know not what dark arts you used to affect the death of Fiannuala's mother I daresay that they will not avail you in a contest of spears and swords."

"I killed Cerys in single combat, which I won fairly," Meinir said. She stuck out her tongue an extravagantly long way, touching it seductively with her finger as she tilted her head upwards. "The fact that I knew we were going to fight days before and she didn't know until I led her out into the woods and attacked her has nothing to do with it." Meinir chuckled. "You, I take it, are the one my human friends hate so, the one who has cut down so many roses?"

"Aye, a veritable gardener I," Michael said. "So I would not place too much trust in your rebel friends."

 "You're in fitting company Meinir, looks like," Fiannuala said. "Your companions sound almost as vile as you are."

 Meinir laughed again, a sound that was beginning to grate on Michael's ears. "Have we not talked enough, little squirrel? Did you not state your sworn intent to kill me." She swung her staff - straight and heavy, unlike Jason's crook - into a guarding posture, while dryad warriors stepped protectively in front of her. "Come, Fiannuala daughter of Cerys, let me see what time and grief and rage have made of you."

 Fiannuala howled with wordless fury, and like a hyrcanian beast she sprang to the attack, spear drawn back for an impaling thrust, hair wild, eyes lit with a fey light.

 A male dryad, his hair silver and his skin a rich red, barred her way, and he and Fiannuala danced a weaving dance of spears as their lances thwacked and clacked and the two warriors moved almost in rhythm. Fiannuala strove ever to pass her opponent and attack Meinir, while the male dryad moved constantly to bar her way to her. Wyrrin tore into the other dryads, striking with his swords and with his teeth and claws, opening a way for Fiannuala, holding back all who might have interfered in the contest.

Michael longed to join him in aiding Fiannuala, but his battle was where he was, if he did not do something to aid His Highness he might very well fall. So he pressed the attack, driving the dryads before him, cutting them down in their multitudes as though he were some antique hero and this his aristeia, his rampage through the foeman's ranks.

They may possess no skill at arms, but I admire their courage not to flee before me.
That was the one virtue with which he would credit them: they were determined to protect the sorcerer, even at the cost of their own lives.

But their numbers were ever diminishing, and Michael's progress was inexorable, and ere long he had carved his swathe through the servants of Meinir and the path to the enemy sorcerer stood open to him.

Michael charged down the wooden path, his feet making the boards tremble as he bore down upon the dryad, who turned in shock at the sight of a human so close.

Hurriedly, the dryad raised her staff. "Stratos and Thanates defend me, thirteen magical arrows!"

Michael dived for the wooden planks as the arrows erupted from the staff, exploding over his head with a force that pushed him forth but did him no harm save only to warm his back. He rolled to his feet, to find the dryad retreating from him as she prepared to cast another spell, her attention completely on Michael now.

Now is your chance, Your Highness,
Michael thought.
Waste it not.

Idiot.
Michael had created a distraction for him, but it was likely to be a lethal distraction unless Jason did something.

Fortunately he had a way, if only Tullia would forgive him using it.

Jason rested his staff upon the ground and pulled the rod out of his belt, Tullia had never liked him doing this, but she didn't really understand. There was no evil in the act itself, only in the intent behind it. And his intent was pure.

Pointing the rod in front of him, Jason said, "I call upon Riate, Eldest and Highest, King of Heaven and Master of All, stretch forth thy power to aid me and grant me the service of thy warrior, Aggaroth!"

There was a fiery explosion in front of him, and when the fire died a demon stood before him, with leather wings upon his back and a beak like an eagle. Aggaroth's hands ended in sharp claws, he had talons for his feet, and his skin was red and raw as though he had been flayed. The grass turned to ash where he stood upon it, and his eyes were a cold crimson, like old blood. His flesh was all muscle, as far as Jason could see, save where it was covered by scraps of armour. Aggaroth leered at the sight of Jason, but bowed his head and spread his arms wide in submission.

"What is thy bidding, my master?" he asked. "I have missed thee."

Jason ignored the obsequiousness. Aggaroth was the only demon he had ever summoned, and he was aware of his trickery, typical of demon kind. But he was a useful servant, in short bursts.

"Kill that sorcerer," he commanded, gesturing to the dryad up above.

Aggaroth smiled in ugly anticipation. "By your command, master." And he spread his great wings and leapt into the air, rising up to assail the dryad sorcerer with a great screech of hunger and desire.

The dryad turned, using his staff to ward off the demon's claws, and when he did Jason struck. Jason raised his staff, and felt his power gathering within it, his own strength mingling with that of the old gods and connecting him to them through bonds as old as the world itself.

He poured himself into the link, and let the ecstasy of the joining of earth and heaven suffuse him as he did so.

"Strator, Lord of Lightning, and Lady Thanates, Mistress of the Air, hear now the words of your faithful servant and strike down those who would oppose you. With one hundred and thirty three arrows of light!"

He felt a sudden draining sensation as the spell, by far the most powerful battle spell he knew, took effect and a hundred and thirty three magical arrows shot from his staff. Jason felt his strength draining out of him, draining so much that he fell to one knee, but oh the ecstasy remained so that while he was tired he had also never felt more alive.

The arrows flew straight and true, a great mass of magical light powered by Jason's self and the dreams of slumbering gods. It struck the dryad spellcaster, consuming him in a terrific white explosion, which cleared to reveal the rebel slain.

Jason bowed his head, and prayed for the soul of his adversary. He would not take pleasure in his victory.

Aggaroth descended towards him. "You are a cruel master, to rob me of my kill so."

"I will do more than that," Jason said. "By the Eldest and the Highest, by the King and Lord, I banish thee. Return to whence thou came!"

Frustration verging upon rage flickered across Aggaroth's face as the flames consumed him, sending him back to his imprisonment within the Black Abyss.

It was only then that Jason felt the edge of a sword resting just above his neck, cool and sharp, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end.

"Never do that again," Amy snarled, her voice so cold as to send shivers down his spine. "If I had seen you do that before I knew you I would have cut you down by now."

Jason trembled. There was no joviality in her voice, this was not Amy the ambitious warrior, nor Amy who took joy in battle. This was a person of a different stripe. "What have I done?"

"Demon summoning!" Amy yelled. "It's evil! Don't you know that?"

"They are the servants of the Eldest, true, but-"

"The Eldest didn't create the demons, you idiot, don't humans remember anything?" Amy shouted. She put down her sword but grabbed him roughly by the shoulder, pulling him to look into a face suffused with anger. "The Eldest used sorcery to tame and to enslave them, but they are not his children. They do not love him as we naiads love Turo, or the dryads revere Dala. They are his slaves and your slaves and like all slaves they will turn on you the moment they have the chance. They are children to a greater evil by far. Don't do that again, please. Or I will have to kill you, and I don't want to."

Jason saw that she was utterly sincere, and that much as he might not understand this was important to her. "Very well," he said. "Never again."

Except in utmost need.

Fiannuala's spear struck Cadwaldar's with a satisfying thwack, and the princess of Eena grinned. Cadwaladr had been a renowned warrior before he fled with the bitch behind him, but she was better.

He counterattacked, white hair flying behind him, red skin taut, but she blocked all of his blows with ease. She didn't use any of her wood magic, knowing that Meinir's bucellarius didn't possess any. She wouldn't have that bitch say she won by cheating.

The old dryad's breathing was heavy, laboured. Every bout they fought his reactions got a little slower.

"Give up," Fiannuala said. "Throw down your spear and my father will try you fairly. There is no need for you to die for her sake."

Cadwaladr shook his head, near gasping as he did so, "I am bonded to her, princess. There is every need."

Fiannuala scowled. "Then die you shall." Then like like the hurricane that howls through the trees she fell on him and bore him over. His spear shattered as she hammered against it, and he had no defence as she drove her point into his belly.

His body fell from the platform and plunged to the earth. No tree would be planted over the grave of Cadwaldr, traitor and accomplice in the murder of the queen, but his body would dissolve into the soil and nurture the forest that had given him life. It was as good as any dryad could ask for. Better than some deserved.

Fiannuala noticed that Michael had mostly dealt with the rest of Meinir's warriors, those that remained had too much to worry about with him bearing down on them to come to the defence of their mistress. This was between her and Meinir now, as it was meant to be.

Meinir regarded Fiannuala, standing over Cadwaladr's body with her spear dripping with blood, disdainfully. "So he lost. I knew that he was getting weaker in his old age."

Fiannuala scowled. "Don't you care about the lives of your own servants, even?"

"How very sententious you've become," Meinir laughed, preening her hair. "He was privileged while he lived to serve me, Meinir, greatest and most beautiful of dryads. He should have been willing to kill and die for that reason alone. Certainly it should have been enough to make him die with a smile on his face." She yawned. "Ah, but this conversation bores me. Goodbye, Fiannuala." And with that she turned and ran, leaving her surviving bodyguards to hold Fiannuala off while she sprinted for the nearest ladder down from the trees.

"Coward!" Fiannuala yelled, skewering a bodyguard on her spear. Wyrrin leapt over her shoulder, landing on another of Meinir's hapless warriors and slaying him with those scything claws of his.

"Go on," Wyrrin yelled. "I will fight this battle."

And so Fiannuala ran after Meinir while Wyrrin dealt with her remaining followers. She could see Michael, his own battle won, closing in on Meinir from the other side, and Tullia was with him too.

"She's mine!" Fiannuala screamed, she could not have borne it if any had avenged her mother instead of her.

Meinir pointed her staff at Michael and Tullia. "Eldest and Highest, hear my call! Send me forth my servants: Baruel and Bellach!"

The air in front of Michael and Tullia exploded, and when the flames dispersed two demons barred their way: a warrior, carrying a black sword and clad in armour of scraps and scales and chitin, and a captain clad from head to toe in black armour, covered in spikes and wielding a great axe in his hands.

"Do you need help?" Fiannuala called.

Michael looked mildly insulted. "Avenge your mother, Your Highness."

Fiannuala nodded, and when Meinir leapt from the trees to the ground below, Fiannuala leapt after her.

"You think yourself angry?" Bellach asked as he advanced on Michael, swinging his black sword lazily. "You think that you have cause for rage? I can feel it boiling off you, but your anger is nothing compared to mine. You cannot hope to match my fury."

"Is that so?" Michael asked quietly.

Bellach laughed. He had an ugly face, a cruel face, a leer permanently upon those features devoid of skin, covered only in bloody flesh that looked as though it had been seared like meat. His footprints upon the wood were of ash, and smoke rose from his body. "I have been bound in the Black Abyss for thousands of years, burning in the fires of eternal torment. I have been slave to gods and mortals alike. What rage have you compared to mine?"

He attacked, swinging his black sword wildly but with great ferocity. Michael gave ground before him, retreating, staying out of reach of the blade, waiting for the abomination to overreach himself. When he did - raising his sword above his head as Amy had during their sparring session - Michael dove under his guard and sank Duty point first under the demon's armpit.