The Rival (65 page)

"Get back," Con said.  "Get back now or I'll hurt you all."

A Fey was behind him, grabbing at his robe.  Con whirled, nearly lost his balance, and stabbed at the Fey with his sword.  The sword sliced through the Fey's arm at the elbow.  The Fey clutched at the stump but did not scream.

A second Fey pulled him back, then snuck close to Con and grabbed the rest of the hand.  Con watched, as appalled at it all as the Fey seemed to be.

He was vulnerable only if they took the sword.  The sword seemed to have powers of its own.

He slammed his back against the stone wall.  Now he could hold them all off.

But they weren't coming forward. They were staring at him as if he weren't human, as if he were something more than they were.

The second Fey drew his own sword and swung it toward Con.  Con parried.  The force of his blade against the other shattered the first.  Metal clanged on the floor, and one piece splashed in the blood.

He wasn't even breathing hard.  It had taken no effort to kill three Fey, seriously wound another, and destroy the fifth's weapon.  Was this the power of a Charge?  Was this why there were so few given?

Or was it the sword?

It seemed like the sword.

The two Fey who were left stared at him across the tangle of bodies.  Fey faces, long, angular, narrow, male and female, were gap-mouthed with surprise.  But six other Fey were running toward them from the corridor.  They stopped when they saw the carnage.  Half had swords.  The others had those fingers with the long nails.  Foot Soldiers, the ones who could slice off skin with a single touch.

He could hold them off, but he didn't know how long.  The Fey had countless magicks.  Sooner or later they'd figure out a way to get him.  They would turn into something small and attack from above, or send a bolt of light at him or kill him with a thought.  He didn't know how many of those things they were capable of, or even what they were capable of.  He only knew that they would win.  It was inevitable.  One man couldn't win against hundreds.

Could he?

With God on his side?

They were watching him, staring at him, thinking as quickly as he was.  A woman in the back moved and he brandished his sword. 

"Don't move," he said, "Or I'll kill you all."

She stopped.  Her eyes were big and brown.  They caught the light, and seemed to reflect fear back at him.

"Tell me where my king is," he said.

No one answered. They were still watching him like he was a crazy man. 

He had to use that fear.

He stepped forward, nearly slipping in the blood.

"Tell me!"

"In there," a man said in accented Islander, and pointed toward the corridor.

"Where all the others are?" Con asked.

"Yes," the man said.  "In the Audience Room."

Con should have known where that was, but he didn't.  He didn't know any of this, except that there were eight Fey in this room, with the possibility of more all the time, and more than twenty Fey in the corridor beyond.

He could kill three with one stroke, but that might not be enough, especially with no one to watch his back.

But they didn't have to know that.  They had no more idea than he did what he  —  or the sword  —  was capable of.

He muttered a silent prayer.  If God helped him through this, he would devote the rest of his life to God's service.

"You get my king and you bring him here," Con said.

"We can't do that," the man said.  "He's with the Black King."

"I don't care who he's with," Con said.  "Bring him here, or I'll destroy each and every one of you.  And your Black King."

"He can't do that," the woman who had tried to leave said.  "He's an Islander."

"I'm a holy man," he said, "and I have more powers than you ever dreamed of.  How do you think I got here through your vast armies?  Walked?"

"You're bluffing," she said.

"Are you willing to take that risk?" he said.

"We're dead either way," the man said.  "It's either him or the Black King."

"I'll let your king go free if you bring mine," Con said.  A bead of sweat ran down one cheek.  His heart was pounding so hard he wondered if the Fey could hear it.

"You can't kill our Black King," the woman said.  "If you could, you would have done so already."

He had no answer for that.  They started forward and he swung his sword, wildly, narrowly missing the Fey in front.

"It's the sword," she said.  "It's the sword that gives him his power.  Get it!"

And they surged forward like one body, their eyes fixed on the sword in his hands.

SEVENTY-NINE

Adrian watched as Scavenger plunged into the crowd of Fey, swinging his swords, doing little damage. Foot Soldiers grabbed him and still he fought.  Adrian swung his bow around, and reached into his quiver.  His hands were shaking.

For the second time in his life he would be a prisoner of the Fey.

If they let him live.

He wasn't about to let that happen.

Scavenger's fight was curiously silent.  A few grunts, some groans, and a moan when the Foot Soldiers caught him.  Leen took one step forward and stopped  —  she obviously knew what her people were capable of  —  and Gift looked as if this blow were one too many.  Adrian lined up the arrow and shot at one of Scavenger's captors, hitting him the shoulder.

It didn't seem to make a difference.

But Coulter, Coulter seemed taller than he ever had.

He stepped into the middle of the group, in front of Gift.  "Stop it," he said to the Fey.  "Stop it, stop it, stop it."

The closest Fey laughed at him.  But Coulter didn't even look at them.  He sent a bolt of fire into the middle of the group.  It landed  —  and exploded  —  behind Scavenger's captors.  The Fey turned as one body  —

 —  and the fighting stopped.

They couldn't deny the smoke that rose behind them, billowing into the sky, nor the fact that the day was hotter than it should have been.  Fey were not stupid when it came to magick.  They knew that Coulter had something, but what they weren't certain.

Adrian took out another arrow and lined it into his bow.  Leen grabbed her sword.  Gift took her knife.  Suddenly they were a fighting force.

"I defend this member of the Black Family," Coulter said.  "Defy me, and you'll all die."

"You're Islander," said a woman beside him.

"You're observant," he said, with a sarcasm that was foreign to him.  "Let Scavenger go."

The Foot Soldiers didn't move.  The wounded soldier, arrow sticking out of his shoulder, still held Scavenger.  No one else moved either.   The acrid scent of smoke rose behind them, and the heat seemed to be growing.  Sweat ran down Adrian's face.  He hadn't had anything to drink in a long time.  He wondered how much longer his body could keep losing water and he could remain upright.

"Let him go," Coulter said again.

They were waiting.  It was obviously a test.  They wanted to see what he was capable of. 

Adrian felt a chill despite the heat.  Coulter had said he had an arsenal of weapons, but not a lot of power.  The Fey had a troop on this road, and more weapons than Adrian cared to think of.

The bluff was the only thing that would save them.  And Coulter didn't quite know how to do that.

Adrian kept the arrow in position, but lowered the bow slightly.  "Do as he says."  Adrian made his voice carry.  "Or he'll kill all of you."

A sea of Fey faces, unimpressed. 

"Can you Charm?" Gift hissed to Coulter, sotto voce, but Coulter didn't seem to hear him.   Instead, he squinted, and Adrian thought he saw a small flash sparkle in the sun.  As quickly as it appeared, it disappeared.

Then the Soldiers holding Scavenger staggered backwards.  The first fell to her knees, blood seeping out of her eyes, nose, and ears.  She stared at Coulter a moment before toppling forward.  The other grabbed his head as if it hurt him.  He staggered through the crowd of Fey.  They parted like grass in a breeze.  When he reached the edge of the road, he fell too, eyes open.

Dead.

The third, the one with Adrian's arrow, opened his eyes and mouth, let out a small squeak and fell over backwards.

Dead.

Coulter glared at them.  The corners of his lips were blue and his fists were clenched so tightly his arms shook.  Adrian knew what this was costing him. Coulter had always been the peaceful one, the one who wanted to use his powers for good.  They were forcing him into this for the one person he loved more than himself.

For Gift.

He obviously couldn't speak.  Adrian had seen that expression before, just a few hours ago.  The deaths were like little deaths inside Coulter.

"Do the rest of you want to die that way? Let us through," Adrian said.

"He can't kill us all," a Fey said from the back in Fey.

"Doesn't matter.  The Black King will get us if we let the boy go."

"Can you Charm?" Gift whispered again.

"It won't work," Leen whispered back.  "They're right."

Scavenger seemed to have recovered for his own fear.  He scuttled back to the group, and as the Fey debated, he handed out weapons.  He gave Gift another knife, and Leen an extra sword. Then he offered a knife to Coulter, but Coulter didn't even look at him.

Adrian waited, arrow poised. 

Someone had to make a move, but it wasn't going to be him.

A tear ran down the side of Coulter's face.  Followed by another.  He closed his eyes, raised his hands above his head, and whispered, "Lightning," in Islander.

Instantly thunder boomed overhead.  The smoke clouds reformed into storm clouds, and the sky grew dark. 

"Duck," Coulter said in Islander.  He was looking at Adrian now.  "Please.  Duck."

Adrian dropped his bow, grabbed Gift and flung him down.  Scavenger did the same with Leen.  Lightning rippled across the sky, then shot down in huge bolts, crackling as they came.

The air was charged.  Adrian's hair rose on the back of his neck.  Gift squirmed, trying to see, but Adrian held him firm.  The lightning moved slower than real lightning, creeping down the sky.  Adrian kept his head up, watching.  Some of the Fey fell to the ground just after Adrian did.  But others didn't.  The eerie green light illuminated their faces, making them ash-gray and too pale. 

Then the lightning struck and the screaming started.  Huge wails of agony.  Adrian pressed his face against the dry ground.  Sizzles rose over the screams, and a stench rose, a stench Adrian hadn't smelled since the first Fey invasion all those years ago.  And this new smell wasn't quite it.  It was thicker, less putrid, more acrid.

The smell of burning flesh.

His stomach turned, but he kept his hand on Gift.  So far the lightning hadn't touched Coulter's friends, but Adrian didn't know how much control Coulter had.

So Adrian remained down as the stench grew and the screaming stopped  —  all except for one long high-pitched wail.  Gift scrabbled against the dry ground.

"Coulter," he said.

Adrian raised his head.  Gift had understood it before Adrian had. The last scream belonged to Adrian's adopted son.

Coulter stood over a road filled with charred and burning bodies.  A few Fey moved among the carnage, but those that did were whole.  The sky was clearing, the clouds moving, the lightning gone. 

And Coulter's mouth was open, his eyes staring straight ahead, unseeing, and he was screaming.

"Stop him.  We've got to stop him." Gift moved out of Adrian's grasp and put his arms around Coulter.  Coulter didn't move.

Scavenger stood too, followed by Leen.  "We only have a moment," Scavenger said.  "You can bet they already sent someone for help.  And when those who are still alive recover, they'll be after us.  We have to leave now."

Leen was looking over the bodies.  A sea of blackened flesh.  "He's an Enchanter," she said.

"It took you until now to figure that out?" Scavenger said.

Gift was still holding him, but Coulter hadn't moved. The scream had turned into a raspy wail.

"Get him moving," Scavenger said.

"Where?" Adrian asked.  There was fire behind them and death before them.

"Not Jahn, that's for certain.  And we can't go back to the farm.  We only have two choices, east or west."

"Won't make much difference either way," Adrian said.

"There are Fey west," Leen said.  "They slaughtered everyone in Shadowlands."

"Let's not decide here," Scavenger said, nodding toward a woman moving among the dead.  "Let's just go."

"Let me get Coulter."  Adrian moved Gift aside and gently put a hand over Coulter's mouth.  Then he brought Coulter's head down onto his shoulder.  Coulter bent rigidly, his entire body shuddering. 

"Adrian," Coulter said.  "Adrian." And then a sob poured out of him, followed by another and another.  Coulter hadn't cried like this since he discovered that his powers could harm, fifteen years ago.

That had taken an afternoon.  They didn't have time now.

"It wasn't your fault," Adrian said.  "Sometimes a man has to do this.  Sometimes a man has to defend the people he loves."

"B-B-B-But  — "

"No buts," Adrian said.  "We have to go now, or this will be for nothing. They'll kill us all."

Coulter was still shuddering. 

"Use my strength," Adrian said.  "Use me.  Lean on me.  We'll make it together."

"And me," Gift said.  He put a hand on Coulter's back.  Coulter stood, saw the death before him, the death he had caused, and winced.  Adrian pulled Coulter's face aside so that he couldn't see.

"We're going to go around this," Adrian said.

"Through is better," Scavenger said.

"Around.  He won't make it through."

"We can't coddle him."

"We're not coddling him.  I just want him to survive this."

"He's fine."

"Not inside, he's not," Adrian said. "He didn't have your training.  He doesn't have your coolness or your stomach.  He's Islander.  We respect life."

Then he gasped.  He hadn't meant to insult Scavenger.  Scavenger had helped them for years.