Bonds of Vengeance (76 page)
As it was, the magic missed its target by just a single span. Pain exploded in the gleaner’s shoulder, searing and unbearable, as the bones there splintered like dry wood. Grinsa fell to the ground, a cry torn from his chest. He knew the second attack would be immediate, and he forced himself into motion, rolling over his good shoulder, gritting his teeth against the agony. Even as he scrambled to his feet, trying a second time to reach for the man’s power, he felt the bone in his leg shatter, driving him to the ground a second time.
He couldn’t see for the fire in his limbs, the pulsing anguish screaming in his mind. Magic could save him; he knew that. He could heal his mangled limbs. He could turn his attacker’s power back on itself. He
could shatter bones and burn flesh. He was a Weaver, and all of these magics were his. But pain held him like iron shackles, denying him his strength and his will.
“I’ve bested a Weaver,” a voice said, seeming to come from a great distance.
And as the words echoed in his head, like the tolling of far-off bells, Grinsa sensed the man gathering his power one last time to strike the killing blow.
A voice in his mind—Brienne’s perhaps, or his mother’s—screamed at him that this was folly, that he was racing headlong to his death. But still Tavis ran, his eyes fixed on the assassin. He was vaguely aware that Grinsa was no longer with him and he felt certain that this was important somehow. But he didn’t stop to think it all through. The singer fled, and Tavis pursued.
The heavy clouds over the Gulf of Kreanna continued to darken, breakers hammered at the rocky shore, and lightning sliced across the sky, seeming to pierce the water’s surface like a blade. Wind clawed at Tavis’s clothing and thunder roared like some great beast from Bian’s realm, but still no rain fell.
As Cadel drew nearer to the shore and the great rocks that withstood the gulf’s assault, he glanced back, as if marking Tavis’s progress. Whatever he saw must have pleased him, for he stopped abruptly, a slight smile on his lips, and turned to face the young lord. Tavis noticed that he had a dagger in his hand.
The boy stopped as well, pulling his blade free and glancing about quickly. He saw no sign of Grinsa. Was that what the singer had been hoping to see? Had he been trying to separate Tavis from the gleaner? If so, it meant that all this had been a trap, just as Grinsa feared.
Tavis started forward again, far more slowly this time.
“Come on, then, Lord Tavis,” the singer said, his voice barely carrying over the wind and the pounding of the surf. “You’ve followed me this far. Don’t tell me that you intend to stop now.”
Tavis said nothing, but neither did he break stride.
After a moment, the singer’s grin broadened and he began to nod. “Good. You’ve got some courage. I’ll give you that much.”
Approaching the man, Tavis pulled his sword free as well. He knew the footing wasn’t right for the longer blade, but he thought it likely that Cadel had been preparing himself for a knife fight, and it occurred to him that anything he could do to upset the assassin’s plans would work to his advantage. And indeed, seeing the sword, Cadel’s smile vanished and he began to back away, seeming to search with each step for more favorable terrain. Soon they were off the grasses and on the slick rocks that fronted the gulf.
Tavis closed the distance between them quickly and while still in motion leveled a blow at the assassin’s head. Cadel danced away easily, waving his dagger at the young lord, but doing no damage. Tavis swung his sword a second time to the same effect, then tried chopping down at the assassin’s shoulder. This time, however, rather than backing away, Cadel turned quickly to the side, switching his blade to his left hand in a blur of flesh and steel, and slashing at Tavis’s arm.
The boy knew immediately that he’d been cut, and he took a step back, allowing himself a quick look at his forearm. Blood was soaking into his torn sleeve, but he could still move his hand freely. Cadel was eyeing him closely, crouched low, his blade ready and the grin on his lips once more. Tavis raised the sword again and crept forward, searching for an opening. He feinted with the sword, hoping to strike with the dagger he held in his left hand, but the assassin gave him no opening. They circled each other, wind whipping around them, waves crashing against the rocks and dousing them with spray and foam.
Tavis swung the sword, missed, saw Cadel lash out with his front foot. He tried to jump away, but he wasn’t fast enough. The toe of the assassin’s boot caught him in the side, ripping the breath from his chest. He stumbled. Cadel’s blade flashed, turning a swift arc toward his face, but he managed to duck under the attack before stumbling a second time, backwards this time as luck would have it, and out of harm’s way.
Or so he thought. Seeing him off-balance, Cadel lunged at him.
Tavis tried to block the blow with his left arm and strike back with his sword, but it seemed the assassin was expecting this. Moving so quickly that Tavis could do no more than watch, Cadel switched his blade hand a second time, striking the boy’s sword arm with an open hand and stabbing at Tavis’s neck with his dagger. Tavis tried to wrench himself to the side, but he felt the edge of Cadel’s knife slice into his neck. He backed away again, raising a hand to the wound and seeing blood on his fingers.
The singer will have cut you
, Grinsa had warned him in Duvenry.
Your neck and your right forearm . . . Neither wound looked too deep
. He should have expected this. So why was he shaking so?
Cadel was stalking him now, circling ever closer, as if he knew that he had nothing to fear from the boy, despite his sword and his thirst for vengeance. Tavis pretended to back away, then leaped at him, swinging the sword again. But as with all his other attacks, Cadel responded as if he had known all along what the young lord would do. Holding his ground, the assassin swung his free arm at Tavis’s wrist, catching him with the full force of the blow so that the sword flew from Tavis’s hand, clattering on the rocks before being swallowed by the waters of the Gulf.
Tavis quickly switched his dagger to his right hand, expecting Cadel to press his advantage. But the assassin didn’t lunge at him again. It seemed he was content to have denied Tavis the use of the long blade.
“I’d say we’re a bit more even now. Wouldn’t you, my lord?”
Hardly
, Tavis wanted to say. But he kept his silence. The assassin laughed, and the two combatants resumed their circling. Cadel passed his blade deftly from hand to hand, a confident grin on his face. He made a sudden move with his blade hand, and Tavis flinched, raising his arm to defend himself. But the attack never came, and Cadel laughed again.
“You should have stayed in Eibithar, boy. I would have kept away and we both could have lived out our days in peace.”
He feinted again and for a second time, Tavis raised his blade hand. Rather than merely laughing, however, the assassin used this as an opening for a sudden attack. Launching himself at Tavis, his blade abruptly in the other hand, he slashed at the boy’s chest. Somehow Tavis managed to catch hold of the assassin’s wrist, fighting with all his strength to keep the blade from plunging into his heart. And he wasn’t strong enough. Not nearly.
Tasting his own death, desperate to do anything that might forestall the fatal blow, Tavis allowed his leg to buckle. He fell to the rock, Cadel on top of him, but both of them fell awkwardly, and at least for the moment, the assassin’s blade was no longer aimed at his chest. They rolled first to one side, then to the other, each struggling to free his blade to strike at the other. Out of the corner of his eye, Tavis spotted a figure hurrying across the rocks in their direction. Grinsa. It had to be the gleaner, though he couldn’t see well enough to be certain.
“Grinsa!” he shouted. “Shatter his blade! Quickly!”
Nothing happened. They continued to roll, toward the raging surf now, the uneven stone digging into his back and legs. He could feel the assassin’s hot breath on his face, he could smell the stale sweat in his clothes. They rolled again, and for just an instant Tavis found himself above Cadel. He fought to pull his arm free, but before he could raise his blade the assassin pushed off with his foot and they were turning again.
This time, however, as Tavis was forced down once more, he realized that he had reached the edge of the boulder. He let out a panicked gasp, trying with all his strength to halt their momentum. Cadel seemed to sense the danger as well, for he grunted a curse. For just a second, they tottered on the edge, both now fighting as one to keep their balance. But to no avail. A moment later they dropped off the boulder, releasing each other to try to break their fall.
Tavis landed hard on his side and shoulder, his head snapping down onto the wet stone. He sensed that Cadel had fallen beside him, but he was too dazed to strike at the man or flee. He saw a flash of light, almost immediately felt the thunder clap, as if it were a war hammer.
And then the rain began, instant and harsh, filling his mouth and nostrils as if he had been submerged in the gulf. He started to sit up, realized that he still held his dagger. Clawing the rain from his eyes, he tried to find the assassin.
He saw movement—the rain was too thick to see more—and raised his blade to stab at the man. He felt something crash into his temple—white pain blinded him as if lightning. Before he could recover, a fist crashed into his cheek and he sprawled onto the rock. The assassin was on him immediately, hitting him a third time, this blow to his jaw leaving him addled. He felt himself being heaved off the rock, but he couldn’t seem to fight back.
Then Cadel released him and he fell, his chest smashing into the stone, but his head finding water. Shockingly cold. Salt stung the wound on his neck and another on his cheek. He tried to push himself up, but the assassin was on him again, his knee on Tavis’s back, one hand like a vise, clamped on his neck, and the other holding Tavis’s face in the water.
Fear seized his heart like a clawed demon. Tavis fought with all his strength to throw off the assassin, thrashing wildly, flailing with his arms and legs. But Cadel had him. He could hit the man, but not hard enough. He twisted his neck from side to side and managed for just an instant to lift his mouth out of the water. He gasped at the precious air, taking in some, but swallowing a mouthful of briny water as well. And before he could try again, or cough the water out of his lungs, Cadel had pushed him under again, tightening his grip on the young lord’s neck and grasping a handful of Tavis’s hair.
He whipped his limbs about, desperate now, his chest starting to burn, his head spinning. Something in the water gleamed and Tavis tried to reach for it, but it was too far. He groped around in the pool, searching for a rock or anything else he might use as a weapon. Nothing. His lungs screaming, consciousness starting to slip away, he reached for Cadel one last time. To no avail. He thought he heard laughter. The assassin’s, or perhaps Bian’s.
“I’ve bested a Weaver.”
Grinsa heard the words. He felt the gathering magic. And so even without opening his eyes, even through the miasma of pain, he knew just where to direct his power. He would only have the one chance. If he failed here, he would die. He didn’t need gleaning magic to tell him that.
He reached out with his mind, fighting off agony and fear, thoughts of Tavis and Keziah, Cresenne and Bryntelle. At his first touch, the man tried to resist him, and because Grinsa was so weakened, his attacker nearly succeeded. But the gleaner held fast to the magic he found, as if it were a scrap of wood and he adrift in a violent sea. Shaping, gleaning, mists and winds. The shaping magic was the only real threat, and once Grinsa had control of it, even this couldn’t hurt him.
But he had forgotten how close the man was. Just as he opened his
eyes to see his assailant’s face, the man kicked his maimed shoulder. A wave of pain crashed down upon him, stealing his breath, nearly making him retch. For a moment he feared that he might lose his hold on the man’s magic, but he clung to it, desperate and enraged.
Before the man could hurt him again, Grinsa hammered at his leg with shaping power. He heard the muffled crack of bone, a wail of pain from his attacker, and, a moment later, the sound of the man’s body hitting the ground. Somehow the man kicked at Grinsa a second time, his boot missing the gleaner’s shoulder, but striking him in the side of the head. Still drawing upon the man’s shaping power, he broke the other leg as well. Hearing him cry out, Grinsa smiled grimly.
The gleaner wanted to shatter every bone in the man’s body. He wanted to kill. But he needed answers first. Forcing his eyes open, fighting through his pain to sit up, he crawled to where the man lay.
The attacker was powerfully built for a Qirsi, lean, but broad in the chest and shoulders, with muscled arms. His face was ruddy, even tanned, at least compared to the skin of most Qirsi. His beard was full and he wore his long white hair tied back.
As Grinsa came closer, the man attempted to crawl away, his eyes fixed on the gleaner’s face. With barely a thought, Grinsa shattered his wrist. The man collapsed to the ground once more, swearing through clenched teeth.