Daughter of Prophecy (44 page)

Harred gripped the pommel of his sword and approached. “I come to bring suit for Breanna Caemhan, to ask her to be my wife, the keeper of my hearth, and the mother of my children. Who stands in my way?”

The first opponent stepped forward. Thick-necked, with shoulders like a bull, he held a broadsword upright in massive fists. “I am Tay Erian. You have been found unworthy of her. Withdraw or die!”

Harred's blade sang as it left the scabbard.

Chapter Thirty-one

L
AKENNA

A
N UNNATURAL FOG
covered everything. With spiritual eyes Lakenna could see shapes and murky images moving around her and Branor, but she could not identify them. From within the blanketing mist came anxious mutterings tinged with anger and more than a little fear.

Slowly the gray veil parted, and the shapes became less obscure. She and Branor stood in a central square surrounded by buildings. A dull glow shed light but produced no shadows. The leaden sky above pressed down, cloudless and oppressive. The structures seemed wrong, the corners at odd angles. The windows sagged like melted wax. The distance ended too soon, fading into a blur. The air was unpleasant and held a hint of spoiled meat mixed with swamp mud.

She stepped forward, her shoes bumping on the dusty, uneven cobblestone pavement. Her footing felt solid, and yet the ground seemed tilted at odd angles. Everything looked weathered. Faded. The plaster on the buildings cracked and peeled. The wooden casements outlining the doors and windows looked ready to crumble at a touch.

She saw Branor moving beside her and took comfort in that. They continued downward on the flat, yet uneven pavement. The effect was disconcerting. Her insides quaked. Then out of the corner of her eye she saw movement. She whirled to look. Nothing. But the stone buildings loomed taller and closer. How did that happen? Turning to Branor, she saw he was staring tense-shouldered to his other side.

“Where are we?” she whispered.

He glanced back at her, his face pensive. “The heavenlies? The spirit world?” He looked around, nodding to himself. “It must be. Legends tell of Destin fighting here during the Founding, of course. We Keepers have accounts of this happening to some after the Covenant. Accounts of fighting and . . . ” His voice trailed off.

“Albanes, too.” She placed a hand on his arm. “Some teachings maintain that if you are . . . ” Now her voice trailed off, too.

Branor nodded gravely. “If you are harmed here, it will affect you when you return.”

Lakenna stared at the wrongness all around them. “Destin had
Asunder
and armor.” She gestured to their clothing, which was the same as they had been wearing—were wearing?—at the Maiden Pole.

“No, Lakenna,” Branor said quietly. “What Destin had was the Eternal. And so do we.”

Something inside one of the buildings noticed their presence. Lakenna knew it was evil. She did not know how she knew, only that she did. A door swung open, and the evil stepped into view. The muttering stopped, and everything turned deadly quiet.

The evil moved closer. The thing was massive and possessed overwhelming power. It had the body of a giant male human with wide shoulders, long, thick arms, and enormous legs. The huge head, however, resembled that of a bull. Two horns projected sideways with the pointed ends curving forward. Glowing red eyes pulsed in fury as the creature regarded the humans before it. Somehow Lakenna knew it was the Mighty One of the North. Her mind quailed in fear. She had been prepared to face a siyyim—but not a Mighty One! Her heart thudded inside her chest. What lunacy was this?

The North regarded them for what seemed ages.
How dare you presume to interfere? Leave, or be squashed like the worms you are!

Lakenna's skull vibrated with the voice. Were she and Branor about to appear—dead—in the midst of those watching the
Wifan-er-Weal
? Her mind demanded that she turn and flee. But from her spirit surged an answer.

“We are warriors of the Eternal! He has called us to stand in the gap, and so we stand! You will not have the Land!”

The North laughed. The central square rang with it.
The Covenant weakens daily. Our power is upon the Land as it has not been in centuries. You are too late. Be gone.

Something came together in Lakenna's mind. “Then why does the West seek inroads through Clan Arshessa? We beat the West back when Tellan renounced his partnership with the pagans. Now we come against you.”

A shocked silence reigned—but only for a moment. A vortex of power built around the huge demon. The swirling mass gathered speed, and dark red lightning flashed within. The square crackled with energy, and the nauseating stink increased. The humming vortex rose higher and higher until it completely covered the creature like a shield.

Then, with a mind-numbing roar, the Mighty One attacked.

Harred leaped forward without hesitation, knowing it was imperative to dispatch this first man and the second as quickly as possible. Deflecting the heavy swing with a sharp clash of blades, Harred moved inside the man's guard and drove a knee into the groin, followed by a forearm to the throat.

Tay
oofed
and staggered backward but did not go down, face registering surprise at the unorthodox tactic. He tried to bring his heavy sword back up—but too late. Cat-quick, Harred surged straight in and drove half a cubit of sharp steel just below the big man's breastbone. Tay's face twisted, and he crumbled to the ground facedown as Harred withdrew his blade.

Elmar and a Dinari partner trotted out, grabbed the fallen man and his sword, and pulled him aside to clear the field.

Harred had showed his foot speed and quickness, but not much else, and he was determined to dispatch the next big man without giving Maolmin any clues as to his swordsmanship.

Keeping his mouth open with seeming fascination, Harred watched Elmar and the other man drag Tay away. Harred had positioned his side to the remaining four, pretending to be unaware that the rite called for the next opponent to engage him immediately.

Seizing the bait, the second rushed ahead without announcing himself, sword held high in a killing stroke.

Harred saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and dove. Tucking into a ball as he hit the ground, he rolled into the man's feet, bowling him over. The warrior hit the ground with a heavy thud. Whipping upright, Harred lunged straight back, but the man scrambled up with desperate speed and managed to partially deflect the thrust. Even so, Harred's blade opened a long deep slice across the man's upper chest and left shoulder.

Both male and female voices screamed encouragement, pleading with the second warrior to kill this Arshessa and end it quickly. Harred was only vaguely aware of the clamor. He shut it out, alert only for Elmar's warning should someone slip in and try to betray the rite.

The wounded swordsman shook his head like an angry bull and came more slowly and deliberately this time. Though taller than the first, this large, muscled Dinari was not as heavy and moved lighter on his feet. But he too was a slasher, depending on arm strength to batter down his opponent's blade.

Blood spread a dark wet patch down the man's left side as Harred slid one way, then the other, dodging and deflecting the tremendous blows. Soon the wetness had spread to the top of the man's breeches. Harred kept lunging forward enticingly and then twirling sideways, leading his opponent around in circles as the man swung his heavy blade again and again in a vain attempt to split his moving target asunder.

Noting that the movements were slowing and the left hand's grip on the hilt seemed to be loose, Harred feinted, and for the first time, met the attack straight on. As their swords clashed hilt to hilt, Harred was able to thrust the other's blade down, then drive his point deep into the exposed belly.

A hush descended as the severely wounded man moaned in the dirt. Elmar and his Dinari partner came out and helped the warrior to the side where he could receive attention.

Two down, and Harred was barely winded.

The third opponent stepped forward. “I am Dandrict Reniloge.” He drew his sword with a smooth easy motion and waited calmly. Cries erupted from the crowd again, angrier and more strident.

Harred took a moment to slow his breathing, hoping Dandrict would come to him. Not so. The man stood his ground with a relaxed stance, his face regarding Harred quizzically, as if examining a peddler's wares and deciding at what price to start the bargaining. Noting that this one's blade was smaller than the first two, Harred realized he and Dandrict carried the same type of sword. Commonly called a bastard sword, the hilt was long enough for a two-handed grip, but the blade was light enough to be wielded effectively with one hand.

The wind gusted, bringing another splattering of raindrops, but Harred welcomed it. Neither heat exhaustion nor sweat obscuring his vision was going to be a problem. Though his mouth was dry and he would have welcomed a drink of water, physically he was in better shape than he had dared hope to be at this point. With no cuts or bruises, he strode forward to engage Dandrict.

The preliminaries were over. The serious swordplay was about to begin.

After the two strong-armed bashers, the third one's swiftness was unsettling, and that almost ended it for Harred. Dandrict's sword was everywhere, putting a deep slice along Harred's rib cage and another on his left arm before he drove the man back a step and was able to pivot away, gasping as a lightning-quick thrust grazed his throat.

Then Dandrict was in his face again, the man's sword moving swiftly and smoothly. But Harred had adjusted and retreated only a small step before the new onslaught. Then, he slowly drove the other swordsman back, showing Maolmin more of his true abilities than he wanted, but having no choice against such a highly skilled opponent.

Harred drove him one step backward, two steps, then a third. A frown appeared on Dandrict's face, and he disengaged and sprang sideways.

Harred followed and fought, heart blazing with an inner fire. When they broke from this exchange, blood flowed from Dandrict's sword arm. Soon, the Dinari was stumbling backward before Harred's ferocious assault, their swords swirling and clanging, cutting and thrusting. It ended with Dandrict on his knees, unable to continue, left hand grasping his right shoulder where Harred's blade had penetrated deeply.

Dandrict surrendered, and Harred spared his life. Elmar escorted him out of the arena.

Three down, but not without a price. More wounds marked Harred's body now—a second slice on the rib cage and a deep cut on the outside of his thigh where a partially deflected thrust had scored. The others were minor cuts.

Harred strode, bloodstained and fierce, toward the Sabinis guard, determined to dispatch the brash mercenary quickly before blood loss could become a factor.

As Harred closed, mind battle-focused, he noticed something that did not surprise him—raw fear lurking behind the guard's eyes. Though the guard drew his sword with a flourish, Harred
knew
the man was petrified. Here was a classic bully: brave when bolstered by numbers or in situation where any attack would be stopped quickly—as had been the case in Lachlann—but when alone against a worthy opponent, the deep-seated cowardice came out.

The mercenary stepped forward. “I am Mahone Tierney.”

Harred stopped and tilted his head toward Breanna. “I'm leaving with the maiden, Mahone. The only question is whether you will be living or dead when I do. Why die like this when your employer decided he wasn't going to?”

Mahone swallowed, his eyes clearly agreeing. “Dandrict's the best I've ever seen,” he whispered hoarsely. “I have no chance against you. In the Eternal's name, I beg mercy.”

Something surged inside Harred. He engaged the guard and skillfully drove him to the middle of the field. Then, locked hilt to hilt and chest to chest, he hissed, “Next time I'm going to cut your face and you go down and stay down. Get back up, and I'll have to kill you!”

He shoved Mahone away and gave him a moment to prepare.

Confusion flashed across the mercenary's face, followed by relief. Then Harred was upon him. With a sharp blow, he knocked Mahone's sword aside. Then swinging his blade with perfect control, Harred opened a deep cut along the man's temple, a slash that bled spectacularly but did no real harm.

Mahone dropped convincingly to the ground and remained still.

Total silence reigned. No one stirred in the crowd though a steady rain was falling, with heavier bursts intermittently. Harred found Breanna's face as she stood by the Pole. Her hair was wet and plastered to her face, but she stood bravely, teeth chattering in the damp chill.

Realizing Mahone was done for, Elmar and the other man jogged out to carry the guard from the field.

Maolmin had begun rotating his neck and shoulders the moment Harred had started driving the third warrior backward. Eyes never leaving the swordplay, he had stretched his arms and legs. When Mahone had stepped forward, the High Lord had turned disdainfully away, drawn his sword, and gone though a lightning-fast series of drills.