Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) (17 page)

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes. It matters.”

“Ovelia.” He unfolded his hand and held out the carving to her. He’d shaped it into a dragon to match her tattoo, and strung it on a thong of leather. “I want you to have this.”

She stared at the offering. “You... but...” She looked into his face. “No, Regel. I know what this means. You can’t give this to me.”

“Ovelia, listen to me.” He closed her hands around the carving and met her gaze. “We broken servants are all that remains of the Blood of Denerre. We are the shadows left of the Winter King—his last blades left unsheathed.” He caressed her cheek with his thumb. “Perhaps—”

“No.” Ovelia set the wooden dragon medallion on the bedside table and rose. She stood naked in the cellar, her hands worked into fists. “We aren’t children anymore. We both loved the Winter King, but only one of us
slew
him, Regel. And what has been done cannot be undone.”

“Ovelia—”

“This changes nothing.” She struck herself—slammed her fist into one taut thigh hard enough to leave a red mark. “I slew King Denerre. I brought the world to Ruin. And you must kill me. You
must
.”

Words slid around Regel like cool water, and he shook his head. “If you hate yourself so much,” he said. “Why do you yet live? Why not cut your own throat?”

“Justice,” she said, the word whispering in the corners of the hot cellar. “You had Lenalin to avenge—let me have Semana. Please, Regel. Let me have this.”

“Revenge will not soothe you,” Regel rose and stood beside her. “When I slew Paeter, it gave me no pleasure—not even the release I sought.”

“I do not care,” she said. “I will have vengeance and I will die and that will be the end. Justice.”

“Ovelia.” Regel put his arms around her shoulders, and despite her anger, Ovelia relaxed into his embrace. “Think on what I am saying.”

“No,” she said, but her voice was losing its strength. She seemed to melt into him.

“Vengeance is an empty thing,” he whispered in the Bloodbreaker’s ear. “Better to live.”

Ovelia came alive and wrenched herself out of his grasp. She turned on him, face wrought of anger and pain, tears in her eyes. “But
you
are here,” she said. “Why did you come, if not for vengeance?”

The candles had been burning long hours, and several chose that moment to gutter and wink out in a puff of smoke. The cellar grew darker, casting long shadows across Ovelia’s heaving shoulders and her furious face. It was a dire omen.

“Very well.” Regel left her and sat back on the bed. “We’ll be about your vengeance on the morrow. I hope you will take comfort in it.”

“And you will plunge the knife into my heart then? I want it to be you.”

She was marching to her death—eyes open, angry and determined. Regel nodded.

“Promise me that mercy.” She climbed atop him and kissed him on the lips. “Promise me, Regel.”

“As you ask,” Regel said. “I will be there. I will look into your fading eyes as you die.”

“Good.”

Ovelia enfolded Regel in her arms and they breathed together in the sweaty darkness. The revelers above had quieted, and no more dust filtered down from the creaking floorboards. The young had left the Crimson Bath, perhaps in search of a rowdier tavern, and only the old remained—them, and the two worn-out knights sharing the stillness below.

After a moment, Ovelia spoke. “Should I stay?” she asked.

“As you will.” Regel closed his eyes.

Ovelia breathing slowed beside him, lulling him to peace. He shifted in Ovelia’s embrace, pressing his face into her neck. Her scent was familiar, and the world drifted.

“Before,” he murmured. “When I said it was her... that I loved her, and not you?”

“Yes?” she asked.

“I lied.”

“Do not tell me that.” Ovelia stared at him, her eyes soft and pained. “You are asleep.”

“Yes.” Regel picked up the carved dragon she had refused and clumsily set it on the godshelf at the head of the bed. “For when we are dead,” he said. “So that someone might find it, and remember us.”

He slept.

Twelve

T
he sun rose high
and late the next day for Dark Solstice—the darkest day of the year, and the day when they would finally face their enemy and all this would end. Greasy clouds smeared the sky, but Regel could see well enough the two bodies merging far above. On this day, the cracked moon would block out Ruin’s hazy sun for a full hour, sparing the world the worst of the heat. Here in Luether, they called the solstice eclipse the Hour of the Mask.

How appropriate, Regel thought.

Far above, in the wilting high-city, a skyship was docking: the
Avenger
. Regel recognized the massive ship from years ago, and for a brief moment, he wondered if it brought an invading force to the city as it had then. His heart beat faster at the thought that perhaps the Ravalis had come for them after all, and their time grew short indeed. He saw activity up on the height, but nothing like a battle: only a few debarking passengers, exchanging bribes and meeting contacts. He saw no massive army of Ravalis soldiers hunting for him and Ovelia, and even if such a force waited inside the ship, it would have to move slowly and quietly or risk open conflict. Either way, Regel had time before they could be deployed. He relaxed, confident that Serris was protecting their journey from a distance.

His quest was safe, at least for a little longer, which was all he’d need.

Regel studied the façade of the abandoned temple, with its faded carvings of the rising sun and crippled statues of nymphs and phoenixes—and scratched his fresh-shaved chin. Once, Luether had venerated the patron goddess Aertem, but the Ravalis had long eschewed the ways of the Old Gods. Denerre had been the last great Blood to hold to the divine—cleaving to the winter god Amanul—but now few remained to keep the old ways and pray for their return. Regel’s own goddess, Lenalin Denerre, had perished fifteen years ago, and would not come again.

Regel stood before the old temple and listened. If Ovelia’s spy had spoken truly, Mask should be waiting inside. He wished he had a carven focus to make his task easier, but he’d given Ovelia the dragon. It could not function as it had before, because he had given it away. He would do this like any other man.

Surely Mask expected this attack. If Fersi could take them by surprise and the Ravalis could follow them even this far, then surely the greatest slayer in the World of Ruin saw their attack coming. Lacking surprise, the best Regel could do was stack the odds in his own favor. He had faced Mask five years ago, and he had failed, but this time he was prepared. Regel touched the dragon hilt of Draca at his belt. The Bloodsword could foil an ambush and devour slaying magic, making it the only weapon a sorcerer need fear.

He thought of Ovelia for a heartbeat, but pushed her from his mind.

The great doors were shut, but Regel made his way to a loose window shutter he’d found an hour previous. The air was cooler inside the temple—ironic, for a place sacred to a summer goddess. Thin rays of sunlight trickled through the boarded over windows, making the place a prison of shadow. Dust thicker than the soles of Regel’s boots cloaked the floorboards, and a trail of distinctive footprints led deeper into the temple. The right foot stepped normally, but the left foot dragged slightly.

Perhaps only one person lay in wait, but then, many folk treading in the same steps like knives scratching in the same groove would look the same. Regel could not guess how many might lie in wait. He was walking into an ambush, and he had to trust to his sword and plan to see him through. He drew Draca, from whose hilt wisps of shadow curled away to no effect, and held the heavy blade in both hands. He could not be certain, as the magic did not sing to his blood as to Ovelia’s, but he thought that if death lay in wait for him, the sword would prove much more urgent in its warnings.

Had he made a misstep, one that would cost him everything? It was too late to turn back.

Regel climbed the central dais through the circle of dusty benches with withered cushions laid out haphazardly before them. A single shaft of light fell across the altar, illuming dust that swirled up from its matted surface. He set Draca on the altar within easy reach and drew one of his falcata—the whisper of steel on leather was blasphemously loud in the stillness. The caked dust fell away like paper, revealing rose-pink stone beneath. This stone picked up the light from high windows and cast it around the chamber.

For the first time, Regel saw the flowers that grew inside the temple: stretch upon stretch of bright blossoms on coiling vines, illumined by the radiant altar. Reds and blues winked up at him from the once dark corners, and the temple seemed a veritable garden. A rare sight indeed, especially in one of the mage-cities where the very air hung tainted with the corruption of magic. Somehow, life lingered in this, Aertem’s abandoned temple. Perhaps the Old Gods had not left the World of Ruin entirely.

On the altar, Draca bled uneasy shadows. A warning.

“Beautiful, eh?”

Regel turned. There, twenty paces away, stood a man in a gray-black cloak, right hand at his belt, his left hand hidden. His right eye gleamed deep blue, while the left seemed milky and dead. His face hid behind a mask of interlaced bones.

“It is,” Regel said. “Life among the dust.”

“Ah, but wait,” the man said. “The true beauty arrives in a moment.”

The red altar gleamed in the weak light—light that, even as he watched, faded. The moon was passing between Ruin and its cruel sun—the Hour of the Mask. The altar glowed even after the light from above faded to a mere trickle. In the dark, it illumined the chamber like a torch.

“Marvelous, no?” asked the man. “Dawnstone, imported from the Sunlands before the fall of Calatan. Once, the faithful journeyed thousands of miles by land or sea just to see it.”

Regel shook the falcat free of dust and sheathed it. He laid his trailing hand on the hilt of Draca, ready to reclaim it at any instant. He could feel its warning shadows burning stronger, starting to coalesce.

“I am told—” The man took two steps forward—the first strong, with his right foot, and the second an awkward hobble on his left. “The stone drives evil from all who touch it. Does it do the like for you, Lord of Tears? Cleanse
your
heart of its darkness?” His voice hissed slightly, like that of a snake. “I do so hope it does not.”

“You,” Regel said, stepping down from the altar, Draca in both hands, “are not Mask.”

“Indeed.” The man affected a bow, but Regel saw his left hand did not leave his cloak. The hem of his cloak gleamed with the hint of metal. “I am Davargorn. Mask is my master.”

“I have not heard Mask had a squire,” said Regel. “Nor have I heard of you.”

“I shall take that as praise,” he said. “I am not a man who likes his name known. Not
yet
, that is.”

“Indeed?”

Davargorn bowed. “I am not worthy of a name that men know—not yet. But when I have killed the legendary Frostburn, ah—then.”

“That man is long dead.”

“I think he stands before me. I hope he does—for your sake.”

There was no way to avoid a duel here. At best, Regel could find an advantageous position.

Davargorn circled Regel like a wolf. Regel followed suit, stepping the other direction. The light dimmed as the moon obscured the sun, and Regel realized Davargorn had planned this confrontation for this particular effect. Regel would keep him talking as long as possible to let his eyes grow accustomed to the gathering dark.

“Where is your master?” he asked.

“Where is your
mistress
?” Davargorn nodded to Ovelia’s sword. “Or did you kill the Bloodbreaker, I wonder?”

“Yes.”

Davargorn’s cloak swayed as he walked but never revealed his heavily-guarded left hand. Regel wondered what sort of weapon he held. “Do you expect me to believe you?”

Regel shrugged without moving his hand from Draca’s hilt.

“Just so.” The bone mask seemed to grin in macabre fashion.

Regel felt the sword’s magic flare. He had always experienced it the same way: tingling warmth when danger drew near, and a sudden flush of heat running up his arm when a blow was coming. Instinct told him how to move, and without seeing the attack, he cut across.

A loud
crack
filled the tranquil sanctum and Regel spun under the impact of a casterbolt that shattered off Draca. The useless bolt toppled off toward the far wall and Regel darted forward, Draca high. Davargorn tossed the caster aside, drew his own curved dust-sword, and caught the overhand strike. Sparks flew as magic clashed and warped, Regel’s genuine, Davargorn’s thamaturgical.

“The famous speed,” Davargorn said. “I am honored, Winter’s Shadow.”

“You are dead,” Regel replied.

“I thought you a slayer, not a jester.”

Regel dodged back and Davargorn bore after him, steel weaving. The masked man moved in an awkward sway, his slower left leg betraying weakness on that side. Regel sidestepped and struck at the opening, testing Davargorn’s defenses, and Ovelia’s sword screamed off a raised steel gauntlet. Regel barely dodged an underhand counter by leaping back and around. Davargorn sneered and turned to put his right foot forward once more.

Old Gods, but Davargorn was good. Part of it was age—the youth had to be twenty years younger or more—but rarely had Regel faced such a tight and efficient swordsman. Moreover, Davargorn fought in an unexpected style, weaving back and forth on his crippled foot. Regel wondered if he would live long enough to find the flaws in the man’s style.

In the darkness of the Hour of the Mask, their duel traced curving pathways in the dust. Regel eluded more than he parried and kept moving. The younger slayer varied time, swaying slowly at first only to spring suddenly and thrust fast and hard. Regel barely ducked, and Davargorn’s thaumaturgy-enhanced sword carved a deep gouge in the nearest pillar of the temple. The dust magic discharged with a thunderous roar, making the edifice tremble, and Regel heard stone grumbling above. Distracted, he missed his chance as Davargorn pulled his sword from the carved stone, the last of its magic expended.

“Afraid of a little dust, Lord of Tears?” Davargorn grinned. “Very well. I’ll not have the bards call me a coward. Mortal steel it is.”

Regel batted aside a sudden lunge, curled around Davargorn’s arm, and grabbed for the man’s throat. The younger slayer was too fast, however, and dodged away before Regel could touch him. He might have struck freely, but he only laughed and fell back.

The lining of Davargorn’s cloak glittered. “I’ve waited long for this, old man,” he said.

“Disappointed?” Regel asked.

“Very.”

Davargorn twisted his blade when he struck, eluding simple parries, and Regel suspected it was as much for show as for deception. The man enjoyed his artful style, which meant his arrogance could be exploited. Regel tried a straightforward strike, only to meet a vicious parry and a sudden counter that pierced the leather over his shoulder. Davargorn smirked as Regel felt at the hole. No blood.

“Close.” Davagorn let the word hiss to silence.

The man seemed familiar somehow—the eyes, the crippled foot—but he could not place him. “I know you,” Regel said.

Davargorn only smiled.

They fought in circles, blades dancing high and wide. Davargorn kept to a high guard but relied on distance for defense. He held Regel at bay with his warding blade, seeming always on the defensive until Regel missed a step. At the tiniest opening, Davargorn darted in like a lunging viper to slash or stab. At such moments, Regel had to ply all of his tricks just to hold the man at bay.

Regel missed a step, and Davargorn danced forward, struck, parried the counterthrust, and whirled to strike again. Regel dodged and parried, then countered with a deceptive double-slash that cut clean through a nearby pillar. His mundane falcat would have reflected off the stone hard enough to numb his arm, but Draca cut right through, making the pillar crumble. Regel and Davargorn split apart as shards of stone crashed to the floor between them.

“Heh.” Davagorn patted his belly, which had come within a hand of sharp steel. Regel heard the thump of flesh on metal. “For an old man, you’re a
quick
burner, I’ll give you that.”

“For a young man, you’re a terrible sport,” Regel said. “Toying with me thus.”

“Enjoying myself.”

The ceiling gave a mighty groan, and dust filtered down onto the flowerbeds.

“You realize if the temple collapses, you die with me,” Regel said.

“Best finish our duel quickly, then.” Smoke flowed from Davargorn’s boots. Magic. No thaumaturgy this, but true, genuine magic from a long-past age.

Propelled by the boots, the masked slayer flew at Regel like an arrow shot from a bow. Regel parried, but the unexpected force of Davargorn’s charge drove his blade wide and slashed across just over his wrist. Itching pain shot up his arm. The younger man’s muscles bulged as the sword snapped like a whip. Regel took a high guard, warding Davargorn back.

Then instinct brought Draca down in a hasty defense. Davargorn whirled, slashing the glittering hem of his cloak into Regel. Steel screeched against steel, and Regel staggered back and looked down at his leather vambraces, where the razored edge had cut a jagged line.

“Do not despair,” Davargorn said. “You’re hardly the first man to miss that.”

“Am I the first to
be
missed as well?” Regel raised his arms. There was no blood—Davargorn had slashed only leather.

With a snarl, the slayer lunged at him again. Regel parried low and their swords locked against the dawnstone altar. A jagged knife appeared in Davargorn’s free hand, but Regel dropped one hand from Draca to catch his wrist. He strained to keep the point away from his throat.

“Somehow,” Davargorn said. “I expected more from the master slayer of Tar Vangr.”

The knife drove slowly downward, gradually overcoming Regel’s strength. Davargorn twisted Draca out of his other hand, and it clattered to the floor.

“I have more to offer,” Regel assured him.

“Oh? And what—?”