Dark Vengeance (10 page)

“Behold,” Lord Raskshaula observed. “Something worse than hot-tempered, impatient tyranny, folk of Talonnorn. Look, all, upon bold and reckless tyranny!”

“The folk of Talonnorn cannot hear you,” Jalandral sneered.

“Ah, but they can,” the old noble replied, through grimly smiling lips. “That is what
my
magic has been doing, since my arrival. Having named you High Lord, the folk of Talonnorn at least deserve to see and hear you ruling their city for them. You are their servant, Lord; how can you rightfully have any secrets from them?”

“Are you going to prevent all debate and decrees, Lord Raskshaula? Even as you stand in this chamber of ruling doubly condemned: of breaking the law against the use of magic here, and the law against the wielding of weapons here?”

“Not at all, too-impatient-for-debate inventor-of-laws,” Lord Morluar Raskshaula replied. “I stand here expecting that very same law of Talonnorn to be abided by. The law that holds—among many other things—that disputes between nobles be settled by duels. You have attacked me, Jalandral Evendoom. So as the law permits me to do, I challenge you to a duel. Sword against sword, here and now, to the death.”

He struck a stance, arms flung wide—and then dropped them to his hips, and frowned as if puzzled. “Or are laws mere empty words to you, to be twisted at will or flung aside if they suit not your purpose of the moment?”

“I am High Lord of Talonnorn,” Jalandral snapped. “I need not entertain duels from House lords.”

“Another new law of your own devising, this instant? Very well. Yet I am not challenging the High Lord of Talonnorn, Jalandral
Evendoom.
I am challenging the Lord of House Evendoom, one Jalandral by name. Perhaps you know him?”

“You mock me, old lord.”

“I do indeed. But then, I believe you mock us all, Jalandral Evendoom.” The Raskshaula spellblade pulsed in its wielder's hands. “So, as Lord of House Evendoom, are you going to answer my challenge? Or break the very laws you insist you shall uphold?”

High Lord Jalandral Evendoom threw wide his hands in an exaggerated pantomime of defeat, threw back his head to look around the throne room, and announced, “Citizens of Talonnorn, I wanted a new beginning. I wanted no more of such wrangling, such
unnecessary
bloodshed. A cleansing of the old, old ways that so diminish us all. Yet it seems that one noble, at least, is stubborn enough to—”

“Ah, I see,” a priestess said, using her own magic to conceal from Jalandral and everyone else just which Consecrated of Olone, from those standing crowded together on her side of the throne room, was speaking. “You're going to
talk
him to death. Just like every other Lord of a House. Such bright reform heartens us all. Answer the challenge, High Lord, or step down from your throne and depart this city. Forever.”

“—to cleave to the old ways,” Jalandral snapped, turning to glare at the cluster of expressionless faces on that side of the throne room. He drew his sword, the most powerful spellblade of House Evendoom crawling from end to end with dark fire, so terrible that a murmuring of awe arose among the Nifl gathered in the chamber.

“Very well. Answer it I shall.”

He stepped slowly down from the throne-dais, his sword afire in his hand, and said calmly, “Klaerra.”

In response, a great oval of fire suddenly appeared in the air of the throne room, surrounding the throne, the High Lord, and his challenger—and settled toward the tiles, forcing back everyone else in the room.

The doors boomed open, then, and Evendoom guards in full battle-armor rushed in, weapons drawn—only to come to uncertain
halts as lords and priestesses turned to face them, and they saw, beyond, the raging ring of flames.

“What befalls?” one warblade snapped. “Stand aside!”

Obediently the crones in front of him moved away, to leave him facing the flames directly.

“The duel,” one crone murmured, as he stood staring, “is lawful.”

“But go ahead and rush into the flames,” a younger priestess standing beside her added sharply, “if you feel your orders demand it. Just don't expect your loyalty to the High Lord to win you any special treatment from the flames.”

The warblade snarled at her in wordless rage, and then pointedly looked away, grounding his sword to watch what was unfolding inside the ring.

All over Talonnorn, thanks to the magic blazing inside Lord Raskshaula's armor, Talonar were at that moment doing the same thing.

 

The sudden roar was like the bellow of a deep, distant war-horn. Even as a startled Aloun turned his head to try to see its source, a hitherto-hidden whorl underneath the sidetable bearing Luelldar's domed meal-platter flashed with urgent fury as it spun up into view.

“What by the Ice—?!” Aloun snapped, striding toward it.

Luelldar shrugged.

“I obey the Revered Mother. We are, as you'll recall, under orders to observe this new High Lord of Talonnorn and report on his doings. He and others have just awakened various strong magics about his person, and someone else in Talonnorn has a farscrying awake and showing Talonar what is befalling—and
that
magic triggered one of my ‘waiting whorls.' ”

Aloun gave the Senior Watcher of Ouvahlor a dark look. “ ‘Waiting whorls'? What
else
relating to our offices have you neglected to tell me, yet?”

“Neglected? Nothing. Not telling you yet? Much.”

“
How
much?”

“Even more than you suspect.”

Aloun sighed in exasperation. “Now you're even managing to sound sinister!”

Luelldar's face was expressionless. “I prefer to see it another way, Junior Watcher. Now, you're even managing to notice how I'm sounding. At last.”

 

The Evendoom spellblade made a sound that set the Consecrated to shivering, all over the throne room. It
moaned,
like a lover in need, and its dark fires raced up and down its length with wild and frantic speed.

Lord Morluar Raskshaula did something to the spellblade in his hands. It erupted in hungry green flames—and moaned right back at the Evendoom blade.

Someone in the vast chamber chuckled at that, and the High Lord of Talonnorn's face tightened in anger. He stalked forward, raising his sword—and it spat long black tongues of flame at the old noble facing him.

Whose robes flared, blazing up in a swift fury. In their heart, Lord Raskshaula seemed calmly unconcerned, betraying no pain at all—and when the ash that had been his robes fell away from him, he stood revealed, clad from boots to throat in gleaming battle-armor of olden make.

“So!” Jalandral spat. “You
planned
for this!”

“Not at all,” came the mild reply. “I did as any prudent Lord of Talonnorn should always do: I planned for all likely needs and conditions I might face ere next seeing my armory, and garbed myself accordingly.”

“There will be no ‘next seeing' for you, traitor Lord!”

Raskshaula shrugged. “You're going to duel me with boasts and sneering threats? You would be wiser to save your breath for
true
traitors, Jalandral Evendoom.”

Jalandral waved those words away. “My patience is at an end for your glib mouthings. Let our duel decide who is right and just.” He strode forward, brandishing his spellblade.

“Oh, I've never yet heard of a duel that can do that,” his foe replied calmly. “They tend to decide who has more blood to lose, and is the better blade in battle—and who gets lucky.”

“ ‘Lucky'?” Jalandral Evendoom spat. “You would hazard the future of Talonnorn on ‘lucky'?”

“No,” the old lord replied lightly. “Just yours.”

And their blades met, flames howling against flames in a great racing circle around them. Steel clanged on steel at the heart of those flames, the two Niflghar started to glide and dance amid their swordplay—and one spellblade spewed forth a sudden rosy glow.

As that radiance settled over Lord Raskshaula, the High Lord of Talonnorn laughed in triumph.

“So passes
this
treasonous threat to my throne,” he announced. “Vanquished
so
easily, too, before even—”

The radiance burst, in a spectacular spewing of rose-red, dwindling stars—and from out of their heart Lord Morluar Raskshaula sprang, striking aside the Evendoom spellblade in a shrieking dispute of warsteel that sent sparks flying—and drove his point home in Jalandral's shoulder.

The High Lord of Evendoom howled and staggered back. As he reeled, using both hands to swing his blade up in a desperate parry, he caught a glimpse of the Talonar peering at him over the ring of flames.

They were all leaning forward eagerly, peering at him. Their eyes were excited, and decidedly less than friendly.

Orthael the Warblade a-hunting he went
Cave-sleeth and dung-worms in plenty he rent
Warm gore a-drenching his helm to his toe
As he stalked onward, to foe after foe
The fighting and dying were all that he knew
No singing, no dancing, no shes to make coo
When he woke the Ghodal his bold heart sang
But, laughing, it scorned him until his head rang
Hurled him afar with sword and heart broke
His glory all fled like fire gone to smoke
But other diversions not a one did he know
No family, friends, nor refuge where old hunters go
So Orthael the Warblade a-hunting he went . . .

—
Talonar tavern song

S
eething in the heart of a rage greater than he could ever remember feeling, Jalandral tried his best attack—and found it anticipated and easily blocked.

The Raskshaula spellblade seemed to be waiting for him.

How
could
this old fool—?!

He hadn't even realized he'd snarled that aloud until his smiling foe replied, “With ease and enthusiasm, young Evendoom. You snatch up spells and use them as handy tools, not bothering to learn all their powers or experiment with them overmuch. For you, it's easier to coerce—or seduce—someone else who can work the magic for you. In
my
youth, we valued magic and Talonar more highly; spells and servants—to say nothing of kin—were too valuable to be casually used. Or thrown away.”

Their blades crashed against each other and sang away, spitting sparks, but Lord Raskshaula added as if they were strolling in casual converse rather than seeking to slay each other, “Your shieldings betray your thoughts to mine, and so to me, so I can tell what you're
about
to do.”

Those words made Jalandral go icy with crawling fear; he backed hastily away, hacking wildly with his spellblade. A thought came to him, and he pounced on it triumphantly. “Aha! Yet you reveal this to me, weakening yourself! You
are
a fool, Lord Raskshaula, and you are going to die here!”

“Yes,” the old lord replied calmly, lunging after him so swiftly that Jalandral had to hurl himself away again to avoid being spitted as his two outermost shieldings failed, their glows going black. “I expect to die. You're younger, stronger, faster, and more vicious than I ever was. Yet even in death, I shall win, Evendoom.”

Jalandral felt his jaw drop in astonishment, and struggled to find words as Raskshaula pressed him hard. He gave way, parrying desperately. “How—” He panted, astonished at the old lord's speed and skill. “How so?”

Lord Morluar Raskshaula shrugged. “Spare me, and you'll be seen as weak; in Talonnorn, that means your doom. Slay me, and you'll be seen as the tyrant I have called you—and again, you shall be doomed, though your end may be longer in coming. I cannot lose, son of Erlingar. All, mind you, because of your own deeds, and your own overproud and careless tongue.”

Jalandral heard bitterness in the old lord's voice for the first time—and then, with a shock, realized Raskshaula was starting to
weep. “
You could have been so great
,” the old lord whispered furiously.

“I
will be
great!” he shouted in Morluar's face, locking their blades together and using his fury and his height to lean forward, driving his foe a step back. “I'll be the greatest lord Talonnorn has ever known! All the Dark shall fear me, and Nifl-shes everywhere will swoon at the very thought of my touch! D'you hear me, old failure?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” the old lord sighed, ducking away suddenly to spin and bring his blade around at Jalandral's back.

The High Lord of Talonnorn turned and struck it aside just in time, the Raskshaula spellblade sliding past his ribs so closely that his strongest, innermost shielding spell boiled away under its slicing, magically augmented steel.

Jalandral hastily backed away, almost as far as the steps leading up to his throne, and heard the eager murmurings of the crowd. They were hungry for his blood . . .