Lady Warhawk (41 page)

And hopefully Edrout would not realize that the sword had left Athrar's hands.

A tendril of blackness rolled out of the forest. It shimmered and grew silvery, streaked
with black. Then it solidified and a young man emerged, richly dressed, glimmering with gold
and rubies. Black hair, solid black eyes, wide shoulders, with the build of the finest horse soldier
the Warhawk's most elite forces could ever have produced.

Of course,
Mrillis thought.
Why wouldn't he create for himself the most
perfect body possible? Is that how he seduced Megassa, to father Edrout on her? Or did he play
on her pride and feelings of being abused and punished for crimes she never
committed?

"Give me the Threads," the man said. His voice was deep and rich, warm, as friendly as
the smile that lit his handsome, neatly bearded face.

"Blood magic makes it impossible for you to touch any Threads. Have you forgotten
that, in all your centuries of life?" Mrillis kept his voice and face calm, almost uninterested.
Mocking the enemy would not be wise, even now, with the end so near.

"You have the root of all the Threads of the World anchored in you. The root will let me
touch them all and command them all. Give me the root... And all you hold dear will be allowed
to live."

"My Lady Le'esha taught me to withstand that sort of threat years ago." Mrillis fought a
flicker of panic. If he had learned anything about the Nameless One's tactics, the ancient enemy
of the World never made an offer, never made a threat, unless he thought himself perfectly
capable of following through.

"My love, destroy the girl-child," the Nameless One said, and his voice grew hollow and
echoed, so Mrillis could hear it traveling over hundreds of leagues.

Emrillian cried out through the Threads, her voice echoing from the tunnel under the
sea. Mrillis caught his breath, bracing himself, holding onto the assurance that the child was out
of their enemy's grasp. Then he realized that was only the sound of the little girl in a nightmare.
That wasn't the cry of terror that had echoed across the land the night Megassa tried to drown
Emrillian and Athrar in their own blood. Megassa couldn't reach her, but Emrillian reacted to the
destructive intent.

The Nameless One staggered forward one step. A boy's voice joined his as he roared,
cursing--and Megassa shrieked, fury and pain and terror making her voice crack and then fail,
until terror was the last sound before she faded into nothingness.

The Nameless One turned his young, handsome face to Mrillis, confusion making him
almost pitiable.

Now, lad,
Mrillis called, and held out his hand.

From a promontory overlooking the sea, with Quenlaque north of him and Edrout's
gathered forces south of him, Athrar wrapped ten Threads around Braenlicach and pulled back,
like a boy using a toy catapult, to fling the sword to Mrillis.

The sword blazed to life as it appeared in the enchanter's hand and he swung with all his
strength and purpose. The blade stretched out, wreathed in fire, filling the dark, scarred plain
with blinding brilliance. Tongues of flame wrapped around the Nameless One and he went to his
knees, staggered by the onslaught.

Mrillis covered fifty paces of distance with a single step and swung again, arching the
blade up and over, so it came down hard on the man now kneeling at his feet. He brought it down
so it went through the Nameless One's back and out his chest, and the blade went into the
scarred, bare rock.

Blackness harder and more solid than diamonds exploded out from the Nameless One as
he shuddered and cried out in one last, violent, furious, agonized shout. Blood gushed from the
entry and exit points, scorching and sizzling against Braenlicach. Mrillis felt all the power of the
world pour through his body, draining him dry.

He felt, just for a moment, the Nameless One reaching for the Threads that converged in
a solid cable in his chest. Just for a moment, he feared he had given control of the World into his
enemy's hands by coming so close to him.

Then those hands fell still. Mrillis went to his knees, still holding onto Braenlicach, and
collapsed across the disintegrating body of his enemy. It occurred to him, as exhaustion stole his
awareness, that his hands were locked around the sword, just as they had been after that long-ago
battle with Endor.

There was something he was supposed to do with the sword, now that the enemy was
dead and gone for good. If only he could remember what it was.

Then blackness--comforting, friendly, weary blackness, warm and soft--wrapped around
his mind and body.

* * * *

Meghianna muttered every curse she had ever heard from the Warhawk's soldiers as she
urged her borrowed horse through the maelstrom of battling soldiers. Where was Megassa? She
had felt the strike her sister sent to strangle the life from Emrillian. Megassa had opened herself
to the Threads, to broadcast the child's death-throes and torment those who loved her.

Taking Emrillian outside of the dome protecting Lygroes had worked just as Athrar had
hoped, and Megassa's killing magic had rebounded on her. Meghianna fought the tears of fury
and guilt as she struggled through leagues of battle-wearied, numb men who kept fighting
because there was nothing else to do but fight, and scrabbled through the Threads for the last
trace of her sister.

Megassa was dying. Despite all she had done, the abominations she had perpetrated, the
crimes she had committed and the vows she had broken, Meghianna couldn't let her sister die
alone. If she didn't offer mercy and forgiveness, Meghianna knew she betrayed all she had been
brought up to believe in. Efrin would want her to forgive her sister. For her father, if no one else,
she would do it.

She felt Edrout's insanity blooming, reinforced by the poisonous power the Nameless
One had invested in his son by his great-granddaughter. Megassa's death had set the boy off on a
vengeance quest that would not end until either he was destroyed or he had annihilated all those
who stood against him. With the Nameless One gone, Edrout held all the power of the evil
family.

There! That smoking place up ahead was a likely spot.

Meghianna shuddered as she reined her horse to a stop, imagining all the power that had
bounced back at Megassa, burning her body and her
imbrose
. After all the years of
being unable to use her
imbrose
, she hadn't learned, wasn't strong enough to handle the
power the Nameless One had placed in her hands.

"Nalla always did say you needed to learn moderation," Meghianna whispered. The very
air smelled of burned meat and rotting blood and the metallic tang of pain and death.

She found Megassa, shriveled and curled into a fetal ball, barely clothed in rags, her
hands blackened by fire that was part physical and part mental, and her hair burned away. The
power had drained her, making her a crone. She shuddered as if with cold, as wisps of smoke
still rose up from her burned flesh.

"Oh, Megs..." Meghianna choked on sobs and went to her knees, reaching out with
healing Threads to dull the pain.

Megassa flinched. She didn't open her eyes. Her head was such an odd contrast of
leathery skin and swollen flesh, perhaps she couldn't open her eyes. Or worse, she didn't have
any eyes left under those swollen, seeping lids.

"He'll destroy you, too," she rasped, barely moving her lips. Blood trickled out with
drool.

"The Nameless One is destroyed. Mrillis took Braenlicach and killed him, just like he
did with Endor."

"My boy will win. How can Athrar fight without the sword?" She laughed, choking
when a gush of blood forced her mouth open. A massive spasm wrenched her body, and she lay
still.

"Athrar..." Meghianna shuddered, as she realized she hadn't felt the sword travel back to
Athrar.
Mrillis, give me the sword. Athrar needs it.

The only response she had was a rumbling in the ground under her feet as more of
Lygroes shuddered and fell into the sea, torn by the massive battles raging along the
coastline.

* * * *

Meghianna rode toward Athrar, gathering up his scattered soldiers, while her mind
reached across the leagues toward Mrillis. She nearly wept when she found the enchanter, his life
essence drained to a whisper. She remembered what Efrin had told her, what Mrillis had written
in his journals, when he thought that by taking Braenlicach to do battle against Endor, he had
exposed the first Athrar and his family to the enemy's attack. That hadn't been true then, and it
wasn't true now.

Meghianna swore it would not be true.

She squeezed all the power she could from the limp, drained Threads for leagues around
Mrillis, rousing him mercilessly when she knew he most needed to sleep. She felt the sword,
trapped in his stiff, scorched, aching hands. She felt the struggle in his soul, the need to move, to
act, to send the sword back to Athrar, but it was a silent prisoner buried deep inside his
unconscious body.

"Mother!" Lycen seemed to leap up from the torn ground, reaching to grab the reins of
Meghianna's horse. He was bloody and filthy and sweaty and he had lost his helmet somewhere
in the battle. Other than bruises and the signs of crackling exhaustion, she thought he was
unharmed. He wore the blood of the men he had killed. She nearly wept as that realization broke
through her concentration.

"Athrar?"

"I can't find him, but--" Lycen swept his arm toward a narrow, rocky promontory, all
that remained of an elegant peninsula where the nobles made holiday, camping along the shore
and swimming and racing their horses along the smooth, white sands. "I can feel him there.
Fighting."

"Edrout blocks him," she said, her voice dropping to a growl. The shock of seeing
Megassa die still reverberated through her. Meghianna could imagine how Edrout felt, losing
both mother and father in the matter of a few hours. "Mrillis, wake up!"

Her voice echoed across the width of the entire continent, physical and mental. She felt
it ring off the dome enclosing Lygroes and make the ground shake under them. Later, Meghianna
thought perhaps she would laugh at how her call tore more pieces off the outline of Lygroes,
reducing the continent by more leagues tossed into the sea.

Here.
Mrillis' voice was little more than a whisper.
You will have to take it.
Please, Estall, don't let it be too late.

Meghianna reached out her hands, mental and physical. She gasped a little as
Braenlicach exploded into being in her grasp, flames and scorching air and brilliance. Of all the
men who surrounded her, only Lycen didn't fall to his knees. He held out his arm to support her,
and led her to the narrow strip of rocky ground, rising high above the waves that crashed and
roared as if the entire world joined in the battle.

Two men staggered and swung swords at each other, and the air and ground
reverberated with the dissonant clang of metal on metal. The uneven dance brought tears to
Meghianna's eyes as she and Lycen stumbled forward. Braenlicach sat warm and heavy in her
hands. It accepted her, recognizing the Warhawk's blood, as well as the blood of Nainan, who
had helped in the forging of the sword. The sword sensed Athrar ahead of her, and it poured
energy into her for the sole purpose of returning to the Warhawk's hands.

Now they were close enough to see the two men. Dead bodies lay all around them.
Athrar stumbled backwards, tripping over a burned, hacked corpse. Edrout staggered, gasping,
bending nearly double, unable to follow up on his momentary advantage.

"Give up," the boy snarled, and spat, his blood glinting and reflecting the light that
blazed from Braenlicach. "I'm too powerful, and you're nothing without the sword."

"Then it's a good thing the sword is here." Lycen leaped, his sword drawn.

Edrout laughed, flinging out a whip of blackness tinged with poisonous green. The rope
of magic caught Lycen around neck and throat and flung him up high in the air, shaking him
twice before letting go. He flew toward the rocky cliff edge. Meghianna shouted, imagining the
rocks far below, and her son's body breaking on them like old pottery. She reached with the
Threads to snatch at her son's body before he fell. He landed hard, on the very edge of the
cliff.

"The sword." Edrout held out his hand. "Give it to me."

"Never," Athrar growled. In the moment of distraction, he had staggered to his feet
again. He held out his hand. Braenlicach glowed blue and silver and leaped from Meghianna's
grip, flying and tumbling end over end in mid-air, so the pommel smacked into his hand.

Poisonous black tendrils leaped from Edrout, trying to grab the sword, but the blaze of
power slapped at him, making him stagger backwards. The stink of burned, rotted flesh filled the
air.

"You want the sword?" Athrar growled and lunged, both hands gripping the pommel,
aiming for the center of Edrout's chest. "Take it. Choke on it!"

The boy sorcerer shrieked fury and vanished in a gush of black light and swamp stench,
and a shudder that rocked the promontory, sending Meghianna and Athrar to their knees. She
cried out as she saw Lycen roll over, and wrapped Threads around him, stopping him before he
went over the cliff.

Athrar collapsed in the struggle to get Lycen's unconscious body onto more solid
ground. Meghianna lost all track of time as she struggled to drag both unconscious men away
from the ground that kept crumbling, following her with every step she took, farther inland.

When the ground was finally still and the smoke began to clear from the air and a few
tentative threads of sunshine dared to peek through the lowering clouds of an oncoming storm,
she had no idea where they had landed.

* * * *

It could have been a day or half a moon later, Meghianna couldn't be sure. She worked
mindlessly, seeing to the physical needs of the men who slowly staggered in from the battle,
gathering around what seemed to be the only spot of organization in the entire landscape. Lycen
found shelter for them. He sent men to scrape up supplies and badgered the soldiers and Valors
into sending scouts to assess the situation. Meghianna saw to their physical needs, healing them
and feeding them and bullying staggering men into sleeping and eating and exchanging rags for
clothes.