Lan pledged the first death for her. And the next.
Inyx spun and gave the final death stroke to the remaining soldier vainly trying to get his slashed leg under him to continue the fight.
Sword dripping gore, Lan walked to stand before the throne.
" I have come for her," he said simply.
Waldron' s eyebrows rose a trifle and he laughed. " You came for her? That' s rich. I thought you lusted after the secret of the Kinetic Sphere. Or possibly just a few trinkets to amuse you on wintry evenings. But her?" His laughter annoyed Lan; then he took a firmer hold on his emotions. Waldron was expert at manipulating public sentiment; he knew the precise method to needle Lan, make him act without thinking, and thus kill him the more easily.
" Fight or die where you sit, scum!"
" Very well, put that way, I can hardly deny you the right of dying. I had really hoped to avoid this unpleasantness. Would a few carts of gold and jewels buy you off?"
" You try to bribe me? Why do you stay here? If I were you, I' d' ve been long gone. Or at least ensconced in a safe place with troops to protect me."
" Protection from my own people is the last thing I need. My vassals are content, having more to eat than ever in the history of our world. Why do you think I offer you worthless jewels? You cannot eat pretty silicates. My people need only food- and that I give them, along with hope for a better future. As for my troops, they are scavenging the countryside for food even now to offset the bitter winter wearing down half my world. If you had not forced your way through the artificial gateway, I, too, would be out importuning this world' s peasants for charity. But alas, no, I must stay to deal with you."
" Charity! You steal and then force them to call it charity?"
Waldron' s expression flowed from a dark scowl to bemusement. " I don' t know what you mean. Yes, I subdue those who oppose me, but I never kill wantonly or steal food from the mouths of those who sorely need it. I am the Saviour of my world and the conqueror of this. Treacherous behavior would cause the people to demand my head- and get it!"
" I demand your head for the vile things you' ve done to my world."
Lan Martak remembered lovely Zarella and his half- sister Suzarra and how Kyn- alLyk- Surepta, in the name of Waldron Ravensroost, had slain them. The old sheriff was living out his days watching the greyclad soldiers slowly extort power from him. And that was a world with only the barest of toeholds. What of the others?
And Lan could never forgive Waldron for what he had done to Velika.
He had lost Zarella to Waldron' s men. He would not lose Velika to Waldron.
" I demand your head!" raged Lan, his blade slashing in the air, scattering red droplets of blood before him.
" Really, you are the one who should apologize," said Waldron, his voice level. " You kill my best generals, come raging through like a berserk pard, and now you demand the- gods- alone- know- what."
As he spoke, Waldron reached beside him and lifted a small wooden case. One side hinged upward. Waldron lifted the door to expose a desiccated skull inside.
" Good- bye," said Waldron, smiling wickedly. He thumped the back of the box.
Lan watched in frozen awe as the skull impossibly opened empty eyes. In the hollows, dull red coals began to smoulder, then burn, and finally take on a fire that dazzled him, that set his magic- sensing ability screaming. He instinctively rolled to one side to escape the incandescent path of that gaze.
The table behind him vanished with a dull whoof! Lan Martak kept rolling as Waldron followed him around the room. The twin beams from the skull' s eyesockets removed object after object from the throne room. It became immediately apparent to Lan that simply hiding behind some massive piece of furniture wouldn' t save his hide.
In mute fascination, he watched, helpless, as Waldron swung the box around and lifted it to bring the dual beams of ruby destruction in line with the floor in front of him. The floor simply vanished. As Waldron raised the box to point directly at Lan, Inyx moved. Her dagger cartwheeled through the air and thudded into the meaty portion of Waldron' s upper left arm.
The box containing the skull fell to the floor, the lid snapping shut as it hit. The double beams of death winked out of existence.
Cold rage clouded Waldron' s face as he clumsily pulled his sword from its sheath. Blood ran in a steady torrent down his left arm, then slowed, and finally coagulated.
" If the sorcerer' s skull isn' t enough to dispatch you, then by all the gods, my sword will prove more than adequate. Die, dog meat, die!"
Waldron' s lunge missed Lan by a wide margin.
The would- be Saviour of the grey, dismal world silently sidestepped Lan' s steely reply and settled into an en- garde position, obviously composing himself after the initial wild rush. All the years of training stood Lan Martak in good stead. He did not wildly attack.
Faint magical emanations came from Waldron' s sword. His blade carried a spell locked to its metal. Magic seemed a rare commodity outside of Lan' s world, but none had used it as well as Waldron. The Kinetic Sphere, the deadly skull in the box, now this unknown sword and its mysterious qualities.
" I see you realize the nature of the blade you face." Waldron executed a stylish lunge that took Lan by surprise. He parried thin air and felt the razored edge slice his arm. Yet his parry had been directed in line at the precise point needed for riposte. Again and again he missed his parry by a hair' s- breadth.
" Surrender and I will allow you and those two passage along the Road. Refuse and I' ll cut your manhood off!"
" The word of one such as you is worthless," flared Lan. He settled down to an increasingly defensive fight as he tried to understand the nature of the weapon he faced. Slowly, as new and deeper wounds opened on his torso and arms, he came to the conclusion that the blade emitted a distortion field around itself, causing him to subtly misjudge the true position of the sword. A few parries confirmed this, but his magical training was insufficient to allow him to conjure a counter- spell, even if he hadn' t been actively fighting for his life.
He glanced around to see how Inyx and Krek fared. They were locked in battle in the far corner of the room, fending off a half- dozen grey- clad soldiers. The battle between him and Waldron was a solitary one; he knew he could expect no help from Velika, who sat on the throne, her eyes wide and a lily- soft hand clutched at her throat.
Lan kept hoping that the wound in Waldron' s left arm would impede him. It didn' t. The flow of blood had stopped totally now. It hurt, of that Lan Martak had no doubt, but Waldron was a skilled swordsman and no doubt pushed such minor annoyances from his mind until afterward.
But the very use of a spell sword meant that Waldron depended more heavily on trick than skill. Gambling on his own skill, Lan closed his eyes and " felt" the steel blades as they slashed at one another. Depending on feel rather than sight allowed him to react by instinct, using a quick disengage, a beat, and a powerful follow- through.
Lan' s blade pressed firmly into Waldron' s throat. Waldron attempted to bring his dagger into play, but the wounded left arm hindered him. Lan' s leg snaked out around Waldron' s, and a quick kick landed the man on his back. The spell sword fell from his grip. Lan kept his point at Waldron' s throat as he picked up the other' s magical blade.
" It pleases me to kill you with your own sword." He pulled back for the stroke, only to have Velika hang on his arm and prevent him from a clean kill.
" Stop, Lan, don' t do this! He' s a great man. He isn' t the tyrant you believe him to be."
" He' s tried to kill me at every turn. And look how he' s ensorcelled you. For that alone I' ll kill him!"