“I will eat your soul,” he said as he moved closer to Ashe, the blade of his weapon finally visible, the outline burning with black fire. “I will keep you alive for a while, however; tonight you can come with me to the ship. Before I let the crew bugger and keelhaul you, I’ll grant you a boon; I’ll let you watch me violate your lovely wife, who is mine to play with now.”
Ashe gripped Kirsdarke’s hilt, breathing shallowly.
MacQuieth’s voice rang out, as if in his palm.
Go. Save him.
He turned and looked behind him. The ancient hero was standing erect, his body rehydrating as if with the elemental power of the water sword.
Leave this to me, Ashe heard in his mind; it was as though the words were vibrating through Kirsdarke’s hilt into his hand, through his heart and to his brain. They were not spoken lightly, but with grave depth, the command of a Kinsman, his kinsman, his ancestor.
The Kirsdarkenvar.
If you remember but one thing about me, remember this: I have never failed, to complete a quest that I undertook alone.
Ashee turned to MacQuieth began to offer him the sword, holding its hilt to him.
The old man shook his head. Ashe heard the voice one last time.
He may command the wind, but I am the sword.
In his mind he recalled the words the soldier had spoken in the dark of the crumbling shack the night before.
The sea is the one thing that still touches us all. Earth is broken, wind is lost, fire is quenched, The waters touch us all.
Kirsdarke is our sword.
Ashe grasped the sword tightly, the frenetic currents of power running through his arm, changing his mass, the water within him, so that it was vaporous, sea spray. With the last of his corporeal strength he bowed slightly to his forefather, and then, with a great leap, followed Achmed into the sea.
Rhapsody was floating at the edge the tidal cave, her back braced against the wall, clinging to the mat of igneous rocks, when she heard the voices, the shouts of the men above.
“Cave down here, m’lord!”
No gods, no, she thought. He has found me.
She grasped tighter hold of the mat and slowly, agonizingly inched closer to the edge of the cave, staring out in her muddy vision at the swirling water beyond. The tide was low; if she went now, they would see her, but if she stayed—
There was no alternative.
Come, my child, she thought, taking a great breath and reaching, her hand slippery, around the outside edge of the cave. Now for it.
With all her strength she pushed the mat out ahead of her, diving beneath the waves and kicking off the wall with as much force as her legs could summon.
The current caught her and dragged her down immediately, swirling in a vortex of spray and rock. Immediately the breath was torn from her lungs and she struggled not to breathe, her body battered by the crags beneath the surface.
Tumbling, whirling end over end, she clung to the mat, its buoyancy useless in the overwhelming flood of the tide.
Rhapsody was suddenly lifted by the swell that dragged her, powerless and choking, whisking her rapidly out to sea. She was vaguely aware of bodies falling or hanging from the cliff wall above her, but all other thought, other reason, was lost in the mad roar of the waves.
The seneschal watched in amazement as the second man who had threatened him leapt from the cliff.
He turned to the last, the half-figure, expecting to see some third champion, some last show of this land’s muster against him, noting in surprise that it seemed healthier, somewhat taller and broader now, but was still nothing more than an old man in ragged clothes, approaching with a half-smile on his wrinkled face. With a deep bow Michael stepped aside and presented the cliffs edge.
“Pray, don’t let me stop you,” he grinned. “By all means, throw yourself off as well.”
“Come to me,” the old man said.
Michael’s brow furrowed. “I beg your pardon?” he said, more puzzled than angry, at least for the moment. “You must be addled, old man; clearly you do not see where you are, or have any idea to whom you are speaking.”
“No, I do know,” the aged man answered. “But I was not speaking to you.”
The seneschal rolled his eyes, irritated now, then stopped when the realization came over him.
The old man was speaking in the harsh guttural tones of the language of the F’dor.
“Who are you?” he demanded, raising Tysterisk menacingly.
“I am one is who far more hospitable than you, Michael,” the man said, walking closer. “A much better host. I have lived longer than you have, without even a sword for a crutch, nor any help from a demonic guest; my elemental power precedes yours in the order of birth of the Creator’s gifts. I am stronger, and truer, and a better choice than you in every way. I would have killed you long ago if you had not been the coward that you are, would have torn your life from your useless body and buried you in a midden or a pile of manure, so that as you rotted at least some good would come of you one day.” He stopped within reach of the seneschal. “I am the black lion. He who stands in the shadow of the king. The queen’s champion. And after escaping me all these years, I am finally come for you. But it is not you I want.”
The seneschal began to tremble with a mixture of rage and terror, his hand gripping the sword.
“MacQuieth,” he whispered, “you should have died with the Island.”
“And you should have died long before. It matters not what should have happened, only what happens now.” MacQuieth put out his hand in a gesture of welcome and spoke in the dark and ancient tongue again. “Come. Abandon him. He will only disappoint you ultimately, if he has not already.”
The seneschal lifted his free hand and pointed it, palm front, at the ancient warrior. Instantly a swirl of black fire appeared and billowed forth, fed by the wind, blasting over the old man in front of him.
It burned for a second in the hot air, then fizzled, snuffed as if by a wet cloth.
MacQuieth merely stared at him.
Fury blackened Michael’s brow. With a vicious swing, he sliced at MacQuieth’s throat, only to hear the voice in his head speak commandingly, bringing him up short.
Stop.
MacQuieth did not move.
Within his mind, the seneschal could feel the demon considering its options.
Michael clenched his teeth to quell his panic and rage. “Surely you are not fool enough to consider him? You have the master of Wind; you yourself are the servant of Fire! What good would water do you? If you want another sword I’ll dredge the bay where the last fool dropped it. You can’t accomplish your burnings with water. This man is a husk!” He stepped forcefully through the demon’s command and resumed his swing.
MacQuieth’s left arm came up sharply against the flat of the sword. Michael’s blow went high, and he stepped back, the edge of the precipice now at his heels.
All of the Seren history, the reports of his scouts, all he had forced from his memory about this nemesis came rushing back to mind. He tried to suppress it, tried to clear his mind of the fear, the jealousy, the awe in which he had held the ancient warrior, the king’s shadow, the queen’s champion, hated himself for his grudging admiration, his loathsome inadequacy in the face of the warrior’s reputation, his unparalleled might. Michael tried to forget the day he had taken the demon’s offer, had escaped this ancient hunter, the craven relief he had felt being spared from MacQuieth, he believed, for all time.