Bloodfire Quest

21

Afterward, returned to his cell and his solitude, Redden Ohmsford sat alone in the silence and tried to keep from falling apart.

It took him a long time to recover himself sufficiently that he could consider rationally what had just happened. He felt overwhelmed by how unexpectedly the meeting with the Straken Lord had ended. Devastated, shocked, and adrift in the knowledge that he was helpless to do anything, he just sat on his bed with his hands clasped and his head bent, staring at the floor.

He did not for a moment believe that Tael Riverine would let Khyber Elessedil leave Kraal Reach alive. He didn’t care what the Straken Lord had promised or the conditions he had set; the outcome of the battle was a foregone conclusion. No matter how hard Khyber fought for her life, no matter how clever or strong or brave she proved, she was doomed. The Straken Lord would not allow any other outcome. In sentencing her to trial by combat, he had sentenced her to death.

How he would accomplish this, Redden wasn’t sure. But there was no other purpose in arranging this. A spectacle, perhaps, for the benefit of his minions—or perhaps simply for his own gratification. But it would be a spectacle nonetheless, not a true opportunity for the Ard Rhys.

Which would leave him as the final surviving member of the expedition that had come into the Forbidding, the last loose thread in a tangled web of destruction and murder. He didn’t think for a moment that Tael Riverine could resist pulling out or cutting off that loose thread and putting an end to the entire business.

Yet the Straken Lord seemed determined on recapturing Grianne Ohmsford even after all these years obsessed with the idea that she should be made to bear his children. He appeared to have no clear idea of the passage of time in the world outside the Forbidding if he believed Grianne still of child-bearing age; or else living things aged much more slowly here. Perhaps he was refusing to acknowledge the reality of things solely for the purpose of getting revenge. Perhaps he wanted her to suffer for escaping him and foiling his intentions decades earlier.

Whatever the reason, this might be the chink in the Straken Lord’s armor.

Perhaps.

But none of this helped either Redden or the Ard Rhys escape their present circumstances. They needed help from outside, and the chances of that were slim.

Redden hugged himself and rocked back and forth as anguish threatened to engulf him. He would not cry, he told himself. He would not give in to what he was feeling. He would be as fierce and strong-willed as Khyber Elessedil had been when they parted. He would be her equal in courage, though what faced him was so vast and inexorable that there was no reasonable chance of finding a way through it. Tears were spilling from his eyes, but he remained silent and stoic even so.

Eventually, his despair passed and he regained control of himself, and he was able to master his sense of hopelessness sufficiently to consider what he might do to help himself.

Khyber Elessedil seemed to think there was hope. He had seen it in her face. She was facing hand-to-hand combat with a creature twice her size and infinitely stronger, and very likely more experienced in battle. She had not been told the rules of the fight or the choice of weapons she would be offered or anything substantive of what was to take place. Yet still she was evincing confidence in her chances.

He must do something to help her and himself. He must search for a way to throw off the conjure collar and summon his magic. The wishsong’s power was considerable, after all, evolved through generations of Ohmsfords and tested personally by both Railing and himself. He knew what it could do. If he were given even one chance to use it against Tael Riverine, there would be no more Straken Lord.

But the day drifted away without any further idea about how to make that happen. His jailers brought him food and a jug of water and left him for the night. He slept poorly, plagued by dreams of conflict and darkness, of battles fought between good and evil, between combatants who were faceless and nameless and yet somehow managed to make the struggle feel personal. The air cooled and the gray mix of clouds and haze swallowed everything until he could see only pinpricks of light cast by torches burning through the gloom.

When he woke, he was no more enlightened as to how to free himself or aid the Ard Rhys than he had been when he went to sleep. The day was iron-hard and dry, and the cloud ceiling had lifted to allow a sharp, clear view of the bleak countryside from mountain ranges to hardpan flats and barren hills to fields of broken rocks. He stared through the bars of his tiny window at this grim tableau and felt the weight of his desperate circumstances return.

Breakfast was accompanied by something that resembled ale, but of which he was suspicious and so ignored. No one spoke to him. He ate in silence and alone and waited for something to happen.

Sometime toward midday, they came for him.

He was waiting when the door opened and his jailers appeared. He was escorted from his cell and down countless halls and stairways until he was brought outside into a vast courtyard. Creatures and animals of all shapes and sizes—horned and tusked, scaled and spiked, big and small—milled about. The terrible wolves that had prowled the perimeter of his rolling cage on his journey to Kraal Reach roamed freely.

He was taken to another of those wheeled cages and placed inside. The denizens of Kraal Reach and minions of the Straken Lord crowded close to examine him. Twisted, dark faces pressed in, and parted jaws revealed teeth made for tearing flesh. He was oddly calm in the face of this—perhaps because he kept telling himself that nothing was meant to happen to him on this day, at least. Even when he felt their fetid breath and smelled their rank bodies, he did not cringe away or show fear. Even when they growled and hissed and spat at him, he simply looked away.

I will not give in to this.

He spoke the words in the silence of his mind. But he knew they were a fragile shield, and in the end would not be enough to save him.

A roar from the crowd of creatures heralded the arrival of Khyber Elessedil. Surrounded by Goblins, she was marched through the crowd, her head held high in the face of their fury and hunger, her gaze directed straight ahead. She was wearing what appeared to be a form of flexible body armor, and she had weapons strapped everywhere—everything from long knives and daggers to short swords and throwing stars. She looked surprisingly fit and strong and ready for what was coming. She saw him as she approached and gave him a small nod and a slight smile. As if to reassure him that everything was all right, that she had matters under control.

They brought her to the cage, opened the door, and waited for her to climb inside. Without a glance at any of them, she did what was expected of her.

She sat down next to Redden, close enough that he could see she no longer looked either haggard or beaten. If anything, she looked better than he had ever seen her.

“I know. I don’t look the same, do I?” She leaned close. “This morning they gave me something to drink that they said would make me stronger. I was weak from fear and lack of sleep and saw no reason to refuse it. How much worse could things be for me, even if I were being poisoned? But they were telling the truth; it was an elixir meant to strengthen my body and sharpen my instincts. I could feel it working on me right away. All of my despair and weariness disappeared. I felt better immediately.”

Redden shook his head. “Why would they do that for you?”

“Because the Straken Lord wants this to be a fight, not an execution. His pride and his manhood demand it. This is supposed to be a battle, so he must have an opponent who will provide a sufficient challenge. Make no mistake about this. I am to be killed—but not too easily. I am to provide entertainment and a few thrills first.”

“They’ve given you enough weapons for it.”

She glanced down at her assortment of blades and smiled. “After giving me the elixir, they took me to an armory and let me choose what I wanted. I took this armor and the blades and throwing weapons. They will provide me with a lance or spear of some sort once we arrive at the arena.”

She paused. “They said they will remove the conjure collar, as well.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “They will?”

“So they say. A mistake, I think, if they do so. But this is part of the spectacle. If I can be rendered immobile with a gesture, there is no point in the fight. If I can be subdued at any point, there is no suspense or even purpose to the battle. What this is meant to be is a demonstration of the Straken Lord’s power. He keeps his creatures in thrall by never allowing them to think for even a moment that he isn’t the equal of them all. Fear binds them to him. But fear must be instilled anew on a regular basis. I am to be the next best example of what could happen should they transgress.”

“But you believe your magic will give you the edge you need?”

“I think it might.”

She looked so confident and ready in that moment that Redden’s spirits were lifted. “Then we might escape this, after all.”

“We might. He may have overreached himself by giving me this opportunity. He thinks women are weak—all but Grianne Ohmsford, whom he worships. I learned this from the creature Tarwick. Tael Riverine has never forgotten her, his Straken Witch—the only female sufficiently strong enough to bear his children and extend his line. He is fixated on having this happen. He plans to dispose of me and then send you back to tell everyone what happened and what to expect. He assembles his army to march into the Four Lands and will do so as soon as the last of the Forbidding falls.”

A whip cracked and the rolling cage jolted forward, departing the courtyard. The crowd trailed after it, throngs of creatures and animals pressing close, pushing and shoving to gain a better position. Goblins, kobolds, Gormies, Harpies, and others Redden could not put names to. The demon-wolves roamed among them, growling and snapping at one another and anyone who got close. Every so often they would converge on an unfortunate creature that had caught their attention and drag it down, thrashing and screaming. None of the other creatures paid any heed to this. Those who were close just moved out of the way, avoiding the carnage and doing their best not to draw attention to themselves. The rest didn’t bother doing that much.

Dust rose from the rutted road onto which the procession had turned after passing through the fortress. The air grew thick with it—heavy clouds that rose dozens of feet into the grayness and blanketed everything. Buried in the haze were the grunts and snorts of the beasts hauling the rolling cage, and the shouts and cries of the creatures keeping pace, all of it a surreal, frenzied mix.

“Listen to me, Redden,” Khyber instructed, her voice suddenly urgent. She bent so close to him that their heads were almost touching. “I will try to find a way to defeat the Straken Lord, one that will give us a chance to escape. When that happens, I will come for you. Be ready. If we can persuade Tael Riverine to remove the conjure collar earlier or if you can manage to do so by yourself, that would help. But whatever happens, I will come for you.”

He nodded. “I’ll come to you first, if I can.”

“Then we have our plan.” She paused, and her expression changed. “But if our plan fails and I am killed, do not despair. Remember what I told you. He will release you anyway. He will send you back into the Four Lands as his messenger. That is his intent. I will try to disappoint him, but you will be freed if I fail.”

“You won’t fail,” he said quickly. “You will be stronger than he is and you will succeed.”

She sat back, nodding slowly. But she did not speak again.

They continued traveling through the scrub-covered landscape, through terrain blistered and raw and empty of visible life. Their journey took longer than Redden had expected—a long slow downward angling into a cluster of valleys—and it was only much later that the boy finally looked back to find Kraal Reach receding into a screen of dust and gloom, looking oddly tiny and insignificant.

The cage rolled on, its retinue of beasts and creatures trudging and slouching along in its wake, their collective gaze fastened on the prisoners. But at last the wagon crested a rise and started down toward a broad circular embankment thick with Jarka Ruus that must have arrived earlier. Tall gates opened into the embankment’s interior, and the cage was pulled through. Within, the arena stretched away a hundred yards, its uneven, cracked surface littered with broken rock and bones that gleamed bare and white against the dark earth. Howls and screams of expectation rose from those gathered—a primal roar infused with rage and bloodlust.

Cringing inwardly, diminished by the fury of the sound, Redden kept his eyes averted from the source.

“Steady,” he heard the Ard Rhys say.

The cage was brought to a halt before a set of risers constructed of iron bars and wooden planks. Creatures that were robed and hooded sat surrounded by Goblin bodyguards. At their center was the Straken Lord, draped in black, with Tarwick at his side. As the wagon pulled to a stop and those attending it and trailing after dropped to their knees and bowed, he leaned over and whispered to his Catcher. Tarwick came to his feet and threaded his way through those occupying the risers until he stood before the cage door. Signaling to the guards, he had the door opened and Khyber Elessedil removed. But he motioned for Redden to stay where he was. When the boy tried to climb down anyway, the Catcher held up one hand, palm out, in an unmistakable gesture. Frustrated, Redden motioned toward his collar, signaling he wished it removed. Tarwick shook his head firmly.

Redden slumped back as the cage door was closed and locked anew. He watched as the Goblins led the Ard Rhys away from the viewing stands and the Straken Lord, and out into the center of the arena.

She did not look back at him.

They took Khyber to the center of the arena and brought her to a halt. Tarwick took a moment to check her body armor and weapons; he reached up and carefully removed the conjure collar from around her neck. He hesitated a moment afterward, perhaps waiting to see if she intended to do anything. Then, satisfied that she did not, he stepped away and allowed one of the Goblin guards to offer her a short spear, one perfectly suited to her size and weight. She took it without a word and watched as they turned and walked back toward the risers.

She could have killed them all, could have decimated them without effort, but what would it have gained her? The only one that mattered was Tael Riverine. She needed to save her strength for him.

She stood waiting, her gaze shifting between the risers and the cage that still held Redden Ohmsford captive. She had hoped he might be taken out and given some small measure of freedom, but the Straken Lord must have foreseen the possibilities for escape, however remote, and had chosen to shut them off completely. She knew the boy was disappointed and afraid. She didn’t have to look at him to know what he was feeling. But there was nothing she could do about it.

She gazed around at the grayness of the land and sky and thought that this was a miserable place for anyone to die.

Atop the risers, the Straken Lord rose to his feet and started down. When he reached ground level, he threw off his black robes and revealed that he was dressed as she was, in lightweight black body armor. He bore similar weapons. He accepted a short spear from one of the Goblins, hefted it in one hand to test its feel, and nodded in satisfaction. Then he turned to those gathered on the viewing embankment and thrust both arms skyward. A deafening roar of approval greeted the gesture, his minions chanting and screaming, leaping up to mimic him, arms raised, fists pumping the air overhead.

The Straken Lord turned from the crowd and began to stalk toward Khyber.

She stood where she was, holding her ground. She had already begun to summon her magic, and she found it strong and ready as it gathered at her fingertips. The shouts and roars of the faithful had resumed, cheering for Tael Riverine, urging him on. Let them howl, she thought. She would try to give them something to really howl about. She would kill him quickly. She would catch him off guard and overconfident, and she would end his life before he could end hers.

But, instead, he was the one who caught her off guard. Still moving toward her, he went into a sudden crouch and flung his spear directly at her with a strength and accuracy she would not have believed possible. She flung herself aside just in time, barely avoiding being skewered as the deadly missile whizzed past her. She rolled and came back to her feet to see him racing toward her, blades in both hands.

She had only seconds to respond, but that was enough. She gathered up the threads of her momentarily scattered magic, hardened them into a solid mass, and sent it hurtling toward Tael Riverine. But he deftly sidestepped the dangerous attack, barely slowing. Even so, he could not escape her second strike, which followed close on the heels of the first. It caught him squarely in the chest and threw him backward like a straw man.

Fresh screams rose from the assembled masses, but Khyber was paying no heed now, consumed with her struggle to stay alive. She drew on her magic again, moving toward the Straken Lord as she did so, closing the distance between them. He was sprawled on the earth, smoke rising from his damaged armor, but he was quick to rise. Aside from the scrapes and cracks in his armor, he appeared whole. Knives flashed from his hands as he sped toward her, and she barely managed to use her magic to knock them down. Others followed, and she found herself on the defensive as he closed on her.

She took a few steps backward. She did not want him to get close enough to grapple with her. If that happened, she was finished.

Moving sideways now as she gathered fresh magic, she barely eluded another pair of knives and then she attacked. She caught him with another strike, this one to his head, flinging him away, tumbling him head-over-heels across the rocky earth, spines tearing at the ground as he rolled. Yet almost immediately he was up again, shrugging off whatever pain and injury she had inflicted.

Then he charged.

She could not recover fast enough to bring another strike to bear, so she snatched up the spear she had left lying on the ground and used it to sweep his legs from under him as he reached her. She leapt aside as he tumbled past, then backed away quickly and braced for his recovery. He spun around and came for her, but she clenched her hands and drove him backward with a fresh explosion of magic. Then she struck at him once more, another surge that caught him midsection and thrust him away. He was on fire now, all of his spines red-hot and steaming, his armor half melted, and his dark body singed and peeling in a dozen places. Most of his weapons were gone, either expended in his earlier attacks or lost during the course of their battle. He dropped to his hands and knees, shaking himself like a dog, gasping for air.

Finish him!

She summoned fresh magic, intent on doing exactly that. This was her chance, and she could not afford to let it pass.

But something was wrong. She felt the magic respond, then immediately dwindle. Confused, she summoned it again, willing it to life—to her fingertips and her service. Again, it sparked and again it quickly failed.

In the same instant, she felt her strength begin to fade. A sudden weakness overcame her, as if all of her energy had been drained away. She tried to collect herself, to harden her resolve against what was happening, to recover the power she had possessed just moments earlier.

But it was gone. It was all gone.

She experienced a sinking feeling as she realized what had happened. The elixir she had been given had a finite life. It was never intended to sustain her for long; it was always meant to fail. The Straken Lord had wanted her to give a good account of herself, and so he had given her a measured amount to allow for that. But, in the end, she would be left helpless.

With a sudden sense of desperation, she threw herself atop Tael Riverine, the long knife in her right hand flashing downward. But he had either seen or sensed what was happening to her, and he knocked the blow aside and rolled out from under her.

Slowly, deliberately, he rose to his feet, kicking her down again when she tried to get up with him. Moving close, he pinned her to the ground with his foot. She struggled to break free, but could not manage it, betrayed by the elixir on which she had depended, deserted by her magic and her strength, bereft of everything.

She looked up at the Straken Lord as he towered over her, his spines rigid, like tiny spears extending from his powerful body, his dark face expressionless. His strange blue eyes fixed on her, willing her to meet his gaze, looking to see the fear he expected she would display. She stared up at him, but there was no fear and no despair. There was only grim resignation.

He studied her for a moment longer, then drew the short sword from his belt, the last weapon he possessed, and drove it through her heart.