I lunged. I put all my hopes on a single thrust of my knife. It was the opposite of how I’d fought so far.
Orlando chopped hard. Durendal shattered the stool I used as a shield. The sword kept coming, and the blade sank into my hip. It grated against bone. It staggered me and the pain exploded with fiery intensity.
Yet in that instant, with almost all my weight on my right leg, my right hip, I punched the deathblade. I had gotten inside his guard by paying the price of receiving Durendal’s edge in my flesh. The deathblade’s point screamed as it touched his armor. The armor resisted and then it parted. The oily blade entered his gut. It sank to the hilt. Then the force of Durendal cutting into me hurled me aside. I lost my hold of the deathblade and crumpled upon the floor.
The black knight stumbled backward and slammed against the wall. It was a clank of noise. The sword Durendal crashed down onto the floor. Signor Orlando wrapped a gauntleted hand around the hilt of the deathblade. He yanked. He groaned. The blade came out. So did smoke, and then torrents of dark blood.
“Ah, but that hurts,” he said.
I crawled to the open window. Sluggish fluid poured out my hip. I let moonbeams fall on it. That leeched some of the hurt, and almost immediately, the flow lessened.
“You’ll never make it now,” Orlando gasped as he leaned against the wall. He’d torn off his helm. His face had the pallor of death. Smoke trickled from his mouth as he spoke. Then his eyes narrowed. He studied me, how moonlight fell across my hip.
“You’re healing,” he whispered.
“I’m the Darkling.”
He groaned as he bent down, groped and then lifted Durendal. He took a horrible, lurching step toward me. He raised the sword, and his eyelids flickered.
I judged the distance to my deathblade.
“You didn’t fight fair,” he said. He slid an armored foot toward me, and he moaned. Blood stained his teeth. Smoke billowed from the stomach wound. He was dying on his feet. “Dog,” he whispered. He lowered his sword, and he began to swing it like a boy swinging a bucket of water. Then, with a howl of agony, he pitched Durendal.
I flinched. The sword sailed over me and out the window.
“It’s my sword,” he whispered. “No one else shall ever use it.” Then he crashed upon the floor, dead.
I lay there for a time. The bleeding stopped, and I heard the Moon Lady whisper in my mind. I groaned as I worked to my feet. I limped to the deathblade, sheathed it and glanced at the black knight.
“It wasn’t fair,” I whispered. “It never is against a man who is already dead.” Then I limped for the double doors.
— 34-
Rubble and giant chunks of masonry blocked my way. What had happened up there? Had the spell failed? Had Erasmo killed himself? I felt cheated, but his death-
I heard him. He still chanted. His voice was hoarse. He sounded old.
I grabbed a huge boulder of masonry and heaved. It rolled away, but other huge chunks blocked the way. It would take hours to clear them.
I retreated into the room. The window was the only way. Despite my wound, I limped to it and looked up. Stone blocks had moved. The roof was gone. The air stirred, but not with shrieks or with thunderous booms. A mist drifted before the moon and the stars. Far below were the castle grounds, the low buildings. Nothing surged along the patterned roads now. They were empty of spirits. Maybe the spell had already devoured them.
I climbed out the window. I reached up, found a wedge of space because of the moved stones and dared crawl out onto the gargantuan tower. The air stirred my cloak. It was not a boom of sound, yet the gentle stir terrified me more than the flame powers had. The stir, the gentle sound, almost the still breeze-if there was such a thing-carried more threat than the sea monsters. The being came. The one Erasmo summoned approached. I felt it. Maybe the whole world did. It was like being in the eye of a hurricane.
I slithered up the Tower of the East like a lizard. I would have liked to soak more moonbeams. Time had run out on that. I had what I had. I must move. I must attack.
A hoarse laugh sounded. It was Erasmo. “Come,” he said. “I have summoned thee. You must come and obey my commands.”
I climbed. Throughout all those booms and sorcery, the tower had shifted. Stones groaned even now, unbalanced stones held in place by weight. They ached to be free.
I reached an opening into the dread chamber. The roof had vanished. Only half the walls stood. On the floor, rubble and stones lay across glowing lines of power. The Trumpet of Blood stood on a golden stand. It gleamed silvery pure one moment and wetly red like blood the next. The stand and trumpet were outside the pattern of lines. Erasmo stood in the very center of the pattern. He stood straight in his blue jacket and golden boots. He was big like me, had an oiled beard and hard eyes. A sword hung from his belt. Costly rings decorated his fingers. He wore a black amulet, but this time it lacked a fire. Maybe it had left with the flame powers.
Ah. Blood stained his shoulder. The one I had cut in the dead world. Blood soaked his side. He coughed, and he smiled. He raised his arms. The left one he raised gingerly. A grimace of pain twitched across his face.
“I feel you,” he said. “I order you to show yourself. It is time to begin my transformation.”
I wriggled through the opening in the wall. It scraped my skin. Maybe he heard the sound. As I jumped to the floor, he turned. Amazement filled his face.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked.
I ran fingers through my hair. Here he was. Here was the object of my hatred. The thirst to kill him made me giddy.
“Why do you wear my likeness?” he asked.
I barely swallowed a bray of laughter. His likeness, why did I wear his likeness? Why did he wear mine?
I strode toward the Trumpet of Blood.
“Do you mock me?” Erasmo asked.
I ignored him.
He flexed his ringed fingers. “You must obey me this night,” he said. “You are bound to me. I am the master. You are the slave.”
I stopped, not because of any power of his. I realized that he thought I was the creature he had summoned.
“Face me,” Erasmo said.
I faced him.
“You will explain to me why you wear my likeness,” he said.
“Where are your wife and children?” I asked.
“Do you jest?” he asked.
“First you must-”
“Gian!” he said. “You’re Gian.”
“Where’s Laura?”
“You must leave,” Erasmo said. “I sent Laura and Francesca away. They’re with Anaximander.”
I snarled, and took a step toward him.
“I sent them to another realm,” Erasmo said. “If you hope to see them again, you must obey me.”
“Where’s Astorre?”
Erasmo shook his head. “Your son was stubborn. He tried to kill me. He died because of it.”
“You killed my son?”
“Think carefully, Gian. Anaximander has your wife and daughter. Only I know where he went. You must leave now. You must depart if you love them.”
I drew the deathblade. I crossed the first of his many lines. I entered the pattern. “I am the Darkling, Erasmo. You tried to kill me, twice now. It’s my turn.”
He drew his sword, and he shouted wildly. I ran and smashed my hand against his and sent the blade skittering across the room.
“This is interesting.”
Erasmo and I turned. There, across the lines and near the Trumpet of Blood, stood a shimmering being. His features were handsome one moment and devilish the next.
“Sound the trumpet!” Erasmo screamed. “Hurry! Do as I command!”
The shimmering being frowned. His arm lifted toward the trumpet. The arm seemed to move on its own accord.
The being said, “This is a hard thing you ask.”
“I order you!” Erasmo shouted. “I ask nothing, but demand it.”