Miathan’s face had turned pasty grey with fear, and Forral grinned wolfishly.
“I’ll wager you’re wondering where these powers of mine came from?” he said, the grin never leaving his face.
The Archmage merely grunted and swung across his opponent’s sword. Forral used Miathan’s own momentum to flick his blade contemptuously away. “Well, it’s Anvar’s magic, as a matter of fact,” the swordsman went on, parrying a hacking stroke with a roll of his wrists. “I like to think I’m doing this for the both of us.” His blade flicked out and again cloth tore with a shearing sound. A red stain spread across the gaping rent on Miathan’s left sleeve. “That was for Aurian,” Forral told him.
“And this is for Wolf.” Again, the swordsman lunged in, and slashed across the Archmage’s ribs. Miathan screamed with pain, but kept his head and thrust his sword into Forral’s good thigh. The swordsman staggered back and his injured leg collapsed beneath him. He fell heavily backward and rolled as Miathan’s sword came flashing down, missing him by a hairbreadth—but the Archmage, with a broken rib and a slash across his chest was slower to recover. Before he could straighten, Forral scrambled up onto one knee and thrust his blade through Miathan’s heart.
As the Archmage crumpled, the swordsman gripped his sword hilt tightly and used Miathan’s weight to drive the point in further. “And that was for me,” he said grimly.
30
Lord of Nexis
D’arvan’s first view of the Phaerie city was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen in his life. Apart from a single night spent in the Vale with Eilin, and occasional pauses along the route to snatch a little sleep and rest the horses, he had been traveling continuously since the horrific attack on the Nightrunner stronghold. D’arvan simply could not get back fast enough.—Ever since that dreadful night, the carnage had haunted the Mage’s memory and disturbed his dreams. After the atrocities he had witnessed: the agony and bloodshed inflicted by human upon human—it was difficult to blame his father and the Phaerie so harshly as he once had done. Now, each day that Pendral continued to live and rejoice in the authority of the High Lordship, was an affront to the Mage. D’arvan would never have believed that such aggression was in his nature—but now that he had discovered it, he welcomed it. Maya and her friends at the garrison had been right all along.
There were some things existing in the world that only violence could put right.
D’arvan glanced across at Hargorn. Despite his grief over his old friend Dulsina and his concern for his companions who were missing, the veteran seemed to have stood the grueling ride surprisingly well. It had been his idea to round up a couple of the swift and sturdy Nightrunner ponies—otherwise, the Mage acknowledged, they might still have been walking this time next month.—Hargorn was gazing at the Phaerie city on its hill, his face wearing the same expression it had worn since leaving Wyvernesse—a sour, twisted mouth and the blackest of scowls. “Bloody daft idea,” he muttered. “If you ask me, it’s criminal.”
D’arvan smiled to himself. All the interminable length of the journey, the veteran had never hesitated to make his feelings clear on the idea of D’arvan using the Phaerie to attack Nexis and take over the city in the name of his father. His arguments all started with: that’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard, went on to: what kind of a feeble excuse is that? and: don’t expect the Nexians to thank you for it, and ended, glumly, with: well, I only hope Maya will be able to talk some bloody sense into you.
D’arvan had been content to let him grumble: Hargorn’s grousing was the most normal thing that had happened to him since—he could scarcely remember when.—Since he had first left Nexis with Maya, he supposed—about the time that Forral had been slain and this whole insane business had started.
The Mage’s wits snapped back to attention as the veteran’s usual litany of complaint broke off abruptly with: “Thara’s titties! What the bloody blazes is that?”
“You know perfectly well what it is, Hargorn,” the Mage said. “You saw Aurian flying with the Xandim back at Wyvernesse. My father has seen me approaching, that’s all, and sent an escort. You can ride back to the city in style.”
“I’d rather keep my fragging feet on the ground, thank you,” Hargorn muttered sourly. “But, I don’t suppose your bloody Phaerie will give me a choice.”
D’arvan shrugged. “You can ride all the way up that hill on your fat Nightrunner pony if you want to—I don’t suppose anyone will stop you.”
“No, not at all,” Hargorn said quickly. “I’d hate to think I was holding up your plans for the conquest of us mere Mortals.”
D’arvan was gratified to see Hargorn’s face light up, however, when the Phaerie steeds landed and Maya leapt to the ground from her perch behind the Forest Lord. He can’t possibly be as glad to see her as I am, D’arvan thought.—That one glimpse of her had soothed so much of the pain he had carried with him since Pendral’s attack. He couldn’t wait until they were alone—if only the news he had to impart to her had not been so tragic.
Maya scowled at him fiercely. “What the bloody blazes are you doing back here?” I thought you were supposed to be helping Aurian!”
D’arvan found himself grinning. Oh, how he had been looking forward to surprising her! “Hellorin and I worked something out between us before I left,” he told her. “He found a way to gift Aurian with the Old Magic so that she could get the Xandim to fly without me. It worked tremendously well—so I came back to you.”
The frown didn’t leave Maya’s face. “But what if she needs you? What if she needs the help of another Mage?”
“She has Chiamh,” D’arvan said firmly. “Maya, there was no way I ever intended to go off and abandon you here to carry our child alone. Now, I’ve done what I can for Aurian, and she’s more than happy that I come back to you—in fact she insisted.” He held out his hands to her. “In fact, if you’ll let me get into the palace, I have a whole collection of messages for you....”
“And what about me?” Hargorn demanded belligerently. “I haven’t seen the bloody woman for ten years, and I can’t get as much as a hello out of her.”
Maya made him an obscene gesture. “I see you haven’t changed much in ten years—you’re still as twist-faced and grouchy as ever.” With a laugh, she let go of D’arvan and ran to hug her old friend.
Hellorin looked on indulgently as Hargorn and Maya embraced. “Mortals,” he said, shaking his head.
D’arvan looked at his father coldly. “Speaking of Mortals,” he said, “how soon will we be ready to attack the city of Nexis?”
Hellorin shrugged. “Whenever you like. I have been making our preparations in your absence.”
“Good,” said D’arvan. “Let’s do it tomorrow night.”
Even on a stolen horse, it had taken Parric several cold, hungry, miserable days to travel overland from the coastal village of Easthaven to Nexis. He had amused himself along the way by imaging himself in the taproom of the Invisible Unicorn, and planning exactly what he was going to eat and drink when he finally found himself there. He only hoped that old hen Hebba would remember him—because he had no means of paying for anything.
Since the old river road from the east was blocked nowadays, Parric was forced to circle north and go round into the hills to reach the city. It was dusk when he finally turned onto the northern highway and looked down from the ridge at the smoking chimneys of Nexis.
The black-liveried guards at the gate almost made him wish he hadn’t bothered coming back at all. They were surly, suspicious—and clearly on the lookout for a bribe. Well, that was their hard luck. Parric explained to them, graphically and in no uncertain terms, that they were sadly mistaken if they thought he had money. He also informed them that, if they refused to let him in, he was going to camp right where he was outside the gates, and cook and eat his horse. By this time, he had worked himself into such a thoroughly bad temper that he meant every word of it. The guards took one look at his grim expression and admitted him at once.