Rianna backed away, obviously trying to give herself time to prepare another spell. Teldin moved forward, pressing her. Steel rang against something that wasn't steel as she parried another thrust.
"Forget it," she spat, punctuating the phrase with another snake-quick thrust that Teldin barely managed to counter. "You'll never best me. Drop your sword, and I'll let you live."
"You're a liar," he hissed. Another thrust, another parry.
"You're right," she chuckled. Thrust, parry, riposte. She danced back out of range of his counter. "Drop your sword, and I'll kill you painlessly. Otherwise, I'll make it last."
Teldin followed her retreat. Keep pressing her, he told himself, keep pressing or you're dead. He took another step forward, and his foot slipped in Barrab's blood, not much, but enough to slow him for an instant.
Rianna reacted with the speed of thought. She lunged low, under his guard. He snapped his right arm down, the pommel of his strange weapon slamming into her blade, deflecting it a little but not enough.
The woman's blade ripped through his flesh and along his ribs on the right side. Instantly his entire body was aflame with pain. He gritted his teeth against it, fought to smother the cry that erupted from his throat. Rianna stepped back again, in plenty of time to avoid his slow riposte.
"I'll make it last," she said again.
He cursed one of the blistering mercenary oaths he'd heard Aelfred use. With his left hand, he clutched at the ragged tear in his right side, feeling hot blood on his fingers. He gripped tight, trying to staunch the bleeding, almost making himself faint with the agony. His left forearm was pressed against something hard on his stomach. For the moment, he couldn't remember what it was. "Damn you!" he screamed. "You killed them all!" In the churning delirium of his suffering, he wasn't talking to Rianna. He didn't really know whom he was referring to. The cloak, perhaps… or maybe himself.
"Damn you to the Abyss!" He lurched forward.
Aelfred's lessons, the words of the soldiers he'd talked to, everything he'd ever learned about swordwork-all were gone from his mind. All that was left was rage and pain and the desire to kill. He swung the Juna knife in a hissing arc, directly at Rianna's head.
She hardly managed to raise her own weapon in time. The nonmetal weapon bit into her blade, notching the tempered steel. For several heartbeats, they were frozen in that position: her blade parallel with the floor, holding up his weapon, preventing it from cleaving down into her skull. Their bodies were close together. He could hear her labored breathing.
Rianna grunted with the effort of it, then her mangled left hand lashed out toward Teldin's face, her remaining fingers like claws reaching for his eyes. He ducked beneath the grasping hand and lurched backward. The movement sent bolts of agony radiating outward from his ripped side. Something sharp pricked the skin of his abdomen.
It was Aelfred's dagger. With his left hand he pulled the weapon from beneath his belt, slashed it upward at Rianna's sword arm. The razor-sharp blade sliced into the soft flesh of her forearm, grating sickeningly against bone.
For an instant, Rianna stood there howling, staring uncomprehendingly at the gouty gash that had laid bare tendon and bone. Then Teldin's Juna knife shot out, the full weight of his body behind the thrust as Aelfred had taught him. The curved blade bit into the flesh of her chest, sank quillion-deep.
Rianna gasped. Her eyes found Teldin's. The sea-green orbs were wide with pain and pleading, then they closed, and she sank to the deck, unmoving.
For an immeasurable time, the two of them remained thus, Teldin still grasping the hilt of the Juna knife. Then he released it, and stepped back. Seemingly of its own volition, his right hand wiped itself-again and again-on the blood-soaked cloth of his jerkin, as if trying to remove some stain or taint.
He gazed down at the body of the woman he'd loved. Her face, now in final repose, was untroubled and heartachingly lovely. He felt appreciation for her beauty, but there was no love anymore. The charm was broken. He turned away.
His stomach was suddenly wrenched by convulsions. He sank to his knees and was wretchedly, rackingly sick, each muscle spasm sending jolts of almost unendurable pain through his wounded side.
Finally the spasms ended, leaving him weak and drained. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Why don't I just stay here, he asked himself, with the other dead? It would be so much easier that way, simply to fade away into oblivion. All in all, he reasoned, oblivion would be the easiest, the most comfortable choice.
"Teldin." The voice was weak, barely more than a whisper. At first, Teldin wasn't sure that he'd heard it at all, wasn't sure that it wasn't some result of the pain-induced delirium that clouded his mind. "Teldin."
This time he looked up.
It was Julia. Somehow she'd forced herself to a sitting position. Her face gave him some indication of the effort-the overwhelming agony-the movement had cost her. "Teldin," she whispered again.
He sighed. No, he couldn't let himself drift into the silent darkness, not now. He had one final duty to perform. If he could save one life-Julia's-he'd at least have made one small effort at redemption, at making up for the many lives he'd already cost. He closed his eyes against the red flashes of pain and forced himself to his feet. He swayed there a moment and slipped Aelfred's dagger into his belt, then he trudged slowly and painfully to where Julia lay.
Calling to him had taken much of what little remained of her energy. She'd slumped back to the deck, but her eyes were still open. They looked up at him out of the young woman's chalk-white face. She smiled. "I'm glad you're still alive," she whispered.
He gazed down at her. Her petite body was twisted with pain, marred by multiple wounds. Her red hair was matted, redder here and there with spilled blood. She's lovely, he suddenly realized. Even like this, she's lovely. He felt a warmth in his chest, a warmth that expanded until he thought his heart would burst. He smiled. "I'm glad you're still alive," he echoed.
*****
Teldin would never understand where he'd found the strength. Maybe it had come from the cloak, or maybe it had come from somewhere within him, some wellspring of his being that he'd never before been able to tap. Somehow he'd managed to lift Julia from the deck and sling her over his left shoulder. The effort had almost killed him, he knew. Darkness had filled his vision, narrowing his field of view down to a tunnel that looked as narrow as a gold coin held at arm's length, but somehow he'd managed it.
Every step had been torture; each shift of weight had sent lightning bolts of pain through his rent side. The white corridor, the one leading to the gallery-to the killing field-was only a hundred feet or so long, but on the return journey it had seemed like ten times that distance. Several times he'd been sure that he couldn't continue, that he'd collapse and never be able to move again, but each time he'd found himself able to draw on some mysterious reserve of strength. He'd carried his burden up the spiral staircase that seemed as tall as a mountain peak. Now he finally emerged onto the huge circular deck. The great hammership loomed overhead, still secured by its docking tethers. The rope ladders still hung in place.
Teldin stopped. He set Julia down, as gently as he could, on the ivory deck. Her eyes were dosed, but he could still see her breathing-shallow, but steady. Tenderly he brushed the blood-matted hair back from her face.
He'd come as far as he could. Now he had to depend on others. Aelfred was dead-Rianna had said as much, and on this he had no reason to doubt her. The bravos she'd hired were in command of the Probe. Their mistress was dead, though. Would they still have any reason to kill Teldin Moore? He wondered how much they knew of Rianna's real motivation. Had she told them about the cloak, so they might want it for themselves? He doubted it, but he might be wrong. He'd been wrong before, more times than he cared to count. If he was wrong now, what was left? Nothing but the final option he'd turned away from on the arcane's great gallery: to sell his life as dearly as he could. He took a deep breath, readying to call out to the ship above….