Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [9]
She glanced at him, half-smiled. “I took your knife, Galdar. I took it from you in the night.”
He didn’t like the way she held it, as though it were something precious to her.
“Who is that man, Mina?” the minotaur demanded, his voice hoarse with a fear he could not name. “What does he want with you?”
“You should leave, Galdar,” she told him quietly, her gaze fixed on the stranger, who was drawing closer. His stride had quickened. He seemed impatient to reach his destination. “This is none of your concern.”
The figure came into view. He was a human male of indeterminate age. His face was what humans consider handsome—cleft chin, square jaw, aquiline nose, prominent cheekbones, smooth brow. He wore his black hair long; sleek locks curled about his shoulders and hung down his back. His skin was so pallid as to seem bloodless. He had no color in his lips or cheeks. His eyes were dark as creation’s first night. Set deep beneath heavy brows, they seemed darker still, always in shadow.
He was dressed all in black; his clothes were rich, which bespoke wealth. His black velvet coat came to his knees. Nipped in at his narrow waist, the coat was trimmed in silver at the sleeves and around the hem. He wore black breeches that came to just below the knee, trimmed with black ribbons. He had black silken stockings and black boots with silver buckles. White lace adorned his shirt, spread in frills over his bosom, protruding from his sleeves, falling languidly over his hands. He carried himself with grace and confidence and an awareness of his own power.
Galdar shivered. Though the sun’s heat was intense, he could no longer feel it. A cold so ancient that it made the mountain young crept into the marrow of his bones. He had faced many terrible foes in his life, including the Dragon Overlord Malys, and he had not run from any of them. He could not help himself now. He began to edge backward.
“Sargonnas!” Galdar prayed to his god. His voice cracked on the name and he tried to swallow, to moisten his throat. “Sargonnas, give me strength. Help me fight this dread foe—”
The god’s answer was a snort. “I’ve indulged your loyalty to this human female thus far, Galdar, but my patience has run out. Leave her to her fate. It is well-deserved.”
“I cannot,” said Galdar staunchly, though he blanched at the sight of the strange man. “I am pledged to her—”
“I warn you, Galdar,” said Sargonnas in dire tones. “Do not come between Chemosh and his prey.”
“Chemosh!” Galdar cried hollowly.
Chemosh. Lord of Death. Galdar began to tremble. His insides crawled.
Mina held up Galdar’s knife. The knife was old with a bone handle. It was a utility knife, one used for a variety of purposes, from cleaning fish to gutting deer. He kept the blade sharp, well-honed. He watched Mina raise the knife, saw the light of the sun reflected in the metal of the blade but not in her eyes. Her gaze was focused on the god.
She held the blade in her right hand. Reversing it, she pressed the blade’s sharp point against her throat. The inner flame in the amber eyes flashed briefly then dimmed. Her lips compressed. Her grip on the knife tightened. She closed her eyes and drew in a breath.
Galdar roared and lunged for her. He had waited too long. He could not reach her before she plunged the blade into her throat. He hoped his roar would distract her before she could destroy herself.
Chemosh lifted his hand in a negligent, almost careless gesture. Galdar flew off his feet, sailed into the air, upheld by the hand of the god. Galdar fought and struggled, but he was in the grasp of the god and there was no escape. No more than if he’d tried to flee from death itself.
Chemosh carried the minotaur—flailing and roaring—away from the valley, away from the mountain, away from Mina, who was receding into the distance, growing smaller and smaller, dwindling by the second.
Galdar reached out his hand to try desperately to grab hold of time and the world as both thundered past him—to seize hold