From Darkness Won - Jill Williamson [198]
The green fire mirrored in Lord Nathak’s eyes. “Take your time, stray. My only real goal this day is to kill you, and I am in no rush to do so.”
“Let me deal with him, Father.” Esek crossed the roof and drew a black blade from the scabbard on his hip.
“Don’t be a fool, son. Let the magic do it.”
Esek snorted. “I don’t need the magic now. Look at him. He’s wounded. And I won’t lower my guard like Kenton did.” Holding his sword loosely, Esek swung the blade in a circle and jutted his chin at Sir Kenton’s body. “My Shield will be brought back to life, you know.”
His black blade flashed. Achan jerked Ôwr up, and the swords rang together.
Achan tried to sweep out Esek’s leg, but his left leg buckled, unable to hold his weight on its own. Esek laughed and slashed at Achan again.
Achan parried, faked a cut to Esek’s head, and cut for his feet. Esek blocked the strike, which left his torso free. So Achan spun his sword upward and tried a cut from high guard, which would slice Esek open down the middle.
Except Esek jerked back out of reach.
“You really should consider armor.” Achan glanced at Esek’s arm, the one he’d cut off.
“I don’t need armor, stray.”
Esek swung wide and deep, twisting his arm so his blade came toward Achan like a hook. Achan’s instinct was to dart aside, but he turned into it instead, meeting the strike with Ôwr’s flat.
Esek stumbled but recovered with ease. His feet glided over the roof, his blue eyes locked with Achan’s. Achan limped. The bottom half of his right leg felt like a numb stump. When Esek sprung forward with a cut from side guard, Achan almost missed the block.
Esek’s blade came down again and knocked Ôwr away, then cleaved down on Achan’s shoulder.
Achan’s breastplate crunched. He lost his feet, lurched over the carcass of a gowzal, and spilled to his knees. His left knee screamed, and he put his weight on his right.
Esek bared a nasty grin as he stepped in close and tore off Achan’s helm. He pressed his blade to Achan’s throat, just above the top edge of Achan’s gorget. “Am I king, Uncle? Call me king, and maybe I’ll let you live.”
Then he fell forward, brow furrowed. His blade scratched Achan’s neck, all force gone. He grabbed Achan’s shoulder with his free hand and sank to his knees, eyes wide with shock, grunting mouse-like sounds and curling into Achan’s lap.
Bran stood over Esek’s crumpled form, clutching a small knife in a trembling hand. Bran!
Following Bran’s lead, Achan pulled his own boot knife and stabbed Esek in the side of the neck. A moan gurgled from Esek as he twisted over the rest of the way and thumped to the roof, eyes closed forever.
37
“No!”
Achan turned on his knees to see Lord Nathak, the real one, marching toward him, hands raised, green mist swirling from his palms. Achan’s chest heaved. He stood, his left leg burning and stiff. “Your heir is dead.”
“No matter,” Lord Nathak said between clenched teeth. “I will resurrect him.”
Again? “How many times does he have to die?”
Lord Nathak grinned. “That is the beauty of the power of the keliy. Nothing is ever too far.”
Achan had felt its power that day at the Reshon Gate when he had possessed the black knight. He picked up Ôwr. “The keliy’s power is a trick. It brought Darkness upon us, and I am here to send it back.”
“And how will you do that, little brother?” Lord Nathak’s lips twisted in a sneer. “You don’t know, do you? Well, I taught you to obey me once. I can do it again.”
A hot knife stabbed Achan’s skull. It had to be Lord Nathak’s bloodvoice gripping his mind as in a vise. He dropped his sword and tried to clutch his head, but his body betrayed him. Despite his throbbing leg, he dropped to his knees and leaned forward, bowing before Lord Nathak.
A brief memory of himself at ten years of age in Lord Nathak’s solar, experiencing a similar pain and lack of self-control, flickered in