Bloodstone (43 page)

He saw himself deep inside Drakkonwehr, this time in the pit, while the words of the Dragon Chant reverberated around him. Above, he heard an anguished cry. “Ayliss!”

“Illusion, Errek!” Durren screamed. “Don’t touch her!”

But Errek, still on the pit’s rim, lowered his axe and his shield. “Ayliss,” he said to the shimmering woman in white who ascended a narrow staircase and held out her arms to him.

Durren blinked, stared at her outstretched hands and blinked again. An image flickered in and out of view, an image of something held in one slender hand—no!—one large, heavy-wristed hand.

“Errek!” he screamed. “It’s the—”

“Ayliss,” Errek said, and embraced her.

The hand moved—in a quick, thrusting motion.

Durren seized his knife and flung it at the woman in white.

There was a moment when time seemed suspended, when the knife, rotating gracefully hilt over tip, floated through the air while nothing else moved. Even his hand couldn’t complete its downward arc. Nor could sound, rolling like thunder, form into more than slow reverberation. Only the woman in white could glide onward, shimmering, through Errek’s embrace.

“Illusion, Drakkonwehr,” purred the mage’s voice in his ear. “How kind of you to fall for it.”

Powerless, Durren could do nothing but stare in horror as the knife, continuing its uninterrupted motion, slid smoothly into Errek’s tunic. It struck a spark from the chain mail covering his friend’s chest, a tiny spark that winked out even as the blade penetrated with agonizing leisure, penetrated to the hilt. A fine spray of red droplets punctuated the impact, hazing into the air.

“No!” he cried as Errek’s body, ever so slowly, rounded over the antler-handled hilt, now spotted with blood.

The big man staggered and his hand came up to his chest. “Durren—” Errek raised his head, a look of shock in his eyes. “Your knife—” And he crumpled, slowly, to the ground...

Drenched in a cold sweat, Durren gripped that same antler-handled knife by fingers and thumb while the memory dissolved and the courtyard took shape. He could throw now and save the woman he loved from the threat he perceived, but two words echoed in his mind as time hung as delicately suspended as his knife—
trust
and
illusion
. The Dragon told him to trust Mirianna, that she had power and knew how to use it. He’d lived all these years knowing he killed Errek by falling for an illusion. The guilt had nearly crushed him. But what if he held back now and failed to save her? By Kiros, he had to throw now and save the woman he loved!

Didn’t he?

“Damn you to Beggeth, you demon-spawned Beast!” Durren shouted at the Dragon, but he held the knife suspended.

Time returned in a blur of Mirianna spinning at just the moment he would’ve let the knife fly. She stepped in front of the Krad he’d targeted and thrust her torch. Durren’s heart stopped. If he’d thrown when he intended, he would’ve killed her just as he’d killed Errek. Instead, the burned Krad backpedaled into the second one, and both fell down. Mirianna finished them with two strokes of her sword.

She straightened and threw her hair back. In the light of her torch, her face glistened through the dirt smudging it, but she paused only long enough to adjust her grip on her weapons before charging at another Krad.

Durren’s knees shook. He steadied himself by leaning on the Sword.
Dear Koronolan!
Would his heart ever recover? Life was simpler when he trusted no one.

Simpler, yes,
his heart replied,
but nowhere near as satisfying as living for a purpose again.

By Kiros, yes!
He had people to live for. People he loved. And one of those people was calling for help right now. He spun toward the center of the courtyard and saw Mirianna’s father brandishing a firebrand at two Krad. The old man could barely hold the stick with two hands, and he shuffled backwards under their assault. The rest of the horde was fading into the shadows, pursued by the Dragon, Mirianna, and the two men, but these Krad seemed intent on taking down at least one of the defenders. Power surged through Durren’s body and rushed into his arms and legs. The Sword leaped to his hand, and he charged. No one was going to harm Mirianna’s father. Not while Durren could stop them.

He should’ve seen the third Krad, the one that rushed him out of the shadows, but the glare of the fire and the old man’s torch concealed the beast-man until it was almost too late. Durren pulled back the Sword of Drakkonwehr, and the Krad crumpled at his feet, joining the other two bodies. Around the fortress, the rest of the Krad had gone silent, melting away into the darkness outside. He heard the roar of the Dragon and the shouts of Mirianna and the two men as they pursued the stragglers. They had won. At last.

He took a step back.

Two steps.

His knees trembled, but not the way muscles shook with the depletion of adrenalin. No, this was shock, and it spread with the burn of poison. All these years he’d considered stepping into a Krad blade to end it all, but when he no longer wished to die, when he finally had found his way to redemption, he’d failed to see—and stop—the flint knife lying at his feet, coated in his blood. Odd that it looked no different from the Krad blood coating the Sword. Odd that it smelled the same—strangely sweet—but the realization tasted bitter as gall.

He fell to his knees, and the Sword and knife clattered from his hands. Well, he’d done all he could. He’d spent himself to the utmost of his ability. If only he’d had another moment with Mirianna, a moment to tell her once more that he loved her, that she’d saved his soul, redeemed him when nothing and no one else could. It was better this way. He would’ve killed her sooner or later when she asked to see him unveiled. And he couldn’t have lived with that.

Hands gripped his shoulders, Ayliss’s hands. Through the mist clouding his senses, he heard Gareth speak. Someone laid him down. Shivers racked his body, small ones at first, but he knew what was to come. Dear Koronolan, it would be a relief to finally die.

If only he still wanted to.

Mirianna stopped short. Her side burned as though she’d been stabbed, but no Krad had touched her. They’d fled into the night, melted away into the shadows beyond the fortress. They could regroup, but her newfound instincts told her the battle was over. She panted, holding her ribs, while she wondered if this was what victory felt like. She didn’t think so. Not with every breath paining her more. Something was wrong. This pain had first come to her when Durren had collapsed at Ayliss’s feet—was it only yesterday? So much had happened since.

But this—she and Durren were linked by it, just as they’d been linked by the dream. And this was bad. Filled with dread, and despite the pain, she ran back to the courtyard. She saw the others huddled around the fire, some bending, some kneeling, and one sprawled on the stone.

“Durren!” She flung herself between her father and Pumble, and stood while the breath sawed in and out of a throat so tight, her breath whistled. “Durren,” she gasped again, and dropped to her knees to gather his hooded head into her lap. “What happened?”

“Krad knife,” her father said. “He saved me from them.”

She saw the furry bodies, the bloody flint blade, and met her father’s eyes. He’d come back from that kind of death, but barely. And his wound had been a mere nick. The damp patch of cloth above Durren’s belt already fed a red pool on the pavement beneath. This wound was worse, much worse, and they both knew it.

She cast her gaze, and her hopes, at Ayliss, the only person who might have answers. “What about the water? We still have some, don’t we? It saved my father—”

“He needs more than a bucketful,” Ayliss said, “but the pool is too far. He won’t last long enough for you to take him there or bring up more water.” A tear wet a path down her dirty cheek. Even though her lips trembled, she drew first one deep breath, then another. When she reached across Durren and covered Mirianna’s hand with both of hers, the green eyes shone once more with the certainty Mirianna had followed through a dark night and a forest of shadows—was it only days ago? “But there is another way,” Ayliss said. “Do you have the bloodstones?”

Mirianna nodded. Those eyes and that voice had led her to safety. And to love. She would follow Ayliss again, if only she understood how. “But they’re to raise the Dragon.”

“To control it. But there’s more to their power than that. The Dragon knows.” Rising, Ayliss addressed the Beast, who stood with lowered head, listening, just outside the group. “I used bloodstones once before to set in motion the spell to make you whole again. With these stones, you and your kin may go free from here. Or Mirianna can use them to save the man she loves, the man who kept your soul and consciousness alive while the spell worked its way out.”

In Mirianna’s arms, Durren shuddered. His breathing rasped beneath the hood still covering his face. Mirianna clutched him to her chest. “I don’t know what you want,” she said to the great Beast, “but you’ve helped us thus far. Durren gave himself to help you.” Freeing a hand, she dug into her pocket and pulled out the stones.

The Dragon snorted, and the huge nostrils glowed. This close, the Beast radiated more heat than a forge, and it could destroy them all with one blast of flame. From the way the foot-tall eye slits gleamed at the sight of the stones on her palm, she suspected the Beast was considering it.

Then, the great head rose to its full height, and the luminous gaze regarded all of them. “Your brief lifespan gives your kind little true perspective. At least the two children of Koronolan can see with long eyes, and I have learned much of your kind from my imprisonment in a human body—as you no doubt intended, daughter of Koronolan.”

With a pointed look at Ayliss, the Dragon huffed, and smoke curled out of both sides of its mouth, a warning, Mirianna was sure, of its power—as if they could’ve forgotten with the Beast itself standing so near amid the carnage it had wreaked on the Krad. Across from her, Pumble edged behind her father, and Rees sidled behind Pumble as all three watched the Beast with wide eyes. Once more her heart ached for her father, for facing a dragon as bravely as he’d faced an enchanted Rees. But it was Durren who needed her now, and everything hinged on the Dragon, who spoke again.

“Your kind slaughtered mine, and my heart aches when I think of it, but I have come to trust the children of Koronolan to keep his promise. The blood of my kin lies scattered all over this land. Finding stones to replace these will, sadly, not be impossible. Therefore, I say to you, these few stones may be replaced and the spell completed well before my kin awaken, but the son of Koronolan needs them now, for his life-spark wanes.”

In her arms, Durren’s body bucked so violently, Mirianna had to wrap both arms around him until the spasm passed. “What do I need to do? Tell me, please.”

“Bare the wound and hold the stones over it,” the Dragon said.

“Here, let me help.” Ayliss knelt and ripped open Durren’s garments just above his belt. Under the dark red glistening around a ragged puncture, his skin shone like alabaster in the firelight. With each breath, more blood oozed out and painted Ayliss’s hands.

Mirianna had never seen skin so white, but she had no time to marvel at a body not touched by sunlight for years. Durren would never see the sun again if she didn’t act now. While her hand shook over his wound, she opened her palm.

The stones glowed again, as they had the first time she’d held them. Power tingled along her arms and up across her shoulders, little zips of energy she recognized. This was life-blood, solid and ancient, but potent still. “You mean to give him your blood,” she said, understanding at last. “How is that possible?”

“Blood answers blood, especially that given for the sake of others,” the Dragon said. “He has already bathed in my blood, as have you, in the pool where the wound he and I shared fed into the waters. Squeeze the stones and you will replenish what we share that has been lost.”

She looked from the Dragon to Ayliss, who nodded. With a deep breath, Mirianna closed her fist. For heartbeats, her hand glowed as if lit from within, the fine bones silhouetted against a warm red light. Then…darkness, like a light extinguished.

Panicked, she squeezed harder. Her knuckles whitened and her muscles shook with the effort. Her side burned, specks swam before her eyes, and darkness tugged at her consciousness, beckoning her to peace, to oblivion, to a soothing nothingness where her heart would be at rest. Forever.

She saw the vision for what it was—not her own but Durren’s soul poised on the brink between life and death, between a world that had been filled for too long with more than its share of pain and an end to that suffering. If she let him go, he would find peace.

If he still wanted it…

From the blackness that surrounded her, her heart spoke to her again as it had in the tunnel when she’d chosen Durren over the Shadow Man and gone to him in the depths of Drakkonwehr.
He wants life. He wants to live. Save him.

At once, the stones collapsed inside her hand. She opened her eyes to black-red blood squirting between her clenched fingers. Fine streams trickled down her hand and dripped from her wrist. While she watched, entranced, drop by precious drop landed on Durren’s wound, where each one sizzled and soaked in.

When the flow stopped, she laid her hand on the puncture and smeared what remained on her palm into the cut. If she could do nothing else, she could at least give every last possible drop to the man she loved.

****

Durren had passed into that blessed nothingness again, that free fall into oblivion, when something yanked him back.
Dear Koronolan, would this pain never end?
And then it did—except for the all too familiar searing sensation of a blade being withdrawn, of a fire burning from the inside out. He coughed, sucked a mouthful of something, and gasped, “I…can’t breathe…”