The Kingdoms of Evil (80 page)

Feerborg, not fortunate enough to have been the recipient of a Sangboise education, was failing utterly to control his emotions. Indeed, he was more maddened than Bloodbyrn had ever seen him. Other women might have balked at this new burden, added to what most would consider to be problems enough for one to bear, but Bloodbyrn, by breeding and education, was capable of resolving whatever her king might further demand of her.

"You cannot hope to defeat your half-brother," Bloodbyrn's head swam with the effort of keeping Feerborg's leg bound. "Even you must be cognizant of the fact that to face him now would amount to nothing more than suicide."

He tugged again, her magic stretched, and this time sparks flashed before Bloodbyrn's eyes. "You think I care about that? What the gibber do you know about Istain, you striking…I don't even know! Bloodbyrn!" She winced at her lord's cry. "You don't understand!
He has my friend
."

Ah, yes, there was her opening, the string by which she could manipulate the situation. Bloodbyrn breathed with the silent relief. "Indeed, Feerborg. He has Istain. And if you attack Feerix, what will he do with your friend?"

"Oh Words."

Yes, Feerborg's mind twisted around Bloodbyrn's words.

He did not, as Bloodbyrn had hoped, sink into a manageable despair, or indeed any mental state in which he might be compelled to, for example, pick up his exsanguinated paramour and carry her to her bed. He did, however, temporarily cease his struggles.

Bloodbyrn looked up. Despot Feerborg was currently engaged in the enterprise of lifting her bodily off the floor. Given that both of them were slick with blood, and also that her legs did not appear to function at all, their movements were awkward in the extreme. Bloodbyrn was glad no one was watching.

"Bloodbyrn!" Her lord said again, "Get up. What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I plead with my lord not to misinterpret the following comment as in any way disparaging of his powers of observation," Bloodbyrn murmured, "but it should be obvious to even the most distracted onlooker, which I trust my lord is not, that I have drained a great deal of my blood into the recent fracas we enjoyed with your half-brother." Bloodbyrn closed her eyes against the wave of dizziness that passed over her. She had actually had to struggle for the vocabulary to express her feelings, a sign of dangerous exsanguination.

"Oh," said Feerborg. "Well, can you walk? We don't have much time."

"For the moment, it seems as if I can." Bloodbyrn stepped away from her lord's arms, did not succumb more than was normal to the pull of gravity, and continued forward. "We must find a Transfuseur." That sentence had been rather poorly constructed, but Bloodbyrn's peripheral vision was darkening, and she must depend on her lord's ability to understand her instructions. "One of these useful persons may be found most easily…that is to say, efficaciously, in the Sanguinated Halls."

"Strike it." Her lord frowned, and the tiny lightning bolts bisecting his onyx eyes bowed outward as he squinted at her. "I guess I'll have to come with you to find this transfuser guy?"

"That would be most grateful-making…that is, I would be most grateful." In truth, Bloodbyrn was compelled to concentrate to avoid simply collapsing into his arms again.

"Fine," her lord strode off down the hall, looked over his shoulder, then stopped and waited with poor grace as she caught up. "And in the mean time I need to find something out from you."

"I beg your pardon?" Bloodbyrn said. She was sick with blood loss; what excuse did the Ultimate Fiend have for his incoherence of speech?

"Bloodbyrn," Feerborg said, "I need you to tell me where Feerix's rooms are."

"Surely," Bloodbyrn said as she plodded forward, "my lord does not attempt…that is, intend to pursue and again confront your half-brother." There was only a slight hint in her voice of the many strains that compounded upon her.

"No, I'm going to go rescue Istain!"

Bloodbyrn was forced to close her eyes. She did not, however, allow herself to collapse, or fail to answer. "My lord, you cannot."

"Why not!"

"Because, my lord," Bloodbyrn tried, without much hope. "We must prepare for the duel."

"That's what he'll be doing…yeah," Feerborg babbled as Bloodbyrn fought to stay upright. "He'll be with your dad, preparing for this duel. An excellent distraction."

"Then what," she said wearily, "prevents us from retiring for the nonce, my lord? To make our plans and gather our strength, which, I assure you, we sorely need."

Feerborg only snorted. He was pacing around her now. "So I can, what,
win
the duel tomorrow? Don't be stupid. If Feerix has Istain, he's holding him somewhere. Probably his rooms. Maybe his rooms. Anyway, we have to find him."

Bloodbyrn spun around to confront her lord, "Feerborg, you are being—oh." She continued to spin, though not out of any intention on her part. The ground rose up before her eyes, and then a black blur moved across her field of vision, hopefully signifying her lord rushing to catch her. This appeared to be the case, since her fall did not continue to its logical conclusion.

Perhaps a display of vulnerability, though now committed by necessity, might prove to her advantage. Bloodbyrn commanded enough blood to flow into her brain that she might remain conscious and speak. "My lord, I am afraid I must ask you to carry me."

Bloodbyrn's limited resources no longer permitted sight, but her trained ears could discern a gratifying amount of fear and concern in her lord's voice as he responded to her request for help.

"You just striking fell. What the hell happened?"

"I must trust to my lord's powers of cognition to supply that answer." Bloodbyrn said in the direction she discerned was his face.

"You told me you'd lost blood. Why the hell didn't you say you were going to striking pass out?" Then, more quietly, "why the hell didn't I see you were going to pass out?"

"Because you are a great lummox." Bloodbyrn's expression was probably sour, although she could no longer feel the muscles in her face. "But now I am afraid I must…tempest, what is the word…impose upon your time, and the effort required to—"

"True words, Bloodbyrn, shut up! I'll carry you to your striking blood transfuser person. Just don't kill yourself in the mean time."

"To find the abode of the Sangboise in the castle," Bloodbyrn moved her feeling-less lips, "my lord is humbly advised to descend one level, move inward one corridor, then proceed widdershins until…exsanguinations…I cannot remember precisely where we are."

It was possible that Feerborg said something, but over the rushing, as of the sea, Bloodbyrn could hear nothing.

"How marvelous." Bloodbyrn may have said.

To display so much vulnerability as losing consciousness was dangerous in the extreme in the environment of Castle Clouds-Gather, and so of course Bloodbyrn did not do so. She was, however, of necessity forced to suspend higher mentation while she sent her remaining blood to out to prevent decay in her extremities, and was therefore less that optimally responsive when Feerborg attempted to gain her attention.

"Bloodbyrn!"

Bloodbyrn blinked heavy eyes and, with great difficulty, focused on her lord. "There is…no need to shout. My…auditory faculties are…um…"

Finally, her lord was asking for her advice. If only he could have done so at a time when Bloodbyrn was in a fit state to give any.

There was a period of silence and darkness, broken by a sharp and inexpertly-applied pain in the vicinity of her wrist. "Ow!" she tried to say, but her mouth and throat did not respond to her brain's demands.

Her lord was speaking to her, his voice distorted, and fiendishly difficult to parse. "…no idea what blood type you are."

Bloodbyrn groaned in frustration. Why couldn't the fool simply speak in Sangboise? There was the ghost of sensation across her skin and then…

Then there was blood.

The fluid entered her like an injection of boiling oil, shocking and outrageous, and unbelievably painful in the sensations it awoke in her dormant flesh. Taking more of that liquid agony into herself demanded more will than Bloodbyrn had ever been obliged to call forth, but she pulled Feerborg's blood through her veins, spread it through every capillary, until her very skin burned with it.

"Gibbering hell!"

Bloodbyrn's eyes snapped open at the cry. For a moment, color and sound blared at her nonsensically, but then the jumble of sensation resolved itself into the face of her lord.

"Feerborg," she said.

"Ow!" Said her lord, "
ow
!"

He was holding his right wrist. A current of blood flowed from a rent the skin of that appendage, bridging the distance to a similar opening on her own left wrist. As he pulled back, the bridge stretched and thinned, then broke.

Bloodbyrn sat up as Feerborg sank further onto the flagstones, thin and, it was clear, quite drained.

There were those in Sangboire who romanticized blood, and assigned to it more miracles than even this admittedly miraculous substance could perform. There were those, for example, who believed that blood was the vessel of the soul, and the exchange of the fluid transmitted memories, emotions, and even affection. Bloodbyrn, however, knew these superstitions for the wishful thinking they were. Not even in the most central parts of the nation did the God of Blood reward prayers in that way. And they were far from the center of the Blood God's domain.

Waking, therefore, with lord Feerborg's vital liquid burning through her veins, Bloodbyrn did not, as certain credulous people might have supposed, feel a love for the man flooding her soul. True, her heart rate had quickened, but the tingling pain in her skin, as well as the aching in her joints, informed Bloodbyrn that the sensations she felt were simply her body's responses to the large transfusion she had received. Only that, and, perhaps the appropriate amount of gratitude.

"Thank you." Bloodbyrn pressed her right hand over her left wrist, where Feerborg had cut her skin. Much of the blood in her body was still not under her control, so it was more difficult than usual to clot the breached vessels. There was even less of her blood on the Ultimate Fiend, but there was enough to smeared across his skin to provide at least a temporary plug for the wound he had inflicted on himself.

"There," she said, "Some people find it entertaining to keep scars, but I have never seen the point of it."

The effort exhausted Bloodbyrn anew, and yet she could feel her body working, pumping, pulsing, as it converted her lord's blood into her own. "Do not scratch at your wrist, my lord," she added, "for I will be unable, not to say unwilling, to perform another such binding on you." She looked up into his face again, with its look of very sweet concern, and back to her own left arm. She indicated the laceration there. "How did you know how to do that, my lord?"

The Ultimate Fiend performed a vulgar shrug. "I just figured, you know, you can control anything your blood mixes with," he said. "So I cut you, got a little blood out of you, then cut myself, rubbed your blood in the wound…I was going to press the cuts together, but then this…stream of the stuff started flowing between us. I backed off when you woke up and I started getting dizzy."

"I am…amazed." Bloodbyrn looked back up into his onyx eyes. The lightning had ceased to run across them, she was gratified to see.

"I'm just glad the transfusion worked," said Feerborg, flexing the fingers on his injured hand. "I realized halfway through I had no idea whether we had compatible blood types."

"Blood types?" she repeated, "I am unfamiliar with the term, but perhaps you refer to the groups of sanguine conamicability? Of which there are four major and two minor? Then do not worry on my account, my lord, for like most Sangboise nobles I can accept from all and donate to none. That is, I believe, the most enviable arrangement."

"I'm glad to see you're feeling better." Feerborg smiled, and Bloodbyrn's heart raced again. Cursed transfusion sickness. "You've saved
my
life a couple of times, so, hah." His teeth were very even and strong. "I guess I'm glad I could return the favor."

Bloodbyrn smiled back at him in her turn. "That sentiment is a worthy one, my lord, and one I wish to cultivate. However, honesty compels me to point out that, even had you left me here abandoned, my father's influence is such that anyone who found me would have given me aid." Although here in the dungeons, how long would it have been before aid found her? Bloodbyrn brushed that thought aside. "You have my thanks to the extent you saved me a long and painful recovery. Also," She risked another glance into his eyes, "the gesture itself was quite meaningful. On an emotional level."

Those pools of sensate midnight narrowed, and the smile turned from charming to rather irritating. "Are you blushing, Bloodbyrn?"

"An engorgement of the capillaries," Bloodbyrn and pulled herself into a more dignified position. "Now, my lord, what exactly were you attempting? Aside from the obvious, of course, which was to have yourself murdered."

The aggravating grin disappeared. "I wasn't trying to get Feerix to kill me," said Feerborg, "I was trying to wear him down. The guy had killed four goblins, Bloodbyrn, on top of whoever he had for breakfast, Even after he life-twisted the girl and I got her death, he still had more power than me."

"Than I, I believe."

"Anyway," he sighed, pulling himself to his feet. "I was trying to drain off some of his death energy fighting me. Which is why we have to go after him
now
before he has a chance to kill someone else."