Honor-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book III ]

74

Jaeron crept out of the cell. As the shadows unraveled to reveal him in the full light of the torches, he diminished. Without his glittering bloodstone staff, without armed soldiers flanking his either side, he was nothing but a bitter old man—a man sentenced to die.

He watched Uachi warily as he approached the cloth lying on the floor, but Uachi did not move. Jaeron kicked the cloth away from the heavy dagger with the toe of his boot, and then he lunged to snatch up the weapon, obviously expecting that Uachi would strike at the first chance he got—as if Uachi had not already had a dozen chances to kill him, had he truly wanted to.

Jaeron held the dagger in both of his thin hands. He bared his teeth like a street dog, and he slid one step toward the door.

"No," Uachi said calmly. "You kill me first, and then you can run."

Uachi saw Jaeron preparing to make a break for it in the split second before he did. It was there in the sly shift of his glance, the tightening of his limbs, even the twitch of his jaw. Without true urgency, Uachi took two steps sideways, cutting off the escape before it could even begin. The frantic light of hope that had sparked in Jaeron's eyes dimmed. He tightened his grasp on the dagger, sidling back and away from Uachi until he had nearly touched the wall. The torch that hung there lit him from behind, making of him a dark silhouette ringed in gold.

"You can't expect me to fight you," Jaeron murmured. "Look at you: a soldier. I'm without my weapons. We are not fairly matched."

It was all Uachi could do not to bull into him in that moment, unleashing the rage that had simmered in his heart for most of his life. Anger threatened to make him shake. He steadied himself, centering his focus on the archmage, on the coming fight. "We are as fairly matched," he said, "as you and my brother were."

Jaeron tilted his head back. He closed his eyes. And he laughed.

It was too much for Uachi. That laughter broke through his tight self-control. He moved without thinking, darting toward his adversary, his left hand raised and ready to take a fistful of whatever was nearest to hand, his right grasping the dagger—

—and there was a flare of light and a burst of heat, just as Uachi crashed into the archmage. The two of them fell, Uachi saved from the impact by the frailer form of the archmage beneath him. Jaeron grunted. Uachi felt rather than saw Jaeron's head knock against the ground, but that was all he knew aside from pain. He was burning.

Jaeron twisted, thrusting upward, and was it magic? Had he kept hold of a bloodstone, somehow, and used it to attack?

"Get off of me, scum!" Jaeron snarled, and Uachi very nearly lost his sense of place, his grasp on his enemy. Jaeron was writhing, fighting his weight. In an effort to regain control, Uachi forced both knees to the floor and then jammed downward with his hips. Jaeron grunted. Something clattered to the flagstones, and there was a scrape of metal on the other side.

"Uachi!" came a sharp cry from somewhere, a familiar voice echoing in the stone chamber. "Seven hells—!"

"What in—is that—?" came another.

Uachi could not seem to open his left eye, but he squinted through his right. He was grounded again in the moment, grounded in the fight. There was Jaeron's snarling face. Uachi smacked his left hand down hard, covering Jaeron's mouth with his palm, his eyes and his brow with his fingers, which curled into claws, grasping, crushing.

Hot, urgent pain again, this time on the other side. He did not look. He did not have to: Jaeron had sliced him along the thigh with the dagger.

He would not strike again.

Uachi did not fumble. He thrust up with a single, calculated motion, driving his right fist upward with every ounce of his strength, and the point of his dagger found its mark.

The archmage slumped back, his eyes wide in his face. The dagger had been driven in to its hilt under his jaw, deep into his skull. His arm fell, and the bloodied dagger clattered to the stone floor. Breathing unsteadily, Uachi lay there on top of his enemy, blood falling in a torrent, slick over the archmage's neck and Uachi's hand. He fumbled for the hilt of the dagger and thrust it again, but there was nowhere else for it to go, and the hilt was too slick with blood for him to get purchase.

The entire left side of Uachi's face and his shoulder were aflame with pain. Still trying to pull his dagger out of Jaeron's skull, he glanced down and saw a mess of red, burned flesh exposed under his ragged, charred tunic.

"Uachi."

Firm hands fell on Uachi's unharmed shoulder. He shook away, falling back off of the archmage. He lifted a hand, but barely had he touched his face than he snatched his hand away with a cry. It was the worst pain of his life, a worse pain than should be possible. All he could smell was burning flesh.

There was silence for a moment. Then, something brushed Uachi's hand, and he jerked away from it, cold adrenaline sweeping through his body. He looked down to see a man's knee.

Diarmán. Diarmán was kneeling next to him.

"What are you doing here?" Uachi rasped.

"Gods below," came the response in the tone of an oath. "I was following you, of course, since you left me all by myself in a bloody great palace! What did you expect me to do, languish in a parlor sitting on bloody teacups, waiting—? Uachi, let me look at your face."

"Don't touch me."

With a wordless sound of frustration, Diarmán grasped Uachi's bicep, trying to pull him round. "I need to see it!"

"Don't touch me! Get away from him, don't you know he's a bloody mage?" Uachi struck Diarmán's hand away.

Diarmán cursed. After a few seconds of silence, he staggered to his feet. Uachi couldn't see him; pain blurred his vision. He heard him, though, when he kicked the archmage's body. "Dead. He's dead, Uachi. Well done." He sounded disgusted. He raised his voice, then. "Are you proud of yourselves? Some bloody guards you are, letting this bloody fool waltz right in and nearly get himself killed!"

There was a muted response Uachi could not quite make out.

Uachi reached for his dagger. His fingers slipped along the bloody hilt again. He needed it back. He couldn't get it out of Jaeron's skull. Diarmán finally leaned down, batted his hand away, and pushed him back. He pulled his own sleeve over his hand and pulled the dagger out, offering it to Uachi with a frown. "There, happy? Like a bloody spoilt child."

Uachi pulled himself to his feet. Half his face was still a mess of agony, but at least he anticipated the weakness in his leg. It was a shallow knife-wound, but still, the blaze of pain could stagger a man if he was not ready for it.

"Let me see your face, Uachi, or I'll kick you in your bad leg, you bloody great idiot."

Finally, his dripping dagger in hand, Uachi closed his eyes and let Diarmán look at him. Neither of them spoke as Diarmán surveyed the damage, white-faced and grim, his jaw clenched tight. Uachi only looked at him for a second before dropping his gaze, not certain what to make of what he'd seen in Diarmán's eyes.

That's when he saw that Jaeron hadn't had magic in reserve. The torch from the wall-sconce lay on the flagstones, guttering with fading flames.