Legacy of Kings

  “This is my land!” Gwynofar yelled to the skies. “My land! These are my trees, this is my water, this is my sky! The earth here is mine, the food here is mine, the people here are mine to do with as I please. Do you hear me, soulsucker? You have no rights here. The very earth rejects you. It vomits you up and casts you out. The very sky reviles you. It knows who is queen here, who belongs here, who owns this land . . . and whose children will feed here.”

  It seemed to Colivar that the steady beat of wings faltered for a moment. The creature could not possibly understand Gwynofar’s words—could she?—but the tone of the Queen Mother’s voice left no doubt about her meaning. The flight pattern of the great creature changed suddenly. The ikati pulled in her wings and began to descend swiftly, jeweled patterns streaming across her flanks as she approached. Mesmeric, seductive. Even though he knew the danger of looking directly at the creature, Colivar found that he could not look away. His soul was hungry for what those colors represented, for something that had been out of his reach for centuries. He’d thought he had forgotten it. He’d thought it no longer mattered.

  The knowledge of the truth shamed him, even as it stirred his blood.

  The men in the company should have been scrambling to take up positions near the rocky mound, to ready themselves for the Souleater’s descent. But most of them seemed to be frozen in place, or at least slowed in their actions; only the Guardians moved with anything akin to normal efficiency, though they were clearly affected as well. Salvator alone seemed to be functioning normally. He grabbed his witch, shook him out of his stupor, and dragged him over to where Gwynofar’s spear protruded from the ground. From the expression on the High King’s face, Colivar guessed that Gwynofar’s dramatic self-sacrifice had taken him by surprise, and he was not all pleased that she had put herself out of reach like this.

  “Now!” he commanded, turning the witch to face Gwynofar. And he stepped forward, yanked the spear out of its rocky sheath, and cast it in a high arc toward where his mother stood. But it had not been designed for such use, and its balance was not right; the tip began to drop too soon, and it did not look as though it was going to clear the top of the mound.

  —But then the witch’s power grabbed hold of it, steadied its flight, and lent it added height to its arc. Clearing the rocky heap by inches, the weapon skidded to a halt right by Gwynofar’s feet. She picked it up gratefully. Her longsword was in her hand, but the Souleater would have to be right on top of her before she could use it. With a spear in hand she had better options.

  The few archers who were capable of moving were in place now, flanking Gwynofar’s position. No doubt some of them would have tried to climb up beside her if there had been time, but the queen was descending too quickly; any man who tried to make that precarious climb would not be in a position to fire when she came within range. Standing at the base of the mound, the archers struggled to be able to look at their target as they waited for the great winged beast to come within range.

  Now the Souleater’s musky-sweet scent enveloped them, a thousand times more powerful than the faint scent Colivar had detected at the Witch-Queen’s palace. Enticing. Unbearable. His human soul wanted to vomit it up, while his other soul, his darker soul, hungered to wallow in it. Colivar glanced over at Ramirus to see how he was responding. The other Magister’s expression was grim. It was clearly taking all of Ramirus’ self-control to watch Gwynofar set herself up as bait and do nothing about it. She must have ordered him to stay his hand; he would never have accepted such a restriction from Salvator alone. Even so, Colivar suspected that if it came to the point when Ramirus felt that her life was truly threatened, he would probably act anyway. Penitent sensitivities be damned.

  Oathbreaker, Colivar thought derisively. Hatred welled up inside him suddenly, for Ramirus and all the other Magisters. But mostly for Ramirus. What an arrogant fool he was, to think he was Colivar’s equal! Century after century he nurtured his plans for defeating Colivar, and century after century they were frustrated. But he never accepted it. He never stopped dreaming of victory. When would the idiot learn? He was not Colivar’s master. He would never be Colivar’s master.

  It was time Colivar drove that lesson home once and for all.

  In a distant part of his brain he knew what was happening to him. But that part had surrendered its sovereignty now, and something darker had taken its place. Fury raged like wildfire in his veins as he gathered his power to him, knowing just how much strength and skill it would take to break through Ramirus’ defenses. He also knew what the real source of his fury was, and he knew that he had to resist it, but he lacked the resources. All the connections that had previously bound him to the human world, which he might have drawn on for strength, had been severed. His human lover had disappeared, and she was probably no longer human anyway. His royal contract with Farah had been severed by his own hand. He no longer had a human agenda to serve, a human leader to protect, or even a meaningful human order to follow, outside of that ludicrous deal with Salvator.

  A Magister without human ties was a truly terrifying thing. Few understood that as intimately as he did.

  And he had broken the Law. The minute he’d recognized Kamala for what she was and had chosen to do nothing about it he had severed his tie to that ancient agreement, cutting himself off from the sorcerous construct that had raised his kind up out of barbarism. True, centuries had passed since the beast within him had last surfaced, and maybe he’d believed that time and self-discipline had weakened it. But he’d been wrong. The darkness within him might have been beaten into submission centuries ago, when the shackles of the Law were first imposed on it, but it had never been fully vanquished. And now those shackles had been struck off, and the ikati queen was calling to him, and Colivar knew with utter certainty that if he gave in to the animal rage that was surging through his veins right now and struck out at Ramirus, he would be lost forever.

  But the rage was too powerful to contain, and it surged out of Colivar, a raw and angry force, hungry for violence. The ground surrounding him trembled as he struggled to redirect the terrible power to something other than his rival, and rocks exploded in a shower of sparks between the two Magisters. Spirals of crimson flame began to swirl wildly around him, searing his own flesh when they came too close. He could see alarm in Ramirus’ eyes, but not surprise. Ramirus had been affected by the queen’s presence as well, and deep inside, where the instincts of their kind lurked secretly, he knew what was happening. But he still had the Law to bolster his humanity, and he was bound by contract to the Aurelius. More importantly, he did not have Colivar’s memories. He did not have Colivar’s needs. He might feel that he was staring down into the abyss of madness at that moment, but he did not know the name of the horror that lay coiled in its depths, nor had he once embraced it.

  No one knew the truth but Colivar.

  The shadow of the queen fell over them suddenly, and Colivar was able to look away from Ramirus at last. Her long serpentine tail flexed like a whip as she hovered above Gwynofar, taking stock of her human challenger; the great jeweled wings sent stained-glass sparks skipping madly across the earth. Colivar could see a jeweled cocoon on her back, where the lesser wings had been folded back to protect some precious cargo. His heart lurched in his chest when he realized what it was—what it must be—and for a moment the sheer force of memory was so strong that it almost drove him to his knees. Heat rushed to his groin with searing intensity, as all the power he had been directing outward began to collapse in upon him. If he did not focus it somehow, and release it to do something, it would surely consume him.

  The archers were waiting. They were not sure of their range yet. Their faces were white with strain from the effort required to focus on the queen’s motion without looking at her directly. It was crucial they launch their attack at precisely the right moment. Too soon, and their efforts would fall short. Too late, and the creature might be upon Gwynofar before they could bring her down. Every man knew that
when the moment came, he would have no more than a single instant in which to look directly at the queen and locate his target before her power overwhelmed him. If the special tips on their arrows did what legend promised they would, they might be enough to bring her down, but only if they struck in the places where the creature was vulnerable. In theory the men knew what those were. In theory. But their knowledge was derived from arcane prophecies and thousand-year old anatomical charts, and no man knew how much use any of it would really be.

  With cry of defiance and challenge, the queen began to descend upon her rival

  —and the archers let loose their first volley.

  —and Colivar’s power whipped toward the arrows, hot red flames of sorcery exploding outwards, filling the air between them. Spirals of fire formed about each shaft, blazing so brightly that the archers themselves had to look away. Thus no morati saw the arrows shuddering as Colivar’s sorcery took hold of them in their flight, altering the course of some, steadying the course of others. Sending them straight into their target.

  They struck home.

  All of them.

  Cobalt arrowheads pierced through the ikati’s armor where it was weakest, driving deep into the Souleater’s flesh. Some struck soft points that the Guardians knew about and had been aiming for; others had been redirected to weak spots that only Colivar recognized. His sorcery drove them forward with ten times their normal velocity, thrusting them deep in the creature’s flesh, so that the barbed heads would tear the queen’s muscles to pieces every time she moved. Whatever mysterious poison the arrowheads carried was lodged deep in her flesh now and could begin to do its work.

  The Souleater screamed.

  A second volley was loosed. This time Colivar did not assist. The sudden release of all that sorcery had left him feeling unsteady, and he feared that if he tried to conjure a second wave of power he might not be able to control it. Dimly he was aware of Ramirus beside him, and he knew that if the other Magister turned on him at that moment he could do little to defend himself.

  But Ramirus’ attention was on Gwynofar.

  She stood atop a granite boulder in the midst of the sea of bones, blond hair whipping about her face as she braced herself to meet the creature head-on, with nothing but a spear for protection. Fear flickered in the backs of her eyes, but there was neither weakness nor hesitation in her stance. For forty generations her bloodline had been trained for this moment—bred for this moment—and she would not fail. Proudly she stood atop her precarious perch, alone and vulnerable, and when the air to one side of her began to shimmer, she did not move toward it. One of the witches was offering her a portal, so that she might save herself, but using it would betray her purpose. Bait had no value if it was not in plain sight.

  It was clear to all that the poisonous arrows were having their effect upon the ikati. The queen’s layered wings were losing their coordination now and her flight was becoming unsteady; the long tail whipped about wildly, destabilizing her even further. Spasms rippled through her body as she screamed once more, this time a cry of raw hatred. Her black faceted eyes turned toward the Guardians, the source of her anguish; several of the archers collapsed as her gaze swept over them, struck down by the sheer force of her fury. Colivar could see that those few who remained were unsteady on their feet, and they struggled to let loose one more volley before their limbs failed them utterly. But they had used up all their special arrows now, and the next round, steel-headed, skittered across the creature’s hide like blunt rocks skimming across a pond.

  Hovering unsteadily over the field of bones, the ikati turned her attention back to Gwynofar. For a moment Colivar thought that the creature would actually dive down toward her—or perhaps collapse upon her—but evidently pain and rage had not dulled her intelligence quite that much. Suddenly her long tail whipped about from behind, cracking through the air with audible force as it swept toward Gwynofar. Salvator’s mother did not flinch. She stood her ground until the last possible moment and then, when the deadly blow was nearly upon her, dropped down to the ground beside the boulder she’d been standing on and used the massive rock as a shield. The deadly blow whistled inches past her head without making contact.

  So Gwynofar’s seemingly vulnerable position had in fact been a strategically sound one, Colivar noted. He was beginning to appreciate why Ramirus had such interest in her.

  A long, dark shape hurtled toward the queen from somewhere beside the mount. The spear struck the queen in her right shoulder, driving deep into her flesh. Her upper wing set spasmed, and she began to lose control of her flight. Desperately she threw herself toward the mount, clawed feet grasping at its flanks as she landed. For a moment it seemed as if the crumbling slope would not support her, but then she got a grip on a solid outcropping and was able to lurch up to the summit.

  Colivar felt an ancient thrill course through his blood, to see her grounded thus. The ancient witch-warriors had understood that the first and foremost goal in fighting a Souleater was to bring it down to a warrior’s level. Denied the power of flight, a Souleater was a bulky and awkward creature, deadly for the power that it had to suck the strength from men’s souls, but as physically vulnerable as any large beast.

  Which was not to say that this one could not kill many men before she expired. Possibly the entire war party.

  The portal still shimmered to one side of Gwynofar; whatever witch had conjured it was expending obscene amounts of energy to keep it open. If the Souleater’s power had drained him at all, that might prove a fatal offering. Take the portal, Colivar urged Gwynofar mentally. Your job is done. Leave the rest of this fight to stronger men.

  But even as he thought those words he was remembering other women, armor-clad and desperate, who had stood before these creatures and refused to give ground. Wives, avenging their fallen husbands. Mothers, avenging their children. Witches, protecting their world. They were the first lyr, founders of the northern bloodlines, whose courage now burned in Gwynofar’s blood . . . along with their stubbornness.

  She did not move.

  The serpentine head shot out at her. She stood her ground and met it with her spear braced, ready to strike as soon as she had a proper target. She would probably only have one shot and she had to make it count. The ikati seemed to know this, and she pulled up short at the last moment, hissing in frustration. Colivar could see that the Souleater poison was beginning to slow her down, stiffening the muscles in her neck so that each new motion was painful and unwieldy. But that did not make her any less dangerous.

  And then the queen struck. The move was lightning-fast, and Colivar realized grimly that the moment of seeming weakness had been a feint. Taken off her guard, Gwynofar thrust outward with her lance as the creature lunged at her. The cobalt spear tip pierced the thick muscle of the queen’s neck and was driven in deeply by the creature’s own momentum. Razor-toothed jaws snapped shut mere inches from Gwynofar’s head, and the spear was torn from her grasp. Her blow had been all but wasted. The Souleater poison might do its work over time, but Gwynofar had failed to strike any organ or artery that would keep the queen from attacking her again . . . and now she had only a sword with which to protect herself.

  Colivar glanced at Ramirus; the Magister’s jaw was clenched tight, his hands balled into fists by his side. The minute Ramirus disobeyed Gwynofar, breaking their contract, the human connection that was enabling him to maintain self-control would be severed. Surely he was old enough to understand that. Surely it was the only reason that he stayed his hand now, though his knuckles were white from the force of self-denial.

  The queen lunged at Gwynofar again. The Queen Mother held her sword at the ready, but it was merely a token gesture; by the time the ikati got within range of her blade, it would be too late to halt the momentum of that great body, and the sheer force of impact would surely crush her.

  And then a figure stepped through the portal.

  He moved so quickly that at first Colivar did not realize who it was.
One moment he was emerging from the shimmering spell, and the next he was thrusting his spear forward into the creature’s side. Deep, deep into the queen’s torso, cobalt blade slicing through the iron hide like butter, parting flesh, seeking the vital organs deep within.

  Turning on her new attacker, the ikati tried to knock him loose with one of her forelegs, and she managed to score his face with her razor-sharp talons, leaving deep gouges running from forehead to chin. But the man held his ground, and he brought his full weight to bear upon the spear, driving it deeper and deeper into her body.

  Salvator.

  Twisting her head about, the queen met his eyes. All the terrible power of her species was focused in that gaze: the power to freeze a man in his tracks, to drain him of strength, to leave him a soulless shell. The female ikati could focus her power as the males could not, and she did so now, pitting all of her dying strength against this one single target. In all the fights that Colivar had witnessed, he had never seen a man stand up to such an assault.

  Salvator ignored her.

  Gritting his teeth in determination, he gave one last thrust to the deeply imbedded spear. A shudder ran through her body as the great wings suddenly spasmed—not only the main flight wings, but the forward wings as well. The delicate membranes that had been folded across her back jerked open, and something that was not quite the size of a man fell from her back, hitting the rocky slope hard enough to send gravel flying, and then tumbling end over end, scattering bones along the way.

  A rider.

  Colivar moved forward quickly, and he reached the base of the slope just as the body landed with a thud upon a bed of jagged rocks. It was that of a small girl, barely past the age of puberty, with a dirt-streaked face and a torn, filthy shift. One of her arms was twisted behind her at an angle no unbroken limb could manage, and her body was bruised and bleeding in half a dozen places. As Colivar approached, the girl raised her head and hissed at him. There was fury in her eyes, and pain, and a thousand other bestial emotions . . . but not one drop of humanity, he noted. That had been devoured by the Souleater long ago.