Dragon Venom (Obsidian Chronicles Book 3) (48 page)

He stood with his back to the gatepost again, but now he was inside the wall, in the narrow yard of the Grey House, with the only gate securely closed, facing just three opponents.

The fourth, Lord Rhiador, had finally managed to force open the door and slip inside, and Arlian hoped desperately that Black and the rest of the staff would be able to deal with him. For the moment Arlian had quite enough to keep him busy here.

He looked at the driver, wrapped in a dark gray cloak, and at the footmen, and belatedly recognized the latter's livery.

These were Lord Hardior's men.

Rhiador. Hardior.

Arlian cursed his own stupidity as he launched an attack on the coachman. "A glamour," he said. "He bought a glamour." He made a lunge at the driver's already-injured left shoulder, and the man shied away, leaving a brief opening; Arlian's swordbreaker came across and slashed a deep cut into the coachman's belly.

Then the left-hand footman came up, sword slashing; Arlian turned aside from the driver long enough to feint at the footman's belly with the swordbreaker, and when the man stepped back, lowering his blade to defend himself, Arlian's sword caught him in the throat.

The tip of the blade caught in a fold of flesh, and Arlian ripped it sideways, slashing the man's neck. The footman's scream was drowned in a gout of blood, and he fell backward, thrashing in agony, as Arlian turned his attention back to the other two.

The driver was seriously wounded now, in both shoulder and gut, and the other footman was clearly not as recklessly brave as his companions; they did not attack.

Both of them were inside the gate, though, and Arlian could not afford to leave them alive. He feinted toward the footman, who backed away obligingly; then Arlian jabbed his swordbreaker backhanded into the driver's upper arm.

The coachman's sword fell from his hand, and he sank to his knees.

Arlian left him kneeling on the stone, weeping and bleeding, while he chased the footman down and ran him through the heart. The man fell against the side of the house, the heavy sword tumbling from his hand; then he crumpled to the pavement, dead before he reached the ground.

Arlian turned, to see the driver struggling to his feet and reaching for the gate.

"Damn," Arlian said, sprinting back.

The coachman heard him coming and turned, and as Arlian

watched, his face seemed to melt and reshape itself. He, too, had worn a glamour, one that had now been broken.

He was unarmed; his sword lay on the stone, and he had had no swordbreaker. He raised empty hands above his head.

Arlian really did not much care at this point whether or not the coachman warned to surrender; the man was much too close to the gate, and others were still fighting just the other side of the bars. He prepared to skewer the man—but then he recognized the face that had been revealed when the spell broke, and turned his killing stroke at the last instant, instead placing the blade across the invader's throat and forcing him up against the wall.

"Lord Shatter, I believe," he said. "How long has it been—sixteen years? Seventeen?"

"Obsidian," Shatter gasped, clutching his belly with blood-soaked hands. "I'm bleeding."

"Yes, you are," Arlian said. "You're bleeding poisonous blood I offered to cleanse for you."

"I didn't want to die."

"Oh, you are going to die, Shatter, the only question is when.

Unless you want it to be right here and now, you will answer every question I ask."

"I'll bleed to death."

"Quite possibly. If you answer me quickly enough, there might still be time to bandage yourself."

"I'll answer anything, please...."

"What are you doing here? Why is Lord Hardior here? How did you get here from Sarkan-Mendoth?"

"We've been near Manfort for weeks," Shatter gasped. "When the dragons awoke and found you had visited their lair without killing them, they demanded we learn why. We sent spies, but then when the first reports came the dragons demanded we come ourselves, to oversee . . . "

"What did they want?"

"The venom you took."

"Why?"

"To prevent... to prevent what you've done."

"And what have I done?"

"You've . . . you've re-created their ancient foe, they said. I don't know what they mean. Please, Obsidian . . . "

"Re-created?" Arlian considered that. He had assumed that Brook's child would be something new^ and that the dragons either feared the unknown or knew somehow what that new thing would be and feared it—but instead, he had re-created something the dragons feared?

How could that be?

"I don't know what they mean," Shatter said, "but if we hadn't come to kill the woman they would have destroyed us. I've never seen them like this. I don't know what you've done, but the dragons are willing to risk everything, everything to stop you—they had us use every agent and spy and traitor we had in this attack

"I'm sorry, Shatter," Arlian said, as he drew his sword across the dragonhearts throat and plunged his swordbreaker into the man's heart

The blood that spilled from Shatter's heart smoked and bubbled in a thoroughly unnatural fashion; Arlian knew that to be a sign that that heart had become more dragon than man.

Arlian still did not entirely understand what was happening, but if Shatter had told the truth—and how could Arlian doubt it?—then preserving Brook's life was even more important than he had realized, and he could not afford to waste another second here.

Nor could he leave Shatter alive behind him, to open the gate or slip a blade into someone's unguarded back

He turned away from the agonized, betrayed terror in Shatter's dying eyes, and ran for the door.

To Defend the Grey House

44

To Defend the Grey House

Rhiador—or Hardior, as he almost certainly was—had left the door of the Grey House standing open; Arlian dashed inside, bloody blades at the ready, and closed the door behind him, dropping the bar into place.

He did not need to guess where to go from there; he could hear the clash of steel. He hurried through the archway, around the corner and down the gallery.

A chair was overturned, a rug kicked aside, but the gallery was uninhabited. A smear of blood stained the floor, and the sound of swords echoed from the walls. Arlian ran its length, then turned left, into the large salon in the northwest corner.

Hardior whirled to face him.

The glamour had broken; this man wore the green silk jacket and lace at the throat, but his face was Hardior's familiar features, rather than the Rhiador mask. He had lost his hat somewhere, and a slash across one cheek was bleeding, but he showed no other sign of injury.

He held sword and swordbreaker, with blood on both blades.

Behind him stood Black. His left hand hung lifeless and empty, covered in blood, but his right still held a sword at the ready. His black silk blouse was in tatters, his black leather vest hanging open and loose.

Brook was nowhere in sight, which relieved Arlian. She must have fled farther into the depths of the house.

Arlian had no breath to spare for words; he lunged.

Hardior parried and stepped aside, turning his back to the nearest wall, but not in time; Black's thrust took him in the side and sank deep.

Hardior's swordbreaker swooped down, quillons locking around

Black's blade, and before Black could withdraw the sword Hardior twisted his weapon.

Black's blade snapped off short, and a chunk of bloody steel flew across the room and rang from the stone of the far wall. The hilt and a foot-long stump remained in Black's grasp, and a few inches were still embedded in Hardior's body, but the middle portion was gone.

Black staggered, and Hardior jabbed at him with the swordbreaker while his sword fended off Arlian.

"Are there any more?" Black asked, gasping.

"Not yet," Arlian said, "but there were more outside the gate, and they may get through."

"Can you hold him while I find another sword?"

"Do we have another sword?"

"A spear, then—can you hold him?"

"Yes."

"Good." Black flung the broken stump at Hardior, then staggered away, toward the door to the north corridor. Hardior lunged for him, but found Arlian's blades intervening and retreated again.

"You might find a dropped sword in the yard," Arlian suggested.

"I might, at that," Black agreed, as he vanished through the door.

"I doubt he'll live that long," Hardior said. "He's losing a great deal of blood."

Arlian made a quick, low attack, which Hardior countered easily.

"I'm surprised," he said. "I had thought Black to be a good swordsman."

"He has the skills," Hardior replied, as he made a swift series of feints, "but he is slowing with age, and he was at a disadvantage in that he was constantly diverted by his whore. He could not circle around, or do anything that would allow me past and through the door."

Arlian's wordless riposte took the tip off Hardior's right ear. He remembered how he had maneuvered past Black himself, not so very long ago, and mentally cursed himself.

"Clever, that chair of hers," Hardior said, as his attempted counter sliced the air by Arlian's hip.

"Black's invention," Arlian said, as his swordbreaker slipped past Hardior's defenses—but at such a reach that there was no power behind the blow, and the tip penetrated no more than half an inch into Hardior's chest, scraping futilely across a rib.

After that they fought in silence for a time, exchanging blows but inflicting no real damage upon one another. Arlian was dismayed; he had thought himself the better swordsman, but Hardior was holding his own well.

The knowledge that this battle might not be decisive, that even if he killed Hardior the mob outside might overcome the guards, force the gate, and storm the house nagged at the back of Arlian's mind; he ignored it to concentrate on the fight at hand, since after all, if Hardior won it would not matter whether the mob got in—the dragonheart was quite capable of killing Brook himself.

"Why is this so important to the dragons?" Arlian asked at last, as yet another thrust was turned aside. "What are they afraid of?"

"I don't know," Hardior said. "I don't care. I know where my interests lie."

"You were not always so certain."

"I learned my place." Another exchange of blows sent a table tumbling and sliced into an embroidered drapery. "I am the Duke of Sarkan-Mendoth, Obsidian—I know which side I am on."

"You call yourself a duke, yet you are running errands for the dragons as if you were no more than a lackey."

"The dragons are the masters of this land, Obsidian—since the gods died they have been the greatest power we know. We all live at their sufferance."

"Not in Manfort," Arlian retorted. "Our duke, a duke by right and by birth and not merely in self-proclaimed name, has seen to that. He has defended us against them, rather than giving us over into their power."

"And do you think those stone weapons will stop them, if they choose to come?" Hardior retorted. "You have slain the old and sick among dragons, the newborn, and the mad—do you think your obsidian will be enough against their best?" And as he spoke, he stumbled.

That was the opening Arlian had awaited; he thrust, knowing he was leaving himself open as he did so. Hardior's sword speared upward through Arlian's shoulder, but Arlian's blade ran the elder directly through his heart.

Hardior was at least a century younger than Shatter; there was only the faintest wisp of smoke, no sickly rippling, but the blood that ran up Arlian's blade did seem to twist and flow oddly at first.

"Yes," Arlian said, as he pressed the sword home. "Yes, I do think obsidian and human courage will be enough." To be sure of his victory, he sliced Hardior's throat with his swordbreaker before pulling the sword from his foe's heart.

Hardior's collapse pulled the sword from Arlian's shoulder, and Arlian was suddenly aware of the pain; he dropped his own weapons, staggered back, and sat down hard on a nearby sofa.

He was struggling to catch his breath, trying to stanch the bleeding with his hand, when he heard the unmistakable cry of a woman in pain.

"Damn," he said, forcing himself back on his feet. He stumbled through the door to the corridor, then realized he was unarmed. He turned, retrieved his dropped sword, and then headed down the corridor, wiping the blade on a handkerchief as he went. He left the swordbreaker where it lay; with his wounded shoulder he could not wield a second Wade effectively in any case.

The cries had stopped; he paused in the corridor, then called,

"Brook! Where are you?"

He could not make out the words of her reply, but he was able to follow the sound well enough, and found her slumped, panting in her chair in the courtyard.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked, looking around. "What's wrong?"

"Avoiding being cornered," she said. "Ari, where's Black?"

"He went to check the gate. Are you wounded?"

"Send for the midwife," Brook answered.

"Oh." He had thought the baby was not due for at least a fortnight, but he knew that babies came when they chose, and Brook was experienced enough to know the signs; he did not waste time arguing. He glanced around, then bellowed, "Venlin!"

"You're wounded," she said, staring at his shoulder and the blood seeping around his hand.

I was aware of that," he said. "Venlin!"

The ancient footman finally appeared. "Yes, my lord?" he asked.

"Where is everyone?"

"Forgive us, my lord—we took refuge up in the servants' hall."

"Good. No one's hurt?"

"Only Hendal, the gatekeeper."

"I saw him; I'm sorry. Send someone for the midwife, if you can get someone out safely. Is the fighting still going on?"

"I don't know, my lord."

"Find out. Send for the midwife. Is Lilsinir with you?"

"I believe she is upstairs on the third floor, my lord."

"Send someone up to fetch her and her physician's supplies; my steward's wounds need immediate attention."