Offspring (The Sword of the Dragon) (21 page)

Unable to move, unable to scream, Specter closed his eyes. The Creator’s will be done.

One of the Art’en shook its wild, lengthy hair and screamed long and loud into the darkness. The other creatures bounded to their fellow and covered his mouth. Apparently they did not want their presence revealed. The Grim Reaper turned toward Ilfedo’s house, and his cloaked form began dissolving into smoke.

In the doorway stood the Lord Warrior—a flaming sword in his hand. Someone had heard the Art’en’s cry.

Ilfedo rushed toward the smoking figure in the clearing. The living fire enveloped his body. The darkness raced away from him, and over a dozen winged men became visible. They appeared to be standing in a circle, though he could see nothing in the center.

The Grim Reaper floated there in dreadful clarity. His body kept turning into smoke and solidifying as if something prevented him from escaping. Ilfedo tried to breathe slowly, but every moment he gazed upon Death, fear drove deeper into his body, making him shake as never before. The Reaper turned to face him with eyeless sockets and a blackened skull. The jaws moved yet uttered no words. Instead the teeth clacked against each other in a hollow sort of way.

May God help him, what horror was this? Had Death come to his lands? Even so, he would drive this creature out of this land, and forever the Art’en would fear Ilfedo and the sword he bore.

Suddenly invisible bands forced his arms to his sides. Darkness swirled from the Reaper’s hand, tornadoing around his feet. He could not move. Death floated closer to him and pointed to the ground with a finger of blackened bone. Every muscle in Ilfedo’s body fought to keep him standing, yet inch by inch he fell to his knees. His hand still held the sword, but its flames sputtered.

The door of his home flew open, and a small figure stepped into the moist night. “Father!”

Several Art’en bounded toward her, shrieking with freakish fury. Two of them brought her to the ground as she screamed and cried. “Father!” It seemed to be the only word she was capable of uttering.

“Let—her—go!” Ilfedo drew upon his rage and felt his connection to the sword reestablish. Voices whispered in the trees, and the screams of men and women echoed all around him. Darkness crept toward him, constricting the sword’s circle of light.

The Grim Reaper approached him, but the living fire poured strength into Ilfedo’s muscles. He laughed and rose, snapping the invisible band that held him in place. He raised the sword of the dragon, stepped forward, and drove the flaming blade into the Reaper’s skull.

Death fell back but slashed back with its scythe.

Ilfedo brought the sword down upon the scythe’s broad side, forcing it to the ground. The curved blade bent. With a yell of victory, he reached under the Reaper’s tattered hood. His fingers found a vertebrate in Death’s neck. Raising the sword, he smashed its pommel into the Reaper’s forehead.

The Grim Reaper fell to the ground, its jaw opening in a soundless cry.

Oganna screamed. She collapsed, eyes closed. An Art’en scooped her up, turned toward the trees with her in its arms. Caritha charged out the door and jumped on its back, driving her rusted blade into its neck. Rose’el followed, driving her sword into the Art’en’s head. Evela joined them and snatched the child from its arms, ducking to avoid another of the creatures.

Levena and Laura darted outside and wrestled the Art’en nearest the house to the ground before slaying it. Seivar and Hasselpatch streaked into the fray, digging their silver talons into the assailants’ backs, ripping at their wings, and viciously stabbing their beaks into the Art’en’s bodies.

Swaying to its feet, the Grim Reaper evaporated in a cloud of dark smoke that shot toward the sky. Ilfedo gritted his teeth. He needed to keep it from getting away. Holding his sword with all his strength and pointing its blade at the ground, he willed it to flame. The sword blasted fire at the ground, launching him into the air. He reached into the Reaper’s smoky essence, hoping that the sword would force the being back into skeletal human form.

The Reaper’s body begin to take shape again. His hand closed on one skeletal arm. He slowed. His fingers slipped. As he fell away from the Reaper, he cried out, “I’m taking payment, you foul creature. Remember me when you think of returning to this land!” As he fell, the sword of the dragon sailed out of his hand end over end, severing one of the Reaper’s arms.

As Ilfedo crashed to the ground, he stared at the Reaper’s startled face. The Reaper wisped from its bodily form into black smoke. Ilfedo looked down at Death’s severed arm imprisoned in his fist. As he struggled to his feet, he dropped it, then raced into the forest after the Art’en.

Every sense seemed enhanced. He hunted the winged men with ease, finding several hiding in the trees. Inflamed by the sword’s strength, he climbed the trees faster than the creatures could escape. None of the Art’en survived the night. The Warrioresses combed the forest floor, and the Nuvitors soared overhead.

A couple hours later Ilfedo counted twenty-three dead Art’en. Oganna woke with a headache and said that she’d been knocked in the head by one of the creatures. At first he thought she was trying to show that she did not fear the creatures. He shook his head and told Evela to put her to bed. But the child walked to the midst of the clearing, bent down, and picked up the skeletal arm.

With a smile on her face, she handed it to her father and kissed him. “I love you, Father.” There was no fear in her blue-gold eyes, only gratitude.

He felt her head but found only a bruise, so he put her into Caritha’s bed that night, more for his own peace of mind than for hers. “This attack,” he said in a hushed voice, sitting on the edge of the bed and gazing into Caritha’s sober face, “did you sense where it was directed?”

“How do you mean, brother?” she whispered.

The other sisters filtered into the little room, standing against the walls. Laura, Evela, and Levena brushed their long, thick hair. Caritha had already cleaned up. Rose’el’s hair remained askew, and her eyes refused to leave Oganna. Evela offered her brush to Rose’el. “You need it.”

“Keep it for yourself!” Rose’el said. Evela’s eyes widened, and she stepped back. Rose’el offered no apology. Her gaze remained on the sleeping child.

Ilfedo half-smiled, then said, “I sensed the Reaper’s focus. All it wanted during the struggle was my child. It wanted Oganna.”

“But why?” Caritha looked at Oganna and lightly stroked the girl’s blond locks.

Ilfedo shook his head. That he did not know.

For a long while everyone was silent. Then Caritha, gazing into each of her sisters’ dark eyes, said, “The dragon promised you that dark times lie ahead. Perhaps it is time to begin teaching Oganna what we know. We can teach her how to fight and how to exercise the power in her dragon blood.”

“She is my baby girl—”

“A dragon’s offspring, nevertheless, brother. It is time you see that for what it is.” Caritha frowned. “Untrained, she is helpless, but with our instruction she can be as strong as any of us.”

Ilfedo paced to the door and back. Oganna was so young, so innocent. Must she be condemned to endure horrors in her youth, as he had? As hard as it was to admit, though, Caritha was right about her dragon blood. The dragon’s sword afforded him great power in battle, but he knew nothing of the mysterious power inside his daughter. If only the sword smith had remained with them, Ilfedo would have gladly given Oganna into his tutelage. Without Linsair, he’d need to rely on the sisters.

“You may train her,” he said at last.

Caritha smiled and nodded.

“However, you must not bring her with you on any mission. Perform what training exercises you must, but perform them here.” As the sister started to object, he raised his hand to silence her. “These are my terms. My child’s safety is my first concern, and if it is not yours also, then I cannot give her into your instruction. I lost her mother. I will not lose her.”

“And if your fear leaves her less capable of defending herself in a desperate moment?”

“I will protect her, my sister.” He stood, bent, and kissed his child’s cheek. “Goodnight.” With that he trudged upstairs and lay in his bed. Seivar and Hasselpatch flew to him. “My dear, trusted companions.” They cooed, rubbing against him. He brought them downstairs and washed them in the sink. Then he trundled them into bed, leaned the sword of the dragon against the wall nearby, and fell into deep sleep.

Sitting against a tree, Specter spat blood and laughed. He looked at the sky. The Grim Reaper had shot like a black comet into the east. “You fled like the snake you are!” And he laughed again.

He still felt weak. The thrill of seeing the man defend his child, though, and the ferocity of Ilfedo’s attack, made the dark being’s defeat sweet as honey in his stomach.

How swift and sudden was the Reaper’s humiliation. How unexpected and glorious! The evil spirits had fled as well. Peace reigned where terror intended to take root. A moist cold wind tossed the hood off his head and forced tears from his eyes.

Specter stood and smiled. He could sense the strength emanating from Ilfedo’s house, and it had been a long time since he’d felt such security. In truth, he had not felt such strength in a very long time. Carrying his scythe on his shoulders, he strode into the depths of the forest. Hope seemed to shine from heaven, the favor of God upon Specter’s young ward.

H
olding his ten-year-old daughter’s hand firmly in his own, Ilfedo led her through the crowd thronging the streets. Stirred dust tickled his nostrils and clouded his path. He wrinkled his nose at the strong odor of lye coming from the wash hung between the small houses on either side of the street. Ignoring the stares and hushed voices that followed him, he made his way to the stockade fort at the street’s end.

It was regrettable that its demand for wood had thinned out much of the forests, but he considered it a small price to pay for a secure nation, and he did not wish to stop cultural change. In this case, he believed, it was for the betterment of all mankind.

“Father.” Oganna tugged his sleeve with her free hand. “Why is everyone staring at us?”

He’d found himself wondering of late when she would ask a question he could not answer. As with most children, she was full of questions. Crouching, he brushed a strand of loose hair from her forehead. “You and I are important to these people.”

The child frowned, then turned to point behind them at Ombre. “They do not stare at him.”

“I think they do. It’s just that they have seen him before. We, on the other hand …” He smiled. “I’ve never brought you here before.”

A breeze caught her golden hair and flung it across her face. She brushed it aside and returned the crowd’s gaze. Her eyes bore a startling severity, and Ilfedo observed that many of the bystanders were more than a little taken with her.

He let out a long, slow breath, remembering how the people of the Hemmed Land had wanted him to become their Lord Warrior. That mantle of authority would pass, upon his death, to his daughter—the princess, as people called her. His position had enabled him to work for the greater good.

The past six months had seen no more Art’en appearances. The latest incident had inspired a thorough combing of the nation’s forests. No more of the creatures had been found. He had chosen to keep the Reaper’s involvement a secret. Some would have called him a fool for claiming the Specter of Death really existed. Some would have called him proud for assuming it would be interested in visiting death particularly upon him and his household.