56 – Desperate Measures
Hearing that first word, Ward felt a burst of adrenaline like never before, and he launched the spear like a javelin. It ripped through the air, quivering, wobbling, but flying true, straight at Nevkin’s chest. Nevkin saw it coming; his eyes flew wide with panic, and he choked off his spell as he fell back. Unfortunately, he didn’t let go of the reins, and his big, wild-eyed stallion reared back, and Ward's spear slammed into its chest, burying at least two feet of its length into the animal’s flesh.
Ward winced as the mighty animal screamed and thrashed, falling to its side as it writhed, kicking its hooves in the air. It was an ugly sight, and Ward immediately wanted to help the poor beast, but Nevkin rolled away and scrambled to his feet. Haley drew her sword and began to circle the downed horse and Nevkin to the right, so Ward jerked his knife from its sheath and moved to the left, hoping to draw the madman’s gaze away from her. “What’s your problem, you little asshole?”
Nevkin brushed at his robes. Ward wasn’t sure why—they were tattered and stained and hung on him like the feathers of an anemic, molting crow. He glanced at the thrashing, wheezing horse—Ward was pretty sure he’d put the spear right into its lung—then turned to Ward. “You fool. You couldn’t let it go, hmm? Well, you’ve bitten off more than your stupid mouth can swallow. There are powers in Vainglory you shouldn’t interfere with!” He reached into his robe, and Ward lifted his knife, ready to let it fly but also wanting to be sure he had a clear shot this time. Nevkin’s hand came out with the mana-well, pulsing with pale blue light between his clenched, dirty fingers.
Seeing the light bleed through those fingers drove home to Ward how far gone the man was. His robes weren’t the only filthy part of him. His flesh was smeared with soot and dried…stuff. His nails were long and jagged, caked with grime, like he’d been digging in the dirt with his bare hands. Nevkin licked his lips, and his silvery tongue winked in the failing sunlight. “Looking for this?” He hefted the mana-well, almost like he meant to toss it up and catch it, but he didn’t let go.
Ward nodded, still circling, trying hard not to look toward Haley, who had effectively flanked the would-be warlock. “I thought you couldn’t charge it? No way the mana I put into it has lasted this long.”
“Another example of what a fool you are.” Nevkin held the mana-well up, peering at it as though he could see something within the arcane, throbbing blue light. He chuckled, his voice deep and resonant. “Did you do anything special when you ‘charged’ it? I think not! All I must do is hold it near a corpse for a while, and—wonder of wonders—it fills with mana!” His voice was so clear and rich that Ward had a hard time believing it was coming from the strange, filthy, wild-eyed man standing before him. “I wouldn’t try throwing that little enchanted knife my way. I’ll see it turn in the air and pierce your damned eye!”
Ward arched an eyebrow. Could he do that? Could he speak words fast enough to stop a blade midflight? Did he need to? Maybe he had some kind of defensive spell ready. Ward shook his head. “You’re full of shit.”
“Try me and find out.” Nevkin gathered a wad of phlegm and spat.
Ward growled, ready to close the distance and do some violence, but just then, the horse twitched violently, and one of its hooves pounded onto a cobble with a resounding thud. He glanced at the poor animal, his guilt getting the better of him for a moment, but it had ceased thrashing, and its snorting breaths were rapid and shallow. “Would a healing draught help that horse?”
“You buffoon!” Nevkin laughed, leaning forward and slapping his knee. For a moment, Ward thought the fight, the wild violence of his charge, had fled before his mania. The hope was short-lived, though, as Nevkin suddenly straightened and whirled on Haley. “Vrokun Dhravek-Prakhun Khryon Vikrin!” The words flew from his mouth so quickly that Ward hardly had time to widen his eyes and pull his arm back to throw before they tore through the air and, with their harsh, unfriendly syllables, slammed into his mind, stunning him as his nose began to flow with hot blood.
He coughed, leaning forward to spit bloody saliva, but those effects were only secondary; his tiny vessels were collateral damage. The spell had been aimed at Haley. Ward watched her with bleary, bloodshot eyes as she stood, caught in the open by Nevkin’s magic. He was sure he was about to see her sliced in half, but something else happened. The sword she held flared with brilliant crimson light, its runes blazing like neon-red letters. She stumbled back, dropped the sword with a yelp, and slapped her hands to her ears.
“What’s this?” Nevkin crowed. He sounded more excited than upset. “You’ve brought me another artifact?” Ward could see rivulets of blood running down the back of Nevkin’s scalp as the madman stared at Haley and the sword at her feet. He might have performed the spell, but it hadn’t been easy.
Meanwhile, Haley had fallen to her knees, still clutching her ears with eyes squeezed shut as tears of blood rolled down her cheeks. The sword might have somehow stopped the spell, but the simple proximity of such harsh magic had done a number on her. Ward straightened and lifted his knife as, to his dismay, Nevkin drew a long, curved dagger of his own, stalking toward Haley.
Ward had seen enough. “You’re done,” he growled, then hurled his enchanted blade at the warlock. It flew like a glinting metallic missile, streaking toward the center of Nevkin’s back. The warlock didn’t dodge or whirl around to face the attack. He didn’t even try to utter any magical words. The blade hit home, right in the center of his spine, but, to Ward’s dismay, it slid harmlessly off the filthy, feather-clad robes.
Nevkin only chuckled, and then, in a move that brought to mind memories of the young man as he was in the catacombs—an efficient, deadly fighter with a rapier—he glided over the grassy slope and drove his knife into a stunned Haley’s chest.
Ward’s world shattered into a thousand pieces as emotions and hormones fought for control of his mind. He exploded into motion, sprinting over the grassy hillside, leaping the cobbled drive to close the distance. All the while, his mind reeled with dismay, guilt, horror, and furious, blood-red thoughts of vengeance. Nevkin was leaning over, reaching for Haley’s sword, when Ward, fueled by his powerful, youthful body, closed the distance and shoulder-checked him like a linebacker trying to ruin a quarterback’s career.
Nevkin made a sound like, “Ooarghph!” He flew several feet before crunching into the ground on his shoulder and rolling several feet. Ward bent to pick up Haley’s sword and glanced at her face—white, wide-eyed, and gasping—as she tentatively touched the oozing puncture wound in the center of her chest left behind by Nevkin’s knife.
“Do something!” Grace screamed, suddenly there, leaning over Haley’s shuddering form.
“Hang on,” he grunted, then lifted the heavy, razor-sharp broadsword and stalked toward the downed Warlock. Nevkin had come to rest on his back, and he panted, his face drawn in pain, as he tried to scrabble backward. His left arm wasn’t cooperating; something had broken when he struck the ground. Still, he managed to get into a crouching, unsteady, fighting stance as Ward hacked the sword at him.
Nevkin’s right arm was strong and fast, and he knew how to fight. He blocked the blow, using Ward’s momentum against him, stepping to the side and dragging the blade of his bloody knife along Ward’s ribs, slicing into his heavy wool coat. Ward whirled, hacking the sword in a wide, whooshing backhand cleave, and Nevkin dodged back, licking his lips with his silvery tongue. “Did I hurt your little plaything?” He chased the taunt with a maniacal giggle, which had the desired effect: Ward went mad.
He was taller, heavier, and had eight inches of reach on the twisted, stinking, filthy madman, and that was without considering the length of his sword versus Nevkin’s knife. Still, somehow, Ward failed to land a hit with a series of whirling, wild hacks. Nevkin dodged and sidestepped, always moving just enough to avoid the blade but not much more. Even as he dodged, he delivered several perfectly placed thrusts with his long, curved knife. Ward’s coat slowed the blade, and Nevkin had to move too quickly to deliver a deadly blow, but, nonetheless, Ward could feel the hot blood running down his ribs and over his stomach.
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“Ward!” Grace screamed, standing behind Nevkin. “You have to calm down and think.” Ward wanted to ignore her, but somehow, her words came through the red haze clouding his vision. She was right; Nevkin would bleed him out bit by bit, just as he’d done to the lizard-man he fought in the catacombs. Nevkin didn’t look great; he was panting, his left arm wasn’t moving right, and he was bleeding from several large lesions on his scalp. Looking at him, figuring he couldn’t weigh more than a hundred and forty pounds, Ward made a snap decision.
“You want the sword?” he growled. Nevkin must have intuited something of Ward’s intention because he lifted his knife in a guard position before his face, but it wasn’t enough. Ward brought the sword up in a two-handed grip, and then, with all his might, he hurled it overhead, straight at Nevkin. They were only a couple of yards apart, and even though the throw was well-broadcasted, Nevkin barely ducked enough to avoid the brunt of the spinning weapon’s impact. Still, the hilt caught him above the ear, perhaps dazing him just long enough for Ward’s follow-up—an open-armed, diving tackle.
He drove Nevkin to the ground, easily overpowering the smaller man as he wrapped him in a bear hug. Nevkin couldn’t break his fall, so his face impacted the hard, cold soil, and Ward capitalized, driving his weight into the warlock’s back and grinding his flesh into the rough dirt and yellowed, dry grass. Nevkin grunted and wheezed, and Ward ground his knee into his spine, holding him fixed in place as he grabbed his bald, bleeding head into a headlock. He hooked his arm around Nevkin’s throat, and he squeezed with everything he had, pushing his other arm into the back of Nevkin’s head.
Nevkin bucked and thrashed, slapping his good arm, still grasping the knife, ineffectually against Ward’s heavy coat sleeve. Ward was still seeing red. Mercy wasn’t welcome in his mental space, and he squeezed. Nevkin stopped thrashing, and Ward still squeezed, and it wasn’t until Grace began to slap his head that he registered her screaming words, “…Haley, you idiot!” Understanding washed over him like a bucket of cold water, and Ward released Nevkin. Still, he didn’t trust the little bastard to stay dead, so he plucked the knife out of his limp fingers and drove it through his neck, pinning it to the hard soil. The body didn’t so much as twitch.
Ward staggered to his feet—somewhere along the line, he’d hurt his knee—and limp-jogged over to Haley. She lay there on the grass, pale and still, her leather vest utterly soaked in blood. “I need a healing draught—the salve!” Ward gasped, turning to run down the cobbled lane to where they’d tied the horses.
“Hurry, Ward!” Grace screamed, still standing near Haley. Ward frantically pawed through Haley’s saddlebags, looking for the tonics she’d purchased and the cream he’d used so many times to staunch his bleeding cuts. Would it be enough? Nevkin had buried his blade in her chest… Ward shook his head and grabbed one of the little glass bottles and a jar of the salve, running back to Haley’s still figure. “She doesn’t look good, Ward!”
Ward slid to his knees beside her and ripped the cork out of the healing draught. He tipped it to Haley’s pale, blood-stained lips and tried to get her to drink, but she was utterly still. Ward pulled on her chin to open her mouth and poured some of the faintly fizzing liquid inside, but she didn’t swallow, even when he tried massaging her throat like he used to do for his old labrador when she wouldn’t swallow a pill. Her flesh felt too cool, and Ward couldn’t feel a pulse. “Goddammit!” he roared.
In desperation, he fumbled with the ties on Haley’s leather vest and ripped it open, exposing her pale chest with its gaping, dark, wedge-shaped hole. Ward blinked, too furious, stricken, and frantic to care that he was openly weeping. He unscrewed the jar of salve and scooped some out, reaching to smear it on the wound. He knew it was too late, though—if she were alive, it would still be bleeding, and it wasn’t. “Goddammit!” he groaned, this time with a hitch in his throat. “I’m an idiot! Why didn’t I make her stay back in the town? I could have lied! I could have said I was going to scout it out.”
When Grace didn’t speak—not to argue or condemn or even to commiserate, he looked to see her sitting in the grass near Haley’s head, a look of utter defeat on her face. She stared down at Haley’s splayed-out hair, wringing her fingers in her lap. Ward fell away from Haley’s body to sprawl in the grass. “I’m not wrong, am I?” He wiped a bloody hand across his face and looked up at the pale, cloudy sky. “She’s gone.”
“We have to do something,” Grace whispered.
“What? What can we do? CPR isn’t going to fix whatever that knife cut inside her. I think it must have sliced an artery or her heart. Jesus.” Ward pushed himself up, leaning over Haley’s still form again, putting his face close to hers. “I’m so sorry. Dammit, Grace, she didn’t deserve any of the shit she went through. She was a sweet kid, you know? One fucking tragedy after another—" His words choked off as an involuntary sob hit him. It surprised him—that choking breath. He hadn’t cried in longer than he could remember. Not really. He’d teared up about a few things, but the last time he’d sobbed was…Ward shook his head. He honestly couldn’t remember.
He stroked Haley’s soft, black hair, gently rubbing his thumbs on her cool brow, wishing she’d open her eyes and he could tell her everything was going to be all right. Of course, wishes were one thing and reality another. She lay motionless, still as…Well, he supposed, still as death. Suddenly, nothing felt worthwhile. His murderous vengeance, his burgeoning ability to cast spells, his existence in a new, wondrous world—what did any of it matter? The one person he’d tried so hard to help, protect, and befriend was dead. Dead after days and days of suffering. He'd watched her lose everything and made hollow, stupid promises about partnership and adventure.
Grace’s voice was very small as she whispered, so much so that he almost didn’t hear her, “Ward, she doesn’t have any anima.”
He narrowed his dark brows into a scowl, some of the red returning to his vision as, once again, adrenaline flooded his system. “The fuck do you mean?” he growled.
“She doesn’t! Do you see any?”
Ward looked over Haley’s still form, and though he didn’t see any tiny blue motes, he shook his head, puzzled. “Doesn’t mean shit. Sometimes it takes a while. Remember the scav?” He was still feeling dangerously on edge. Grace was up to something; he was sure of it. “Why’d you say that?”
“I can tell, okay? It’s part of my…thing. I can see she doesn’t have any anima. She’s stuck! She’s going to…I don’t know, become whatever happens to souls with no anima to move on. A ghost? A poltergeist? Maybe she’ll fade into nothing. Whatever it is, it isn’t good!” Grace looked at him with pleading eyes, and Ward felt his anger flee. Did she really care about Haley? He certainly did. What could he do, though?
“The spell,” Grace said, reaching out to grasp his wrist in her warm, slender fingers.
“What?” Ward shook his head. He knew what she meant—the spell Aldiss had given him. If he weren’t so upset, so distraught, he might have laughed. “I can’t even read those goddamn words, Grace. There’s no way I can get that spell in my head! If I did manage to learn it, though, it would kill me to cast!”
She shook her head, staring at something behind him, and Ward turned to follow her gaze. Nevkin’s slumped corpse, the hilt of a knife standing proudly from the back of his neck, lay there. “You’re forgetting something.”
Suddenly, her meaning clicked in his head, and Ward did laugh—a short, bitter sound. “I’m not putting that fucking tongue in my mouth.”
Grace’s fingers tightened on his wrist, and she leaned close and hissed, “You wouldn’t do that for Haley? Wouldn’t you go through a little suffering to save her soul?”
Ward scowled and locked eyes with her. “This isn’t like you, Grace. You’re cut-throat.” Ward could feel something niggling in his gut; something wasn’t adding up. “How did Haley lose her anima?”
“I don’t know!” Grace snapped. “I might be ‘cut-throat,’ Ward, but you know I like Haley! If she had anima, I’d let this go, but Ward, she only has one hope! You read the note about the spell! The longer you wait, the harder it will be on her, the more risk there is!”
He frowned, still holding Haley’s head in his hands, with Grace’s fingers latched onto his wrist. He stared at her pale visage; bloody tears had left streaks on her wan cheeks, but otherwise, she seemed at peace. Could her soul really be lost forever? The spell had been rife with warnings, saying never to use it if any other hope existed. Was there any hope? If not, was he willing to do what Grace asked? Could he pull that evil tongue out of Nevkin’s mouth and let it take root in his own? Was it evil, or was it just a tool? One of his doubts found its way out of his mouth, “It drove Nevkin nuts.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he was already a psychopath. They’re good at hiding their nature, you know. Perhaps casting too many spells his body couldn’t handle is what brought out his true self. Ward, you have to try!” Again, Grace squeezed his wrist, and he could hear the plaintive despair in her voice. If she was acting, she was damn good.
He stared at Haley’s face for another long moment. Then, with dread in his heart and blood like ice in his veins, he stood and walked over to where his knife had fallen. His short walk to Nevkin’s corpse felt strange—like he was drifting through air thick as molasses, as if he were on his way to the gallows. His hands remained steady, though, and his mind resolute as he turned Nevkin over and pried apart his filthy, black-stained lips. He had to jam the knife between his teeth to force the jaw open, and there, glistening like a secret treasure, lay the warlock’s silver tongue.