Van-Dal reached into an inner pocket in the deepest part of his pack, and he produced a neatly tied bundle of the softest linen. With great reverence he unfastened each knot, then unfolded the fabric. Within lay a simple band set with tumbled rubies, each identical to the next, each perfectly rounded. He lifted it between his hands, and he gazed for a while into the stones. Then he lifted the circlet and placed it on his head.
Next he made careful inspection of his weapons, one at a time, more blades than a person could reasonably have expected him to have brought. Some he set aside and some he returned to their hidden places about his person, until a pair of matched short swords remained. Each was just the right length to lay the blade along his forearm, fully concealing it. Holding both in one hand, he looked to Seikhiel.
“If I am unable, you must return the jewels to my father.”
Seikhiel gave a brief nod, an understanding from one soldier to another. Then Van-Dal pulled his mask up and secured it into place over the lower half of his face.
Let the work commence.
He stood straight and tall, his wings opened almost halfway, and he faced his opponent. The tree’s branches swayed benignly against the boundless blue of the sky. To his right, a small movement caught his eye. Luccan. The cat stepped forward, his massive sword resting across both hands. Their gazes locked, and Van-Dal nodded. By any means necessary. Luccan placed the fabled blade at his feet and stepped back again.
Akieryon and Szearbhyn flanked the tree, one looking bored and the other uncertain. Well. They would not remain idle for long. Van-Dal shifted one sword to each hand. These blades had come with him out of childhood. They felt natural in his relaxed hands. They were faithful companions, comfortable extensions of his arms. He closed his eyes for a moment, and he allowed a deep gratitude to well up within him. Thank you for coming along on every journey. If our travels should end here, it was worth every step.
Van-Dal reversed the blades and struck them against his own chest. Someone cried out in alarm. Tharaiyelagh. Behind his mask, Van-Dal allowed himself a small smile. He took his surge of warm feeling and he pushed it into the energies gathering on the freshly blooded swords. He extended one in a low guard, raised the other to the level of his eyes, and he sprang forward.
The tree swung a massive branch at him. He ducked, his wings grazing the tops of the quillworts, and the great tree’s feathery needles caught at his plumage as it passed him by.
“Hold the tree!”
Akieryon responded first, reaching out with magic that tingled at the edges of Van-Dal’s senses. He remained focused on his target: the immense bulk of the trunk of the tree. Another branch swept over his head, but this one was caught and held by one of the twins. Van-Dal gained a striking position, and he slashed. Soft bark burst outward in a spray of powder and splinters. The trunk buckled, as though trying to force the debris into his mouth, his nose, his eyes. Van-Dal squinted, and he made a second cut. A third, arcing slash formed a rudimentary sigil. The tree twisted, straining away from him, fighting with all its considerable mass. Threads of magic twined above him, keeping the lashing branches away from him, light and dark, the essence of life itself fused into a protective shield. The ground shook beneath his feet, and Van-Dal leapt back just as a root burst forth, bent on his destruction. He skidded a short distance down the slope, and he studied his foe.
The twins had the thrashing branches held fast in a net of magic that stretched taut between them. They bent all of their strength to the task, their wings battering the air to steady them. The trunk of the tree bucked and strained. It could not free itself, not yet, but it had the luxury of time. Creatures of flesh would tire long before an immense cedar ever did.
One more component. One strike. One burst of energy. The trick, though, would lie in getting past the roots.
The answer lay at his feet.
Van-Dal reached down with his tail, hooked it beneath Warbringer, and flung it into the air. Catching the fabled sword between both hands, he whirled, and he threw it. The blade flew true. It tore through two lashing roots before plunging into the base of the tree’s trunk.
The great cedar shuddered. Van-Dal charged through the pause, through the shockwave that followed. He gained the trunk once more. With all his strength, with a mighty cry, he slashed both short swords into the bark, completing the sigil.
With a groan, with such a rending that it felt like his own flesh shook apart with it, the ancient cedar’s trunk split open like a yew tree. A single stroke of Van-Dal’s wings carried him backward as a mess of unkempt red hair and pale limbs tumbled out of the breach.
The heap Bel had landed in somehow resolved itself into a crouch. He looked up through his tangled mop of hair, his eyes flashing through every shade of fire. He bared his teeth, and he lunged.
Oh, no.
There is something profoundly unsettling, Van-Dal reflected, about an unarmed and unclad person attacking with nothing but claws and a fearsome scream. Van-Dal’s wings carried him safely out of range of Bel’s wild swipes, but the sword master only turned in search of his next… Opponent? Victim? Van-Dal looked around, looked to the elders of their group, looked for answers.
Bel made an unsteady charge at Akieryon, who dodged, but lost his hold on the tree. It snapped back, lashing branches at Bel and Akieryon while flinging Szearbhyn high into the cloudless sky. Oh, well. He’d come back down eventually.
Failing to get his claws into Akieryon, Bel whirled. He clenched his fists, arched his spine, and snarled a snarl that seemed to come from deep beneath his feet. He opened his hands with a sudden rush of heat. Flames danced between his spread fingers, ready to be given a direction. Van-Dal stepped in front of Tharaiyelagh, wings and swords held defensively.
“Bel!” Luccan started forward. “We’re here to help—” His words ended in a squeak of feline alarm as his old friend charged at him, throwing tendrils of fire as he went.
“Don’t hurt him!” Akieryon launched himself into Seikhiel’s path just as Seikhiel took a step toward the growing chaos. “He can’t—”
“TRY TO ATTACK MY BROTHER, WILL YOU!” Szearbhyn plunged out of the sky in a steep dive. He may have actually tackled Bel, if the tree hadn’t swung one great branch and lashed him to the earth first. Szearbhyn’s crash landing carved a deep furrow down the side of the hill and kicked a hailstorm of dirt and clods into the air. Those dragons who left their faces uncovered choked and tried not to breathe.
“Bel, listen to us!” barked Atchi, his hands raised in supplication. “We don’t want to hurt you!”
In his frenzy, Bel turned on Atchi. Flames swirled around his arms as he raised his claws to strike. They’re holding back, Van-Dal considered with some regret. They don’t want to harm Bel, and so Bel may destroy them.
Just then, a black-clad figure darted forward, nimbly evading claws and flames—or did he just pass cleanly through the fire? Without breaking stride, without hesitation, without any pretense of not wanting to harm the swordmaster, Tempest punched Bel in the jaw.
Bel reeled and tumbled back, bare limbs and crimson hair flying wildly as he lost his footing and fell, somersaulting backward down the hill.
Directly through the carefully arranged shards of Ragheiyont’s Wardbreaker.
“No!” Tharaiyelagh started forward, but Van-Dal restrained him with an arm across the chest. He felt so frail there, struggling to free himself, fighting in vain to help his brother. Ragheiyont simply collapsed in place, which was no help at all. With a cry of pure anguish, Tharaiyelagh dug his perfectly manicured claws into Van-Dal’s arm. “We have to help—!”
Wearing an expression of wounded patience, Tempest lifted one hand. All the scattered shards of Wardbreaker flew to his open palm. Every single one. Van-Dal’s eyes narrowed. After his… volcanic entrance earlier, even a dragon ten times Tempest’s age should find his magic spent for a while longer, and yet here the new prince of Seyzharel stood, expending more magic just as casually as breathing. Fascinating.
Bel tumbled to a stop and sat blinking behind the ragged curtain of his hair. His breathing slowed, and he used one fingertip to push just a little of his hair aside. He winced at the sunlight.
He can’t see, Van-Dal realized. That’s what Akieryon had tried to tell them. Well, now Bel shaded his long-disused eyes and tried to study his rescuers. Such as they were. Szearbhyn had bounced to his feet and, denied opportunity to rush to his twin’s side, glared at the tree. Akieryon yanked Warbringer free from the roots of the great cedar, whereupon its branches stilled.
Akieryon brought the sword to Luccan, who edged nearer to Bel. He had turned almost fully sideways, his ears lay flat against his head, and his spine had taken on a distinct outward arch. If he’d had a tail, Van-Dal imagined it would lash wildly. “Your sword,” Akieryon ventured.
“My sword,” Bel rasped, his voice like rust and gravel. “So here you are, you old tom.”
Luccan slid Warbringer back into its scabbard, but his posture did not relax. “I ought to punch you,” he hissed through his teeth. Bel rubbed at his bruised jaw.
“It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?” His eyes focused, with some effort, on Ragheiyont. “Why is that one on the ground?”
“The dagger,” said Seikhiel from where he knelt at Ragheiyont’s side. “Give him the dagger.”
Shrugging, Tempest brought the shards of Wardbreaker to Bel, who recoiled from it with a guttural hiss. “Foul and hungry thing,” he growled. “You are better rid of it.”
Seikhiel stood up. “Repair it,” he demanded, his voice as dark as his expression.
Bel regraded him across the shards of the cursed dagger. His eyes narrowed, flicked to Ragheiyont, then settled on Seikhiel again, much more focused now. Slowly, raspingly, Bel began to laugh.
The archangel Michael lay on the hardwood floor, his face turned to the darkest corner of the room, the scent of dust and wax filling his nostrils. He had failed. He had utterly failed his entire army, and he deserved to wither to dust and drift away to clump along the baseboards.
“You make a very poor dust bunny.”
Michael kicked his feet, which availed him nothing. He still wanted to crumble away. He still had to deal with the consequences of his negligence.
“Lord Michael,” said Sidriel, in that weary, exasperated tone of his. “Please get up. Raaqiel has complaints.” When Michael merely grunted, Sidriel added, “Of course, that’s nothing new.”
“He’ll deal with it.” Michael pushed himself up onto his knees. “I don’t want the workload of the Third Sword doubled, but…”
“But we cant allow the Fifth Sword to proceed as they have been,” Sidriel agreed. “If Keilel’s allegations prove true—”
“They’re true,” Michael growled. Certainty twisted and sank like lead in his gut, poisoning every thought. He had to fight it. “But a proper investigation must be conducted. These poor soldiers… My poor soldiers…” Tortured right under his own miserable, myopic nose.
Sidriel heaved yet another weary sigh. “Lord Michael,” he said, and for the first time it struck Michael how exhausted he sounded. “There is yet that other matter.”
This time, Michael himself sighed. “How,” he said, drawing the word out into three syllables, “has Niseriel managed to misplace his best Demonslayer?”
Sidriel simply shook his head.
This was all too much. With the weight of centuries of past abuses and the burden of work yet to come all crushing him, Michael collapsed back onto the floor.
Becoming a dust bunny seemed like the thing to do.
Bel held the shards of Wardbreaker gently, as though they might startle and attack him. He prodded them around with one fingertip, careful not to cut himself on any of the edges. He scowled for a minute, and then sparks and flames leapt from his fingertips. He hissed a curse, then redoubled his effort. Light flared between his hands, hot and white. Ragheiyont screamed. Seikhiel caught him and held him upright.
When the flames died away, Wardbreaker lay across Bel’s palm, shot through with cracks but undeniably whole. He held it up toward Ragheiyont, who still leaned against Seikhiel, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. “Good enough to travel on,” declared Bel, “but fragile. And foul. At a proper forge, I might improve both.”
Ragheiyont made no move toward the dagger. He looked limp, drained, and utterly unfit to make the journey back. Akieryon eyed the way his wings sagged low, dragging on the ground, and he fretted. He had never left a soldier behind, not yet. He looked at Seikhiel, who stood with his arm around Ragheiyont, and he worried that this time he might have to leave two.
Still holding the dagger, Bel climbed to his feet. “A bit rude,” he remarked, “asking me to work before I’ve even dressed.” He gave Seikhiel an arch look. “Not that you appear to have any clothing to spare.” He turned to Luccan, who unfastened his weathered old cloak and wordlessly handed it over. “When did he stop wearing a shirt? Is this new?”
Akieryon knew the answer. Less clothing meant fewer places to leave marks, to track the evidence of abuses across the skin of a stubborn victim. Swallowing his bitter truth, Akieryon turned away, turned his gaze upon his other companions. They must not know. They must never know.
Atchi rummaged in his pack and produced—of all things—a kilt. Tempest split the air with one fingertip, reached through into one of his private pocket dimensions, and pulled out a vest. Bel took both without comment. He dressed himself, which seemed a tremendous relief to some of their company.
“Well.” Bel tucked the fragile Wardbreaker away into some hidden pocket in Atchi’s kilt. “Who has something to eat?”
Luccan flung a waterstained pack at him and stomped down to the foot of the hill, where he stood, his back to them, apparently fuming. Unruffled, Bel rummaged in the pack for food. Grinning, Atchi leaned close to him. “Be nice to his kit,” he advised. Bel shot a narrow-eyed glance at Ragheiyont. Then he gave a hearty laugh.
“Oho, this is a tangled mess! How did this happen, eh?” He nudged Seikhiel with his elbow. “Brought low by one of Luccan’s? I never thought I’d see the day!”
Ragheiyont pushed free of Seikhiel’s arm, swayed, then planted his feet and raised his wings in defiance. “Whaddya mean by that, jo?”
Chuckling still, Bel shook his head. “One more thing for the two of them to fight about, I’m sure.”
Seikhiel looked away, looked at the quillworts beneath his feet. “It’s irrelevant,” he muttered.
“Irrelevant!” Bel barked a fresh laugh. “Oh, no, old friend, I mean to rib you about this for a good long while!”
Panic flashed across Seikhiel’s face. “You mustn’t.” He caught at the edge of the borrowed cloak and pulled Bel nearer. “Please,” he said, his voice almost too low to hear. “For Ragheiyont’s safety.”
Akieryon knew too well that cold knife of fear, that certainty that any small affection could become a weapon in the hands of…
“Bah.” Bel gestured, and Atchi handed him a canteen. “Since when do you keep company with people who cannot take care of themselves?” He drank deeply, washing the rusty tones from his voice. “You, hero of the Great Heavens’ War. Even that human girl you and Niseriel both—”
“Leave Damar out of this.”
“—were married to was feisty enough.” Bel watched Ragheiyont for a reaction, knowing his words could cut as deeply as any blade. He was not disappointed.
Ragheiyont jabbed a claw at Seikhiel. “You said you weren’t attracted to anyone!” he accused. His wings hunched high over his shoulders, he stormed unsteadily away down the hill, toward Luccan.
Bel grinned broadly. “What does attraction have to do with marriage?”
“Rahi!” Seikhiel followed Ragheiyont down the hill, and the rest of the assembled company drifted after him, keeping only the barest pretense of a respectful distance.
“You are a very bad man,” Atchi said to Bel in a bland tone, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“If man I may be.”
“Right.”
Akieryon glared at the both of them. He struggled to reconcile the idea of Bel with the reality before him. History painted the great swordmaker as a somber craftsman, a person wholly devoted to his art. The Bel they had freed seemed to enjoy needling his friends simply for the pleasure of watching them react.
“I’m being stupid,” Ragheiyont mumbled, the words meant for Seikhiel’s ears. Everyone else strained to listen. “I know it’s not my business. Y’ve lived so long, of course I barely know—”
“Ragheiyont,” Seikhiel interrupted, his voice gentle, soothing. “I told you the truth. I will always tell you the truth.”
Their gazes met and held, azure to amber, and Akieryon abruptly felt that he intruded on a profoundly intimate moment. He turned away, searching for his brother. He found Tempest.
“Spectacle,” Tempest muttered. He inclined his head toward the crest of the hill, toward Bel who had backtracked and now rummaged about near the foot of the tree that had so lately been his prison.
“He’s going to get caught again—” Akieryon started up the hill, but Tempest’s hand on his arm stilled him, calmed him. If Tempest thought Bel would be fine, he had no reason to doubt. He never had reason to doubt Tempest.
Bel tucked something into his pocket and straightened. He turned to head back down the hill, but his steps faltered when he saw Tempest and Akieryon watching him. “Gentlemen,” he said, his expression growing wary.
“Quite a performance,” Tempest said benignly, but Bel bristled all the same.
“It’s Seikhiel’s own fault. He ought to know better than to court a dragon scarcely out of the nest.”
“They’ve only known each other a few days.” Why did Akieryon feel the need to defend the man who had imprisoned him?
“Even worse,” Bel scoffed. He made to brush past them, but Tempest lifted one hand, and Bel froze. In Tempest’s open palm lay a single black feather. Frantic, Bel checked his pockets. Then he glared, baring double fangs as he snarled, “Give it back.”
Tempest glanced over at the rest of their ragtag company, still gathered around Seikhiel and Ragheiyont. Then, with a small shake of his head, he handed the feather to Bel. Gingerly, as though the feather might attack him, Bel took it between two fingers and held it up to the light. Oil-slick rainbows played across the upper surface. Satisfied, Bel tucked it away again, but he regarded Tempest with deep suspicion.
“What are you?” the swordsmith demanded.
“Tempest.”
It was no answer. It was the only possible answer. Hiding his smile, Akieryon slipped his hand into the crook of Tempest’s elbow and tugged him back down the sunny slope, back to their companions.
For this one last gift, my young friend, I am in your debt.