as though in a daze and Isak realised she was indeed bound — with sorcery, not oaths. The lesser two of the Vukotic children, ever in the shadows of their three remarkable siblings, were even now in the thrall of their family. Vorizh had turned them to his own purpose, using them to maintain this horrific masquerade.
Isak felt a chill of uncertainty. Is Vorizh even here? Is this some madman’s ruse, or just the next step on a far longer path?
‘Come,’ Araia said hoarsely, ‘I will show you the way through.’
She beckoned them forward and watched as Isak cautiously approached. He studied her as he went: a good hand taller than her sister, and less terrifyingly beautiful, but no less arresting for it.
‘Your brother is here?’
‘You will meet him soon enough,’ Araia warned.
When Isak was just two paces away she turned abruptly, affording him a glimpse of the long-handled sword on her back, and set off. There was a bitter scent left in her wake as Isak followed, magic unknown to him, and wrought in a way he couldn’t begin to guess at. All along the walls were inscribed tablets: more secrets and mysteries, no doubt, leading to the sudden shock of coming face to face with a vampire in the darkness.
Araia led them silently through the labyrinth, moving without hesitation despite Isak’s certainty the passages were changing around them, that they must have crossed back over their own path more than once, through once solid walls. The vampire moved as though led by a chain in the darkness, resigned and defeated by it.
How long has he kept her here? His own sibling! Isak shook the questions away. Vorizh was a vampire twisted into madness by Death’s own weapon. He could expect no reason in Vorizh’s actions, whether or not there was purpose.
After ten minutes or more Araia jerked to a halt. A new light spilled out over the walls, a constant pale blue. ‘My brother is within,’ she said quietly.
Isak waited for her to move off, but she didn’t; she remained still, almost like a mechanical toy run down. There was space to pass her, however, so Isak waited a few heartbeats longer before moving through the entrance, which took them down another short flight of steps, below ground-level now, to a wide chamber covered in ornate carvings and runic script. Roughly cut shards of blue glass were set into the walls, apparently at random, each producing a faint glow that illuminated the room.
The room was empty beyond a statue in the very centre: an obsidian figure standing on a dais. His right hand, held at waist-height, was empty; in his left was a long, straight-edged sword, its snub tip resting on the ground. The sword itself was a good five feet long, and as black as the statue. It didn’t reflect any light from the room; instead it drank in the blue glow, and Isak found himself dragged forward a step or two before he even realised he had moved.
The black sword had a short, plain cross-hilt, and a pearl encased in twists of metal was set in the pommel. It looked finely made, but without ostentation, for it needed no frippery; the stink of magic in the room was choking and the presence of raw, wild power fizzed through Isak’s veins. The very air around it twisted away, folding back on itself as it touched magic in its most pure and warping form.
Two small doors were set into the far wall. Both were made of some pale wood and bore Elvish runes incorporated into a single geometric pattern. Isak advanced towards the statue, watching the doors as he moved. Mihn followed close behind him, but Araia stopped just inside the door.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
Isak moved left as the shadows in the room suddenly danced into life; in a blur of jagged movement the darkest coalesced into a figure, a tall man, who drove straight for Isak, thrusting at his heart with one of a pair of swords. The white-eye twisted aside and brought Eolis up, deflecting the lunge in a burst of white lights.
On his right, Araia drew her own weapon and surged forward, the sword carving dark arcs through the air. Mihn lashed out with his staff, swiping across her hands, then spinning to kick at her knee. He blunted the vampire’s advance, but Araia recovered her balance swiftly and chopped down at him. The blow never reached Mihn, for he dodged away, dancing backwards and swinging blind at the other as he went.
Her brother faded right to avoid the blow, checking for just long enough to allow Isak time to move. He clashed against the vampire’s lead blade and kicked forward, connecting with his thigh and shoving him closer to Mihn. The two vampires nearly collided as Araia charged behind her brother, slashing wildly at Mihn, who turned each blow, intent on keeping at the edge of her range.
Isak felt the magic-suffused air crackle on his skin as his bloodlust sparked to life. White threads began to race over his skin and Eolis started glowing with un summoned power, tracing blistering curves of light as he struck out. The vampire fell back from the onslaught, wielding both swords frantically to ward off Isak’s swift blows. Beside him Araia was trying to corner Mihn, but the small man just kicked up and off the nearest wall, vaulting her slashing blade and putting himself back in the centre of the room again.
Even as Isak caught one of his opponent’s swords and sheared right through it, Mihn dropped to a crouch and swung his staff up in the same movement, catching Araia’s fingers with the steel-capped end before her descending sword could reach him. The crisp blow jerked the sword from her grip.
In the next moment Isak had battered away her brother’s other sword. He chopped deep into the vampire’s neck and blood sprayed over his ragged cloak as he continued drawing the sword-blade down and through. The vampire fell away as the tip of Eolis cleared the wound and punched forward again to pierce Araia’s cuirass with a sharp crack.
The sister jerked to an abrupt halt, frozen in the act of reaching for Mihn’s throat. The smaller man rolled backwards and back to his feet, out of range, while Isak ran Araia through to the hilt before whipping the blade back out again and leaving her to collapse to the ground.
He stared down at the vampires at his feet as their last moments of life spilled away, and suddenly sensed Mihn’s eyes on him. The failed Harlequin brought his staff back to its usual upright position and looked Isak up and down, and he realised with something akin to a laugh that the gifted duellist was assessing his form, his poise after the blow.
An immortal vampire nearly ripped your gullet out, Isak thought with a sense of wonder, and still you notice such things.
Mihn gave him a small nod of thanks. ‘In another age,’ he began with no trace of exertion in his voice, ‘you would have become a great lord of the Farlan. With Bahl to teach you, you would have forged a human nation such as the Land has never seen.’
Isak looked down at the ripped tunic he wore, the frayed edges of his cloak. ‘We’re made by the trials life gives us,’ he replied, adding with a smile, ‘but I was never meant to rule — I was never built for it.’ He shrugged. ‘I find the beggar lord a more natural role for me.’
Around their ankles a thin mist began to appear, swirling up over the body of one, then both fallen vampires.
‘Feneyaz?’ Mihn asked, gesturing to the brother.
‘I would think,’ Isak said, though he’d never met any of Zhia’s three brothers. No matter how skilled a swordsman, against a white-eye wielding Eolis the result had never been in doubt, he realised, which made it likely they were both the lesser siblings.
‘What about him?’ Mihn said, looking at the statue. ‘He makes them his protectors while he sleeps?’
‘A prison of his own making — it was done to the dragon in the Library of Seasons. He’s under the weight of madness and his family’s curse, so why not sleep until change comes?’
‘And now?’
Isak stepped up to the statue to inspect it. It portrayed a man of middle years, lean of face and build, in armour similar to the plate Zhia wore under her clothes. He reached up and rapped his knuckles on the statue’s forehead. It seemed solid enough, and cold to the touch. He wiped Eolis on his cloak and sheathed it, then took hold of the Crystal Skull at his waist before he dared touch the statue’s black sword.
Nothing happened. Isak withdrew his fingers, rubbing them together. The scars faintly tingled in the proximity of such power. This was Termin Mystt, he was sure of it, but it was firmly lodged where it was, despite only resting in the statue’s hand rather than being grasped — part of the same spell that kept Vorizh a statue, he guessed. He looked at the statue’s hands: they were in exactly the same pose, but one was empty.
‘How about a swap?’ he said, drawing Eolis and resting it in the statue’s hand in the same way as Termin Mystt, its tip resting on the ground. He felt a shudder run through the rock and, pressing his hand back against the Skull of Ruling, he attempted to take the black sword again.
