Church with languid eyes. 'What goes through your mind now, Dragon Brother? Regret? Self-loathing at your inability to meet your responsibilities? What?'
'I'm not the person you met three months ago, Calatin. Now all my emotions are focused outwards. I feel contempt, for you and your kind, for all you outsiders who think you can come here and tell us how to live our lives. I feel a cold, focused anger for the pain you've inflicted on our lives. And for what you've done to Marianne-'
'Ah, yes!' Calatin made a flourishing gesture. 'Another failure on your behalf. I expected you to seek me out for vengeance, at the least. But you chose to abandon the one who occupied your heart while you entertained yourself with brief dalliances with others.' He punctuated his sneer with a sly smile.
Church knew it was designed to hurt, but it drove home nonetheless. 'Not chose, Calatin. I have learned to accept my responsibilities, whatever the cost to myself.'
Calatin laughed.
'You don't believe me?' He motioned towards the house. 'She's dead. I killed her earlier. And your god has died with her.'
A shiver ran through the breadth of the Fomorii, accompanied by a sound like knives being sharpened; there was a timbre to it that sent a corresponding shiver through Church. An incandescent fear alighted briefly on Calatin's face before he brought it under control. 'No! The resonance would have torn through us!' A tremor ran through his body; it looked like it wasn't going to stop. He couldn't prevent himself glancing towards the house. Then he half turned towards the wall of darkness at his back. 'If the Heart of Shadows was gone, we all would know.'
Now it was Church's turn to laugh.
Calatin rounded on him angrily. 'Besides, you do not have it within you. I have looked inside you, Dragon Brother, and you truly are too much of a Fragile Creature.'
'The only way you're going to find out is by going in there.'
The expression which rose on Calatin's face showed this was a prospect he relished; his smile froze cruelly. He raised one hand to bring the razored might of the Fomorii down on Church.
'What? You're not going to do this one-on-one again?' Church glanced towards the distant sky; still nothing.
'You remember-'
'Last time you'd hampered me with the Kiss of Frost. It wasn't a fair fight, it was a big cheat. You knew you'd win. Without that, I could beat you easily.'
Calatin's gaze wavered; Church could almost see every thought passing across his face: the reputation of the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons had sifted into Fomorii myth in the same way the Night Walkers and Golden Ones had entered human mythology; he couldn't quite be sure there wasn't some weight to it, that Church really could destroy him in an instant.
Church's palms were sweating as he gripped the handle of the sword. Things had reached a head. Every part of his rational mind told him it was time to throw in the cards, to run into the house and slay Ruth with one swing of his sword. But whenever he thought about it, his legs felt like lead.
And there was still time, he thought, still hope.
He raised his sword and prepared to face Calatin. And as he did, the strangest thing happened. Confusion, disbelief, then shock crossed Calatin's face, he took a shaky step back. Another unnerving sound reverberated among the Fomorii, almost querulous this time.
'That sword…' Calatin pointed a tremulous finger.
Church eyed it curiously, then shrugged. 'Come on,' he said with a confi- dente that belied his thoughts. His hand was afire with pain and his body was racked with aches. 'Or are you going to back out now you know I'm ready to take you?'
Calatin raised his chin nobly, but his eyes flickered from side to side as if he were searching for a way out. There was an instant of brief despair that was so profound Church was taken aback, and then Calatin raised his own sword and advanced.
They circled each other warily; if either of them had expected an echo of their previous confrontation, they both soon realised the dynamic had changed. Calatin was cautious, his step unsure, afraid to come within Church's circle; that in turn gave Church confidence, although he couldn't grasp quite why things had altered.
Church knew his only hope was to eliminate all the negative impressions bearing down on him: the pain he felt from his many injuries, the physical and spiritual accumulation from weeks of striving, suffering and numerous setbacks. The upsetting wash of threat and evil that came off the Fomorii had to be put on one side, however much it felt like pins stabbing his flesh; but he had trouble shaking the rumbling paranoia that they were moving in to strike every time he turned his back to them. He fixed his attention on Calatin's face, a cauldron of conflicting emotions the Fomorii leader would have done better burying deep. In there, for the first time, Church saw hope.
The tension rose as they continued to move, feinting but never quite striking. And with each faux beginning to the battle Church could see Calatin's anxiety rising; he was afraid to attack, and just as afraid to continue dodging the battle for fear of losing face.
Eventually his twisting emotions proved too much for him. He lashed out, but even in his unfocused blow his remarkable skill came to the fore. All Church saw was the rusty, stained blade suddenly become a blur, whirling in circles before licking out. He ducked at the last minute, but the serrated edge still took a jagged slice out of the meat of his cheek; an instant's hesitation and he would have lost his head. He cried out in pain and a brief cruel smile leapt to Calatin's lips. The Fomor felt a surge of confidence from first blood, and pressed his attack with a rapid scything motion.
Church barely saw it, but his sword leapt up to block and Calatin's blade slid off with a bone-jarring clang. A coldness washed through Church's limbs; his sword had blocked it of its own accord. By rights he should be dead; in his paindulled state he hadn't seen enough of the attack to make any move himself.
He took his eye off Calatin to survey the grim, black sword. Calatin saw this opening and attacked again, lunging in an attempt to disembowel Church. The sword forced Church's arm to parry and then came up sharply, ready to attack if Church gave it the lead.
Church felt sick from the sensation; it was as if there was something alive in his hand. It no longer really felt like a sword at all; it was almost slimy and resilient in his grip.
When Calatin attacked again, this time swinging low in a bid to take off a kneecap or two, Church blocked it with ease. And at the same time he allowed the sword to guide him, putting his weight behind the attack. It passed through Calatin's defences easily and ripped open his forearm. Calatin howled wildly in pain. When it had passed Church saw the hesitancy of true fear in his flickering eyes. Church expected the ranks of Fomorii to show some sign of emotion at this weakness, but there was only utter silence; and that was more damning.
Church took a step back to inhale deeply; sweat was soaking through his clothes. He was ready for Calatin to seize the opportunity, but now his opponent was even more wary than when they had started.
Calatin moistened his dry lips, couldn't take his eyes off the sword. 'He gave it to you, did he not?'
Church ignored him, still breathing deeply. He was surprised to notice the perception of the blue fire Tom had taught him was now almost operating independently. Across the landscape he could see the thin azure lines growing brightly in the deep darkness. Some were broken, others intermittent; the land still needed to be truly awoken. But they were growing stronger. And there on the tor the earth force was strongest of all. He had a sense of being engulfed in a brilliant blue light shining up out of the ground; it was awesome and transcendent, and he could feel it seeping into every fibre of his being, refreshing him, starting to heal him. Above all, it gave him a deep sense of connectedness that added meaning to his existence, and from that he drew a deep, abiding strength. He was ready.
'I should have destroyed him,' Calatin said bitterly.
In desperation Calatin drove himself forward, hacking and slashing like a wild man. There was no sign of the decaying, fey persona he normally exhibited, just a driven, cruel ferocity.
But it was not enough. Infused with the blue fire, with the black sword dancing like a beast in his hands, Church moved sleekly to block every blow, returning each with a harder strike that drove Calatin back and back. A lunge came through and ripped open the Fomor's breastplate. Another sliced across the bridge of Calatin's nose; he howled again, flicking black droplets from the wound as he shook his head.
And still Church moved forward. A blow came down so hard that Calatin went to his knees to block it. He
