“Get this farce done before the rain arrives.”
Brutus looked at Loth, raised his sword, and pointed into the labyrinth.
Loth nodded, once, and stepped inside.
Brutus waited until Loth had walked ten or twelve paces into the labyrintl and then he, too, entered.
And everyone standing about gasped, because at the moment Brutus hai stepped fully into the labyrinth, both he and Loth vanished.
AS HE KNEW HE WOULD, BRUTUS FOUND HIMSELF IN 1
close, oppressive forest. Everything about him—Og’s Hill, the witnesses, thi bleak wintry landscape spreading out beyond—had vanished.
There had never been a forest such as this. The trees were huge—oaks an< elms—kings of the forest, but denuded of any leaves, their trunks and branche black and harsh.
Yet they were still draped in greenery, for over every tree hung great swath of holly and ivy, so lading the branches that Brutus could hear them creal under the weight.
The dead trees pressed in close, the sky was obliterated by the holly an< ivy, and the way to either side of the path on which Brutus stood was choke< with their tangles.
There was only one way, and that was the path forward.
Brutus, his chest tight with vigilance, stepped forward.
A noise sounded to his left, and Brutus jumped into a defensive stance, hi: sword raised.
Silence.
He relaxed, and after a moment continued on his way. He knew what wa: happening.
The noise came again, much louder this time, and to his right.
Brutus crouched low again, his sword up, his eyes narrowed and watchful Silence.
Then a flash of color on the path ahead of him, and yet another movement A man, a Trojan, dressed in hunting attire.
Silvius.
Brutus moved forward, very careful, one hand spread to balance himself one clutching the sword before him, ready to strike the instant the opportunitj presented itself.
G The path wound through the tortuous forest. Swags of holly and ivy reached out and grazed his flesh, cool to the touch, yet vibrantly alive. Their touch was assessing, draining, and Brutus found himself slashing at the tendrils, hating their abhorrent caresses.
‘Silvius,” said Brutus. “Stand and fight me, if you dare.”
‘I am your conscience, Brutus,” the impassive-faced Silvius said. “I am your conscience, I am this land, and I am the Game. Turn back now. The Game can be ended. You know that.”
And he stepped back and vanished into the shadows of the trees.
Brutus walked forward, angry at Silvius’ words. The path twisted and turned in an exact replica of the twists and turns of the labyrinth. Silvius was leading him into the heart of the labyrinth—into a final confrontation.
Brutus hurried now, determined to finish what had begun fifteen years previously. He stepped into the heart of the labyrinth and there, facing him, was his father Silvius and, to one side, Loth.
‘You are unfit to wear those armbands,” Loth said. “Unfit to be Kingman of this land or of this Game.
You murdered your own father before his time in your own lust for power. You are walking corruption.
If I allow you to complete the Game, you will marry this land to corruption forevermore.”
Brutus laughed. “And so you have called back my father’s shade to kill me, Loth? Are you too afraid to do so yourself? Are you so powerless yourself?”
‘If you are not challenged,” Loth said, unperturbed by Brutus’ sarcasm, “you shall make this the heart of this land.”
And he threw the arrow into the space between Brutus and his father.
Silvius attacked the instant the arrow hit the ground. Here, in the labyrinth, he was all flesh and blood and bone, taller even than Brutus, as strong, with no fear of death, and with absolutely nothing to lose.
Wielding the sword in both hands, sweeping it down in an arc from over his left shoulder, Silvius leapt with all the full power of his revenge, determined to cut down his son.
Brutus stepped forward to meet him, sword clashing against sword, face set and grim, muscles straining.
They were matched, this father and son, and for long minutes they traded blows, their sweat spattering over their opponent, their eyes hard and cold and flat, never leaving those of the man they sought to best. Loth watched from the side, his hands clenched at his sides, his own eyes wide and staring, willing Silvius on with all his might.
Silvius feinted to his left, fooling Brutus, then cut his son deep across his right hip.
Brutus hardly noticed the wound. He bore down on his father with a flurry of strokes and, as Silvius stumbled for the first time, struck his father a glancing blow across his right biceps.
Silvius’ flesh opened, but no blood flowed.
‘I am enjoying this,” said Silvius, and Brutus laughed.
‘I will kill you again,” he said. “What was once done cannot be undone.”
And again they fell to with monstrous, hurting blows, blade shrieking of blade, muscles bunched and glowing with hate and heat.
‘Where,” gasped Brutus, after a particularly heavy exchange of blows, “i: an arrow when you need it?”
Where nothing else had touched Silvius, this particular piece of cruelt; undid him.
His sword arm fell still, and he gaped at his son.
And Brutus lifted his sword, and sent it hurtling toward his father’s head.
At the very last moment he turned the weapon so that the flat of the blade slammed into Silvius’ skull, sending him senseless to the ground.
Brutus leaned down, panting with the effort of the fight, and seized his father’s hair in his hand hauling him half upright, and putting his sword to his throat.
‘Your choice, monster,” he hissed to Loth. “Either I will kill him all ovei again, or I kill you!”
‘Kill him,” said Loth, desperate with disappointment, “for then you will merely confirm your corruption.”
Brutus grinned, and his grip in Silvius’ hair changed slightly.
OUTSIDE THE LABYRINTH, STARING DEEP INTO ITS AP parently empty circuits, Genvissa muttered a spell-weaving, moving her left hand slightly as she did so.
Then Erith cried out, for suddenly Cornelia was gone from her grasp.
‘YOUR CHOICE, MONSTER!” BRUTUS HISSED TO A NOW staring and stunned Loth. “Her life or yours.”
In his hands he held a terrified Cornelia, his sword to her throat.
Let no one harm Cornelia, Coel had said.
Let no harm come to Cornelia.
Brutus laughed, delighted at the horror on Loth’s face. “Do not think I won’t do it,” Brutus said. “She is a whore, a traitress, a threat to the Game, and a complication I will be more than glad to get rid of.”
‘She carries your child!”
‘Oh, nay, I think not. Your child, or Coel’s, or one of a dozen men, perhaps, but not mine.”
The sword moved, and the blade cut, and blood flowed from Cornelia’s neck.
‘At least you haven’t pissed yourself, like your boy-lover,” said Brutus conversationally.
Loth screamed, and leapt forward. “Take me! Take me!”
Brutus dropped Cornelia, who instantly grabbed at her neck, and stepped the one pace distance between himself and Loth, raised his sword, and struck at the man’s neck.
And then something moved, something from the forest, something skeletal and barely alive, its white pelt thick with its own blood, and it knocked both Loth and Brutus, so that one fell and one stumbled, and so that when the sword flashed down…
It cut deep into the fallen Loth’s spine, just above his buttocks, and Loth screamed, and writhed, and Brutus leaned down with all his weight and strength on that sword.
EVERYONE STANDING ABOUT THE LABYRINTH SUD denly jumped or cried out, or both.
Loth and Brutus had reappeared in the heart of the labyrinth; Loth sprawled on the ground, his face pressed against the stone flooring, blood pouring from a great wound in the small of his back.
Brutus standing over him, a triumphant smile on his face as he raised his head and sought out Genvissa’s eyes.
Cornelia, small and tragic, curled into a ball in the heart of the labyrinth, her hands to her throat, blood seeping out from between her fingers.
Erith moved instantly. As she ran into the labyrinth she tore from her waist her wide cloth belt, and as soon as she reached Cornelia she wrapped it about the girl’s throat, thanking all gods that ever were that Brutus had cut open a vein and not an artery.
Then she knelt by Loth, and looked, and lowered her head into her hands and wept.
Brutus tossed aside the bloodied sword, staring at Genvissa. “I have won,” he said, then pumped his fists on high. “I have won my right as Kingman!”
None disputed him.
SAVE THE WHISPERS IN THE HEART OF THE GAME .
There sat the shade of Silvius, gray and weary and heartsick at his continual failure.
He should have put a stop to Brutus as an unborn baby.