A dark shape appeared by the wall, silhouetted against icy flames.
Hewla’s hand came up and a bright light blazed from her fingers, surrounding the demon. The wind died down, but she felt the creature’s elemental power pushing back against the light. A taloned hand clawed through. Flames burst around it and it withdrew.
A flickering figure appeared to her left, and she saw Zhu Chao’s image forming.
‘I have brought an old friend to see you, Hewla,’ he said.
‘Rot in Hell,’ she hissed.
He laughed at her. ‘I see you retain some vestiges of power. Tell me, hag, how long do you think you can hold him from you?’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘I cannot master the first of the Five Spells. Something is missing from the grimoires. Tell me and you shall live.’
Once again the taloned hand tore through the light. Flames seared it, but not as powerfully as before. Fear swelled in Hewla’s heart and, had she believed Zhu Chao’s promise, she might have told him. But she did not.
‘What is missing is something you will never find – courage!’ she said. ‘You will grow older, your powers fading. And when you die your soul will be carried screaming to the Void.’
‘You foolish old crone,’ he whispered. ‘All the books speak of the Mountains of the Moon. The answers lie there. I shall find them.’
Talons ripped at the light, and it parted like a torn curtain. The dark shape loomed in the room. As swiftly as she could, Hewla drew the small curved dagger from the sheath at her waist.
‘I will wait for you in the Void,’ she promised.
Holding the dagger blade beneath her left breast she plunged it home.
*
Senta sat quietly on the wall of the well, watching Waylander and Miriel some distance away. The man had his hand on the girl’s shoulder. Her head was bowed. Senta did not need to guess at the subject of their conversation. He had heard Waylander telling Angel of the death of Miriel’s sister.
Senta looked away. His broken nose was sending shafts of pain behind his eyes and he felt sick. In his four years in the arena he had not felt pain like this. Minor cuts, and once a twisted ankle, were all the swordsman had suffered. But then those fights had been governed by rules. With a man like Waylander there were no rules. Only survival.
Despite his pain Senta felt relieved. He had no doubt that he would have killed the older man in a duel, though if he had, there would still have been Angel to face. And it would have saddened him to slay the old gladiator. But, more than that, it would have wrecked any chance with Miriel.
Miriel…
His first sight of her had shocked him, and he still didn’t know why. The noblewoman, Gilaray, had a more beautiful face. Nexiar was infinitely more shapely. Suri’s golden hair and flashing eyes were far more provocative. Yet there was something about this mountain girl that had fired his senses. But what?
And why marriage? He could hardly believe he’d made the offer. How would she take to life in the city? He focused on her once more, picturing her in a gown of silver satin, pearls laced through her dark hair. And chuckled.
‘What is amusing you?’ asked Angel, strolling to where he sat.
‘I was thinking of Miriel at the Lord Protector’s Ball, in a flowing dress and with her knives strapped to her forearms.’
‘She’s too good for the likes of you, Senta. Far too good.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion. Would you sooner see her standing behind a plough, old before her time, her breasts flat, like two hanged men?’
‘No,’ admitted Angel, ‘but I’d like to see her with a man who loved her. She’s not like Nexiar, or any of the others. She’s like a colt – fast, sleek, unbroken.’
Senta nodded. ‘I think you are right.’ He glanced up at the gladiator. ‘How very perceptive of you, my friend. You do surprise me.’
‘I surprise myself sometimes. Like asking Waylander not to kill you. I’m regretting it already.’