With a roar, the defenders swept forward to protect their leader. Gali raised his left hand and barked a word. Before they had gone a couple of paces, a wave of dark energy swept over them. Mordan was rocked in his saddle, but unharmed—behind him, more than a dozen people fell to the ground, dead. The others faltered.
“This is a family matter,” Gali said. “You shouldn’t interfere.” The remaining defenders drew themselves together into a tight knot, watching the two riders. He spurred his mount again and charged.
Mordan countercharged, rapier held forward. Ducking under the slashing longsword, he thrust at his brother’s ribs. Gali’s laugh turned into a yelp of pain and surprise. Turning their horses, they faced each other again. Gali raised his longsword in an ironic salute.
“Well struck, little brother! “he said. “I see you’ve learned to fight a little better since I last saw you.” He dipped a finger in the dark blood that oozed from his side, licking it with a long, pointed tongue. “That’s a very nice sword, too,” he observed, pointing toward the elven rapier. “But it won’t help you. I always win—remember?”
“Father thinks you’re dead!” said Mordan. “You should see what it’s done to him!”
Gali laughed again. “That’s good, coming from you!” he sneered, then raised his voice to address the defenders.
“Your hero!” he cried. “The one you’re hiding behind! Did you know he deserted from Rekkenmark rather than face a court-martial? He disgraced his family and foreswore his oath of loyalty! This is who you’re following!”
“Besides,” he added, lowering his voice, “I
Gali spurred his horse forward again. This time, he expected his brother’s dodge, and Mordan was knocked from his horse by a sweeping blow that opened a deep wound in his left shoulder. He hit the ground hard but rolled back to his feet as Gali turned his skeletal mount again.
With a blur of motion, Brey was standing between them, glaring at the lancer.
“You’re mine,” she spat, “you and all your dead friends!” Behind her, Tarrel had raised his wand, and Haldin his crossbow.
Gali smiled. “Well, well,” he said, “I never thought I’d see you again! The vampire experiment was terminated, by the way. Much too unreliable.”
“As I said before,” he continued, “this is between me and my little brother here. I must ask you not to interfere”—he raised his hand again in the direction of the surviving defenders—“or more innocents will suffer.”
Their eyes locked. Slowly, Brey backed away. He gave Tarrel and Haldin a significant look, and they too lowered their weapons.
“But do keep a spot on your dance card open for later,” Gali said to Brey. “I’d be delighted to destroy you after I’ve concluded this little bit of family business.”
Swinging a leg over his horse’s skull, he slid down from the saddle, slapping the beast on its bony rump. It trotted obediently back to the Lancers’ ranks.
He tossed his longsword to a subordinate and strolled casually across to where Mordan was waiting.
“Let’s do this properly.” he said, stretching his wiry arms and balling his fists. He adopted a boxing stance and raised one eyebrow.
“Not a chance,” said Mordan. “I know what you are. You keep your magic, and I’ll keep my sword.”
“If that’s how you want it,” sighed Gali. “Either way, you’re going to be my slave once this is over—and I think the first thing I’ll do is watch you kill your friends.”
Barking a complex syllable, he raised his hand again. Mordan dropped and rolled as a ray of multicolored light shot past his head; he thought he saw his brother’s tattoos flash briefly as the ray sprang from his hand.
Gali lunged, knocking the rapier’s blade aside with a bony forearm. His fist crashed into Mordan’s face like a hammer, knocking him onto his back. Blood poured out of his nose; a wave of burning cold filled him with nausea and turned his muscles to water. He tried to ignore it, keeping the point of the rapier between him and his brother.
Gali looked down at him, and then backed off a couple of paces. “Come,” he taunted, “at least try to put up a fight!” He waited for Mordan to get to his feet, and attacked again.
This time Mordan was ready. Running to meet his brother, he somersaulted into the air at the last moment, flying over the incoming blow and leaving a deep gash in Gali’s forehead. Landing in a crouch, he turned to face his brother again.
“That’s better!” Gali grinned. “But it won’t do you any good.” He wiped the thick, black blood from his forehead with the back of his hand—and as Mordan watched, the cut sealed itself without leaving a scar.
“You see?” he crowed. “Of course, you won’t be able to do this after I’ve killed you. Or cast any spells. No, you’ll be much weaker. Just as you always have been. But don’t worry—I’ll keep you intact as long as you continue to amuse me.”
