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47


Tobimar’s twin blades flickered back and forth, following the sense of motion, flick of eye and intent, and even with two weapons it was all he could do to keep that terrible rapier from impaling him or cutting him to ribbons with its double-edged blade. The exiled prince leapt backwards, a midair reversed somersault barely clearing another stroke of Thornfalcon’s weapon, landing with a skid atop a display table.

“You’ve marred a near-priceless Imperial table, you barbarian,” Thornfalcon said, still smiling, showing none of the tension Tobimar felt. “I’m tempted to take that price out in pain, but I also,” the smile widened, “hate to keep a lady waiting.”

He unleashed a flurry of blows that backed Tobimar up a step, and suddenly cut lower, much lower.

The slender rapier cut through the solid silverwood legs of the table as though they had been reeds, and Tobimar leapt up and over the false Justiciar as the table collapsed, parrying a weak and surprised stroke in midair, taking a cut at Thornfalcon’s back with the other blade; unfortunately it rebounded from the Raiment armor.

“You complain about me marring your table?” he said, as his senses and mind tried desperately to figure out a way to finish this without dying. Poplock was nowhere to be seen, at least not at a sideways casual glance, but then, he was very, very good at hiding.

“My compliments on your agility; you have already evaded Lightning longer than many. As to my table, once marred, the value is gone. No point in trying to repair perfection; finish its destruction when the time is right.” The long face which made him a perfect choice to play the sad and lost also stretched other expressions, emphasized Thornfalcon’s malice.

And that must be the way he views everything. All or nothing, his to keep or throw away. Terian’s Light, what sort of a monster is he? Tobimar focused, reaching for what Master Khoros had once called the High Center, where he could touch again the web of possibility and certainty. The focus cost him in accuracy and speed, perhaps lethally, but he had little choice. He could not win against the Justiciar as things stood.

The rapier smashed against his defending blades like a bludgeon. One part of Tobimar registered this, was astounded by the force. This weapon . . . it gives up nothing against heavier blades. He has all the speed and maneuverability of a rapier, but none of its weaknesses. I must separate him from that blade.

The other part of him was rising higher, extending outward, touching the essence of the world around him again. The course of the world was now his course . . . if only he could chart it.

The next strike of Lightning he met with a perfect cross-parry and twist—and the lethal blade flew from Thornfalcon’s grasp.

To Tobimar’s shock and dismay, the slender Thornfalcon stepped forward as dark possibility and darker power enveloped him, blocking Tobimar’s own swords with his armored forearms and then hammering a blow into Tobimar’s gut that staggered him, only the realization that to yield to pain would mean death keeping him from doubling over.

Where,” an elbow smashed across his face, bringing a flare of pain and salt-iron taste of blood, “are all,” a kick to the ribs that tumbled him over the wreckage of the table, “these overtalented children coming from?”

He felt himself lifted up by completely inhuman strength and hurled through one of the great windows. Must not . . . let the pain distract me.

He rolled over and over on the grass, absorbing the force of that tremendous throw. This . . . false Justiciar has powers like nothing I’ve fought before. He’s at least two, three times as strong as anything his size ought to be.

Even as Tobimar dragged himself upright, Thornfalcon appeared, silhouetted against the shattered window, the rapier Lightning back in his hand. “First it was Rion Vantage, then his lovely sister, and now you, and somehow I feel this is but the beginning.”

The same desperation and pride that had come upon him in the mazakh stronghold rose up, even as he brought up his swords again. “I know not that family, but I am a Silverun of the Silverun, Seventh Prince of Skysand.”

For just a moment Thornfalcon halted. “Of Skysand . . . Ah, now there is a piece of information most useful.”

That halt was crucial; Tobimar had those few seconds to reach deep within and draw forth the reserves that waited there. Though the night was dark, now he could sense all that lay about him. He did not doubt that the vicious false Justiciar was able to see as well, but perhaps his opponent would think him half-blind in the dark. With the vision, he gained also the strength and speed. It might not be enough . . . but it’s what I have.

But now Thornfalcon came on, and it was clear that what he had was not enough. The deadly blade was slipping its way through his defenses, a nick here, a trickling cut there, and suddenly Tobimar sensed a stone, too late, stumbling, and Thornfalcon’s smile widening, the arm drawn back for that shattering thunderous strike—

And Thornfalcon screamed in shock and pain, stumbling himself as something lanced straight through his calf. “What in Blackstar’s name—?”

Some inhuman sense must have warned him just in time, because something leaped from another direction even as Tobimar rose and started his own charge, but Thornfalcon whipped Lightning around with speed to match its name and batted away Poplock like a pebble from a stick. Even limping, the false Justiciar was able to block and parry most of Tobimar’s attack, but not all; a brilliant red streak was laid open on the long cheek, and his right arm’s defenses were pierced, as was the flesh below.

Thornfalcon switched Lightning to his left hand and a small shield grew from the armor of his right. “So you had an ally, one of those mud-hopping lazy creatures that actually gained enough of a spirit to leave his home puddle. How very interesting.” Pale light flickered, and with dismay Tobimar saw the cut on the false Justiciar’s cheek just . . . fade away. “Still, that could be somewhat awkward; if my little strike there hasn’t killed him, he will be quite hard to keep track of and might interfere at a crucial moment.”

“What a shame that would be,” Tobimar said, drawing once more on his reserves.

Thornfalcon  chuckled, circling somewhat more cautiously now. “And I see you have found something within yourself . . . a strength and speed that you did not have earlier. And it is still growing.” He drew himself up. “So I believe it is time to stop the play.”

That dark power Tobimar had sensed . . . came forward. Thornfalcon’s eyes glowed; for a moment, they seemed to have no pupils at all, just glowing soulless yellow light, and a huge looming shape was all about him, obscuring the human Thornfalcon in a cloak of malice and hunger.

And then it moved.

Tobimar parried, and the blow nearly knocked the blade from his grasp, even held as carefully and well as it was. Another massive strike, and another, each one so powerful that it felt like blocking the strikes of a mountain. The exiled Prince tried to return blows, riposte in a way that would make the monstrous Thornfalcon back off, but none of his blows went home.

Lightning flicked out and touched his cheek with cold fire again; but this time the coldness spread, and for a moment he weakened before he could call up his strength again. Terian and Chromaias . . . he’s somehow able to drain my very soul’s power!

“And so you now sense the way of your ending, little Prince.” Even Thornfalcon’s voice was different, more powerful, less light and ironic. “I will cut from you what you are, and leave nothing but an empty husk.”

Is this the moment Master Khoros spoke of? To pit a child’s prayer against . . . that?

Tobimar felt his knees trembling, knew Thornfalcon’s power was still at work, and began to draw his breath for that last, forlorn hope.

And then another voice spoke, the voice of a woman, a voice of cold purpose and yet burning with fury.

“THORNFALCON.”


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Framed