Slayers Fan Fiction ❯ Flam Gush ❯ Chapter 15

Flam Gush 15

 

Pain from more than a half dozen slashes and gashes was momentarily banished by a surge of panic. No. He had to be bluffing. There was no way—no way—Erik could possibly think Elfred would be able to take on Gourry Gabriev, much less kill him.

 

No, she had no doubt that Erik wanted him dead. Ryan's words came back to her . . . Erik was obsessed with possessing her. No matter the price—brother, family, her wishes—all paled to insignificance. Gourry was simply an obstacle to eliminate. The order was voiced in her presence to hurt her. To punish her for daring to contradict him. She saw it clearly in his eyes. He expected her—wanted her—to beg.

 

She had begged once. She had begged him once. It had made him more. More violent . . . more satisfied . . . It had made her less, had not saved her from brutal violation. She had not begged anyone for mercy since that day—save in jest, to weaken her opponent's power over her. Erik may want her to beg, but wanting something and actually getting it were two separate things. Not even Hellmaster, who had literally held Gourry's life between his thumb and forefinger, had heard her beg.

 

“Sending someone else off to their death?” Lina asked with forced bravado as Elfred strutted out of the cell, hating the quiver in her voice. “I'm surprised he,” her eyes flicked rapidly from Erik to Elfred and back, “has the courage after seeing what happened to Garik.”

 

Erik threw her a furious look, which he slowly modulated into a familiar lazy smile that was somehow more threatening. “I'll admit that under normal circumstances, that would likely be the case. These are hardly normal circumstances however, which even you must admit.” He gestured to the dungeon surroundings, tacit—and unnecessary—reminder of her mostly helpless state. “I've been tracking your moves for a very long time now, carefully planning for every contingency.” He glanced down at the spot where Lady Gabriev had fallen, and something flickered across his face too quickly for her to identify. “I will have you, Lina,” he said intently. “One way or another.”

 

Lina stared him down, refusing to give him anything, in spite of the terror that threatened to overwhelm her. Here, right in front of her, was the suppressed nightmare of her childhood given flesh. His very gaze made her feel soiled, a scared child once again, who did not understand quite yet the threat he represented. The temptation to break eye contact burgeoned, given power by memories of helplessness—helpless to stop the violent pounding between her thighs, helpless to stop the raw power coursing through a vessel too small. It would be so easy. All she had to do was close her eyes . . . . No. She was no longer that scared little girl! Over and over, she clung to that thought, repeating it in a never-ending loop like a mantra. And even as she did, she could feel Erik's gaze slip past ragged barriers to penetrate the terrified child screaming in the back of her mind.

 

Make him stop! Make him stop! If she broke eye-contact, simply closed her eyes, she could reweave tattered and frayed defenses behind a safe impenetrable barrier, right?

 

Lina fought a battle in her head, unaware of the clenched teeth or the feral growl rumbling in her chest. She was simultaneously suffering from uncontrollable panic and disgust for her weakness. Lina Inverse. Sorceress Extraordinaire. Those who were weak needed to get out of her way! Let her do her job, because she had the power.

 

But what was she supposed to do when the sniveling weakling in her way was herself and her own childhood memories?

 

Receive the gaze. Yes, she was. She had to. There was no choice. If she closed her eyes, he would still look at her.

 

Return the gaze. Yes, she was. She had to. It was the only defense she had left. Imperfect though it was, at least she controlled the penetration. His eyes stabbing into her inner self was violation, but somehow preferable to allowing his gaze to roam freely over her body swathed in pink silk that revealed more than it concealed.

 

Reject the gaze.

 

What?

 

Reject the gaze.

 

Reject the gaze?

 

Yes . . . yes, she could do that. Lina Inverse . . . the sorceress she had become . . . her best defense was a strong offense. The strongest offense. This man who gazed at her . . . he defined her . . . objectified her . . . and she had allowed him. His eyes told her that she was helpless. Reminded her of what had been and what currently was—the helpless girl-child beneath the male body twice her size—the small pink butterfly pinned to the wall.

 

Reject the gaze. She was not helpless, then or now. Lina very consciously looked at him through the lens of the brutalized child she had been, forcing herself to remember what his gaze insisted she forget: his moment of weakness. It had been there. Between virginity lost before the onset of menarche and unrefined magic bursting free years before it should. After the world had turned to pain, but before it had turned to fire . . . Erik had pulled away. Before he was finished. Before the fire burst forth from her hands. No, she had not been the helpless girl-child he had expected. He had left his mark on her flesh, but she had left hers far more indelibly on his. And now? He may have her pinned to the wall. But he could not touch her. They were at impasse.

 

Reject the gaze. She did, defining herself instead of accepting his definition. She. Was. Not. Helpless.

 

Erik's reaction was immediate. Surprise and cold shock replaced a smug self-satisfied expression. Somehow, that simple shift transformed him from nightmare of her childhood to just a man. Outwardly maintaining the cocksure pose that he was in complete control. But underneath . . . rattled . . . and scared . . . in more ways than one. It was his turn to panic, his turn to relive the flames licking into his flesh, his turn to be defined.

 

Erik broke eye contact first.

 

Her exultation over winning her first battle against Erik was short-lived. It was almost as if their silent confrontation had drained all her reserve energy. Or maybe it was just an adrenaline boost that had carried her over, and now she was paying the price. Who could say? All she knew was that abused and slashed body was demanding all her attention. Every breath she drew caused at least a couple of the deeper cuts to gape open. Her flesh remembered the cold sharpness of invading steel, even if her mind would much rather forget. It was nearly all she could do to keep herself from sagging against the wall. Displaying weakness was not an option, no matter what it cost her.

 

As Erik started to turn away, his eyes flicked over her wrists, lingering on wire that should have been hidden behind dull gray beads, but bore only the faintest residues of powder. His eyes widened, and Lina dug deep, seeking strength from internal reservoirs nearly sucked dry, demanding everything because she would not cede any advantage now. An angry buzzing filled her head, as she struggled against that sieve-like barrier that had scooped through her mind and left her diminished.

 

Everything slowed down as a sudden wave of nausea and dizziness coursed through her. No, not nausea . . . it was lower . . . sharper . . . and scared her far more than the cacophony of pain from assorted cuts and slashes inflicted by a hate-crazed woman. A quick calculation did nothing to ease her discomfort—she had no idea how long it had been since . . . . Heaven help her, but if that pain meant what she thought it did . . . she had one or two days at most before she was completely defenseless. If she hit that time of the month and she was still here . . . . She felt an iron fist clench itself around her heart, making it impossible to breathe except in short quick gasps.

 

“Damn you, do something!” The words came from very far away, barely heard over the roaring in her ears. Or was it the sound of rattling chains?

 

A sharp crack. Stinging pain across her cheek, quickly lost in a sea of jangling nerves. A panicked face briefly swam into focus, gone too fast to be recognized. Blackness called her, swallowed her. She eagerly let it take her, seeking surcease from suffering.

 

******************

It was dark. He was warm, surrounded by heavy and soft. Maybe this was the way a moth felt in a cocoon—cozy and safe. If it were not for the horrid bitter taste on his tongue and the sharp clenching in his bowels, nothing short of a threat from the Mother of All Creation would have compelled Gourry to move.

 

Maybe if he held absolutely still, the pain would go away? Unfortunately, the answer to that particular question was a rather emphatic “no.” With a grunt that modulated into a groan, Gourry pushed himself out of the bed and half stumbled, half ran to the curtained-off area he prayed hid a chamber-pot.

 

It was not pleasant—distinctly unpleasant, in fact. His guts twisted and burned, and at one point he broke into a cold sweat. But after he cleaned himself up, Gourry had to admit that he felt much better than he had in . . . how long had it been?

 

The sound of a key turning in the door broke a tortured train of thought that was trying to figure out where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. A harried looking woman slipped into the room, quickly closing the door behind her.

 

“Good,” she said briskly as her eyes swept up and down his body, “you're awake.”

 

Rule number one: when in an uncertain tactical situation, gather as much information as possible, while giving away as little as possible. He was not sure why such a thought would occur to him, except that he had could not tell if he was in the presence of the enemy or not. The woman looked familiar, although he could not place her exactly. She certainly did not seem that threatening, but then again, she was trying to hide the fact that she was locking them in.

 

“How do you feel?” she asked, timing her words to cover the sound of a heavy bolt sliding into place. He had to admit, she was pretty good.

 

With a noncommittal shrug, he went on the offensive. “Why did you lock me in here?”

 

“You noticed!” She seemed pleased for some reason. Was she testing him? “You must be feeling better, then.” With a smooth underhanded cast, she tossed something in his direction. As Gourry snagged it out of the air, he noticed that his reactions were dulled and slow and his grip was very weak. “Much better,” she nodded approvingly.

 

Gourry grimaced.

 

“That's the only key to this room, by the way,” she said, nodding towards his still-clenched hand as she seated herself on a low footstool across from him. “So. Gourry Gabriev. Wanted for the murder of my obviously not-dead daughter Lucilla. Companion and protector—or enslaved captive, depending on who you believe—of the infamous sorceress, the Dra-Mata Lina Inverse. Beloved and long-lost son of the recent Lady Gisella.”

 

A chill ran up and down his spine. It felt as if someone had just read off a combination of a wanted poster and an epitaph. Her litany indicated that she was well-acquainted with his recent past, even if it gave him no clear indication over whether she fell into the “friend” or “foe” category. There was only one part of her recitation that made no sense. “Gisella?” he asked.

 

She nodded gravely. “I'm sorry to be the bearer of sad tidings, but I'm afraid . . .” she broke off and bit her lip, obviously looking for the right way to phrase her bad news. “There was an incident . . .”

 

Gourry felt a sudden surge of panic, as vague and incoherent thoughts of plots and conspiracies hatched in the dark of night flitted by, too fast to be pinned down. “Lina?” he asked, full of foreboding.

 

“No, she'll be fine,” she said dismissively with a wave of one hand. “But Gisella . . .” she shook her head, her eyes focused on the floor. “I'm really sorry.”

 

Gourry shook his head along with her, feeling like he was missing some crucial piece of information. “Who's Gisella?”

 

Her gaze snapped up to focus on him. “Gisella Gabriev,” she said in obvious shock. “Your mother.”

 

The world must have lurched sideways without him noticing. Why else would he feel like he had slipped into some sort of alternate reality. Of course he knew his parents' names, what kind of idiot did this woman take him for? He knew he had a reputation for cluelessness, and granted he had only the vaguest of ideas about what had been going on over the past few days, but this was just plain insulting. “My mother's name,” he said slowly and deliberately, “is Lisielle. I have no idea who this `Gisella' is supposed to be.”

******************

Once, in the middle of a heated battle, Lina had saved her rival for Gourry's affections, pushing Sylphiel out of the path of Copy Rezo's spell and taking the hit herself. She should have died from that encounter. She nearly had. But that same rival had taken her to safety and cast Resurrection on her. In spite of its name, the spell could not bring back someone who had actually died. It was more in the nature of a high-powered Recovery. However, in the hands of a skilled practitioner of white magic, it could save someone who lay at death's door, as Lina knew she had. Even in her nearly comatose state, Lina had been aware of the magic Sylphiel worked. It was like . . . oh, it was hard to describe. Very different from a Recovery, where you could actually feel injured flesh knit itself back together. She had felt . . . infused . . . or maybe suffused . . . with positive energy from everything surrounding her. There had been a strong sense of floating, but at the same time, she felt utterly supported. Maybe it was a bit like being in the womb. Life was pumped into her, while she floated in total warmth and comfort. Safe. Secure.

 

Lina knew that she was still hanging on Erik's wall, pinned for display. Her arms ached in their sockets, and any slack that had developed through her efforts with the beads was noticeably gone. She could feel someone roughly—and rather clumsily—washing and binding her wounds. The sound of a cloth swirled in water, followed by spray of cool droplets splashing onto her skin as the cloth was carelessly wrung out. A sharp burning sensation as fragile scabs were swept away by rough cloth and a heavy hand and the tickle of tiny cool rivulets of water running across her skin. At the same time, the memory of Sylphiel casting Resurrection was superimposed. It was almost like seeing two scenes mashed together, one from the past, one from the now.

 

White magic had never been her forte. She was truly lucky that Sylphiel had been there that time, and that she had been willing to save Lina. The woman was honestly the closest thing to a saint Lina had ever encountered in her life: a truly gentle soul who was honest with herself and held no grudges. She was also a very gifted sorceress, probably just as strong as Lina herself. The main difference was that Sylphiel used her magic for healing and defense, whereas Lina was the girl who made things go “boom.” She had certainly picked up on a couple white magic spells—mainly Recovery and . . .

 

Flow Break.

 

Lina's eyes flew open. The scene that greeted her was almost enough to break her current train of thought. It was certainly more than enough to banish the tactile memory of Sylphiel's Resurrection. Under the close supervision of both Erik and Ryan, Lucilla was clumsily attending to her wounds. The expression on her face made her look like someone who was unsuccessfully trying to hide the fact that she smelled something rotting, but that was nothing compared to the waves of impotent fury rolling off her body. Ryan strained against his chains, issuing a steady stream of instructions, most of which Lucilla ignored. Erik leaned casually against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest while he followed Lucilla's every move, paying very close attention whenever she touched Lina, but his gaze flicked over to Ryan every once and a while. Her belly clenched when she realized that he was enjoying every aspect of the spectacle immensely—Ryan's frustration, Lucilla's hatred, her passivity. It was almost as if he was putting on his own personal perverted little show.

 

She was assigned the role of injured and fragile victim. Lucilla was the jealous “other woman,” she supposed, and Ryan? A wave of nausea gripped her, and she would have vomited if there had been anything in her stomach to bring up. With startling clarity, she saw Erik's purpose in having Ryan chained up in here. Ryan was supposed to play the role of over-protective lover, forced to watch, impotent, as his prospective mate was abused, just beyond his reach. Erik wanted to punish Ryan, to make him suffer. Because Ryan had been the chosen heir, while the eldest son had been passed over.

 

Ryan growled something about changing the water. Lucilla paused, threw a daggered glance at Ryan, and then slowly and deliberately dipped her cloth into the water once again before scrubbing aggressively at crusted blood on Lina's upper thigh. Lina hissed involuntarily, and Lucilla glanced up, unleashed a vicious smile, and pressed in even harder, squeezing the cloth as she scoured dried blood away. Lina suppressed a wince as the dull throb of residual pain blended with a sharp burning sensation as the water mixed with her blood. She swallowed hard against the dry feeling coating her throat, wondering when she last had anything to drink.

 

“Get your hands off me,” Lina rasped, glaring down at Lucilla. She burned everywhere that woman touched her.

 

Lucilla hesitated before looking to Erik for guidance. With a thrust of his chin, Erik indicated that she should continue her ministrations. Lucilla returned to her task, her face flushed with an odd mixture of eagerness and revulsion. As she dipped her cloth in the bowl by her knees, she glanced up at Lina.

 

Lucilla wanted her dead.

 

Lina knew the girl hated her and had tried to kill her. Somehow, those bungled attempts had not been enough to make her consider Lucilla a serious threat. The look in her eyes made Lina wonder if she might want to revise her position immediately. Lina flicked a glance at Erik.

 

He knew. He knew that Lucilla wanted her dead. He knew, and forcing her to tend Lina's wounds was . . . yes, it was punishment for her role in Lady Gabriev's attack. He knew, but like Lina, he did not quite take the threat seriously. He thought he could control Lucilla. Lina swallowed hard against the dry feeling in her throat, and wondered why Lucilla's expression was enough to make her heart start beating erratically, to make her feel like she could not quite get enough air into her lungs.

 

“Get your hands off me,” Lina repeated, this time following up with enough will to make sparks arc across her body—her only remaining defense. There were far more sparks than she expected, accompanied by a great deal more pain. Lucilla snatched her hand back, looking—almost reflexively—to Erik for guidance. The thrust of his chin mimicked his earlier gesture, but his eyes very clearly indicated that he had hoped Lina would fight back, and he expected Lucilla to complete her task, regardless of Lina's resistance. Punishment.

 

With a whimper and a snarl, Lucilla turned back to Lina, who blocked each of her attempts, although it cost her greatly. A quick glance up at her wrists had confirmed that fresh beaded wire looped around her wrist. No wonder it hurt more. Lina's lips formed a rictus as she struggled with the body that betrayed her—it was more than the pain, it was the dizziness, the difficulty breathing, the cold sweat that mingled with blood and tainted water. She was running out of time. However, before she could play her own role in ending this farce Erik was forcing them through, she needed to figure out the key variation. Somehow, she had to make Flow Break, a spell designed to negate the effects of other spells by restoring magical channels thus allowing the energy to flow along its natural path, to negate instead the magical energy in the beads and circlet that had so effectively chained her. Defending herself against Lucilla provided the perfect excuse to experiment, but the effort was costing her . . . she coughed weakly, tasting the iron tang of blood in the back of her throat.

 

The sound of rattling chains . . . a male voice, tinged with desperation, pleading and haranguing . . . distractions to be ignored. She had to focus . . . she was so close to the key . . .

 

“You just want an excuse to touch her.” The oily quality of Erik's voice, coupled with the fiercely possessive tone and the aggressive accusation shattered Lina's concentration. She could only stare at the tableau before her.

 

Ryan turned white with fury, straining against his chains, which creaked and popped in protest against the sudden stress. “I don't know exactly what kind of sick game you're playing, Erik,” he bit out from between clenched teeth, “but I refuse to play along any longer!”

 

“Refuse?” Erik echoed incredulously. “You're in way too deep at this point to even think about backing out.” His eyes bored into Ryan's. “You know the consequence—”

 

Before he could finish, the door to the dungeon burst open.

 

“Sir! Sir! Look what I've got!” A serving boy rushed in, brandishing a long rope-like object.

 

Lina stared at it for several seconds before her brain acknowledged what her eyes were seeing.

 

It was a blood-stained hank of Gourry's hair.

******************

Gourry stared down at the ruined face of the woman called Gisella Gabriev. She was dressed in a rich satin dress the exact shade of a spring sky, and cloaked in velvet the deep hue of twilight. Blue for a Gabriev, as was proper. She lay on an oblong slab of black granite. Someone had folded her arms over her breast, and her hands were closed around the hilt of a long dagger—one of the few non-ceremonial weapons he had seen in this keep—although he noted that it was not the main-gauche mate to the Sword of Light. The crest on the hilt shared some features with the Gabriev family device, but it was nothing he recognized. Save for the torn out eyes and the deep scarring, she was the very image of his mother. Only the name did not fit.

 

No, that was not completely accurate. The woman who wore Lisielle Gabriev's ruined face was both like and unlike the mother he remembered. Her single-minded insistence that Lina had destroyed their home and family . . . the Lady of Gabriev keep had always insisted that a lord must weigh both sides of a story carefully before giving judgment. On the other hand, her voice, her mannerisms, even memories from the time before he had been sent away for training . . . Gourry pressed the heel of one hand against an eye. Like and unlike. Mother and stranger. Beyond his reach—again—forever.

 

“Well?”

 

Gourry shook his head and looked at the woman at his side. She seemed to know him, but he still knew next to nothing about her. “Who are you?” he asked bluntly. “Why are you helping me?”

 

“I have my reasons,” she replied after a considerable pause. “And I'm not helping you. Not exactly, at any rate.”

 

“Then why bring me here?” Gourry gestured at the small mourning room. It was at the top of one of the towers in Deremar's keep, very similar to the room where he and Lina had first performed their hired guard duty—a very boring evening that had ended with quite an unexpected twist. The main difference between that room and this was that the décor here was muted, rather than garish. Suddenly, he peered closely at his companion, as something abruptly clicked. “You're Lucilla's mother, aren't you?” he accused.

 

She inclined her head slightly, confirming his guess. “You really are a bit dense, aren't you,” she asked in an amused tone. “Didn't I say as much, earlier?”

 

Nothing was making any sense. Mother who was not mother lay dead. He still had not found Lina . . . in fact . . . a horrible suspicion dawned on him. What if this was just a distraction? Something to keep him off-balance (if so, it was definitely working) and prevent him from finding Lina. By her own admission, Lucilla's mother was not helping him. They were leading him around by the nose, and even worse, he was letting them. Following along willingly, even.

 

Sweet fire caressed his nerve endings as rare anger budded and bloomed, matured into blood lust aimed at those who would harm Lina—or keep him from her.

 

Gourry was no stranger to blood lust. It had been directed at him more times than he could count. His ability to recognize blood lust had kept him alive through conflict after conflict. It was a cold killing instinct. An overpowering desire to see blood spilled by one's own hand. Many depended on that cold fire, honed it, turned it into a tool, necessary to perform the kill. Gourry had no need to nurture the seeds of blood lust to be an efficient warrior. In most cases, he crossed swords with others as a test of his own skill. Few could even come close to competing. Fewer still walked away unscathed. While he normally had no desire to kill, he also accepted that it was a natural risk when one crossed blades with one of greater skill. Since he tended to wield the superior skill, he had killed.

 

But now . . .

 

“Where is she,” he asked in a very tight controlled voice.

 

“Lucilla?” her mother asked with surprise as she moved ever so slightly away from him, aware on some level of the change that had occurred in him.

 

“No,” Gourry continued in that same tight voice—if he let go of even a bit of control, he would probably end up painting the walls with the blood of this woman who was keeping him from Lina. He stepped towards her, even as she tried to retreat, speaking slowly and distinctly. “Where. Is. Lina.”

 

Her mouth formed a silent “O” as she realized her error. By then, she had backed herself up against the wall, and Gourry towered over her. “The girl . . . Lina . . . she's . . .” She swallowed hard under his implacable glare. “Erik has her.”

 

“Where?” Gourry repeated.

 

“In the dungeon, somewhere,” she whispered. “I don't know where exactly.”

 

The dungeon. Somewhere in the dungeon. Which meant down. Gourry made a quick tactical decision. Before Lucilla's mother could evade him, he grabbed her arm and turned her around in front of him, twisting her arm up behind her back. His grip was only a shadow of his former strength, but even so, it was sufficient to keep her immobilized, even though she tried to struggle and break free. “Now,” he started, but broke off when the door to the room cracked open and the page who had been standing guard slipped in.

 

“Mi'lady—” the boy's words modulated quickly into an inarticulate cry of rage, and his hand went quickly to the ceremonial dagger at his hip when he recognized the situation. Gourry had to give the kid credit. He was certainly quick on his feet.

 

“Drop it,” he commanded in a low growl. “Drop it, or I break her arm.” He pulled up on her arm, exerting just enough force to back up his threat, but not enough to incapacitate her. He felt her sudden indrawn breath more than he heard it, but the resulting flicker in the boy's eyes warned him to caution. For all his lack of years, this young boy had a great deal of potential—he already carried himself with a feline grace. The last thing he needed at this point was an alarm.

 

“Do it, Jeral.” Lucilla's mother spoke no louder than a whisper, but it was obvious that the boy had heard. He hesitated a moment, and then his dagger clattered to the floor.

 

Gourry nodded approvingly and eased up slightly on his hostage's arm. “Close the door—slowly and quietly,” he ordered.

 

Jeral glared at him and spat on the floor before complying. “Forgive me, mi'lady,” he said tightly, his attention focused on Gourry.

 

“It's okay, Jeral,” she replied weakly. “What did you need to tell me?”

 

While the boy hesitated, Gourry considered his options. One hostage was probably more than he could handle at this point, which meant that he had to figure out which of them he wanted to keep, and what he should do with the other one. Tactically speaking, the woman was probably a better choice. If nothing else, she made a better shield—

 

“Mi'lady,” the boy finally announced. “Linara told me that Erik's found out that he's here.” Jeral scowled in Gourry's direction. “He's ordered all the servants to scour the keep for him. The first one to find him has been offered . . .” He trailed off and a rosy blush spread across his face.

 

“Go ahead,” Lucilla's mother urged, sounding resigned.

 

Jeral took a deep breath. “The first one to find him has been offered the company of the Lady Lucilla for an evening.” His blush deepened into a bright red.

 

Lucilla's mother swore softly under her breath. “Of course, every man in the keep capable of getting it up—and probably a few that aren't . . .” She sighed in disgust, and Jeral's flush intensified to spread down his neck. “That damned slut of a girl!”

 

“This doesn't change anything,” Gourry growled. Nothing was going to distract him this time. Not even if his mother's corpse got up to block his way. He was going to find Lina and get the both of them the hell away from this crazy place.

 

“You idiot! Don't you understand?” Lucilla's mother craned her neck around to turn her glare on him. “They'll all be looking for you, now! And now that Gisella's dead, there's nothing to stop Erik from killing you!”

 

“And why,” Gourry asked slowly, “would anyone, aside from you and your page,” he glanced at Jeral, “want to kill me?” Although he sensed that in spite of her current position, she had no desire to see him dead. She was right. He had no clue what was going on, beyond understanding that they were keeping him from finding Lina.

 

“The same reason he killed Gisella,” Lucilla's mother said simply. “You stand between him and Lina Inverse.”

******************

After tossing Gourry's hair in her face, Erik stormed out of the cell, shouting all kinds of orders. As soon as he was gone, Lucilla slowly backed away from Lina, giving her a cool appraising look. There was something disconcerting about the way she studied Lina's eyes, the pulse flickering erratically in her throat, the way her eyes lingered on Lina's breasts before moving lower. Lina let her see what she wanted to see: a wasted body, weak from abuse and injury. Let her think she had the upper hand. She just needed a little more time . . . The last variation had been so close . . . she had felt the momentary shift before the annoying buzzing had clamped down again. Just a little more time . . . but time was running out. In more ways than one.

 

Lucilla finished her examination, obviously pleased with whatever she saw.

 

“You poisoned the water, didn't you,” Lina said quietly, glancing down at the bowl of herb water on the floor.

 

A slow, cruel smile was Lucilla's only response. Both of them ignored Ryan's outcry.

 

Lina wished she could take a deep breath, but all she could manage were quick shallow pants. But there was still time. As long as she drew breath, there was still time. Just a nudge here, a tug there . . . closer to what she needed, but not quite . . . just a little bit more force . . . if her body could just channel a bit more strength . . .

 

Lucilla watched her coldly, appraising the course of the poison. “Let's see you get out of this one, you little witch.”

 

Lina bared her teeth and snarled. Gathered her strength for another attempt.

 

Perhaps Lucilla interpreted that snarl as weakness. Perhaps as a challenge. With calculated and leisurely steps, she sauntered close to Lina, leaned close to her ear, and whispered, “By the way, I've had your man.”

 

Rage flooded through Lina as Lucilla danced back, overtly pleased at the reaction her words had provoked. Lucilla simpered, stretching and arching her back in a calculatedly sensuous way. Out of the corner of her eye, Lina could see Ryan shifting uncomfortably. “He's quite the skilled and conscientious lover, isn't he?” She smiled, as she coiled a tendril of hair around her little finger. It was clear that she was enjoying herself immensely. “I know!” She tapped a finger in mock-thoughtfulness against her cheek, as she glanced over at Ryan. “I'll show you what we did together.” She sauntered over to Ryan, who eyed her warily, edging away from her. “Think of it as my gift to you,” she said over her shoulder while she reached out to caress Ryan's cheek. “The last gift you'll ever receive.” She laughed wickedly.

 

Lina did not hear that last wicked laugh. She did not hear Ryan's protests as Lucilla reeled in chains that had previously been slack, nor did she hear those protests modulate into whimpers punctuated by moans. All she knew was the rage, and the delicious fact that it gave her that more she needed. Like a key turning in a lock, she heard an audible click and instantly she felt the intangible barrier inside her mind disappear. Lina laughed in exultation and immediately followed up with a flare arrow, causing the beaded wire around her arms and legs to crackle with electricity before bursting asunder. As she fell unceremoniously to the floor, the iron circlet that had buzzed so unpleasantly around her head disintegrated into fine grayish-white powder. She felt a giddy exultation surging through her, and dipped deep into her internal reservoirs to cast the spell that instantly purged the poisons from her blood. As she slowly stood, testing legs that had not born her weight for longer than she cared to remember, she felt the magic thrumming through her veins, begging to be used after being denied so long.

 

The roaring in her ears faded as she turned to face her quarry. In the moments Lina had needed to free herself, Lucilla had reduced the slack in Ryan's chains, so that he was stretched out, spread-eagle, along the wall, just as she had been moments before. Lucilla had also stripped Ryan of most of his clothes. Both had heard her triumphant laugh. Lucilla stared at her in horror—Lina was not sure if she was aware that her hand still gripped Ryan. Ryan, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to vomit. His face was a gut-twisting mixture of humiliation and horror, and he was biting his lip so hard, a thin trickle of blood ran down his chin.

 

White-hot rage transformed into cold fury. Lucilla was no longer an inconvenience. She could no longer consider her a bumbling fool. She was a woman so obsessed with her own agenda that she did not care how many innocent bystanders were harmed by her schemes. What would have happened to the villagers provoked into a mob to lynch them if she and Gourry had unleashed their full strength? And now, she was playing with Ryan, using him as a tool to hurt her, even though Lucilla had been convinced that Lina was close to death. Just for her own perverted and sadistic enjoyment.

 

Lina took a step towards Lucilla, intending slice through the other woman's arms to break her hold on Ryan. Lucilla saved her the trouble by scrabbling away from Ryan. She threw a longing glance at the door to the cell and then began to bolt for perceived safety.

 

She would never make it. Lina smiled sweetly at her and let the magic flow. “Wind which blows across eternity, gather in my hands and become my strength!”

 

Dawning comprehension spread slowly across Lucilla's face, followed by cold panic and the knowledge that it was too late, even as her hands reached out to pull the door open.

 

Without changing her expression, Lina spoke the words sealing Lucilla's fate. “Flam Gush.”

 

The spell instantly tore through Lucilla as if she were nothing more than a wisp of smoke before proceeding to demolish the door of the cell and the wall in the corridor behind it. “Hmm,” she muttered under her breath as she peered through the holes that had suddenly appeared in several walls. “Guess I overdid a bit.” She resisted the urge to collapse into a heap on the stone cold dungeon floor. Without the thrum of excess magic singing in her blood, her body wasted no time in reminding her of all the abuse it had recently taken. Her head throbbed in concert with several gashes, and limbs protested abrupt movement after so much inactivity. She felt like she could sleep for a month, and then eat for another month. Later. Right now, there were more important things.

 

Without looking at Ryan, Lina cast the spell that released his shackles, and pointedly turned her back to give him—and herself—privacy. She dimly heard the rustle of cloth behind her that indicated Ryan was questing for decency, but she was focused more on fighting a losing battle against the cough that threatened to tear through her. She ended up on her hands and knees, hacking weakly. When it passed, she could taste the iron tang of blood in the back of her throat, saw the dark stain on her hand when she wiped her mouth. No time to stop. She struggled to turn the bedraggled, torn, and blood-spattered pink silk into something approaching a modest garment without turning herself into some macabre mummy.

 

Finally satisfied, she turned to face him. There were so many questions that she wanted to ask, but now was not the time. Now, all hell was on the verge of breaking loose. It was only a matter of moments before someone came to investigate the explosion, and she would much prefer to be elsewhere before then.

 

“You're going after him, again, aren't you.” It was not a question.

 

Lina turned to face Ryan. Although there was absolutely no emotion in his tone, fiery determination burned in his eyes. She knew it mirrored the expression in her own. “You should get out of here.”

 

“Yeah,” he nodded curtly. “Yeah. I will.”

 

She resisted the urge to swear under her breath as he slipped out of the dungeon and into the dark corridors beyond. She wished Ryan luck, but first she had to worry about herself.

******************

The faint sound of an explosion caught his attention, and for the first time in days, he felt a flicker of hope. “Did you hear that?” he asked Lucilla's mother. She had told him her name, but it was just easier to keep thinking of her as “Lucilla's mother.”

 

Monara cocked her head. “Hear what?”

 

“Never mind,” he said and turned his attention back to the leather strap into which he was carefully punching a hole. Apparently he had lost a great deal of weight since the last time he had worn his armor. Tightening the straps was not exactly ideal, as it changed the fit of the armor, but it was certainly better than nothing. Just one more hole, and he would be done. He was relieved to finally have his clothes and armor back, instead of running around in a long white shirt all the time.

 

He was not sure if Lina would approve of him siding with his hostages, but then again, she was not really the hostage-taking type. Anyways, she jumped sides so quickly, it was hard to know who was enemy and who was friend. Right now, Lucilla's mother and her page were on his side, even if he could not place them firmly in “friend” category. In return for his clothes, armor, and sword, he stopped trying to twist her arm off. And in return for guiding him to the dungeons, he was supposed to “deal” with Erik. Although he was fuzzy on the details, it seemed that Erik was the one running the show, but Lucilla's mother thought she should be the one in charge behind the scenes. It was a classic power-struggle. What more did he need to understand?

 

“Just hurry it up,” she urged, looking over his shoulder. “They could find us any moment.”

 

Easier said than done. If the hole was not exactly center, the straps would not buckle properly. Under normal circumstances, it would not have taken him much time at all to punch new holes, but given the fact that he was working with jury-rigged tools—namely a largely ceremonial poniard—and he only had the full use of three of his fingers on his right hand . . . . He had no clear understanding how he had gotten the dry rot in both his hands. Ideally, both pinkies should come off as soon as possible, and maybe the tips of his ring fingers as well. If he were lucky, he would be able to keep the hands. However, now was clearly not the right time to be performing amputations. It was also not the time for regrets. A swordsman without the full use of his hands . . . Gourry shook his head forcefully. Later.

 

“There,” he murmured, finally forcing the poniard through the thick leather strap. He motioned to the page, Jeral, who helped him buckle his armor into place. It still did not fit properly, but this was probably as good as it was going to get. Gourry sighed, as he tried to settle it into a better position. Under normal circumstances, the armor fit very much like a second skin. At the moment, however, it gaped distressingly at some points, while jabbing uncomfortably into him at others.

 

Jeral handed him his sword, hilt first. A quick warm-up exercised confirmed a few of his greatest concerns while allaying a few others. His grip was decidedly off. Anyone with any skill whatsoever should be able to recognize it and disarm him. Muscles protested when he settled into his preferred stance, a mute testimony to the toll of inactivity and weakness. At the same time, his body generally responded the way it was supposed to, and although his movements were definitely slower, they were not quite a sluggish as he had feared.

 

“He moves just like she did, doesn't he, mi'lady?” Jeral asked in obvious awe.

 

Monara nodded curtly. “He'll do, I think.” She tilted her head to the side, considering. “Are you ready?”

 

Gourry wondered if he could trust Lucilla's mother. Probably not. Although she had fulfilled her end of the bargain so far, providing him with his things, he had no doubt that she would turn on him if she thought it would give her an advantage. He doubted that she would take him directly to Lina—there was sure to be a dramatic side-stop that included Erik. He had heard snatches of the instructions she whispered to her page while she thought he was distracted with his armor.

 

The key to everything seemed to be Erik. He was the one who ruled from behind the scenes, with the help of Lucilla. He was the one who had been closest to Gisella, in spite of the fact that she was Deremar's wife in name, even if she chose not to spend her nights in his bed.

 

It suited him quite fine that his path would cross Erik's sooner, rather than later. Never mind the power struggle between Lucilla's mother and Erik. Never mind the claim that Gisella had died at Erik's hand. Erik was the one. In all the time that Gourry had known Lina, he had never seen her look upon anyone with haunted fear in her eyes, but he still remembered the edge of panic in her voice when she snarled Erik's name. He remembered the terrified little girl lurking behind Lina's eyes as she insisted that he truss her up and hand her over to Erik—all in the name of saving a woman who later betrayed them.

 

It was time to end this. That faint explosion probably meant that Lina was on the move. “Yeah, I'm ready.” As ready as he could be, under the circumstances.

 

Lucilla's mother and her page served as the vanguard while he lurked behind. Their job was to misdirect anyone who intersected them, looking for Erik's promised reward. Gourry thought he could probably handle a confrontation with Erik, but not if he had to fight his way through the entire keep before doing so. They did their job well enough, sending people off in random directions while Gourry clung to the shadows. It certainly helped that he sensed the approach of others well before either Lucilla's mother or her page. All his senses were attuned to his surroundings. Smoky torches guttered, casting dancing shadows across the masonry walls. Although circuitous, their path took them deeper into the earth. The air gradually took on the musty smell of damp and mold, tinged with decomposing refuse.

 

As they continued their descent, however, the smell of rank decay was overlaid with something different. It was . . . dust. Centuries old dust that swirled through the air, accompanied by the peculiar odor of recently crushed rock mixing with the damp . . . and ozone. It was both hard to describe and very familiar to any who traveled in the company of Lina Inverse, Sorceress Extraordinaire. The faint shadow of a grin passed over his face. Lina was here, somewhere. He just had to find her.

 

The thought was interrupted by the sound of a voice. How often had he heard that voice in his dreams? It was all a part of the nightmare. The voice that hissed in his ear, while the owner's eyes greedily devoured Lina. “I want Lina Inverse,” he had said. Did he get what he wanted? Gourry shook his head. That did not matter. What mattered was that when he next saw Lina, he would shake the blood of Erik off his sword—payment and promise. Payment for failing to protect her, and promise never to fail again.

 

Ignoring the warning looks from Lucilla's mother, Gourry strode forward, into the midst of the destruction that proclaimed to the world that Lina Inverse had been there. The corridor had a new intersection that started from a small dungeon chamber, blazed through thick masonry walls, several small rooms, assorted passageways, and went on beyond visible sight. Some might think it silly, but standing in the midst of Lina-induced destruction made Gourry feel almost normal. This is how things were supposed to be: the two of them plowing through obstacles to obtain the goal.

 

“Looking for me?” Gourry asked innocently as he stepped into Erik's line of sight.

 

Erik paused in the act of surveying Lina's handiwork. “Yes, I suppose you could say that,” he drawled while he grinned with pure malice. It was a smile of a man who wanted to look like he held all the aces, but was just starting to admit to himself that maybe—just maybe—the situation was moving beyond his control. With a languid gesture at odds with his crisp tone, he issued orders to the rabble of men surrounding him. “I want him dead.”

 

Assorted rabble moved like obedient dogs in an attempt to surround Gourry. It took a mere glance to assess them. Most of them were equipped with the largely ceremonial gear that seemed standard issue, and although they held their weapons with what they thought was confidence, there was nothing in stance or grip that bespoke of skill. Once they saw the look on Gourry's face, their confidence abruptly evaporated, and they started to give each other sideways glances. No one wanted to be the first to try to flank Gourry, but none wanted to look the coward, either. Gourry wore an expression that said very clearly, “I have nothing against you personally, see? I'm trying to get to that fella over there. But if you choose to get in my way, I'll have to go through you, see? And while I guess it might prick my conscience a bit, I guarantee that it will hurt you a lot more.”

 

They sort of oozed toward Gourry. At a growl from Erik, a few of the braver souls standing at the front of the mob tried to mount a concerted assault. His reflexes may be duller than he liked, but he was still fast enough to deal with them. Within heartbeats, those who had made the attempt lay in crumpled heaps on the floor. Some moaned, some screamed, and some were very silent. All were incapacitated. The less brave hesitated for a few more heartbeats, and then almost as one, they scattered through the assorted passageways—both the original and the newly created—scurrying like rats into the darkness.

 

With calculatedly casual movements, Gourry crouched down and wiped his sword clean on the shirt of one the downed attackers. As he did so, he assessed himself and studied his opponent. Muscles twinged and protested, but they obeyed. Slower than he was used to, but he could still move. Not a single one had broken through his guard. Erik was studying him as well, his face a mask of indifference, but his eyes told a different story. He was surprised at Gourry's speed—that much was clear. His eyes also lingered on Gourry's hands, noting the grip of his fingers—but not all of them—on the hilt.

 

His opponent was largely an unknown. Erik had avoided direct confrontation, preferring subterfuge and sending others to do his dirty work. Skilled enough to wield a blade—supposedly skilled enough to kill Gisella, who herself was also an unknown. He had obviously had enough training to make him automatically study Gourry's grip—and enough skill to note the weakness. Gourry slowly stood and raised his sword in a salute before settling into a ready stance, awaiting Erik's attack.

 

The first thrust came before Erik even drew his sword. “So, the protector rides in to rescue the princess?” he asked as he continued to assess Gourry. “But considering that you handed her over to me in the first place, do you really think you still qualify as Lina's protector?”

 

Never mind that he had asked himself as much. Let the words roll past, so much meaningless sound. Several had tried the mind-games with him, but Gourry had never been inclined to play.

 

Erik bared his teeth. “You are nothing, don't you understand? Nothing. Lina is mine. She's always been mine. She will always be mine. And after I cut out your heart and hand it to her on a platter, she'll understand that, too.” He punctuated his last statement by drawing his sword—a full sword, and not the main gauche, Gourry noted—and darting in quickly, aiming to slip underneath Gourry's guard.

 

Reflexively, Gourry blocked, and hissed at the way his own sword wobbled in his grip. A cold anger spread through him as Erik's last words echoed in his mind, producing the opposite effect than what Erik had hoped to achieve. “It was you, wasn't it?” he growled as the pieces suddenly fell into place. He had suspected that Lina and Ryan had been lovers, but the way they circled around each other just did not add up. And although Lina had not technically been a virgin their first time, in all other ways she had certainly acted like one. No, the one who had taken Lina's virginity had not done so gently, nor he suspected, with her consent. The cold anger threatened to transform into fury—and that was bad. A swordsman who gave into rage was very quickly a dead man. And so he refused to think the word that hovered at the edge of his awareness, and instead focused on the cold anger and let it modify plans made a lifetime ago, when he had held Lina and imagined facing his unknown rival.

 

Gourry stepped into the dance, confidently taking the lead. There was only one possible outcome now. He would accept no other.

 

Flash of steel. Whirl. Duck. Lunge. Parry.

 

Within moments, the only sound in the room was the quick drawing of breath and the hiss and clang of steel on steel. Erik was good. It was clear that he had been trained by a master. Blood trickled down Gourry's arms and over his hands, seeping between his fingers and the hilt of the sword and fouling his already weak grip. It was a sound strategy, to take advantage of an opponent's weakness. Oh yes, Erik was good. But he was not good enough. Although Gourry had not yet drawn blood, he had not been trying to, either. He was still testing his opponent, assessing his reach, gauging his reaction speed, the strength of his blows. Erik was just skilled enough to recognize what Gourry was doing, but not quite skilled enough to mask his abilities, and both of them knew it.

 

Once he had finished sizing up his opponent, Gourry shifted to offense. He currently had the edge, but he knew he would not hold it for long. Muscles remembered how to move, even after a long hiatus, but stamina was something completely different. He had to end this fast.

 

Flash of steel. Whirl. Slice. Block. Block. Block.

 

New pattern. Jab-slice. Block. Block.

 

Somehow, Erik had managed to block each of his attacks, and with each new pattern, Erik's confidence grew, while Gourry had to dig deeper for the strength to keep his sword arm moving. He tried shifting the pattern yet again, using a style that had been used only by people currently dead—it was one of the first moves he had learned when he was old enough to hold a sword, and one that had never failed to catch an opponent by surprise. But Erik was smiling before he had completed the opening parry, and as he moved to execute the perfect counter, Gourry realized his mistake, barely in time to avoid a fatal stroke meant to slice through his guard and disembowel him.

 

Crouch. Twist. Crack. Pain. A scream. Twist.

 

Instead of trailing his guts all over the floor, Gourry escaped with some cracked ribs. Every breath was agony. He moves just like she did, the boy had said. Gisella Gabriev. The woman who had arrived with Erik. No wonder he countered Gourry's patterns so easily! They were the ones he had learned sparring with his mother. But there was no time to wonder about the difference in names. He had to end this now.

 

“Gourry!” A flash of pink ran up the corridor behind Erik. Although she held no weapon, her hands were poised to launch an attack, and he clearly heard her unvoiced command to get out of her way.

 

Lina. Relief crashed over him, quickly replaced by another surge of anger that threatened to blind him. She was alive, but that was probably the best that could be said about her. In a single glance—all he could spare from Erik—he had noted the pink silk wrapped tightly around a body that had always been skinny, but now looked like a skeleton overlaid with skin. Her wrists and ankles looked like half-done meat—partially raw and bleeding, partially singed and burnt, and blood oozed from fresh wounds in half a dozen places. He could see the darker stains seeping through the silk. Her eyes burned from sunken hollows in a gaunt face. But her hair . . . that shocked him the most. It hung, lank and listless about her shoulders, and it had almost no color left.

 

Damn her! She had sucked herself dry! Only one thing drained color from her hair, like that: the overuse of her magic. And only one thing would fix it: sleep, food, and no magic. Yet there she stood, he could see the spell on her lips, feel her gathering that energy from wherever sorcerers got it.

 

“Gourry, get out of the way!” she rasped, her eyes glittering. She had a clear shot at Erik, but he knew that anything she was planning was going to go straight through Erik and whatever else was behind him, including walls, rooms, small villages, perhaps. Anger flared again.

 

He had no breath to respond. As if Lina's arrival were some sort of signal, Erik switched from defense to offense, moving easily into the patterns Gourry had used just moments earlier. Their roles were reversed now. Erik initiated, and Gourry responded with the counter, almost instinctually, conserving his strength, dancing them in a circle. Placing himself between Lina and Erik. He was the protector. He would protect Lina from anything. Even if it was himself. Even if it was Lina, herself.

 

Whatever she was planning would kill her.

 

He would not allow it.

 

Something moved in the shadows behind Erik. Gourry ignored it. He could afford no distraction. He meant to keep Lina alive. He intended to keep himself alive, too, and that meant there was no margin for error. Erik had the advantage, and they both knew it. So Gourry broke the pattern, grunting with effort and ignoring the scream of protest from his ribs as he began the move that would hopefully slice through Erik's sword. Before he could follow through, Erik's eyes bulged as his body jerked backwards. His sword fell from suddenly nerveless fingers as his hands flew up to his throat. Blood blossomed around a sharp metal point protruding just beside his Adam's apple. The point disappeared, and Erik began to gurgle as he collapsed to the floor.

 

Gourry tried to suck in air without moving his ribs while he watched Erik drown in his own blood. The shadow leaned down and wiped something on Erik's shirt, held it briefly before his eyes, and then offered it hilt-first to Gourry.

 

“Yours, I believe.” Ryan spoke without emotion, although his eyes glittered with a mix of conflicting emotions: cold determination, anger, panic, and shock, all tinged with sorrow and regret. He held the blade with a rock steady hand while Gourry's eyes traced the familiar hilt of the main gauche.

 

As Gourry's fingers touched the proffered weapon, Ryan's eyes quickly flicked towards Lina, who had moved to stand just behind him on the left. Gourry suddenly understood that Ryan was referring to more than the blade. For a moment, they both held the main gauche, and then Ryan relaxed his grip.

 

“Why?” Gourry asked as he slipped miniature replica of the Sword of Light into his belt. He glanced down at Erik, who had stopped struggling, although the rhythmic ooze of blood from his throat indicated that he was not quite dead yet.

 

Ryan did not answer, immediately. His jaw clenched, and then with visible effort, he forced himself to relax, forced his features into a neutral expression. He turned slightly, and held out his hand toward the shadows behind him. Slowly, and hesitantly, a figure peeked around a pile of rubble. Gourry heard Lina's sudden gasp as he noted the bruises on the figure's arms and face, the haunted and skittish look in her eyes, and the way she tried to hide herself behind matted red hair. A younger version of Lina, he had thought the first time he had seen her. The easy confidence with which she had carried herself had been replaced by a hunched and cringing posture.

 

Behind him, he felt Lina tense up. There was the strange sensation of something rushing past him, even though there was no movement in the air. He turned slightly, and saw that aside from a muscle fluttering in her jaw, her face was a mask of malevolent anger, all directed at Erik. Her breath rasped in her throat as she started muttering under her breath, and he saw a freshet of blood stream from the corner of her mouth.

 

He barely heard the clatter of his sword as it hit the flagstones, barely felt the shriek of fracture ribs. His arms seemed to push through molasses in their effort to grab Lina's shoulders. He knew he was shouting at her, but he could barely hear his own voice over the thump and thud of his heart. Time slowed . . . stretched . . . and like a suddenly released rubber band, snapped forward abruptly. Lina collapsed against him, and it took all his self-control not to cry out against the renewed flare of pain as she jostled his broken ribs. She reached up to stroke his cheek with her hand. Even her eyes, which had been the only part of her that seemed alive, looked dull—like banked embers. They drifted shut, and she coughed weakly.

 

“Gourry?” Her voice was so quiet, muffled against his chest.

 

“Yeah?” he asked softly, running her too-pale hair through his fingers. Around him, he was marginally aware of activity. Ryan had his arm protectively around Shella, who hid her face in Ryan's arm, and hunched her shoulders. Her clothes had been torn to tatters, barely providing any cover for bruised flesh. While Ryan shielded Shella, he talked intently with Lucilla's mother, who seemed to be trying to take control of the situation. The battle was over. Now, it was time to assess the casualties and start rebuilding.

 

Lina was quiet for a very long time. Finally, she looked up at him. “I'm hungry.” Her voice was nearly as thin as fine paper, but it carried a hint of her normal fire. “I'm really hungry,” she repeated, a bit more forcefully, and with a suggestion of petulance.

 

Monara gestured to her page. “Jeral, escort Lord and Lady Gabriev to the kitchens. Give them anything they ask for.” Her eyes narrowed as she assessed Lina, who had perked up ever so slightly at Monara's words. “Anything, within reason, that is,” she amended.

 

Food. And a bed. With Lina in it. At the moment, there was nothing else he wanted.