Sorcerer's Vendetta (The Secret of Zanalon) (12 page)

Zanalon gave her one look.
This is it.

He slammed into the double doors. They opened into a huge dark room beyond. Over on the left was a table with an ancient leather-bound book on it. The Book. But what immediately dominated the room was the source of the humming.

A shining globe of light hung in the air in the center of the room. Two bands of golden light spun around it, going in opposite directions, circling and crossing each other.

Inside the globe was suspended the figure of a man. His arms were outstretched and his head hung down like a figure on a crucifix. He was clothed in a white robe with a hood that hid his face but his hair was long enough to fall mid chest, glossy black against the white.

Zanalon stiffened.
In spite of his shield, he was struck. His head jerked up, his mouth opened silently, and his eyes lost focus as if he'd been stabbed in the back,. He closed his eyes in pain, and stood frozen, trembling. A sound came from him, a choked moan. Weakened, he leaned against the rough wooden door, sighing heavily.

"What ...? Lifesteal? No ..." He shook his head.

Rachel reached for him as he stumbled to the side, fell against the wall and clung as he sank to the polished floor.

"My God, what's happening to you?" She dropped to one knee beside him and tried to get a hold on him to help him to his feet. Her throat was tight and dry, raw-edged inside. Rachel flashed glances at the man hanging suspended above them. At any second, she knew the white-robed wizard would raise his head, laugh maniacally and blast them both into oblivion.

"I ... know not. My defense ... I cannot fight this ..." His voice was weak, his breath troubled as he struggled to pull himself up to one knee, clinging to her and the door.

“Get us out of here! Get us out!” Rachel almost moaned, grimacing.

Zanalon looked up at her, meeting the terror in her eyes, glanced at the man floating in the globe and nodded.  His arm over her shoulders, he stumbled past the heavy doors, and slapped a panel on the wall. White stars rushed in and they were back in the bedroom. Rachel pulled Zanalon toward the doorway and through it, half carrying him.

The redhead stood at the balcony, one hand gripping the rail like the fleshless claw of a hawk. The other hand covered her mouth and her eyes relayed naked fear and concern. She was staring at Zanalon.

Then she looked at Rachel. She dropped her hand and her mouth went into a set line.

"I told you," she said, shaking her head. "You've got to get him out of here. I'm sorry, I hoped you would leave before this. The Yard will be here any moment. You don't have much time."

Zanalon looked up at the redhead, silently smoldering anger and confusion. With a final look at him, the woman turned on her heel and headed briskly for the stairs.

Rachel was no closer to understanding her. That final look had been one of sympathy.

Tugging at him desperately, Rachel pulled Zanalon to retreat. The farther he got from that darkened doorway, the more his strength returned. By the time they reached the corner he was on his feet, though leaning heavily on the wall, his other arm around Rachel. At the stairs, he gripped her elbow and steadied himself with the railing.

Rachel shot a terrified glance over her shoulder, watching for Zanalon's nemesis. There was no pursuit. Yet.

"What happened?" she asked, unable to restrain her curiosity any longer.

Zanalon only shook his head, his lips tight. His strength returned, when they reached the bottom he held her hand only to keep her close as they headed for the front door.

Even as they burst through the arched doorway, they were brought up short by the screech of tires. A marked car threw dust into its headlights in the driveway before them, its rear sliding until it faced them directly, spotlighting them under its blinding beams. A young man, uniformed, jumped out quickly; Rachel caught a flash of blond hair turned bluish in the half-light between dusk and night, as the man aimed a gun over the open door at them.

"Scotland Yard---Get your hands up! Move away from 'er!"

Rachel had never faced a gun before. Chilling fear zinged through her and she froze. Zanalon hadn't either but his reaction was the opposite of hers. He stared coldly at the man and continued forward.

"Stop, you have to stop!" Rachel clung to his right arm and dug in heels.

He looked at her, brows knitted. "What is ...?"

"It's a gun. He can kill you on the spot. Trust me, do what he says."

Now concerned, Zanalon glanced at the weapon and pulled her closer to him, under his right arm, within his cloak.

The officer took this as a threat to her.  He fired.

Zanalon grunted when the bullet struck him in the left shoulder and knocked him back a step.

Rachel felt her scream, raw in her throat, more than heard it. Horrified, she saw his arm hang limp but she saw no blood, the cloak hiding his shoulder from her view. Pushing in front of him, she looked back to the officer.

"Please stop," she pleaded, but her voice failed, a strained whisper. "He's not trying to---"

Zanalon stepped closer, behind her. Grimacing a snarl of pain, he moved his left arm across her shoulders to pull her to him, enfold her in his cloak again. She turned, hunched sideways before him, glanced up at him. His face was a terrifying mask, lit by headlights. Sheer rage.

He raised his right hand, aiming ....

"TUR KA!" he growled. The fire trigger.

The fireball was instantaneous. It formed and flashed from his hand like the strike of a snake to hit the car dead on. The officer, his eyes wide with shock as he stumbled back, threw himself out of range as he fell. He rolled and instinctively brought the gun to bear again.

Another word of power from Zanalon, whispered at her ear. Just as reality spread into the infinity of energy and time stopped, she heard the report of the gun, again. She felt the impact jolt Zanalon, his head snapping back …

Chapter 8 – LOVE LOST

The shadowy trees and silver moonlight came into focus with soft blues and whispers of the night.

Zanalon stumbled back, moaning.

The bullet ...?!

She spun to face him, still within his hold, trying to see.  He stared without focus into the sky, his head back, she couldn't see ...

He fell. She moved with him, clinging to him to slow his fall, reaching up to cushion his head when they met the ground, tangled together. She scrambled to check his head, stroking through his thick, silky hair, pushing it back fmrom his face. "Oh my God, Zanalon! Oh, God please ..." she whispered urgently, her voice already breaking.

There was a trickle of blood, slightly left of center on his forehead, nothing more.  Suddenly, his body tightened convulsively under her.  His eyes glazed, unseeing.

"Oh, no, Zanalon, don't ..." Rachel whimpered, everything blurring as tears dashed in his hair.

Then he squeezed his eyes shut. He exhaled, a soft snort of self derision, opened his eyes again, still dazed.

He brought his hand up to cradle her cheek, softly. "Damn, woman. Thou'rt too close." His voice was softly slurred. "Uh, I meant, that was close." He narrowed his eyes, trying to focus. His hand pushed at her hair, gently. "I am alive, m'lady. No tears."

He looked away, around, and took his hand from her to touch at his forehead, examine his blood on his fingers. "I felt it go through. S-scrambled my mind. We were phasing, but I felt it ... " With every word, his voice was clearing.

Rachel nearly fainted from relief. Shaking, she slumped down, vertigo blinding her. It wasn't until she felt his hand stroking her back, comforting, that she realized how close she was to him, her leg across his body, snug, her head on his shoulder.

"'Tis good to be alive," he said. “And wonderful as well to hear you call me back, by that name. Zanalon.” He chuckled.

She smiled and lifted herself over him, to look in his eyes, one brow lifted in anticipation. Would he finally reveal the meaning of this name?

His eyes sparkled with rare humor.  They were ultramarine blue, starred in the moonlight, muted under the shadows of the trees. “It means, in the tongue of the elementals, 'Beloved'.”

All this time I've been calling him “Beloved.”

"Yes, Zanalon... it is good to be alive," she said, laughing with him easily. It seemed so natural, irresistible. Before she could think, to talk herself out of it, before she could do anything but feel this pull to him, she lowered her head slowly. He watched her, his eyes did not deny her, flickering to her lips.

Closer, she moved. She nearly closed her eyes, as did he, when her lips touched his, brushing ever so softly; but she was caught in the ever increasing intensity of his eyes, wondrous and sensual, connected. She pressed deeper and he responded, lifting his chin to meet the touch of her lips firmly with his own; his hand, stroking at her back, drifted to her hair, the nape of her neck. He opened his mouth and their tongues touched---a new sensation, electric. She felt a surge of power through her, connecting from him. Magic.

And more. Rachel felt his body respond to her closeness and was shocked by the fluttering in her belly, the little warm shivering running downward, softening her inside, running upward to tighten the buds of her breasts. Never before, never so easy, so natural, this response. One of his hands slid down, eddying tingling energy in its wake, until he held her firmly at her hip, massaging at the hollow on the outside of her derriere, exploring gently; then he pulled her to him, harder. She moaned, softly.

Then something changed. Darkness brushed moth's wings with the quickness of a thought. His body went suddenly rigid.

He turned his head, breaking the kiss, his eyes burning, troubled. His hand came up, firmly catching her at her rib cage. She stiffened as he thrust her to the side; the ground was shocking, uncompromising and cold after his warmth. He sat up, dragging his left arm.

"Aaaahh!" Zanalon grimaced, pulling at the deadened arm, tightening it into a curl gingerly, then shook his head. "What am I doing?"

She moved back toward him. "What's wrong?"

He caught her, held her back. "No."

"What---"

"No." He struggled to his feet. Rachel scrambled after, burning, confused. He stumbled, trying to get away from her. She caught his arm and he spun.

"NO!" he said, backing away. "Do not touch me. Do not love me. Let it go."

This time she stood, deflated, crumpling. He saw the pain in her eyes and stopped. "I am sorry. Thou dost not understand. I was confused, I should not have ..." His eyes glittered, bright with pain in the darkness, hot in the cool blue shadows. "This cannot be."

He stood, massaging his arm, keeping her at bay with his gaze.

"But why---" she said, daring a step closer.

"Because I am DEAD!" He yelled, glaring at her.

Rachel understood, at least, that his anger was not with her. Rachel shook her head in confusion, turned away, and covered her face in her hands. His behavior was beyond her comprehension and his answers were only teasers to more questions. Was he talking about his belonging to the past? Hafgan's counterstrike? What? Meantime she was trying to stomp out this fire and she simply couldn't handle it. For the moment, she packaged the issue neatly in her mind and put it away.
Later, bud, you've got some explaining.
She turned back to him.

"You
are
hit," she murmured.

"'Tis naught," he began, with a shrug that he instantly regretted. He winced, continuing. "Just a bruise."

This time he let her approach. She felt his gaze as she checked his shoulder, carefully pulling at the edge of his cloak.

"A bruise? Who are you kidding ...?" she started. When she pulled the cloak back she saw no blood, no wound.

Emboldened by curiosity, she pulled at his shirt, trying to bring it across to check his shoulder, but he shrugged out of her grasp and walked beyond her. She understood then, fully, why he would not take off his cloak earlier. It was not only his sword that he counted on for protection.

"I tell thee 'tis naught of concern." He stopped, placed a palm slowly against a tree, sighed deeply. His movements were an old man's. Rachel stood and watched him for a moment, waiting for an explanation, but none came.

Then she remembered his words:
I will only get one chance.
She took a hesitant step toward him, then another.

"You're giving up?"

He said nothing, did not look at her.

"Wait a minute, you can try again, it's not over---"

"Nay," he said softly. Now he turned slightly and his eyes came to hers. "I have lost."

Rachel saw in her mind the eyes of a man she had only glimpsed once, in a convalescent home, and she thought then that she knew the face of despair. But that man had not even been looking at her. Now, she met hopelessness directly in Zanalon's gaze; there was nothing in the world that could deny it.

She moved toward him, touched his arm carefully.
What happened in there?