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I slammed my staff down and vaulted over the oncoming wave of energy as it passed, and as I came down, I beckoned the winds, focused my will, shouted, “Ventas arctis!”
At my command the air stirred, and gale winds suddenly lashed the surface of the lake with vicious, frozen spite. A miniature cyclone of spraying ice and water engulfed the end of the dock around the old man, clouding him from sight as fog billowed out from the sudden temperature change in the sullen night air, and while it blinded him, I did the last thing wizards generally do in a duel.
I sprinted right at him.
I crashed through the sleet and frozen air and ice as if they weren’t there at all, spotted the old man when I was five feet away, and let him have it with a swift, speeding thrust of my quarterstaff, aiming for his gut.
But the old man had learned his quarterstaff in Britain, long enough ago that it had still been a common weapon in widespread use, and his teachers had been masters. His own staff caught mine in a parry, and he followed up with an advance and a circling sweeping motion that would have taken my weapon out of my hands if I hadn’t disengaged properly.
He came at me in a blur of attacks. If we’d been on solid ground, he’d have knocked my punk ass out cold. But now we were standing on intermittent patches of sleet and ice, and while his feet slipped and faltered, mine just seemed always to find the ideal footing. The conditions provided just enough hesitation in his forward motion that I was able to retreat a little faster, until I could use my reach to good advantage, stop his advance, and, with a quick, snapping combo Murphy had taught me, put him on his back foot.
He shifted his grip on the staff, both hands at shoulder width, and raised it defensively as he came in on me like a bull. He didn’t have any choice. He could probably defend against me forever, but as long as I had the footwork advantage, I’d be able to swing at him while he couldn’t reach me in reply. If he diverted his attention to summon the energy for a spell, I’d be able to feel it coming, and I’d brain him. So his only option was to come at me hard.
I had a brief shot at his head when his foot slipped a little, but I was too slow to take it.
Or maybe I just didn’t want to.
He caught it on his upraised staff, and then there was a whirlwind of blows coming at me from both sides and all angles.
I defended. Barely. If my foot had slipped once, the old man would have made me pay for it. He almost nailed me twice, anyway, and only the treacherous footing he had to endure gave me time enough to manage a defense.
You know. Or maybe he just didn’t want to, either.
But he drove me back up the dock, forcing me out of the miniature freeze I’d laid on him. Once he had his feet under him again, I wasn’t going to do very well. I checked the progress of the Water Beetle as it chugged out of the harbor. It had a hundred yards’ lead now.
So, yeah. This was the right time.
Ebenezar’s foot slid off the last patch of ice, and he promptly threw a stomp kick at the bridge of my left foot as he came in. I avoided that, but it put me off-balance, and the old man’s staff hit my shoulder with enough force to shatter concrete.
Molly did good work. There was a flash of light from the spider-silk suit, the scent of something putrid burning, and instead it merely felt like getting smacked by a particularly proficient Little Leaguer.
I cried out in pain and staggered back.
“Don’t make this anything it doesn’t have to be, Hoss,” my grandfather said, his voice hard. His next blow hit my right foot, and evidently Molly hadn’t specifically enchanted the shoes. Which the old man had probably been able to sense. The strike wasn’t as strong as it could have been, but it broke toes, flashes of vicious, stabbing heat that quickly vanished into the rippling chill of the Winter mantle, and I staggered to a knee.
The old man stomp-kicked me in the center of the chest, driving the wind out of my lungs with a sickly gasp and slamming my shoulder blades and the back of my skull against the dock.
Ebenezar shoved the end of his staff against my Adam’s apple with a snarl and said, “Yield!”
“No,” I croaked.
The old man’s eyes widened. “Dammit, boy, you are about to make me angry.”
“Go ahead,” I said, baring my teeth. “Do it. Kill me. Because that’s what it’s going to take.”
His jaw clenched, and he slowly bared his teeth. “ You … arrogant … foolish, egomaniacal drama queen!”
“I’m not the one who flew in on a baby mountain!” I complained.
He shoved the staff a quarter inch forward.
“Glurk,” I said.
His face was red. Too red. The veins stood out sharply in his head, his neck.
And the ground was shaking. I could feel it through the dock.
When he spoke, his voice came out in a register so calm and measured that it completely terrified me. If he was doing that, it was because he was employing mental discipline techniques to contain his, gulp, rage.
“I will ask you a question,” he said. “You will answer me, clearly and honestly. Nod if you understand.”
I nodded. Glurk.
“How did they get to you, boy?” he asked, his voice still unnaturally calm. “What do they have on you? It can’t be so bad that I can’t help you get out of it.” His eyes softened for just a second. “Talk to me.”
I glanced down at the end of his staff.
“Ah,” he said, and took the pressure off.
I swallowed a couple of times. Then I croaked, “They don’t have anything on me.”
His eyes went furious again, and …
And tears formed in them.
Oh God.
“Then why?” he demanded. The calm in his voice was fraying. “Why are you doing this? Why are you destroying yourself for that thing?”
I knew exactly what I was about to do.
But he deserved the truth. Had to have it, really.
“Because I’ve only got one brother,” I said. “And I’m not going to lose him.”
The old man went very still.
“Mom,” I said in a dull, flat voice. “She gave each of us one of her amulets, with a memory recorded on them, so we’d know each other.”
Ebenezar’s mouth opened and closed a few times.
“Half brother, technically,” I said. “But blood all the same. He’s got my back. I’ve got his. That’s all there is to it.”
The old man closed his eyes.
“You’ re … saying … that pig, Raith … with my daughter.”
The ground shook harder. The surface of the lake began to dance, droplets flying up.
“Sir,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm, “you have a second grandson.”
If I’d punched him, I don’t think I could have staggered him more. He fell back a step. He started shaking his head.
I sat up. “Look, whatever happened, it’s over now. Thomas didn’t have anything to do with that. But he has saved my life on multiple occasions. He is not your enemy, sir.” I blinked my eyes a couple of times. “He’s family.”
And the night went still.
“Family,” came the old man’s voice, a primordial growl lurking in it. “One. Of those things.”
He whirled toward the retreating boat, barely visible from the shore by now, and his staff burst into incandescent blue flame as he lifted it in his right hand, the hand that projects energy, drawing it back.
