Page 137 of Dark Rival

He had landed in the southern outer ward, which was now cobbled stone. Potted flowers were near the interior gatehouse walls. He was astounded, because he saw so few men on the ramparts, as if this was not a time of incessant war. And then he saw that the drawbridge was down, the portcullis open in the first gatehouse. A fine gilded carriage drawn by six black horses was entering the castle.

Where was Moffat? He stood, searching for him, but instead of sensing evil, Ailios’s great white power flowed over him, through him.

Royce jerked, stunned. His gaze and senses were drawn to the carriage, for she was within the vehicle. As he stood, the carriage crossed the drawbridge and he heard her laughter—and the squeal of a child, followed by more childish voices.

Amazement stunned him senseless.

The carriage was passing him now.

He strained to see within—and saw himself seated beside Ailios, three small children with them.

What did this mean?

But he knew. Ailios had given him those children. Ailios was his wife.

Remaining stunned, he turned to stare after the carriage as it vanished into the next gatehouse. And so much intense yearning consumed him.

Moffat materialized beside him, sword in hand. He grinned.

Royce didn’t think, he leapt—and so did Moffat.

HE BECAME AWARE of fires raging, an inferno. He had leapt forward another one hundred and seventy years into a place called St. Petersburg. This time, the knives in his skull remained even as his powers returned, and in the back of his mind, he knew his body was beginning to suffer from so many leaps. He realized a huge palace was in flames. A mob was besieging the walls, which were guarded by a very few frightened soldiers. The mob wielded pikes and logs, and had destroyed every carriage and vehicle in their path, while the soldiers wielded strange weapons with swords sticking from them. Loud bangs sounded. Men screamed in fury, in agony. As he stood, he saw the palace gates had been breached.

“You will die today,” Moffat panted.

Royce still gripped his sword as he whirled to face the deamhan. “So ye lust for me, not Ailios,” he hissed. He hurled his energy at him, but Moffat blocked it.

Moffat laughed, thrusting. “I will kill you for taking Kaz from me. Then Ailios will bend to me—in my bed—and she will heal for me as I choose.”

Royce met the thrust, enraged. Moffat wanted revenge on him after all. Their blades rang. Did he have the holy Book of Healing?

“I have many pages from it,” Moffat replied. “How else would I keep so many giants alive in these wars?”

Royce roared his answer and thrust many times, so swiftly that Moffat was driven backward, able only to defend himself. Royce laughed, feeling triumph at hand.

Moffat laughed back—and leapt.

Royce roared and followed.

HE CRASHED, no longer caring about the pain in his racked body. The knives had gone entirely though his brain, or so it seemed, and he howled from the pain. As he struggled to see past the shooting stars in his mind, searching for Moffat, he was dismayed—for he was at Carrick once more. Horseless carriages filled the courtyard. Laughter drifted from the open doors of the hall. He recognized Ailios’s voice and he had one coherent thought. She was still his wife.

He heard himself speaking, for a strong breeze was carrying sound that day.

“Die,” Moffat panted.

Royce felt the blade caress his jugular, a whisper of razor-sharp steel. He leapt.

HE LEAPT FAR into the future, centuries farther than the date of his death. And this time, even before crashing, he searched for Moffat and felt him on his heels. He grunted as he landed again on his back. Somehow, he had kept a grasp of his sword. This time he wept from the torment of the leap. He wanted to faint from the agony and knew he must not. He was certain he could not withstand time travel many more times.

He heard Moffat gasping beside him. His head exploding, he managed to see a strange, starless sky. He tightened his grasp on his sword.

Above him were a thousand huge towers, all brilliantly lit from within. He was lying on a smooth, gleaming, ebony road, one that seemed to be made of seamless and endless black stone. There were no stars, no moon, just the light from the towers. He sat up. Silver horseless vehicles moved on the road, hovering just above it, filled with people whose faces he could see through the windows. Others flew high in the sky, like birds without any wings.

But he could not think about this strange world. Power had returned to his muscles, flowed in his veins. He stood. “A Ailios!”

Moffat sat; Royce seized him, so he could not leap. In that moment, he felt the deamhan’s black power returning. He struck, intending to behead him this time.

And Moffat leapt anyway.