Stalking Darkness

stab, however, a wave surged in over the shelf of rock, knocking them both off their feet with a blinding wall of spray that slammed them against the rocks.
    •  •  •
    Mardus was the first to recover when it subsided. Still gripping his sword, he looked around to find Seregil sprawled stunned and unarmed against the seaward rocks. Blood trickled down over one closed eye from a cut on his forehead.
    A look of dark triumph spread across Mardus’ face as he stalked toward him through the knee-deep water. Long experience had taught him where to strike to cripple and give a lingering death.
    It was the glow of the Eyes that distracted him. As the foaming surge of waves cleared for an instant, Mardus found the Helm shining up through the water at his feet.
    “It seems I’ll have the pleasure of offering you to the Beautiful One after all,” he gloated. “Wounded or not, you’re still an admirable sacrifice.”
    Gripping the Helm by one of the twisted black horns, he raised it over his head.
“Adrat Vatharna, thromuth—”
    Seregil chose his moment. Opening his eyes, he reached underwater, yanked the poniard from his boot, and threw it.
    Mardus froze, the Helm still poised over his head as he stared down in amazement at the knife buried between his ribs where the edge of the cuirass left his side exposed.
    “You should’ve killed
me
when you had the chance,” Seregil snarled, trailing blood as he waded unarmed toward his adversary. “You played a brilliant game until now, but you should always finish your enemy off before you reach for the spoils. Arrogance, my lord. It’s a deadly vice. It makes you predictable.”
    Mardus’ lips stretched in the parody of a smile. “Tricks. Always your tricks,” he whispered. Clutching the Helm in one hand, his sword in the other, he turned woodenly and began to stumble toward the edge of the pool.
    Seregil followed and blocked his way. Mardus was dying, but still he looked down at Seregil with searing disdain.
    “The Eater of Death—” he began thickly, gouts of blood spilling down over his chin from his mouth.
    “—will eat
your
heart today, not mine,” Seregil finished, glaring up into his enemy’s dark eyes.
    He grasped the hilt of the poniard and twisted it, tearingthrough muscle and sinew until the long blade lodged fast in bone. A hot, bright freshet of blood poured out over his clenched fist.
    Mardus dropped the Helm and toppled backward into the water. A ribbon of red bubbles streamed up from his nose and mouth, then ceased. His eyes, already vague with death, mirrored tiny dual reflections of the sun’s first, bright edge as it emerged from the moon’s dominance.
    Seregil spat into the water. A smaller wave surged over the edge of the pool, hiding Mardus for a moment beneath a rushing sheet of foam. When it cleared again, the long reflection of another man had interposed itself across the surface of the water in front of him. Seregil looked up to find Nysander standing above him at the edge of the pool, the sound of scattered fighting still audible from beyond.
    “Well done,” the wizard said gravely. “Now the Helm must be destroyed once and for all. Give it to me, then find your sword.”
    Reaching down, Seregil grasped the glowing Helm by two of its black horns, just as he had grasped the crystal points of the crown months before. And as before, invisible voices and insubstantial spirits coalesced around him as he touched it, trying to stay his hand.
    The blue eye stones set in the band had taken on the appearance of flesh now and swiveled accusingly in their lidless sockets as he passed the Helm up to Nysander.
    The wizard drew a fold of his cloak around the Helm, screening it from view. “Your sword,” he said again, his voice gentle but firm. “I must have your help in this, Seregil. You are the only one who can aid me.”
    Seregil scarcely felt his wounds as he splashed back across the pool to find his weapon.
    “Here it is,” he called. “But what about—?”
    The words died in his throat. With the foam of a fresh wave boiling in around his legs, he looked up at the tall figure from his nightmares towering over him. But this time he knew the face beneath the spiked brim of the misshapen Helm.
    It was Nysander’s.
    The skeletal hands that formed the cheek guards clenched inward against Nysander’s face, sinking their talons into his cheeks until the flesh dimpled. The unnatural blue eyes blazed, sending out rays of light.