Free Dead Reign by T. A. Pratt Page A

Death’s second. Seems the least I can do, for his allowing me to leave…that place.”
    “I’m the one who brought you out of that place. And don’t forget it.”
    “But you derive your power from his,” Booth said, undeterred. “Much as a statesman derives his power from his constituents. Remove the goodwill of the people, and a politician is just a liar in a suit. Remove the goodwill of Death, and you’re just…well, courtesy forbids elaboration.”
    “I can send you back to Hell,” Ayres said.
    “Not if I send you to Hell first,” Death said, and Ayres rose as quickly as he could.
    “My lord!” he cried. Death was spattered in blood, and his right hand was a crippled ruin.
    Booth stepped forward and offered an illusory handkerchief, but Death waved him away. As Ayres watched, Death lifted his arm, making a fist with his remaining two fingers, and when he opened his hand, all his digits were back and whole.
    “You might have mentioned that her dagger is enchanted.” Death visibly seethed, dark energy crackling from his shoulders.
    “I…my lord?” Ayres had never been more terrified.
    “When I took the knife, it cut me,” Death said. “Nothing cuts me.”
    “Due respect, my lord, but…I thought the whole point of that blade is its ability to cut anything.”
    Death grunted. “I didn’t seize it by the blade. It turned in my hand and…bit me.”
    “I had heard rumors to that effect,” Ayres said. “My apologies. I did not think any mere enchantment would hinder you, my lord.”
    Death seemed to consider that. “Indeed. It shouldn’t have worked—mortal magic is no more than sparkles and light to me. Perhaps it’s no mere enchantment, then. Perhaps it’s a fundamental quality of the weapon, that it cannot be taken by force. My father would…would have known. The sword was lost before my time, and I don’t know its whole nature.”
    “Some artifacts must be given willingly.” Ayres took the risk of sitting back down. Death didn’t seem offended. “They bind to their owners, and can only be given away willingly, or passed down through some other protocol. I know this dagger has passed from hand to hand for generations, from one chief sorcerer to another, since Felport’s founding.”
    “So even killing Marla might not be sufficient,” Death said. “It would just pass to her successor?”
    “That is my understanding.”
    “Hmm. What if I became chief sorcerer? With the blade in my rightful possession, I could strip away all the enchantments that govern its conditions of ownership.”
    Ayres shook his head. “There is precedent that suggests only mortals can become protectors of Felport.” He was thinking of Somerset’s resurrection and attempt to regain control of the city. Somerset had been a heartless undead monster, and according to the stories, the dagger of office had burned his hand when he took it from Sauvage’s corpse. After Marla killed Somerset, she took up the dagger, and with it the mantle of Felport’s protector. Several of the other powerful sorcerers had supported her claim, and her position had held.
    “I just want the blade,” Death said petulantly, and Ayres thought, again, that he seemed very young. “How can I get it? I’m afraid peaceful negotiations are probably out of the question. Marla Mason and I…clashed.”
    Ayres mused. “I know little about her. She has a few loyal friends, but I suspect she might even let them die before bowing to you. She’s stubborn. But perhaps…” Ayres hesitated.
    “What?”
    “I…” Should he say this? He loved Felport as much as Marla did—it was perhaps the only thing they had in common. But the opportunity to cement himself in the new Death’s good graces could mean great power for him. Cities rose and fell, but power was eternal. He made his choice. “Marla loves the city above all else. If Felport itself was at stake, she might be willing to make a deal. Remove her from power and take over the city