Like that, the shapeshifter held Hule up, inspecting him as one might a bug in a jar. “Do you even understand what you're doing?” it asked—though it was obvious from the fighter's contorted face that he could barely breathe, let alone answer. “I was old before your great-grandparents were conceived. I've learned the lessons of a dozen lifetimes. Do you imagine I don't know how to fight?”
Durren found himself retreating. His feet seemed to be moving of their own accord. He had already placed a couple of tables between himself and the shapeshifter, yet he felt no safer for the fact. He was beginning to understand, now, just what they'd set themselves against. For all Arein's talk, he'd somehow imagined that they'd be fighting Cullglass himself; but this thing had nothing in common with the frail storesmaster whose image it had borrowed. It was a monster from nightmares, and the very sight of it made Durren's flesh want to crawl from his body.
Now he held his bow, with an arrow nocked to the string. He didn't remember how either had got there; his hands, too, had taken on a life of their own. Under other circumstances, he might have worried about hitting Hule, or the fact that the shapeshifter was a moving target, or any of a dozen other things—but there was no time. He didn't doubt that the Cullglass-thing had the strength to snap Hule's neck in two, and surely would at any moment.
Durren couldn't quite bring himself to aim for its head. Monster it might be, but it still looked awfully like a person. However, he felt certain that an arrow through the arm holding Hule would be enough to persuade it to let go.
Durren picked his shot. He loosed. His aim was perfect; the shaft flew true.
The arrow shattered.
It had struck precisely where Durren had intended, just below the Cullglass-thing's elbow—and only now did he understand the risk he'd taken, how small a mistake would have led to him inadvertently skewering Hule. Still, Durren had hit his target, and the force of the impact should have buried the arrow deep in the shapeshifter's forearm.
Instead, there were only spinning fragments, splinters pirouetting through the air. Durren thought he saw the metal head spiral past, was certain he heard the chink as it struck a wall. Had he fired at solid stone, he might have expected a similar result. But the shapeshifter was still only flesh—wasn't it?
Perhaps. But that flesh had just become hard as iron.
Durren's distraction had been enough, at least, to make the creature release its grip on Hule. Already the fighter was lurching away, crashing through tables, sending bric-a-brac and scrolls and glass receptacles tumbling to the floor.
The creature watched with evident distaste, as though Hule were a naughty child thoughtlessly spoiling its carefully ordered space. “Ah well,” it uttered, apparently to no one in particular. “I won't deny it's a relief to shed that ugly meat. Rarely have I been anything quite so tedious and trivial as Lyruke Cullglass.” The shapeshifter's inchoate features darkened into something like a frown. “You know, there are such treasures here—objects wasted on a hoarder like Cullglass, or on this schoolhouse for the spoiled and desperate.”
Since the shapeshifter seemed momentarily preoccupied, Durren took the opportunity to glance around for the others. Hule was easiest to find, for he'd only scrambled far enough away to take cover behind a stack of shelves. Arein took more effort; she'd wedged herself beneath a particularly laden table near the entrance.
That left only Tia—but Tia was nowhere to be seen. Durren knew he had no right to be surprised, for of course a rogue's first instinct in any fight was to vanish. Still, he felt a pang of disappointment. The fact that she'd also hidden from her allies seemed all too like the behaviour of the old Tia, the one who'd insisted on always working alone.
Then Durren heard something. The sound was faint, muffled by distance and layers of stone, but familiar nevertheless. It was the anguished whinny of a horse—or of something like a horse.
Following the noise, Durren finally found Tia. There was a door in the farthest corner of the room, and he felt certain the dark shape scurrying towards it must be her. He couldn't guess what she was up to, but even as he watched, she drew the door open—and then disappeared through.
So he'd been right. Tia was still only following her own agenda. Durren was surprised by how much the realisation felt like a fist around his heart. Just as he'd begun to really trust her, here she was letting them down—and at a time when her actions risked all of their lives.
Durren's gaze swung back to the shapeshifter—and he was horrified to discover that it was watching him back. Of all of them, he was the only one who'd made no attempt to hide, settling for putting distance between himself and their adversary. Only now did it occur to him that distance might not be the impediment he'd imagined. For if the creature could make a shield from its very skin, Durren hardly dared imagine what else it might be capable of.
“You know,” the shapeshifter said, “it's ill-mannered to shoot arrows at people.” It held up its sleeve to show the ragged hole Durren's shot had torn. “I assure you, all I desire is my freedom and the prizes I've won; no harm need come to you or anyone else. Which is more than can be said if you insist on prolonging this fool's quest. Surely you've seen by now how outclassed you are? So I offer you one last chance, boy. Take your friends. Walk away. Allow me to do the same.”
Durren was startled to realise just how tempting he found the offer. Because the creature was right: they couldn't harm it, and it was more than capable of hurting them in return. The best they could hope for was to buy enough time for the real Cullglass to arrive with reinforcements—but what would be the cost? Would it be Hule's life? Or Arein's? Or his own?
Yet, as much as he willed it not to, Durren's mind kept drifting to that misshapen bag on the table, and the contorted ivory point teasing through the ripped cloth. The thought that this monster should be allowed to make its escape, having mutilated Blackwing and picked the stores clean of their greatest treasures, twisted in his gut.
“Leave the things you've stolen,” Durren said. “Do that and you can go.”
The shapeshifter's dead-eyed gaze was unreadable. “Don't be ridiculous.”
How could Durren possibly make this decision? When all of their lives were at stake? Yet he knew what the others would say. He dared a glance at Arein, where she was still crouched beneath her table—and, sure enough, though even at a distance he could see the fear in her eyes, she nodded.
That was all he'd needed. Suddenly all of Durren's doubts were gone. “Then,” he said, “I'm sorry, but you're not going anywhere.”
“So be it.” Yet this time Durren was certain it wasn't his imagination: the shapeshifter actually sounded disappointed. “I suppose that, as your mentor, I ought to be proud. Truthfully, though, I take no pleasure in watching children throw their lives away. Since time is of the essence, I promise at least to make this quick.”
With a jolt, the Cullglass-thing raised one arm. It splayed its fingers and clutched at empty air. Durren flinched back, came up against a table. Still the creature's hand grasped at nothing. Was this some magic, the beginning of a conjuration?
It was—but not at all of the sort Durren had been expecting. For abruptly, with a scrape of metal on stone, one of the weapons displayed on the wall slid free of its mount and flung itself into the shapeshifter's outstretched hand. The scimitar was beautiful, an antique diligently cared for; despite its obvious age, its blade glistened in the torchlight.
For an instant, the shapeshifter considered the weapon. Then it leaped.
That one bound covered a third of the distance between them. No human could have done such a thing. The creature landed deftly on a table, managing even to avoid the clutter there. It twirled the sword speculatively, and the light glinted from its perfect edge.
In a flash, Durren had an arrow nocked and loosed.
Had he not been acting on pure instinct, he'd never have made the attempt, assuming the result was sure to be the same as last time. On the other hand, had he spent even a second in
aiming, the fight might have been over right then. As it was, the arrow grazed the shapeshifter's cheek, leaving an angry crimson stripe in its wake.
Durren was astonished that he'd managed to draw blood, almost as much so that the creature's vital fluid was the same colour as his own. He had no time, though, to be pleased at his small victory. The shapeshifter tipped back its head and let out a sound such as a furious cat might make: a sort of baleful hiss. Then, once again, it bounded towards him.
Durren had a moment in which to realise that the shapeshifter wasn't stopping before it had leaped again. Then it was right before him, sword descending, and there was no time to so much as think about drawing his own short blade. Yet he still held his bow—and even as he tried to tumble over the table behind him, Durren flung the weapon up in both hands.
An instant later, he was holding two severed halves of what had been his oldest possession, and the shapeshifter's sword was wedged deep in the table between Durren's spread legs. A hair's breadth closer and he didn't dare to think about what would have happened. Durren dropped his destroyed bow and struggled frantically backward, sending crystalline flasks, glassy-eyed stuffed birds and other assorted curios hurtling to the floor.
He'd half hoped that the Cullglass-thing might have lost its weapon, but it yanked the blade free without the slightest hint of effort. By then, Durren had rolled off the table's far side and was struggling to drag his own sword free of its scabbard. As he did so, he continued to retreat—until his free hand pressed cold stone and he knew there was nowhere left to go.
Was his only choice to fight? He was at best an adequate swordsman, and even if the shapeshifter had been bragging about its centuries of experience, its raw strength was phenomenal. As though to illustrate the point, the creature grasped the corner of the table, and—despite its obvious weight—flung it effortlessly aside. The table crashed into a set of shelves, in a shower of broken glass and loose parchment, and abruptly there was nothing between Durren and the shapeshifter—or between him and the shapeshifter's sword.
At least Durren had his own weapon in hand by then, for all the good that was likely to do. When the shapeshifter swung for him, he just barely managed to deflect the blow. The next, though, was quicker, more deliberate. This time, Durren tried to dodge instead—but the creature had foreseen that. It had flicked its blade from one hand to the other, and was scything a slash towards Durren's off hand. He got his sword in the way, though the resultant clang numbed his forearm to the elbow.
Surely the Cullglass-thing could have had him then, but its follow-up was slower, almost clumsy, and even with his right arm almost useless, Durren still somehow managed to turn the strike aside. He staggered again, looking for an opening, a way out—but the shapeshifter moved with him, as casually as though it had read his mind. Wherever he tried to go, its scimitar was waiting.
The thing was toying with him—or else had some last qualms about dealing the fatal blow. Whatever the case, the moment it decided this fight was over, Durren's life would be too.
“Hey! Monster.”
The cry came from behind them. Even had he not recognised the voice, Durren would have known to expect Hule—because anyone else would have had the sense to stab the shapeshifter without first drawing its attention.
In less than an eyeblink, the Cullglass-thing had spun about and had brushed away Hule's blow. Then it was counterattacking, with greater ferocity than it had shown against Durren; clearly, it sensed Hule was a worthier opponent. Durren took the opportunity to hack at the shapeshifter's back, and was startled when it twisted to face him, swatting his blade aside. Hule seized upon that moment's distraction to dance around the creature—he was surprisingly light on his feet—and sliced hard for its shoulder. But the shapeshifter had anticipated the attack and was already sliding away, already preparing its response.
Had Durren been more than a passable fighter, they might have had it then. Two against one was good odds, especially when their opponent had so little room to manoeuvre. However, Durren knew he was little help, and though Hule was a solid swordsman, he wasn't a tenth the creature's match. Its scimitar was a whirlwind now, batting away their blows and following up almost more quickly that Durren could keep track of.
For the first time, it occurred to him that they really hadn't a hope. His arm ached terribly, each parry he was forced to make sending pain throbbing from wrist to elbow. Soon he wouldn't have the strength even to try. Hule, too, for all his size and stamina, was clearly beginning to flag. Yet the shapeshifter moved with the same easy grace it had shown since the beginning, as though their conflict required no exertion at all. Durren had no doubt that either he or Hule would drop their guard long before it did, and then the fight would be one-on-one again—for the thing wouldn't miss its chance to strike.
“Hule, Durren—get out of there!”
Even the effort of making sense of Arein's words nearly proved fatal. In that momentary loss of concentration, the shapeshifter's blade came dangerously to close to opening Durren's throat. He stumbled back, his breathing laboured, looking at once for somewhere he might briefly be in the clear and to see what Arein was up to.
When he did, the sight sucked the last air from his lungs. Arein stood a little distance away. In one hand she held her staff, as always. In the other, upraised, was the Petrified Egg—and the Egg was glowing. So was the hand that held it and much of Arein's arm. Even her eyes possessed a certain fierce light that hadn't been there before.
“Dwarf girl…” the Cullglass-thing growled. “That isn't for you.”
Arein paid no heed. “Get down!” she bellowed.
Durren did as he was told. But not quite quickly enough—so that he still saw the beginnings of her spell. From her fingers sprang a thousand sizzling glimmers in a thousand different shades, and all of them streamed towards the shapeshifter. Even a glimpse made Durren dizzy to his core, and he could only imagine what it must be like to have that cascade of light and colour and sparking energy surge towards your face.
“Now! Grab him,” Arein cried—and then she added, “Oh.”
When Durren opened his eyes, he understood that last, plaintive syllable. Though even now the air around its head was crackling and humming, the shapeshifter was completely unaffected. Instead, it had used the distraction to close the distance between itself and Arein.
“Child,” it spat, “you'd throw magic at me? I am magic, down to my blood and my bones. Now give me back what's mine.”
The shapeshifter raised its palm and Arein cowered. With the creature's back to him, all Durren could see was that smoke was curling in oily threads from its outstretched fingers. Suddenly the smoke was fire, a smouldering globe of orange edged in purple. Arein was scrambling away, but a stack of laden shelves blocked her path.
Durren tried to drag himself towards the shapeshifter. He could see Hule moving too, but it was as though the two of them were swimming through tar. He knew they couldn't reach the creature in time. A flick of its wrist and that ball of condensed flame would fly meteor-like towards Arein, and nothing they could do would save her.
Then the fireball was gone, potent magic dissipating to nothing. The shapeshifter stood with its head cocked—a weirdly inhuman pose. It was listening, and now that Durren wasn't focused on the prospect of Arein's imminent death, he could hear what it heard too.
The sound was coming from the far side of the room—where Durren had last seen Tia, he realised—and had already grown noticeably louder. The noise made him think of the great, clanking cranes that moved cargo upon the Luntharbour docks, of the steady drumbeats that accompanied marching soldiers. But most of all, it sounded like—
Hooves. He was hearing hooves.
Durren knew then what was coming, and just why Tia had skulked away. He understood that the door she'd crept through must lead down to a second, private storeroom, the room into which they'd once watched the imposter Cullglass lead Blackwing.
Still, the sight was astonishing. If
the unicorn had been imposing out in the wild, it was somehow even more impressive charging at full tilt through the cluttered space, avoiding furnishings where it could and charging through them where it couldn't. Even as Durren watched, a table spun out of the beast's path, shelves exploded into firewood, and still the unicorn was gaining speed.
The shapeshifter's blank eyes weren't made for showing emotion. Nevertheless, Durren was certain he read fear there. The creature flailed a clumsy blow towards Hule, which the fighter fended off easily. Realising its error, the Cullglass-thing crouched, readying to spring away—so Durren lashed at its shoulder, forcing it to block and stumble. Again it tensed, desperate to leap free.
But by then there was no more time.
Had the unicorn still possessed its horn, what happened next would surely have been the end of the being that had passed itself off as Lyruke Cullglass. Perhaps the shapeshifter could stop an arrow, but that horn was an object of raw magic, and Durren had no doubt that it would have sliced through the creature's strange flesh like a spoon through stew.
Maybe that was even what the beast had intended. Maybe, in its fury, the unicorn had forgotten its mutilation. In any case, the actual result was merely a head-butt rather than a skewering. But a head-butt from a huge horse travelling at full tilt still counted for a lot.
The unicorn struck the Cullglass-thing with a sound like a thunderclap—and kept going. The shapeshifter was lifted bodily from the ground and carried the remaining distance to the wall, which it crashed into with another cacophonous impact. Then, for good measure, the unicorn tossed its ivory-maned head, flinging the battered creature up and watching as it plummeted to the stone floor.
“Now!” Arein yelled.
She was the first of them to hurl herself onto the shapeshifter, but Hule was close behind, dropping his entire considerable weight upon its thrashing legs. Durren followed, grasping for an arm and pinning the limb with all his might. The shapeshifter was strong, incredibly so; but flat on the ground with its extremities beneath their bodies, it could gain no leverage. Despite all its efforts, it couldn't shake them off.
The Black River Chronicles: Level One (Black River Academy Book 1) Page 23