It couldn’t focus well enough to spellweave, so it used simple magic instead.
He cursed himself for not considering that possibility as the winds died and the insectoid creature came to a rolling and bounding stop several hundred feet away. His opportunity was gone, and things were about to get difficult.
The Krytek had only just come to a stop, and spellweavings shot forth even before it took to its feet. Long weaving lines crossed the space between them in mere seconds, coursing toward Tyrion like snakes, homing in on him. All that saved him was the half second delay that preceded their appearance. When he felt his enemy’s will gathering, he reinforced the strength in his legs, and bounded up and to one side in a leap that carried him almost twenty yards away from his original location.
He could jump farther, but experience in past battles had taught him not to try it. Longer jumps were harder to control and any mistake could cost him a broken leg or worse. The Krytek’s attack swerved and twisted, like a living thing, and shot toward his new position.
He jumped again, but the spellweaving followed, the lines stretching and growing at unbelievable speed. He couldn’t avoid them for much longer. Leaping once more, he created a wide shield across the field to slow them when they turned to follow, but it hardly slowed their advance.
If I cut them my secret is blown, and my enemy will realize the danger.
Crying out loudly, he released his aythar and yanked at the earth, ripping up a section of the hard ground almost ten feet deep and a hundred feet across, using it as a physical shield. It was a feat of unbridled strength, but it cost him. Although his level of aythar was much greater than his opponent’s, his reckless use of power with the windstorm and now the earth, had weakened him. Soon he wouldn’t have enough energy left to fight.
The spellwoven snakes struck the earth and tore into it, trying to reach him, but the vast quantities of soil and rock thwarted them at every turn. As soon as they tore through one section, another moved to stop them. Tyrion ran toward his foe now, using the sheer bulk of the earth to shield himself.
He closed the distance quickly, from a hundred feet to fifty, then twenty. A sudden burst of raw aythar shaped into an attack of blunt force slammed into the personal shield he had placed around himself, but it failed to stop his advance. Ten feet and he activated the magic along his arms, he was almost within range.
Something shot upward, lines of spellwoven power that he hadn’t noticed, hidden beneath the ground near the Krytek. They closed around his feet and sank in, ripping through his small shield. Once they contacted his skin, they discharged a powerful electrical shock and his body convulsed; pain and strange sensations overwhelming him.
Tyrion collapsed, helpless at the feet of his adversary. Above, he could see nothing but grey, a sky occluded by dark clouds, until the Krytek body leaned over him, blocking his view. He was numb, his body tingling and twitching, but his mind floated free. His perspective shifted then, and it felt as if he was looking down on himself and the She’Har warrior, watching from some third vantage point.
The human body was still twitching, but he no longer felt it, it was distant. The strange creature leaning over him was extending an arm now, about to finish him with some strange magic. He was larger than that though, his body was not limited to such a small fleshy thing, it was light, it was air, and in the clouds above—it was brimming with power.
He smiled, or rather, the wind smiled, though it was not something that could be seen with the eye. The sky boomed with thunder and the world exploded.
The clouds overhead discharged at once, sending a thousand bolts of lightning down to meet the earth that made up the arena. The spellweaving that shielded and isolated the arena disintegrated in a vivid instant of actinic light, and then the entire area beneath it was inundated by a cascading avalanche of blue fire.
The soil of the arena exploded upward in molten drops of fusing silica, and the Krytek was transfixed as the power of the sky struck it repeatedly, causing it to fall backward and then pull its arms and legs inward as the lightning struck again and again.
Only Tyrion was untouched, though drops of molten earth fell on him in places, leaving small burns across his skin. The pain caused his mind to retreat, and the sky, which had seemed so close before, drew back leaving him alone, small, mortal and hurting.
The electrical storm vanished, leaving the air full of the burning odor of ozone and scorched earth. Struggling to his feet, Tyrion surveyed the field, and though his body still shook with weariness and the lingering effects of the Krytek’s attack, he smiled, for he liked what he saw.
The Krytek was less than seven feet away, and somehow, beyond all belief, its spellwoven defense was still intact. The hazy outer cushion was gone, but the hard inner shell remained, and it had protected the creature from the blazing electrical force that had assailed it. It looked unsteady, swaying slightly as it began to lift itself again on four legs, but it was unharmed.
“Whatever you did has failed, baratt,” it said in clear Erollith. “Now you will…”
Its final words were cut off as Tyrion stepped close, burning his bare feet on the molten glass that lay between them. His arms rose, limned with deadly aythar, and they cut through the Krytek’s shield as though it were tissue. The creature never finished its sentence as its body fell away in three separate portions.
Silence reigned in the arena, and its dominion went unchallenged while Tyrion slowly turned, looking at the stunned She’Har who watched him.
Absently, he shielded his feet to keep them from being further scorched, and then he reached up with his left hand to lift the spellwoven collar that lay at his throat. He had the power to destroy it now, though he wasn’t sure whether the She’Har had planned for such an event. It might simply unravel, or it might kill him, but he no longer cared.
“I am not a slave any longer!” he screamed to their waiting ears. “And if any of you would like to dispute that fact, you are welcome to come down here and discuss it with me!”
Across the field he saw Lyralliantha emerging from the crowd, running toward him. His left hand still held the collar up and out. He slipped his right hand beneath it and briefly activating his new magic, he cut the collar away.
Lyralliantha’s mouth rounded into an ‘o’ as she yelled something at him, but he couldn’t hear her. The collar came apart, and as it tore and disintegrated, it felt as though his soul ripped in half. Blinding pain drove his consciousness into oblivion, but it was not a soft release, it was a darkness filled with knives and thorns.
Chapter 50
Warm light was filtering through his eyelids, but not unpleasantly. It began slowly, a trickle of light that gently coaxed him to consciousness. He was somewhere soft, floating perhaps. Did I die?
Tyrion opened his eyes slowly and discovered that the light was filtering through a canopy of leaves and branches high above. He was lying on a bed of—well, he wasn’t quite sure what it was. It appeared to be some sort of fine fibrous material, light brown and impossibly delicate, as though someone had unwound raw silk and made it into a cushion.
There were thicker vines wrapped around his arms and legs, holding him gently but firmly in place. No, they were doing more than that. Those around his arms had several thorny protrusions jutting into his flesh, painlessly piercing the skin. He had seen their ilk before, years ago when Thillmarius had subjected him to one of his ‘examinations’.
Fear sent ice through his veins, and he started to struggle. The thorns withdrew at the first sign of movement, and the vines released their hold on his limbs. Moments later he was free, floating on the strange cushion without any sort of restraint. Relaxing, he allowed himself a moment to take in his surroundings and immediately noticed that he wasn’t alone.
Lyralliantha lay close by, separated by only a few feet of whatever it was he was lying on. Her body was naked, and the vines were around her arms and legs in much the same way they had been with him. She seemed to be unconscious.<
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Shifting and rolling closer he took the opportunity to enjoy the view of her skin with his natural vision. Magesight had provided him with far more intimate views of her body for years, but there was something to be said for seeing something in the flesh, with the eyes you grew up using.
He wasn’t disappointed.
Movement distracted him from his artistic studies; someone was approaching, walking through the nearby hall. As his mental view expanded, he realized where he was, back in the building in Ellentrea, where Thillmarius performed his studies and managed his human slaves. The approaching form was that of the Prathion lore-warden himself.
What happened? He couldn’t imagine how he had wound up there.
Thillmarius opened the single door to the room and addressed him, “I was alerted that you had awakened.”
“How did I get here?” asked Tyrion, iron in his voice.
“A better question would be, ‘Why am I still alive?’” said the She’Har.
Tyrion’s glare was the only response the Prathion She’Har received.
“I brought both of you here, after you collapsed in the arena,” answered the golden-haired She’Har.
“What’s wrong with her?” questioned Tyrion.
“Nothing serious,” answered the other, “lack of blood, though that should be almost resolved. She almost killed herself trying to save you.”
Tyrion’s eyes narrowed, “I don’t recall needing a rescue.”
Thillmarius gestured toward his neck, “When you severed your collar, it began a hemolytic cascade, destroying your blood cells. It’s part of the design, to prevent anyone from successfully doing what you attempted.”
“Hemo—what?”
“Hemolytic,” repeated the She’Har. “It means the rupture or destruction of the cells that comprise the functional majority of your blood. I’m speaking in plain Barion to make it easier for you to understand.”
“I have never heard that word before.” Nor am I entirely sure what a ‘red blood cell’ is for that matter, he added mentally.
Thillmarius nodded. “It never ceases to amaze me how easily your kind loses knowledge. What was common information to your forebears is now completely forgotten, which makes it all the more incredible how much they accomplished.”
Tyrion’s mood was deteriorating. “If you wouldn’t mind finishing?”
“Your blood lost its ability to carry oxygen, and the destruction of its red cells led to a vast disruption of your circulatory system. You died, or came as close to it as anyone can. She…” Thillmarius pointed at Lyralliantha, “…foolishly tried to save you by connecting her blood vessels to yours. She expelled much of your ruined blood and replaced it with her own.”
“What?!”
“She nearly died along with you. Both of you wound up with a grossly inadequate blood supply, and your immune system quickly began to reject her blood, which became a serious issue for both of you,” explained Thillmarius.
“I hope you realize that very little of what you are saying makes any sense to me,” Tyrion informed him.
The She’Har frowned, “I have come to respect your intelligence, but native wit can only do so much when it is overcome by such vast ignorance. Allow me to rephrase things for you. Your blood was ruined. She removed most of it from you and replaced it with her own by connecting one of her main arteries to one of your large femoral veins.” He illustrated his point by pointing at his wrist and then toward Tyrion’s thigh.
Thillmarius continued, “That succeeded in keeping you alive, briefly, but she lost consciousness as her blood pressure plummeted. Most of those present thought it best to leave things alone and let you both perish. I, however, had a different opinion.”
“You saved us?” asked Tyrion.
“I stabilized you, and using the more advanced techniques available to me here, I kept your body from destroying the foreign blood that was keeping you, and your owner alive. It was close, but I managed to increase the fluid in your bodies enough to keep you both from complete system failure. You’ve been convalescing here for over a week now.” There was a note of pride in the She’Har’s voice.
Tyrion knew that whatever he had done, it had been terribly clever, but he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. Still, he couldn’t help but admit to a faint gratitude that the man had saved his life, and more importantly Lyralliantha’s. “Thank you,” he said at last.
Thillmarius smiled, “You are welcome.”
“So—Lyralliantha’s blood is inside me now?” asked Tyrion, staring at his arms in mild amazement.
“No, not any longer,” corrected the She’Har. “That situation could not endure for long. At the moment your body is filled with blood that you manufactured with a lot of stimulation on my part, along with a neutral fluid that I used in the interim to provide for you until you could replace it.”
“Is she alright?”
“She should make a full recovery, as will you,” said Thillmarius. “For now, I would advise you to remain here, at least until she awakens. If you are seen in your current state, you will likely be slain.” The She’Har touched his throat to indicate his meaning.
Tyrion furrowed his brow, unsure what the lore-warden was trying to tell him. Then he touched his throat and realized that the spellwoven collar he had worn for over five years now was gone.
“That’s right,” said Thillmarius, nodding. “Any She’Har who sees you without a collar is probably going to attempt to correct the situation.”
I’d like to see them try, thought Tyrion, but he couldn’t dispute the wisdom of avoiding a confrontation. Then something else occurred to him, “Why are you helping me?”
Thillmarius graced him with a beatific smile, “I would not go so far as to say that I am helping you. I serve the interests of the Prathion grove and I still believe that we have much to gain from you. For that reason I am helping her, in the interest of continuing my involvement in your future.”
“You just said that if I am seen, they will try to kill me,” pointed out Tyrion. “It sounds unlikely that your aid will produce any profit for you.”
“That depends on your owner,” said Thillmarius. “What I would really like to know is how you produced that electrical storm.”
Tyrion stared at him without blinking. He didn’t understand what had happened with the lightning either, but the last person he felt like trying to explain it to was the man standing in front of him.
Thillmarius sighed and then turned to the door, “I will return later. One of the baratti will bring food for you shortly.” With that, he was gone.
Tyrion was left with little to do, other than watch the silver-haired woman beside him breathe. That wasn’t such a bad idea. Her hair fascinated him. Like most of the She’Har, its color was far beyond what a human would consider ‘normal’. He ran his fingers through it, letting it slide through them, shimmering like a waterfall as it settled beside her.
With one hand he traced the line of her jaw and throat, and then let it drift along her chest and down to her abdomen. The skin was soft and unblemished, lacking even the casual scars that most humans collect during an active childhood.
But, she didn’t have a childhood, did she? She’s only nine or ten years old, and she began life as a mature adult by our standards.
She had never engaged in the simple games or normal play that natural human children did. It was a sad thought, but he didn’t let it distract him from his exploration. The curve of her hip was irresistible, and it drew him lower, to admire the shape of her thigh and the healthy tone of her calves.
The feet were elegantly shaped and even the toes seemed perfectly formed. He examined her left foot before running one finger along the bottom of it. The skin there was tougher than the rest, testimony to a life spent barefoot or in minimal footwear. His touch caused her leg to twitch, and then he saw her eyes open.
“What is your endless fascination with my feet?” she asked in a raspy whisper.
“You were molesting my foot,” she said, arching one eyebrow.
“I was just curious…”
“Is that what you call it—curiosity?” Her eyes moved to below his waist, noting his tumescent condition.
Tyrion blushed, in fact his state was partly due to her presence, but it primarily resulted from a pressing urgency in his bladder. “Actually, I need to relieve myself,” he confessed.
“That is probably what you say to all the semi-conscious females who catch you fondling them,” she replied dryly.
Was she—making a joke? She was so insouciant that it was difficult to ascertain her meaning. “Are you teasing me?” he asked hesitantly.
“Yes, but my humor seems to have failed,” she said clinically.
“No,” he reassured her, “I think it was fine. I just don’t expect it from you.” He sat up and worked his way to the edge of their ‘bed’, such as it was. He had already learned from previous experience where the facilities for elimination were.
Lyralliantha followed his example, and he helped her to her feet. Minutes later they both returned. “What now?” he asked her.
“I need to tell you something,” she began.
“What?”
“This,” she said, and then she lifted her lips to his, kissing him softly at first and then more deeply, pressing herself tightly against him.
He responded with shock at first, but he adapted quickly and returned the kiss and the embrace with no small amount of passion. Threading the fingers of one hand through her hair, he snaked the other arm around her waist, cupping her derriere and holding her close.
The Mountains Rise Page 40