Exile's Gamble_The Chronicles of Shadow_Book II

by Lee Dunning

  The priest started as a cool, pudgy hand took his. He looked down to find Mistress DuBoi at his elbow. She seldom spoke to him. Even her wrinkles looked chiseled from granite. Any meeting with Mistress DuBoi left Renoir’s wife fuming about ‘that woman’.

  “He’s wrong, you know,” the priestess said. “Favre and I are old, tired bits of parchment. What happens to us means nothing. If you get a chance to go to your family, do so.”

  Renoir searched out Queen Cherish. He found her, hunched, small and beaten, leaning against a tapestry depicting the exploits of some forgotten hero. Cherish gave him a wan smile. “I cannot abandon my Queen,” he said.

  Mistress DuBoi punched Renoir in the arm. “Let these giant point-ears worry about the Queen. You go to Tarako. Do as the Brother and Sister dictate and protect your wife and children.”

  Renoir turned back to check on Tyan’s progress with Lord Mistborn. The mage was shaking his head and frowning. Renoir’s heart sank. He’d known the impossibility of leaving the room but he’d held out some hope Tyan could convince the mage to use his magic to contact Tarako. Lord Mistborn apparently didn’t share Tyan’s empathy for Renoir’s plight.

  Then Tyan bent down close to Lord Mistborn’s ear and whispered something. The mage went stiff and glared in fury at the young soldier. Then, remarkably, the mage’s face crumpled with some barely repressed sorrow. He nodded. When he raised his gaze again, he gestured for the priest to approach.

  Chalice Renoir rushed over, just in time to catch Lord Mistborn as he gasped and went limp. Everyone winced as the air pressure in the room threatened to crush their eardrums. An instant later, it relented and Renoir’s ears popped.

  Renoir scanned the faces around him, hoping for answers, but saw only more grimness than before. “What just happened?”

  Tyan stepped up and collected the unconscious mage from the priest. “That buildup of pressure and the release means something destroyed the shield surrounding the castle.”

  The door to the room shuddered but the individual ward raised by Lord Mistborn held. The humans and some of the elves breathed out simultaneous sighs of relief. Renoir took little comfort in the reprieve. We can’t hide in here like rats forever. We have to fight.

  The commander of the elves seemed to have the same idea. “We’ll never be rid of these things if we don’t go out there and kill them.”

  From the back wall, someone spoke up. Queen Chalice had kept silent for so long, her voice startled Renoir. “Pardon me for interrupting, Captain.”

  All of them turned her way. The queen’s concern immediately became obvious as she pulled back the heavy curtains along the wall to reveal a series of four large windows. The drapes had remained drawn to keep out the chill, but now everyone squinted as natural light flooded the room. “If the dome protecting us is down—,” she began.

  “Get down!” Renoir bellowed. He hurled himself toward the queen. Too late.

  Seething madness in the form of an oxcart-sized missile crashed into the room. The windows exploded inward, followed a breath later by the entire wall. Stone and glass sprayed the room. Queen Cherish disappeared in a torrent of drapes, stonework and blood.

  Chapter 22

  W’rath assessed his companions’ condition. Their number consisted of five First Born soldiers, three of which he knew could make a decent showing of fire magic. The courageous Lady Winterdawn, while charming, and most likely an excellent companion for Lord Icewind, did not strike him as much use in a fight. As for Lord Icewind, he might have enough energy left to contribute, especially if it meant he could protect his lovely apprentice. Of course, he would have to regain consciousness first.

  That left Lady Swiftbrook. After their brief sparring match, W’rath had some idea of her skill with a blade but had yet to witness her wield magic beyond the spillover from her temper. Regardless, they could benefit from a bolster in numbers.

  W’rath sent his mind in search of nearby allies. At first only the blind fear of a few isolated souls tickled his consciousness—none of them elves. He searched further. At last, he touched a group of minds, elves and humans both. He paused to more carefully determine whom he’d found. Not surprisingly, he knew none of the elves, but he sensed their power and recognized them as seasoned warriors. Of the humans, two stood out. He’d discovered Queen Cherish and Chalice Renoir.

  W’rath pulled his mind back and addressed the worried Sky Elf next to him. “Madam, in my estimation we would do well to join our paltry group with Commander Orcbane. He and a number of our people have barricaded themselves in the tower room to the northeast.”

  “What about the Queen and Chalice Renoir? I sent Orcbane to protect them.” A tiny crease pinched the space between her brows. She no doubt contemplated the difficulties of traversing demon-filled halls in order to reach the tower.

  “They and several other humans accompany Lord Orcbane.” W’rath moved to one side of the room and squinted, making his own estimations. He needed quite a lot of open space to accommodate all of the bodies currently residing in the tower.

  “What are you up to?” Lady Swiftbrook growled, traipsing after him.

  “Move all the furniture while I’m gone,” he said, loud enough so the First Born understood he included them in his orders. “Clear this room of everything, including yourselves. That means Lord Icewind as well. I intend to return with reinforcements and I’m certain they would object at finding themselves merged with a vase, no matter how decorative.”

  Lady Swiftbrook latched onto his arm. “You don’t know the layout of the castle. You could end up fusing yourself into a wall.”

  “Someone less experienced might but I won’t,” he replied. When she refused to unleash his arm, he sighed. “I deem a small amount of risk for myself a superior choice to dragging all of us on a treacherous journey in the opposite direction of the throne room.”

  A distant explosion set the chandeliers rocking. The stones shifted underneath their feet, staggering everyone in the room. Lady Winterdawn gasped and the soldiers cursed. W’rath fought to keep the flash of pain and loss from his face. “We’re out of time, madam,” he said. “I must go. Now.”

  She released his arm, and turned away, hands balling into fists. “Get that furniture moved!” she called to others. A crush of armored bodies rushed to obey. The Sky Elf swung back to glare down at W’rath. “We’ll be ready when you get back. And W’rath …?”

  “Yes, madam?”

  “Don’t you dare die again.”

  Chalice Renoir fought his way out of a drowning morass of blackness. Something heavy lay atop him. He tore his hands and nearly dislocated his shoulder struggling out from beneath it. He assumed furniture or masonry had struck him down but as pulled free he recognized Tyan’s green armor. One of Lord Mistborn’s arms stuck out from underneath the young soldier. Tyan had still cradled the unconscious mage when he threw himself into Renoir to protect the priest from the explosion.

  The priest dug his hand into Tyan’s long hair and hunted around the boy’s neck. He found a pulse but when he pulled his hand free, Renoir found it drenched in blood. He knew elves could recover from terrible wounds but this seemed like far too much blood. Renoir needed to find a healer to stop the bleeding. He squinted through the dust searching for Mistress DuBoi.

  An oily tentacle flashed out of the hovering grime and lashed around Renoir’s throat. It yanked and Renoir flopped face first onto the floor, choking as it dragged him across the rubble. He clawed at the tentacle. He couldn’t get any purchase on the thing, much less wrest it from his neck. Brother and Sister, not like this. I will not die like this!

  “Back to the hells with you!” Renoir hissed between bluing lips. His hands glowed and holy fire tore along the length of the tentacle. The room lit up as the fire reached the horror’s body and spread to the rest of its appendages. Even in the gloom, its pulsating mass plucked at Renoir’s sanity. He bit through his lip. The pain returned enough sense to his mind, he managed to force his eyes
shut. He couldn’t keep from hearing its maddened squeals as his magic consumed it.

  The tentacle loosened and fell away. Renoir sucked in air, not caring it hung heavy with filth. He coughed and a sob tore from his throat. He made to his feet only to trip over fallen masonry. His knees cracked on jagged stone. He had trouble caring.

  Cherish. His Queen. His friend. He’d focused so much on his own needs he’d lost sight of his duty to protect her. He should never have left her side.

  A groan to his right brought Renoir out of his self-pity. He rose and stumbled in the direction he’d heard the sound. The commander of the elves, Lord Orcbane, had managed to unearth himself from a pile of rubble. He’d lost his helmet and lacerations covered his face. As Renoir approached, Lord Orcbane’s wounds started to close up and heal. Renoir had never seen the like. Despite knowing elves regenerated, actually seeing it left him queasy.

  “Nice work, Chalice,” the commander said. He shoved a stone off his legs that probably weighed over a hundred pounds. “Damned legs got crushed.” He appeared more disgusted than pained.

  Renoir gazed in the direction he’d last seen Mistress DuBoi. He hadn’t witnessed her death but the old priestess had kept close to the Queen. He didn’t hold much hope in finding her alive. “Our healer has perished,” he said.

  The elf waved the news away. “I wouldn’t want her tinkering with me anyway. I need some time to recover, that’s all. I’ll keep watch for further attacks while you search for more survivors. Dig them out as best you can.” The commander shifted and winced. “Traitor’s breath, if that doesn’t sting!”

  More in awe of the elf’s pain tolerance than even his ability to heal, Renoir trudged toward the walls where the majority of the soldiers had stationed themselves. A chill wind swept into the room through the gaping wound in the wall. It cleared the murk from the room. Renoir found himself wishing it hadn’t.

  Even the elves’ magical armor hadn’t saved most of them. Renoir whispered a quiet prayer and turned away from the scarlet painted wall. He’d have to search elsewhere. A trickle of dirt dribbling down a pile of shattered furniture alerted him to life. He rushed over to heave part of the table and a splintered chair off the struggling victim. A familiar unkempt head appeared.

  Harry. Why’d it have to be Harry?

  “Get me out of this blasted mess!” Scoffula’s king bellowed.

  Renoir obeyed, not because he liked or respected the man but simply because he couldn’t leave anyone, not even a rotter like Harry, to perish this way. “Is anything broken?” he asked.

  “Probably,” the King said. “Where’s that dried up old healer of yours?”

  Renoir dropped a table leg on Harry. He told himself he’d done so by accident but he didn’t pretend Harry’s howl didn’t bring him a measure of satisfaction. “Mistress DuBoi stood near the Queen when the wall came down. She’s dead. The Queen—your niece—is dead.”

  Harry stopped his thrashing and ran a hand down his grimy beard. “Ah, hells, priest,” he said, “I am sorry about that.”

  Renoir’s fists balled up. “Is that all you can muster? She was your blood, man.”

  Harry grunted and pulled himself free of the last bits of debris. He clambered unsteadily to his feet. “She was a fool girl who never got anything right,” he said. “I tried to find a place on my ships for her but she couldn’t command respect. Months on a deck and she never got over her seasickness. She couldn’t navigate. Failed as a rigger—had no stomach for heights.”

  “You could have found a place for her,” Renoir said.

  “I did,” Harry snapped. “After that nitwit husband of hers died, I shipped her off to marry Oblund. Helped keep a buffer between Scoffula and Renlin, and kept your damn church from using Teresland to get to us. Of course, she went and bollixed that up too. Twenty-three and barren. On top of that, she let Oblund squander away the country’s wealth. Aye, I’m sorry the child’s dead but I won’t lie and claim it’s a great loss.”

  Renoir smashed his fist into Harry’s face. Harry crashed back to the floor, his nose splattered into a bloody mess. A tooth pinged across the shattered bits of masonry. It should have made Renoir feel better. It didn’t.

  “Save that for the demons,” Lord Orcbane called. He’d managed to stand though he had to hobble as only one leg could hold his full weight. The elf started chanting and the debris rose and melded, forming a roughly humanoid shape. Fire filled its joints and it lumbered to the shattered wall. It spread its arms and flames shot from its torso to engulf another incoming demonic missile.

  “Gods!” Harry rasped from the floor where he lay cradling his broken face.

  Renoir extended a hand to the king. “Come on,” he said, “we’ll finish this later.”

  “Arm yourselves,” the elf said. “We’re leaving and I need you to be able to fight.”

  Renoir hadn’t seen a war hammer among the elves. “The Duality dictates we priests carry hammers,” he said. “It signifies that, as men, we aren’t just conquerors but builders of civilization.”

  The elf checked on his construct one last time and then lurched over to where Tyan and Lord Mistborn lay. “How often can you call upon that power you used earlier?” the elf asked.

  Renoir rushed over to help the commander unbury Tyan. To the priest’s relief, the young elf stirred. “Four, maybe five more times,” Renoir said.

  “We need more than that, Chalice.” The commander grunted as he hauled a large slab of masonry off Tyan. “I suggest you make do with a sword and pray for forgiveness later. If your gods are worth anything, they’ll see the necessity.”

  Harry barked out a laugh, spitting blood. “I’m liking this point-ears.”

  “My family name is Orcbane,” the elf said. “You may call me Lord Orcbane, Captain Orcbane, or simply Commander. In return I will refrain from calling you any number of derogatory names we have for humans.”

  “Fair enough,” Harry said. He left off assessing the damage to his nose and started hunting about for a sword.

  Renoir helped pull Tyan off Lord Mistborn. Miraculously, the mage had survived. He moaned and struggled to sit up, bedraggled but whole.

  Orcbane steadied Tyan and then went to work on another heap of rock where an arm and a leg poked out. Tyan ran his fingers over the ragged hole, where some bit of shrapnel had managed to break through his magically reinforced gorget and pierce the artery in his neck. A spill of red pooled on the floor. More blood congealed in Lord Mistborn’s hair and stained his robes.

  Renoir cupped Tyan’s pale face. “How do you feel?” he said.

  “Woozy,” Tyan said, his voice too soft.

  “You lost a lot of blood saving my life,” Renoir said.

  What little blood Tyan had left rushed to his face. “I always wondered how I’d react if things went sideways.”

  From the gaping hole where Lord Orcbane’s construct stood vigil, another gout of flame shot out to destroy two additional demonic projectiles. “Eventually, they’ll smarten up and stagger their attacks so one gets through,” Lord Orcbane called. He’d managed to uncover two more soldiers who worked to clear their heads and check themselves over. “Lord Mistborn, if you have the strength, please make sure we’ve found everyone who still lives.”

  The mage grunted in reply and ran his hands over the floor while reciting what sounded to Renoir’s ears like a child’s rhyme. A pale green light enveloped Lord Mistborn’s hands, spread across the floor, under the rubble until it covered the room. An area started to glow where Harry had already started to dig. Renoir and Orcbane hurried over to assist and soon they pulled one last guard free.

  When all of them could stand and walk, Lord Mistborn approached his warded door. “Are you certain, Lord Orcbane?” he asked. “There’re bound to be more breaches in the walls. By now hundreds of monsters probably run unchecked through the halls.”

  The commander thrust a thumb at the emptiness gaping across from them. “We fight them now or we fight them later,�
�� he said. “Best we do it before another one of those tentacled nightmares manages to get by my golem.”

  The mage sighed and set about dismantling his spell. Orcbane crunched across the floor and handed Renoir one of the smaller swords the elves kept as backup weapons. The priest stared at the blade in disdain but accepted it. “I’ve never wielded a sword,” he said.

  “If we get through this, I’ll show you the basics,” Orcbane said. “For now, swing the sharp edge at the enemy. It’s for slashing, not stabbing.”

  Renoir nodded, silently praying he wouldn’t fail the little group of survivors as he had Queen Cherish. He startled as the commander clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Pull yourself together, priest,” Orcbane rumbled in his ear. “We’ll make a go at saving your family and the rest of the folk in the throne room. I’m told you’re a war hero. Start acting the part.”

  Renoir stared open-mouthed as Orcbane strode to the door and motioned for the mage to get behind the warriors. A tendril of hope worked its way into the priest’s heart. The sword in his hand suddenly struck him as much less odious. He wrapped his hand firmly around its hilt.

  The commander threw open the door.

  The last of the horrors scraping at the door between W’rath and his destination fell to a combination of sword and mind skills. He’d anticipated the pile of ravenous creatures clogging the hallway. He’d teleported a bit short of his goal and a few feet above the floor in case anything slithered along the hall. The sound of displaced air alerted them to his arrival but he welcomed their attention and provided each with the care and attention due them.

  No sooner did he finish off the last demon, than the door to the room flew open. A disheveled First Born with sweat-drenched red hair, and battered armor filled the opening.