A cry from above announced the fall of a sniper, blown from his perch as though shot from a catapult, with force enough to send him to a landing better than halfway across the immensity of the hall. That same moment Anele stooped for Geryn’s eyes, dropping from the roof with wings folded tight to her side in a classic attack, throwing them wide at the last possible instant, using both the sound of wind slap and the shock of the air to disorient her target for the moment she would need to strike. He’d have lost them for sure then, had Anakerie not been a fraction faster than the eagle and kicked the young Daikini’s legs out from under him. Anele scored his helm, and one claw left its mark across his forehead, but he got away with his sight, with his looks, with his life. And the knowledge that his princess had saved him.
He was up in an instant, cloak rolled over one forearm as a shield, sword in hand to give better than he got, but the eagle was gone. He turned to lash out at Thorn, but the Nelwyn had followed her example. After that, he had more pressing concerns.
Khory was free, Franjean’s doing. Taksemanyin was loose as well (accomplished all by his lonesome). Geryn looked to the sniper posts along the wall, called for suppression arrowfire, but heard only echoes of his own voice in reply.
“Elora Danan,” Anakerie screamed as the sounds of battle built upon themselves, until the resonant shell of the hall made it sound as if an army was engaged within, “find her, you’ll find the Nelwyn! I want him alive!”
Thorn had already reached her, skibbling along the floor like a bug to keep from being noticed in the confusion, praying with all his heart that Elora hadn’t been caught in the eruption of icefire. She had much the same idea, going the other way. Neither knew the other was so close at hand until they had a sudden meeting of minds.
“Ow!” in unison.
Thorn felt as though he’d been clonked by a hammer and was sure his skull had been cracked right straight through to the brainpan. He was also starting to suspect that Elora’s silvery exterior wasn’t just looks anymore. She gave the lie to that by grabbing his hand—his was chill as ice, hers surprisingly warm—and hauling him bodily toward Khory, leaving eagles and brownies to cover Ryn.
“You should have stayed a farmer, Nelwyn.”
He knew what was coming, the Deceiver’s voice was that of a magister pronouncing sentence of death. He moved to break Elora’s hold on him and give her as hard a shove as he was able to throw her well clear, but she proved herself a step ahead of him, pivoting one way as he went the other to place herself between him and their foe. In that instant, as he realized what she’d done and cried out in futile protest, another gout of flame exploded from the Deceiver’s hand.
He thought they were both dead.
But the flames passed her by, and him as well since he stood right behind her.
“Bless my soul,” was what he said. What he did was pitch his acorn up and over, as he would a ball, right into the heart of the inferno.
There was a tiny, brilliant, absolutely blinding pop of light, and the flames stopped.
They became solid, in an ongoing cascade of petrifaction that rushed headlong back the way they’d come to engulf the whole of the magical fire that filled the hearth. The Deceiver had time for a look of true astonishment, and then, with a congratulatory tip of the head to Thorn, that false face began to laugh. The echoes of it lasted long after the entity itself had turned to stone.
It was as though, for a moment, when the duel was done, Thorn had become the only living thing in the room. He heard no other sound but his own breath, was aware of no other reality but the thunderous beating of his heart.
Too easy, he thought. We’re not done yet, are we, you and I?
He cast about for a weapon, anything that inspiration would bring to hand as a hammer to smash the statue to powder. What came instead was Geryn, and Thorn dropped flat in a diving roll that tripped up the Daikini and sent him sprawling. Trained fighter that he was, Geryn was on his feet before he stopped rolling. Unfortunately, he found himself facing Taksemanyin. The Pathfinder made a fair try, but while he had training and heart, the Wyr far overmatched him in skill. Geryn lunged, to find his sword batted aside, then had to scrabble desperately aside to avoid Tak’s counterslash, the spike blades missing by the proverbial hair. Dumb luck worked in Geryn’s favor then, as his clumsy tumble brought his sword around faster than Ryn had anticipated; this time, it was the Wyr who had to hurl himself through a wild evasion in order to avoid impalement.
In the heat of the engagement, Geryn had forgotten about Thorn. The Nelwyn had a blade of his own, but he and the boy had been good companions on the trail and he couldn’t bring himself to use it. Geryn saw the knife, thought for that instant he was done, but it was Thorn’s fist that dropped him. Ryn scooped up the Pathfinder’s sword, grasping it with the awkward grace of one long and well trained in its use, but who hadn’t held the damn thing in an age, using the threat of it to keep the Maizan cautious while he and Thorn made tracks for their friends.
Whether from anger or exertion, Elora’s sweat-damp skin seemed to have developed the ability to glow. It made for a startling visual, the child’s hair streaming like a silver pennant as she scooped up a cudgel and laid into the nearest Maizan with a vengeance she must have been storing up for years. Her problem was, enthusiasm and desire were no match for training and experience. She got in one good swing, regrettably blunted by the warrior’s body armor, and then another Maizan looped her about the legs with his whip.
Ryn took care of him, whipping his blade two-handed across the man’s belly with force enough to lift him off his feet and bend him double. Thorn caught the other one struggling up, and stroked the man’s throat with his blade—no mercy for the Maizan as he’d had for Geryn—springing clear with Elora before the blood could fountain.
Khory faced a pair, and they were very good. For the initial exchange, she had just enough skill to hold her own. She used the andiron for cover, sliding back and forth between her foes, touching one blade, then the other, calling on the agility of her body to save her when the sword couldn’t manage. What she saw, she learned; what she learned, she put to immediate use; in a brace of heartbeats, the Maizan realized they were facing a woman who would soon be a match for both.
They were brave, they weren’t fools. Pressed suddenly from two sides, they scrambled clear and cast about for either reinforcements or weapons to drop their foes from range.
The same applied to Thorn. He swept the room as the Maizan formed themselves into a double line of skirmishers, spreading wide enough to block the fugitives away from any exits. There were pikes among them, and bows; their losses thus far had been mostly due to surprise; they weren’t about to let that happen again. Someone among them spotted Anele as she soared across the scene; arrows were in flight before the warning shout could form its first echo. Deadly shots, too; she avoided being hit only by tucking her wings tight and turning herself into a feathered missile, booming out of her madcap descent behind the cover of Khory’s and Tak’s bodies. The DemonChild took a silent cue from Thorn and plucked the eagle from the air, tucking her close to her side, both arms wrapped tight about her. Anele didn’t like being carried, but she saw the wisdom of the moment and held her peace.
“Lay down your weapons,” called Anakerie. “I won’t offer twice.”
For emphasis, one of the Maizan loosed a shaft for Khory’s leg to cripple her, but Ryn, with the blistering speed they’d come to take for granted, slapped it down with a sideswipe of his own blade. Thorn had sidled behind the two taller figures as well, drawing Elora with him, until his back was to the wall; he had no idea whether what worked in the dungeon would apply here. There, in addition, he’d had the Demon’s strength to help. But there was also nowhere else to go.
“Elora.” He was gulping breaths, working himself into a state of mindless terror. “Do you trust me, girl?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Step
behind me, then.” And when she’d done that: “Wrap your arms about me, and hold tight.”
“I’m afraid, Thorn.”
It was the first time she’d called him by name. He gave her clasped hands a comforting squeeze, adding a sideways kiss to her cheek snugged right beside his own, a burst of tears sliding from her face to his as though there were no separation between them.
“So am I, little moonshade.”
“Now what?”
“Remember the tower?”
Her jaw dropped, his hands lashed out to grab Khory by the belt and Ryn by his back fur—a hefty handful of both—and Thorn heaved the lot of them backward with him into the wall.
“Are we safe?” Elora asked, when at long last they emerged into an upper gallery.
In that initial surge, as they were immersed completely in the ancient rock, they were almost lost, as everyone panicked at once, only to be swiftly, ruthlessly cowed by a grim-edged snarl from Thorn.
“Be still!” he’d told them, mandating absolute obedience. “Cue your movements to mine, let me take the initiative. The stones here are far older than the palace and a lot more hard of hearing; they didn’t answer when I asked for permission to move through their domain. They may not appreciate trespassers. But if we don’t make too much of a rumpus, I think we can pass in safety.”
“And if you’re wrong?” Ryn had to ask.
“Then let’s pray we never know what hits us.”
Their sanctuary was close to the mantle walls of the fortress, the shell of the mountainside, and from the exterior sounds not terribly far beneath the mantle of storm clouds. The cold was piercing, and this time Thorn was without his infinitely stuffable pouches to provide them with food or clothing.
“Depends on your perspective,” Ryn said, in answer to Elora’s question, ruffling his fur from top to toe to rid it of any residue of their passage through the rock before dropping into a bearlike seat and reaching out to gather the girl close to his body, where she’d be warmest. She folded herself into a tight little huddle, burrowing so deep it seemed she wanted to disappear. But she was really too big for that, and he, for all his height, not big enough.
“We’re loose, Princess,” he finished, “but we’re freezing.”
“I’d say no,” Thorn replied to them all, “not so long as the Maizan have Geryn to lead their hunt. As a Pathfinder, he knows his business.”
“False friend,” Khory condemned him.
Surprisingly, Elora spoke up for the lad. “I don’t think so,” she said.
More surprisingly, Thorn agreed.
“He said it, he swore an Oath. He’s a soldier of the King. And by Royal Proclamation, I’m a wanted man. His duty’s plain, especially when it’s the Princess Royal who tells it him.”
“Now there,” noted Ryn, “is a piece of work.”
“Yes”—Thorn nodded—“she is.”
“Do you do that often,” wondered Ryn to Thorn, “strolling through solid rock?”
“I’m learning as I go,” he confessed, “much like Khory and her sword.”
“Demon skill,” accused Franjean, having clambered down from Anele’s shoulder. “Decent folk should have no truck with it!”
“Care to shout any louder, shrimp? I’ll lay odds the Maizan didn’t hear you that time.”
“I need no lessons in etiquette from some overstuffed baby toy in need of a major haircut!”
“How about some lessons in common sense! We’re on the run here, Peckling, the goal is not to advertise our location!”
“Enough,” Thorn told them, “the pair of you! Anele, take Franjean, would you please, and find us a way off this rock?”
“What then?” Elora asked, a tad plaintively.
“That’s your choice, isn’t it, Princess?” Once more, from Ryn.
A gusting backdraft—with a squawk of protest from Franjean that he wasn’t properly secure, plus an announcement that he would be in charge of their mission—proclaimed the eagle’s departure.
“I’ll keep watch, Drumheller,” Khory said, and was acknowledged with a nod, though Thorn’s eyes never left Elora Danan.
Recent days hadn’t been kind to her, throwing her physical trials that sorely tested folk in far better shape. She sat against Ryn with back and shoulders slumped, too weary to hold herself erect, hands clutching nervously together between legs that had no idea where comfortably to go. She tried sitting with them straight out before her, bent knee up in the air, bent knee flopped out to the side, cross-legged. She even considered amputation.
“I’d rather run,” she said, the raccoon circles under her eyes so pronounced, as were the hollows of her sockets, that she looked like she’d been soundly punched.
“Sensible girl.”
“Don’t feel it, Wyr.”
“Like unto died, my girl—”
“I’m not your anything, thank you very much.”
“Figure of speech, do you mind? Like unto died anyway, when I saw you face that flame.”
“She wasn’t the only one,” added Thorn. “Elora Danan, whatever possessed you?”
“I’m immune,” she said matter-of-factly. “At least, so you’ve said. To spells and such. I think.”
Thorn let out his breath in a great gust. “Quite possibly,” he conceded. “But that was no time for an acid test.”
“You’d have died, otherwise. Besides”—she groped for words—“it was the only answer that made sense. If I’m so important to this Deceiver, he can’t very well kill me. Where’s the sense?”
“Gods,” Thorn whispered, simultaneously aghast and awestruck by what she’d done. “You have no idea, not the slightest conception.”
Ryn understood as well, but his way of expressing himself was to enfold her in a snuggly hug.
“It worked, though, didn’t it?” Elora asked them.
“Yes and no,” Ryn replied when it became obvious that Thorn wasn’t able to.
“I saw through your masking spell, right off, Drumheller,” she said.
“You did. Forgive me, but that’s like striking a match and comparing it to the sun, thinking that because you can puff out the one, the same goes for the other.” He held up a hand to forestall any objections. “It may well be you can, that’s not what I’m saying. Elora, the Deceiver caught you twice, in your own aerie and in the hearth below.”
“And I broke free of him twice!”
“Through you, he slew a dragon. They make legends of feats like that and he did it”—snap of the fingers for emphasis, the sound so sudden and sharp, so close to her eyes, that the young girl jumped—“as easily as that. He ensorcelled the heart and soul of the Twelve Domains, and they didn’t even know it was happening. He called up firedrakes and turned them loose on Cherlindrea’s Grove. And very likely is the force that destroyed Tir Asleen.” He leaned toward her, his voice supernally still. “There is strength in him, and knowledge, and cunning, beyond all belief. Bavmorda wanted you dead. This one means to put you on, body and soul, like a suit of clothes. Your saving grace, even after all that’s happened, is that he thinks you are nothing. That’s your salvation, child, not some precious ‘immunity.’ ”
Thorn turned away, rolling in a circle on the balls of one foot as though searching for an open window, a possible sight of sun, the taste of fresh air. There was a haunted, hunted quality to his voice and manner, and the image touched Elora, resonating off his own thoughts, of the Nelwyn once more riding that impossible wave of Power, dancing above the Abyss. As though she’d been called by name, Elora found herself rising to her feet and striding clear of Ryn’s embrace.
“The true horror,” Thorn told her without looking, pulling off Anakerie’s silver clip and shaking loose his hair, “is that if we survive this day and make our escape, the Deceiver won’t be played for such a fool again. You’ll have to learn to face him on his level, there’ll be no going back.”
“You’ll save me,” she said, meaning that simple declaration of faith to be a reassurance and a comfort. She didn’t expect a look from him as though she’d thrust a spear through his heart.
He smiled, nodded, put the face she’d seen deep away, so quick a transformation of his features she told herself she could have been mistaken.
“What are you doing, Drumheller?” Ryn asked as Thorn dropped to one knee and rubbed a palm gently across the stony floor, brushing aside the layerings of dust, newer films of frost, and stray patches of snow, to feel the primordial rock directly.
“The thing about wielding magic,” Thorn said, in a sudden and deliberate change of subject as he cast forth his InSight into the depths of the ancient fortress, “particularly on the magus level where the Deceiver appears to operate, is that the actions have reactions. More intense the one, likewise the other. Drop a stone in a pool, it’s much the same—the ripples bounce off the shore and return to you. One set of interactions. But there’s another, equally critical, which is what the devil’s happening on shore. Could be nothing. Could be an earth movement that’ll bury your stone under an avalanche.
“You’re quite right, though, Elora,” he noted suddenly. “You did break the Deceiver’s glamour.”
“Twice,” she reminded him, prompting an answering grin. She stood very straight, with hands clasped beneath her chin, big-eyed and very young.
“What made you do it?”
She worked her hands, roving her gaze anywhere but toward his face. His never moved.
“First time, it hurt. It just felt…wrong.”
“And now?”
Her eyes swam with tears, but she fought to master them and the sobs that went with.
“You worked so hard, you gave so much of yourself to save the stag.”
“You asked me to.”
“You’d have done it anyway.”
“So?”
“It was a giving thing, a healing. When I stood on Morag’s deck, in the storm, I was so charged up inside; I was being hit, I wanted to hit back, for all the times I couldn’t when I was growing up. I was the Sacred Princess, but nothing I said or did mattered! Go here, do this, wear that, speak the lines written for you, be our puppet!”
Shadow Moon Page 45