Among the trees to the east, other arcane lights flared and struck.
She had split the Gold team, but not well enough. Four hounds, three ruengriin, the senvraka and a mage for her; the other sixteen hounds and five mages for Cob, plus two ruengriin. If his Guardian powers were strong, she would have felt them by now, but she felt nothing—only anger as a hound got too close, forcing her to cut it across the face.
“Who do you really work for?” Calett snapped as he pulled free from his fallen hound. The sword in his hand was not akarriden but still etched with runes—spell-forged. Serindas would not cut it easily.
Dasira sneered in response, then dove aside as the mage sent another arcane bolt at her. A moment later she was scrambling up again, another hound snapping at her heels.
She planted her foot in the hound’s face and nearly lost that boot for her trouble. Its huge teeth tore into the sole and drew a line of pain across her heel, and she swore and tumbled backward, coming up in a crouch as it lunged. With its jaws headed straight for her face, she reacted in a way that had saved her life more times than seemed reasonable: she shoved her left hand straight into its mouth.
Its teeth clamped down on the black bracer, which did not even dimple.
Immediately the beast started shaking her as if meaning to tear her arm off, but its stance on the ice was unsteady and she just slid with it. Teeth bared, she whipped Serindas up and the red blade carved through plated skin, through muscle and then vertebrae, just a hair shy of her own fist. She fell back with the hound’s severed head still clamped tightly around her forearm.
The body collapsed before her, gouting blood, but one of its fellows clambered up on it like a platform from which to lunge at her. She clubbed it with the severed head, shoulder straining from the weight, the creature’s teeth stuck hard in the sleeve of her brand-new coat. Another clobber and cloth tore, the horrid thing sliding free to score her wrist and hand with its teeth as it went. The second hound shook itself then snapped at her crosswise, untroubled by the blood that painted its face.
She buried Serindas in its cheek, forcing its teeth away with the quillons as it continued to snap in its death-throes.
Calett’s sword whistled down at her in the next moment, and she managed to parry it with her bracer then yank Serindas free and go for the senvraka’s knee. He leapt back and slipped on the ice, dropping to his ass with a curse, but before she could move to finish him, another flash caught her eye.
The arcane bolt hit her in the ribs and threw her three yards. She landed flat on the ice, black sparks filling her vision as she spasmed in agony.
Her threads were there of course, working to mend her, but as she struggled up she glimpsed the hole in her side and almost gagged. It was not a surgical strike, more like someone had shot a ball of nails into her. Viscera showed briefly before being stitched over by grey.
And that side of the coat was thoroughly ruined.
Can’t have anything nice, she thought as she forced her legs to respond. Calett was advancing on her, the three ruengriin following at a measured pace, and she knew they meant to capture her. Get some information out of her, or maybe some entertainment before they turned her over to their superiors.
She bared her teeth and pressed Serindas’ hilt to her bracer, the hooks latching on to suck out the life it had drained from the hounds. It wriggled angrily in her grip but she would not let the Golds take her easily.
Then a greasy, almost fleshy black sphere flew out from the shoreline to hit the leading ruengriin in the head.
The stuff splattered as it struck, sending droplets across Calett and the other two ruengriin. A few hit the ice by Dasira’s feet. Every single speck began sizzling as it landed, and she watched in horror as the afflicted ruengriin shrieked and clutched at the greased side of his head only to have his fingers sink in to the knuckles. He wrenched them away, staring at them as his skull caved in—as his fingers disintegrated, the black stuff consuming all it touched before sloughing off in ribbons. The man’s remaining eye rolled up and he collapsed to the ice, twitching as the black substance continued to hollow out his skull.
The other ruengriin stumbled back, shouting in fear and yanking at their armor where the black spots sizzled. Calett tore off his uniform jacket and flung it away, then slapped at his back frantically. When he turned to look at where the black sphere had come from, Dasira saw coin-sized holes in his undershirt, with similar divots carved from the flesh beneath.
Under the dead ruengriin, the ice boiled away.
She looked to the trees to see a black-robed figure advancing toward the Gold mage, who had brought up a visible ward and now wove some offensive spell. Behind the black-robe, two more moved through the woods toward the conflict in the east.
Enkhaelen’s pet project, she thought, injured gut tightening in fear. She had seen them before, though not in action, and had always thought they were his necromancy students.
This was no necromancy she had ever seen.
The black-robe lobbed another fleshy sphere at the Gold mage as casually as tossing a ball. The sphere impacted the glowing ward and spread across it, dissolving the magic instead of shattering it. For a moment Dasira saw black strands extend from the crumbling barrier toward the Gold mage, as if the greasy stuff was alive and aggressive, but the Gold mage quickly backstepped onto the ice and made another gesture to send the pieces of the ward at his attacker. Shards of murk-edged yellow energy struck the black-robe, who seemed to have no wards but did not flinch as the energy sliced in.
The Gold mage brought up another ward then flung an energy bolt at the black-robe, but again the newcomer did not flinch. The left shoulder of its robe seared away in the blast, showing bruise-dark, lumpy flesh that seemed to absorb the energy rather than be harmed. Another lobbing gesture and a black glob hit the ice at the feet of the retreating mage, spreading as it impacted. The Gold mage fell in with a shriek as his footing dissolved.
“What the—“ said Calett, then swore as the black-robe turned toward them. He looked to Dasira but she was crawling backward with elbows and heels, trying to get distance from the abominations as the black-robe raised its arm for another throw. For a moment Calett's face held confusion, fear, hate—and then he was running toward the shore with the ruengriin at his heels, awkward on the ice.
The black glob clipped one ruengriin’s arm, making him yowl like a scalded cat. The rest of the material boiled a streak across the ice, and as Dasira heaved to her feet, she saw the black-robe’s attention turn from the running men to her. She opened her mouth to proclaim her allegiance to Enkhaelen, but before she could speak, it whipped a fleshy glob at her and it was all she could do to dive beneath its flight. A nauseating sensation rolled over her as it passed, and she gagged against the ice.
A moment later, a flash lit the glassy surface of the lake. Even from a distance she heard the black-robe’s grunt of pain, and rolled over to see haelhene in the sky, their white robes floating around their radiant forms. From the direction of the island came human figures running across the ice, bared akarriden blades in their hands, and as the black-robe flung another dark sphere at a haelhene, Dasira knew that this was the worst place she could be.
The hairs on her neck rose as an electric tingle washed over her. She looked up to see a haelhene gathering power, its mask turned her way, and in desperation she shoved herself backward. Her palms found the edge of the new hole in the ice, and with a last push, she fell in.
On the surface it still boiled from the black stuff, but the water beneath was heart-stoppingly cold. Hers stuttered in her chest, but the bracer had a firm grip and her consciousness never wavered. A moment later, a huge section of ice disintegrated into shards, the shockwave shoving her downward.
She let it. She could not breathe underwater but the bracer did not need air; if worse came to worst, she could concentrate her sentience in there and force the body to move by threads alone. Though the cold was already stiffening her muscles and slow
ing her blood, that was reversible too, if painful.
No other assaults broke through. She watched the play of light and dark through the ice, counting the bodies moving above her and the different sources of arcane streaks, all too aware that Cob and his friends were just as vulnerable as the Golds. Finally, once the running and fighting had moved away, she dug her fingers into the rugged underside of the ice-sheet and swim-crawled toward a new hole.
What she could hope to accomplish in this damaged state, she did not know.
*****
“Goddess!” shouted Fiora, and the hounds around her recoiled as a wave of heat washed out from her inscribed shield.
Cob winced, because though the Trifold power did not seem to harm the Guardian, it did lay waste to the icy armor he had been trying to build. He had Arik at his one shoulder, Fiora at the other, and together they held the hounds back from Lark as she took aim with her bow. Somewhere in the shadows of the woods, Ilshenrir moved like a ghost, and Cob was increasingly thankful for him, since in the wake of the hounds had come five mages and two monstrous men who seemed to command the hounds. All but one of the mages had turned their attention toward the wraith, who flitted in and out of visibility as if taunting them.
The hounds circled now, slavering, their faces contorted nightmarishly. The two men stood behind the pack, hissing and clicking as if directing them in some savage language; each wore a golden pendant in addition to their armor, a pendant that Cob recognized from the Lady Annia’s neck. All told, what he had learned of the Imperials was starting to anger him.
Five more hounds lay dead at their feet, three rended by Arik’s claws and two with skulls shattered by Cob’s ice-spiked fists. The monsters had scored their hits, though; blood streaked Arik’s muzzle from a deep puncture and covered his torn left thigh, and several hound teeth drifted in Cob’s ice armor, trailed by red threads from where they had punched through the skin. Both men were mending though, the Guardian’s aura supporting them, and though Fiora had not managed to land a strike with her sword, she kept up a solid defense on her side.
But the hounds’ tactics had changed. No longer did they pile at Cob; sometimes they lunged for him then skittered back, and he found himself following them, trying to catch them. Others circled wide, angling toward vulnerable Lark in the back, and when Arik and Fiora shifted to defend her, a set of hounds and the mage would inevitably strike, forcing Cob to hold the front both by pummeling the hounds and holding his ice barrier against the barrage of arcane energy.
It was not like being covered in stone or wood. With no connection to the earth, he could not seem to redirect the magic that assaulted him, and his ice armor hissed away as quickly as he formed it. Only Ilshenrir’s work in distracting the other mages kept him from being completely overwhelmed.
“Surrender,” said one of the monstrous men. “The Golden Wing would be pleased to have you alive.”
“Though we’d be happier to tear you to pieces,” said the other.
“Lay down your weapons and powers now and we shall treat you…reasonably,” finished the first.
If not for his ice helm, Cob would have spat in the snow. He gave them the ‘pike you’ gesture instead: arm upthrust with fingers pressed tight like a spearhead.
The first one laughed, only to be cut short by a shower of golden sparks as Lark’s arrow deflected off a ward before his throat. Snarling, he said, “Where do you think you can run? You have been found and cornered. If you would not be butchered like—“
The trunk of a spurbark fir exploded into shards of wood and ice nearby, and everyone flinched as it crashed down near the milling hounds. Beyond it, a grey shape flitted through the sudden screen of airborne snow, pursued by bolts and threads of golden light.
“Son of a bitch,” said the spokesmonster, then turned his attention back to Cob. “Listen, make it easier on everyone and just give up. No one else needs to get—“
A viscous black sphere flew out from the trees to impact on one of the mages’ shields, splashing everywhere. The hounds nearest the splash staggered away, skin sizzling, and loosed the most horrible high-pitched keening squeals Cob had ever heard. He recoiled, raising his hands to his head as the sound drove straight through his armor and turned his knees to water; as more of the hounds took up the panicked sound, he stumbled backward into Lark, almost consumed by the need to flee. At his side, Arik cringed as well, every quill standing straight out from his fur.
The mages rounded on their unseen aggressor, two raising new wards as the other two readied offensive spells. The fifth mage, who had concentrated on Cob, looked back at his comrades as if unsure who he should be aiding. Another ball of blackness flew out of the woods from a different angle, striking high on the combined Gold ward and spreading across its top surface, and Cob stared as the barrier sizzled away beneath it, allowing the viscous material to drip through. The mage gestalt broke apart to avoid the droplets, a few hitting one mage’s skin-tight personal ward and nearly eating through it before the man shed it.
Ilshenrir came around a tree suddenly to drive a spike of green crystal into the back of one retreating mage, through ward and robe. He disappeared like a ripple in water as the man fell.
As another black sphere flew in from the first direction, Cob had the presence of mind to think, Allies? But it impacted among the hounds, sending two to the snow in hideous death-throes, and a wave of crushing sickness washed over Cob—not just revulsion for how the black stuff clung and devoured flesh, but a soul-deep, bowel-twisting aversion. It was like sensing the abominations a hundred-fold, their corrupted essence distilled down to pure malevolence, pure hunger. He took another step away, and another, empty stomach roiling.
The two monstrous men looked at each other, then at their mage allies. The hounds shrank away from their dying comrades to clump toward their masters, horrible features further contorted by fear. As the Gold mages retaliated against the black-robed figures among the trees, Cob managed to pull himself together enough to check his friends—Fiora white-faced and trembling behind her shield, Arik with all his teeth bared, Lark already a good yard back with an expression that clearly voted for fleeing.
Cob opened his mouth to command just that, the ice mask parting over his lips. Then he saw the white specks moving above the trees. “Haelhene,” he cried instead, and heard the Gold abominations curse.
Lances of white light cut through the trees, targeting indiscriminately among the fighting clumps. Cob managed to lift a thick sheet of ice to intercept a strike, but it burned through the whole thing to carve a line across his shoulder, its energy barely dissipated. He choked on a scream, then saw Lark’s arrow speed the way the blast had come, only to spatter into shards on a pale ward.
A moment later, a ball of black goop struck that ward, crawling up it like a living thing. Black threads spun out from the tainted surface, and with a snapped gesture the haelhene flew up and backward, leaving the ward to dissipate into a smoky smear.
More white energy cut through the trees, then gold, then black. Somewhere to the west Cob heard someone shout, “Retreat!” and the two Gold monsters clicked and hissed at their hounds, each grabbing one and mounting up as they swarmed.
“Pike this,” Cob said, and turned to urge the same.
Then he saw the man coming up from the lake-shore, and froze.
Dimly he recognized that there were others, all dressed in civilian clothes or unmarked armor, all bearing a single black-bladed weapon, but the one coming toward him was so familiar that all other thoughts were washed away. Though still at a distance, he saw the pockmarked face, the fine pale hair, the lean build and seething eyes, and knew without a doubt that this was the hand of vengeance reaching out for him.
Erevard.
In a flash, he was back at the Crimson camp, outside the River Gate, Darilan facing him half-lit by moonlight and a sword quivering between them. A sword embedded in the palisade wall through the throat of Jas Fendil.
Atop the wall had bee
n Erevard, unknowing, unseeing. Easily the most dangerous man in Cob’s old group, his callous nature had been mollified only by his lover’s indomitable cheer. Cob could not even imagine his reaction to Fendil’s murder.
With a jolt, he remembered that the Army had blamed him.
Their eyes locked, and recognition filled Erevard’s face. His scarred lips peeled back from newly serrated teeth, and he charged.
Someone shouted something, but Cob did not listen. All he saw were the changes as the scarred man closed the distance—not just the teeth but the thick scales on his neck and jaw, the black veins stitching his temples, the poisonous yellow of his once-colorless eyes. He radiated the same sickness as the monstrous Gold soldiers that had just fled, but sensing that from such a familiar person gave Cob a gut-deep shock.
He was so transfixed that he almost missed Erevard’s blade coming down at him, black-on-black. He raised his arm to deflect it.
The black blade cut through the ice armor as if through air, then into Cob’s forearm, sending agony howling through his bones as it creased them.
It would have cut through entirely, but suddenly Fiora was there, knocking the nasty blade aside with the edge of her shield. “Breana!” she shrieked, and a wash of blistering heat evaporated the armor on that side of his body but also sent Erevard reeling backward, eyes wild with hate.
Cob bent double, pain radiating up and down his arm from the inch-deep gash. It felt like something was crawling inside his bones, and for a moment his vision swam and he thought he would retch. Then a shaggy arm grabbed him around the waist and hoisted him, and another shout and burst of heat annihilated the rest of his armor. He gasped raggedly, unable to focus, seeing only smears of color and light as the fight turned to chaos around him.
The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle) Page 54