“Do you think they need our help?” I heard one of the mercenaries ask his mate doubtfully.
“Over there, he’s over there!” Guinalle gestured wildly at the far bank, toward the ruins of some kind of watchtower. “Their Artificer, he’s over there!”
“Master, can you get us beside that wharf?” I shouted to the captain. “We have to get off quick if we’re not to be cut to pieces as we land!”
“Let us.” Shiv nodded to Usara and the great serpent vanished, leaving only a few swimmers struggling among the flotsam of the ebbing tide. Our boat rode over the water, however, gliding impossibly through the exposed mud flats to wedge itself securely against an undercut shore, the mercenaries leaping over the rail to land on dry grass, which was soon running red with the blood of the Elietimm who charged down to meet our unexpected attack.
After that first success our assault faltered as a handful of our warriors fell to their knees. The air felt heavy around me, almost as if a storm threatened. I wondered if some wizard’s magic was going awry. Then one woman, Jervice, Halice’s friend, struggled to her feet and I saw her eyes were black as pitch.
“Drianon forgive me!” As Livak whispered her prayer, she threw a dart, hard and true and Jervice crumpled to the ground before she could plant her raised sword in the skull of the man next to her. Others were not so lucky and I saw more than one colonist, so long in waiting, sent straight to Saedrin’s door by an unexpected blow from behind. Rage threatened to overwhelm me and I clubbed the man responsible with a heavy hand, sending him bleeding to the ground.
“Tror mir’al, es nar’an,” Guinalle set up a frantic chant somewhere close. “Parrail, repeat this after me and don’t stop, if you love your sanity!”
As the peculiar rhythm built, the sense of pressure faded and our attack was pressed home with renewed bitterness. “Go for the commanders, the ones with gold or silver at their throats!” I heard Temar shouting. More of Livak’s darts went shooting past my ear to drop anyone she could see with a gorget in their steps. I spared her a glance, hearing her chanting something under her breath. “What are you saying?”
“Whatever—it is—that she is,” Livak said between repetitions. “It can’t hurt, can it?”
“Over there!” Dragging Parrail along with her other hand, Guinalle grabbed my sleeve and then pointed at the creeper-clad base of the watchtower. “He’s in there.”
“Temar!” I pointed to the tower and looked around. “Tavie, Buril, with me, and you others!”
“Maintain the ward, whatever you do.” Guinalle dropped Parrail’s hand and I noticed the bruises of her finger marks in his flesh. “It’s up to you now. I have to block the source of this Artifice.”
She hurried toward the tower, heedless of danger, Livak and I hastening to put ourselves either side of her as we fought our way through the melee. As we reached the entrance, ’Sar sent magic from somewhere behind us to reduce the doorway to rubble and splinters. After an instant of recoiling from that shock, Temar and I led the charge inside. Those who came to meet us died quickly, as I found myself knowing every move Temar was going to make a breath before he did it. It seemed to be working both ways as well. As I darted to the side and an Elietimm sought to follow me, Temar’s sword was already moving to spill his guts over the dusty floor. As a second man thought he could smash his blade down into Temar’s outstretched arm, I was already poised to drive my crude blade into his head, ripping it out again to smash the hilt into the face of the gorget-wearer hoping to meet Temar’s retreat. The rest of the guard died bloodily under the swords of those beside us.
“Upstairs.” Guinalle was flattened against the wall, blood on her skirts, eyes fixed on the beams above her head. Livak, similarly splashed, waited ready to defend her, but no assailants were getting past Buril and Tavie, who had set themselves at the threshold. The two heavy-set mercenaries were drenched in gore, some their own, grimly purposeful as they hacked down any Elietimm trying to seek sanctuary within the tower again.
“Come on.” Temar set a foot on the lowest step of the stair winding up the inside of the wall and I hurried to follow him. I nodded and we both ran up the narrow treads, swords raised, ready to kill whatever we found but crashing helplessly into some unseen barrier that sent agony shooting through my skull. Gasping for breath, I stared into the hollow room in total disbelief.
It was him, the priest from Shek Kul’s domain—Kramisak, the bastard who had fled and left me to watch over Kaeska’s agonized death. He sat, calm, within a circle of eerie radiance, a mocking half-smile on his thin lips as he nodded toward me in a taunting salute. Stripped to the waist, his hands were raised and he was once more covered in black sigils, shocking against the white of his skin and hair. “I will attend to you later, Tormalin man, I have bigger fish on the hook at present.”
I glared at him and waved Temar over to test the circle on the opposite side. We found we could move around the enchanter easily enough but could not reach him; even touching a sword to the baleful light sent agony shooting up the arm that held it. As I walked slowly round, I looked over the river to see how the battle fared. The walls of the encampment were wreathed in scarlet fire; Naldeth or Kalion must have set all the creepers alight, which did not suggest the fight went well for our side. Where were Otrick’s lightning strikes, which had shattered Elietimm ambitions the year before?
“It’s a ward, a strong one.” Guinalle stood at the top of the steps, peering around Livak’s shoulder. Livak’s face was pale and set and I knew just what it must be costing her to come face to face with the Elietimm magic that had tortured her so foully before. Kramisak’s attention wavered for a moment and the circle brightened, but Guinalle raised a hand with a stream of liquid syllables and whatever the bastard was attempting against her went past in vain.
“Livak, do you trust me?” Guinalle moved to one side, her eyes never leaving the Elietimm enchanter. “Believe me, anything he can do, I can match. Hold my hands, echo my words and understand that he cannot touch us.”
Livak’s eyes were wide with apprehension, but she took Guinalle’s pale and delicate hands in her own tanned ones and repeated the arcane chant that the younger woman raised, Guinalle’s ancient accents, unheard for so many generations, mingling with the cadence of Livak’s Forest blood, songs learned in childhood from her long absent father giving her the pattern of the lost magic.
“No, you cannot!” Kramisak leaped to his feet with a shout of outrage as his circle flickered and died. He seized a mace that lay on the floor and launched himself at Guinalle. I dashed forward to intercept him, catching the crushing head of his weapon on the battered edge of my sword. He spat at me, slime just missing my face, and cursed me in his own tongue before hissing a familiar chant at me. I braced myself but no confusion threatened me, no dizziness robbed me of my wits.
“Daughter of whores and mother of vermin!” Kramisak tried to go for Guinalle again but I sent him sprawling backward into the far wall with a kick in the stomach.
“It’s time for a fair fight, you pox-rotted bastard,” I heard myself say. “There’s unfinished business between us, gurry-breath!”
“Then it’s my turn.” Temar was circling around behind me now, making sure Kramisak had no opportunity to reach Guinalle and Livak if he somehow evaded me.
“I took you once, prince’s man. I can do it again,” the enchanter snarled, hefting his mace in both hands.
Not today, I thought, going in hard against his rapid blows, sweeping his iron-bound mace aside to rip a long tear down his near arm. To have his own blood let like that seemed to enrage Kramisak still more and he came at me with a flurry of furious strokes. For all his ferocity, I found myself evading him with ease. He seemed completely unable to read my moves, and equally was unable to stop himself mistakenly anticipating my strokes and stepping into a blow rather than defending against it. I cut him again, a deep wound to the upper arm that weakened his blows considerably. He still managed to get a bruising strike in on my leg, but in doing so laid himself open to a sideways slice that left his ribs showing white bone within the torn red flesh. This ragged sword was sawing into him like wood and I leaned all my strength into my blows.