Richard Byers - The Reaver

“An astral deva,” the pale man replied.

“Hide us,” said Stedd, looking up at the wizard, “before it spots us!”

“I can’t,” she replied. “I used up all my invisibility spells. I didn’t expect to need so many.” She squeezed Stedd’s shoulder. “But it will be all right.”

“Indeed,” said the pale man. “Our wizard will stay behind long enough to kill the angel and then catch up with us.”

The wizard shot her associate a startled look that seemed to ask, You want me to fight this thing alone ? But she didn’t express the thought aloud. Instead, she swallowed and answered, “Yes, Saer.”

“Now that that’s settled …” Dalabrac waved his hand to indicate the rain-spattered street before them.

Everyone but the mage started running. Red light gleamed from the curtains of rain and the drenched cobbles beneath them as she threw an initial spell at the oncoming astral deva. Meanwhile, Stedd scrambled to put himself beside Anton.

“You can’t just leave her!” said the boy.

Watch me, Anton thought.

“She can’t beat it by herself!” Stedd persisted.

Anton didn’t need the wizard to win, only delay the creature long enough to cover his and Stedd’s retreat. Still, in his way, the lad had raised a disquieting point.

Long ago, in a life he’d thrown away, Anton’s teachers had stressed that a combat wizard was often the most powerful weapon in a battle … right up until the moment a single cut or thrust silenced the spellcaster in mid-incantation. Thus, a sensible officer never left such assets unprotected.

The woman in brown had coped without anybody playing bodyguard when she and her allies were fighting the silver spirits, but it was plain from her reaction that the astral deva was significantly more powerful. What if, battling alone, she couldn’t even slow it down? What, then, would the remaining fugitives do without her?

Besides … besides …

Anton had another thought in his head, but it wouldn’t come clear, and he didn’t have time to pick at it. “Dalabrac!” he called, hoping by that one word to somehow convey that he was trusting the Fire Knives to follow through on the plan and wait for him. Even though he didn’t trust them in the slightest. Then he turned, snatched his blades out of their scabbards, and charged back toward the wizard.

The wizard hurled a pale flare of cold from her outstretched hands. The magic froze raindrops, which for a moment then clattered on the cobbles with a sharper note. But as far as Anton could discern, the astral deva endured the freezing blast without even flinching, let alone suffering genuine harm.

The winged man brandished his mace. Floating lengths of golden phosphorescence shimmered into being around the mage. Recognizing the spell, Anton sprinted even faster than before. He plowed into the wizard, and despite the impediment of the weapons in his hands, wrapped his arms around her and bulled her forward. The clumsy tackle sufficed to carry her clear of the blades of force just before they finished materializing and started spinning.

Anton and the wizard splashed down together in a puddle. He hastily disentangled himself from her and looked up to check on their foe. Who was seemingly no longer interested in that role. The astral deva had seen fit to strike a blow at the mage when advancing in the teeth of her harassment, but now, intent on pursuing Stedd, the spirit was simply flying over her head and Anton’s.

Anton scrambled to his feet. “If you put the angel on the ground, I can kill him with my swords!”

The wizard jumped up. “There’s one spell that might do it.” Swirling her hands through a complex figure, she hissed and snarled words of power. Anton had no idea what they meant, but he’d heard it said that mages sometimes conjured in the language of dragons, and by the sound of it, this might be such a spell.

On the final syllable, the mage clenched her fists. The astral deva’s wings flailed asynchronously and then stopped beating altogether. The resulting plunge to the ground would have killed a human being, but he rolled to his feet with just some scrapes on his golden skin. Like that of the silver women, his blood was clear.

Anton charged, and the astral deva spoke a word that made the whole world ring like a giant bell. The resonance filled his head and made him feel on the verge of fainting. But he clung to consciousness and drove himself onward, and after a staggering step or two, he shook off the effect.

As he closed, he feinted to the head, and the angel’s mace leaped up to parry. Meanwhile, Anton cut to the knee and scored there, too. But it was like trying to slice into seasoned oak, and the resulting wound was just a scratch. Though Dalabrac had loaned him an enchanted saber, apparently it wasn’t enchanted enough to overcome the astral deva’s holiness or whatever quality it was that armored him.

The spirit struck back, and when Anton parried, the force of his opponent’s blow nearly knocked the cutlass from his grasp. In addition to his other advantages, the astral deva was stronger than a human being.

As they traded attacks, Anton looked for some regularity he could exploit, only to find that the golden man didn’t share the silver spirits’ predilection for steady tempo and symmetrical patterns. Still, the saber scored twice more, but once again, the resulting wounds were superficial.

Circling several paces away, the wizard cast darts of blue light at the angel and called writhing shadow tentacles up from the ground to wrap around his legs. Unfortunately, the former didn’t appear to hurt him, and the latter simply frayed away to nothing on contact with his shining flesh.

All we’re doing, Anton thought, is delaying the creature. But that was enough to persuade the astral deva to use more of his own magic. He spoke another word, and a flash of light dazzled Anton and stabbed pain through his head. The combination slowed him, and his foe nearly caught him with a follow-up blow to the ribs.

“Throw me the saber!” the wizard called. Anton heard pain in her voice. Evidently, the astral deva’s last magical attack had battered both of them.

He wondered if it had, in fact, unhinged her. It certainly seemed like a mad idea to partially disarm himself when he was barely holding his own as it was.

“Why?” he answered.

“Trust me!”

Well, he thought, with sudden recklessness, why not? Nothing else is working, and it should at least be interesting to find out what she has in mind.

He tossed the saber in the direction of her voice, and it clanked on the cobblestones.

The astral deva attacked savagely, relentlessly, and Anton retreated, dodged, and parried. It was difficult enough simply to defend himself, but he had to do more than that. He also had to keep the spirit away from the woman in brown while she cast what he hoped was the highly efficacious spell requiring the saber.

He managed for a breath or two, and then parried with imperfect technique. The mace snapped the blade of the cutlass an inch above the guard.

The astral deva whirled his weapon up for a blow to the head. Anton retreated a step, dropped the useless remains of the cutlass, opened his hands like a wrestler, and wondered why he wasn’t turning tail. Then something bumped his forearm.

It was the hilt of the saber. The wizard had finished with it, and now she was giving it back.

He snatched it, sidestepped the mace, and cut at the astral deva’s forearm. As he did, he had a sudden sense of ferocity, as if the saber was alive and waking up. As if it hated the angel and lusted to destroy him.

Despite that, the astral deva managed to yank his arm back in time to avoid the initial slash. But Anton instantly stepped and cut again. The saber was light and eager in his hand.