Richard Byers - The Reaver

An arrow flew past his head. Seeking only cover, he ducked into the narrow, unpromising-looking gap where two stone “walls” nearly met at an angle. That was the turn that finally revealed the pool, now black as the starless sky it mirrored.

Anton dashed out into the open, looked about, and saw that he’d apparently exited the temple ahead of any of his pursuers. And while people stirred among the lean-tos and campfires on the far shore-some sharp-eared soul must have heard the yelling inside the sanctuary despite the hiss of the waterfalls and the patter of the rain-they weren’t yet doing so in an organized or purposeful way.

Anton judged that if he kept moving smartly, across the pool, past the camp, and on down Hierophant’s Trail, he might actually get away. More likely not, but at least it was a chance.

He found the nearest string of steppingstones and started striding from one to the next. He reached the eighth one, and then an all but shapeless form surged up to tower over him. It seemed less a creature that had been lurking in the pool than a portion of the water that had formed into rippling approximations of arms, a head, and a torso; the liquid bulk at the center of it contained and concealed the next steppingstone in line.

Anton laughed. “You’re confused. You’re supposed to kill evildoers going into the sanctuary. But just sink back down, and I won’t tell.”

The water spirit raised its arm.

Stedd doubted that Lathander’s blessings helped him lie any more convincingly. If anything, the touch of so much goodness ought to tangle his tongue if he tried.

Yet apparently, he’d played his part in Anton’s trick convincingly enough. Because Cindermoon had ordered her guards to chase the pirate, and except for a couple woodsmen in brown and green, they’d all obeyed.

And in the aftermath, it seemed like the reemergence of a deadly threat from the past had distracted the little black-haired elf from current grudges. When her green eyes looked at the other members of the Elder Circle, Umara, or Stedd, it was without the clenched mistrust he’d sensed before.

Maybe we could persuade her now, the boy thought, but really, he knew that hope was too faint for even a Chosen of Lathander to depend on. He and his companions needed to stick to the plan.

Umara plainly agreed. Seemingly peering in the direction where Anton and his pursuers had disappeared, she had her back to the three thrones and their occupants. That enabled her to whisper an incantation and crook and cross her fingers into mystic signs without Cindermoon spotting it. The spell plunged the two rangers into slumber; their legs buckled beneath them and dumped them on the ground.

At the same moment, Ashenford and Shinthala scrambled off their stone chairs, pivoted to face Cindermoon, and started chanting. The half-elf held out his hand, a sickle appeared in it, and he spun it over his head. Like a ghost plant growing in midair, the suggestion of holly, with toothy leaves and little red berries, formed around the white-haired druidess. Stedd could even smell it.

Because Stedd didn’t know how to subdue people without hurting them, he had to leave it to his two new druid friends to overcome Cindermoon. They should be able to. They had her outnumbered, and they’d caught her by surprise.

But then, with a roar, Cindermoon’s bear rounded the line of thrones. The illusory demons had scared the animal off, but apparently not far and not for long, and the sight of mere human beings working magic wasn’t frightening enough to keep it from trying to protect its mistress.

A swipe of its claws jerked Shinthala’s leg out from under her and dropped her on her back. The phantom holly vanished, scent and all. The bear reared over her.

Stedd threw out his hand and cast brightness into the beast’s beady eyes. The light was harmless, but, startled, the bear flinched from it.

That gave Shinthala time to cast more magic. She spoke, and her voice came out as a high, inhuman throbbing. Her manner reminded Stedd of someone ordering a naughty dog off a bed.

The bear shuddered as though struggling to resist the druidess’s power to command it. Then it wheeled and lumbered back the way it had come.

Stedd spun back around. Without support from Shinthala, Ashenford had failed to render Cindermoon helpless; instead, he himself strained against vines that had burst from the ground to wrap around him. Now on her feet like her peers, her delicate face with its slanted eyes and pointed chin furious, the elf turned toward Shinthala and swept out a hand that was suddenly covered with insects. As her arm snapped out straight, the conjured hornets took flight.

A fan-shaped blast of yellow flame engulfed the wasps halfway to their intended victim. When the blaze guttered out a heartbeat later, there was nothing left of them. Her fingers smoking, Umara shifted to face Cindermoon dead on.

Cindermoon twirled an upraised hand. Visible chiefly by virtue of the raindrops it caught and spun, a cyclone twice as tall as a man howled up from the ground. It charged Umara like a bull, snatched her up into the air, and flung her into one of the menhirs. Something cracked , and the Red Wizard collapsed like a rag doll at the base of the stone.

Stedd stared for a heartbeat, then remembered that here was something he did know how to do. He scurried in Umara’s direction.

As he bent over her, he glanced back at the fight. Kneeling, the blood from her clawed leg pooling around her, Shinthala conjured a huge boar halfway into being.

Then Cindermoon shouted, “No!” and shook her fist. The blurry, misty semblance of a hog vanished.

Stedd reached out to Lathander and drew down his light. Setting his glowing hands on Umara’s shoulders, he poured the power into her.

Ashenford flailed his arms, and his bonds, now dry and brittle, started to break apart from the top down. That freed his hands to start a different spell, but his legs were still immobilized when the whirlwind roared at him and engulfed him. His chanting ended in a cry of pain.

Cindermoon snapped her fingers, and the cyclone vanished, dropping the half-elf to the ground. Stedd just had time to wonder why she’d thrown away such an effective weapon, and then she made a beckoning gesture. Thick gray fog billowed out from the spot where she was standing, a cloud the whirlwind would have blown apart.

In a heartbeat, the fog spread far enough to swallow Ashenford and Shinthala. Only Umara and Stedd were beyond its reach, and he was sure that only he saw when a huge owl flew up from the middle of it.

Without a doubt, the bird was Cindermoon. She’d been holding her own against her assailants, but had apparently decided even so that it was foolish to go on fighting them all by herself when she had a little army of supporters within easy reach.

Umara’s eyes fluttered open. Stedd pointed at the owl. “Please!” he said.

The wizard jumped to her feet so fast, she knocked him aside. She rattled off words that felt like needles jabbing him.

A shadow tentacle like the one that had grabbed Nobanion shot up from the ground to snatch at the owl. It flicked harmlessly past just under the bird’s talons.

With a noise that was half grunt and half snarl, Umara rose onto her toes with one arm straight above her head. She looked like someone straining to reach something on a high shelf. The tentacle stretched just a little more and whipped around Cindermoon’s avian body.

Umara lashed her arm down. The length of shadow jerked the shapeshifter to the ground with a violence that made Stedd wince. He hoped the Red Wizard remembered the idea was to help the hierophant, not smash her to bits.

The fog vanished as either Shinthala or Ashenford made it go away. Then the two of them, Stedd, and Umara hurried toward the spot where Cindermoon lay bound. She was mostly an elf again, although she still had some feathers here and there, and her legs were too short for the rest of her.