Richard Byers - The Reaver

Stedd was relieved to see that although unconscious, the hierophant was breathing and not visibly mangled. Still, Shinthala frowned at Umara and said, “That spell you just cast was true black magic.”

“Like Anton said,” the Red Wizard snapped, “get past it. How’s your leg?”

“I’ll worry about it after we tend to Cindermoon.”

“Fair enough. You healers do that. I’ll stand guard and keep the tentacle tight.”

Stedd, Shinthala, and Ashenford knelt around the elf. Stedd placed his fingertips against her temple and drew light and warmth into them. Shinthala murmured under her breath, and Ashenford crooned a song as gentle as a lullaby. Druidic magic suffused the air with the scent of verdure.

Then denial as sudden and vicious as a punch in the throat rocked Stedd backward. His head rang, and for a moment, he couldn’t catch his breath. When he finally did, he saw that Shinthala and Ashenford looked just as shaken as he.

“What happened?” Umara asked.

“What we expected,” Shinthala replied. Her voice was thick, like she’d bitten her tongue. “Cindermoon’s not awake in a physical sense. But she does know when someone tries to touch her psyche. Or her madness knows. And it’s fighting back.”

“Then overcome the resistance.”

“Thank you, we remember the plan,” Ashenford said drily. He looked at his fellow healers. “We need to do a better job of coordinating. Shinthala, you and I will sing the Hymn of Still Waters. Stedd, you invoke Lathander’s light when we reach the word ‘peace.’ ”

Anton took a hasty retreat. No combat maneuver was more basic, but it felt chancy when he was blindly backing down a string of wet steppingstones and not a continuous surface.

Still, he managed to set his feet where he’d intended to, and the water spirit’s blow fell short. Fingerless like a mitten, its enormous hand slapped down in the space he’d just vacated and splashed apart. But when the guardian raised its arm back up from the surface of the pool, the hand was intact again.

Anton had his doubts that even an enchanted saber could hurt a being capable of reforming itself like that, but he reckoned he had to try. He lunged and cut before the hand could swing up out of range.

The blade splashed through its target, which seethed, rippled, and dropped some of its liquid substance back down into the pool. The agitation spread up the spirit’s arm in diminishing convulsions.

Anton grinned. He’d at least hurt his adversary. He just couldn’t tell how much.

Hoping to land a cut to his torso, he lunged again. But the spirit flowed backward like a wave sweeping across the surface of the sea, and the attack fell short. The entity then riposted with a horizontal swipe.

Thanks to his aggressiveness, Anton was in too close to defend by retreating. He pivoted and slashed.

If his first attack had hurt the spirit, then the stop cut had likely done the same. But the creature’s arm kept spinning at him anyway, and as it did, it expanded. A sheet of water like the sort of wave that swept mariners overboard during a tempest bashed him from head to toe.

The impact was hard enough to bruise and bloody him. It also knocked Anton off balance and left him teetering on one foot, and only part of that foot still atop a steppingstone.

In a normal battle, falling into the pool might not be disastrous. It shouldn’t be all that deep if it had steppingstones sticking up out of it. But if, as Anton sensed, all the water was in some sense his opponent, it seemed like a bad idea to end up submerged in it to the knees or the breastbone. Wrenching himself sideways, he regained stability.

As soon as he did, he hurled himself forward. Once again, the water spirit flowed backward. But it didn’t react as quickly as it had before, and the saber caught it across what, in a man, would be the stomach.

Losing cohesion, the whole entity plunged toward the surface of the pool. Only for a heartbeat, though, and then the liquid mass of it surged up and put on form once more.

At the same time, someone shouted, “There he is!”

The voice came from behind Anton, where the sanctuary stood.

But when it startled him into glancing around at something besides the water spirit, he saw that a dozen of Cindermoon’s pilgrim hunters had assembled at the other end of the chain of steppingstones as well.

Sighing, he wished they’d let him finish his duel with the water spirit, just so he’d know if he really could have won. But he supposed he couldn’t expect them to share his curiosity.

Hoping the elemental spirit wouldn’t instantly smash and drown him, he lowered his saber and turned to face the druids and rangers in front of the temple. “I surrender,” he said.

“Is he allowed to do that?” a young druid asked.

“Cindermoon said to kill him,” an older one replied, whereupon the woodsmen around him drew back their bows. No doubt, on the other shore, other archers were doing the same.

And just like that, plunging into the pool became the only option. In the highly unlikely event that the ploy enabled Anton to dodge flights of arrows while the spirit somehow failed to kill him, either, he’d swim to the top of one of the waterfalls and see if he could survive a ride bouncing from rock to rock all the way to the bottom.

He flexed his knees, and then a female voice cried, “Stop!” And everyone did. It was, after all, a voice servants of the Forest Father were accustomed to obeying.

Cindermoon strode from the temple. She glowed from head to toe with green phosphorescence, presumably to make it easier for her subordinates to orient on her.

Stedd, Ashenford, Umara, and Shinthala trailed along behind her. The Red Wizard was moving stiffly. The snowy-haired druidess had a bloody leg and hobbled with the aid of a staff.

Clearly, Anton’s confederates hadn’t had an easy time of it. But their scheme must have worked.

Anton shot Stedd a grin, but the boy didn’t return it. Rather, his mouth tightened.

All right, Anton thought, we might as well find out to what extent your worries are justified. He inclined his head to the shining elf. “Lady Cindermoon.”

“Please, call me Shadowmoon,” she replied.

Anton smiled. “With pleasure.”

The hierophant didn’t return his smile, either. “Anton Marivaldi, the Assembly of Stars itself long ago judged you a traitor and condemned you to death.”

“Yes, and started a fashion. In the years since, a number of places have sentenced me to death in absentia . Which is all right. I couldn’t have offered much of a defense had I been present.”

“Nonsense!” Umara snapped. “Tell these people you weren’t privy to the real traitor’s plans! You had no idea the talismans you helped smuggle could be used to summon a balor!”

Anton sheathed the saber and walked slowly back toward the Red Wizard and the four Chosen. “Would that explanation win me leniency in a Thayan court?” he asked. “Would it soften your heart if demons had butchered your loved ones?”

“Whatever happened years ago,” said Stedd, “you brought me here to help Turmish. You helped save Lady Shadowmoon and stop the Emerald Enclave from murdering people.” He looked up at the hierophant. “That has to be worth something!”

The elf frowned. “It is, Chosen, and I don’t desire your friend’s death. How could I when he just risked his life on my behalf? But the enclave can’t simply flout the judgment of the Assembly of Stars, certainly not in a matter as serious as this. Anton Marivaldi must answer for the malfeasance that resulted in the balor and all the piracy against Turmishan vessels in the years since.”

Stedd shook his head. “It isn’t fair!”