James West - Lady Of Regret

At the sound of her voice, Loro spun, eyes bulging red and furious. “Fira? Nesaea? Gods and demons! What are you doing here?”

“Saving your bloated arse,” Fira snarled, and threw herself into his arms. Her lips smashed violently against his. She abruptly drew back and slapped him, hard. “How dare you leave me without so much as a word, you bungling oaf!”

When she made to strike him again, Loro caught her wrist. “There’s no time for this foolery, wench! Rathe is inside, with the Lady of Regret.”

“Rathe?” Nesaea gasped, stunned despite earlier hopes.

“Lady of what ?” Fira demanded.

With a harried expression, Loro looked to the wretched young woman and an equally ragged man, each who looked enough alike to make them siblings. “Yiri, Horge, tell them, while I get this door open.”

“There’s no time for explanations,” Yiri said grimly, as Horge moved to an intersection of crossing corridors.

“And there is no time to make firewood of the door,” Nesaea said, sparing a sidelong glance at the two wretches. Neither was there time to wonder over how and why Rathe and Loro were here. “Did you see a guard come this way?” Three heads shook as one. “Then we must hurry, for he doubtless went for help.”

She knelt and set to work with the lock picks. There were no sounds beyond the doors. From the corridor came the heavy tread of running feet, the clank and rattle of armor. The alarm had been sounded. She worked faster, fingers shaking.

Loro put safe distance between himself and Fira. He looked to the man cloaked in hanging rags. “Horge, what do you see?”

“Wardens of Tanglewood,” the man squeaked. “A dozen or more.”

Loro turned, desperation on his sweaty face. “Yiri, can you use your witchery ?”

The young woman’s small white teeth flashed. “But of course.”

Nesaea felt a tumbler go, then another. Behind her, a crackling heat charged the air. Loro shouted something, and Fira cursed hotly. Venomous green light flared, poisoning all other color. Nesaea’s head turned of its own volition, seeking the source of such profane light.

Yiri crouched at the heart of the crossing corridors, a wild sneer stretching her dirty cheeks. Her dark cloak and robes gave her the look of a scruffy bat. Between her hands roiled a jade ball of fire. Waves of heat blew back her matted hair, and her face shone with dread excitement. Her fingers curled, compressing the fireball, making it brighter, hotter.

“Do not wait on our account,” Loro said, backing away, wrapping a protective arm around Fira.

Crackling filaments of green lightning danced over the fireball’s surface. Forge heat baked the corridor, dried Nesaea’s eyes. How can she hold it?

Running feet came closer.

“Before it’s too late,” Loro urged, thrusting Fira behind him.

“ Now .” Yiri’s hoarse whisper filled the air around her with portentous weight. The Wardens dashed into the open, polished swords glittering emerald. Gauntleted hands rose to black-slitted visors. Yiri laughed, and the fireball became a column of blazing death. Snowy tabards blackened, chainmail smoked red-hot, withered flesh burst alight.

A moment later, the magical fire winked out. Yiri danced clear of falling ash, cracked bones, and gobbets of molten steel.

“Gods,” Fira breathed.

“Demons, more like,” Loro said, turning back to Nesaea. “How much longer.”

Blinking against searing afterimages, Nesaea went back to the lock. On the Isles of Giliron, there were masters of alchemy, and those who played at sorcery, but she had never seen the sheer raw power the likes of which this scrawny young woman had just wielded.

“We’ve wasted too much time already,” Yiri said fiercely, striding forward. Smoke curled from her robes, but the immense heat had only raised a pretty blush to her cheeks. Her black eyes sparkled.

“No, sister!” Horge called. “It will destroy you!”

Yiri came on without missing a step. Nesaea needed neither invitation, nor orders. She scrambled clear of the young woman, whose entire body now sizzled with untold energies lighting her within. Arcane words spilled from her lips, merciless fury raged behind her now crimson eyes. Something leaped and thrashed under her blazing flesh, as a shadow dancing beneath a thin coverlet.

A fluttering commotion arose where Horge stood, but Nesaea could not drag her gaze from Yiri. A pace from the scarred doors, she reached out. A patch of air shimmered and grew opaque before her outstretched fingers, then became a rounded shield. With a snarl, she thrust her arms forward, smashing the creation against the doors. Iron banding shrieked as it stretched, wood bulged inward, then all broke asunder with a shuddering explosion. A hail of jagged splinters and whirlwinds of powdered wood filled the air, and a sharp blast of wind knocked Nesaea and the others flat. Lampstands crashed down, their light extinguished, leaving all dim and hazed.

Yiri, alone, remained standing, the shadow within her gone, her blush of eagerness dead. Shoulders and head hanging, she staggered. Horge emerged from the dusted gloom paces from where Nesaea had last seen him. He rushed to his sister, caught her before she collapsed. “Come, rest,” he urged, trying to pull her away from the door. Yiri had neither the heart nor the strength to offer resistance.

Nesaea had just gotten to her hands and knees, when a screaming man in a monk’s habit charged out of the great hall. His blade arced toward Yiri’s face. Horge yelped, Yiri threw up a hand. With a wild rustling, both vanished. The man’s sword flashed through empty space, the force of his missed strike upsetting his balance. He stumbled deeper into the murky corridor. At his feet, two slinking shapes darted out of sight.

“Nesaea?” Loro called. “Yiri … Horge?”

“Beware!” Nesaea shouted back. The swordsman spun toward her, his face masked by the gloom. She ran down the corridor, back the way she and Fira had come. When her sword came to hand, she whirled, fell into a ready crouch.

A racket rose up beyond sight, punctuated by clanging swords, Loro’s shouts, and Fira’s frantic cries. “Wardens!” Loro called, sounding winded. “Run, girl!”

Nesaea refused to abandon her friends, but a shadow came before her, quickly resolved into the silhouetted swordsman. There was something familiar about-

He attacked, an imposing specter bearing the gift of death. With a ringing clash, Nesaea caught his blade against hers. His fist cracked against her ribs, knocking her back. Gasping, she retreated three quick strides, set her feet. He came again, weaving a blur of steel before him.

Blade met blade, the collision numbing her hands. The swordsman bellowed, his weapon flickered and slashed. She met each attack, gritting her teeth. Never had she faced so quick a blade, nor blocked such withering blows. She did now. To do less was to die.

Another flurry of cuts and thrusts set Nesaea into a tripping retreat. She parried a backhand stroke, ducked a chopping strike. The swordsman’s fist struck rapidly, once and again, slamming her cheek, pulverizing her lips.

Legs wobbly, she dropped to one knee. Shaking and dazed, she tossed back her dark hair, spat a mouthful of blood at the feet of her foe. At the same time, she furtively drew her dagger. His next strike might take her life, but not before her short blade stirred his bowels.

He crept closer, cautious now. Somewhere behind him, Fira screamed in pain, and Loro raged. The clamor of colliding steel filled the corridor with an unbroken wall of racket.

Closer the swordsman came, looming.

Nesaea’s eyes climbed to his face. Her pounding heart stilled. “Rathe?”

He missed a step, sword poised. He shook his head, swinging tangled black hair. Black also were his eyes, but not as she remembered. No hint of white showed. All that darkness drew more darkness to it.