Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

Instantly, he bounced to his feet, and Mar-Yilot saw the rage in his eyes just before he disappeared. She put her back to the window to prevent his getting between her and her escape route, then she cast a glance at the ceiling. Joooms, she knew, preferred to drop from above when attacking in his lizard shape.

She then threw all her energy into penetrating Terril’s cloak. She saw them both, for Joooms had cloaked too, and they were evidently oblivious of each other, for they were about to bump together. Mar-Yilot didn’t pause. She tossed herself backward, issuing from the arrow-slit in her butterfly shape. One opponent at a time was plenty, and Joooms, at least, could not pursue her out here.

He could hurl missiles, however, and he immediately rushed to the window slit and began dropping things on her. She expected fire, and dodged downward accordingly. But the lizard was a wily foe; he’d tossed a small ball of water instead, and it slammed down onto her with wing-crushing brutality.

Mar-Yilot plummeted toward the pavement of the courtyard below, fluttering madly to regain control of her tiny body. She would have been easy prey in that moment to the burning acid of a clawsp attack.

Given their relative sizes, one mere touch of Terril’s chemically coated exoskeleton would have paralyzed her long enough for her two opponents to deliver the coup de grace. But Terril and Joooms were not fighting in concert. They couldn’t read one another’s minds. Thus when Mar-Yilot dove out the window, Terril shot out afterward, and Joooms’s water projectile had also knocked him from the sky.

Mar-Yilot managed to soften her fall enough to hit the cobblestones on her human feet. Not so, Terril.

He struck the pavement hard enough to bounce twice. His hard shell withstood the shock, but it dazed him, and he lay there motionless for a moment. Mar-Yilot chanced to see him and raced over to try to crush him underfoot. Hearing her approach, he took his human shape. Mar-Yilot growled in frustration at the missed opportunity, but she did manage one well-placed kick before he disappeared. She kicked again at where he’d been, but he’d had the presence of mind to roll aside. She could remain no longer.

Joooms was throwing down fire now, and flaming balls filled the air above her. Winged again, she soared upward, dodging his fireworks and flying past him to a higher level of the High Fortress. She wanted to check on Rosha.

She found him catching his breath on a stairway. “Are you all right?” she whispered. He just nodded. He hadn’t the wind to tell her he’d just battled five slavers upon this stair; if she glanced around, she could see the evidence for herself. “Good,” she grunted. “I don’t know how much more I can help you. Both Joooms and Terril are onto me—” She paused, listening for a moment, then raced on. “Even now this fortress is telling them where to find me. Filthy mudgecurdle!” she screamed at the walls, and the corridors all around them filled with flames thrown from her hands. She was angry, and her fires burned hot.

Rosha could hear nothing save his own breathing; but from the satisfied sneer on Mar-Yilot’s face, he gathered that the fortress was howling in agony. He felt none of her satisfaction. The castle’s anguish merely saddened him. Like Pahd, it was but a helpless Drax piece in a game played by shapers. Rosha wondered idly if he was anything more?

“Must go,” Mar-Yilot said. “They’ve traced me here. If I battle them in your presence, you’ll get killed in the backwash. Good luck.” Mar-Yilot disappeared.

A moment later Rosha heard something whistle by his head. He gave no thought to it. That was shaper’s business, not his. He focused his attention on the battle to come; despite his weariness and the blood that coated his blade, these had been only the preliminary matches. The real fight remained above him.

He lunged up the stairway and rounded the corner that would lead him to Flayh’s tower. There he skittered to a stop, struggling to control the nausea the sight of that face always stirred inside of him. His way was blocked by Admon Faye.

“Well.” The slaver smiled. “When Lord Flayh sent me word you were on your way up, I’d hoped I might get the chance to renew old acquaintance. I’m sure the pleasure is all mine.”

“I’m sure it must be, too,” Rosha responded, controlling his stomach. “I can think of no one who might take pleasure at the sight of you.”

Admon Faye chuckled deep in his throat. “Fine. Well, boy, let’s get to the business of gutting you.”

Ordinarily they would have been evenly matched, for the slaver was an excellent swordsman. Although Pahd had always held the reputation of the best in the land, he had never dueled Admon Faye, and the slaver’s reputation with the blade spanned all three lands. Rosha had battled the slaver before; but at that time, he’d had the advantage. He’d surprised the burly brigand and had wounded him in the back before that clash had truly begun. Even at that, Rosha had been hard-pressed to beat the man.

This time Rosha was at a disadvantage. His combat with Pahd had drained him, emotionally as well as physically. Dispatching the five slavers on the staircase had winded him further. Then he’d had to dash up here. Admon Faye was fresh, and Rosha saw another slaver waiting behind to reinforce his ugly master. Rosha wished Mar-Yilot would make another brief appearance, but she did not. He awaited the slaver’s attack, marshalling his strength.

Admon Faye sneered. “You see this lad, little Tibb? He’s caused me no end of troubles. Even tore a hole in my back once, and I think he believed he’d killed me. Life is funny, Tibb. When you least expect it, life presents you with an opportunity for vengeance.” The slaver danced lightly forward as he said this, and his sword tip came whistling upward. Rosha knocked it away with a jarring clang, and they were into it. The hallway echoed like a forge with the sounds of their hammering.

It was a narrow passageway, unsuited for swordplay. Here again Admon Faye had the advantage, for Rosha threw frequent glances behind him, expecting a new crowd of slavers to rush up at any moment.

Admon Faye had the security of protected flanks. He also held a shorter, more maneuverable blade. A chuckle rumbled out of him. He was enjoying this.

Rosha kept Admon Faye back with short thrusts of his greatsword, but the slaver proved nimble. He dodged each of Rosha’s jabs, and kept advancing, watching for an opening. He used his ugly smile as a psychological bludgeon, and his eyes bored into those of his young opponent. Rosha was obviously physically weary. Admon Faye sought ways to tire him mentally as well. His eyes darted over Rosha’s shoulder, forcing Rosha to step backward and check behind him. When the young warrior’s head snapped forward, Admon Faye had advanced another step, and was snickering. A moment later the slaver did this again, with the same result.

“Are you going to back all the way out of the castle?” The slaver grinned. Rosha answered by springing forward. Admon Faye dodged. At the same moment, he flicked his sword across Rosha’s face. Only the warrior’s quick reflexes saved the tip of his nose. But once more he’d lost ground. He was already feeling exhausted.

Admon Faye bobbed his head, glancing again over Rosha’s shoulder. “There’s no one there!” the young swordsman bellowed, refusing to be duped again.

“Good,” Admon Faye soothed mockingly. “Don’t look behind you. Why should there be any slavers behind you, responding to the sound of swords clashing in the heart of the fortress?”

Rosha took a chance. He lunged forward mightily, hoping to skewer his adversary. It was not a reasoned maneuver, nor did it prove successful. Admon Faye danced aside again, but this time he threw out a mailed hand to trap Rosha’s sword against the wall. He also threw a devastating kick into Rosha’s stomach, and the young warrior came loose from his weapon. Admon Faye let the trapped blade clatter to the floor, following up his kick with a diving tackle that knocked Rosha onto his back. They wrestled briefly, but Admon Faye clearly had the upper hand. Rosha felt the slaver’s blade against his throat, and all the fight drained out of him. He’d done his best. He’d lost. He wished he’d had a chance to kiss Bronwynn good-bye and wondered briefly if she was even now being trampled by a tugolith…