Paul Thompson - Destiny

The two younger elves were in the lead, with Kerian and Taranath only yards behind. The mountainside they were climbing was still washed in late-morning sunshine, but the center of the valley was as deeply shaded as though dusk had come. A column of dust and debris, like a captive tornado, slowly rose from the ground to the center of the cloud. The sight drew an anguished cry from young Hytanthas, who halted in his tracks. The others kept moving, and as Kerian came abreast of him, she gruffly told him to do the same.

“Commander, our people are there!” he protested.

“I know.”

“The Speaker is there!”

She took his arm in a painful grip and pushed him onward. “I know!” she snapped, not even glancing at the camp. “The only way we can help them is by going on!”

They jogged to catch up with the others. Taranath was closest; Robien was a few yards ahead of him. As the Lioness and Hytanthas came abreast of Taranath, a streak of brown hurtled from the wind-whipped bushes on the right and hit Robien square in the chest. The bounty hunter went down hard. The furious wind had masked any telltale sounds. The attack had taken them all completely by surprise. Hytanthas shouted. All three drew swords and ran to Robien’s aid.

He rolled over and over, clutching the neck of a furry beast. He managed to hold it away from his throat and somehow halt their tumbling with himself on top. Letting go with his left hand, he jammed a forearm against the creature’s jaw. It writhed, trying to throw Robien off. He planted a knee in its ribs.

Racing to cover the distance, Taranath recognized Robien’s attacker. “It’s the beast the priestess banished!” he exclaimed.

“Shobbat?” Kerian was furious. She’d wanted to kill the creature when it appeared in their camp. By flinging the monster away, Sa’ida had only delayed the inevitable and put Robien’s life at risk in the bargain.

“Kill him!” she shouted.

Despite the wind, Shobbat had no trouble hearing the Lioness’s command. He had jumped Robien to keep the bounty hunter from leading the laddad to Faeterus. If the laddad captured the sorcerer, Shobbat might never be free of his hell of fur and fangs. The Lioness’s shout caused him to fight even harder, and he had an important advantage over his foe. All the stealth and strength of his beastly form was coupled with the cleverness of a man’s brain. He opened his jaws, releasing his hold on the bounty hunter’s tunic, curled a long-fingered forepaw into a fist, and punched the elf hard in the face.

Robien saw three suns, as the kender say. As his head snapped backward from the blow, he flung up an arm to ward off further strikes. Shobbat’s jaws opened, ready to clamp down on the unprotected arm.

His teeth found only air. Taranath had arrived, and his sword sliced through Shobbat’s short, bushy tail. Shobbat shrieked in pain. Kerian bore in, thrusting her weapon’s point at his chest. Her blade found fur and slid across, but leaving a long, deep cut. While they kept Shobbat busy, Hytanthas dragged Robien out of the way. Kerian could hear the young captain frantically asking Robien where he was hurt, but she and Taranath kept their attention on the crouching beast. Blood dripped from Shobbat’s chest.

“You will regret this!” he rasped.

“My only regret is not killing you sooner!”

Kerian lunged, and Taranath followed half a heartbeat later. Despite his wounds, Shobbat astonished them all. Coiling himself almost double, he sprang, not directly at his attackers, but completely over their heads. They whirled but he was faster. In two bounds he had vanished into the low brush and scrub pines.

Hytanthas was tending Robien’s wound. Taranath’s timely intervention had saved the Kagonesti’s arm, but in his first pounce, Shobbat had scored two bloody lines on Robien’s right shoulder with his fangs. Although not crippling, the injury was painful. Robien watched in stoic silence as Hytanthas bandaged the wound with a linen strip.

There was no time to rest. Robien drank from the water bottle Hytanthas pressed on him then took the lead again. In obvious pain, his face damp with sweat, he set an even more rapid pace than before his injury. The wind was destroying the trail. The fire on the mountainside had died before the gale began. Without the smoke column to guide them, they had to hurry before all signs were lost.

Eventually they spotted the tableland inset in the mountainside a few miles above. It was obviously wrought by hand and appeared a likely place for a mighty conjuration. The fast-fading traces of the trail headed directly for it.

Robien prided himself on his detachment. He could track the worst criminal or bring to heel the most pathetic debtor with equal efficiency and aplomb. Shobbat’s attack was the latest in a line of confidence-shaking assaults and it had infuriated him. His quarry was Faeterus, but if an opportunity to slay Shobbat presented itself, Robien would seize it without hesitation.

Favaronas paused to catch his breath. He was nearly to his goal. The edge of the plateau was only a few feet away. In a short time, he would be free of his torment, and Faeterus would be denied whatever ugly fate he had in mind for his captive. Part of him wished he could see the sorcerer’s design finished, if only to witness the unmasking of the awesome, ancient power. But Faeterus wanted him alive to test the efficacy of the spell. At least Favaronas would have the satisfaction of denying him that.

The wind was blasting relentlessly down the mountain, across the valley, and up into the writhing, black cloud. The cloud was massive, over a mile in diameter. Faeterus’s bellowing chant ended abruptly. Favaronas risked a glance over one shoulder.

Palms pressed together, Faeterus thrust his hands skyward. In Old Elvish he roared, “Now shall the Eye of Darkness seize the sun!”

A silent concussion shook air and ground. The wind went from full gale to dead calm in an instant, as though a great door had slammed shut, and the sky darkened rapidly. The black cloud flattened out, spreading like dark oil to blot out the sky. Noon was only an hour away, yet twilight was consuming Inath-Wakenti. The air rapidly cooled.

Favaronas wrenched his attention away from the aerial spectacle and frantically dragged himself the last few feet to the lip of the plateau. He heaved his upper body over, and the drop spun before his eyes. He would fall at least forty yards before striking rocks. That ought to be more than enough to kill him.

Elves were climbing up the mountain toward him.

He gripped the plateau’s edge with both hands, not daring to believe his eyes. Several figures darted among the trees. Even in the occulted light, he could see glints of metal on them. The Speaker’s soldiers were coming!

As frantically as he had rushed headlong toward his own destruction, Favaronas now shoved himself back from the edge. Three, perhaps four, tiny figures moved among the sparse trees knotted bushes, and tumbled boulders. They must be scouts, for a much larger body of warriors following behind.

Stealing a careful look at Faeterus, he saw the sorcerer had gone to consult the lengthy scroll. Relief washed through him, so strong it made his head throb. Faeterus had not noticed the approach of the scouts nor Favaronas’s position at the edge of the Stair.

He looked downslope again. The scouts were no longer visible. Squeezing his eyes shut, he willed them to hurry.

The sudden cessation of the wind left the Speaker’s loyal bearers breathless. They had held on to him as shipwrecked mariners cling to a raft, but in spite of their fears, the wind never became strong enough to endanger them. The camp was scoured clean of every small, loose object. Half the shelters-those closest to the stone platform-were a tangle of fallen canvas, broken stakes, and snarled rope.