Sam Bowring - Prophecy's Ruin

Tyrellan knew enough about magic to prevent him flinging the blade while the mages were warring at their strongest. That would be when all kinds of defences were raised, and a lone physical attack from an unprotected source would result in almost automatic death for the dealer. He needed to wait, wait until she was hurt, confused, down from an attack. He needed to wait until her defences had been broken.

He did not have to wait long.

A twisting root shot from the ground, wrapping itself around Elessa’s leg. She hacked it away with her conjured sword and immediately two more took its place. They were thorny, puncturing her flesh as they wound about her. She disintegrated them with bolts of power, but knew she was only attacking the limbs of the spell, not the heart. More roots snaked up, binding her more quickly than she could hack or fry them.

She knew she took a risk in diverting enough power from her defence to kill the spell, but she also knew she had no choice. With a few well-directed bolts of energy she managed to free a single leg, then stamped it on the ground. A gaping crack ran out from her foot, exposing a mass of roots all split in two and squirming like beheaded worms.

Fazel wasted no time. With her power diverted, he shot bolts of blue energy at her. Several sizzled to nothing in her aura of light, but one penetrated all the way and cracked against her shoulder. The strength of it flattened her, leaving her in the mud fighting to think straight.

From high above came the flash of a turning blade. She heard a wet slap as the dagger buried itself in her side. She screamed, instinctively directing a stream of molten fire towards her new enemy with one hand while strengthening her defence against Fazel with the other. Her power surged, fuelled by rage, pain and fear. Then, as she gasped and drew the dagger from her flesh, a voice echoed in her head that fuelled her with hope as well. Hold fast, Elessa Lanclara, it said. Reinforcements are at hand.

It was another mage of the Halls, not far away!

Dakur saw the dagger hit Elessa and that changed everything. No longer was this a fight of magic alone.

‘What a fool I’ve been!’ he muttered as he thrust the door open to run out into the storm. ‘Tarrying inside like a snail in its shell!’

He darted into the trees at the side of the house and began to make his way around the perimeter of the clearing, keeping well hidden from the eye of the undead mage.

‘Forgive me, girl, I should not have listened to you!’

He slowed, moving stealthily from tree to tree, pausing with his back to each one, listening for any sounds of approach – though the storm would mask all but an ogre’s footsteps. Had Elessa’s fire scorched the goblin who had let the dagger fly? Was there just one of the little bastards running around out here, or two?

He started as Elessa’s voice echoed in his head. The one who attacked me is just ahead of you.

The blade glanced through the trees at the continuing battle, worried that Elessa’s communication with him might have cost her, but she seemed strangely empowered for all her hurts.

Look to yourself , he communicated back, but was thankful for the warning.

Tyrellan rested a moment. The liquid fire had not sprung from Elessa’s hand to him instantaneously, but rather had issued like a jet of water. Changes in her aim had to travel along the stream, so the whole thing had arced just a step or two behind him the entire way.

He had abandoned his perch as soon as the dagger had left his fingertips, swinging around the tree to place it between himself and the mage, then dropping straight down. As he dropped he’d heard fire hit the tree on the other side and follow his trajectory down the trunk. About halfway down, he’d caught hold of another branch and swung off in a new direction, hot cinders falling after him on the backs of raindrops. He’d leaped and swung from tree to tree, the stream of fire trailing after him. He knew he’d be dead the moment he paused.

He hit the ground running, burning droplets smattering his back as the fire engulfed a branch behind him. He dived away, always focusing on putting a high root or fallen log between himself and molten death. The whole trial had lasted seconds, but for him the time stretched like sap.

Finally he’d heard the magic hiss out behind him. He’d slowed his pace and curved back towards the clearing. His back stung, but the rain soothed it. Perhaps it wouldn’t scar. Tyrellan had never understood fools who showed off battle scars like trophies. Only the most formidable passed through a lifetime of danger unscathed.

He hadn’t seen whether or not his attack had drawn out the blade – or in which direction the man had gone. He reached the perimeter of the clearing and slipped into the lee of a rock, peering towards the hut. Either the guard was still inside or he’d already left; there was no way yet to tell.

Tyrellan bared his fangs and rested a moment.

Rhobi watched the blade burst from the hut and run into the forest. He passed so close that Rhobi could have leaped onto his back with a knife. But since the blade was going after Tyrellan, and Rhobi didn’t care which of the two ended up dead, he didn’t see any need to intercede. Instead he turned his attention to the hut.

Entering by the door was out of the question. It was surely bolted, and getting through would take time and place him in the open. Breaking a window, while quick, would alert both the woodsman inside and the Varenkai mage. The chimney? He peered up at it and saw smoke. He had no desire to dry off that quickly.

Damn this.

It was going to have to be a window. At least there was one on the tree side of the hut. Hopefully the mage would be too caught up in her own troubles to pay attention – and anyway, would she dare attempt an offensive when he was so close to the child?

Rhobi picked up a rock, tested its weight and stared at the window. He could see nothing inside save a wall dappled by firelight, the edge of a bed and the opposite window. He decided to try to smash out both windows with one shot, giving himself double exit points.

He hefted the stone and sent it flying, shattering the windows almost simultaneously. Would the woodsman even know from which direction the stone had come?

What a talented fellow I am , Rhobi thought with a grin, and somersaulted out of the storm.

As he whirled through the smashed window, he felt the waft of a great axe head swing just beneath him. He landed on the hut floor and leaped backwards in one fluid move, a dagger jumping into each hand.

Opposite him stood the woodsman – a hulk of a Varenkai with torn hair and beard. From under thick brows, enraged eyes met his, while behind the man the child wailed in its crib.

‘Why, you almost had me landing in two pieces,’ said Rhobi. ‘Didn’t your bitch of a mother teach you how to treat a guest?’

Before he’d finished speaking he was hurling one of the daggers at the man’s chest, but Corlas was ready. He flicked the axe head to intercept and the blade clattered harmlessly to the floor. Rhobi gave a nod of appreciation and drew his sword.

‘When I’m done with you,’ rumbled Corlas, ‘it won’t just be the rain you’re dripping with.’

He bellowed, swinging the axe before him in great sweeping arcs. It was a fearsome sight, and for a moment Rhobi was worried. Then he saw something so simple it made him chuckle.

In a lightning move he dropped to his knees, gripped the rug in both claws and yanked with all his strength. Corlas’s feet shot out from underneath him and, arms flailing, he fell. There was an almighty crash as his head cracked the floorboards.