Paul Kemp - Twilight Falling

Halthor continued to stare hate at him while stanching his wound with a fat hand. Surprisingly, the bleeding stopped. Halthor grinned. Cale returned a stare, promised with his eyes that their next combat would be fatal. Cale knew his real name-Dolgan. He would not forget it.

"As I was saying, Mister Cale," Almor said. "We'll be leaving now."

She glanced at the five corpses on the floor and again somehow twisted a warrior's face into a feminine smile. Cale wondered what her real name was. He wouldn't have forgotten that either.

"You've been most hospitable," said Halthor, then he spat on the body of one of the guards. "Thank you."

"Whoreson," Ren said.

"Shut up," Almor ordered.

It was all Cale could do not to attack. Everything in him screamed for him to gut Halthor, to slit Almor's throat and tear her head from her shoulders. But he held on.

From back in the parlor, Cale could hear house guards rushing toward them. They'd be too late, he knew.

Halthor picked up his sword and stumbled through the doorway. Derg kicked one of the dead guards and followed. Still holding the boy to keep Cale at bay, Almor backed through the doorway.

To Cale, Ren mouthed the words, Kill them. Cale made no reply. He would kill them, but not there, not then.

He followed them through the door onto the large porch overlooking the lawn and courtyard. In one hand he held his sword, in the other, his last throwing dagger.

"More coming," Derg said to Almor. He didn't sound alarmed.

From across the courtyard, another patrol was rushing toward them. Cale couldn't see numbers in the darkness, only torches. Shouted voices rang out. More shouts answered from within the manse. House guards were closing from both sides.

"Halt! Halt!"

Cale figured maybe six or seven men. He looked to Almor.

"You're out," he said. "Let him go."

She grinned at him, winked, and said, "Good-bye, Mister Cale. Don't forget your promise to me, now. I'll look forward to seeing you again."

With a free hand, she removed a small bronze rod from her belt. Gold runes swirled around it, and parts of it rotated. She began to manipulate it, with difficulty though because she could use but one hand.

To her men, she said, "Go."

In Cale's head, a woman's voice said, Nice to have met you, Erevis.

Hearing her "speak" his name made him feel soiled.

"You won't think it's so nice, next time," he said.

He'd never killed a woman before, though he had come close once. She would be his first.

Each of her men removed a similar device from a pocket and began to turn its parts.

Cale could do nothing but grit his teeth and stand there. She still had Ren.

Almor winked at him and said, "I'll keep him, Cale. Just to make sure."

Without any sound, without even a flash of magical light, Almor simply disappeared. And took Ren with her. One instant they were there, the next they were gone.

"Godsdamnit!"

In the next breath, Derg was gone.

Cale raised his dagger to throw. Halthor, his thick fingers slicked with blood, fumbled with the teleportation rod. Cale hurled the dagger and charged.

The sliver of steel took Halthor in the stomach and nearly doubled him over. Cale charged forward. Halthor pulled the dagger from his flesh and tried to parry with his sword. Cale would have none of it.

Using the force of his momentum, he swept Halthor's blade out wide, then suddenly reversed his motion and slammed the hilt of his sword into the man's face. Squarely. Bone crunched, and blood sprayed. The big man's head snapped back and he groaned in agony, a sound lost in the gurgle of blood pouring into his mouth. He dropped his teleportation rod and staggered back, reeling.

"Still seem tame, you bastard?"

Halthor muttered something, but a mouthful of blood, a split lip, and several dislodged teeth made it unintelligible. He still gripped Thamalon's sphere in his hand. Cale knew that if he could stop Halthor, the Almor lookalike would come back for it.

From behind, he could hear the guards charging into the reception hall. Behind Halthor, the grounds patrol closed in. They had him surrounded. They could take him alive if they wished.

No.

Cale decided that Halthor would be dead before the guards arrived. If they needed to speak with his corpse, the Uskevren could hire a priest. If he'd had time, Cale would have killed the man painfully for what he'd done.

He advanced, blade held low.

Though bleary-eyed and wounded, Halthor did not back away. Instead, he stood his ground and began to laugh. To Laugh. Not at Cale, it seemed, but as though he found being wounded and about to die exhilarating. His illusionary fat stomach bounced with his mirth. Blood frothed in the mess of his mouth.

Cale was disgusted, but lunged forward anyway and chopped downward, a blow that would split Halthor's fat, balding head right down the middle.

Stunningly quick for such a big man, Halthor raised his arms and interposed the sphere before Cale's slash, still smiling. Cale's enchanted sword rang off the quartz-

— and sound exploded in Cale's ears, as loud as the braying of a thousand Cormyrean bass shawms. A shower of sparks flew from the sphere, raced up Cale's blade, and danced around his arms. His hands went instantly numb. His sword fell from his grasp. A wave of concussive energy erupted outward from the sphere and blew him back toward the manse. He crashed into the doorjamb and sank to the floor with a groan.

The explosion knocked Halthor flat onto his back and drove him a full handbreadth into the ground. He recovered more quickly than Cale. As he sat up, he left the outline of his body imprinted in the soil.

Bleeding not only from his nose and mouth but also from his eyes and ears, Halthor still somehow wore a twisted smile. He got to all fours and crawled forward toward his teleportation rod.

The guards were coming, Cale knew, but would not get there in time. The explosion had knocked them to the ground as well. He struggled to get up. His legs would not respond. He fell to his side, helpless as a babe.

Halthor fumbled with the teleportation rod, still grinning like a jester.

"Halt!" shouted the house guards.

They had regained their feet. The concussive energy must not have affected them as severely. Crossbows twanged, and bolts stuck in the earth beside Halthor. He ignored them.

"Wondafa," he managed to say to Cale through his broken mouth. "Wondafa."

It took Cale a moment to understand: Wonderful, he had said. Dark! Who in the Hells were these people?

Seemingly satisfied with the setting on his teleportation rod, Halthor leered at Cale. He tried to raise the sphere as though it were a trophy but was too weak to lift it. To Cale, the sphere looked wrong, as though the explosion had left it misshapen, though Cale's muddled brain did not quite register how. So instead of lifting it, Halthor settled for cradling it to his side. One more twist of the rod and he was gone.

Guards rushed forward moments later. Voices filled Cale's ears but he could not distinguish words. He stared at the ground near where Halthor had fallen. He stared for a long while, trying to focus on what lay there. When it finally registered, when he finally understood what it was, he began to laugh.

The guards helping him to his feet shot him perplexed looks. Cale did not bother to explain.

Wonderful indeed, he thought and laughed still more.

The sphere had not been misshapen, and Halthor, the fat dolt, had not teleported out with it. He had teleported out with only half of it. Cale's blade had split it cleanly down the middle, exactly what he had intended to do to Halthor's skull. The other half lay in the grass, inert.

They'd be after it, Cale knew. And next time, he would be ready.