R. Salvatore - The Bear

He felt Giavno's approval and a sensation of farewell, and a moment later Cormack looked at Milkeila and announced that they were alone.

But they were not. Weary from his magical expenditures and from simply resisting the urge to possess Brother Cormack, Giavno's ghost swept out of the encampment. He wasn't sure if he wanted to soar through Bannagran's lines to learn what he might of the powerful laird or return straight to St. Mere Abelle and report on Cormack's progress, perhaps to return the next night.

Barely away from the couple, though, Brother Giavno found a detour.

He sensed them before he saw them, their mortal forms compelling his wandering spirit toward them. Their positioning and posture warned him clearly enough, for they-two forms-crept along branches in the direction of Cormack and Milkeila.

Bandits?

Giavno flew in closer. Though he dared not try to read the minds of either, he felt their malice, and he saw their weapons.

He sped back to the encampment and imparted a fast warning, Murderers! Flee! to both.

Cormack sputtered a question, but Giavno didn't pause. He sent forth the thought again, Murderers! Flee! and willed his unseen spirit back to the forest. Ishat Parzun crouched on the thick branch, twisting himself about in an effort to gain a clear look at the low firelight ahead. He held up his fist, signaling his companion to halt. He licked his dry lips, knowing that Affwin Wi would not be pleased if he failed in this. Half their band of eight had been killed: one in a fight with Milwellis's knights; two by the Jhesta Tu Highwayman; and one by the tall scout, Sequin.

Affwin Wi would tolerate no further failures.

But this seemed simple enough. Ishat and Wahloon had teamed on successful assassinations several times before, and these two strangers did not seem so formidable. Not compared with the martial prowess of two Hou-lei warriors, at least.

Still, the assassin reminded himself to take it slow as he crept inch by inch along the upsweeping branch, moving closer to the firelight and higher.

The victims were scrambling! They knew!

Ishat Parzun leaped to his feet and waved Wahloon forward. Off Ishat ran, along the branch, leaping to another and taking a circuitous route to the right of the couple. The man, Cormack, yelled out and grabbed at his arm, and Ishat understood that Wahloon had scored a hit with a shur'a'tu'wikin, a small throwing star, Wahloon's favored weapon.

Now Wahloon had the attention of the couple, and Ishat rushed along, confident of the kill. To the side and above, he leaped and executed a twisting somersault, catching a branch in his grasp. He swung under but held fast as the branch bent forward under his momentum, then reversed his direction, meaning to let go with one hand and spin around at the exact moment of the branch's greatest swingback, dropping from above onto his victims.

He caught it, swung out, and then came back and started to turn.

And then it hit him, as solidly as if a club had struck him on the side of his head. Ishat Parzun had never been violated in this manner before, and the sudden and vicious encroachment of another soul into his mortal body revolted him so profoundly that he lost all sense of where he was.

Somewhere in the distance the woman shaman screamed a warning. He flew from the branch, tumbling out of control. He landed feetfirst, but falling forward, hooking his toes awkwardly, and the ground rushed up to slam him in the face.

But Ishat didn't feel that impact, or the blood rushing out of his shattered nose, or the sharp pain about one eye from a crushed socket. No, his pain was internal at that awful moment, as a clawing, shadowy form assailed something more profound and sensitive than his flesh, as an invading spirit fought to expel him from his own corporeal coil. Milkeila's cry and her shove were the only things that allowed Cormack to fall out of the way of the flying black-clad form. The back of his arm torn and burning with fiery pain, Cormack stumbled and fell to one knee as the assassin flew past him, landing hard. The man's awkward descent made no sense to Cormack and Milkeila, for they thought these warriors akin to the graceful Highwayman.

The monk didn't focus on that unexplained event, though. Expecting more of the sharp missiles from the man crossing the other side of the encampment, Cormack threw himself into a forward roll and came back to his feet angling to the side. He spied the other assailant, the man's arm up to throw, but before he ever executed the throw, the small campfire exploded, directionally and with the blast aimed right at the star-throwing assailant. Sparks and cinders cut through the darkness, and the warrior launched himself sidelong through the air.

Cormack glanced at Milkeila. Of course she had done that! She faced the fire, chanting to the ancient spirits of the earth, bending the flames.

"Come!" Cormack called to her. "Quickly! We know not how many more are about!" He scrambled to her side, and together they ran into the tree line. A whistle just over his head was the only indication Cormack had of how close the next missile had come.

They had barely reached the trees when Milkeila spun back and raised her staff and necklace, and Cormack noted a wave of energy, like the distortion of a heated surface, roll out from her. The assailant nearest them writhed on the ground, seemingly out of his senses, but the other man had nimbly come back to his feet. He started forward but jerked weirdly, for the grass was grabbing at his feet, and when he tore one foot free, a clump of dirt went flying! He did well to regain his balance almost immediately, but then a branch bent down at him, as if grabbing at him!

And indeed it was. Cormack marveled at his wife's attunement with the plants about them. Strong was Milkeila's magic, and without gemstones, and it remained one of Cormack's greatest laments that his order would not study the mysterious powers of Yan Ossum, would not see them in concert with the powers bestowed by the gemstones of Blessed Abelle.

Now Milkeila went with him into the darkness of the tree line, but barely had they entered when the woman stopped and shook her head, looking back the way they had come. If Brother Giavno could have seen his own body, far across the miles in St. Mere Abelle, he was certain that his face would be streaked with tears. The tumult and darkness of possession engulfed him and swirled and jumbled everything he had known to be good or evil.

Even so, he could not stop. For the sake of Cormack and Milkeila, perhaps for the success or failure of the war itself, he could not surrender this battle. So he thrashed, losing himself in the fury of the moment, battling for control, muscle by muscle.

The body he had invaded was enough his own at that point for him to feel the grab on his shoulder when the assassin's companion came by, yanking him roughly to his feet.

"Ishat!" he heard the man scold him, and he saw momentarily out of Ishat's eyes to witness the other man lift his arm, a small circular throwing missile in hand.

Brother Giavno tried to yell out, "Cormack," but nothing decipherable came forth from the twisted lips. The monk gained enough control of one arm to lash out, though, his punch slamming his companion in the jaw just as he moved to throw.

The momentum had Ishat stumbling forward into the lurching man-at least until that warrior deftly and powerfully caught his balance and shifted in a twist, throwing Ishat over his hip. Staggering, out of control, both Giavno and Ishat reflexively recoiled as they went face-first into the fire.

Explosions of searing pain assaulted Giavno and Ishat simultaneously, and now the corporeal form did scream out, as the two inhabitants found common agony. Arms and legs began thrashing, desperately trying to get out of the blaze. He-they-hit the dirt and began rolling about wildly to douse the biting flames.