Эд Гринвуд - Stormlight

Time to start earning the tall stacks of coins a boldshield was paid—tall if they were coppers, at least.

As Ergluth turned that way, he saw under the shattered stone the agonized face of a veteran, a man he knew well. The armsman’s back was broken; the pillar had crushed him below the waist, and now he was twisting and contorting in soundless agony, drumming one fist vainly against the ruined floor tiles.

Without hesitation, the boldshield said gravely, “You shall be avenged,” and drove his sword in deep through that gaping mouth, to end the pain.

Time indeed to start earning those coins.

Storm went forward like a soft shadow moving through the gloom. Her eyes could see as well as those of any cat. Sometimes it was useful to be a Chosen of Mystra. The foe had been above them, and just about … there. If she took that stair—

The night behind her suddenly lit up with a burst of flame, and she heard more screams and groans. More Purple Dragons down. She set her teeth grimly. Still, if they’d stayed in the rooms by the kitchens, the shapeshifter could have strolled up and cooked them all at leisure by hurling that same spell into their laps … At least this way the armsmen would die with swords in their hands. Still—they died.

There was a second flash, a little nearer. This one showed Storm a lone figure standing two rooms away, staring at her: Shayna Summerstar.

“Storm!” the young woman screamed. “Lady Storm! Save meeee!” She broke into a run, bare feet slapping on the stones in her frantic haste.

“Shayna!” the bard cried. She took twelve quick strides to the right, into deep shadow, and drew her sword.

It would be a bright sunset and a royal visit here, both, before she’d believe that lass was anything but a pawn of the foe.

She waited, still and silent. As long, wary breaths dragged by, she knew she’d been right. Shayna would have reached her by now if that terrified run had been genuine.

As if that thought had been a cue, there were scattered shouts from far off behind her, and one despairing wail. The foe was on the loose.

Storm glared into the darkness and then set forth like a panther on the hunt. If she let this go on, she might be the only defender still alive by the time the sun rose over the ruin of Firefall Keep. Yet she could do nothing to stop it that would not endanger her friends even more … and all this death was coming down on them because of her.

They died just as Maxer had died.

Sometimes it was a terrible thing to be a Chosen of Mystra.

Enough brooding. Somewhere off to the right should be the outermost passageway, and a stair that would take her up. Then she could circle back toward the foe. Shayna Summerstar, pretty little lure that she was, would have to start following, not lying in wait here, there, and everywhere.

A lance of ruby light split the darkness behind her. Storm threw herself headlong through a door, onto rubble, and smelled burnt leather from her right boot as the ravening radiance sang on down the passage. Calling up a shield spell, she stepped back out into the hallway. Ruby fire stabbed at her again.

She had a brief glimpse of Shayna’s smiling face, chestnut hair plastered to an ivory forehead beneath a coronet whose upswept tips were emitting the ray—and then ruby death struck her shield, splashed out a spectacular shower of rosy sparks, and rebounded back down the hall.

There was a startled cry and then darkness and silence. Tasting her own weapon was not something a Summerstar heiress welcomed, it seemed.

“That’s a Battlestar circlet,” Storm murmured aloud. “Did she slay Zarova to get it?” She turned and ran lightly down the passage, heading for the stair she’d intended to use. No skulking. No little miss was going to dictate where she could go in this battle.

She was halfway up it when a rattle of tiny bouncing stones warned her. She threw herself sideways, slipped on stones, and ended up half over the rail. The wind was knocked out of her and she almost plunged over it.

A moment later, a statue as large as she was smashed into the steps above her. The impact showered her with jagged stone shards. The statue bounced past and slid to the bottom of the stair, leaving ruin in its wake. The rail under her shuddered, but the stair held.

“Bitch,” she muttered to herself. “So it’s toss the tower at Storm time again, is it?” She ascended the stairs at a run, lifting her voice merrily in the ballad “I Walk Carefree In the Moonlight.”

A fist-sized stone whizzed past her nose. She grinned, somersaulted, and listened to another stony missile strike the floor and skitter away into the night. Aiming was not Shayna’s strength.

Storm finished her song as she dodged forward in a series of zigzag runs at the place where Shayna must be—and was rewarded by a soft curse and the sounds of frantic fleeing.

Now we’re getting somewhere. Run, little rabbit, and don’t look back, because I’ll be close behind you.

They burst out into an open gallery, running toward where the foe had toppled the pillar. Shayna was a pale, flitting form ahead. Storm put her head down and sprinted.

She was only a few paces behind when Shayna darted aside, into a chamber whose floor now formed a jagged bridge across an open, blasted ruined area.

Startled at how close Storm was, the Summerstar heiress called on her coronet again, splashing the bard—and the pillars on either side of her—with ruby fire.

Storm’s shield held, but the pillars burst apart—and the Bard of Shadowdale had to leap for her life as the ceiling came down.

Mocking laughter echoed around Storm as she rolled, came to her feet and ran on. She caught her hand on a doorframe to spin around into that room—and found the space no longer had a floor.

She fell hard, jarring her chin against her knees as she struck loose rubble with both boots … and then started to slide helplessly backward. Above her, ruby fire flashed again. A larger explosion shook the loftiest levels. Storm saw remnants of walls toppling slowly down at her as she rode shifting rubble down. At last she could roll over and find her feet again. Huge stone blocks were crashing down all around her by then.

It was time to find another stair and do it all over again.

“Shayna, dear!” she called gaily, “I’m coming for you!”

Storm was rewarded with a hissed curse and ruby death stabbing wildly down through an empty chamber behind her. As sparks danced and flew in the darkness, Storm found steps going up. She took them.

“Mystra, be with me now,” she breathed. She whirled around a landing and pounded up the next flight. “If you like fun and folk making idiots of themselves with magic, you won’t want to miss this!”

“Something moved, I tell you!” the Purple Dragon snarled. He pointed with his sword. “Right—there!”

“Easy,” Insprin Turnstone said from behind him, raising his wand. “There’s naught but death to be gained from rushing off into the darkness hacking at things!”

“What do wizards know of real war?” the armsman spat over his shoulder. “Keep to what you know, mage, and—”

His words broke off in a sudden gurgle.

To the warrior at his other shoulder, Insprin said sharply, “Your torch! Quickly! ”

They’d been cut off from the boldshield’s rally by falling stones and spells that sent small, seeking balls of flame. We’ve not been cut off, but herded , Insprin thought bitterly. Now they were somewhere along the backstairs passage the servants called the Lower Run, well away from the Haunted Tower. The darkness around seemed a waiting, watching, menacing thing.

Now, as Insprin had feared, the darkness was beginning to grow tentacles. Playing with its prey.