Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

The length of steel-braided cord looped round his neck. She allowed her weight to bow him over backward as the cord dug into his neck. The garrote had not landed perfectly, and he was half-turned to her. There was no room to maneuver for a better hold. He did not waste time clawing at the cord but dropped sword and went for a knife. If she let go, she was weaponless. Luckweaver would never be drawn in such a small space. Any sorcery this close to the devils would have to be major, and Feltan was on the other side of the man. She pulled harder, straining; her wounded arm protested, bleeding afresh.

She tried to hide behind his own body, but he was a man who knew death and was determined to take his killer with him. Even as his breathing hissed and he began to die, the knife struck backward, cutting through leather armor like it wasn’t there.

“An enchanted knife, too many damned enchanted items tonight,” she thought. The blade took her. She gasped and gave one last tug. Whether the force of the pull, or the wound, the world spun for a second. The man slumped backward. She let him fall brushing past.

The knife stuck halfway into her side just above the leg joint. She gripped the hilt, trying to control her breathing, to control her own fear, to slow the heart rate, and the blood flow. Sometimes it worked; sometimes it didn’t. The blade pulled free, and she gasped for air like a stranded fish. Blood poured in a red wash. Keleios moved the short distance to the dead man’s neck. She tried to laugh and ended up coughing. She hoped it was the dust. The last heave had nearly decapitated him. His throat was a gaping wound. She was forced to dig for the garrote in the torn flesh. The garrote didn’t want to come and she pulled and caused more bleeding at her side. She laughed and choked again. It didn’t really matter if someone found the garrote or not.

There was a small sound. Keleios placed pressure against her side and crawled to Piker. The dog was dead, eyes glazed. Black heart blood pumped from his wound. She stood and stepped over his body to kneel beside the boy. Her hand pressed to her own side was becoming slick with blood. The boy lay on his side. She turned him over gently. His blue eyes stared at the distant sky without blinking. Blood dribbled from his nose and mouth. The death of his familiar had been too much for him to sustain. She checked for his heart, knowing it was useless.

She screamed her helplessness to the night. “Nooo!” The sound was lost in the fighting.

If she could not save Feltan and Piker, there were others up there whom she could save, had to help. “Oh, Urle, god of the forge, help me to help them.” With the whispered prayer she began to climb upward.

The black earth, so fertile where it wasn’t stone capped, gave deceptive handholds, crumbling under her hands. Her enchanted strength gave her the ability to force her hands inside the earth, but the earth wasn’t accustomed to such treatment and crumbled at her disturbance. She hung halfway up, panting, her side and arm on fire, tiredness like an ocean wave threatening to engulf her. A cloth rope snaked past her, and, not caring

who held the end, she took it and began to climb. Tobin helped her the last bit. She tumbled and lay still beside him. The rope was strips of white dress tied off on a rock that was stuck on its side. She prayed again, this time to Shendra, goddess of victims. “Oh, Shendra, give me strength to help them.” She rose to her knees, then stood. Tobin gasped at the blood at her side. She gripped his shoulder, and they began to cross to the others still huddled on the quaking ground. Lothor and Belor had not been able to bridge the largest crevice. It was a great rift as wide as three horses long. The fiends still battled. Eroar, who was closest to the devils, was forced to place a sorcerous shield around himself.

As Tobin and Keleios moved over the broken courtyard, it shook. The boy was thrown to the ground. Keleios crouched low, trying to ride it out. A cleft widened between them, moving Tobin to a rock island out of reach.

Fire flamed round the red devil. He stood atop the white blizzard until all was orange and the white devil lay still. The flaming beast stood over the still form and screamed its victory. Then it turned blazing eyes to the people. Jodda screamed, but there was nothing she could do. It extended a flame-engulfed hand toward the tiny huddled group.

Keleios screamed at it, “No!”

With a flame-writhed hand, he turned to her and let fly a bolt of orange power.

Keleios dived and came up with Luckweaver between her and it, but a second bolt was already on its way. The orange power hit the blade and flamed along it, turning the metal cherry red with heat. Keleios heard her own screams as her hand burned. She dropped the blade and cradled her right hand against her body. The sword continued to burn brighter and brighter.

Over a sound of roaring fire she heard Lothor screaming, “Keleios, get away from ...” The sword exploded.

The fire took her on the right side and sent her tumbling backward. She lay, face pressed against crumbling darkness. She whispered, “It doesn’t hurt yet.” Through the wondrous numbness she saw the white devil grapple the red, and the fight began again. Then darkness flowed around her.

There was a dragon thundering somewhere high above. A hot close darkness shielded her. She opened her eyes to the muted shade of a cloak hood. A bar of greyish sunlight hinted round the edges. One hand lay free of the covering; it stretched experimentally in the grey-and-white-flecked ash. Ash? The hand squeezed the stuff together and opened, stained with wood death. Ash?

The stink of smoke was everywhere, bitter and acrid. An image flashed in her mind of the keep engulfed in flames. The keep had fallen last night. Beyond that she wasn’t sure what she remembered. She did know who she was, and that was an important thing to know. She mouthed the words, “I am Keleios Incantare, and I am not dead.”

There was the hum of magic nearby—not her own magic, though. Keleios had been stripped last night of all weapons, enchanted or otherwise. She had no strength left for sorcery, and herb-witchery took more time than she had been permitted last night. Whose magic then? She was inside a protective shield, that much she could feel in the air, a strong one. Keleios rolled slowly onto one side, supporting on an elbow. The day seemed to roll and shimmer. The jagged black beams merged with the rising smoke into a fog untouched by sun. Pain seeped back slowly, and with its touch, she remembered more, Feltan was dead. Poula—she was dead, too.

Dead. Gone. Never coming back. Those were the words that she had heard so long ago, about her own mother. She whispered, “Poula.” Her throat tightened. She swallowed hard against the rising tears. “No.” There was no time for this, not yet. Grief would make her helpless, and this was no time to be helpless.

She eased to her back, and the sky still rode summer blue overhead. The last clear thing she remembered was being in the dragon yard. The devils were fighting. Luckweaver was gone. Its death was an empty ache. It was as if a part of herself had gone missing. The magic of the bracers had been breached; they no longer hummed. Great white clouds moved above, and smoke rose lazily into the sky. Keleios turned her head slowly. There was a painful stiffness to the right side of her face. Two lengths from her sat Tobin. His golden armor was ripped from one arm, rusted with blood, black with soot and dirt. His reddish-brown hair was stiff with blood on one side, but it was he. His back was to her, and he was hunched cross-legged in a position of power, but even then she began to feel his weariness. Keleios mouthed his name but dared not disturb him. She lay and drifted on the growing wave of pain. She was afraid of how hurt she might be. Tobin was near exhaustion, and the shield would not still be up if danger were past.