Shia’s mind flew back to the tunnels beneath Dhiammara, when she had almost plunged into the chasm fighting the spider-creature, and he had performed the same service to save her life. Bohan had been her silent but staunch companion since the day she had escaped from the Khazalim Arena, and had shared the days of her freedom ever since. He was her friend. She couldn’t let him fall. Move, you great lummox, she thought desperately. Pull yourself up! I can’t hold on like this forever.
Clenching her jaws around the mouthful of cloth, she edged back a little, knowing the futility of trying to haul up the eunuch single-handed, but with no other option but to try. The small, harsh sound of tearing fabric seemed to rip across the night, loud as a thunderbolt to Shia’s ears.
Bohan!
The eunuch looked up into her eyes and said, quite plainly: “Shia. My friend.” His fingers scrabbled fruitlessly at the ledge as the last of the fabric tore away—and then he was gone. Shia heard the thud of a body, striking the rocks far below.
Then there was silence, save for the keening of the wind.
Shia sat back on her haunches and howled her grief at the uncaring mountains.
Anvar’s world had become a nightmare of smoke and blood and flashing blades. Though Aurian had been training him in the use of a sword as they journeyed, this was his first real battle, and he discovered that as soon as he entered the mêlée, all of her carefully ingrained lessons simply vanished from his mind. All he could do was respond to the challenges of each separate moment: the next foe that came at him, the next sword that was raised against him. Warm blood dripped from a shallow cut in his forearm where he had caught the edge of a glancing blade, but in the heat of the fight he felt no pain. He blocked a blow, missed an opening and swore, turned his blade to meet the return stroke backhanded. He did not miss a second time. Aurian’s training held true, guiding his instincts to slip his sword through his opponent’s guard to rip the man’s belly. The Xandim fell, to be instantly replaced by another.
Anvar’s sword had taken on a life of its own, hacking and piercing, parrying and blocking, and he was aware of nothing save the foes that surrounded him, and the shadowy shapes of Schiannath and Yazour to either side. Dimly, he knew that they were using their superior warrior’s skills to help defend him, but there was no time now for thoughts of gratitude. His mind could only be fixed on his survival, yet somewhere, at the edge of his consciousness, he was always aware of the tall, flame-haired figure that he strove to reach on the other side of the frenzied, milling mob.
Aurian was coming closer now—or he was coming closer to her. With every minute that passed, there were fewer foes between them. The Mage dispatched an opponent and glanced up to meet his eyes. As the companions gathered together, Anvar felt the tingling force of the magical shield that she threw up around them, and saw the attacking Xandim drop back from the barrier of spitting sparks. With a surge of relief that the fighting might be over at last, he threw his power behind that of his soul mate, to extend and reinforce the shield.
“Back to the tower,” Aurian yelled, in a voice that would have done credit to Forral’s battle-trained roar. But even as the Mages met in the midst of the fighting, everything went horribly awry. Anvar glimpsed Sangra and Iscalda running down the tower steps, yelling something about a broken ledge, and wandered what the blazes they were playing at. Aurian, with heir closer link to Shia, received the message an instant sooner. Anvar saw her falter, her eyes blank, her face stark white. The enemy pressed in closer as the shield began to fail.
“No!” Even as the raw cry of grief was torn from Aurian’s throat, his own mind was battered by the impact of Shia’s emotion—and his own. Bohan? Dead?
“Look out, you fool!” a voice roared in Anvar’s ear. A sword flashed up to block the blade that was whistling down toward him, and a shower of sparks scorched his face, narrowly missing his eyes. Anvar scrambled his wits together and plunged his own blade into the attacker’s chest, whirling with the follow-through to see Yazour turn to face another foe who was coming in on his right. Beyond them Schiannath was protecting Aurian in a similar fashion, while Chiamh fought beside them, and Parric, flanked by Sangra and Iscalda, defended the tower doorway.
“Aurian!” he yelled—and was relieved to see her eyes come back into focus, glittering a wrathful silver. Snarling an oath, she flung up the shield once more, with such force as to hurl several of the Xandim back along the passage. Anvar rushed toward her and seized her hand to drag her to safety, lest in her rage at Bohan’s death she decide to take on the Xandim single-handed. Even in such a desperate moment there was comfort in that touch—and Aurian evidently had too much sense to prolong a fight against such odds. Taking advantage of their opponents’ terror and dismay, the companions raced for the tower stairs. When all had reached the safety of the upper landing, Aurian turned, eyes blazing, and flung a bolt of fiery energy at the sloping ceiling of the staircase below. Anvar’s mind was battered anew by a cry of indignant pain from Basileus as the roof collapsed in a grinding avalanche of rubble and dust.
15
… And Through Air
“I’m sorry, love—I can’t go any farther. I must rest for a while.” Vannor’s voice was weak with fatigue and pain, and Zanna could feel his body trembling against her supporting shoulder as she helped him along the tunnel.
“All right, Dad. If you can go on just a little longer, we’ll find a room to rest in, as we did before,” Zanna told him, forcing a cheerful note into her voice. For his sake, she tried to keep from betraying her own exhaustion, and the fears and worries that crowded her mind. They were utterly lost in this maze of cold, damp tunnels, and rapidly running out of both food and strength; and injured as he was, her father had difficulties enough of his own to contend with. After every one of their halts so far, it had taken her longer to get him going again, and he was needing to rest more and more often. Zanna had had no chance to look at his injury—he would not speak of what the Magefolk had done to him, or let her unwrap the bindings on his hand—but she knew that it was bad. He ought to have rest, and proper care, and a physician—but it was only a matter of time before he would be in no condition to reach the help that he so badly needed.
Zanna lifted her candle higher and looked along the passage for the darker shadow of the next doorway. The ancient archives beneath the library were honeycombed with alcoves, niches, and chambers of all sizes: some large enough to stretch far beyond the range of the fugitives’ candlelight, and some so small that Vannor and his daughter could barely squeeze in together among ancient volumes and dusty stacks of crumbling parchment. In truth, Zanna much preferred the latter. They may have been cramped and uncomfortable, and needed extreme care with the candle to prevent a conflagration, but they were warmer, less drafty, and felt much more secure. She didn’t have to worry about what might be lurking in the darkness beyond the small, safe circle of flickering candle glow. She had overheard Eliseth complaining that though Finbarr, the former Archivist, had set spells to keep out rodents, cockroaches, and other small, destructive creatures, the magic had now started to decay through lack of upkeep; but it wasn’t the idea of small beasties that bothered Zanna—not too much, at any rate. What did bother her was the unshakable conviction that something else was down there with her and her father. Something unseen, unknown, but unspeakably evil.