No sounds of pursuit.
Had he lost them?
After the duel, he had run back the way he came, then begun zigzagging every which way. Taking paths at random. Leaving the paths and squeezing his way between the great shards. Fearing at any moment to feel one of the thorn-covered vines tightening around his throat.
The little creatures had pursued him, the sounds of their footfalls like a small stampede. But they hadn't called out. Not in fury at seeing their companions killed, or even to signal one another. They ran in silence. Like animals. That was the worst.
But he'd lost them. So it seemed.
Kadrigul's left shoulder was still bloodied and sore from the fight, but none of the cuts were deep. He slowed to a careful walk, his eyes searching every shadow. The snow before him was unmarred, and none of the creatures' glowing eyes watched him from the dark.
He was hopelessly lost. Fleeing the creatures, he felt sure he'd run at least half a mile. But from the outside, the entire structure had seemed half that size at most. Much as he hated to admit it, he regretted not heeding the Creel's warnings. Sometimes cowards feared for a reason.
The path widened, but unlike the wide area where he'd fought the creature, the spires did not lean outward, open to the sky. They leaned inward, forming a haphazard roof, and as the path began a gentle slope downward, Kadrigul felt as if he were walking down a hallway.
The path ended at a strange archway. It was tall and wide enough for an entire column of cavalry to have ridden through, but here the great shards looked almost like thorn-covered trees, twisting and turning into the archway.
Beyond was an open area, a sort of hollow in the midst of the structure, only slightly larger than the main hall of Highwatch. More arches covered other paths across the way. In the midst of the open ground was a pool of sorts, but rather than water or ice, it seemed to boil over with a sort of frosty vapor that gave off a bluish glow-bright enough that it muted the light from the stars above.
At the edge of the pool, right where the glowing vapors evaporated, a tundra tiger lay in a frozen pool of its own blood. Its limbs twitched feebly, and it let out a horrible mewling sound. Its bottom jaw had been broken and ripped open. In fact, it had been damned near ripped off. Only a few bits of bloody skin still held it to the head.
Kadrigul walked up to it. The tiger's eye rolled to watch him, but its claws did no more than twitch. Closer up, Kadrigul could see where its back had been broken just above its back legs. The pain had to be so great that Kadrigul couldn't understand how the beast was still conscious.
Before he could change his mind, Kadrigul brought his blade around and down, plunging the sharp point deep into the tiger's throat. He twisted and yanked down, opening a deep gash, then removed the steel. Blood streamed out, and the tiger was dead in moments.
Kadrigul stepped back and knelt to clean the blood from his sword in the snow.
"You have killed my favorite pet," said a voice behind him.
Kadrigul stood and whirled, his blade held before him. A tall figure stepped out of one of the passageways. He was dressed all in black, loose-fitting clothing and a long cloak of ermine. A crown of twisted leather held long, black hair back from pale skin. His features were lean and sharp, and pointed ears emerged from the locks of hair. An elf or eladrin. At this distance, Kadrigul couldn't tell for sure.
Another stood behind him, so alike in appearance and manner that the two might have been brothers.
"Thrana was my best hunting cat," said the first.
"Where is your friend?" said the second. "The big one?"
Kadrigul said nothing.
Four of the little blue-skinned creatures emerged from the passage behind them. Between them, they dragged one of the Creel, tangled in at least four of the thorned vines and bleeding from dozens of cuts and scrapes. His eyes were wide and seemed to stare into nothing, but he was still alive. His entire body trembled, and by the smell, Kadrigul could tell he'd soiled himself.
"I'll ask you once more," said the second elf. "Where is the big one?"
Kadrigul wished he knew.
"Take him," said the elf.
The four creatures dropped their hold on the vines and charged. They held no weapons that Kadrigul could see.
Kadrigul brought his sword back to strike.
The elf pointed at the blade, shouted, "Saet tua!" and the sword flew out of Kadrigul's grip as if snatched by an invisible giant. It struck one of the great shards and bounced off.
Then the creatures were on him, bearing him to the ground and tearing with tooth and claw. Like rats.
The thick hide of Kadrigul's coat and the tough fabric of his clothes were no help against the creatures' sharp teeth. They shredded through them and into the flesh beneath. Their fingernails were tough as claws and raked at his face and the skin of his ungloved hand. He had to squeeze his eyes shut to protect them from their ravages.
Then he heard shouting. From the elves, he thought.
And part of the biting, clawing weight left him. The creatures cried out, and more weight was gone.
Kadrigul dared to open his eyes.
Soran stood over him, grabbing the creatures one by one and throwing them. Even as Kadrigul watched, he grabbed another. The creature snarled and bit into Soran's wrist, but it didn't save him. Soran whirled and hurled the creature. It flew through the air and smashed into the nearest archway with a bone-crunching smash.
The remaining creature leaped off Kadrigul and at Soran.
Soran's fist caught him in midair. The creature hit the snow and did not move again. But Soran did. He brought his boot down on the creature's skull, smashing it.
The elves spread out. One held a long, silver sword in one hand. Green light rippled along its curved edge. The other was waving his hands in an intricate pattern and chanting an incantation.
Soran went for them, approaching relentlessly like a rising tide.
The first elf twirled his hand in a final flourish, then balled his fist and struck the air in front of him.
Hundreds of shards of white light erupted around Soran, whirling and striking him again and again like a cloud of fiery wasps. Skin, flesh, and bits of gray hair were torn from Soran's face. He growled, but he did not slow his approach.
The other elf stepped between his fellow and Soran. He screamed something in his own language, then charged, running Soran through with half the length of his blade. Soran coughed up a great gout of black blood-the elf smiled in grim satisfaction-and then Soran grabbed the elf's sword arm. Even from the distance, Kadrigul could hear the bone crumbling like shale as Soran squeezed. The elf shrieked. Soran reached forward with his other hand, grabbed the elf's throat, and ripped. The elf fell soundlessly to the ground.
The remaining elf turned to run, but Soran was too close now. He leaped over the dead elf, the sword still protruding from him, and bore the sole survivor to the ground.
"No, Soran!" Kadrigul called. "We need him alive!"
Sitting on the elf's back, Soran looked over his shoulder, growled, "Very well," then turned and dislocated both the elf's arms.
The elf screamed and writhed, and Soran got off him. Brutal as it was, it was effective. They needed the elf alive-at least for now-but they couldn't have him casting any more spells.
Kadrigul's limbs ached from the bites and claw marks he'd endured. He retrieved his sword from the far side of the pool, and when he returned, Soran was removing the last of the vines from the Creel.
The man seemed to have come back to his senses somewhat. He was looking back and forth from Soran to Kadrigul. But the sword still protruding from Soran's stomach seemed to have him very disconcerted.
Soran looked very much like the corpse Kadrigul knew him to be. His skin was dry and gray as shale. The wounds he'd endured from the elf's spell would have sent any normal man to the ground, screaming in agony. Soran's didn't even bleed. The thorns from the vines had shredded most of the skin from his fingers and palms, but he didn't seem to care.