“Idiots,” Mattick growled at the arcanists. “Must we do this all ourselves?”
He strode to the wall and stalked along it toward where it turned the corner, muttering to himself as he worked a magic that would hurl any nastiness this undead guardian served up right back at her. Two could play such games, and this blade of his held some nasty powers of its own …
He thrust it before him, to round the corner first, but nothing happened. Still silence. Cautiously he peered with just one eye around the edge of stone, and saw the baelnorn floating in calm, deep blue silence, quite a few strides distant down its passage. Its upper armor, still glowing, hung floating behind it, leaving its body shrouded from the waist up in some sort of gauzy gown. Just behind its shoulder were the double doors the baelnorn was no doubt guarding.
Was this some sort of strange attempt at seduction? It was shapely, but an elf, and visibly beyond death at that. Not to his tastes. Perhaps this was some sort of strange elder elf custom.
Well, pah.
Prince Mattick had never heard of House Velanralyn before this day, and cared nothing for its history or former greatness. He had his father’s orders; there was magical might here to be seized and drained, and the more he and Vattick took in, the more invincible they’d be when the next annoying elves showed up to offer battle. These arcanists were expendable. Unless too many of them fell through his folly, or his brother’s. Then the Most High of Thultanthar would be too furious for comfort.
“Arcanists, attend me!” he ordered, trying for the calm coldness of his father’s customary voice, as he strode grandly around the corner.
Let it try its worst, this lingering dross of elfkind. Then he could watch it humbled by its own battle spell, and step in for a little vicious hacking while it was still on its ghostly knees. This sword of his could cleave incorporeal undead as if they were solid meat; he’d enjoy its astonishment, for the fleeting moments before pain and death replaced that surprise.
Why-
The baelnorn was doing nothing as he strode up to it, nothing at all. Suspicious, Mattick slowed, bringing his blade up warily.
“Is there some problem, proud human?” the baelnorn asked, as gently as any Shadovar nurse. “Your own deceits disappoint you, so you expect some from me?”
“Oh, shut your over-clever mouth,” Mattick snarled, slashing at it two handed, in a great swing that it parried with apparent difficulty. As both its swords clanged aside, struck wildly by the force of his blow, he grinned savagely-and thrust his sword home into its unprotected breast, low and angling up, up through ribs and through its heart and up into spine and brain.
“Die, elf bitch.” He grinned into its face. Which, though he could see right through it to the dark stones of the passage beyond, showed gasping agony, dark eyes that clung to his in desperation and … was that triumph? He twisted his sword within it, shoving the blade in even farther-and felt nothing, of course. It was but a wraith to him, only his sword could slice the baelnorn as if it was wholly alive and solid.
With a sneer, he leaned forward until he could feel the chill of its undeath on his chin, could have thrust himself forward and kissed it if he’d wanted to.
“Does it hurt?” he whispered, smile widening, letting it see the cruel contempt he felt. “Does it?”
“Of course,” the guardian breathed back-and kissed him.
The cold of that contact shocked Mattick’s breath away, and he flung himself back, lips and face seared as if with ice. He tried to curse, and found his tongue a thick and then an unfeeling thing. He slashed furiously with his sword-and found that he was holding nothing but a hilt.
The stub of the blade was smoking, runes smoldering as they slid off steel that was no longer there, and collapsed into nothingness.
Prince Mattick stared at it in disbelief, stumbling back. The baelnorn was a brighter and more opaque blue than before, and it was smiling at him, sadly.
“I have descended to this,” it whispered. “Still, you intend to do worse to me, and shall. I thank you for the energies in your blade, man-and your life-force. I’m well aware you didn’t intend to yield either to me, but … I will do anything for House Velanralyn. That is my honor, and my curse.”
Mattick flung down the hilt of his sword before the dark smoldering consuming it reached his fingers. He felt weak, sick … hollow.
He was, he was … suddenly no longer alone, as the five surviving arcanists led by his brother boiled around the corner and charged at the baelnorn.
Vattick stopped abruptly as he saw what had befallen his brother, ignoring the sudden flare of spells rocking the passage.
“Kisses of Shar!” he cursed in astonishment, grabbing Mattick by his elbow and towing him back around the corner. “You’ve no lower face left! How did it do this to you?”
Mattick shook his head helplessly, no longer able to speak. His heart was slowing, coldness was creeping across his chest, he couldn’t breathe …
Vattick sighed, stepped back, and started casting spells.
“This should teach you,” he began severely, between the second and the third. And then, when the sixth was done and Mattick was looking distinctly better and feeling his jaw and face wonderingly, Vattick sighed and added, “but it won’t.”
Mattick managed a grin. “Oh, I don’t know. A few things stick, sometimes. I owe you thanks, Brother. And I am thankful, believe me. Now, let’s see to this blasted baelnorn.”
And he strode back around the corner.
The baelnorn had lost even more of its armor, and looked to be in pain again. The shards of one of its swords were circling it in midair, tumbling in slow leisure, but the guardian was holding its other blade high, looking more than ready to slay.
As it had been, and rather busily, it seemed. Only two arcanists were still standing, and one of them looked to be in pain, his clothing torn and burned away and scales appearing here and there on his revealed skin, before fading away to reappear somewhere else.
“Now that’s interesting,” Vattick told the baelnorn politely, pointing at the scales. “How did you manage that?”
He looked at Mattick, who was wincing at the carnage and muttering, “Father is going to be less than pleased.”
Vattick nodded-and without looking at the baelnorn, unleashed something small and blindingly bright from his hand at it.
Mattick and the arcanists all shouted in pain and clutched at their watering eyes, dazed and blinded, but Vattick ignored them, turning to gaze hard at the writhing wisp of fading blue radiance that was the baelnorn.
It was gone from the waist up, consumed by his sunglow magic. He watched it sigh into oblivion with satisfaction that would have been greater if he hadn’t known he had no more sunglows. And that his father had given it to him months ago in secret to use as a “last resort,” not for this.
Oh, well …
“Can you see yet, Brother?” he asked wearily. “Why you feel the need to spend so much time playing the stone-headed fool is beyond me, but I’m yoked to you, great lout of Thultanthar!”
“I can see more or less,” Mattick growled. “Pretty well for a stone-headed fool, anyway.”
“Good. Then take this mace-what’s left of Arthulniyr here certainly won’t be needing it again-and breach the crypt doors. Have fun just hammering away at them. I’ll stand ready, lest a trap or another guardian waits inside.”
Mattick hefted the mace a few times, shook his head as if to clear it, passed a hand across his eyes as he worked a minor healing on them, and strode to the vault doors.
The entwined phoenixes of House Velanralyn didn’t stand a chance.
The view out of Storm’s kitchen windows into her herb garden was beautiful, even in mid-Marpenoth.