Stones Unbound (The Magestone Chronicles Book 1) (30 page)

"The staff won't help you," the creature said in a
deep, reverberating voice that surprised her.  She had not thought it could
speak.

"Of that you are mistaken."  With a quick word a
quick wind picked up as the air in the room was evacuated out the shattered
window taking the smoke with it.  With the brief lack of air, the fires were
extinguished almost immediately.  Then, standing in her bubble of protection,
she released the spell and air came pummeling back into the room, pushing the
creature around on the floor, its clawed feet scraping against stone.

The beast jumped towards her to attack, claws aiming for her
heart.  She stepped forward to meet the creature, staff leading, and struck it
dead center of its chest.  The creature was thrown back, howling in pain.

"You will die for that elf!" the beast threatened
as it stood and turned to face her.  It walked slowly at her this time.

"Again you are mistaken. 
Ava'riel
!" she
intoned, pointing the staff at the creature of darkness as she stepped to one
side.  A beam of light so bright burst from the end of the staff and hit the
beast in the chest, knocking it back against the wall next to the shattered
window, pinning it there.  The beam continued its stream, no other but
Marisha'ilea able to withstand its glare.  She noted that Doretellan and the
other two spell wielders had moved to the side of the landing shielded from the
light of the beam.  The beam was continuous, pure, and white burning the black
of the creature's skin, peeling it away to pink human skin below.  The creature
howled and thrashed, knocking stones from the wall in its pain.  A huge chunk
of the wall fell outward, crashing to the courtyard below.  She heard the faint
screams from the revellers below.

Suddenly the black, oily skin burst apart into the air, and
fled out the wall like a swarm of insects as the body within dropped forward
onto its knees.

At that, she let the beam of light dissipate, and strode
forward to look upon the face of the assassin.  The body looked to have had its
skin removed, all covered with blood and its muscles visible.  She stopped
several paces away from the oozing figure as he looked up.  His eyes were bare,
as were his teeth, all skin from his face gone.

He coughed up blood.  "You have not won.  My master is
coming for you."  She recognized the voice of one of the other recorders,
and her eidetic memory supplied his name as Koltan.

"But now we know, so we can be ready." She replied
more calmly than she felt.

"You'll never be ready," he responded.  And at
that statement, he wrenched himself to his feet and flung himself out the
jagged hole in the wall into the now dark sky.  There was a scream, which cut
off abruptly, followed by a deep cackling.

Doretellan and the other two Shilaar ran to the window to look
out after him.  "There be no body," he stated looking back at
Marisha'ilea, who still stood where she was, looking down at the Staff of
Everilon in wonder.  She was still trying to comprehend what this meant.

As the world fell apart around us, I wondered really if this
course of events, this war, would have occurred anyway, had I
Chosen
not
to take the magestones in the first place?  Was it destined?  My ego tells me
no, that there is no way anyone else was good enough to sneak in, foil all the magical
wards, and get out again without being caught.  My head tells me otherwise.

If they had found someone else - dare I say stupid enough - to
accept the commission, would they have succeeded as I had, or would they have
failed, forcing this warlock to use more direct and possibly brutal methods to
obtain the stones?  My heart wants to believe that I saved lives by originally
accepting the job, and justify it by believing this war was coming anyway.

In the days following the invasion, in talking with Celia, she
brought up the fact that graduation ceremonies were always before held in
Mahad'avor - always.  But this time, they had sent unbound magestones to
Tala'ahar for a ceremony that was requested to be at the Imperial Palace - for
the first time ever.  Celia believes this is the thread to unravel, assuming we
can find the correct end to pull.

Whatever the truth, the path ahead always lays in shadow.  You
can put plans in motion, but only luck and good timing determine success or
failure.  I happen to believe in luck a lot.  But I also plan ahead.

Journal of Hoyle Dardanel

The 11
^th
of Julra,

In the year 89 IR (Imperial Rule)

Hoyle sat with the other three, tied to the center pole of
the heavy oilcloth tent.  Even with him and Robart trying, they could not get
enough leverage to lift the pole enough to slip their bonds free.  Well that
fact and the four guards standing over them.  By this time though, they had
moved to a side table and were pulling out some dice.

"Well this has been some experience, these past few
days," Robart griped noisily, "traipsing through the forest with
you.  Ending up captured... yet again"

"Oh drop it already, or get us out of this yourself. 
Probably get yourself killed by these four dunderheads." Hoyle replied, irked.

"Hey you two keep yer traps shut, ya hear?!" one
of the guards called at them from the gaming table, looking up from the game
they just started to see what was going on.  He was obviously satisfied they
had not moved, and turned back to the game with a grunt.  Hoyle watched as the
two facing them looked up after scooping the dice on every throw.  No help
there.

"Hey Celia, can you do the glowing flame thing you did
last night?" Hoyle whispered to Celia.

"Not without immolating the three of you," she replied.

"Well, let's not do that then," Robart chimed in,
too loudly, causing two of the guards to look over.

"Shut yer traps, or we will breaks them!" the
biggest one said.  He was still a hand shorter than Robart, but probably just
as heavy, based on the way his belly stuck out from under his chain shirt and
hung over his belt.

"Okay, that's out.  Valena, got anything that can help
us out of this?" Hoyle directed at the small healer.

Valena shook her head, "No. Sorry."

"Okay then," he said as he rested his head back
against the pole, and closed his eyes against the lantern light.  Mentally he
checked his spatial memory, having memorized the contents of the entire room in
the last few minutes. 

He mentally checked off each item: two guards outside by the
tent flap; the small table to one side of the large tent, with four folding
camp chairs that the guards were using to play dice; four dicing cups and
twenty-four dice if they were playing Best; a chest on the other side of the
entrance from the table, where the guards put their possessions, Robart's
greatsword leaning against it; a large heavy camp desk and sturdy chair on the
opposite side of the pole from the entrance, behind which was another flap to
the back room of the tent; lit lanterns on top of the desk, hanging from the
pole they were tied to, and the third on a pole near the side table the guards
were using; several carpets on the ground as the floor; a weapons rack near the
chest holding a few mundane items, but no weapons.

"Fine, go to sleep then." Robart grumbled. 
"We're only going to die when that warlock gets back."

He opened his eyes, and took note of the few minor things he
had missed, but was overall satisfied with his memory.  "We're not going
to die."

"And how do you know that?" asked the large man.

"Because I make sure I always have a back-up
plan." He replied.

"Well what is it?"

"We wait." Hoyle responded cryptically.

"For what?!"

Hoyle stayed silent and leaned his head back against the
pole and closed his eyes. 
Let him fume
he thought.  
I owe him
nothing
.

"For what?!" Robart asked again louder, drawing
the guards' attention.

"Does we need ta gag ya, you loud brute?  Cause we will
if ya say one more word."  This came from the smallest one, with his back
to the quartet.

"Not what, who." Celia whispered. 
"Salrissa."

"Fine.  I'll wait."  With that Robart stayed
quiet, finally understanding that there was possibly a rescue in the works. 
Robart had never fought her, nor really seen what she could do, so did not have
the confidence that Hoyle did about being rescued.  Especially at night.  Night
was her element, like her natural environment in which she was the predator and
everyone else was the prey.  The Goralonians just didn't know it yet.

---o---

Short while later they heard a large contingent of men
shouting a war cry that became a continuous sound, and then over the span of a
few minutes dwindled to nothing.  Within moments, a similar noise as by more
men, but further away began, punctuated by the sound of catapults flinging
there large payload towards what he suspected was the Fort.  The attack had
begun in earnest.

The sounds of battle began a long distance away, and became
a constant background noise.  Suddenly a shadow sped through the tent from the
back room, and had extinguished the lantern by the side table, and sliced four
necks in the span of seconds, with almost no noise save that of the dice
spilling onto the table from cups.  The four men fell onto their sides on the
carpeted floor; the figure that Hoyle knew was Salrissa, kicking the legs out
of the camp chairs as she went.  The guards made no noise as they hit the thick
wool rugs, and could neither scream, nor breathe to call out a warning to those
outside.

Salrissa checked the flap to make sure the actions were not
noticed, but the loud sounds of battle happening outside masked pretty much
anything quieter than a clap.  Salrissa moved around the pole cutting their
bonds.

"It took you long enough!" Robart blustered
quietly, as he rubbed his wrists.

She looked at him with one eyebrow raised.  He made a point
of ignoring it, but made no further remarks.   "Get your things, and let's
get out of here.  Your two friends will be back any moment."

Hoyle had already moved to the chest and had tossed Robart
his greatsword, and was throwing possessions to each of the companions as he
went through them.

"I am afraid the shadowy one is correct," the voice
whispered as the tall thin figure stepped into the tent, glancing at the bodies
briefly.  Fresh blood-drawn runes covered his face and dripped onto his robes. 
Now Hoyle knew why the warlock chose that particular burgundy-brownish color. 
In behind him came Brows, his thick eyebrows down in a scowl.  He had already
drawn his weapon and looked set to use it.  Before anyone could react, the warlock
intoned a spell and tendrils of shadow reached from the darkest corners of the
tent and bound all of them.

Celia responded with a spell of her own, and flames wreathed
her body, casting heat into the otherwise cool tent.  The shadows dissipated
like smoke around her, and she countered with another spell, whipping her hands
up in a circular motion.  Wind began to spin up as Whisper began chanting again
and Brows moved towards Celia.  The wind became stronger, a vortex sucking in
the sides of the tent and pushing air out the smoke hole at the top.  Small
items began to fly through the air, and Celia directed them at the enemy.

Dice, and dice cups began pelting their two adversaries, and
to a lesser extent them, but then some of the larger objects began to lift off
the carpet and batter about the tent.  Valena got hit in the side by one of the
chairs, and Celia flinched, but did not relent in her attack.  Whisper finally
finished his spell, and a beam of darkness shot from the palm of his
outstretched hand, striking the shield of flames that protected her.  The
flames flickered and died, having absorbed all of the beam's energy.

"Look out Celia!" Hoyle shouted, noting that Brows
had come up near her left side.  Suddenly, a tendril of shadow entered his
mouth and throat, effectively gagging him, while still allowing him to breathe. 
He felt his earring flare and felt the gag dissipate, and could feel the
shadows grip on him loosen, though only slightly.  He decided to stay quiet for
now, hoping his situation was not apparent.

Celia ducked, but not quick enough, taking a glancing blow
to the side of her head from a mailed fist.  She staggered and fell to the
carpet, the vortex dissipating.  But then Hoyle saw Brows stagger and turned to
face Salrissa, his hand over his kidney area, blood running through his
fingers.

"Shadows cannot bind creatures of shadow," she
explained. As she attacked Brows again with her two daggers, one bloody, the
other not.  He managed to deflect one with his arm encased in chainmail, but
the other carved a path across his forehead.

Hoyle watched in dismay as Celia was bound up in more
tendrils of shadow while she lay on the floor, still stunned from the blow to
the head.  With nothing he was able to do to free himself - it seemed like the
warlock was sustaining this spell consciously - he turned to watch the battle
between Salrissa and Brows, along with everyone else, including the enraptured
warlock.

Brows had managed to get his sword up in time to block the
next series of strikes, but was at a disadvantage in the close quarters of the
tent, his broadsword requiring more room to swing than Salrissa's shorter
daggers.  Blades flicked back and forth in the light of the two remaining
lanterns, a deadly dance of steel to the song of metal ringing that had the
audience enraptured whether they were bound or not.

Salrissa ducked a swing aimed at her neck and rolled past
his legs to come up behind and jab backwards towards his unprotected back.  He
managed to block her forearm with his, but he was off balance, and she managed
to rake the dagger along his arm with a shriek of steel on steel.  She stepped
forward, away from Brows and whipped her cloak in wide arc, using it to hide a spinning
back-kick to his chin as he turned to face her.

She whipped her cloak around again, but this time Brows
grabbed it with his empty hand and gave it a hard yank.  The cloak broke free
from Salrissa's throat with the first hard pull, leaving Brow holding it and
swinging his sword through empty air where he assumed Salrissa would be after
his maneuver.  But she was not there, instead stepping in behind his swing,
driving the hilt of her dagger up into his nose, breaking it with a loud
crack.  Hoyle was not sure why she did not go for the killing blow, but assumed
she had her reasons.

Brows stepped back and swiped his hand across his face, smearing
the blood from his forehead and nose together.  "I'm going to kill
you!" he cried angrily.  He stepped forward, throwing Salrissa's cloak at
her head, which she ducked, right into the knee Brows brought up.  The blow
knocked Salrissa back, stunned.  The huge man took advantage of her momentary
disadvantage and brought his sword around for a killing blow, but Salrissa's
knees gave out as she dropped below his decapitating blow.  Hoyle was not sure
if the move was intentional or not, as Salrissa still seemed to be moving
sluggishly, just managing to roll away from the next downward blow.

Hoyle, while watching the battle of two masters of their
chosen weapon, noted a change in the background noise from outside.  While it
had been the distant sounds of battle; catapults firing, weapons clashing, men
yelling; there was a new sound occurring, much closer to the command tent.  He
could now hear the screams of men in terror rapidly closing on the tent.

The others had not yet heard the difference, and he was only
aware because he was expecting it.  In fact, he was hoping for it, and it -
they, couldn't have arrived at a better time. 

Brows' boot came around and clipped Salrissa on her shoulder
as she tried to stand.  She was knocked over, but managed to leave a dagger
stabbed into her assailant's calf.  Brows screamed in pain, doubling over and
pulling the dagger from his leg.

"Now how's that feel?!  Not too nice now, is it?"
Robart taunted before he was choked off with a tendril of shadow.

"Tsk, tsk.  Not nice to taunt." Whisper chastised
in his typically quiet voice.  "Marcon, quit playing and finish her!"

Brows threw the dagger at Salrissa from his position on one
knee, who managed to block it with her other dagger.  Suddenly another dagger
appeared in her empty hand as if from nowhere.  Hoyle knew she had at least
seven daggers, knives and assorted small weapons stashed about her body, and
was a master at sleight-of-hand when it came to such things.  Marcon got to his
feet, heavily favoring the one leg and growled.

Suddenly, screams pierced the night.