The Sorcerer (13 page)

Duirsar turned and studied the phaerimm.

“They are wearing us down, Lord Commander, draining our defenses.”

“They are trying, milord. That is not the same as doing.”

Kiinyon glanced back at the long line of young runners bringing casks of fresh arrows down from the city and said, “It would take a decade to deplete Evereska’s supply of arrow wood, and with the Weave available again, there is no need at all to worry about our magic.”

“You know what I am worried about, Lord Commander— and it is not arrows or lightning bolts,” Duirsar replied, glancing up at the flickering mythal. “I think the time has come for the lion to leave his den.”

Kiinyon scowled in Keya’s direction, and she realized she was nodding in agreement She stopped but held his gaze until duty compelled him to turn his attention back to Lord Duirsar.

“Milord, that’s what the enemy wants,” Kiinyon said. “They are trying to draw us out where we will be vulnerable to their attack.”

“Or exploiting our temerity to exhaust the mythal.” Duirsar continued to study the sheets of magic crashing across the surface of the mythal and said, “In all my centuries, I have never seen it waver like this. The mythal needs our help, Kiinyon.”

The lord commander looked up, shielding his eyes against the flashing magic, and said, “We are doing all we can. At least our archers and our battle mages are holding them at a distance. Imagine the damage the thornbacks could do, were they free to stand beside the mythal itself.”

Keya had to bite her tongue to maintain the silence expected of a soldier in the ranks. Kiinyon Colbathin was one of the greatest spellblades Evereska had ever known— almost the equal of her own father, who had fallen saving the life of Khelben Arunsun—but he was an under-confident, and therefore timid, general. It would be wrong to blame Kiinyon for Evereska’s inability to break the siege, though he had certainly not hesitated to blame her brother Galaeron for prompting it, but it was no exaggeration to say that his only

clear strategy seemed to be holding out until someone from outside arrived to save them.

Lord Duirsar remained silent for a long time after Kiinyon spoke. Keya thought he might actually be trying to imagine what possible difference it would make if the phaerimm were standing at the mythal

When he lowered his gaze she saw more anger in his face than uncertainty, and she knew that he was growing as frustrated with his lord commander as she and the rest of Evereska. Duirsar stared at the ground and seemed to be debating something, then raised his gaze and looked straight at her.

“What say you, Keya?” he asked.

Keya knew better than to let her astonishment show, or to hesitate for fear of offending Kiinyon. Khelben Arunsun had been her house guest for much of the siege, and during that time she had spent enough time in the company of both elves to know that Lord Duirsar expected an answer when he asked a question and that Kiinyon would only hold her reply against her if he thought she was being less than honest. Cautious though the lord commander might be in his strategy, he was faithful in his duty and loyal to his city, and if that meant being embarrassed in front of the High Lord, then so be it.

Keya took all the time she dared to consider her answer— thinking fast was no easy task with the battle thunder crashing overhead—then she inclined her head in deference.

“If Evereska’s army crosses the Meadow Wall to meet the phaerimm spell to spell, it will not return,” she said. “Milord Colbathin is correct in this much. Our losses were heavy enough when we had an army of Shadovar and two Chosen fighting at our sides. Without them, our casualties would be total.”

Though accustomed enough in matters of state to hide his feelings behind a mask of indifference, Lord Duirsar was too exhausted and nerve-racked to conceal his surprise. He

studied Keya as he might a crouching wolf, his eyes narrowed and his brow raised.

But it was Kiinyon himself who demanded, “And in how much am I mistaken, Swordlady?”

Keya dipped her head in the lord commander’s direction and said, “In fighting not to lose, milord. We cannot break the siege by conserving our forces. We must summon our resolve and fight to win.”

Seeing the look of apprehension that came to the lord commander’s eyes, Keya turned back to Duirsar, whose wry smile suggested that he understood exactly what she was saying.

“Continue, Lady Nihmedu.”

Keya felt a secret thrill at being called by her hereditary title. At just over eighty, she was still a decade too young to assume the title formally, and being addressed by it by Evereska’s high lord was a token of his respect.

Daring to raise her head and speak more forcefully, she said, “For too long we have been trusting others to do what we must do for ourselves. No one can break this siege but us.”

“Then we are doomed,” Kiinyon said. “Without help, we are no match—”

“When are you going to understand, Lord Commander?” Keya interrupted. “There is no help.”

“Mind your tone,” Kiinyon ordered. “Lord Duirsar asked for your opinion. He did not give you leave—”

“I have heard you calling to Khelben and the others,” Keya continued, growing ever bolder. “Have they come? Have any of the Chosen?”

Kiinyon frowned at her insolence, but said, “They will.”

“Before the mythal falls?” Duirsar asked. “I have been calling to the Chosen, as well. Only Sylune answers, and just to send word that the others cannot come.”

The despair that came to Kiinyon’s face almost sank Keya into despondency as well.

“Our situation is not hopeless,” she said, as much to herself as to Kiinyon. “We have resources and have only to use them.”

“How?” Lord Duirsar asked. “Until you tell me that, you have told me nothing at all. If we dare not cross the Meadow Wall to meet them, and we cannot win by standing behind it, what are we to do?”

“Make them pay,” Keya said. “If they want to attack the mythal, we must make them pay to do it.”

“Again, I ask how?”

“With these,” said Kuhl, one of the two humans flanking her in the company’s front rank. Burly and black-bearded, he was about as big as a rothé and woollier than a thkaerth, with a swarthy round face and hands the size of a plates. He stepped forward holding his glassy darksword in hand. “We sneak out there with the Cold Hand and start cutting them down, one at a time.”

“And we keep doing it until they all leave or they’re all dead,” added Burlen, the human standing to her other side. “Or until there aren’t any more of us to go back.”

“That’s s the way we do it in Vaasa,” Kuhl said.

Keya smiled up at her mountainous friends, then nodded to Lord Duirsar and said, “We teleport out there in small strike teams, hit hard, and come back.”

Duirsar smiled. “And we see how determined they are, for a change.”

“Risk the darkswords?” Kiinyon asked, shaking his head. “Every one we lose out there is one we won’t have in Evereska if they—”

The lord commander was interrupted first by the crackling roar of an erupting fireball, then by a chorus of anguished screams. Keya and the others spun toward the sound and were astonished to see a battle mage and his escorts rolling on the ground in flames, a wagon-sized ring of smoke above them rapidly contracting around a breach in the mythal.

Before the hole could close, a crimson sphere came streaking across the Meadow Wall in their direction. Lord Duirsar flung up his hand, raising a spell-guard with enough speed to convince Keya that the rumors about him being one of Evereska’s secret high mages were true. The fireball flattened against the mystic shield and crackled into nothingness, leaving only a faint orange glow to mark where it had struck.

Duirsar watched only long enough to be certain that the mythal had sealed itself again, then turned to back to Kiinyon and said, “I would say that decides the matter, wouldn’t you?” Without waiting for a reply, he turned to Burlen and Kuhl. “Teams of six? Four warriors and two battle mages?”

Unhappy at being left out of the planning and quite sure she was the only one who understood why the high lord was suggesting those particular numbers, Keya said, “That will be fine, milord—one mage to teleport and one to cast a decoy.”

“Decoy?” Burlen asked.

“So you have time to attack,” Duirsar said, nodding his approval to Keya. “Otherwise the phaerimm will be on you before you can recover from the afterdaze.”

“Recover?” Kuhl scoffed. “We aren’t going to be there that long. Just give us mages who can get us out as quick as they get us in—and the teams should have three warriors, not four.”

“Only three?” Duirsar asked. “I don’t understand.”

“I do,” Kiinyon said.

He flashed a smile at Keya—as close to an apology as she would ever receive from the great hero, she knew— then he set about organizing the Company of the Cold Hand into trios. Though the company had less than twenty darkswords borrowed from the Vaasans who had fallen when the phaerimm escaped their prison, Kiinyon had close to a hundred of Evereska’s finest spellblades to choose from. The darkswords had been forged by the

archwizard Melegaunt Tanthul over a hundred years earlier and passed down from parent to child for four generations, and they would freeze the hand of any wielder not of the owning family. To get around the problem, for each sword, the Company of the Cold Hand had five warriors who passed the sword from hand to hand as their fingers grew too numb to hold onto it.

For these attacks, there would be only one wielder for each sword, so Kiinyon was free to chose the most experienced and powerful spellblades available. When he came to Keya and the two Vaasans, the only three members of the company who could hold their darkswords as long as they wished, the lord commander at first assigned Burlen and Kuhl to separate trios. When Keya insisted on being assigned to a group as well, they insisted on teaming with her.

“Dex is already mad as a dragon about her taking his darksword,” Burlen explained.

As Dexon’s lover—or more precisely, the mother of his unborn child—Keya had become a member of his family and able to hold his darksword without freezing her hand. With Dexon still struggling to recover from the wound he had received in the last big battle, she had taken his sword and rushed off to join the fight when the phaerimm began to attack. Dexon had chased her down Treetop and halfway across the Starmeadow screaming for her to bring it back and stay there were he could defend her. Keya half expected to see him come hopping out into the meadow at any moment, dragging his spell-withered leg along and yelling all the time that they had to protect her. Humans were strange that way, believing they could hoard what they loved like gold and keep it safely hidden away in their vaults.

Lord Duirsar returned with seven of Evereska’s most powerful battle mages, most of them instructors in the Academy of Magic—when there had still been such a thing. Kiinyon explained the plan, then arranged five of the teams into a triangle, with the wizard in the middle and the three warriors

ringing him, facing outward. The sixth team—Keya’s—he arranged in a square, taking the fourth side himself.

“You’re sure this is going to work?” Kiinyon asked.

“like grease on ice,” Kuhl answered. “When we get there, just keep hold of my belt with your free hand and swing with your sword hand.”

“Very well.”

Kiinyon drew his borrowed darksword and signaled the attack. Keya heard the battle mage start his spell, then there came a dark eternity of falling. Her stomach rose into her chest, and she grew weak and dizzy and cold. A dead silence filled her ears, and she felt nothing but her own heart hammering fast and hard in her chest—and she was somewhere else, the ground rumbling beneath her feet and her eyes and nose burning with the brimstone stench of Hell.

“Swing!” shouted a familiar gruff voice.

Reminded of the sword in her hand, Keya swung even as her mind struggled to make sense of her smoky, fire-blasted surroundings. She hit nothing, but heard off behind her shoulder the wet slap of a sword cleaving flesh and spun instinctively toward the sound, bringing her darksword around in a vicious backhand.

This time, Keya hit something and felt her blade bite deep. Blood, hot and sour-smelling, splashed her across the jaw and throat. A squealing whirlwind filled the air with dirt and ash, then golden bolts of magic appeared from nowhere and began to ricochet off her spell-turning bracers. Some of them came bouncing back past her head, deflected by identical bracers worn by all the warriors in the Company of the Cold Hand.

Keya glimpsed an expanse of thorny scales and finally recalled where she was and what she was doing there. She reversed her blade and brought it back across the phaerimm’s body, this time stopping at the end of the stroke to plunge the tip in deep.

The creature screamed again in its windy language. Its tail

came arcing up at her face, the barbed tip already dripping with its paralyzing poison. Kiinyon reached past her shoulder, catching the attack on his borrowed darksword and flicking the barb away before it could strike. Keya thanked him by bringing her own weapon, still plunged deep into their foe, down the length of its serpentine body.

The phaerimm pulled itself off her blade by floating a few feet backward. Keya thought it would teleport to safety, until Burlen’s darksword came tumbling past and split the thing the rest of the way through. It fell to the ground in a pile of blood and entrails.

Burlen extended his hand toward the sword. It rose out of the gore and tumbled back into his grasp, then Kuhl’s big hand grabbed Keya by the belt and pulled her back into position.

“Time to go.”

Realizing that she had released her own grip, Keya started to reach back for Burlen’s belt—then heard someone cry out from above.

“Keya?” The voice was so weak and hoarse as to be unrecognizable, but it was speaking Elvish. “Can that be you?”

Keya looked up the vale, and two terraces above, saw a hall-starved wood elf scout peering through a gap in a wrecked wall. Over her shoulders and head, she had a makeshift camouflage tarp covered with withered grape vines, but Keya could see enough of the scout’s face to tell that her red-rimmed eyes were as sunken as a banshee’s and her lips cracked and bloody with thirst. A hundred paces behind her, a mixed company of beholders and illithids were rushing down the vale to investigate.