The Swordmage Trilogy: Volume 02 - The Darkest Hour (22 page)

             
She heard the twang of a crossbow and only barely managed to avoid the bolt as it streaked past her, a brilliant white line etched in her augmented vision. Tia felt a presence behind her and struck out backhanded, slicing a man across the middle. He clutched his stomach, blood pouring from between his grasping fingers. A forward swing sliced deep into the shoulder muscle of a ragged woman wielding a foot-long knife. Her arm dangled limply at her side and still she ran at Tia, who kicked her feet out from under her, spinning away from the potential attack.

             
Faxon cried a warning and Tia spun, too late to avoid the magic missile he had sent screaming into the mass of surging bodies. The brigand in front of her took the worst of the blast, but the shock wave was strong enough to send her head over heels, sprawling in the dirt. She lost the grip on one of the swords and it skittered across the packed earth, out of her reach.

             
As she struggled to her feet, she felt a dull thud against her back and felt the familiar constriction of the witchmetal rings reacting to the blow. Tia spun, bringing her sword up to block a return swing aimed at the back of her neck, rather than her armor. The burning in her chest intensified as she called on the power of the sphere to grant her the speed and strength she so desperately needed in this fight.

             
Armed with only one blade, her strikes were a flurry of feints, strikes, and counter-strikes. Her frenetic pace and the constant drawing of energy were taking its toll. The pain in her chest was making it incredibly hard to concentrate. Tia felt slow, clumsy, and she knew she couldn’t keep this pace up much longer. There were half a dozen dead or wounded scattered around the pass, but they seemed to just keep coming.

             
Tia heard Faxon’s warning the second time and danced away in time to avoid the shock wave from his projectile. The man who stood in the way of the missile folded nearly in half as he absorbed its energy. The sound of his spine splintering was loud enough for her to hear a full ten feet away. For the first time, some of the attackers seemed like they might be rethinking their plan.

             
Faxon screamed and Tia turned toward the sound. This wasn’t a cry of warning, this was pain, pure, unfettered agony. She saw him from across the sea of bodies, a crossbow bolt sunk deep in his chest. The wound was too high and too far to his right to have hit his heart, but the blood that stained his cream-colored robes was spreading too far, too fast. Faxon collapsed on his uninjured side.

             
For the first time, Tia could see Wynn. He was fighting at least, but he wasn’t using his full potential. He handled the staff well, swinging it to and fro, shattering an ankle here and crushing a skull there, but he was no match for Faxon’s spells or Tia’s speed. The highwaymen were converging on him, recognizing his weakness and Faxon’s predicament.

             
Tia prepared to spring, to launch herself into his attackers and save him from the menacing mob. Just before she leapt, her legs were swept out from under her, throwing her face first into the ground. She tasted blood from her lip as it split and struggled to roll over. Her assailant was the woman with the ruined arm, who grinned up at her with unbridled malice. Her teeth were a broken row of yellowed chalk, stained with blood. Tia kicked out hard, the heel of her boot connecting with the woman’s nose. There was a satisfying crunch and the woman was still.

             
The exertion was taking its toll and Tia had to struggle to get to her knees. One of the men at the edge of the group advancing on Wynn saw her vulnerable position and called to his mates. A moment later, they had abandoned the young apprentice and converged on her. Hands tore at her armor and she felt the shoulder seam of the material give. The witchmetal rings held, but even those she could feel flex under the relentless assault.

             
Fighting against a wave of blind panic at the mass of hands grabbing at her, she screamed, a raw, primal sound that tore at her throat and burned her lungs.

             
“Wynn! HELP ME! PLEASE!”

             
Tiadaria heard Wynn’s cry of rage and it was the last thing she heard. Suddenly all the air was gone. She struggled to breathe and felt her lungs move, but there was nothing to fill them. An instant later, the air rushed back, scorching hot and smelling of burning rock. The wave of air caught her, lifted her, ripping her away from the hands that tried to drag her back down to her death.

             
Suddenly she was surrounded by flame, dancing black-orange across her vision. She tried to shield her eyes, but couldn’t raise her arms. She could feel the roar of the expanding fireball in the pit of her stomach, but she couldn’t hear its unholy thunder. As suddenly as it had appeared, the conflagration faded and she slammed into the ground. The world went black.

All she wanted to do was sleep, but someone was shaking her and calling her name over and over again. Why wouldn’t they just let her sleep? She was so tired. Something pungent and repulsive was waved under her nose and she tried to move away from it. She opened her eyes to see what produced such an offensive smell and saw Wynn crouched over her
with a vial of some foul smelling liquid.

             
“Tia?” His voice was full of anguish. “Tia, are you alright? Can you hear me? Please! Say something. Say anything.”

             
Tiadaria tried to lick her lips and found her tongue dry and swollen. She fumbled for the water skin that hung from her belt and found it missing. She must have lost it during the fighting that was, by her best estimate, a hundred years ago.

             
Wynn reached outside her field of vision and brought a water skin to her lips. She tried to gulp it down, but choked and ended up spitting most of it down her chest. He offered her the skin again and she took a small sip, relishing in the cool soft feel of the water against her tongue and parched lips.

             
“Tia, can you hear me?”

             
“I’m okay, Wynn. I think.” Her voice was barely more than a croak. She didn’t sound okay. Even to herself.

             
She managed to turn her head to one side and saw a mass of smoking ash in a neat little pile. She turned her head to the other side and saw a dozen of those piles. Moving was painful, but she managed to look at Wynn.

             
“You fought for me,” she whispered. He looked sick.

             
“For all the good it did us. I need you, Tia. I think Faxon’s dying.”

             
Faxon’s dying. The words seemed to echo down a deep well in her mind, hitting bottom and sending ripples through her entire body. She groaned, trying to sit up. Wynn offered her his hand and managed to get her up on her knees. She thanked all the minor deities that Faxon was propped up against the wall not too far away. Wynn was right. There was too much blood.

             
Tiadaria managed to crawl to Faxon. He was white as linen and his head lolled to one side. His eyes were glazed and dull. She looked at the bolt in his chest and realized that neither she, nor Wynn, had any hope of removing it without ensuring that he died.

             
“Turns out,” Faxon said weakly, his eyes rolling back under his lids. “Wynn does know how to fight.”

             
“What do we do, Faxon?”

             
“My pack.” The quintessentialist coughed and blood bubbled at the corners of his mouth. “Get the callstone.”

             
Tia scanned the pass and saw the pack laying tattered and discarded against the far wall. She half ran, half crawled to it, snagging the strap in one hand and dragging it back. Her fingers tore at the threading around the neck and she cursed loudly when she couldn’t get the knot free. Wynn reached over her hands and pulled the end, loosening it. Tia pulled the mouth of the pack wide and upended it on the ground in front of her.

             
There were a dozen objects that Tia had never seen before. She looked to Wynn, her eyes pleading.

             
“What’s a callstone?”

             
He shook his head, his eyes haunted. “I don’t know, Tia! I don’t know.”

             
With a considerable amount of effort, Faxon managed to lift his wrist. He waved at a small package wrapped in leather. Tia managed to get it open with numb fingers and a large, cloudy crystal fell between her knees.

             
She picked it up and felt its latent power thrum through her body. It set her chest to aching all anew, as if she was still holding her swords. Faxon’s head pitched forward suddenly, his chin touching his chest. Tia reached out and shook him.

             
“Faxon! You need to tell me what to do! Faxon! WAKE UP!” She shook him again, harder this time. She was afraid of hurting him more, but she couldn’t let him go. Tears spilled from her eyes, running hot down her cheeks. “Please, Faxon, don’t leave me.”

             
Faxon opened his eyes, his pupils were so large there was barely any iris showing. “Call...for...help.” He managed, and then slumped sideways.

             
Tiadaria crushed the crystal in her hands, she could feel its power. “Help,” she whispered to the crystal. Then she found her voice. “Help! Help us! Please!”

             
Nothing happened. She folded the crystal in both hands, held it to her chest, and squeezed her eyes shut tightly.
Help us! Help us! Help us!
The thought tore through her, each mental cry punctuated by a sob. Still nothing happened. She opened her eyes and looked to Wynn. He shook his head sadly.

             
There was a loud crack from above them and a shower of sparks in every color of the rainbow fell around them. A creature hovered above them on rapidly beating wings. Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent, pale blue veins tracing underneath its surface. Her hair was so ridiculously red that Tiadaria had reason later to wonder if it was even real. Her eyes were violet and huge, drinking in the surrounding scene. The rapid beats of her pearlescent wings wafted cold air across their faces.

             
“Oh Faxon,” the foot-tall creature said, her voice like a songbird. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

             
“Please,” Tiadaria pleaded. “Please help him, he’s dying. He told us to use the stone.”

             
“Fret not, Swordmage. I’ll see that Faxon recovers.” The diminutive being landed and took a handful of Faxon’s robe. She looked up at Tia and Wynn, towering over her, even though they were kneeling.

             
“I’m afraid you’re on your own now, younglings.”

             
With a crack like thunder, Faxon’s body and the tiny winged woman exploded in a shower of rainbow sparks.

             
Tiadaria stared at the spot where Faxon had been. It seemed almost like a dream, but there was a bloodstain on the ground. He was definitely there a minute ago. She looked at Wynn, who sank to the ground, shaking his head. He was staring at the spot where Faxon had been too.

             
“Wynn? What just happened?”

             
“I don’t know. I think--” He stopped, licked his lips, and tried to find words. After a moment, he managed to start again. “I think that a Pheen just took Faxon into the Quintessential Sphere.”

* * *

              Zarfensis and the rest of the Xarundi war party had made good time down the near edge of the ravine. Going up the other side proved to be more of a challenge. There was no regular path up from the floor of the gully, so they were forced to find each new hand and foothold, often holding on, quite literally, by their claws. They were burning through entirely too much time.

             
One of the warriors lost his footing above and nearly slid down the face before managing to find purchase on an outcropping. They tried to stay spread out as they climbed, but if one of the vanguard warriors slipped off the face, chances were good that they would take at least one of the other Xarundi with them on the way down. While the ravine was hardly insurmountable, Zarfensis didn’t relish the thought of falling twenty feet to the jagged rocks below.

             
Slowly, carefully, they picked their way up the edge of the ravine. By the time the last of them had crawled over the far edge and lay panting with exertion, the eastern sky had begun to lighten. The High Priest ground his teeth. They had lost an entire night to skittering around the rocks like insects. The only consolation was that the Swordmage and the other vermin would be hard pressed to descend as skillfully as they had, nor would they be able to scale this face as easily.

             
It was likely that they would be hung up here for the better part of a day. Meanwhile, Zarfensis and the other Chosen would be well on their way to possessing the relic. Crouching at the edge of the ravine, the High Priest slipped into the Quintessential Sphere and backtracked along the way they had come. He hoped to find some sign of the vermin, to get an idea of where they were along the path to the ravine, but he was unable to find them. He wasn’t worried. The further away from the physical place one was, the murkier the sphere became over long distances. It was also likely that the vermin were actively working to counter his surveillance. Zarfensis had certainly cloaked his war party with spells that would help them avoid detection both physically and in the sphere.