Bladesinger (22 page)

“I will scout ahead again and make sure the path is clear,” the druid said.

Not waiting for any response, she gathered her power around her like a cloak. Years of practice allowed her to shape the image of a creature in her mind’s eye, making minute adjustments. With a single thought, she filled the image with her essence, finally sealing it with a blast of divine power. In a single heartbeat she felt her body begin to change. The world shifted in and out of focus. Her bones lightened, becoming flexible, while skin stretched taught, taking on a scaly texture. In another moment, the transformation ended, and Marissa slithered forward, her serpentine body flowing easily over and around the jutting rock of the bridge’s floor.

Though not completely blind, the world seemed dull and shadowy as she viewed it through small eyes that remained fixed above her jaws like tiny black seeds. She felt, rather than saw, the details of the world around her, separating and cataloging the thousands of minute scents in the cavern with a single flick of her forked tongue. Marissa searched the area around the bridge carefully, using her form’s ability to distinguish changes in heat to see if anyone—or anything—lay in wait for them. Though she could sense a slight vibration in the heart of the ebony stone, the druid did not perceive any immediate threats.

Carefully, Marissa made her way back to her companions. The druid saw Yurz take a few steps back as she coiled herself up and with a single thought shifted forms.

“It looks as if we’re safe,” she said after a brief moment of disorientation.

“Good,” Taenaran said, “then we should hurry. I doubt that our traitorous witch is in the citadel sitting on her thumbs.”

Yulda gazed at the invaders from the shadows.

Hidden on a ledge high above the ebony bridge, she watched their slow progress. From the witch’s vantage point, the intruders looked like nothing more than annoying insects, snow beetles creeping along an almost mindless path. Unlike the harmless beetles that infested the snow-peaked heights of Rashemen, however, the creatures below could sting—to deadly effect.

She hadn’t been surprised to discover that a feckless goblin led them. Those weak-willed humanoids were always falling prey to the smallest enchantments. It did explain, however, how the invaders made it so swiftly to the underground entrance to her citadel.

Yulda would feel great satisfaction in watching her minions tear the goblin’s disgusting head from its shoulders.

It was almost time. The foolish intruders had almost made it to the halfway point of the bridge. When they did, the witch would send a silent signal to Durakh and her forces. Not only would she have the satisfaction of destroying those who dared to move against her, she would also capture the artifact in their possession. Even from this distance, Yulda could sense its presence; it shone like a beacon in the darkness to her arcane senses, pulsing with immeasurable power. The witch had nearly fallen from her hiding place in shock when her eyes had confirmed what her heart had hoped for. The fools had walked into her demesne carrying nothing less than the Staff of the Red Tree.

With the Staff of the Red Tree at her side, she could tear the Urlingwood up by its roots and squash the pathetic wychlaran, who burrowed blindly like grubs beneath the forest’s shadow. Corrupting the will of the Staff of the Red Tree would not be easy, but she would drain the last drops of life from her captive vremyonni to accomplish the task—and once done, she would never have to beg, cajole, or steal power from anyone else again.

The anticipation sent a pleasant tremor coursing through her body.

Cackling softly to herself, Yulda almost missed the moment when the intruders reached the appointed spot. Cursing her foolishness, the witch sent a telepathic command to Durakh, who lay in wait just behind the stone door to the undertomb on the other side of the bridge. The cleric’s ogres would lead the charge, followed by her own arachnoid servants.

At that, shapes loomed out of the shadows around Yulda—wide-bodied, multi-legged monstrosities whose mandibles clacked together hungrily.

“Yes, my pretties,” she cooed softly to the giant spiders, “it is time.”

With a single command, she sent the monstrous arachnids scurrying down their thick, silken strands of web. The creatures’ eyes caught and reflected the light from below, gleaming as they descended toward their prey.

As the door to the undertomb burst open, Yulda summoned a bright, greenish light that surrounded her body in a sickening nimbus of power. Stepping forward, wrapped in her hag illusion, she floated idly in the air above the bridge.

“Welcome to my home,” she shouted at the stunned intruders, magically amplifying the strength of her voice. “Too bad you won’t be alive to enjoy its comforts!”

Her laughter echoed in the cavern.

Time slowed down for Taen.

Between the moment when tall humanoid figures began to pour out of the undertomb door and the shrill, dark voice reverberated in the cave, an eternity seemed to pass. The half-elf watched in horror as broad-shouldered, long-limbed beasts with greasy yellow skin and long, tangled hair ran toward them, cutting the air with great sweeps of their thick-boled wooden clubs. A wave of foul odor wafted ahead of the beasts, stinging Taen’s nose with the stench of rotten meat, rancid sweat, and offal; he nearly retched from the malodorous assault but managed to hold himself together.

From behind him, Borovazk shouted. “That voice—is Chaul, the Hag of Rashemar.”

Taen could not spare long to gaze up at the where the sickly light pulsed, but when he did so, the half-elf caught sight of the green-skinned creature. It floated idly above them, shrieking out imprecations and dire threats. He would have cast an offensive spell at the beast, but the ogres were almost upon him.

Without preamble, time snapped back in step. Quickly Taen turned to the side, allowing both Roberc and Borovazk to meet the onrushing monsters. Though the beasts had the advantage in numbers, the width of the bridge worked in the defenders’ favor—the ogres could not bring more than three of their warriors to bear at any given time. By now the Rashemi ranger and his halfling companion fought like an efficient construct. The moment that the wave of ogres crashed into them, they set to work. Borovazk struck high, wielding his warhammer and axe with consummate skill. His first swing shattered an ogre’s club. The beast took a step back as its hard wood weapon splintered beneath the crushing blow. That gave Roberc all the advantage he needed. The halfling sidestepped a sweeping blow from another ogre and darted forward, slicing deeply into the open flank of the now-weaponless creature. Blood spurted from the wound as Roberc’s sword cut corded muscle and thick tendon, stopping only as it met bone.

The wounded ogre roared in pain, hopping back further. One of its companions stepped forward, filling the gap. Taen knew that they couldn’t win a battle of attrition—despite his friends’ battle skills. More humanoids emerged from behind the open door, crossbows held at the ready. Several had begun climbing the stalagmites on the bridge, obviously searching for a better vantage point from which to loose bolts.

To his right, he could sense Marissa gathering her power. The druid walked behind the furiously engaged halfling and touched him with her staff. Immediately Taen could see his skin harden, becoming thick and rough like the bark of a tree. Confident that his friends could hold the line for a few more moments, the half-elf took stock of the goblins’ emerging positions and loosed a spell of his own. A ball of fire exploded behind the ogres. Goblins shrieked in pain and fear as the conflagration decimated their ranks. Two of the ogres also roared with anger as part of the magic flame licked their backs.

The half-elf would have cast a second spell, but Roberc stumbled backward from an ogre blow, almost knocking Taen over. The fighter cursed with obvious frustration. Luckily for the him, the halfling had caught part of the attack on his shield—which now hung uselessly on his arm, bent backward beyond hope.

Seeing his master falter, Cavan leaped forward, forestalling the ogre’s follow-up attack. The war-dog danced neatly out of the path of the ogre’s club and bit the beast on its thigh. Seeing an opportunity, Taen drew his own sword without thinking and cut downward as the monster lifted both arms to crush the animal worrying at its legs. His elven sword cut a long swath into the ogre’s belly; blood, guts, and other effluvia came spilling out as the beast fell backward.

“My thanks,” Roberc said as he finished unstrapping his ruined shield and jumped once more into the fray.

Taen had no time to acknowledge the halfling. Three crossbow bolts hissed past his head, and a fourth would have pierced his leg if he hadn’t seen it hurtling out of the shadow at the last moment. He flung himself sideways, twisting his hips so that his legs spun over the missile in mid air. It was a defensive move he hadn’t used in quite some time, and the half-elf’s body protested as it landed back on the ground. There was no time to falter, however, as Taen’s ogre opponent reached out a meaty hand grab him. Long fingers latched on to his shoulder with the strength of steel; he could feel his bone quiver beneath the excruciating pressure of the beast’s grip.

Unable to bring his sword to bear, Taen beat his fist against the ogre’s arm, trying to break the hold. It didn’t work. Slowly, inexorably, the half-elf felt himself being drawn toward the ogre’s chest. Once there, the beast would envelop him in a crushing hug that would grind his bones to dust.

The words to a spell fluttered in his mind. Taen shouted them out loud, but the pain of the ogre’s grapple distracted him, and the spell’s energy dissipated harmlessly into the air. The half-elf knew that he had only moments in which to free himself.

Suddenly the ogre pitched sideways, releasing his iron grip. Taen fell backward, his left shoulder nearly numb. Marissa stood beside him, the tip of her staff glowing faintly. The monster roared at the sight of the staff and dived forward, trying to rip the artifact from her hands. Taen called out a warning, but he soon saw that it wasn’t necessary. Marissa quickly retracted the staff. Overbalanced, the ogre tripped and stumbled forward. The druid stepped to the side deftly, planted the staff against the ogre, and pushed.

The beast tumbled sideways, rolling over the lip of the bridge and plunging into the darkness below.

Taen rolled to his feet and returned to the battle, relief at Marissa’s safety flooding through his body, combating some of the fatigue that threatened to slow down each parry and swing of his sword. The soaring melody of the Song accompanied him into the fray with a strength that he had not experienced since his days as a tael. He settled into the Song, wanting to abandon himself to it completely, but he kept waiting for that dreadful moment when it would drag at the core of his being like a blood-hungry vampire, so he fought his enemies under an uneasy truce with the Song building within him.

Behind him he could hear the druid shouting words to another spell.

Marissa watched the intricate dance of Taenaran’s swordplay and marveled, not for the first time, at the half-elf’s fluid style, the lithe interplay of body and steel, moving and weaving with an almost unearthly grace. Where Borovazk and Roberc met the ogres’ powerful attacks with an almost equal ferocity, the half-elf seemed to flow with his opponent’s energy, blending with it instead of meeting it head-on.

To an unschooled observer, it would look like nothing more than a playful dance, a choreographed piece of theater with no application to the real world, but Marissa saw within Taenaran’s flowing movements the deadly art of the bladesinger. She’d seen the half-elf use his training in battle before but never like this. Marissa knew the shame that he carried within him, knew that such a burden often caused the young half-elf to fight his trained battle instincts. The result was usually a stilted attack, something that resembled the art she had seen a few times before in her life—like a pseudo-dragon resembles a full-grown wyvern—but never quite matched its purity.

Something had clearly changed for the half-elf—had been changing ever since they started off on this journey, if Marissa was honest. In combat, at least, he seemed no longer to be two persons—a gifted acolyte of an ancient and revered art, and a dishonored exile struggling to find peace—inhabiting the same skin. The druid saw in his uninhibited sword work what he must have been before tragedy and guilt had crippled him. The vision made her smile—not for the destruction Taenaran wreaked, but for the healing that so obviously had taken place.

A furtive movement off to her side caught Marissa’s attention. She spun to face it just as a swarm of giant spiders dropped down onto the bridge from the darkness above. The druid cursed as the fat-bodied arachnids scuttled forward on long, spindly legs. She had been too busy focusing on the battle in front of her, not paying attention to any danger which might present itself from above.

She called out a warning as the bloated spiders attacked. One of the monsters leaped toward her, attempting to knock her down with its thick body, which looked to be nearly three feet in diameter. Marissa spun out of the creature’s path and brought her staff down on its head. Blood and gore sprayed the bridge as her mystic weapon struck the spider with a meaty thump. The wounded monster let out a horrifying screech and scuttled backward, spinning madly in pain.

Another arachnid darted forward quickly, nearly tripping the druid. She dodged wildly out of the way, breathing a quick sigh of relief as it bit nothing but the air, mandibles clacking together harshly. Marissa’s celebration was short lived, however. Two more spiders crawled over the side of the bridge. The druid managed to call fire down upon one of them. It shrieked and died almost instantly, its long legs curling inward as its body smoked and smoldered on the bridge. Its companion, however, scurried around the corpse, finally interposing the bulk of its body between her and her companions. Before she could react, three more of the creatures followed suit. She called out once more to her friends, but the press of the remaining ogres and goblins pinned them to their own defensive ground.