Текст книги "The masked witches"

Автор книги: Richard Lee Byers

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Jhesrhi stood and crooned a whisper to the cold, strong winds of the North Country. She d made friends with them during the trek from the Erech Forest, and they were happy to gather close and toy with strands of her hair and the folds of her war cloak. Curious about the heat they sensed inside her, they nosed at her like hounds.

When they understood what Jhesrhi wanted of them, all but one rushed away with a howl. The berserkers exclaimed and flinched at the blast. The stag men shook their bells, expressing surprise or approval in their own way.

The remaining wind settled awkwardly on the ground; staying still was unnatural and uncomfortable for it. Soon, Jhesrhi said, reassuring it, soon, you ll fly again. She visualized the shape she wanted for it, and, sketching the broad outline with sweeps of her staff, helped the elemental congeal into that guise. The onlookers babbled, rang their bells, and stepped back as, over the course of the several heartbeats, a hawk as big as Jet materialized before them.

Are you done? asked Aoth.

The winds had left Jhesrhi s hair hanging in her face, and she brushed it back. Yes, she replied.

Wonderful, Jet rasped. I needed a crosswind to fight.

It will help keep arrows out of your belly, said Aoth. He turned to Vandar and the Stag King. You might as well move out. The rest of us will see you on the battlefield.

I trust so, Vandar said. He brandished the red spear over his head. Come on, brothers! He strode off in the same direction the wind was blowing, lashing bare branches and picking up loose snow. The other berserkers followed. The Stag King gave Aoth a crooked smile, then set his own warriors into motion with a more casual wave of his antler weapon.

They were all standing tall, but they d crouch down and take advantage of cover when they neared the fortress. If Tymora smiled, the cover, the frigid, stinging gale blowing in the guards faces, and the diversion Aoth intended to provide should keep them from being spotted until they were close to the gate. When the sentries did catch sight of them, it would be time to charge.

For the moment, because winged steeds traveled faster than folk on foot, there was nothing for Jhesrhi and the others who had stayed behind to do but watch the advance. After a while, Aoth growled,

May the Black Flame burn him.

What s wrong? Cera asked, her golden buckler on her arm and her gilded mace in hand. Her yellow vestments fluttered in the wind.

You can t see it? he said. The Stag King and his warriors have slowed down a little and put the berserkers in the lead. He s making sure that when arrows and javelins start raining down from the battlements, and when our side stumbles into whatever s on the other side of the gate, Vandar and his comrades will bear the brunt of it.

With a snap and a rustle, Jet shook out his wings. So what? the griffon said. You d do the same to protect the Brotherhood if some other captain was determined to rush into trouble.

Aoth snorted as he said, Well, maybe.

I think, Cera said, that you just don t like it that you re not in command.

There s that priestly wisdom people talk about, he said.

She frowned. I wasn t criticizing you, jackass, she retorted.

I know, Aoth replied. I m sorry. And you may be right. Of course, I wasn t in complete control of the situation when I served Shala, or Tchazzar, or, come to think of it, any of my employers. A hired sword never is. But still. I can t read the Stag King. I m not sure I understand why he s even here. I can t talk sense to these idiot berserkers, and we re all rushing in blindly where a little scouting He spat. Forget it. I m blathering. We ll cope like we always do. Mount up.

Aoth swung himself onto Jet s back, and Cera climbed up behind him. Responding to the war mage s unspoken command, straps reared from the saddle like serpents to buckle him and the priestess in.

Jhesrhi climbed onto her conjured hawk. It didn t have any tack, but she trusted her skill and the elemental s to keep her astride it.

Ready? asked Aoth.

She nodded and said, Go.

Jet trotted, lashed his wings, and carried Aoth and Cera into the air. The hawk followed. For a moment, bits of its feathers rippled and faded. Jhesrhi murmured to it, reminding it of the need to remain solid, and the erosion stopped.

When they had climbed high enough, she spotted the berserkers and the stag men on the ground. Evidently satisfied with their progress, Aoth wheeled Jet away from them, and once again, she followed.

Their allies were advancing on the fortress from the east. To create a maximally effective distraction, the flyers should arguably have swept in from the opposite direction, across the gleaming frozen surface of Lake Ashane. But that would have required the griffon and the hawk to beat their way into the teeth of the windstorm Jhesrhi had raised, so they were approaching from the south instead.

From the outside, the design of the fortress was simple. The walls made a square, and a great slab of a keep loomed opposite the broken gate. As Aoth had reported, there were guards walking the battlements, and more on the roof of the donjon. There were not many yet, but Jhesrhi assumed more would scramble out into the open when she and her comrades made their presence known.

Flying a little ahead of her, Aoth leveled his spear. A booming, twisting flare of lighting leaped from the point.

The thunderbolt blasted away a merlon and the ice troll behind it. Burning, the creature toppled backward out of sight.

Jhesrhi aimed her brazen staff and recited a rhyme. A red spark shot from the end toward two goblins standing together on the battlements. When it reached them, it exploded into a burst of flame that tore the creatures apart. In other circumstances, she might have deemed the spell more powerful than required, and thus a waste of her strength. But she and her comrades wanted to create the impression of a terrifying onslaught.

An ice troll discharged its crossbow. Jet dipped one wing, raised the other, and dodged the bolt. Cera brandished her mace, and a shaft of light blazed from the end of it. The magic burned all the way through the troll s torso, and it staggered but didn t fall down. Instead, snarling and baring a mouthful of tangled yellow fangs, it snatched another quarrel from its quiver.

Jet hurtled past the troll as it tried to reload, and it pivoted to keep the griffon in view. Jhesrhi flourished her staff, and arrows of flame appeared in midtrajectory, streaking at the creature and splashing against its back. From the way it roared and flailed, she d hurt it, but it still wouldn t go down.

Then she and the hawk shot over its head, and she had her first glimpse down into the castle courtyard. As she d expected, there were more of the undead s living allies on the ground. From the looks of it, a moment ago they d been pursuing the mundane business of fortress life, practicing their combat techniques, mending gear, tending animals, or just lounging about. But the attack from the air had captured everyone s attention. The trolls and goblins were either gaping in surprise or scurrying to aid in the defense.

Jhesrhi had time to rain fire down on a trio of bugbears. Then the hawk whizzed over the north wall, carrying her beyond the confines of the fortress. Her steed swung back and forth, dodging the quarrels that flew after it, and, clinging to its body with her knees, she twisted around and hurled darts of flame at the shooters. But the hawk s evasive maneuvers threw off her own aim, and the missiles only struck the gray stone wall beneath their feet.

The hawk wheeled for a second pass, and Jet did, too, wobbling in flight as he shook an arrow out of the plumage on his left wing. It looked to Jhesrhi as if the shaft had only pierced feathers, not flesh. There wasn t any blood that she could see.

Aoth shot Jhesrhi a grin across the air that separated their two mounts. In contrast, Cera looked grim, not scared but rather intent on the business at hand. For an instant, the sunlady s expression reminded Jhesrhi of her own early days with the Brotherhood, when she d felt a desperate need to prove her worth and not let Aoth and Khouryn down.

They all raced at the castle again, and into a flight of arrows and quarrels. Despite Jet s skill at evasion, Aoth had to block one with his targe, and Jhesrhi had to cry out to the wind. It gusted and tumbled away two shafts that would otherwise have struck the hawk.

Once they had weathered that volley, Aoth, trying to keep the nearest archers from shooting again, shrouded the section of wall on which they were standing in a smear of noxious vapor. A goblin, overcome with sickness or just panicking, reeled out over the edge and fell down the outside of the wall.

Jhesrhi hurled flame at another group of bowmen, but as they neared the fortress again, she concerned herself with spotting spellcasters. They posed an even greater danger.

There! Two masked, hooded witches had emerged onto the battlements from the tower at a corner where two walls met. One, clad in black and green, smoked as the undead flesh inside her layers of cloak and robe fried despite the protection they afforded.

Jhesrhi pointed her staff and willed a burst of fire to engulf the durthans, but when it came, the flash was a feeble flicker that didn t even stagger them, let alone tear them apart or set them ablaze. Some protective charm had leeched the force from the magic.

The smoking witch chanted in one of the tongues of Sky Home. The hawk lurched as an enchantment hammered at its mind, trying to smash its way in and take control. Alarmed, Jhesrhi rattled off words of power to help the bird resist.

They were working, too. She could feel it. But meanwhile, the hawk, no longer entirely in control of its own body, floundered spastically in flight an easy mark when the archers and crossbowmen targeted it again. And the second witch, a lopsided figure cloaked in mold-spotted gray, aimed a long wooden wand at Jhesrhi.

Cera shouted, Keeper! from somewhere off to the right. The sunlight around the durthans brightened, and they screamed and staggered. The psychic assault on the hawk ended, and its wings beat powerfully and smoothly once again.

It no longer needed Jhesrhi s counterspell, and since she was already speaking the language of the wind, she hoped she could adapt the magic to another purpose quickly, before Cera s holy light faded. She rattled off a word of power, and a screaming blast of air tore the hoods off the witches heads and pulled their mantles streaming back from their shoulders, exposing more of what was inside to Amaunator s power.

Both durthans burst into flame. The one in gray stumbled back into the tower. Her comrade collapsed and burned on the wall-walk. Jhesrhi felt a surge of vicious satisfaction.

After that, she had time to hurl one more blast of fire down into the courtyard. Then the hawk carried her beyond the castle walls. Arrows, quarrels, and a jagged streamer of darkness leaped after them, but none hit the mark.

As her steed wheeled, she was happy to see that Aoth, Jet, and Cera all still appeared unscathed as well. The Luckmaiden was with them, at least so far.

Once more should do it! Aoth called.

Jhesrhi glanced south and saw that he was right. Keeping low, the berserkers and stag warriors had crept almost close enough to the castle to charge. And there was no indication that any of the distracted creatures on the battlements had seen them coming.

One more! she replied.

The third charge was the most dangerous yet. She d known it would be, because with every heartbeat that passed, more of the foe, witches included, entered the battle. The hawk grunted and lurched in flight as, despite all she could do to shield it, a crossbow bolt drove into its breast. But it was only temporarily a thing of flesh and blood, and an injury that would have killed an ordinary animal only made it plummet for a heart-stopping instant. It lashed its wings and flew onward, straight at an onrushing spark such as the ones Jhesrhi herself had been throwing around. It was an attack that couldn t hurt her but could certainly destroy the elemental. She shouted a word of power, stretched out her hand, and the spark curved in flight and flew into her fingers. She willed it not to explode just yet, hurled it back at the devil-masked durthan who d thrown it at her, and only realized afterward that no one had ever taught her to work a spell exactly like the one she d just performed.

That was interesting, and maybe even a little disquieting, but there was no time to think about it. The battle plan now called for her to protect Aoth while he dealt with whatever measures the enemy had taken to defend the gate. He hadn t done it earlier lest he give away the fact that someone was about to try to rush in from that direction.

Jet swooped over the patch of earth behind the gate, and Aoth pointed his spear at it. A ball of gray light shot out of the point and hit the ground like a stone from a catapult, and although that portion of the courtyard had looked solid to Jhesrhi, the impact sent a thin layer of dirt and cloth tumbling into a deep, square pit with stakes at the bottom. Had he not revealed it, the first berserkers to charge in would have plummeted to their deaths.

Unfortunately, though, Aoth had only solved half the problem. The inhabitants of the fortress had left themselves a bit of solid ground to use to go in and out of the gate. But the spot was a bottleneck that would only allow the Rashemi and stag warriors to enter two or three abreast, which would make the entryway easy to defend.

Jet lashed his wings, gaining altitude and moving to carry his riders out of the killing box defined by the four walls. Jhesrhi urged her steed after the griffon, but as she did so, she looked for the fallen piece of the gate. Fortunately, it was easy to spot. The occupants of the fortress had needed to shift the heavy iron panel to dig their pit trap, but they hadn t dragged it any farther than necessary.

She spoke to the earth beneath the gate leaf, and the ground heaved like a storm-tossed sea. As goblins and trolls cried out, staggered, and fell, the waves lifted the fallen gate and flipped it over the pit to serve as a bridge.

Jhesrhi smiled. Suddenly an ear-splitting screech jolted her. It stunned the hawk, too, and the conjured steed floundered in flight. Before either of them could recover, a vrock, a demonic mix of vulture and man, hurtled at the hawk and clawed long rents in its torso. The wounds bled a shriek of wind.

Streaking on past the hawk, the vrock snatched for Jhesrhi, and, still dazed as she was by the demon s cry, she found that at that instant, even fire magic was beyond her. She evaded the attack the only way she could, by throwing herself off the other side of her steed. As she did so, the bird vanished, either killed or hurt so badly that it could not maintain a constant, solid shape.

As Jhesrhi plummeted, she strained to focus and articulate a cry for help couched in the language of the wind. After an instant, she managed to gasp it out, and another friendly gale blasted straight upward to slow her descent.

She took a breath and reached for its mind with her own, so it would know where to carry her without her needing to speak the words aloud. Suddenly, a white, slimy-looking hand at the end of an inhumanly long arm shot up from the mass of foes in the courtyard below. It clamped shut on her wrist and jerked her down.

Standing in the searing sunlight, feeling hot to the point of actual pain but enduring it as best he could, Falconer congratulated himself that he d taken the time to climb to the roof of the donjon. It had delayed his entry into the fight but had also provided him the proper perch to oversee the entire battlefield and contend with a flying foe. Namely, the blonde wizard riding the hawk.

Falconer s vrock had disposed of her steed and made her fall far enough for an ice troll to jump up and drag her the rest of the way to the ground. By rights, that should have been the end of her. But she was plainly dangerous, so he decided to order the demon to descend and help the troll finish her off.

He was just about to give the command via his gauntlet when he spotted the second winged beast and its riders wheeling to rush to their comrade s aid. The priestess and griffon were the same meddlers who d escaped him before. He d been hoping for a second chance at them, and he had it.

Focusing his will on his gauntlet, he sent the vrock flapping toward the griffon. Then he called forth the first of his imps.

Columns of smoke were rising from inside the Fortress of the Half-Demon, and creatures roared and yelled beyond the gate. But so far, no one was shouting that a band of berserkers and stag men were creeping up on the castle from the east.

Plainly, Aoth and the other outlanders had furnished as effective a distraction as they d promised. Despite everything he knew about the Thayan, Vandar had to admire the daring and skill that the trick had required. He wondered again if Aoth truly meant to betray him. He didn t act like that sort of blackguard, but it was just as difficult to imagine that the spirit of the mound would lie.

A goblin on the wall-walk finally bellowed a warning, yanking Vandar s thoughts back to the task at hand. He leaped up, screeched like a griffon, and gave himself over to the rage of a berserker. As it awoke, he charged; around and behind him, his brothers did the same.

He noticed that only his fellow Rashemi were keeping pace with him, or nearly so. The Stag King s warriors were coming on more slowly. But that didn t bother him. In his exalted state, he would have raced in and started killing even if he were alone.

As he neared the walls, he sprang from side to side without slowing, and arrows and javelins stabbed into the snow around him. Instinct, or some perceptual faculty inherent in the red weapons, enabled him to dodge the attacks even though he wasn t consciously aware of them.

Shadow swallowed him for a heartbeat as he ran through the opening in the wall. Metal clanked under his boots when he lunged back out into the sunlight.

Goblins, ice trolls, and a miscellany of other creatures were running at him. They were trying to form the tight ranks that might still enable them to hold the attackers out. He resolved that he wasn t going to let them.

Bellowing, he drove the red spear all the way through a hobgoblin. As he yanked it out again, a second swung a scimitar at his neck, but the horizontal stroke seemed slow, and he had no trouble dropping underneath it. When he had the long spear free, it was easier to jab with the butt than bring the point to bear, so that was what he did. The attack caught the hobgoblin on the jaw. Bone snapped, and the creature flopped backward with a broken neck.

An ice troll reared up from its usual hunched posture to swing a battle-axe straight down on Vandar s head. He sidestepped the chop and drove the spear into the troll s belly. When he jerked the weapon free, it tugged a loop of gut out with it.

It seemed to Vandar that combat was both easier and more of a joy than it had ever been, and he sensed he could do things he couldn t have done before. He gripped the crimson spear with his off hand alone and found that he could still manage it easily despite its length. He whipped the red sword from its scabbard.

The troll was stuffing the bulge of torn intestine back inside its body. Vandar slashed one leg out from underneath it, then beheaded it before it could finish falling down.

Pivoting, he knocked aside a spear thrust and slashed the green hands that had attempted it, the parry and riposte a single blur of motion. He sensed something rushing in on his flank, and, without even needing to look, flicked the spear into line to catch the attacker in the chest. At the same time, he twitched his head back, and a flail made of braided rawhide and bits of sharp steel whirled past, half a finger length in front of his nose. He sprang and cut down his bugbear attacker before the shaggy, hulking warrior could ready the flexible weapon for another swing.

Vandar grinned. He was dropping a foe with every attack, while his opponents seemed no more able to touch him than they could have grabbed a wisp of smoke. When his brothers hurled themselves, screaming, at the goblins and their ilk, he almost regretted them claiming a share of the fun.

The defenders lines buckled before the fury of the assault, and for a moment or two, Vandar wondered if they were about to break. Then a fell troll shambled forward, knocking its own comrades aside in its eagerness to join the fight.

The two-headed thing was three times as tall as Vandar, with a bumpy, mottled gray-green hide. Its fleshy, wormlike strands of hair writhed of their own accord, and its fangs and hooked claws were long enough to cut a man to pieces with a single bite or slash.

Vandar wasn t afraid of it. With anger singing inside him and his fey weapons in his hands, he wasn t afraid of anything. But he recognized that the fell troll was a foe capable of slaughtering men by the dozen and repelling the attack. So he scrambled to intercept it.

He threw the long spear like a javelin, and, reacting faster than anything so big should have been able to move, the creature twisted out of the way. Vandar rushed it. A couple of his lesser foes struck at him, and he ducked and slipped the attacks but didn t pause to riposte.

The troll s enormous hands raked and slashed at him. Twisting and sidestepping, Vandar counterattacked, gashing them, breaking talons, and even lopping off fingers. But the damage didn t slow the giant down, and it didn t really even need claws or fingers to hurt him. If one of its swings connected, it would still do so with bone-shattering force.

Vandar had to get inside the reach of the long arms so that he could strike at the troll s vitals. He dodged two more blows, then, hoping he saw an opening, lunged.

It proved to be a mistake. An instant later, the troll s hands caught him from behind and gathered him in. Stooping in the hunchback manner of its kind, it opened its two mouths wide.

Deprived of his balance, Vandar somehow still managed to thrust. The red sword drove into the gaping mouth on the right and out of the back of that head.

Unfortunately, the fell troll still had another head, and even a wound that terrible only made it falter for an instant. It dragged Vandar on toward its other snapping, slavering mouth.

Vandar planted his off hand on his foe s forehead to hold himself clear, and immediately felt the giant s strength overwhelming his own. He let go of the red sword even if it hadn t been stuck, it would have been difficult to use at such close quarters and snatched the dirk from his belt. Screaming, he drove it repeatedly into the head that was still trying to bite him.

He half severed the troll s warty spike of a nose, popped an eye, and then stabbed the blade deep into the gory socket. The troll jerked and pitched forward, carrying Vandar to the ground beneath it.

He struggled to crawl out from under the creature s bulk, noticing as he did so that his leather armor was shredded and his skin was torn and bloody where it had grabbed him. But, still berserk, he didn t feel any pain or care that he was hurt. The only things that mattered were making sure the fell troll didn t get up again and then kill the next foe, and the one after that.

A hobgoblin raised a battle-axe to strike him before he d quite squirmed all the way clear. Fortunately, another brother of the Griffon Lodge rushed in and slammed his own axe into its torso before it could swing. Vandar jumped up, yanked the red sword out of the troll s right head, and chopped both of its skulls to pieces. Even that might not keep it down forever. But with luck, it would at least neutralize the creature until someone had a chance to set it on fire.

He glanced around and grinned to see that the enemy appeared to be falling back. Maybe the loss of the fell troll had weakened their resolve, or maybe the arrival of the Stag King s warriors was responsible. For they were finally there: fighting alongside their human allies, loosing arrows, jabbing with spears, and dipping their heads to gore with their antlers. The light, cheerful sound of their bells made a strange counterpoint to the shouts, screams, and clashing of blades on armor and shields.

Vandar screeched like a griffon to urge his brothers onward. As he did so, a silvery ripple of power stabbed down from somewhere overhead. It didn t splash over him, but it chilled him even so. However, the berserkers and stag men it did engulf cried out, convulsed, or collapsed. A scant instant later, a horned, bearded demon leaped in among them and laid about with a glaive.

Folk who weren t berserkers imagined that once a warrior had evoked the rage, he couldn t really think at all. But that wasn t altogether true, at least if the berserker in question had mastered the art as well as Vandar had. He discerned that, although he and his brothers were overcoming the foes in front of them, it was taking too long. More and more undead spellcasters were emerging from the interior of the fortress to attack from the wall-walks, and it was difficult for the embattled men on the ground to do much about it.

The attackers needed their own spellcasters to counter the threat. Where in the name of the Golden Horn were they?