Page 9 of WarBride

Elydark’s voice sounds in my head, song without words, but I understand its meaning entirely. I draw a long breath through my clenched teeth.

Take him alive,my licorneir repeats.We need the knowledge in his head.

That doesn’t mean he needs all his limbs though, does he?I shoot back. Elydark doesn’t respond, but I feel the tension communicated from his soul to mine, and I restrain my sword arm.

Artoris shifts on his feet, moving to place himself more firmly in front of the person beside him. That slight movement drawsmy gaze, first in a brief glance, then a second look, longer, harder. It’s her—the young woman from the valley, the one in the blue cloak. I would have thought she’d been cut down in the altercation, but here she is, gazing at me from over the mage’s shoulder, her dark eyes round and wide. When my gaze meets hers, she draws a quick breath and steps back. But the death mage has a hard grip on her arm, and he yanks her back beside him. Something tells me that, wherever this man meant to take her, she was not going willingly.

“Let the girl go, mage,” I say, shifting my gaze back to him.

Artoris hisses a curse. Abruptly he pushes the woman away, hard enough that she staggers and tumbles to the ground in a heap of skirts and limbs. I don’t fall for this minor distraction. When the mage reaches into the front of his robes, going for a spellbook, I step forward and lay the edge of my sword firmly against his throat.

“If you hope to draw another breath,” I say, “you’ll keep your hands where I can see them.” The death mage freezes. His eyes flick sideways to the woman, who is scrambling backwards, trying to put distance between herself and the two of us. “She is not your concern,” I growl, and his gaze whips back to mine. “I am. Hands up!”

Slowly Artoris raises his hands. They tremble in the firelight. If he could cast spells via his eyes, I would be blasted to cinders on the spot. “Gods-damned half-breed,” he snarls.

His words cut off sharply when I slightly adjust the angle of my blade, twisting it through the chain around his neck. I tug, and a triangular talisman set with a rotating sphere of dark stone appears from under his robes. Spell-writing covers that stone, tiny and intricate cuts.

I grin. With a quick slice of my blade, I cut through the chain and deftly catch the talisman with one hand before it hits the ground. The mage gasps, but I place the edge of my weaponalong his jaw once more. “Turn around,” I say. “Hands behind your back.”

He obeys. Depositing the talisman in the pouch on my belt, I slip free a length of cord. It’s risky to lower my sword, even for a moment, but I won’t miss this chance to secure my prey. I bind his wrists, then, knowing the peril of spoken spells, gag him as well.

All the while, I’m aware of the woman, though I won’t look directly at her. She crawls to the back of the room where a small body lies in the deeper shadows beside a fallen Noxaurian corpse. Another human female. Dead? I can’t tell from where I’m standing. A strange urge comes over me to cross to the woman’s side, to kneel beside her and offer my assistance; to guide her from this temple, this house of slaughter, and see that she escapes Lurodos and his virulium-maddened horde.

The mission.Elydark’s voice sings in my head, speaking truth I cannot afford to forget. I’ve lost good men tonight, and many more lives depend on the successful apprehension of this mage. I won’t let myself be distracted by one human maiden in distress, no matter how lovely her face may be.

I grip Mage Artoris’s shoulder tight, pivoting him toward the door. “Almost too easy,” I growl. “I would have expected more resistance from a death mage.”

I force him to march forward, making for the door. We’ve scarcely gone two paces before a crimson-cloaked figure lurches into the doorway. Its cloak is spattered with blood and gore, and it breathes in great, rasping gasps, as though its lungs are tattered. Two gloved hands emerge from deep sleeves, gripping the hilts of twin swords. My gaze drops to those swords and fastens on them intently. Those are Licornyn blades. Taken from one of my fallen warriors?

I look up, peering at the face beneath that deep hood. Before I can discern more than the faintest impression of features, thecrimson cloak lunges at me, a blur of flashing blades and blows. I release Artoris and raise my own sword in defense, deflecting and riposting in quick succession. One of those swords whirs toward my head, and I escape with the top half of my skull by inches, losing instead a lock of hair.

I see an opening and go for it, only for my strike to be blocked. Again and again I lunge, staying on the offensive, determined to bring this crimson cloak down. Is this a mage? It can’t be. The Miphates warriors are dependent on spellcraft, but this person demonstrates pure strength and swordsmanship. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was Licornyn-trained. Every move I make is anticipated, every blow blocked with almost laughable ease.

I know this style of fighting. The timing, the grace, the last-minute feints and quick thrusts. But it’s impossible. My mind is playing tricks on me.

With a roar I propel myself forward, my sword clashing with both of my enemy’s weapons, driving the crimson cloak back against the wall. I press close, my superior strength pinning my opponent in place.

A low laugh whispers across my senses, sends a shot of ice through my veins.

I stare down at the edge of that hood. Then the crimson cloak shakes its head, tosses back the heavy fabric, and lifts its eyes to mine. Dead eyes, gray and filmed-over. Staring out from the face of a dead woman. Bloodless, colorless. Decay eats away part of her mouth, and an old wound on the line of her jaw festers with rot.

Even in ruin, I would know that face anywhere, in any world.

“Shanaera?” I breathe.

Her rotten mouth twists. “Surprise,” she whispers, a vicious purr.

Her leg moves, catching me behind the knees. I go over backwards, too stunned, too horrified to react. My head strikes the stone floor; sparks explode across my vision. For a moment I am vulnerable, my defenses gone. I hear Elydark’s voice screaming wordlessly inside my head, but I cannot answer. Any second I expect to feel both of those twin blades plunging into my chest and gut.

Instead the apparition leaps over me in a whirl of rippling cloak. I turn, trying to follow her line of movement. With unnatural strength, she catches up the bound and struggling body of Artoris. Slinging him over her shoulders like he weighs no more than a child, she darts from the building out into the raw light of the burning temple grounds.

I drop my head, let the dizziness and darkness overtake me, the sheer madness of it all. Because that’s the only explanation—I must be mad. Mad to think that was Shanaera, to think she’s come back from the dead. Mad to believe she could be here, and, even if she was, that she would help a Miphato. I must be battle-crazed. Perhaps Lurodos slipped me some virulium after all.

Vellar!Elydark’s voice again, singing, roaring. Suddenly he’s there, his flaming presence unmistakable. I open my eyes to find my licorneir standing over me, huge and terrible in the confined space of this hall.Vellar,he urges, lowering his nose and nudging me hard in the shoulder.What happened? I felt such fear, such horror in your heart!

I cannot explain. I will not. Not yet, at least. Not until I’ve had a chance to consider what I saw. For now I must concentrate on more pressing business.

“Artoris,” I growl. “He’s getting away.” I roll over, heave myself up onto all fours, and nearly collapse again. Elydark bows his head to assist, and I gratefully accept his help getting to my feet. Still leaning on my licorneir, I take three staggering steps toward the door.

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