The Captive Flame

An instant later, a lightingbolt struck him, almost like his own magic had bounced back. Every muscle clenching and spasming, he shuddered in place for a moment, then dropped to his knees.

The power would likely have killed him if not for the protective enchantments bound into his mail and tattoos. As it was, it left his head empty and ringing like a bell. A light crawled in the blue abishai’s eyes, sparks popped and sizzled on its scaly hide, and a part of him realized it was gathering its strength to throw more lightning. But at first he couldn’t make himself react.

Even when his mind snapped back into functionality, his still-twitching muscles didn’t want to obey it. But somehow he pointed his spear and sent a blade of white light leaping from the point. The floating sword slashed, and the abishai toppled backward. Its lightningbolt shattered a section of the ceiling.

Panting, heart pounding, Aoth rose and retreated through the empty rooms. The flying blade finished killing its first target. He called it back to hover close by and strike at whatever popped out at him.

But the sword couldn’t keep all the abishais away. There were too many. There were ragged, smoldering holes gaping in the floor of every room, waiting to punish any misstep, and devil-kin lurking around every corner. When he was lucky enough to spot them while still a step beyond their reach, he blasted them with flame and frost. Otherwise he drove his spear into their vitals.

Suddenly he smelled a scent like a gathering storm, and a stray spark fell in front of his face. He wrenched himself aside, and a dazzling lightningbolt roared down from above. One of the blue abishais had gone up to the second story, clawed a hole in the floor there, and waited for him to pass underneath. He sent the flying sword streaking at it to shear the fiend’s head from its shoulders.

He realized he had no idea of his direction. He’d turned and dodged so often that, ridiculously, the handful of interco

He blew the shutters to splinters with a blast of sound, then ran toward the opening. Shrouded in mist and bitter cold, a white abishai lunged at him. He stabbed it in the eye with his spear, jerked the weapon free, and leaped through the opening-into the street where Jet had set him down.

No help was in sight, and he realized he shouldn’t have expected any. He’d only been inside for a little while, even if it had felt like all night to him.

He took a breath and aimed his spear at the abishais springing and clambering out after him. Come on, then, he thought.

Gaedy

He cut the second one across the kidney. By then the remaining two had their chains whirling. He jumped back, and the ends of the weapons streaked past him. He instantly stepped in and sliced into the torso of yet another silent, scar-faced opponent.

He looked for the last one and couldn’t find him. Pain smashed through his ankle, and then something yanked his leg out from under him. As he slammed down on his belly, he realized the last shadar-kai had shifted behind him and caught his leg with his chain.

Gaedy

Gasping, his ankle throbbing, soaked in gore, Gaedy

It was actually rather ridiculous how glad he was to have them. He was still ill from the poisonous gaze of the faceless men. If anything, fatigue was making the sickness steadily worse. Most likely, thanks to the stroke of the chain, he’d be limping from now on.

His flight had taken him to a patch of relatively low ground where flickers of shadow told him his pursuers were on the wooded slopes and ridges to every side. Despite his best efforts they’d somehow managed to surround him, and now they were going to converge on him.

And there was still no sign of a rescue in the offing. Taken all together, it meant that unless Lady Luck truly loved him today, the arrows could only extend his life for a little longer and make the shadar-kai pay more dearly for the honor of snuffing it out.

Still, that was better than nothing. It just might mean the mad gamble would pay off-for Jhesrhi anyway-and in any case, better to go down drawing a bow than swinging a blade. That way, Keen-Eye would know to welcome his spirit into his camp.

Just to make sure the enemy stayed eager, he flicked the living flame out of his hand and into visible existence. “If you can fight,” he told her, “this would be a perfect time to show me.”

He wasn’t certain, but he thought her glowing, fluid features smiled derisively.

As Jhesrhi backed up, she told herself, I don’t have to cringe and run. I can kill this brute. My magic is stronger than any kenkuni’s ever was.

Her staff too implored her to stand her ground. It promised that if she only unleashed its power, she could incinerate any foe.

Still, she kept retreating. Leering, the giant came after her in a leisurely ma

She realized he hadn’t even bothered to draw the enormous sword strapped across his back. Perhaps he didn’t even mean to kill her. Maybe he pla

So fight! Don’t let him! But instead, she merely gasped and whimpered.

He waved his massive, dirt-colored hand. A tremor ran through the ground and tossed her off her feet. Then suddenly he ran, and before she could even scramble up, he was looming over her. He bent down.

I’m sorry, Gaedy

And somehow that-or that combined with the urgings of the staff and all the things she’d already tried to tell herself-brought her to the tipping point.

She’d tried? And that was how it ended? That was all she had to offer one of the only true friends she’d ever had? Rage and hatred welled up in her like lava, burning her panic away, excoriating the elemental mage and herself in equal measure.

But the torrent of flame that leaped from the staff only targeted the giant. It caught him square in the face and hurled him backward.

When he caught his balance, she saw that the attack hadn’t seared his body exactly as it would char human flesh. But it had plainly hurt him. Parts of him looked hard, discolored, and cracked, like badly made pottery.

He bellowed and stamped his foot.

She disregarded the staff’s yearning for fire and reestablished her co

The giant snarled, and bits of his contorted features broke loose. She laughed at him.

He pulled his sword from his scabbard and charged. She spoke to the wind, and it carried her upward, her magic in a race with his long legs and reach.

A close race-he leaped as high as he could, swung the sword in an overhand cut, and it whistled by just a finger length under her feet.