Danica went left, was forced back to the right, and backstepped frantically as both trolls suddenly rushed ahead. An angled log at her back, a dead tree that had toppled to lean against another tree, cut her off.
“Damn!” she spat.
Danica leaped high, kicking out with both feet and scoring two hits on one of the trolls and knocking it back several steps. She realized that the other would hit her, though, and she twisted as she came down to protect her vital spots.
As the troll started its attack, an arrow slammed into the side of its head. The monster’s momentum flew away in its surprise, and though the swinging arm did indeed hit Danica, there was little strength behind the blow.
Danica spun completely to regain her balance then she quickly lashed out, her flying foot slamming the monster several times in succession.
“And when I’m finished with you,” she called defiantly, though of course the beast couldn’t understand what she said, “I’ll hunt down a certain cowardly wizard and teach her about loyalty!”
At that moment, as if on cue, Danica noticed a small sphere of fire appear in the air over the closest troll’s head. Before she could ask, the hovering sphere erupted, sending a shroud of hungry flames down over the troll’s body.
The monster shrieked in agony and flailed wildly, but the flames would neither let go nor relent. Danica did well to slip away from the waving inferno. She kept her wits enough to concentrate on the second monster as it came around its burning companion, giving the flaming troll a wide berth, and she met the monstrous thing with another flying double-kick.
Danica had the devious notion of herding the troll into its flaming companion, but the cunning monster wanted no part of that. It staggered back from the kick then came around again, pointedly putting Danica between it and the burning troll.
An arrow thudded into its side, and it turned its ugly head to regard Shayleigh.
Danica flew into it again before it turned back, and the monster stumbled and toppled. Danica was up quickly, thinking to leap atop the monster, but she skidded to a stop, seeing another flaming sphere come to life in the air above the prone troll.
An instant later, that troll, too, was shrieking in agony, engulfed by the biting magical flames.
Shayleigh held her next shot, obviously having sensed movement to the side, and spun and fired—into the troll she had already dropped. The thing went down in a heap again, but stubbornly writhed and squirmed, trying to rise.
Danica was on it at once, pounding wildly. Shayleigh joined her, sword in hand, and with mighty hacks, cut off the troll’s legs.
The severed limbs began to wriggle, trying to reattach to the torso, but Danica wisely kicked them away toward the glowing remnant of the campfire.
As soon as one of the legs touched the embers, it burst into flames, and Danica scooped it up by the other end, using it as a grotesque torch. She ran across the clearing and shoved the flaming limb into the face of the unburned troll, the monster still thrashing against Shayleigh’s repeated strikes. Soon, that troll, too, was ablaze, and the battle was ended.
Dorigen walked back into camp then, inspecting her work on the two flame-shrouded trolls. They were little more than crumpled black balls by that time, their regenerative process utterly defeated by the wizard’s flames.
Danica could hardly bear to look at Dorigen, ashamed of her earlier doubts. “I thought you’d run off,” she admitted.
Dorigen smiled at her.
“I vowed to—” Danica began.
“To hunt me down and teach me about loyalty,” Dorigen finished for her, lightly and with no accusation in her tone. “But, dear Danica, don’t you know that you and your friends have already taught me about loyalty?”
Danica stared hard at the wizard, thinking that Dorigen’s bravery, the fact that she had bothered to stay around and aid in the fight, would weigh in her favor once they returned to the library. As she thought about it, Danica realized she wasn’t surprised by Dorigen’s heroics. The wizard had been won over, heart and soul, and though Danica agreed that Dorigen should pay a strict penance for her actions in favor of Castle Trinity, for the war she helped direct against Shayleigh’s people, the monk hoped that the penance would be positive, in which Dorigen might use her considerable magical powers for the good of the library, or the realm of Erlkazar.
“You likely saved our lives,” Shayleigh remarked, drawing Danica’s attention. “I am grateful.”
That remark seemed to please Dorigen greatly. “It is but a pittance of the debt I owe you, and the People,” the wizard replied.
Shayleigh nodded her agreement. “A debt I trust you will pay in full,” she said sternly, but with apparent confidence.
Danica was glad to hear it. Shayleigh hadn’t been cold to Dorigen, really, but neither had the elf been friendly. Danica could appreciate the elf maiden’s turmoil. Shayleigh was an intelligent and perceptive elf, one who based her judgments on an individual’s actions. She, more than any of her clan, had accepted Ivan and Pikel as true friends and allies, had not allowed typically elven preconceptions concerning dwarves to cloud her judgment of them. And she, alone among the elves of Shilmista, had seen a new side of Dorigen, had come to where she was ready to forgive, perhaps, if not to forget.
That support, as well as King Elbereth’s—and Danica was confident the elf king would accept Shayleigh’s judgment—might prove critical in Cadderly’s forthcoming showdown with Dean Thobicus.
“It’s almost dawn,” Dorigen remarked. “I have no stomach for breakfast with troll stench in the air.”
Danica and Shayleigh wholeheartedly agreed, so they packed up their camp and started out early. They would reach the Edificant Library in just three short days.
SIX
AN INVITED GUEST
Dean Thobicus was surprised to find a blanket draped over the lone window in his office the next morning. It ruffled as he approached, and he felt the chill morning breeze, which led his gaze to the floor, to the base of the blanket, where the window’s glass lay shattered.
“What foolishness is this?” the surly dean asked as he brushed some of the glass aside with his foot.
He pulled out the edge of the blanket and was surprised again, for not only was the glass broken, but the grate was gone, apparently ripped from the stonework.
Thobicus fought hard to steady his breathing, fearing that Cadderly might somehow be behind it, that the young priest had returned and used his newfound and indisputably powerful magic on the grate. The iron bars had been new, bolted in place soon after Cadderly had disappeared into the mountains. The dean had explained to the others that it was necessary to ensure that no thieves—or agents of Castle Trinity—broke into his office in that time of turmoil and stole off with the library’s battle plans. Actually, Thobicus had put the grate on the window not to keep anyone from coming in, but to keep anyone from falling out. When Cadderly had mentally dominated the dean, the young priest had shown his superiority by threatening to make Thobicus leap from the window, and Thobicus knew without a doubt that he would have done exactly that if Cadderly had so instructed, that he would have been powerless to ignore the command.
Seeing that window broken open and with no blocking grate sent shudders along the thin dean’s spine. He eased the impromptu curtain back into place and turned around slowly, as if expecting to find his nemesis standing in the middle of the office.
He found Kierkan Rufo instead.
“What are you—?” the dean began, then his words were lost in his throat as he recalled that Rufo had just died. Yet there the man was, standing at that curious and customary angle.
“Do not!” Rufo commanded as the dean’s hand went up to grasp the blanket for support. Rufo held his own bony hand out toward Thobicus, and the dean felt Rufo’s will, as tangible as a wall of stone, blocking him from grasping the blanket.
“I favor the darkness,” Rufo explained cryptically.
Dean Thobicus narrowed his dark eyes to stud
y the man more closely, not understanding. “You cannot come in here,” he protested. “You wear the brand.”
Rufo laughed at him. “The brand?” he echoed. He reached up and ran his nails across his forehead, tearing his own skin and scraping away the distinctive Deneirrath markings.
“You cannot come in here!” Thobicus said more frantically, finally catching on that something was terribly amiss, that Kierkan Rufo had become something much more dangerous than a simple outcast. Such a brand as Rufo wore was magical, and if covered or marred, it would burn inward, tormenting then killing the outcast.
Rufo showed no pain, though, just confidence.
“You cannot come in here,” Thobicus reiterated, his voice no more than a whisper.
“Indeed I can,” Rufo countered, and he smiled wide, showing bloodied fangs. “You invited me in.”
Thobicus’s mind whirled in confusion. He remembered those same words, spoken by Rufo at the moment of the man’s death.
“Get out of here!” Thobicus demanded. “Be gone from this holy place!”
Out came his symbol of Deneir, hanging on a chain around the dean’s neck, and he began a chant as he presented it before him.
Rufo felt a sting in his unbeating heart, and the glare of the pendant, seeming to flare with a life of its own, hurt his eyes. But after the initial shock, the vampire sensed something else, a weakness. The Edificant Library was Deneir’s house, and Thobicus was supposedly the leading member of the order. Thobicus above all should have been able to drive Rufo away. Yet he could not. Rufo knew with certainty that he could not.
The dean finished his spell and hurled a wave of magical energy at the vampire, but Rufo didn’t even flinch. He was staring directly at the presented holy symbol, which, to his eyes, no longer flared in the least.
“There is a blackness in your heart, Dean Thobicus,” Rufo reasoned.
“Be gone from here!” Thobicus countered.
“There is no conviction in your words.”
“Foul beast!” Thobicus growled, and he boldly approached, hand and holy symbol extended. “Foul dead thing, you have no purpose here!”
The vampire began to laugh.
“Deneir will smite you!” Thobicus promised. “I will …”
He stopped and grunted in pain as Rufo snapped a strong hand up and caught him by the forearm. “You will do what?” the vampire asked. A flick of Rufo’s wrist sent the holy symbol spinning from Thobicus’s weak hand. “There is no conviction in your words,” Rufo said again. “And there is no strength in your heart.”
Rufo let go of the arm and grasped the front of the dean’s robes, easily lifting the thin man into the air.
“What have you done, fallen priest?” the confident vampire asked.
Those last two words echoed in the dean’s thoughts like a damning curse. He wanted to scream out for the headmasters, wanted to break free and rush to the window and tear the blanket aside, for certainly the light of day would do ill to that horrid, undead thing. But Rufo’s claims, all of them, were true—Thobicus knew they were true!
Rufo carelessly tossed the man to the floor and paced to put himself between the dean and the window. Thobicus lay very still, his thoughts whirling with confusion and desperation, wallowing in self-pity. Indeed, what had he done? How had he fallen so far and so fast?
“Please,” the vampire said, “do go and sit at your desk, that we might properly discuss what has come to pass.”
All through the early morning, Rufo had sat in that office, thinking he would lie in wait for Thobicus then simply tear the man apart. It was no longer hunger that drove the vampire—he had feasted well the previous night. No, Rufo had come after Dean Thobicus purely for revenge, had decided to strike out against all the library for the torments the Deneirrath had given him in his life.
But unwittingly guided by the designs of the chaos curse, the vampire was thinking differently. In that moment of confrontation, Rufo had seen into the heart of Dean Thobicus, and there he had found a malignant blackness.
“Have you eaten?” Rufo asked with a pleasant lilt to his voice as he slid to a sitting position on the edge of the desk.
Thobicus, still a bit ruffled, straightened defiantly in his chair and answered simply, “No.”
“I have,” Rufo explained, and laughed wickedly at the irony. “In fact, I have feasted on the one who would prepare your meal.”
Thobicus looked away, his expression filled with disgust.
“You should be glad of that!” Rufo snarled at him, and slammed the desk, forcing Thobicus to jump in surprise and turn back to face the monster. “If I had not already eaten, my hunger would have overcome me by now, and you would be dead!” Rufo said fiercely, and he bared his fangs to accentuate his point.
Dean Thobicus tried to sit still, to hide the fact that his hands were working under the desktop, fingering a loaded crossbow that he had recently come to keep there. The weapon was supported by sliding brackets so that it could be swiftly and easily pulled out in times of need. The dean’s shoulders sagged a bit when he thought of the weapon, when he realized that he had put the crossbow there not for any emergency against a foe such as Rufo, but in case Cadderly had come to him again, and had tried to dominate him.
Rufo was concerned with his own thoughts and seemed to notice neither the dean’s delicate movements nor the turmoil boiling within the withered man. The vampire slid off the desk and walked to the middle of the room, one skinny finger tapping thoughtfully on his lips, still red from the blood of his grisly meal.
Thobicus realized that he should pull out the crossbow and shoot the monster. Well versed in theology, the dean recognized Rufo for what he was. The crossbow bolt probably wouldn’t kill Rufo, but it had been blessed and dipped in holy water, so it would at least wound him, and possibly allow the dean to flee the room. The library was waking up, and allies would not be far away.
Thobicus held his shot, and held back his words, letting the vampire make the next move.
Rufo turned back to the desk suddenly, and Thobicus inadvertently gasped. “We should not be enemies,” the vampire remarked.
Thobicus eyed him, incredulous.
“What would we gain from fighting?” Rufo asked. “Either of us?”
“Ever were you a fool, Kierkan Rufo,” Thobicus dared to say.
“A fool?” Rufo mocked. “You could not begin to understand, fallen priest.” Rufo threw back his head and let his laughter flow out. He spun so that his black burial robe trailed his form like a shadow. “I have found power!”
“You have found perversion!” Thobicus declared, and he clutched the crossbow tightly, thinking that his remark would send the angry monster hurtling toward him.
Rufo stopped his spin and faced the dean. “Call it what you will, but you cannot deny my power—power gained in mere hours. You have spent all of your life in wasted study, I say, praying to Deneir.”
Thobicus inadvertently glanced at his holy symbol, lying on the floor by the wall.
“Deneir,” Rufo said, his voice thick with derision. “What has your god given you? You toil for endless years, then Cadderly …”
Thobicus winced, and Rufo did not miss it.
“Then Cadderly,” the vampire went on, obviously seeing the dean’s weakness for what it was, “reaches out and grasps at levels of power that will forever be beyond you.”
“You lie!” Thobicus roared, coming forward in his chair. His words sounded empty, even in his own ears.
The office door swung open then, and both Thobicus and Rufo turned to see Bron Turman stride in. The Oghmanyte looked from the dean to Rufo, his eyes going wide as he, too, recognized the vampire for what it was.
Rufo hissed, showing bloody fangs, and waved his hand, his magic compelling the door to slam shut behind Turman.
Bron Turman apparently had no intention of running back out, in any case. With a determined snarl, the Lorekeeper grabbed at a pendant and tore the chain from his neck, presenting the sil
ver scroll replica before him. It flashed and radiated a powerful light, and to the surprise of Dean Thobicus, the vampire backed away, ducking under his robes and hissing.
Turman recited words very similar to the ones Thobicus had used, and the holy symbol flared even more, filled the room with a glow that Rufo could hardly bear. The vampire fell back against the wall, started for the window, then obviously realized he couldn’t go out there, under the light of the infernal sun.
Turman had him, Thobicus realized, and Rufo seemed very weak to him then, even pitiful. Without even realizing it, Thobicus had the crossbow atop the desk.
Rufo began to fight back, was struggling to stand straight. A blackness rolled out from his form, filling that section of the room.
Bron Turman growled and thrust his symbol forward, its flare attacking the vampire’s darkness. Rufo hissed wickedly as he clenched his bony fists in the air.
“Shoot him!” Bron Turman implored Thobicus.
The struggle between the two was a standoff that a crossbow quarrel could break.
Thobicus took up the weapon and leveled it. He meant to pull the trigger, but hesitated as a wall of doubts came up before him. Why hadn’t his own god’s symbol so affected the vampire? he wondered. Had Deneir deserted him, or was Cadderly somehow continuing to block his efforts to bask in the light of his god?
Mountains of doubt rolled across the dean’s thoughts, black thoughts made blacker by the continuing subtle intrusions of the vampire’s will. Rufo was still there, compelling, prompting doubts.
Where was Deneir? The thought haunted the withered dean. In his moment of greatest need, his god had not been there. In the one instant of his life when he had consciously called on Deneir, when he had absolutely needed Deneir, the god had deserted him!
And there stood Bron Turman, straight and confident, holding the vampire at bay with the power of Oghma in his strong hand.
Thobicus snarled and hoisted the crossbow. Evil Rufo was standing tall in his new power, standing against a man who would have easily defeated him when he had been just a disciple of Deneir, though Rufo had spent years of study.