When Cale and Riven neared the tree, the woman, the easterner, and Dolgan stepped a few paces out in front of Vraggen. Dolgan’s axe was longer than Jak was tall. The easterner said something to Vraggen and the wizard began to cast. Jak knew why. They saw only Cale and Riven. They were looking for Jak.
Jak whispered another prayer to the Trickster, tried to will himself undetectable to Vraggen, and circled around behind them. Closer, he could see that the wizard’s outline was shifting and blurred, the result of an illusion that made it difficult to determine where the wizard ended and the spell began. Jak didn’t need a spell to know that other magic, without visible effects, probably also protected the wizard.
After Vraggen completed his divination, his gaze swept the area around the elm, though not the air. Dolgan and the woman did likewise, though they had no spell to assist them. They showed no sign that they noticed Jak.
Jak could not contain a fierce smile. He descended a bit and hovered in the area between Azriim and the tree. From there, he had a good view of the entire field of battle.
Cale and Riven stopped ten strides from the Twisted Elm. Cale set the half-sphere on the ground and rested the edge of his blade against it. Riven stared at the easterner. The rain continued to fall. For a few heartbeats, no one spoke. Each side simply evaluated the other.
Cale broke the silence.
“You begin to cast a spell, and I destroy it,” he said.
“Where is the halfling, Cale? I instructed you not to trifle with me.”
Riven spat and sneered.
Jak couldn’t see Cale’s face from behind the mask but could imagine his scowl.
“I don’t take instructions from you, mage,” Cale said. “And the halfling is out of this.” He tapped the half-sphere with his blade. “Now, bring forward Ren and you’ll have the other half of your sphere.”
Vraggen smiled. “The fact that you refer to him by name tells me all I need to know. Toss the rest of the globe to me, then you’ll have your … Ren.”
“No,” Cale said. “You have a five count.” He raised his blade a handswidth above the half-sphere. “One.”
“I’ll kill him where he stands, Cale. Then you. Do not—”
“Two.”
Even in profile, Jak could see Vraggen’s narrow face twist in frustration. His hands clenched into fists.
“Very well, Cale.”
When he turned his head to call back to Azriim, Jak’s breath caught. The mage looked right through him to the half-drow. He showed no sign of having noticed Jak.
“Azriim,” he said. “Proceed.”
Jak exhaled.
Without hesitation, the half-drow took Ren’s left hand, already missing three fingers, and rapidly sliced off the rest, one by one. The careless manner in which the half-drow performed the mutilation, like a butcher with a beef shank, made Jak’s stomach churn. Blood poured from the fingers. Ren said nothing, moved nothing. To Jak, the silence was worse than screams.
Azriim stepped on the fingers and ground them into the grass with his boot toe. He looked at Cale with his mismatched eyes and grinned.
Jak turned to see Cale’s body go rigid with tension.
Just give him the sphere, Jak silently pleaded. Give it to him.
Cale’s plan called for Jak to kill Vraggen after Ren was safe, but Jak feared Vraggen would take the lad apart piece by piece first.
“He is held immobile by my spell, Cale,” Vraggen said, “but I assure you, he sees, hears, and feels all that is transpiring. Imagine the agony he felt when his fingers were severed, the pain only compounded by his inability to scream.”
“Three,” Cale said. He gripped his blade tightly and stared holes into Vraggen.
The mage stuttered in surprise, but managed to recover quickly.
“V-Very well.” He called over his shoulder, “Again, Azriim. His hand.”
Jak didn’t want to watch but found himself transfixed. Dolgan, Serrin, and the woman also seemed enthralled by the war of wills in which Ren’s flesh was the battlefield.
The half-drow grabbed Ren by the wrist and extended his arm, as though he meant to chop it off at the elbow. Ren remained exactly as Azriim posed him. His appearance brought tears of sympathy and rage to Jak’s eyes. His face was bruised and swollen. He had been badly beaten and the stumps of his fingers pointed accusingly at Jak, seeping blood.
Azriim raised his blade high. His mismatched eyes looked through Jak and asked the question of Vraggen.
Just as the mage was about to nod, just as Azriim’s shadowed eyes glowed bright with the thought of doing violence, Cale, as calm as the Dragon Sea doldrums, stated above the rain, “Four.” He raised his blade.
Vraggen blinked and froze. In that instant, Jak knew that Cale had won. Jak wondered how far Cale would have let it go.
The mage whirled to face Cale squarely.
Cale’s expression was veiled by his mask, but Jak suspected it was tortured. Ren had paid the price for Cale’s victory. Jak knew why Cale had donned the mask in the first place.
“Don’t you dare do it, Cale,” Vraggen commanded, and he signaled Azriim to stand down.
With a disappointed sigh, the half-drow lowered his blade. Jak exhaled—he had not realized that he’d been holding his breath—but softly, so that the sound of his breathing would not give him away.
Cale too lowered his blade, though he set its edge on the sphere. Shadows danced between the crystal and the steel.
“Now that we understand each other, mage, bring me Ren. Now!”
“Bring him,” Vraggen said to Azriim, his voice tight.
With surprising strength, the half-drow wrapped his arm around Ren and dragged him forward. Jak scrambled aside, eyeing him as he passed. He could have buried his short sword in the half-drow’s neck.
When Azriim brought Ren up near Vraggen, the mage held up a hand adorned with two silver rings.
“That’s as far as he goes,” Vraggen said, eyeing Cale. “No more negotiations. Give the half-globe to Dolgan or Azriim will slit the guard’s throat right now.”
For a moment, Cale said nothing. Under the eaves of the Twisted Elm, it seemed as though the world was holding its breath. Rain pattered through the leaves.
“Done,” Cale said at last, and Jak knew that Cale was counting on him to do something. Cale kneeled and picked up the half-sphere. “Riven, get Ren.”
The assassin started forward, both sabers at the ready.
“The globe, Dolgan” said Vraggen.
The big man, his ring mail chinking and his axe in hand, moved toward Cale.
Riven and Dolgan gave each other a wide berth as they passed, but each eyed the other darkly.
Jak flew closer to Vraggen. The mage’s blurry, shifting outline made choosing a vital spot to strike less than exact, but Jak did the best he could. As soon as Riven secured Ren, Jak would make his move.
As Riven strode past the easterner and the woman, he locked eyes with the man and shot him a sneer.
“We’ll get our dance yet, dog,” Riven said to the easterner. “Never fear.”
The little easterner only smirked and ran a thumb along his falchion blade.
Riven reached Ren at the same moment that Dolgan reached Cale.
“Take your hands off him,” the assassin said softly to Azriim, “or I’ll take your hands off you.”
Azriim grinned and unhanded Ren. Riven glared at Vraggen. There was no fear in his one eye.
At that moment, Jak loved Riven.
Dolgan took the half-sphere from Cale in the same instant.
Gracefully, with his eye on the half-drow and Vraggen throughout, Riven sheathed one saber, bent at the waist and scooped the mutilated guard over a shoulder. He staggered under the burden.
“Heavy?” asked Azriim.
“Sod off,” Riven hissed.
Glaring at the half-drow, he slowly began backing off. The woman and the easterner slid out wide as he approached.
With only a passing glance
at the sphere, Dolgan turned, threw it to Vraggen, and backed a step away from Cale. The mage caught it and spoke a word of power. Instantly, the other half of the globe materialized in his free hand. He placed the two together and held them up to Azriim, who stepped to his side.
The half-drow studied the whole globe for only a heartbeat or two before he nodded.
“I have it now,” Azriim said. He looked up and took a step toward Riven, then another.
Dark! Jak knew then that this was going to go bad. He alit on the ground only a short distance behind Vraggen—he wanted the leverage afforded by solid earth under his feet. He stalked forward, as silent as a tomb.
Riven sensed it too, but he was caught in the no-man’s-land between the easterner and the woman on the one hand, and Vraggen and Azriim on the other. Jak saw that Riven’s knuckles were white around his saber hilt.
The easterner and the woman also took a step toward him, cutting off his avenue to Cale.
Dolgan looked at Vraggen, looked at Cale, looked back to Vraggen. He reminded Jak of a Calishite racing shorthorse waiting to lunge from the stable.
Jak continued to close on the mage. Five strides. Four.
Vraggen smiled mirthlessly—a tight hard line that looked nearly a grimace—and said, “Our business is concluded, Cale.”
Three strides. Two. One.
“So now you die,” said Vraggen.
The mage grabbed an iron rod from an inner pocket of his cloak and began to incant.
Jak drew back his blades to strike.
“Now!” he shouted, and drove his steel with a snarl into the blurred image of the mage.
His invisibility spell instantly dispelled as he attacked. His dagger found only air, but his short sword bit into flesh and grated against ribs. Jak shoved it home, burying half the blade into Vraggen’s ribcage. The magical words on the mage’s lips gave way to a surprised gasp and a grunt of pain. He collapsed to his knees, dropping the sphere. Jak pulled back his dagger and stabbed hard for the spot right beside his short sword—
—and Vraggen vanished with a soft pop. Air rushed to fill the void the mage had just vacated. The momentum from Jak’s stab sent him off balance but he caught himself with a fist on the wet ground.
Contingency spell, his mind registered. Vraggen must have pre-programmed a transport spell to teleport him away if he was badly wounded. Blast and burn!
Combat exploded around him.
Riven tossed Ren to the ground and jerked his other saber from it scabbard, just as the easterner and the woman rushed him with blades held high. Riven, not waiting to be flanked, bounded left and met the woman’s charge with one of his own. His blades whirled so fast they hummed.
Taken aback by Riven’s onslaught, the woman tried to abort her charge. She slipped on the rain-slick grass and fell. Riven took one cut at her but she rolled aside with only a nick. Before he could try another, the easterner was upon him.
Meantime, Dolgan lunged forward, axe held high, and took an overhand swing at Cale that could have split a fence post. Cale thumped the axe’s haft with his long sword and knocked Dolgan’s blow off line, all the while mouthing the words of a spell. The axe buried itself in the wet grass and soil.
Dolgan recovered quickly, released one hand from his axe, and flashed a punch to Cale’s chest. The blow knocked Cale back a step but he somehow managed to finish his incantation and grab Dolgan by the wrist with a hand glowing red and charged with power.
The big man’s arm seemed to explode from the inside. Gashes erupted on his skin and blood poured from the holes. The bones of his forearm twisted and broke. He screamed, dropping his axe and clutching his spell-wracked arm. Cale stepped past him, stabbing him through the side as he did.
Eyeing the woman as she regained her feet, Cale began again to incant.
Jak caught motion from the corner of his eye—Azriim. He spun to face the half-drow just in time. Azriim’s long sword cut a path for Jak’s throat. Jak leaped back, deflecting the blow with his short sword. Iron rang on iron. Azriim lunged forward, dropped low, and stabbed for Jak’s gut. Jak barely managed to slap the stab aside, though it skinned his ribs. Wincing, he danced backward and tried to open some space to allow him to cast, but the half-drow followed up immediately. A stab. A slash. Another. Another. Jak’s arm went numb. Azriim was far stronger than his size would indicate.
Desperate to buy himself a few heartbeats, Jak threw his dagger. The half-drow dodged aside but the small blade nicked him in the abdomen. If it harmed the half-drow, he showed no sign. Jak pulled his holy symbol and hurriedly incanted a spell that would hold Azriim immobile.
Nothing!
The half-drow grinned at him with those perfect teeth and rushed forward, blade high.
Jak backstepped as fast as he dared on the wet grass. He shot a glance to his right.
“Cale!” the halfling called. “Help!”
Cale was just finishing his own spell and he showed no sign of having heard Jak. He pointed a finger at the easterner dueling Riven. The easterner emitted a grunt and suddenly froze in mid-lunge, knees bent, falchion thrust forward. Jak saw that both Riven and the easterner already had taken and given several slashes.
“End it,” Cale commanded Riven, and in his cold voice Jak heard no pity.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Riven swatted the easterner’s falchion from his grasp and stabbed him through the chest with both sabers. He jerked them free with a flourish. Blood fountained from the wounds.
Cale moved to engage the woman and Jak could watch no more. Azriim was upon him again. The half-drow unleashed an overhand slash at Jak’s head. Jak stuck his short sword in its path but the impact of the blow drove the edge of his own blade back into his face and opened a cut above his eye. Blood flowed down his face. He grunted, spun aside, and lashed out with a vicious stab. Azriim sidestepped it and swung his blade in a crosscut. Jak ducked beneath it just in time and danced back, but too slowly. Azriim’s boot clipped his forehead and a stab took him in the shoulder. Sparks exploded in his brain, pain in his arm. His vision went blurry and he went down, flat on his back and looking up at the sky. Rain pelted his face. He wanted to jump to his feet but his body wouldn’t answer.
In that moment, Jak knew he was going to die.
The half-drow appeared over him, his mismatched eyes devoid of emotion. He took a two handed reverse hold on his long sword—an executioner’s grip. Jak tried to call for Cale but the blow to his head had left him able only to inaudibly mouth the words.
He forced himself to keep his eyes open. He would see death when it came.
Azriim lifted his blade high, held it for a half a heartbeat, stabbed down—
—Riven appeared from nowhere and at a full run slammed his shoulder into Azriim’s unprotected ribcage. Jak heard bones crack. The half-drow grunted and his breath blew from his lungs. The stab that would have killed Jak instead pierced only the earth beside him.
Though the blow from Riven should have flattened Azriim, he somehow kept his feet, rolled with the impact, and tossed the assassin from him with a strength that his slight frame should not have possessed. Riven landed five strides away, rolled, and leaped up. He shot the half-drow a hard grin and whirled his blades.
“Try something a little bigger, prig,” Riven challenged.
Azriim, bent and gasping from the broken ribs, looked to his left to where Cale fought with the woman. Jak followed his eyes.
Without the easterner’s speed or Azriim’s strength, the woman was no match for Cale’s bladework. Already she bled from several wounds. Cale lunged in, feinted high, drew her blade up, and abruptly stabbed low. The steel skinned her hip and she stumbled. Cale followed with an overhand blow that would have opened her throat had she not stuck an arm in its path. Cale’s blade sank deep into her forearm. She screamed and as she did, her voice deepened, became more bestial.
She began to change.
Her body grew taller, and thickened. Her nose and mouth expanded and she offe
red a mouth full of fangs. Her hands lengthened, and her fingers birthed claws. Her alabaster skin turned darker, and began to grow ridges, scales.
“Let us begin again, Erevis Cale,” she spat.
Wide-eyed, Cale took a step back.
“Elura!” Azriim shouted. “Don’t!”
In mid-transformation, she whirled to look at the half-drow, a question on her metamorphosing face.
“Don’t!”
She cocked her head and a long, forked tongue licked the ridges of her lips. Jak felt certain that an unspoken communication passed between her and the half-drow.
“Leave him,” commanded the half-drow, indicating the easterner.
Simultaneously, each of them quickly pulled out their bronze teleportation rods, twisted them, and disappeared. Dolgan clambered to his feet, leaking blood from his side and arm. Again he had survived seemingly mortal wounds. He too removed his teleportation device, manipulated it, and vanished.
Jak, still dazed, took a few moments to whisper a healing prayer to the Trickster. The battle was over.
CHAPTER 11
THE INEXORABILITY OF ARITHMETIC
Cale went first to Ren. He would have uttered a spell of healing to close the seeping stumps of the young man’s fingers, but in his hunger for violence he had requested from the Lord of Shadows only spells suitable for combat. He regretted that, and wondered if there wasn’t a lesson in it.
So instead, he used his dagger to cut off strips of his cloak and with those wrapped Ren’s hands. He then traced a symbol of power in the air with his fingers and intoned the prayer that would free Ren from his magical paralysis.
The moment the spell took effect, Ren fell forward, gasping, cradling his hand. Cale caught him under the armpits and kept him from falling.
“My hand, Mister Cale! My hand!”
To his credit, Ren managed to hold back the tears. When it seemed the young guardsman had gathered himself, Cale held him at arm’s length and looked him in the eyes. Ren’s face was pale, his eyes sunken. He had been through a lot.