shadow, as deep and cool as he was bright, but Malian was dazzled by the flames and could not see either figure clearly. The Fire roared, assaulting the Raptor’s power, and its voice rang out like a thunderclap:
“Begone, Raptor of Darkness!”
There was more than one voice bound into that thunder, weaving in and out of each other and the Fire. Malian reached out to them through the conflagration and felt a touch on her mind that was gentle, luminous, and clear, like light dancing on water. Through or beyond it she sensed a hotter, deeper blaze, and then another touch that was cold, gray steel. There were other minds there, too, paler and dimmer again, but all were bound up into the Golden Fire, joined in battle against the Raptor of Darkness.
Malian exerted herself for one last effort, joining her strength to theirs and pushing back hard against the Raptor’s mass. It was still frighteningly strong and she could feel it hunting for weaknesses to exploit, but the Fire, too, was relentless. Slowly but inexorably, the Raptor was driven back. Gouts of golden flame burned into its darkness until it was in full retreat, dwindling before the onslaught and hunting for escape.
Done, thought Malian—and faltered, falling away from the firestorm. Out of control, she plummeted headlong, down through the Old Keep toward her crumpled body and the pinprick of light that she recognized as her own dwindling consciousness.
Collapsing in on myself, she thought with mild hilarity. She knew that she was falling much too fast and should feel frightened, and part of her did, but mostly she was too exhausted to care. Her body and the tiled floor were rushing up to meet her and she could hear Kalan cursing again.
The light—which Malian had thought entirely gone out—sparked, and she felt the touch of another mind, the one that was cool and deep as water, joining with hers. It held her up and slowed her headlong descent so that she was floating rather than falling, sinking gently back into her body. “Who?” Malian asked in bewilderment, but even that last touch was gone. Kalan’s frightened, tear-tracked face blurred above hers for one brief moment, then all light flickered and went out.
5
The Broken Gate
N hairin limped toward the frontline of the battle that had raged throughout the night, rubbing at the tight scar on her face and cursing the bad leg that had prevented her from playing any real part in the fighting. A troop of the keep garrison doubled past without speaking. For all the attention they paid, she might as well have been invisible.
Useless! Nhairin derided herself, but pressed stubbornly on, her thoughts circling back to what could have gone so hideously, disastrously wrong. She had stumbled from her bed when the alarms rang out, echoing the imperative cry that had snapped like a lightning crack into her head:
“Awake! ’Ware foes! ’Ware blood! ’Ware ruin in the night!”
Like half the keep, it had sent her grabbing for clothes and weapons even as she struggled to throw off sleep. She remembered cursing everything: the darkness, the confusion, and especially the lameness that had meant that she could not keep up with the running melees being fought along corridors, up stairwells, and through room after room. She had, Nhairin reflected bitterly, simply been in the way.
It was Asantir who had finally yelled at her to get back. The captain had come charging past with half the Honor Guard behind her, torchlight leaping wildly across her inlaidhelm and along the naked blade of her sword. She had cursed Nhairin for a fool, demanding whether she wanted to get herself killed, before sweeping on and up the central stairs with the guard baying at her heels. They had met a wedge of the black-clad intruders on the first landing—and the rest had been a reeling, thrusting, cut, and slash of bloody ruin. Nhairin, accepting at last that she would be more hindrance than help, had gotten back as ordered.
She had done what
“Begone, Raptor of Darkness!”
There was more than one voice bound into that thunder, weaving in and out of each other and the Fire. Malian reached out to them through the conflagration and felt a touch on her mind that was gentle, luminous, and clear, like light dancing on water. Through or beyond it she sensed a hotter, deeper blaze, and then another touch that was cold, gray steel. There were other minds there, too, paler and dimmer again, but all were bound up into the Golden Fire, joined in battle against the Raptor of Darkness.
Malian exerted herself for one last effort, joining her strength to theirs and pushing back hard against the Raptor’s mass. It was still frighteningly strong and she could feel it hunting for weaknesses to exploit, but the Fire, too, was relentless. Slowly but inexorably, the Raptor was driven back. Gouts of golden flame burned into its darkness until it was in full retreat, dwindling before the onslaught and hunting for escape.
Done, thought Malian—and faltered, falling away from the firestorm. Out of control, she plummeted headlong, down through the Old Keep toward her crumpled body and the pinprick of light that she recognized as her own dwindling consciousness.
Collapsing in on myself, she thought with mild hilarity. She knew that she was falling much too fast and should feel frightened, and part of her did, but mostly she was too exhausted to care. Her body and the tiled floor were rushing up to meet her and she could hear Kalan cursing again.
The light—which Malian had thought entirely gone out—sparked, and she felt the touch of another mind, the one that was cool and deep as water, joining with hers. It held her up and slowed her headlong descent so that she was floating rather than falling, sinking gently back into her body. “Who?” Malian asked in bewilderment, but even that last touch was gone. Kalan’s frightened, tear-tracked face blurred above hers for one brief moment, then all light flickered and went out.
5
The Broken Gate
N hairin limped toward the frontline of the battle that had raged throughout the night, rubbing at the tight scar on her face and cursing the bad leg that had prevented her from playing any real part in the fighting. A troop of the keep garrison doubled past without speaking. For all the attention they paid, she might as well have been invisible.
Useless! Nhairin derided herself, but pressed stubbornly on, her thoughts circling back to what could have gone so hideously, disastrously wrong. She had stumbled from her bed when the alarms rang out, echoing the imperative cry that had snapped like a lightning crack into her head:
“Awake! ’Ware foes! ’Ware blood! ’Ware ruin in the night!”
Like half the keep, it had sent her grabbing for clothes and weapons even as she struggled to throw off sleep. She remembered cursing everything: the darkness, the confusion, and especially the lameness that had meant that she could not keep up with the running melees being fought along corridors, up stairwells, and through room after room. She had, Nhairin reflected bitterly, simply been in the way.
It was Asantir who had finally yelled at her to get back. The captain had come charging past with half the Honor Guard behind her, torchlight leaping wildly across her inlaidhelm and along the naked blade of her sword. She had cursed Nhairin for a fool, demanding whether she wanted to get herself killed, before sweeping on and up the central stairs with the guard baying at her heels. They had met a wedge of the black-clad intruders on the first landing—and the rest had been a reeling, thrusting, cut, and slash of bloody ruin. Nhairin, accepting at last that she would be more hindrance than help, had gotten back as ordered.
She had done what
Similar Books
