more than one reservation about this match. There were many who agreed with me and argued about it. They sought to discredit you in my eyes. I see now that they were wrong. As always, Lyssa's judgment is proven sound. Come and fight alongside me.'
'I'll be honored,' said Colwyn. Together they moved toward the courtyard and the battle raging outside.
One of the guards cursed as he banged his head against a low beam. It was hard to see very far ahead, and the men were nervous.
'Captain,' one man complained, 'is there much more of this?'
'It leads beneath the walls and emerges far out in the hills. Hold your patience that long.' He looked to his charge. 'Is my lady all right?'
'I'm fine, Captain,' Lyssa assured him, 'but I don't like this place. I share your men's unease. Maybe it would be better to retrace our path and find a less confining egress. I know of a back window above the great hall. We could throw down a rope and escape by that route. Surely the Slayers will not be watching so precipitous an exit.'
'Risky. Though I think the idea has merit, the king himself instructed me to go this way, and I have to follow his orders.'
'I understand, Captain.' Her eyes searched the corridor ahead, as if she could see farther than her escort. 'Still, I am uncomfortable here.'
'Rest assured we will soon be out in the—'
The Slayers who dropped from above cut the captain off in mid-sentence. Others dropped from rafters and beams behind, cutting off any retreat. In the narrow tunnel the sudden blasts of energy from the Slayers' strange spears mixed with the screams of dying men to overpower the senses. Those Slayers who fell perished with a single piercing, inhuman wail.
Lyssa picked up a knife and pressed her back against the corridor wall. Her retreat was cut off, as was the way out.
As she watched, one of the Slayers disengaged himself from the battle and moved toward her. She sliced at him with the knife, feinting as best she could before stabbing upward. She wasn't quite quick enough.
The knife barely pricked the Slayer as he twisted to the side. A powerful hand reached out to grasp her wrist. She tried to break free, trying not to stare into the empty holes in the creature's head where a face should be.
Several more of the massive figures moved to help the first. The knife was wrenched from her fingers. She felt herself rising in bloodless arms as she probed for her captor's eyes.
He did not have any.
Odd how they died, Colwyn thought as he swung the heavy sword in wide, sweeping arcs. It didn't matter how you slew them; a throat-thrust, a stab to the chest, a blow to the skull; all perished with the same unearthly scream before collapsing and disintegrating, save for the strange length of flesh that emerged to vanish by itself into the ground. Even when they dodged and stabbed, they seemed more dead than alive. They used no shouts, offered up no cries of mutual support as men did. Yet they fought together, communicating in some voiceless, cryptic fashion only another Slayer could comprehend.
And always there were more of them to cut down, as if the pattern from which they'd been stamped could repeat itself endlessly. The soldiers fought hard and well, but there are limits to what bravery and courage can accomplish. When a soldier fell, there was none to replace him. When a Slayer dropped, it seemed two more appeared to take his place.
Why now, he wondered? Why tonight this unprecedented assault on the White Castle? It seemed the fates intended the crudest of jokes, to turn what should have been his happiest of days into one of darkness.
Or was there more to this attack than met the eye? What was the purpose behind it, if not simply more destruction? Certainly it seemed that the Slayers fought with an unaccustomed tenacity.
A glimpse of pale skin and dress near the ruined gate caught his attention. For the first time since the battle had been joined, his fury gave way to fear.
'Lyssa!'
She heard him call out and looked up toward his voice. Her hands were free to reach helplessly out to him. She rode the shoulder of a huge Slayer. There was no hint of blood, and her struggles told him that she had not been harmed. That was encouraging, and yet it was not. He did not care to think of what the Slayers wanted with a live captive. As she shouted his name, he forced himself to concentrate on killing.
He threw himself forward and began cutting a path toward her. The first Slayer to oppose him lost his head in a single stroke. Others hurried to intercept him. The whole direction of battle shifted subtly, as if the objective now were not the taking of the White Castle but the separation of the two lovers.
Though half-blinded by sweat, he did not pause to clear his eyes. He kept moving forward, the sword heavy in his hands. Off to one side he suddenly saw his father hard pressed to hold off several Slayers. At the same time he saw Lyssa being lifted into the air. A Slayer on horseback took her up behind him and urged his mount toward the open gate. Colwyn shouted to her again, but this time could not tell if she heard his words of encouragement.
As he tried to divide his attention between Lyssa and his father, a burst of fire from one of the strange weapons struck him in the shoulder. He staggered, fell backward on the steps. His last conscious thoughts were of father and betrothed, his last sight that of the night sky indifferent above him.
There was peace, but it brought him no comfort.
The old man hid behind the tree as the ranks of mounted Slayers galloped past. Never before had the Slayers attacked a major fortress. And the White Castle at that! Truly, Ynyr thought, the Beast spends his minions freely tonight.
Strange things were adrift on the ether this night. There had been signs for weeks now. They had brought him down from his mountaintop aerie.
Amidst the hysteria of battle, his calm advice would have been useless. Now he could only pick his way sadly toward the ruined gate of the castle, the white flash of the princess's dress a warning flag weaving through his thoughts.
They would have to go after her, of course. The marriage ceremony had not been completed. There hadn't been enough time before the Slayers had made their abduction. It wasn't going to be easy.
No sentry challenged him from atop the battlements as he approached. Inside the courtyard was the stillness of death.
Only the torches still lived, shining their pallid glow on the bodies of the fallen.
Ynyr began to search, patient and resigned. If Colwyn had perished together with the others, then he might as well return to his little cabin in the mountains, for there would be no reason for pursuing this night's work.
When he finally did locate the form he'd been searching for, he was surprised and pleased to find warm air still issuing from between parted lips. Alive, then. That was something. There was still a chance.
Fumbling within his pouch, he removed several containers of ointment. Mixing them carefully, he applied the resultant ooze to the wound on the prince's left side, then applied bandaging. As he worked his ministrations, he was thinking how next to proceed. Enlightenment eluded him. Much would depend on the will of this young man lying unconscious before him.
Colwyn finally mumbled, sat up as if shot. 'Lyssa!'
'She is alive, my fortunate young friend. Alive and, insofar as I could tell, unhurt. Which is more than can be said for you.'
'Where?' Colwyn tried to see past the mounded corpses.
'Lie still. Beyond your immediate reach, I am afraid, though if we proceed carefully and plan well, perhaps not beyond your final one.'
'Where?' He winced and his hand went to the back of his head.
'As I said. Out of touch, for now.'
'The Slayers do not fight like men.'
'And why should they, since they are not men? Expect no humanity from a Slayer. And consider yourself fortunate. When I finally found you lying amidst this slaughter I thought you dead.'
'Lyssa is among them. There is no fortune in that. They have stolen my life.'
'Then we must set to work to get it back.'
'Yes, if we—' He hesitated, squinting up at his healer. 'Who are you?'
