massive vine of some sort had grown up along it—it had rightfully been killed, but
That must have been how he and his cohorts had fled the Palace in the first place, after the blizzard. Whoever had left this thing here was going to get the sack at least—
But that would be later. Right now—
Mags tumbled over the top of the wall and rolled to land. Temper had a good lead on him now. They were right at the edge of Companion’s Field. From Temper’s fleeting thoughts, he had a good many paces lead over Mags at this point. Mags hurried to narrow that lead, and spotted the man—the shadow, rather, if he hadn’t been watching Temper’s thoughts, he wouldn’t have known it was a man—hiding in the shadow of the end of the stable that contained Mags’ own room. Mags took cover himself, and waited for Temper to make the next move.
And that was when it all went horribly wrong.
Temper was in sight of the Companion’s stable. His mind flashed over with that unholy glee and excitement, and the image of what he was going to do to distract everyone from his raid on the Archives branded itself into Mags’ mind.
He was going to barricade the doors, and set fire to the Companions’ Stable.
Horror washed over Mags. Oh, the others would be able to get out—they could batter the wooden doors down, and no Companion was going to be as terrified by fire as a horse. But Dallen couldn’t. Dallen was drugged and the next thing to immobile. He would be trapped in there while the stable burned around him. The moment the others broke the doors down, flaming debris would fly inside, setting fire to all that straw and hay—
He’d be trapped, helpless.
Terror ripped through Mags like a lightning strike; there was no time to spare, no time to use Mindspeech to wake the people he knew, no time to do anything except rouse everyone his thoughts could reach, and fast. Except he didn’t know how to do that the way that, say, Rolan did it. He could “shout,” but only to the limited number of people he knew. So he did what he had been told, over and over again, never to do.
He dropped his shields. All of them, even the ones that had been up and protecting him before he even knew there was such a thing as a Gift, before he really knew there was much of a world outside the mine. Everything went down, so that he, in turn, could reach everyone.
And as the dozens, hundreds of minds up here rushed in on him, battering him from all sides, he screamed his warning into them. Even into the mind of Temper, who was frozen in place for a moment as the image of what he had intended to do came flooding back at him, laden with a burden of warning, panic, and terror.
The response came back to Mags, redoubled. All those minds, some shocked awake, all taken by surprise, all jolted by his panic and responding with panic of their own.
Feeling as if he was in the center of a cave-in, Mags struggled to get his shields back up. Struggled, and failed. It felt as if his head was going to break into a million pieces; a hundred images flashed in front of him, and he couldn’t tell which belonged to him. Voices in his mind babbled, shouted, at him, and he couldn’t understand any of them. His brain burned and it was all he could do to stand erect and he felt his very hold on sanity slipping.
But Dallen was in danger.
Scarcely able to see for the conflicting images in his head, stumbling and disoriented, nevertheless, he rushed for Temper. Dallen was in danger. That was all that mattered; he had to get to Temper before Temper could move.
He reached the man just as Temper recovered from the mental blow, and somewhere under the battering of a thousand confused thoughts, he knew that he had never done anything this stupid before . . .
He lurched at Temper with his hands out, staggering like a drunk, barely able to control his own body enough to run at the man. He—
Temper recoiled, his mind reflexively lashing out. Mags stumbled and fell, which is what saved him from Temper’s first slash.
Enraged, afire with uncontrolled anger, Temper came at him again, just as—
It didn’t matter. The knife scored a painful slash across Mags’ ribs.
The pain was what saved him, momentarily at least.
As the blade burned across his chest, that same pain made his shields snap back up.
He gasped with mingled agony and relief as his mind cleared. Unfortunately, so did Temper’s. The man’s stance changed immediately, and he snapped into a knife-fighter’s crouch. Mag knew in an instant that he was in trouble. The best he could hope for would be to stay out of reach.
Which, as Temper’s arm lashed out, was not looking likely; he moved faster than anyone that Mags had ever seen. Mags managed to evade him, but barely, and Temper was right on top of him before he had any right to be.
Mags’ shields dropped again; he staggered as too many minds to count shrieked into his. Nearest was the white rage of Temper, incandescent with fury—and somehow, Mags reflected some of that incoherent anger right back at him, causing him to stagger and miss.
Vaguely he was aware of every window in Heralds’ Collegium lighting up, of people boiling out of the building, of the Companions in their stable beside him screaming with rage and battering at the barricaded doors. Temper slashed at him again, then rushed him.
Temper’s shoulder hit him right where he’d been cut; he gasped with pain, and his shields snapped back up again. He managed to shove Temper off, and stagger a few paces away.
Temper rushed him again; he ducked to the side, getting another cut across the bicep in the process.
The pain kept him steady, kept his shields up, but he was fighting for his life, and he knew it. And he was in worse shape than he had been when he’d been fending off Bear’s kidnapper. He was wheezing already, and his side burned.
Temper’s eyes narrowed, and he glanced to the side. People seemed to have figured out that the stable was where they should be, and a mob was heading in their direction.
Mags half expected Temper to say something when his eyes returned to Mags. He didn’t. In fact, he gave Mags no warning at all.
One moment he was crouched a few arm-lengths away. Mags didn’t even see him start to move.
Then Mags’ back hit the stable wall, knocking the breath out of him. Temper’s forearm was across his throat.
And white-hot pain lanced out from the center of his gut.
He screamed and his shields went down—he blasted his agony out and Temper staggered back, both hands to his temples. Mags lunged at him, his gut still on fire, both hands going for Temper’s knife. He had to get it away from the man—had to, or he was dead.
He grappled with Temper, feeling his strength ebbing. Somehow he got both his hands on the knife-hand. His knees gave, and he pulled Temper down as he dropped to the ground. Somehow Temper ended up underneath him. He smashed Temper’s knife-hand on the ground but the man would not let go of the blade.
Mags snarled, stooped, and bit the hand holding the knife, his teeth sinking into the flesh below the thumb until he drew blood, tasted the flat, sweetness of the blood, felt bones snap under his teeth.
The dagger fell away, into the dirt.
Mags snatched it up.
Now it was only one mind, filling his, and overpowering it with anger and death. His eyes widened and he ground his teeth with rage. He didn’t even think—he just picked up the knife in both hands and drove it down into the thing underneath him, over and over and over again—
Temper uttered a surprised sounding gurgle—and died.
