And even as he got his bearings, he saw the shadow of a gryphon, briefly, against, the side of one of the tents.
Falconsbane took in that shadow, those waving wings, and went quite mad - a madness like a deadly storm, built over the course of centuries.
Falconsbane's hands blazed with power, ready to strike. He rushed at the tent, screaming at the top of his lungs in anger, burning the canvas away as he neared, and came to a halt -
And saw Nyara; she held a sword as if she actually knew how to use it! Behind her, a young, curly-haired man was using a lantern to make clever shadow-shapes with his fingers against the canvas.
It was a trap! But he would trap them! This had become absurdly funny. He -
Something dark loomed up behind him and struck like a lightning bolt before he could twist to evade it. He fell forward with a shock onto -
The point of the sword.
Held by Nyara.
But - there were no gryphons -
Falconsbane felt his rage ebbing, along with his power, and a great surge of bitter disappointment, just as the first wave of pain hit him.
No -
Firesong waited in the shadows of the back of the tent.
- when suddenly Nyara cried out desperately. 'A gryphon! Somebody make a gryphon, one he can see! He's about to get away!'
Taken by surprise, with no illusion ready, he could only fumble after a bit of power to obey her.
Oh, please, don't let everything fall apart now -
Skif thrust his hands up in front of the lantern, as if he were doing a shadow-puppet play, and writhed his clever fingers into something that cast an amazingly lifelike shadow of a nodding gryphon on the back wall of the tent. The lower mandible opened and closed in a remarkable imitation of a gryphon talking, and his fingers made wingtips.
But would it be enough to fool Falconsbane?
He got his answer a breath later, as something - someone - shrieked with towering rage, then terrible power burned through the canvas and Falconsbane stood there - hands blazing, eyes afire with madness, teeth bared in an animalistic growl as if he would rend them apart like a beast of the forest or one of his own monsters.
He faced Nyara, his hands aglow with raw power; she brought Need up into a guard position. From the way her stance changed, Skif knew she had given control of her body over to the old woman.
But magic does not need a blade to strike, and can kill from afar. Only Need had the ability to destroy the Adept. But if Falconsbane did not find a target other than his daughter, she might not survive to close with him.
Fear acted on him like a drug, sharpening his own reflexes, and making it seem as if everyone else moved at a crawl while he ran. Firesong was only now bringing up his hands to strike at the Adept, and he would be too late to stop the first attack on Nyara unless Skif redirected it.
He reached for his own blade, knowing he stood no chance against Falconsbane - but at least he could defend Nyara. Even if he died doing so -
To meet Nyara, standing with Need braced, ready for him.
They had expected a combat, with Firesong taking on Falconsbane's magic, and Nyara striking at a moment of distraction.
Cymry evidently had other ideas.
