space equipped with tables and stalls. With him marched a band of Talendar men-at-arms and Bileworm, cloaked in the flesh of Ossian. In another minute or so, Thamalon's get would be dead, and then, the wizard supposed, his soul could at last enjoy a measure of peace. But what a shame that he'd had to kill his own nephew to accomplish his purpose, and in so doing, forfeit his brother's good opinion.
Perhaps one day, after the Uskevren were extinct and in consequence, the House of Talendar had grown more wealthy than ever before, Nuldrevyn would understand and forgive. In any case, Marance resolved that he wouldn't dwell on the matter, lest he cheat himself of his enjoyment of the slaughter to come.
Shouts, hoof-beats, and the ringing of blades sounded from the darkness ahead, jarring him from his reverie. He and his companions faltered in their advance.
'Those idiots attacked before us,' Bileworm said.
'No,' Marance replied. He pointed to a three-story cedar building still some distance ahead on the east side of the bridge. 'That's the Drum and Mirror, and no one's fighting there yet. Someone has attacked our men.'
'Should we run and help our lads?' asked one of Nul-drevyn's sergeants.
The warrior had actually been addressing Bileworm, or, as he imagined, Ossian, but it was Marance who answered. 'Not yet.'
After positioning his men and disposing of the Scepters in their guardhouses, Marance had elected to wait at the north end of the bridge, where it was absolutely impossible that the Uskevren would catch sight of him. Then, as midnight approached, he had created a magical implement that would enable him to see when his prey rode onto the span, and subsequently to survey the battlefield at need.
Though no one could see it, that small, spherical tool was floating above him now, following him about like a faithful dog. He focused his thoughts on it, and, abruptly, he was gazing down at his henchmen and himself, peering through the invisible orb instead of the eyes in his skull.
He sent the magical eye speeding along the bridge until he caught sight of the riders who had engaged his men. So far, it appeared there were only two attackers, but, mounted on destriers and fighting superbly, they were wreaking havoc even so.
As one of the newcomers cut down Master Vandell, Marance sent the eye winging closer, then twitched in amazement. Though the riders had made some small effort to disguise themselves, he recognized them, but how was it possible?
Bileworm sensed his master's stupefaction. 'What is it?' he asked. 'What do you see?'
'Thamalon and Shamur,' Marance replied. He heard the quaver in his voice, felt himself shaking, and struggled to calm himself. 'They evidently survived the demolition of the ruined fortress.'
'How?' the spirit asked.
'I don't know,' Marance replied, transferring his power of sight back into the eyes he had been born with, 'anymore than I comprehend how they knew to come here to rescue their offspring. But it scarcely matters, does it? What does is killing the lot of them together.' He gestured to one of the warriors, a burly fellow with a black mustache and a red scarf knotted around his brow. 'Run to the north end of the bridge and bring up the rest of the men. Everyone else, attack.'
The guards trotted forward. Marance turned to Bile-worm. 'You, too.'
The familiar arched an eyebrow. 'Me?'
'Yes. The soldiers may fight better with one of their patrons in the thick of the fray.'
'Master, I'd really rather not.'
'Don't be such a coward. Even wearing a corporeal body, you're all but invulnerable to any real harm.'
'Still…'
Rage flared up inside Marance, and his body clenched with the effort to contain it, though he knew it wasn't truly his impudent servant who had so roused his ire, but rather these maddening Uskevren who had somehow frustrated his attempts to slay them time after time after tune.
'You're my slave, and you will obey me,' he snapped. 'Go.'
Bileworm sighed, drew Ossian's golden-hilted long sword, and scurried forward. He glanced back once or twice in the hope that his master would relent, but by that time Marance was already weaving magic, a candle held high in one hand and his staff in the other. Magenta sparks danced on the black, polished wood, and the cold air reeked of myrrh.
As Tamlin, Talbot, and Thazienne swung themselves onto their horses-destriers, Shamur noted approvingly, not palfreys, her children hadn't ridden out into the night completely unprepared for trouble-warriors in mufti came trotting down from the north. More of Marance's henchmen, joining the battle as expected.
Drawing her long sword, Tazi grinned at the approaching force. 'Let's charge them,' she said.
The wild, reckless part of Shamur's nature cried out in assent, but the portion that had loved and protected these children since their births demurred. 'Not a wise idea,' she said. 'The guards will be receiving conjured reinforcements any second.'
'All the more reason to punch through them now,' Tazi said, 'get within sword range of the masked wizard, and-'
'Your mother's right,' Thamalon rapped. 'We're getting the three of you out of here. Ride for home.' Thazienne sneered, but when he turned his mount south, she, like her brothers and Shamur, did the same.
For a moment, as Shamur urged her war-horse into motion, she dared to hope they might escape without further difficulty, for the warriors behind them wouldn't be able to keep up with their mounts, and except for one or two survivors of the skirmish just concluded, the southern half of the bridge lay open before them. Then patches of soft violet light shimmered and swelled on the cobblestones ahead, and she realized that she and her family had run out of time.
'I suppose now we have to charge,' Tamlin drawled. Even with enemies hurrying to engage him, he'd clung to his wine cup as he climbed into the saddle, and now he took a final sip, tossed the goblet away to clink on the pavement, and readied his sword.
'Insightful as usual,' mocked Talbot. 'No wonder you're the heir.' Ahead, the purple lights died, leaving in their place a number of long, low, crouching shapes.
'Enough chatter!' Thamalon said. 'Concentrate on the task at hand. Charge on my word, and… go!'
The Uskevren hurtled forward. One of the conjured creatures, ophidian but for the several short legs on either side of its scaly body, pointed its snout at Shamur.
She judged that she was still out of the beast's striking distance, but instinct warned her that it was about to attack her somehow, and she yanked on the reins and swerved her destrier to the side. A dazzling, crackling thunderbolt leapt from the reptile's head.
Shamur would have sworn that the flare of power missed her cleanly, but for an instant, her muscles clenched in agony. Evidently similarly afflicted, the war-horse stumbled, then balked. She kicked the steed, forcing it on at the behir, whose species she had belatedly recognized once the creature employed its extraordinary means of offense.
White radiance flickered and rattled on either side as other behirs assailed the rest of Shamur's family. The air reeked of ozone. The noblewoman's mount carried her into striking distance, and, unable to discharge a second lightning bolt just yet, the reptile that had attacked her reared up, its neck craning to place its head on a level with her own. Its crocodilian jaws gaped wide enough to snatch her from the saddle and swallow her whole. She thrust the point of her broadsword into the behir's neck, and, blood spurting from the wound, it fell.
A second behir scuttled into her path, running amazingly fast on its stunted legs. She disposed of that one with a cut to the skull, and then a pair of gnolls-hyena-faced warriors a head taller than a tall man-stalked out of the darkness, their poleaxes at the ready. Her eyes widened in surprise, for she'd been so intent on killing the behirs that she hadn't even noticed a second wave of Marance's agents materializing.
She rode toward the closer of the gnolls. When it thrust its weapon at her horse, she knocked the spiked head of the poleaxe out of line with her broadsword, then dispatched the shaggy warrior with a rib-shattering chest cut.
Even as the gnoll fell, its compatriot rushed in and swung its poleaxe in a chop at Shamur's head. She barely managed to lift her sword in time for a high parry, and the impact jolted her entire body.
