Trying to control his breathing, Aoth knew he was tiring and his undead opponent wasn t. He needed to end the confrontation. He let his targe drop a little to invite a cut in the high line.
The blaspheme obliged, or at least it seemed to. But as Aoth shifted to avoid the blow, he saw it was only a feint. The true attack had looped low to slice his leg out from underneath him.
Because his shield was on the wrong side of his body, he had to parry the attack with his spear. Shouting a word of defense, he stopped the life-drinking weapon a finger-length short of his flesh, although the clanging impact jolted his arm all the way up to the shoulder.
He set his spear ablaze with chaotic force and thrust at the blaspheme s flank. The point split the creature s mail shirt and pierced the gray, ridged skin inside.
But at the same moment, the blaspheme cut and caught the side of Aoth s head. His helmet clanked, and, stunned, staggering, he reeled off balance.
Frantically, he struggled to prepare for what was coming next. Swaying, he was actually recovering his equilibrium, and shifting his targe and sword into a proper guard, but oh so sluggishly, compared to the speed with which the blaspheme was presenting its blade.
But as the undead warrior made a horizontal cut, one of the ice trolls it had led into the vault lunged between it and Aoth. Intent on closing with some Rashemi or stag man, it apparently didn t notice it was rushing right into the middle of somebody else s fight.
The greatsword bit deep, and the troll collapsed, its flesh shriveling. The blaspheme yanked on the hilt of its weapon to free it from the corpse.
By the Luckmaiden s grace, it took a moment. Time enough for Aoth s thoughts to snap back into focus and for him to rattle off a spell.
Nearly as long as the blaspheme s weapon, a blade made of blue phosphorescence shimmered into being. It flew at the undead and cut at it. It parried, and the greatsword rang.
Fence with that for a while, thought Aoth. Meanwhile, he d take the blaspheme apart with further spells.
But as he took a breath to begin, the patchwork warrior snarled a single word. Aoth had never heard it before, but the charge of power it carried set his teeth on edge and made his battered head throb anew. It also prompted the corpse of the ice troll to make a grab for his ankle.
Aoth barely managed to jump away. The reanimated ice troll heaved itself up off the floor.
All right, he thought, it s a race. I need to get rid of you before the blaspheme finds a way to get rid of my flying sword.
Suddenly, a disembodied female voice sounded across the vault, magic making it audible despite the roar of combat. Uramar! it called. Fall back! Everyone, fall back!
Still defending himself against the sword of light, the blaspheme started to do precisely that, and its troops with it. It occurred to Aoth that a prudent man might be glad to let it go. But he was certain that the blaspheme was a leader maybe the leader of the undead conspiracy threatening Rashemen. He set about stabbing and burning the ice troll out of his way as quickly as he could.
Unfortunately, it took a few heartbeats, and after that, he found himself facing clanking, steaming boarlike constructs of articulated steel and brass products of Raumathari sorcery, probably that the enemy had deployed to recover their retreat. Once he and his allies destroyed those, the vault was theirs, but the blaspheme had long gone.
THIRTEEN
As previously planned, the surviving leaders of the defense assembled in a vault two levels deeper than the one they d just conceded to the attackers. A number of their weary followers had crowded into the chamber with its intricate bas-reliefs of demons and damned souls crawling over and over one another, and more were stumbling in by the moment. But Nyevarra and her peers had claimed a little side crypt for their exclusive use, so they could talk privately.
As she d so often seen him, Uramar stood staring at nothing and occasionally whispered to himself. Dark blood, or something akin to it, oozed from the slash in his torso; and despite the gravity of the current situation, she found herself wondering how that gelid ichor tasted. Would it poison her or exalt her in ways the blood of the living never could? Of late, sleeping away the time when the sun shone in the sky, she d been having ecstatic dreams and terrifying nightmares sometimes it was hard to tell which were which about what might happen if he d allow her to drink her fill of ekolid blood
She realized Pevkalondra was staring at her. I m sorry, she said.
I asked, said the ghoul with an edge in her voice, if you were absolutely certain we were beaten. The pearl in her eye socket glimmered in a manner suggestive of a tic, and the tiny silver scorpions crawling in the folds of her robe made a tiny rustling. No living person would have been able to hear them, but a vampire could.
The Raumviran s question, and the implication of cowardice it carried, drove thoughts of exotic blood from Nyevarra s mind. Of course! she snapped. Once I was out of the thick of it, I could see the whole battle in a way others couldn t. And yes, we killed the Stag King or rather, she had, she and the trap she d set, so how dare anyone doubt her courage or her judgment, either? But nothing else was going as we had hoped. The enemy had destroyed Falconer and the glabrezu, too.
And the blonde witch had seemed on the verge of burning her and her sister durthans to ash. Although in retrospect, Nyevarra realized, there was reason to question whether the bitch truly had possessed the power. Maybe Nyevarra had given up on that particular part of the struggle too quickly. But she would rather have jammed a hawthorn stake into her own heart than admit it.
Pevkalondra spat charcoal-colored sludge. If I had thought the battle hinged on filthy Nars and their pets, she said, I wouldn t have agreed to help fight it in the first place.
Nyevarra sneered and felt her fangs lengthening. If I were you, I d keep my voice down, she said. There are Nars just outside. Many more than there are Raumvirans.
I don t fear them or barbarian witches, either, the ghoul said.
Nyevarra took a firmer grip on her new antler weapon. But before it could come to a fight, Uramar roused with a jerk, and his mismatched eyes widened at the display of burgeoning hostility.
Enough! he said.
Pevkalondra scowled to the extent that her shriveled, flaking face was capable of expression. I don t care if your Nars and durthans outnumber me a thousand to one, she said.
I will have respect.
Uramar hesitated before replying, almost as if someone was whispering the proper response in his ear. You do have it, he said. If it seemed otherwise, it s simply because we undead have a fierceness in us. And when things aren t going well, it can even make us lash out at one another.
Well, it s too bad your leman here wasn t feeling a little more fierce upstairs, the ghoul said. Then perhaps things would be going better.
I was in the midst of the fighting, Nyevarra said. Where were you? Directing your constructs from a safe distance, I believe.
Because that s an effective way to kill the enemy, Pevkalondra replied. As opposed to giving the order to run away.
Please, Uramar said through gritted teeth.
No more bickering. Lady Pevkalondra, I understand your frustration. I thought we were going to win, too. We should have. But luck wasn t with us, and I m satisfied that Nyevarra made the right decision. I promise you that when the time is right, we ll take revenge for this defeat.
Pevkalondra spat again. But for now, we set our puppets dancing and disappear, she said.
Yes, the blaspheme said. So let s get to it, and deploy those who are staying behind in such a way that the enemy will pay a price for the privilege of hunting us. For if their counterfeits went down too easily, it could give the game away.
