the darkened recesses of the entry. Quickly he rolled back to his feet, throwing himself over Dardan and grasping the fallen sword. Then he was up again, turning to face his attacker.
Astonishment flooded his face. From the darkened corner where it had tumbled, the Demon slouched, no longer Manx, but something different now. It was changing even as it stalked toward him, changing from Manx into a lean, black thing, corded with muscle, its body sleek and hairless. It came at him on four legs that ended in clawed hands, and its mouth split wide with gleaming teeth. It circled the King, lifting itself from time to time on its hind legs, feinting with its hands like a boxer, hissing with hate. A Changeling, Eventine thought and forced down a new wave of fear. A Demon that could be anything it wanted to be.
The Changeling lunged at him suddenly, claws ripping at his shoulder and side, leaving him torn and bloodied. He swung at the thing with the sword — too late. It was past him and gone before he could reach it. Back the Demon circled, slowly, like a cat watching its cornered prey I must be quicker this time, the old King told himself. The Demon lunged again, feinted at his chest, and slipped beneath the arc of his sword, tearing at the muscles of his left leg. Pain shot through the leg, and he dropped to his knees, struggling to remain upright. For an instant his vision blurred, then cleared once more as he forced himself to rise.
Before him the Changeling crouched, waiting. When he stayed on his feet, it began to circle once more. Blood streamed down Eventine’s body, and he felt himself weakening. He was losing this battle as well, he thought frantically, and it would end in his death if he did not find a way to take the offensive against this monster. Weaving and bobbing, the Demon stalked him. The King tried to corner it, but it stepped nimbly away from him, far too quick for the wounded old man. Eventine stopped his pursuit; it was gaining him nothing. He watched as the Demon continued to circle, hissing.
Then, in a desperate gamble, the Elven King pretended to stumble and fall, staggering heavily to his knees. Pain shot through him as he did so, but the deception worked. Thinking the old man finished, the Changeling lunged. But this time Eventine was waiting. He caught the monster in the chest, the sword biting deep through bone and muscle. Shrieking in pain, the Demon clawed and bit at the Elven King, then twisted free. Blood ran from the slash, a greenish–red ichor that stained the sleek, black body.
They crouched face to face, Elven King and Demon, both wounded, each waiting for the other to drop his guard. Once more, the Demon began to circle, blood trailing after it along the floor. Eventine Elessedil braced, turning to follow the Demon’s movement. He was covered with blood, and his strength was ebbing from him. Pain racked his torn body. He knew that he could only last a few minutes more.
Abruptly the Changeling sprang at his throat. It happened so quickly that the King did not have time to do much more than tumble backward, arms raised before his face, sword held high. The Demon landed on top of him, bearing him to the floor, teeth and claws ripping. Eventine screamed in pain as the claws tore into his chest and the jaws closed about his forearm.
Then the doors to the manor house burst apart, locks splintering, hinges ripped from their fastenings. Shouts rang through the darkened entryway as it filled with armed men. In a haze of anguish, Eventine cried out. Someone had heard! Someone had come!
From atop the fallen King, the Changeling rose up, shrieking. In that instant it left its throat exposed. Eventine’s sword swept up, glittering. Back flew the Demon, head nearly severed from its body, its voice lost in a sudden gasp. As it fell, the King’s rescuers closed in about it, swords thrusting deep into its body.
The Changeling shuddered with the impact of the blows and died.
Eventine Elessedil staggered to his feet, sword still clutched within his hand, blue eyes hard and fixed. A numbing sensation spread through his body as he turned to find Ander reaching out for him. Then the King of the Elves tumbled downward, and the night closed in.
Chapter–Forty–Three
Like Mistress Death she came for the humans, taller even than Allanon, gray hair long and woven thick with nightshade, black robes trailing from her slender form, a whisper of silk in the deep silence of the tower. She was beautiful, her face delicate and finely wrought, her skin so pale that she seemed almost ethereal. There was, an ageless look to her, a timelessness, as if she were a thing that had always, been and would forever be. The stick men fell back from her as she approached, the clicking of their wooden legs a faint rustle in the gloom. She passed them without a glance, her strange violet eyes never leaving the three who stood transfixed in her presence. Her hands stretched forth, small and fragile, their fingers curving as if to draw them close.
«Mallenroh!» Hebel whispered her name a second time, his voice expectant.
She stopped, her perfect features devoid of expression as she looked down upon the old man. Then she turned to Eretria and finally to Wil. The Valeman had gone so cold that he was shaking.
«I am Mallenroh,” she said, her voice soft and distant. «Why are you here?
No one spoke, their eyes riveted on her. She waited a moment, then her pale hand passed before them.
«The Hollows are forbidden. No human is allowed. The Hollows are my home and within them I hold the power of life and death over all living things. To those who please me, I grant life. To those who do not, death. It has always been so. It will always be.»
She looked at each of them in turn, carefully this time, violet eyes reaching out to hold their own. Finally her gaze rested on Hebel.
«Who are you, old man? Why have you come to the Hollows?»
Hebel swallowed. «I was looking for… for you, I guess.» His words stumbled over one another. «I brought you something, Mallenroh.»
Her hand stretched forth. «What have you brought me?»
Hebel removed the sack he carried, lifted its flap and fumbled through its contents, searching. A moment later he withdrew a polished wooden figure, a statue carved from a piece of oak. It was Mallenroh, captured so perfectly that it seemed as if she had stepped from the carving into life. She took the wooden figure from the old man and examined it, her slender fingers running slowly over its polished surface.
«A pretty thing,” she said finally.
«It is you,” Hebel told her quickly.
She looked back at him, and Wil did not like what he saw. The smile she gave the old man was faint and cold.
«I know you,” she said, then paused as her eyes studied anew his leathered face. «Long ago it was, upon the rim of the Hollows, when you were still young. A night I gave you…»
«I remembered,” Hebel whispered, pointing quickly to the wooden figure. «I remembered… what you were like.
At Hebel’s feet, Drifter crouched against the stone floor of the tower and whined. But the old man never heard him. He had lost himself completely in the Witch’s eyes. She shook her gray head slowly.
«It was a whim, foolish one,” she whispered.
Holding the statue, she stepped past him to where Eretria stood. The Rover girl’s eyes were wide and frightened as the Witch came up to her.
«What have you brought me?» Mallenroh’s question teased through the silence.
Eretria was speechless. Desperately she looked at Wil, then back again to Mallenroh. The Witch’s hand passed once before her eyes in a gesture that was both soothing and commanding.
«Pretty thing,” Mallenroh smiled. «Have you brought yourself?»
Eretria’s slender body shook. «I… no, I…»
«Do you care for this one?» Mallenroh pointed suddenly to Wil. She turned to face the Valeman. «He cares for someone else, I think. An Elven girl, perhaps? Is this so?»
Wil nodded slowly. Her strange eyes held his own, and her words reached out to him, bold and insistent.
«It is you who holds the magic.»
«Magic?» Wil stammered in reply.
Her hands slipped back within the black robes. «Show it to me.»
So compelling was her voice that before Wil Ohmsford knew what he had done, he had opened the hand that
