“Cheyenne!” L’zar’s hand wrapped around her wrist and jerked her into a recessed niche along the walkway. Lumil and Byrd met the next wave of orcs with red-flashing fists and bursts of green flame, laughing maniacally.
Cheyenne jerked free of his grip and glared at him. “I’m not hiding with you. I have to get out there and fight!”
“No. You need to get down there.” He pointed into the courtyard. “Black metal table. On top of it is something that looks like an anvil. Get the marandúr into the bowl shape on top. That’s the only thing you need to worry about.”
From the opposite side of the courtyard on the fourth level came echoing shouts and the clang of weapons meeting. Bright bursts of lights lit the stone corridors, then a stream of magicals locked in battle spilled out onto the walkway.
“I can’t let everyone fight for me.”
“That’s why they’re here—to fight and buy you time to do what you came here to do. I’m right behind you. Go.” He shoved her out of the recessed niche in the wall, and she caught herself on the stone rail.
On her right, a leering orc with a glistening scar running down the center of his face caught sight of her and summoned a crackling blue spear in his hand. He drew his arm back to throw, then lurched forward. The orc’s eyes rolled back, and he fell onto his face on the walkway.
Behind him, Ember slowly lowered her outstretched hands and looked from the soldier’s body to meet Cheyenne’s gaze. “Turns out, I can fight.”
“Em, I have to get down there.”
“Yeah. Go. I’m good.” Ember spun and shot shimmering darts of opalescent light into the orc army fighting the nightstalkers.
“Right.” Cheyenne peered over the railing into the Nimlothar courtyard below. The Rahalma altar stood six feet from the base of the gnarled trunk. How to get down safely? Six stories is a long way to jump.
Across the courtyard, the second battle raged along the walkway. An ear-shattering bellow echoed around them before a hulking magical with gray skin and red fur barreled out of one converging corridor. Stone split and fell around Nu’ek’s hulking shoulder as the golra squeezed onto the walkway and flung the Crown’s soldiers down into the courtyard.
“They’re here.” Cheyenne turned toward the nightstalkers as she climbed over the rail and set her feet down on the other side. “They’re here!”
L’zar’s rebels spared a glance across the chamber to see the rest of Ambar’ogúl’s defectors in the capital surging along the walkway. Lumil screamed a battle cry and pounded on anything within reach of her fists.
“Go!” L’zar snarled, ducking a swinging blow from an orc’s monstrous sword. He lashed out with his fists and feet, pummeling the orc without using magic.
Cheyenne watched her drow father beating back his opponent with nothing but his bare hands, which moved in a blur of gray flesh. At least he’s finally fighting. She glanced at the floor of the courtyard, gritted her teeth, and started to climb down. Fortunately, the stone walls that had stood at the heart of Hangivol for countless Cycles gave her plenty of hand- and footholds. Weapons and magic clashed around her as the drow halfling slowly descended.
From within a dark archway on the other side of the courtyard, a tall figure cloaked in fluttering black robes emerged. The figure’s hands were clasped in front of it, hidden by the draping sleeves of the robes. The black hood concealed the features of the magical, but two golden eyes glowed within the darkness. The figure moved slowly across the stone, not heeding the battle raging above.
Cheyenne’s foot slipped on the jutting stone beneath her and she shouted, clinging to the stones by her fingertips and forcing herself to regain her footing and her balance. A screaming orc dropped a foot to her right and slammed into the stone floor. She kept climbing down. Just focus on this, and on not getting knocked off.
A burst of crackling yellow and blue magic crashed against the stone wall on her left, pelting her face and arms with shards of black rock. She blinked and tried to blink the dust out of her eyes. When she glanced down again and saw how far she hadn’t come, Cheyenne pressed herself against the wall and shook her head. This isn’t working. I need a faster way down.
She looked as far as she could over her shoulder and eyed the gnarled, twisting branches of the Nimlothar in the center of the courtyard. This is a real shot in the dark. I’ve been hit with black-magic sludge and bullets and almost had my hands melted off by war-machine spy beetles. This is a piece of cake.
Summoning all the strength she had, Cheyenne lowered her grip to a handhold closer to her chest so she could bend her knees as she clung to the wall. With a roar of effort, she leaped off the wall with a powerful kick and turned toward the Nimlothar. Her black tendrils lashed from the fingertips of both hands, whipping through the air as she sailed toward the ancient drow tree. The tendrils of one hand missed the first branch, but the others wrapped around the next one down. Cheyenne swung from the branch, feeling it shudder and jolt beneath her weight. She scrambled to whip the tendrils from her hands around another branch and succeeded, but the force drew her back toward the tree’s gnarled trunk way too fast.
Shit. Her eyes widened, and she spun in the air as much as she could to crash against the thick tree with her hip and shoulder instead of her face. The Nimlothar pulsed with a brighter purple light on impact, then fell still.
Grunting at the pain in her side, the
