they attacked the way they had on the road, there’d be no discipline in the rush-if any of them were archers they’d forgo the bow for the swords and axes that lay at hand, instead of scurrying into the brush. He wondered how hard one could punch an orc before one might kill it.
The Rohini-orc noticed the shaman’s attentions and chuckled. He turned to her and murmured something. The shaman blushed, and Mehen wished he could snort or roll his eyes.
The shaman abandoned her fire and took a place beside the Rohini-orc. Two others of the group also rose to stand beside him. The big leader stomped and howled as they did, baring his big tusks and beating the face of his shield with his sword.
“Now,” the Rohini-orc said in Common, “is where you aid me.”
The leader lunged forward, and suddenly Mehen found himself standing between the Rohini-orc and the leader’s sword. He brought his falchion up to block. The orc’s rough blade caught against the hilt, and Mehen threw him off.
Two more orcs stood, one with his arm in a sling, one with a bandage over his forehead, but neither too wounded to defend their commander. The first’s axe clanged against Mehen’s breastplate, knocking his breath from him. The second was a little smarter with his sword-the blade dipped in behind the plate and cut a deep gash under Mehen’s stronger arm.
The leader roared again, but Mehen slammed his good elbow into the orc’s chin, armor crashing into bone. The orc’s head snapped back and he stumbled. Mehen swung his fist, the falchion’s grip still in it, forward and into another’s sternum, then swept the blade of the weapon across the third, shearing through the hide armor and into his belly. That one probably wouldn’t make it.
The world shifted again and once more he was between the Rohini-orc and another blade, but this time the attacker moved too fast and the blade slid up toward Mehen’s face, cutting a line across his cheek and ear frill. Mehen roared in sudden pain, but his exhalation came with a burst of lightning.
The lighting leaped from the attacking orc, to a pair of wounded seated on the ground, and up to the orc he’d attacked before. The two wounded collapsed, as did the orc he’d first attacked. He hoped they weren’t dead. Rohini would be displeased.
The only orc still standing was the one with the sword who’d stabbed Mehen behind his breastplate-a wound which was steadily bleeding and making it harder and harder to hold his heavy falchion.
Mehen dropped the blade and pulled a pair of daggers from his belt. The swordsman grinned-with those little blades, Mehen would have to get right up close to do any damage.
“Come on then,” Mehen growled.
With a bellow the orc pulled his sword up and swung it down, aiming for-no doubt-the gap in Mehen’s pauldron. Instead, Mehen threw up his arm and stepped into the strike.
The swordsman’s blade came down hard on Mehen’s wrist guard, and the impact shook the dagger from his hand and rattled his arm all the way to the shoulder. But Mehen kept his focus: for that split second, the swordsman’s focus was on his victory and not on protecting himself. Mehen’s off-hand dagger darted in and plunged up to the hilt in the swordsman’s ribs, with the soft hiss of a punctured lung. The orc goggled at Mehen, and then slid to his knees. Mehen wrenched the blade free, and sliced it across the orc’s neck-a quick death for a quick warrior, he thought.
“Three dead,” the Rohini-orc said. Even as an orc, his voice was musical. “I expected better.” He shook his head. “I hope for your sake, Mehen, that they take well to the Chasm.”
“Your forgiveness,” he said. Why was he apologizing? He shook his head. Pain radiated up his arm and across his chest.
This wasn’t a dream. “My wrist is broken,” he said, regarding the awkward angle in a dazed sort of way. His breastplate was full of blood too.
“Don’t think I don’t appreciate it-” The Rohini-orc stopped as Mehen hefted his falchion once more and pointed it at him.
“What is this?” Mehen demanded. “Where am I?”
The orc clucked his tongue. “Don’t you remember?” he said, and suddenly it wasn’t an orc standing there but Arjhani.
It’s not Arjhani, his mind insisted. You haven’t seen Arjhani in years.
But all the same his heart knew no one else could be standing in front of him, giving him that wry look he knew all too well. No one else had those brassy scales. No one else made Mehen’s heart collapse with the words, “I thought you were helping me. Have you changed your mind?”
“No,” he murmured, as the dream took hold again. “Never.”
Sairche had to wonder if Lorcan had noticed her trick yet, as often as she’d been using it. Invisible, she slipped in behind Rohini and watched as the succubus threatened her brother. She settled down on the same chest of drawers and waited as Rohini left and Lorcan picked himself off the ground and started swearing at the mirror again.
Neverwinter, she thought. Interesting. She hoped the warlock Rohini was so furious about and Lorcan was still swearing at was the same one she wanted. Neverwinter made an excellent smoke screen.
The only trouble was that Lorcan wasn’t leaving. She waited longer than she liked for him to step away from the mirror, before she dropped her invisibility. “Do you need some assistance?”
Lorcan looked up, scowled, and hurled a bolt of magic at her. Sairche ducked and it hit the living wall with a faint squeal. “Stay out of it,” he snapped.
“Mother’s coming,” she said cheerfully. “Looking for something. I passed her on my way. You may want to consider scarpering off.”
Lorcan’s scowl didn’t shift. Only when the thunder of Invadiah’s hooves approached, did he reach for the charm on his shoulder. With a ripple of magic, her brother vanished.
Inelegant, Sairche thought, resuming her own invisibility. But more interesting.
Invadiah burst through the door a moment later. The still-active scrying mirror caught her attention, and she froze, scanning the room in a slow sweep. As her gaze passed Sairche, the cambion plucked one of the gold coins from the pile beside her and flung it at her brother.
The coin hit Lorcan right across the knuckles. He cried out and let go of the charm. Invadiah whirled on him.
“What,” she growled, “are you doing in my treasure room?”
Lorcan shook his wounded hand. “Looking for you?”
“Get out.”
“Of course, Mother. But before I do, you might want-”
Invadiah seized him by one arm and hurled him bodily from the chamber. Sairche covered her mouth to keep from laughing. Too perfect indeed. Invadiah pulled a great urn of some sort out of one of the larger piles and stormed from the room.
She had hardly passed the threshold, but Sairche was up and dragging a heavy battle-axe from the corner. As the door shut behind Invadiah, Sairche threw the latch and felt the handle move beneath her hand as Lorcan tried to turn it.
Sairche heaved the battle-axe up and jammed the upper edge of one blade into the soft floor, so that it lay across the door, its haft wedged against the bony corner of the entry. The handle shook as Lorcan tried to open the door, but the axe and the lock held.
“I’ll only be a moment,” she called.
In the mirror, the tiefling warlock sat beside a fountain, looking around as if she were waiting for something. People swarmed all around her, but Sairche was ready for that. She’d pulled her wings down around her shoulders and draped her cloak over them, tying it shut. With the hood up, she’d pass well enough as a tiefling, as long as no one looked closely.
And if anyone looked closely, it was no skin off Sairche’s nose to vanish right then and there.
The Needle dropped her in an alleyway, half blocked by stacks of cut stone tiles, out of sight but not
“Well met,” she said. The girl looked up with those odd eyes, startled. She searched Sairche’s face and
