as something razor-edged raked across the mail, and though the chain kept his flesh unscarred, the force alone staggered him. Branches and leaves bent inward behind him, the only visible sign of his attacker's passage.
He shifted aside, placing his back to Kaleb's as the forest came alive. From all directions he heard them, though still he saw nothing: footsteps, impossible to pinpoint or to count, circling to a rhythm almost ceremonial, even singsong, in its cadence. The susurrus of brushing leaves blended seamlessly into a choir of incomprehensible whispers. And beyond it, rising to a pitch practically beyond the baron's hearing, that inhuman laughter, never once pausing for breath.
Another flicker of movement, and Jassion swung Talon in a low arc. With a speed seemingly impossible in so large a weapon, the demon-forged blade sliced the air, whistling a war cry of its own. A jolt ran through Jassion's shoulder as something intersected Talon's sweep. An impossible, childish voice rose in an abortive scream and died in a liquid gurgle. Milky crimson, like no blood Jassion had ever seen, spattered across the leaves, and he clearly heard the sodden thump of something striking the earth near his feet. Yet in the single instant it took him to glance down, something else darted from the undergrowth to claim its prize, leaving no sign of the foe he had slain.
A dozen voices hissed as one, and the mocking laughter died without echo. Even the parchment-like whispers ceased as though the leaves themselves held their breath, perhaps hoping to escape notice.
Refusing to be lulled or distracted, Jassion maintained his crouch, waving Talon before him in wide sweeps, struggling to spy his foe in time to strike. Behind him he thought he heard Kaleb muttering under his breath, but dared not glance around to see what the sorcerer might be doing.
They came as one, from not one side but every side. Sound without source, movement without form, they remained unseen-if they were even real at all. Jassion felt the tip of his blade bite into invisible flesh, and then the Kholben Shiar was wrenched from his hand by something that drooled and babbled beside him. He could not help but scream as something punched between the links of his hauberk and into the flesh of his side, searing his nerves like grain alcohol poured across an open blister. Blood welled thickly between the intertwining rings, and though there wasn't enough to suggest an especially deep or gaping wound, Jassion felt the strength drain from his legs. Face beaded with sweat, chewing his lip to distract him from the pain until it, too, bled freely, the nobleman took a step toward his fallen blade, then one step more…
The ground rushed toward his face, an open-palmed slap delivered by the world itself. Jassion tasted soil, felt it filling his nostrils. His hand flopped like a landed fish mere inches from Talon's hilt. Already the pain of his wound was fading, settling into a manageable if constant burn, but Jassion heard the drumming of feet all around him, knew that the seconds he needed to regain his strength were seconds his foes would deny him. Something shifted above, casting a shadow not merely of darkness but of cold across his exposed back, and Jassion all but choked on the bile that surged behind his tongue, the bitterness not of death, but of failure.
The blow never fell, though, for suddenly Kaleb was there. Perhaps driven by whatever magics he had summoned, his limbs moved with speed to rival the forest creatures' own. Jassion twisted onto his side and looked up to see a blur of motion from out of the darkness. And he saw Kaleb step into the assault, his fist closing on an unseen throat and lifting his enemy high with one arm. For a single heartbeat, Jassion thought he could just make out a silhouette, far too lanky and long of limb to be human, flailing as it dangled from the sorcerer's fist. Then Kaleb's hand closed with a vicious crunch, and those limbs fell limp and melted away into the endless night.
Kaleb spun away from his fallen companion, blue flames once more flickering across his fingers. Jassion felt the first burst of searing heat as Kaleb unleashed his magics, and then his wound flared with renewed agony and he felt nothing at all. THE WORLD WAS BOBBING AROUND HIM. Up, down, up, down, not violently but sufficient to send new throbbing through his aching head, new heaves through a gut that, he was surprised to discover, had already emptied itself. Only with that revelation did he notice that his mouth tasted of bitter residue, and he could only hope that he'd not vomited on anything that wouldn't readily wash.
Jassion pried open eyes that felt gummed shut with the dregs of a tanner's vat, and gazed blearily at the forest slowly marching past him. It must have been drunk, that forest, since it was so hideously out of focus. He snickered at that, a dry, croaking sound that ceased abruptly when he realized just how badly his throat burned.
'And here I was sure you didn't know how to laugh, old boy.'
The sound of Kaleb's voice was a dash of cold water to the soul, and Jassion's head finally began to clear. He was walking, had been so delirious that he hadn't even realized it, and wondered how far they'd come before the slow creep of consciousness had finally reached his brain. Something was tapping him in the back of his head as he walked; he felt back over his shoulder and discovered Talon strapped securely, if not comfortably, to his back.
He was held aloft not by his own strength, but by an iron-rigid grip that Kaleb had looped under Jassion's own arm. His side stung, but it was a dull twinge rather than the roaring agony he'd felt before.
'What…?' he croaked, rather pleased to have gotten even that much out.
'The sidhe,' Kaleb told him, jostling the baron painfully as he shrugged, 'apparently don't take kindly to intruders in their home. You, my heavy friend, were rather badly poisoned. If the mail hadn't absorbed some of the blow, scraped some of the venom off their claws before it got into your flesh, I might not've been able to save you.'
Jassion pushed himself away, standing-wavering and unsteady, but standing-on his own two feet. With a tentative finger, he prodded through the hole in his hauberk. His skin came away covered in some sort of lumpy sludge.
'Spellwork?' he asked dubiously.
'No. My magic is focused primarily in, ah, less gentle directions. I'm not much of a healer, and what few restorative incantations I do know wouldn't have been potent enough to help you. I do, however, know my herbs. A few particular growths, chewed into a paste, should have counteracted most of the poison. You'll be sore for a time, though, and you'll need to keep the wound clean. It'll be prone to infection.'
The baron shuddered at the notion that he owed his life in part to Kaleb's saliva, but nodded his thanks. Kaleb passed him a waterskin from which the parched Jassion drank greedily, rivulets spilling across his chin.
'Careful. We only have so much until we get the horses back,' Kaleb warned. Then, 'Can you walk on your own?'
'I can.' Jassion actually wasn't certain, but he'd make himself certain rather than ask the other man to help him again.
'Good. I'm sure this'll come as a surprise, you being an aristocrat and all, but people don't actually like carrying you.'
Jassion shook his head, then staggered as a new dizziness washed over him, and focused on putting one foot in front of the other.
'Are they gone?' he asked after he'd managed a few score paces on his own.
'Hmm?'
'The sidhe,' Jassion said. 'Are they gone?'
'Oh, they're around somewhere. But I don't believe they'll be disturbing us any longer.' Before Jassion could ask for clarification, the sorcerer continued. 'What in the name of Chalsene's darkest orifice was with that speech, anyway? 'I will not yield'? Really? You sounded like a drunken playwright. I could produce more stirring oratory by squeezing a goat.'
'Kaleb-'
'An incontinent goat.'
'Kaleb, do you really believe I give a damn what the sidhe think of my 'oratory'?'
'Who the hell's talking about the sidhe, old boy? I have to be seen with you, you know.'
Jassion twisted and reached out a hand, unsteady but enough to stop Kaleb in his tracks. 'My lord,' he snarled.
'Um, what?'
'That's the second time you've called me 'old boy,' and I'll not have it. The proper form of address is 'my lord.' '
'Oh, I'm so terribly sorry. Apologies, my lord Old Boy.'
Jassion's eyes flashed, and his hand darted toward Talon's hilt like a striking snake. Clutched it-and froze, without drawing the hellish steel, beneath Kaleb's glower.
