The Last Dance: An Urban Fantasy Action Adventure (Scions of Magic Book 8)

by TR Cameron

  Nylotte gestured with her chin. “Champion’s gear?” Her adversary nodded. “Are those your house colors?”

  The other woman laughed. “I have no house to speak of, so no. They are the colors of House Rivette, worn in honor of the Empress.” The way she said it made the Dark Elf think tension existed between the Champion and her monarch.

  “So, what’s in all this for you?”

  Usha shrugged. “I do what I’m told.” A loud, sustained crashing issued from their right and the Drow flicked her sword in that direction, but no attack came. The other woman’s voice called from above, “One down. Do you need a hand?”

  “No, I think we’re good here,” her boss replied. “Go get the girl.”

  The Dark Elf shook her head. “We’re far from good. And any damage your ally did to my friend will be taken out of your hide.”

  The Champion of New Atlantis nodded. “Fair enough. Let’s get to it, then.” She raised her sword into a guard position and beckoned her forward.

  Nylotte grinned. “Yes. Let’s.”

  Chapter Ten

  The Drow slipped into her version of a fighting stance, which kept her weight mostly on her back leg and allowed her to push off it quickly. She sent strength into her muscles automatically, an advantage of her extensive experience directing the magic where it needed to go without conscious thought. The result would be faster action and greater endurance, both of which she expected she would need against the Champion of New Atlantis.

  She’d fought a wide variety of enemies in her day—monsters that looked like monsters, monsters that wore the guise of people, and everything between. The one common characteristic was that they all took advantage of folk they shouldn’t have for food, power, wealth, or simply out of malicious intent.

  The woman opposite her didn’t fit those characteristics. Arguably, by following the orders of someone who sought to exert their will over others, she was culpable but overall, her interventions in New Orleans had been against other criminals. That earned her some credit in Nylotte’s estimation.

  Her adversary employed a martial approach that most would identify as a non-style. She moved in a direct line and chopped down with great vigor to meet her advance. The Drow flicked her sword tip enough to block the woman’s weapon and almost lost her hold from the impact. Her eyes narrowed at the realization that her opponent might have increased her strength more than she could match. The Dark Elf changed her direct technique for a more fluid option that had much in common with Cali’s preferred Aikido art but was far older and had been developed on Oriceran rather than Earth. Instead of meeting force with force, she focused on angles and redirection.

  She found an opening and blasted her opponent with a burst of force that hurled her back. Usha turned her stumble into a somersault and came up with a bolt of lightning that streaked from her hand toward her adversary. The Drow raised a palm, grounded the magic, and pulled the power into her body to fuel her amplified muscles.

  They entered an almost ritualistic exchange of assaults, trading sword cuts and spells as they felt out each other’s capabilities. All battles against adequate opponents worked like that—the early dance to find a flaw followed by a fast attack to exploit it. Sometimes, it took longer to discover a vulnerability than one might prefer. She stabbed and the other woman parried and countered. When she blocked, Usha trapped her sword and tried a kick that she deflected with a blast of force powerful enough to knock it out of line and rob it of its power. Again and again, they clashed but repeatedly failed to discern the other’s weakness.

  Nylotte growled under her breath as frustration began to build. While on almost any other occasion she’d enjoy the challenge, a clock ticked in the back of her mind and counted off the passing minutes—minutes in which her allies might lose the war while she was busy winning the battle.

  Fyre was, for all intents and purposes, on the run from the larger Draksa. When his opponent had revealed his true speed and strength, his reaction had been to gain some distance and hope he could blast the creature with frost. At worst, it might slow him. At best, it might drop him. At double-best, it might drop him onto his handler’s head.

  He didn’t feel particularly charitable at the moment. The physical damage from the claw slash wasn’t debilitating so much as annoying but the poison that seeped through his system slowed him more with each beat of his heart. It didn’t feel like something that would kill him directly but if he lost focus and missed a dodge because of it, the result would be permanent.

  On impulse, he spun, twisted to face his opponent, and belched a wide cone of frost at him. His pursuer couldn’t avoid it and for a moment, Fyre’s hopes sparked. Then his foe emerged from the flurry coated in ice that he broke off with each flap of his wings. He was only a few feet away. The smaller Draksa surged upward and dragged his claws against his foe’s face in the same moment the creature breathed out and expelled acid across his lower half.

  Fyre screeched in pain and anger and strength burst within him, a wash of power from Cali. He flipped and dove, coated his enemy in another wave of ice, followed it with another, and plunged after him as he plummeted and tried to escape the heavy cocoon. His rival landed hard and struggled to rise and he swooped past him once, twice, and again to slash and slice with his claws on each pass. The Draksa slumped, unconscious at least and hopefully more. He turned toward where he’d last seen Cali, ready to rush to her aid.

  Cali whispered, “Thank you,” to her sword, Defender, which had provided her with power for Fyre so she didn’t have to break the stalemate with her opponent. They were still connected by an arc of electricity that flowed from her sword and dagger, followed a curve in the air between them, and terminated at his trident. The weapon was braced before him horizontally and glowed brighter with each passing moment.

  A few seconds before, he’d begun to push back along the magic channel in an attempt to overwhelm her power with his. It was like a tug of war in reverse as each of them tried to shove more force, more magic, and more energy at the other. Her initial plea to her sword for energy had been for her use, but Fyre had needed it more at the moment of its arrival.

  She sensed the Draksa turn to join their fight but worried that anyone who interfered could fall victim to the combined power of both magics. Go help Tanyith, she sent. His emotions were tinged with reluctance but it felt like he had obeyed her command. She returned her attention to the man in front of her.

  His face was rigid with fury, doubtless from the injury to his bonded partner. It was a positive sign for the enemy Draksa since if it had died, the man’s mind probably would have snapped. That could have turned good or bad for her, depending on how he reacted. I need to end this before his pet dies. She forced words out of her throat loudly enough to be heard over their dueling magics. “Stop now. Go take care of your pet. We’ll consider you off-limits.”

  He shook his head and a hint of madness flickered in his eyes. “Okay, then, I tried.” She reached out to Fyre and pulled gently at his magic. He understood her need, opened the channel, and power flowed from him into her. She pushed it into the line connecting her to the handler, overwhelmed his resistance, and thrust it into the trident.

  The magical weapon exploded. She shouted, “Scield,” in time for the charm’s magical barrier to surround her and protect her from the magic-infused shards of metal. The handler fell with a scream and his damaged hands tried to cover his ravaged face. She waited to see what he would do, but when his only response was to rock on the ground in clear agony, she ceased drawing power from Fyre and let her shield fall. Quickly, she zip-tied his feet and wrists, retrieved a healing potion, and dribbled enough into his mouth to slow the blood flow to a trickle.

  She would have helped him further, maybe, but the sight of Danna Cudon stalking toward her was suddenly much more important than the health of someone who had tried to kill her.

  Tanyith’s opponent stepped into a swath of illumination cast by Wymarc’s hovering lightning globe
. Her shiny black hair hung free around her, long enough to reach her waist. Weapons that resembled climbing axes were grasped in her fists, long shafts with a sharp extended hook jutting out near the end. She spun them idly as she advanced and on each rotation, another burst of magic emerged from the metal portion at the top.

  It varied—bolts of shadow, fire, frost, electricity, and force were dispatched with no apparent pattern. The shields emanating from the points of his daggers were sufficient to intercept them, but keeping his defenses moving to the right places as she attacked along different vectors was a challenge. He had no thought of attacking, only of defending. Her pale, narrow face was expressionless and he might have been a bug for all she cared about him.

  Briefly, he considered taunting her but didn’t want to hear her voice. Part of him feared it would be as strange and ghostly as the rest of her. She seemed more to flow than to walk, and he knew he was overmatched. He was good but she had clearly spent much more time focused on combat than he had. But awaiting a rescue wasn’t an option, as Wymarc would fight his own battle against the other one and might be even less equipped to do so than he was.

  He needed to win. But how? The answer came to him in a burst of clarity, and he launched skyward on a burst of force toward the boat suspended over the center of the room. He landed on the half-finished deck and turned to see his foe arced in pursuit. From his higher vantage point, he saw Wymarc on his back below but he couldn’t do anything to assist his partner. Instead, he ran through a doorway and headed down the stairs into the body of the ship.

  The ice ax thunked into the metal next to his head as Wymarc twisted to avoid it. Unfortunately, that left him exposed to the other one, which struck his leather armor on the shoulder. Most of its force was dissipated by the protective layer but it stabbed through nonetheless and buried itself in his flesh. He shouted the vilest curse he knew and kicked in fury to drive the top of his foot squarely between the other man’s legs.

  His assailant screamed and flung himself aside and away from him. In his flailing, he yanked the blade out, which did more damage than it had on the way in. The young patriarch rolled onto his stomach and pushed to his feet as tears welled in his eyes. His opponent looked like a ghost in the dim light with inky hair and pale skin. The man limped back, his gaze fixed on him.

  Wymarc shook his head. “You should give up.” He’d seen movement outside the building’s open doorway and his enemy’s retreat would carry him into that danger zone in seconds. “Drop your weapons and kneel on the ground. I’ll tie you up, but that’s all. There’s no need for you to die here.” He released a blast of force at him as a warning, but it was blocked quickly. Damn, he’s recovering. Before his advantage was lost, he surged at his opponent, who sensibly retreated.

  His evasion took him directly into the claws of the Draksa who hurtled through the opening. Fyre lifted the man, carried him the scant distance to the boat, and flung him against it with all his built-up momentum. He pounded into the hull and fell senseless into the water.

  “You go after him,” Wymarc shouted. “Maybe he survived the collision. I think Tanyith’s in the ship.” He launched himself up toward the fishing vessel’s deck.

  The impact against the side of the craft resonated through the unfinished structure and dust filtered around him. Tanyith had reached the finished lower section, which was filled with debris and building materials. He’d discovered a place to hide behind a pile of wooden planks that would hopefully be invisible from the entrance. While he would have preferred to go deeper, the encroaching footsteps of his relentless shadow had been audible within moments after he’d entered the ship’s main cabin area above.

  The light shone through gaps in the partial deck above him. He relied on ears more than eyes because he was tucked half under the pieces of wood and could only see out at a particular angle, one that didn’t show the entry. The creak of leather sounded over the other noises, though, discordant enough to be identifiable. He waited and watched, his muscles tensed for the moment his enemy would step into view.

  The blast lifted him and hurled him deeper into the ship, along with a shower of flaming wooden splinters. He wound himself in a force shield to absorb the impact and rolled to his feet. By the time he reoriented, the woman had almost reached him and it became very clear that her former dispassion had been replaced by anger. He caught her ax strikes on his daggers and snapped a kick at her knee. She twisted enough to take it on the side where it couldn’t do much damage and retaliated with the thunk of an ax handle against his skull.

  He shook his head to clear the stars from his vision and intercepted her next two attacks, one physical and one magical. Absently, he took note of the fact that the wooden portions of the ship were now on fire, including the deck he stood on. Above him was open air and the Draksa flashed through it and uttered a screech as he passed. It was enough to distract the woman for an instant, and that was all he needed.

  Tanyith launched a double blast of force magic through his daggers, both aimed directly at her solar plexus. The impact stole her breath and she fell, and it was only the work of a minute to secure her. Fyre swooped and iced the flames as Wymarc appeared above and yelled, “Let’s go.”

  No second invitation was needed and he launched himself out of the boat after the young patriarch to find Cali.

  Chapter Eleven

  Zeb waited until he was sure the collapse was finished and delayed for a minute more before he took action beyond the hasty force barrier he’d conjured a foot above his face. It wasn’t the first time he’d fallen into a pit and although the particular shield he’d summoned under him as he fell didn’t absorb all the impact, it had diminished the familiar ringing in his ears somewhat. That particular defense was attuned to deal with pointy objects more than sudden stops.

  If this had been my trap, there would have been spikes. If I felt nasty, poisoned spikes.

  He groaned at the thought. And that’s exactly why I gave up the adventurer game. There is too much opportunity for viciousness. Even though the stack of fallen items above him was significantly heavy, it posed no danger to him. With the magic stored in Valerie—power he had transferred to the weapon in small drips and drops over time—he could maintain the current situation until he passed out from boredom.

  Fortunately, a better option existed that he also had enough power for. He poured magic into the shield and raised it, which caused the boxes blocking him to recede. When they were above the first floor, he got his feet beneath him and used force magic to assist in a jump that carried him up and through the opening. As he landed, the boxes plummeted behind him in a satisfying cacophony. Sounds of nearby combat echoed over the continued bells in his ears, and he dashed toward it.

  He discovered Nylotte in a furious battle with the enemy leader. The two moved faster than he’d ever seen anyone fight, even those he’d run with in the past who regularly amped themselves with magic. Swords clashed against each other, kicks and punches were thrown and blocked, and magical assaults were discharged and absorbed. Their dance was remarkable, and a large part of him wanted to do nothing more than watch.

  But it was also a distraction from their purpose there, which was to make the damned Atlanteans quit their nonsense. Watching wasn’t an option. He clambered onto a crate and shouted, “Hey, knock it off, you two.” They disengaged with the same rapidity with which they’d fought and turned to look at him. He grinned. “You’re done, Usha. Put your weapons down and call it a day.”

  She shook her head. “I still have one card to play.” Her sword suddenly glowed red and orange and he flinched reflexively while Nylotte backed away. The Atlantean leader carved through the metal wall of the building as if it were paper and rocketed through the opening.

  The Drow looked at him with respect in her eyes. “She is a being to be reckoned with.”

  He hopped down to follow said being and broke into a run. “And we have to stop her from reaching Cali.”

  Danna had wanted
to find the girl engaged with an opponent so she could sweep in and do what needed to be done without becoming involved in a drawn-out fight. Sadly, the sight of the bound Draksa handler told the tale of the girl’s victory in yet another conflict. But a fight isn’t the battle. Usha was the only ally she cared about, and she hoped the other woman was safe. She pushed that worry out of her mind since it was apparently up to her to end the game against the young matriarch.

  She ran toward the center of the dock and a place marked by a discolored panel. As expected, the girl tracked her and ran along a diagonal that would intersect her path about twenty feet past her goal. By the time she reached the trigger, Leblanc was within the effective range, so she stamped hard and cast the magic.

  Depressing the block made the magical circle’s path complete, and the spell created a barrier that encircled the position, fifty feet in diameter with a domed top. It would prevent others from joining their battle and would last until she dispelled it or died. Ozahl had helped her prepare it and watched from somewhere close, ready to rescue her if things went awry. His power fueled the shield. Hers was needed for more imminent concerns.

  The girl slowed, stopped, and turned to face her. “What’s all this, then?”

  Her fake British accent made Danna laugh. “I thought we could have a private word.”

  “Only a word?”

  She shrugged. “Okay, more than a word.”

  Caliste shook her head. “Listen. None of your people are around, which means they’ve probably lost. Why don’t you give up? Is New Orleans worth dying for?”