Artisho put a finger to his lips to advise silence and then gestured for them to keep to the shadows and concealed places as they made their exit. His instructions were entirely unnecessary, in Rochelle's opinion. She had no intention of doing anything to give themselves away, unless the Executioner could hear the sound of a person's heartbeat, in which case she might as well be playing the drums.
Three figures appeared at almost the same instant. First, was a well-built man in distinctive robes of three colours: White, Red and Black in wide, diagonal bands. Only the Executioner wore robes like that, symbolising the fact that, under normal circumstances, they could act only with the agreement of the leaders of all three magical divisions. Magical justice was unbiased and could not be swayed by considerations of Light, Dark or Balance. A threat to magic was a threat to all. The state of emergency brought about by the current war only made the Executioner that much more dangerous. At this time, he was freed from the usual constraints to act independently in the name of swift justice. He would not be interested in explanations or excuses. He would simply kill the intruders and not lose so much as one minute's sleep over it. To describe this man as `burly` would be to call a mountain a bump. Rochelle would not have been surprised to learn he had some ogre blood in his ancestry.
With him, naturally, was his Catalyst: a pale green skinned male half-orc. Although he wore white robes, like other Catalysts, his hood and cuffs reflected the three-stripe pattern of the Executioner for the same reason.
The third individual was a tall, slender woman in robes of pure, dazzling gold. Her resemblance to Ganieda was striking, Rochelle thought, but her features were harder, sharp-angled, too perfect, and she held a look that showed contempt for a world full of creatures that were beneath her. Rochelle couldn't recall ever before having such a powerful negative reaction to someone at first sight. She was undeniably beautiful, but in the same way that a carved graveyard statue was beautiful. This woman was as cold and unfeeling as stone.
She will soon have that smirk wiped off her face, that's for sure , the druid thought silently. And I will be glad to see it. The druidess could not imagine why she would be so stupid as to enter this place. Underestimating the Executioner could literally lead to a fate worse than death.
The Executioner was about to unleash some his powerful Enforcer magic upon this intruder, but paused at the last moment as recognition dawned.
“I know you,” he said in a deep, gravelly voice. “You're that woman that's got everyone so bloody nervous...what's the name again?”
“Niltsiar,” the woman stated, voice calm, unconcerned. That worried Rochelle. The Faerie did not seem to perceive any threat in this situation. “Ah, of course. Niltsiar. You’ll have to forgive me, love,” the Executioner mocked, “I don't have much calling for remembering names in my line of work - names make little deference to the dead.”
“I understand completely,” agreed the woman in gold. “That’s why I shan’t trouble myself to ask yours.” The Executioner's eyes flashed. “You’ve picked the wrong mage to threaten, love! As things stand, I don't thinkthe Council will mind skipping your trial.” His smile was dangerous. “You know, I suppose I should thank you. The rewards I will be able to demand of the bloody Council for your execution will be quite...lavish!”
“Perhaps you haven’t heard what I did to your pathetic little...Council.” She spat the word as a curse.
The Executioner dismissed the whole event. “Bah! I know all about your grand exit from the Challenge. I couldn't care less. I have an advantage over even the Prime Magus himself.”
“Ah yes, this Turning spell. You have no idea how long I’ve wondered how that works.”
“Of course! All you had to do was ask, love. I'll be glad to give you first-hand experience...the last experience you'll ever have!” There were no more words; only a gesture from the Executioner signaling to his Catalyst that he was ready to perform this complex and demanding spell. It was no less demanding for the Catalyst, who had to continually Drain Life from the target and Grant it to the Executioner. No mage had enough Life to cast the spell himself. No-one could amass that much Life. Nor could the target mage be allowed to retain any magic, so the Catalyst was the key to the process.
Rochelle didn't have a Catalyst's magical senses, but she could still feel the flow of Life change. Out of Niltsiar, through the Catalyst, to the Executioner, then back to Niltsiar in a different form.
Niltsiar cried out, eyes tight shut in pain from the dual attack - the Life forcibly wrenched from her store and the transformation her body was undergoing. Her skin turned grey and began to slowly thicken and solidify. The effect grew from her feet upward until it reached the base of her neck.
Abruptly, she stopped screaming and her eyes flew open. A moment later, it was the Executioner who was screaming. The stoning effect faded from Niltsiar's body and began to encase him instead. The Catalyst tried to stop the flow of magic, but he couldn't. He no longer had control he was now merely a conduit for Niltsiar's destructive power. The Executioner was soon fully Turned
- to all appearances, a mere statue.
Rochelle jumped when Artisho whispered in her ear. “I think it's time we were making our way out of here. Slowly and quietly.”
The druid nodded and began to move, very, very carefully. Meanwhile, the Catalyst bolted for the nearest exit, but he never had a chance of making it. Agreed conventions of magical warfare stated that one did not deliberately target a Catalyst unless they were actively trying to Drain one’s Life. This law applied to all mages of all orders and all three divisions. Anyone found guilty of acting against this convention would be labelled a renegade and executed as such. Magic was too powerful, too dangerous to allow a renegade to live. Order in magic must be maintained. Even the black division agreed with this - in fact, they were perhaps magical law's strongest supporters, for their prime directive was to protect the magic. Whatever personal ambitions a dark mage might have, it must not endanger the essence of magic itself. A dark mage must put the magic first, himself second and the world a distant third.
Niltsiar, however, cared nothing for magical laws or warfare conventions. The only magic that mattered was her own. And she hated Catalysts. They were an abomination that allowed magic to exist in this sickening state of weakness. She was looking forward to executing every last one of them and now one of them had kindly helped her learn how she was going to do it. She floated towards the Catalyst who was rooted to the spot, and placed her right hand in claw-like fashion over his head. Then she unleashed her magic at his mind, ripping away the parts she did not need. He screamed as pain exploded in his skull, a long, piercing, agonising scream.
“Quietly, my child,” Niltsiar s oothed, and he fell instantly silent. In moments, his personality, his identity were gone, leaving only a walking, breathing receptacle of knowledge that would respond only to her stimuli. “That’s much better. Now, my child, you will assist me. All you have to do is perform the role you would normally play in a Turning. I shall take care of the rest. Come,” she commanded, and the Catalyst mindlessly followed her to stand near one particular statue - that of Akar-Sel.
Niltsiar spoke soothingly, almost lovin gly, to the statue. “You have long been my foremost agent. You performed your role beyond even my expectations and you have paid a high price, endured much in my name. Now I come to reward you and return you to my service. Come, I have need of thee.”
As Rochelle tiptoed ever closer to the exit door, she witnessed Niltsiar performing the Turning spell...only it wasn't the Turning spell, not quite. This was different somehow. The doomed Catalyst silently maintained the flow of Life, even as his body began to change. At the same time, the stone of Akar-Sel's statue began to transmute into flesh. Rochelle had to rub her eyes before she could believe what they were showing her. Niltsiar was reversing a Turning spell - a feat that no-one in history had ever achieved.
At that moment, Artisho sneezed and then a second time and a third.
<
br /> The old man shook his head in wonder. “It's always three,” he remarked.
“Who’s there?” Niltsiar demanded. “Show yourself or I shall level this place and bury you in here!”
“Oh dear!” Artisho breathed.
On a sudden impulse, Rochelle said, “I don't think she can do anything to us while she's working such complex magic.”
“A very astute observation, Miss Ribbons,” the old man agreed, impressed. “That being the case, I think it's time for Plan B.”
“We run?” “We run,” Artisho affirmed.
Chapter 17
Tanya gave the order to mount up and led her group carefully down from the mountains, making straight for a particular pair of Knights - a man and a woman. Each wore a cloak of silver and bore on the breastplate, the symbol of crossed swords encircled in the centre by a crown. It didn't take much deductive reasoning to realise these were the supreme commanders of the Knights of Balance. The man was none other than the grandson of the founders, although there was no right of succession in the Code of Balance. Tanya and the other Knight dismounted, dropped to one knee and clamped a fist over their heart. Phaer also bowed the knee, and so too did Bunny, though she used an unnecessary excess of grace and charm. Her sensual body was a weapon she wielded with the skill of a Knight swordsman. Phaer was just grateful that these two powerful individuals did not really possess anything that might conceivably be...`misplaced`. On the back of that thought, Phaer made a mental note to check his own pockets, just in case.
“Lady Nightingale, stand please,” the female Knight leader invited, kindly, “and introduce us to your companions.”
The group stood and Tanya gave a brief account of the scouting mission that turned into a rescue. The Supreme Knight Commander entirely agreed that Tanya had acted properly, as a true Knight ought to. “Moreover,” he said, “the knowledge of the location of the dark elf village could prove extremely valuable. Standing orders will be issued to all Knight Commanders to avoid the area by a reasonable margin. There is nothing to be gained by a confrontation with the dark elves at this time, though I suspect that time may come.”
His consort seemed especially interested in the fightwith the Basilisk. “Are you sure the creature was not seriously injured?”
Tanya deferred the question to Phaer, citing him “an expert in Basilisk physiology.” “I don't believe its wounds were in any way life threatening, My Lady, and it has the innate healing capacity of a dragon. Most likely, it will go to ground somewhere to rest. Somewhere warm, ideally, so it can regain its full strength after its long hibernation.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “That would be my assessment as well...based on what you have told us,” she added quickly - too quickly, in Bunny's opinion, but the sumorityl kept the observation to herself. She noticed that both top ranking Knights had slight wounds from the battle. Nothing serious, just enough to draw a little blood. Just enough for her to smell, and hers smelled odd.
The Supreme Commander turned his attention to the rescuees. “I am pleased my Knights were in time to save you. Lady Nightingale is right to describe you as `rare individuals` but it strikes me that the reason for the two of you being together out here must be more than coincidence. Tell us, if nothing prevents you, what business are you about?”
“I'm sorry, Sir,” the half-elf apologised, inclining his head, respectfully, “but it's a long story and we're not at liberty to tell it.” Bunny, however, piped up, “We're on a top secret quest for King and Country to save the world from Niltsiar, fighting the same war as you, in our own way, in our own time and, so far, on our own feet. Any chance of some horses?” She paused. “Please.” As a further afterthought, she added, “Sir?"
Phaer just stared at her in utter disbelief.
Excusing them both from the commanders' presence for a moment, the ranger dragged Bunny to one side.
“What did you do that for?” he demanded. “You've pulled some stunts before, but this... This isn't a game, you know; our quest is meant to be secret!”
Bunny snorted. "You're one to talk!" she said, pointedly. "I just thought they should hear the short version from us before he makes a scene.” “He? He who? W hat-” the half-elf stopped in mid-breath at the sight of a powerfully built man with white hair and a familiar arrogant swagger about him. At least, he appeared human at the moment, but Phaer knew better. In his other form he was known as the Black Dragon of Avidon, although he was actually an obsidian. He was being escorted by a group of half a dozen Knights with weapons drawn. The ranger didn't know much about Knights of Balance, but if their Code was anything like that of the Paladins, according to Hannah, a Knight did not draw a weapon unless they intended to use it or at least until a clear threat had been identified. Going into an unknown situation with weapons drawn could be interpreted as a threatening act, forcing the other party's hand into starting a fight. The Knights believed that it was not honourable to start a fight with those who had not demonstrated themselves to be an enemy. At least, that's what the Knights of Paladinia believed. If these silver-armoured cousins of theirs held to a similar notion, then they were anticipating bloodshed. Phaer observed that none of the Knights were using a sword to threaten Loric, favouring spears for the task instead. He didn’t know if that meant anything.
Phaer's mind flashed back to when he first met Eilidh en route to Shakaran and how the illtimed appearance of Loric the Black Dragon had got them all arrested and, frankly, lucky not to be killed. If history were to repeat itself here, he didn't fancy the chances that his luck would hold a second time.
“I've told you before,” Bunny admonished the ranger. “Don't pay so much attention to what's going on in here,” she tapped her temple, “that you forget to pay adequate attention to what's going on out there.” Her hand encompassed the wider world.
“He's spotted us,” Phaer observed, ignoring the sumorityl's snipe.
Bunny sighed, deeply. “I suppose that means it's too late to just get on a horse and ride away before the blood starts flowing?”
The half-elf glared at her. She held her hands up in mock surrende r. “OK, OK, leave it to me,” she advised, as she gave Phaer a patronising pat on the shoulder. “I'll go talk us out of this mess...again.” And then she was all smiles, sensuality and seduction as she floated over to where Loric stood seething.
“Loric!” Bunny enthused. “How wonderful to see you again!” The effect of her voice on Loric's rage was akin to pouring cold water onto a fire. It died down to glowing embers, smoking, smouldering and while less dangerous in the immediate term, it would be wise not to get complacent or take him lightly. If left unattended, he could yet spark a forest fire.
“Bunny? How did you get way out here?” “By way of a city full of dark elves, an army of chaos creatures, four Knights of Balance and one Basilisk,” she replied, flippantly, making a show of examining her nails. “Nothing I couldn't handle. How about you? What are you doing here?”
“I was following a lead in my quest until I saw the bodies stacked up down here.” Loric had been naturally curious as to what force could kill so many, but at first, hadn't wanted to get side-tracked - the need was too great. Somehow, though, he had been unable to resist. It had felt like he was being pulled down, as if a great weight had been placed on his back and it was too much for him to carry. Then a group of sapphire dragons with silver armoured riders burst out of the clouds and demanded that he leave the area immediately.
“With some fast talking, I managed to convince them that I needed to make an emergency landing,” Loric continued.
The Knights had consented to allow it, on the condition that Loric accept an armed escort to their Supreme Commanders who would decide his fate. Loric had reluctantly agreed to their terms.
“Well, lucky for you, Phaer and I are already great friends with the leaders of these tin soldiers. So you see,” she concluded, “you have absolutely nothing to worry about.”
Paying the guards' protests no mind, she slipped up
beside the Black Dragon of Avidon and snaked her arm firmly around his.
“By the way,” Bunny added. “Where's Callie?”
“I had to leave her so I can try to get help.”
“Help? Help for what?”
“Later,” he insisted. Sir Marcus Braithwaite, Supreme Commander of the Knights of Balance, listened to his officer's account of Loric's appearance. He then asked Loric to explain his actions. Phaer was thankful that Sir Marcus seemed wise enough to simply ask questions in a dispassionate manner, as one seeking truth, never implying any kind of accusation. This attitude did much to soothe Loric's temper, staying his hand against any precipitous action.
Having listened to Loric's side of the story, Sir Marcus turned to the sumorityl, asking, “You say you know this individual, Miss Ardra?” Phaer had to resist the temptation to turn around and see who the Knight was talking to - it was so strange to hear his companion addressed by her proper name. Until they ran into these Knights, he couldn't remember her using it more than once or twice.
“Oh yes!” she enthused. “This is Loric, the famous Black Dragon of Avidon. We go way back!...Sir.”
Phaer cringed at her habit of `almost forgetting` the “sir” but so far the Supreme Commander had given no indication that he even noticed.
“Hey, girl,” Loric protested, “don't exaggerate. A handful of moons is hardly `way back`.”
Bunny shrugged. “It is when you're five years old.”
“I thought you were only four?”
The sumorityl grinned. “It’s my birthday!”
“Oh, many happy returns!” Tanya offered.
“Thank you,” Bernice replied with a warm smile. As a half-elf, it was difficult for Phaer to comprehend the notion of a fully grown individual having lived for just five years. He couldn't imagine how Loric must feel about it, for whom five years was scarcely time to draw breath.
Consequences (Majaos Book 2) Page 18
