by Kalliver, AJ
“Shoddy casting,” she explained, matter-of-factly. “It should have lasted at least an hour.”
She shoved him away, disengaged her blade from his, then lunged. Her blade pierced his armor, and his heart, slaying him instantly. When she drew it forth he fell at her feet.
At that moment she would have loved nothing more than to fall down herself and rest until she’d regained her breath. She dared not, of course; there were at least two more of them within the tower itself, and the portcullis would have to be raised before she could make good her escape from this place. Gaining entry should have presented any attacker a considerable problem; fortunately for her these men were warriors in little more than name, and they’d left the tower door ajar in their haste to come outside and confront her. She congratulated herself on their stupidity, and she kept congratulating herself as she ducked inside… right up until the moment when a hard-swung sword came out of the darkness and caught her across the stomach. Lyra folded forward with an agonized grunt, falling to her knees as she struggled to breathe. The weapon was yanked back, and a moment later it came crashing down across her back, nearly driving her face-first into the stone floor. Someone, another fighter, had been hiding behind a corner just inside the door, and with her eyes still adjusting to the dimness within, she had never seen him. Now he was hacking at her armored back, and her own sword was somewhere unseen on the floor in front of her, and too long and unwieldy to be of use here anyway. Another blow crashed down, terrifyingly near to her vulnerable neck, and her scrabbling hand finally found the hilt of her dagger. Even as she collapsed onto her side she wrenched it from the sheath, and slashed as hard as she could across his shins. A high-pitched scream came out of the darkness above her, and the wild hacking paused for a bare instant. She seized that moment, driving her short blade upwards, into the belly of the man standing over her. He collapsed backwards against the wall, the sword falling to the floor with a clang.
Lyra knew she had no time to waste; with a groan she forced her aching body up once more, pausing only to retrieve her dagger from the man—
She stopped still, her now adjusted eyes showing her the truth of it. It was no man that lay there, it was a girl, barely into her middle teens by the look of her. A neophyte soldier, doubtless still early in her training and tasked to do the scut work of cooking and cleaning for the others, she had still come closer than all the others to bringing down the evil woman who sought to kill them all….
Lyra came near to collapsing again, and this time it was no sword blow that made her groan in pain. She managed to turn away, and lurch down the narrow corridor, leaving the dagger where it was. She had no wish, now, to have it back.
There were only a handful of rooms in the lower level of the structure, and none of them hid her remaining foes. When she found the stairs leading upwards, she advanced cautiously, sword leading the way. The upper level stretched the whole length of the building, with a single hallway leading away from the top of the stairs. The moment her head popped up out of the stairwell, an arrow hissed the length of that hall, narrowly missing her. She ducked just a bit, watching the doorway at the far end of the corridor. The archer was plainly visible there; an older woman who ducked to one side as she nocked another arrow. Beside her, hands already weaving in the gestures some mages used for elaborate spellcasting, there stood a spindly young man with boots, trousers and jerkin all in dark gray.
Lyra felt the spell building, and knew that in these confined surroundings he might well manage something that would overwhelm the defenses she had in place. Rather than wait and see, she cast a spell of her own. Not a tremendously powerful one, though it did take longer to complete than the quick little lightning orbs she favored in close combat. This one was similar, though, and most importantly it did not take as long as whatever fiery holocaust her opposite number was attempting to call into being. She finished it, working quickly despite the pain from her many cuts and bruises. Making a tossing gesture over the lip of the stairs, she released the magic, and the corridor flared blazing-bright as dozens of small orbs crackled to life and went bouncing and hopping down the hallway. They moved in wild, unpredictable ways, though always in the direction which she had set for them—towards her foes. Skipping along the flagstones like droplets of water dropped into a hot skillet, they poured through the far doorway, forcing the archer and mage both to flail and dance wildly as they sought to avoid the tiny orbs of energy. They were not successful, and it hardly even mattered. These spheres were nearly harmless; one could absorb several in quick succession and hardly feel more than a sharp jolt, and perhaps a weakness in the affected arm or leg that might linger for a minute or two. This was not a spell that killed many enemies.
What it did do was confuse and distract them; the mage in grey most certainly stopped his mighty spell in mid-gesture as he tried to avoid getting stung. By the time the last of the dancing orbs had faded away, Lyra had been given time enough to make a good start on a high-order spell of her own. The archer resumed her place at the edge of the doorway, confident that she could prevent any charge up the corridor. The mageling, on the other hand, quickly felt what was happening, and launched into his casting once more. The space of a breath, then two, and then three, and his efforts became more and more frantic. He could tell as well as she that it was her spell which would reach it’s conclusion sooner, that would liberate it’s destructive energies first. The archer hadn’t a clue, until finally he broke off his casting with a wail and shoved her bodily out through the doorway.
“Stop her! Stop her now, you fool!”
The woman tried to oblige, letting fly an arrow that made Lyra bob her head lower for an instant, though her concentration never wavered, and the Elvish words that spilled from her lips in a low, musical stream never faltered. The archer, perhaps finally realizing her peril, threw the bow aside, drew a shortsword from its sheath at her side, and charged forward.
Too late.
A searingly-bright wash of light filled the corridor; no tiny orb of tame lightning this, but rather a full-on bolt of crackling skyfire. The electricity tore the length of the hall in an eyeblink, tens of thousands of burning, blue-white fingers clawing at everything in their path. The woman was caught in mid-stride, burned through and flung aside as if she were nothing. The mageling at the far end fared little better. His hands raised, he attempted a last-second defense, and it came to naught. He was simply not strong enough, or wise enough to defeat what had been unleashed. A mighty clap of thunder shook dust from the walls, ceiling and floor as one, and then it was all over save for the bright afterimages drifting in Lyra’s vision. The gray-clad mage lay smoldering on the floor of the far room, the archer was little more than a blackened skeleton.
Lyra herself fell face-down upon the stairs, and tried not to retch as the world spun around her. Channeling forces such as these was normally well-within her ability; as battered and weary as she was now, enough backlash had gotten through to leave her shaking and helpless, her head pounding in time with her heartbeat. If there had been so much as a child left within the tower who meant her ill, then she would have died there. As it was, long minutes passed before she was able to rise, unsteadily, to her feet once more.
There might have been gold hidden somewhere within the crumbling pile of stones, there were certainly supplies which she could put to good use. She ignored it all, walking an uncertain course through the rooms of the upper level. The tip of her sword dragged along the floor beside her, hanging at the end of an arm that was too heavy to raise so that she might resheath it. In the third room on the right she found what she sought; the winch apparatus that raised the iron grille below. Lyra let fall her sword, and laboriously lowered herself to her knees beside the wheel that turned an assemblage of gears and pulleys. Luck was with her at least in this; the machinery was well-oiled, and turned without complaint when she began to crank the wheel. It was difficult; in her current condition anything at all would have been difficult. Still, she drove
herself to continue until the grating sound from below let her dare hope that she’d succeeded in raising the barrier. A moment longer to puzzle out the lever which locked the wheel in place, and she was done. Regaining her feet took three tries, and she came near to leaving her sword behind before she recalled dropping it in the center of the floor. Even so, she took care to stand tall and keep her face calm and composed when she made her way back downstairs and out into the overcast day once more.
He was there, as she’d known he would be. Surveying the two men she’d killed outside, as well as the one she’d only hit with the lighting orb, and who might actually survive, he shook his head in disbelief.
“If you’re capable of this, of facing this unflinchingly… then what kind of war are you running away from?”
She met his eyes, standing to him now than she ever had… and feeling far more vulnerable.
“Pray that you never learn,” she said, simple as that. The whistle to recall Derofehr was a little difficult to manage; her lips were swollen, and tasted of her own blood. Fortunately the mare seemed to figure it out for herself, and came trotting up, eager to be away from the bodies. Lyra saw that the portcullis was not fully raised, though they could still pass through so long as she waited until they were on the far side to mount. That suited her fine. She took hold of the reins and led the horse into the short tunnel. She’d wondered if Beyen would take advantage of her condition to overpower her; it was certain that she could do little at the moment to prevent him.
He didn’t; she guided her mare through, pulling her head low to clear the rusted metal grating suspended overhead, and then they were on the far side, with the road leading out into the lower, wider lands.
“Lyra.” His voice echoed through the stone throat of the tunnel, and she turned to look back at him. He stood still on his side, on his people’s land, as if unable to step beyond it. “Remember last night, when I was burned trying to cross your barrier as you slept?”
She frowned, trying to think past the mind-numbing weariness she felt.
“I remember.”
He was only a silhouette in the archway, backlit against the bleak sky of his hills and forests, but she could somehow tell that his face was etched with sadness.
“I never meant any harm. You cried out in your sleep, and struggled against something I could not see. I’d never heard such pain, or fear, save in the voice of a child. I only sought to wake you from your nightmare.”
She stared at him blankly, across the dark, chill distance that separated them. When she found an answer, her voice was as empty and hollow as that stone tunnel.
“I don’t think you managed it. I’m still here.”
Turning away, she led her horse away, down the road. She would wait until a turning hid her before she tried to mount, for it would be halting and clumsy, and if nothing else she still at least had a few shreds of pride.
At the very least she had that.
* * * * *
