The arrow, gaining speed with every passing inch, split into two, then into four, and blasted, two bolts each, through the two zombies holding the left of the defensive line. Bryan’s sword took out the next in line, a clean slash that severed the creature’s head, so by the time the remaining zombie even moved to the attack, it fought all alone.
And the lumbering, unthinking thing proved no match for Bryan of Corning. The half-elf’s sword slashed across and back, taking fingers from the zombie’s reaching hands, then again, nearly severing one bloated arm at the elbow. In rushed Bryan, sword thrusting at an up angle, catching the monster under the chin and splitting wide its face. Still the zombie fought on, getting one filthy hand on Bryan’s shield, but the half-elf pushed that gruesome appendage away and slashed again.
A second zombie head fell to the floor.
“Not much of a defense,” the half-elf muttered.
“Slow to react,” the ghost of Del agreed. “They are not independent-thinking things, but mere animations, tools for Thalasi.”
“Talons would serve as better guards,” the half-elf remarked.
“Most people-and most talons-would more likely be frightened off by the zombies,” Del explained.
It took Bryan a few seconds to understand that as a compliment.
A few seconds that he didn’t have, for he and Rhiannon set off at once, past the landing and up the next set of stairs. The ghost, soaring ahead of them with ease, came back to them before they were halfway up, informing them that these stairs ended at a solid oaken door.
“You’ll be fighting again when you go though,” Del explained. “Just a pair of zombies this time. And then you’ll see a corridor lined on both sides by three doors, and with one door at the end.”
“And that’s where we’ll find Thalasi,” Rhiannon reasoned.
“I don’t know,” the ghost admitted, seeming shaken for the first time. “He has something, or there is something, warding the place,” he stammered. “I cannot approach!”
Rhiannon and Bryan exchanged glances. “Not the time for a mix-up,” the witch said to Del.
“On the right,” the ghost tried to explain. “There is something through the first door on the right which I cannot approach, nor did I dare even try to pass it by. Something powerful, something wicked.”
Bryan’s face screwed up with anger and confusion, and he started to berate the ghost, but Rhiannon, who had witnessed the awful specter of the Staff of Death, understood-and understood, too, that Del should not go anywhere near that vile weapon.
“Ye stay here,” she instructed the spirit. “Yer job’s done now.”
“I cannot let you-” the ghost started to protest.
“Ye cannot stop me,” Rhiannon interrupted. “Nor can ye help. I seen Thalasi’s staff, seen the Black Warlock use it to control Mitchell, a thinking spirit, like yerself. We’re not needing ye to turn against us.”
“I would never!”
“So ye’re saying, but ye’ve no place in the coming fight, not with the staff in Thalasi’s hands,” Rhiannon said firmly.
Del couldn’t argue, and Rhiannon and Bryan weren’t waiting to hear his protests anyway. The ghost watched them go, up the stairs, swift and silent, and again he felt so very impotent. He had been helpful these last weeks, in retrieving the diamond sword, in aiding Belexus’ spying, and now, in getting Rhiannon and Bryan through the maze that was Talas-dun, but again, his ability to help was limited, frustratingly so.
He watched the pair go through the door, then heard the fighting beyond-a battle that lasted but half the time of the slaughter on the lower landing-and then he heard them crash through the next door.
He knew that his daughter was in trouble then, and knew that he could do nothing to help her.
Belexus skidded to an abrupt stop, shifted direction, and threw himself to the side as a wall of black flakes filled the air before him. He glanced at Mitchell, then to the spot before the wraith, the stones smoking wherever the deadly flakes had touched.
“How easy your mortal skin shall burn,” the wraith taunted.
Belexus’ first thought was to rush right in again and score a hit. The time for talking was ended, his rage told him. But his rationale told him otherwise. He saw the eyes upon him-dozens of talons crouched nearby, watching the fight-and understood that even if Pouilla Camby did her work and he was victorious over Mitchell, spears would come at him from every angle.
“Bah, ye’re fearing me!” the ranger shot back, and Mitchell laughed all the louder.
“So ye’re keeping yer talon dogs about,” the ranger went on, managing a laugh of his own. “Ye’re needing them in case ye’re losing.”
With a glare and a word, the supremely confident wraith dismissed those talons nearby, who were all too happy to run away from these two!
Now Belexus was satisfied; now he let his anger take over, fury driving his sword arm. The wraith was still laughing when he charged, and kept laughing, putting up little defense against the ranger’s first swing.
Mitchell’s smile quickly disappeared. Always before the wraith had counted on its magical nature, an empowerment that prevented weapons from hurting it. But the ranger’s slash, a downward cut from shoulder to belly, stung profoundly.
Belexus, hopping back out of range of the wicked mace, stared hopefully at the wound: a line of white across the darkness that was Mitchell, as if the diamond-edged sword had left behind some of its enchanted light. So, the sword was indeed effective, he thought, silently congratulating Brielle, but he had hit Mitchell solidly and apparently done only a bit of damage. How many hits would it take, then?
And how many clean strikes would he get? he wondered, for now Mitchell was on his guard, now outrage replaced the smile on his horrid features. He came on roaring, swinging his mace.
Belexus dove and rolled to the side, came up in a short run, then dove again, changing his angle so that he was going behind the slower-turning Mitchell. He came up gracefully to his feet once more and reversed momentum, hopping in and stabbing hard, then rushing away. He was the strongest man in all Aielle, a warrior who could bash through the defenses of any talon with the sheer power of his strokes, but he needed speed now, and agility, and cunning.
The wraith pursued, and Belexus squared against him. Mitchell’s attack came straightforward and predictable, an angled downward chop. Belexus stepped his right foot ahead and swiped across with his sword, hooking the mace under its bulky head before it could gain any momentum, before it could throw forth the deadly flakes.
Powerful Mitchell was quick to improvise, coming forward as well and grabbing the man by the shoulder.
Belexus ignored the coldness of that grip, the permeating iciness that chilled to the bone. He dropped Pouilla Camby, and Mitchell howled, thinking his grip had forced that. Belexus caught the sword in his left hand, though, before it had fallen far, as he was stepping ahead, and a quick turn of his wrist changed the angle and stabbed the weapon’s point right into Mitchell’s face. Belexus turned and slashed the holding arm next, then scrambled out of the tangle as the mace whipped in a flurry, black flakes filling the air. For all his speed and agility, though, the ranger didn’t quite make it out; several of the flakes caught him on the back and hip, and he rushed away, grimacing against the burning pain.
The pair squared off once more. Mitchell was hurt, clearly so, with white lines creasing his chest and arm, a blotch of white marring his gray face, and another on his back. But Belexus was hurt, too, with several blistering burns on his back.
Mitchell narrowed his flaming eyes; he had no more taunts for the ranger, no more games. Just hatred, and a bit of respect.
For Belexus, there was only hatred.
They circled and stalked for a long while, each showing caution now.
A catapult shot broke the tension, a ball of pitch slamming into a boulder tumble not so far away, followed by the screams of burning talons.