Carefully he slid lumps of the powdery cake-like element into several oil-soaked leather pouches, in which it would be protected from the air.
“What are you doing?” Brother Althric whispered urgently. For some minutes now the monks had been ready to ride out, to risk a charge past the waiting Kinshra and an escape out into the open country.
“I am nearly ready, young man,” the alchemist insisted. “If you will prepare yourselves, then I will arrange our exit.”
He gathered the small pouches in his arms as a hungry man would gather food. He knew that to get by the Kinshra they would need a distraction, and he was holding that in his hands.
“Come on, Gar’rth,” he muttered to himself, his eyes pausing on the burning building above him. The fire had engulfed the window where Gar’rth and Kara had been seen, and the archives were now alight.
But in a malign twist of fate the flames swept up, engulfing the roof of the eastern wing and spitting hot tongues of fire from the windows. As Ebenezer stood, the last of the thatched roofing collapsed, crashing down into the library and the dry books inside. The wall of the building tottered dangerously.
“Kara!” Theodore yelled as he witnessed the destruction, certain that neither Kara nor Gar’rth would survive if they were inside.
“Theodore!” Castimir shouted suddenly. “Move!” The wizard leapt to his friend’s side to confront the werewolf, who stood scant yards in front of him. He wore a look of determination that bordered on madness.
The werewolf reached forward to seize him by the throat, but it was not to be. His massive hand slowed, his long claws stopping a bare inch from Castimir’s pale skin. As he snarled impotently, the wizard waved his empty hands in the air, ending his complex spell. For it had been cast and the werewolf could barely move.
“Quickly! The werewolf will only remain snared for a few seconds. Where is the adamant sword?” Castimir shouted to his friends with renewed energy. He followed Theodore’s frustrated gaze toward the Kinshra, and immediately saw the green-tinted blade lying at Sulla’s feet.
They would not be allowed to use that in their battle.
“Throw him into the fires then” Castimir shouted, aware that with each second the spell waned. “Drag him toward the wall.” The squire bent low and rushed at the werewolf’s knees. With a loud cry he lifted the massive figure onto his shoulder and stumbled forward. The wizard joined him, and Doric put his strength into helping them as well.
“What… are… you… doing?” the werewolf growled, his mouth and tongue bound by the spell, making speech near impossible.
It would only last a few more seconds.
The companions dropped the ensnared creature at the foot of the wall of the archives-a wall that shook unsteadily.
It tottered above the werewolf. The magic was fading, it would last only seconds longer, Castimir knew. But not long enough for the wall to fall first. He had one chance to make that a certainty.
Castimir stepped closer, conjuring a ball of flame with the last of his runes. With all his concentration the young wizard hurled a single ball of fire into the final support.
The whole wall crashed down on top of the monster, burying him in dust and brick.
Sulla sighed inwardly. From the start the werewolf had performed exactly as he had hoped against such a diverse group of enemies, but the wizard had proved his undoing.
He had debated going to his ally’s rescue, but the speed with which their opponents had acted had surprised even him. Besides, he told himself, if he had been defeated so easily, then the werewolf was of limited value to the Kinshra ranks.
But the time for games had passed. He was about to order a charge when the sounds of an approaching rider drew his attention. He turned and found to his surprise that he faced an old man.
“What do you want?” he called out. “Have you come to beg for a quick end?”
“Two of your champions have died today,” said the elder. “If you do not let us pass, then many more of you shall follow them to the Abyss!” The man looked swiftly to the ground and Sulla followed his gaze, noting the half-filled buckets of water that stood next to the horses. They had been left over from the monks’ firefighting. Then the newcomer glanced furtively at the fountain from which some of the Kinshra horses were drinking.
What can he be seeing?
Sulla looked warily at the old man, and for the first time noted that he had blindfolded his horse. He held several small pouches in his hands. Was he a wizard also? That might pose a problem.
“My name is Sulla, old fool,” he said angrily. “And it is a name you will die cursing!” The black-armoured warrior raised his sword.
The man paled, but he held his ground.
“Then you have brought this upon yourself” he uttered as he hurled the first of his dozen small pouches toward the water bucket close to Sulla’s horse. A greyish cake-like substance fell loosely from the leather packet and splashed into the liquid.
A sudden explosion flashed from the bucket. Sulla’s horse gave a wild cry of fear, rearing onto its hind legs then turning quickly away from the violent reaction.
But the old fool had not finished. With a triumphant yell he hurled several of the pouches into the fountain. At once the water fumed as if it were boiling, sending bright flashes and pale clouds of powder into the air as echoes of the explosions rebounded from one side of the courtyard to the other in a roaring cacophony.
Pandemonium reigned now. Sulla lost his grip on his horse and fell to the ground with an impact that made him grit his teeth in pain. He saw his horse gallop away through the desecrated gateway.
The panic was contagious-some of the horses followed, while others fled into the courtyard to escape the explosions. Within mere moments, the disciplined Kinshra troops devolved into a chaotic mass.
Sulla cursed, knowing that without a horse he was vulnerable. He watched as his enemies, led by the old man, spurred their horses forward, toward the shattered gateway.
Knowing he was absolutely powerless to prevent their get away, Sulla leapt to one side to avoid being trampled.
“Come on!” Ebenezer yelled, leaning forward to pull the blindfold from his horse’s eyes. As he did so he noticed Kara’s sword lying forgotten on the ground. Moving quicker than he had for many a year, he dismounted to pick it up as the monks rode past him to their freedom, unchallenged by the panicked Kinshra horsemen.
Theodore and Doric came last with Arisha, for the priestess had prepared two horses for them in the stables. Following her was Castimir’s faithful yak and the alchemist’s mule, still laden with its saddlebags.
Saradomin bless her, he thought gratefully.
“And Gar’rth? And Kara? What about them?” Doric called as he rode by.
The alchemist shook his head.
“There is nothing we can do for them. And our dying here will do no good, either.” He spurred his horse through the gateway. As he did, he saw the man called Sulla lurch to his feet.
“Get after them” the Kinshra leader roared.
Immediately a small group of riders who had managed to regain control of their steeds followed them through the gateway.
Ebenezer turned to Castimir, who looked so weak that it amazed the old man that he could retain his grip on his horse.
“I need you, Castimir!” he shouted, reining in his steed as they gained a small rise. “For the last time today.”
“I cannot. I am so weak,” the wizard responded hoarsely, his mouth parched and his throat stained with his own blood that had now begun to clot. “And I have no more runes left for an offensive spell.”
“Your fire staff then. Quickly, Castimir, or it will be too late.”
The sorcerer sat up, straightening his back with a visible effort.
“I do not have it, Ebenezer,” he said, suddenly alarmed.
The thunder of the Kinshra horsemen, charging down a narrow path that led to the rise, grew. They were seconds away.