There was little time to consider it further. Their attackers swarmed over the precipice shortly after the darkness had drained away the last of the light. Seersha had ringed the defenders inside a thin line of liquid she had conjured with magic and now lit with Druid Fire, giving them a protective barrier. When the Gnome creatures tried to come through it, they caught fire instantly, turning into balls of flame that skittered this way and that, howling in anguish as they died. But the fire lasted only as long as the magic, and when it finally went out their attackers were on them.
Mirai fought side by side with Railing, each protecting the other and both trying to protect Farshaun. But the old Rover was soon too weak to continue and dropped to the ground senseless. Railing’s use of the wishsong threw back most of their assailants, and Mirai’s quick hands and sure use of her blades cut down the rest. Whatever manner of beings these creatures were, they seemed impervious to fear and pain and possessed no threshold where they would break and run. No matter what the defenders did to drive them off, they refused to quit. It was disheartening and eventually terrifying, and after a while Mirai began to sense that there was no way this battle could be won.
Then Skint went down, felled by a blow from a club, and suddenly they were four. A moment later the last of the Trolls went down, and then they were three. A handful of their attackers got behind them and seized the Speakman. He shrieked and howled as they dragged him out into the open and then gave a strangled gasp and went silent as they cut his throat.
Railing, Mirai, and Seersha were backed up against one another, surrounded on all sides. It was over for them, Mirai knew. Their strength was depleted and their numbers reduced to where they were too few to hold off their attackers. One by one, they would be cut down. Even their formidable magic was not going to be enough. Already it was showing signs of failing both the Druid and the boy, leaving them ashen-faced and gasping for breath.
“Get behind me,” Railing told Mirai as the creatures massed for another rush.
He was covered in ash and grime, and his face was hard in the darkness. He looked a dozen years older, and she was stricken at the thought of losing him.
“I’m right here,” she said, tears flooding her eyes.
Right to the end.
But suddenly light flooded the darkness overhead, spearing down to the precipice and illuminating the hordes of attackers. A familiar whine broke through the sounds of battle, and a flit shot out of the darkness and plunged into the battle. Rail slings released their deadly missiles, sweeping aside scores of attackers, and a fire launcher’s deadly beam incinerated dozens more. Instantly the tide of battle shifted. Even for creatures as determined and blood-crazed as these, this was too much. They broke and ran, disappearing over the edge of the precipice and into the night.
Mirai wanted to shout aloud what she was feeling, but she settled for hugging Railing instead. Somehow, against all odds, the Rovers had found them!
Still holding on to Railing, who was swallowing hard and murmuring “It’s all right, it’s all right,” over and over, she watched the flit swing around and settle onto the bluff. The pilot, wrapped in leathers and a protective mask, stepped out of the cockpit and looked around cautiously before coming over.
Mirai felt a twinge of surprise. She knew at once who it was.
Austrum reached her, pulled off the mask, took her out of Railing’s arms, and kissed her hard on the mouth.
“Are you hurt?” he asked her.
She shook her head no, too shocked to speak.
“Courting you is very hard work,” he said, looking her in the eyes and holding her gaze. “But worth it.”
Then he kissed her again.
11
In that same hour, far to the east in Arishaig, the assassin Stoon approached the sprawling compound that housed the offices and residences of the Federation’s Coalition Council. It was raining—a torrential downpour, thunderclouds massed overhead and the skies filled with flashes of lightning and long peals of rolling thunder. Cloaked and hooded, a wraith abroad on a gloomy night, the assassin passed through a door used by servants and laborers—a door that was locked, but to which he possessed a key.
Keeping to the shadows, he made his way along the courtyard walls and then through a little-used rear door to the building that housed the Prime Minister’s residence. He slipped inside a darkened entryway, pausing to make certain he was alone. But there were no guards at this level or any servants about at this time of night. He shed his cloak and moved swiftly down the hall to the secret passage, triggering the release to the hidden door and passing through to an even deeper darkness.
It was musty and cobwebbed within, and he could hear rats scurrying in the walls. He found the candle he required to light his way, lit it, and started up the stairs to the next floor, moving on cat’s feet, his senses straining to catch any unusual or unexpected noises. But there were only the rats and the sound of his breathing.
Just like old times.
He thought momentarily of Drust Chazhul, dead now for over a week, lying in the ground to which he had been hastily consigned by a handful of the soldiers who had followed him to Paranor—a handful lucky enough to survive the doom that had overtaken their fellows and with no love for the late Prime Minister and no reason not to want him dead and buried. They would keep their mouths shut; they did not wish to be connected to the deed and had been made to understand that silence was what would keep them alive. It was an easy bargain to make. Drust Chazhul was nothing to them. He was just another in a long line of politicians that had found countless ways to make their personal lives difficult and their lot as soldiers more trying.
Stoon thought of Drust without sadness or regret. He had killed Drust because the Prime Minister had become an obstacle to his own ambitions. In his trade, you looked out for yourself first and foremost. He might serve a master or mistress from time to time, but it was never for long and never with any thought of permanent attachment. That he had stayed with Drust for as long as he had was something of an oddity. He doubted it would ever happen again.
Even with her.
He reached the next floor and turned down the hidden passageway leading to the Prime Minister’s chambers. How many times had he made this journey? How often over the years had he followed this very route through the bowels of the compound to meet in secret and plan great things? It would have been impossible to say, and in any case unnecessary to speculate. The past had no meaning in these matters. It was always about the future and what great promises the future might hold.
Farther down the corridor, several twists and turns later, he reached another set of stairs and climbed to the third floor. As he did so, he flashed back to the killing and recalled Drust’s face as the knife slid home and his life thread was severed. An image of it hung suspended in the air before him, fully remembered from the moment the killing had occurred. Shock and dismay, confusion and a clear sense that something was terribly wrong—all had shown in the man’s dying features. Stoon savored the memory. It gave him an undeniable satisfaction. There were many others like it, but none that provided such a clear sense of fulfillment. Drust Chazhul had been a monster, bereft of any sense of moral obligation or purpose in life. He had only wanted to achieve power and then hang on to it. Such men were plentiful and always replaceable. Such men needed purging, and when the chance came to remove one, it was an opportunity to be exploited.
Or so Stoon believed, and at the end of the day what else mattered but his own beliefs?
At the head of the stairs he found a landing and a locked door. He looked to see that the signal candle was lit and then knocked softly, waiting for her voice before he used the second key. He entered the bedchamber, closing the door behind him. The light was better here, thanks to a series of lit candles arrayed about the room and the pale reflection of the torchlight that illuminated the courtyards, its rain-washed glow streaming through the windows.