Ah, no. Fear wasn’t the problem. What truly rankled, what stayed in his mind after all this rime was having to admit chat for all his Power, he hadn’t been able to do a thing to save himself. Oh no, if Carlotta hadn’t chanced to see what was happening, chose stupid, fearful peasants would have won and he would be ashes in the wind, spirit lost in the Outer Dark. If she hadn’t seen, and thought, and realized what a fine tool was about to be lost—
“Damn her,” Alatan repeated aloud, but by now most of the anger was gone from his voice. A tool he was, and a tool he would remain till the debt of his life was repaid. No successful sorcerer survived by denying What Must Be. And he dare not fail.
Grimly resigned, Alatan went down from the ramparts to his private chambers, to a dark room crowded with sorcerous implements. A few careful Words of Power sparked a silver-rimmed scrying mirror into life.
Alatan focused his will, bringing into sharp focus an image of the boy, the bardling, and those with whom he rode—A woman ... a warrior by the lithe look other ... and quite human. He smiled coldly. No threat there. The others ... The sorcerer’s mouth tightened. A White Elf, that one, but again, a warrior, not a mage. And again, no threat to him. But that other Figure, draped all in black ... Alatan frowned and leaned forward, staring. Whoever, whatever was shrouded under that cloak knew at least enough to block anything more than this casual scan.
You may yet be trouble, my mysterious friend.
And then again, there might not be any trouble at all. For look at the direction in which they rode! Tensing in sudden predatory delight, hardly believing his good fortune, the sorcerer urged them. Further, ride just a little further ....
With a sharp crack! the mirror shattered. Alatan sprang back in shock, dodging shards of glass. No doubt about it: that black-dad figure was another sorcerer! No, no, more than that: the stranger could only be a necromancer. No one else could have forced his spell back on itself so powerfully.
Alatan’s laugh was sharp as the glass. So, now! It had been long and long rill he’d found an enemy worthy of combat! Burning with eagerness, the sorcerer sprang to his feet. calling for his undead servants, and hurried down to the meadow below, to the field of battle-once-was and battle-yet-to-be.
Naitachal straightened as sharply in the saddle as though he’d been slapped. Eyes blazing with sudden sorcerous force, he gestured imperiously, shouting out savage, alien Words that tore at Kevin’s ears and sent the mules shying wildly.
“Naitachal!” Lydia yelped, struggling to keep her seat. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Reining in his own panicky, curvetting mule, the Dark Elf said shortly, “Someone was spying on us. Through sorcery. I turned his spell back upon him.”
Eliathanis tensed. “Then it wasn’t my imagination just now. I really did sense ... something.” His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. “Do you know who the sorcerer is, or where?”
“Who, no. Where: nearby. But I’ve shattered his scrying tool.”
“That’s not going to be the end of it.”
“I doubt it.” Naitachal glanced sharply about, a predator hunting elusive prey. “The sooner we are dear of this battle-field-that-was, the bettor.”
And then the earth shook. Kevin’s mule screamed in terror, rearing up so violently the bardling went flying. He twisted frantically in mid-air, landing with a jolt on his feet, lute smacking him in the side, noting out of the corner of his eye that only Naitachal had managed to keep his seat and staring as the meadow writhed, tearing itself apart. Out of the shattered earth rose:
No. That’s not possible, his mind insisted, over and over.
Climbing up into the land of the living were the long-dead, the skeletons of humans and Others, the fallen victims of that now-forgotten battle returned, fleshless skulls grinning, fleshless hands gripping swords and axes. Sightless sockets stared blankly at the horrified living.
Behind them, wrapped in a cloak as black as that worn by Naitachal stood a figure who could only be the necromancer who’d dragged them forth. All Kevin could see of the face under the dark hood were a gray beard—proof the man at least was human—and fierce, pitiless gray eyes: sorcerous eyes. In the man’s hand a wooden staff topped with a serpentine carving crackled with blue-white force.
To his right, the bardling heard Naitachal let out his breath in a long hiss. “So ...” the Dark Elf said softly. “I thought as much.”
He flung himself from his frantic mule, slapping it out of the way of his magic. “Get out of here, all of you.”
Eliathanis’ sword glinted in his hand. “Are you mad? We can’t leave you here alone!”
“You can’t fight what isn’t alive! Get out of here!”
But it was already too late. The other sorcerer thrust out his staff, and the undead army charged.
“You shall no;!” With that, Naitachal shouted out fierce, ugly, commanding Words in the harsh language of sorcery, hurling his arms up in denial. The skeletal enemy stumbled back from the force of his will—but behind them, the human necromancer cast up his own arms, staff raised, shouting out his own dark spell. Kevin, near-Bard that he was, saw the psychic flames of sorcery that blazed out from both foes, crashing together in a shower of blinding, blue-white sparks. He heard Naitachal gasp at the impact, but the Dark Elf’s will held firm.
So, unfortunately, did that of the human foe.
But as the sorcerers stood locked in their savage, silent battle, both lost their hold on the skeletal warriors. They, empty things that they were, followed the only command they had received, and resumed their interrupted charge.
“Look out!” Lydia cried. “Here they come!”
Kevin gripped his sword as tightly as he could, trying not to let it shake in his hand. Powers, Powers, how do you hurt a skeleton?
All at once, the arch of sorcery vanished with a roar of whirling air. Naitachal shouted out new Words of command, the sound alien, hating, the essence of Dark Elf necromancy. The Words enfolding the undead bending them to his will. For a moment the deadly things hesitated, caught, quivering with the strain.
Then, slowly, they turned to threaten the human necromancer instead. His eyes widened in shock, and for a moment Kevin thought the man was going to break from sheer surprise. But after that startled moment, the gray eyes blazed up in renewed fury. The necromancer thrust out his staff with such force the undead reeled and fell back—only to be caught anew in the net of Naitachal’s Power.
“Th-they’re fighting each other!” the bardling gasped. “They’re fighting their own battle all over again!”
Well and good, but not all the skeletal army had found foes. Some of them came spilling up towards the living. Lydia loosed an arrow—but it passed harmlessly through a fleshless rib cage.
“Damn!”
“Try for their joints,” Eliathanis said grimly. “Cut those apart, and the creatures cannot move.”
Kevin didn’t have time to worry about it. He just barely had a chance to put his lute aside before a skeleton headed right towards him, axe raised. The bardling could have sworn that fleshless grin had sentient malice behind it—
Can’t parry an axe with a sword. But an axeman can’t be as quick as a swordsman; once he’s swung, it has to take him a moment to recover, and—Now!