Macenion bowed again, even more elaborately; as he rose, he made a complicated movement of his right hand, and said a few words Paks did not understand. But she heard the hiss of breath indrawn beside her as the elf gasped. Before he could move, she felt a wave of nausea and fear. She whirled, sword at ready, before she even knew she could move. Where she had seen elven beauty, she now saw the ruin of it, and the stench stung her nose.
“Paks!” shouted Macenion. He was cut off by a great shout from the elf. A blast of energy poured down the chamber. Paks thrust at the elf, but her sword met another in his hand.
“Cross blades with me, will you?” The green eyes blazed. Paks tore her gaze from them to watch the sword hand. “No human has skill to match an elf—and I am no common elf.” Indeed, the first ringing strokes revealed his ability. Paks fought on a rising wave of anger. Elves were never evil, ha! She avoided a quick trapping ploy, and thrust again. The tip of her blade seemed to hesitate an instant—an instant that let the enemy escape. She pressed on, furiously. Macenion had probably been killed by the blast, or disabled, but he had won her freedom from whatever spell had bound her. She would fight to the end, and show this creature what human skill could do.
Again and again she managed to slip aside from a deadly blow, and just as often her own attacks fell short. Sweat rolled down her ribs, and she heard herself grunting with every stroke. The elf did not seem to tire. The same smile curved his lips; the same arrogance arched his brows. Now her wrist began to ache, as he used every advantage of height and reach. She was usually taller that those she drilled with; she was not accustomed to adjusting to a longer reach. One of his blows fell true; the force of it drove her to one knee. She felt the links of mail sink into her flesh; she barely ducked the next blow and staggered back. She wanted to look for Macenion, but dared not. The elf’s smile widened.
“You are outclassed, human fighter,” he said lightly. “You are quite good, for a human, but not good enough. But look at my eyes, and acknowledge me your lord, and this can end.”
Paks shook her head, as much to clear it as to refuse. Was that a movement behind the elf? She lunged again; her blade struck, but she narrowly avoided his. He seemed not to notice her blow. Suddenly a bit of hot wax fell on her face. As quick as the thought that followed, almost before she knew what she meant to do, Paks leaped high, grabbing the framework the candles were set on with one hand, and jerking her legs away from the elf’s astonished stroke. The frame swung wildly, spattering them both with wax. With one arm over the ring, Paks swung at the elf from above. He grabbed at her leg and missed as she kicked out. She heard a squeal from above and glanced up to see the ringbolt slipping from the ceiling. She threw herself to one side, trying to clear the frame as it fell. The elf, pursuing, was struck. Before he could free himself from the ring, Paks attacked. Hampered by the framework and the candles, which caught his robe afire, he parried her blows weakly.
And then Macenion came up, panting and pale, and threw the whole of their oil supply on the elf. Paks jumped back as the candle flames flared on this fuel. A foul stench filled the chamber, and a black cloud swirled up from the fire, denser than smoke. Paks felt a wave of cold enmity that sent her staggering to her knees. The flames roared, now more blue than any fire of oil could be. Air rushed into the chamber, whistling round the corners. Paks realized that Macenion was tugging at her arms, pulling her away. She could hardly move. She managed to look around, and saw that the others in the room, the servants, were shuffling out a door in one corner as fast as they could.
When the flames died down, Paks still crouched helplessly where Macenion had dragged her. The elf’s body had not been consumed in the fire, though it was horribly blackened, and all the clothing was gone. Macenion stood by it, frowning.
Paks tried several times before she could speak. “What’s—wrong? He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“I wish I knew. That kind of power—it was some spirit of evil, Paks, that took over the body of an elf. Of an elf lord. And the body is here still. I wonder if he is dead—truly. I’ve heard tales of such—”
Paks didn’t want to move. Every muscle hurt. She managed to flex her hand, and found she still held her sword. She took a deep breath, which also hurt, and forced herself to her feet. She felt as if her legs and body were only loosely connected. Another deep breath. It was hard to believe that she and Macenion were still alive, and the elf was dead. Or dead in some way. She walked over to see.
“Your magic has done well so far, Macenion. We wouldn’t be here without it. Can’t you do something to make sure he stays dead?”
For once Macenion did not seem complacent. “No,” he said soberly. “That’s beyond my abilities. I wish my old master were here. We are fortunate that he chose a simple spell to bind you. Perhaps he wanted to have plenty left for me, or perhaps he had more in use than we know. But now—”
“Couldn’t we put a stake through his heart?”
“What do you think he is, a kuerin-witch? Are you thinking of dragging his corpse to a crossroads, too?”
Paks flushed. “I don’t know. I just remembered some old stories . . .”
“That won’t work for him. Whatever took him over won’t be withheld by any simple measures.”
“We could—” Paks swallowed hard, then went on. “We could cut—dismember him.”
“You? I? I know what you would think of such. As for me, I tell you, Paksenarrion, I don’t even wish to touch that corpse, if corpse it is. Nor should you. That power may still dwell in it, and could reach out to us. You see that the body was not consumed by the fire as it should have been; the skin is blackened but unblistered.”
“Well, then? Do we wait to see what comes of it, or what?”
Macenion shook his head. “I don’t know. I wish I knew a spell to free this body from whatever power holds it so.”
“But since elves are immortal, do their bodies burn or decay?”
“Elves do not die of age alone, but they can, as you saw, be killed. And yes, their bodies can burn or decay or return to earth in many ways.”
Paks shifted her shoulders, easing the stiffness. Suddenly she was hungry—and thirsty. She put up her sword and fumbled to unhook her water flask. After a couple of swallows, she felt much better. “It’s too bad,” she said, “that you don’t know what’s in that fancy scroll you’re so proud of.”
Macenion scowled and opened his mouth for a quick retort, then paused. “I never thought of that,” he said. “I wonder if—” and he rummaged around inside his tunic until he came out with the tooled scroll case Paks had commented on. “It’s difficult—” he went on, as he flicked off the lid and slid the scroll out. “You remember I told you how expensive it was?” Paks nodded. “Thing is, a magical scroll—one that has on it a workable spell—can be written only by a magician who can cast the spell without it. I don’t know why; it seems a silly rule, and it certainly gives far too much power to men who do nothing but study, but there it is. Usually a scroll belongs to the man who wrote it, or to someone he trusts: his journeyman, say, or a brother mage. He knows which scroll is which—or he sets his private mark on each—and all’s well. But for someone who comes across one of these scrolls—far away from the person who wrote it—it’s difficult to tell what it is without reading it.”
“Then read it,” said Paks, gnawing on a slab of dried meat. It was delicious. “You can read—?”
“Of course, I can read! That’s not the point. That’s how it’s used—by reading it. If I read it, whatever it is happens.”
“Oh. So there’s no way to—to peek?”
Macenion allowed himself to look amused. “No. Not that I ever heard of. There are a lot of teaching tales for young apprentice magicians that tell of attempts to peek and what happened afterwards. No, I must decide, by examining all the marks on the outside of the scroll and by my own abilities, whether it’s worth chancing that the spell or spells on it will do us any good.” He peered at the scroll itself, then at the case, and then back at the scroll.