At that moment, the demon-giant’s sword appeared out of empty air and slammed into his stomach. His armor, reinforced with magic, deflected the edge of the blade, but the force of the blow alone was enough to send him stumbling backward, fighting to breathe. The giant stood before him, visible once again, peering at the blade of its sword as if unsure how it had failed to kill him.
The creature’s brow furrowed, and it dropped the sword on the ground. Spreading its fingers wide before it, it blasted a wave of freezing air, engulfing Kauth and his three companions. First pain, then a deadly numbness washed over Kauth. He drew a shuddering breath, and the frigid air seared his lungs. He fell to his knees, clutching at his chest and teetering at the edge of despair. The giant grinned, stooped to retrieve its sword, and lifted the blade over its head for a killing blow.
Kauth could do nothing as the blade descended-the cold had stiffened his limbs, and darkness was trying to claim his vision. He had failed. They would never get through the Labyrinth, never goad the warlord into attacking eastward. On the other hand, he had succeeded in getting himself killed, which was certainly part of Kelas’s plan.
Then a flare of silver light drove away the darkness, and he saw Vor standing over him, sparks flying from his sword as the giant’s blade scraped along it. Vor moved like a whirlwind of fire, cutting at his monstrous foe with every step, deflecting every blow. Kauth thought he glowed with silver light, much as Durrnak’s blade had burned with holy flame.
With numb fingers, Kauth fumbled for the wand that had fallen from his hand, then loosed its healing magic to flow through him. Warmth spread over him and through him, soothing away the cold and the pain. Confident that Vor had the giant’s full attention for the moment, he turned to check on Sevren.
To his relief, he saw the shifter getting shakily to his feet. Lifeless beetles, dusted with frost from the giant’s wintry blast, littered the ground.
That must explain Vor’s recovery, he thought. And Sevren Sevren had not recovered. Kauth could see beetles still lodged beneath the skin of the shifter’s face and hands, and he moved with what seemed to be enormous effort. He slowly bent to retrieve one of his knives, and just as slowly straightened.
“Sevren?” Kauth said. “Do you need help?” Something was terribly wrong with the shifter, as though the beetles under his skin, rather than his own mind, were in control of his body.
Sevren shuffled forward until he was next to Kauth, then suddenly slashed at him with the knife. Fortunately, whatever was slowing the shifter’s feet interfered with his attack, and Kauth dodged it easily.
“What in the-” Kauth said, but another swing cut him off. “Sevren!”
“Heal him!” Zandar shouted from somewhere behind him. “Your wand!”
Kauth glanced down at the wand in his hand. “I have to touch him first,” he muttered. Trying to imagine it as a dagger, he dodged another swipe of Sevren’s knife and lunged, trying to time the wand’s discharge for the instant it touched the shifter.
But it didn’t touch the shifter. Sevren jerked to the side just in time, then plunged his knife into Kauth’s stomach. The taste of blood filled his mouth, complementing the bitter taste of defeat.
CHAPTER 18
Which side are we on?” Rienne asked, turning to look at the dragonborn crashing through the forest toward them.
“Neither,” Gaven said. “Let’s get out of here.” He retrieved his sword from the ground and started in the direction they had been running, but the dragonborn woman moved to block his path.
The initial volley of arrows had little effect-the dragonborn had attacked in haste, surprised by the sudden appearance of one group of enemies while they were in the midst of interrogating another. Most of the woodland dragonborn, as Gaven imagined them, had dropped their bows and drawn huge-bladed swords, charging their new enemies, the farmers. A few hung back and loosed well-aimed arrows into the fray. But the leader’s attention hadn’t shifted away from Gaven.
“You still haven’t told me where you’re going,” she said, “though you seem in a great hurry to get there.”
“I do not”-Gaven suddenly grasped how to form a contraction in their language-“I don’t know our destination. We came to learn more about the Prophecy, about the Time Between, but I don’t know anything about this land or your people. We are not so much travelers as explorers.”
The dragonborn seemed to consider this carefully, while letting her eyes rove across their faces, clothing, and weapons. She seemed oblivious to the battle raging around her.
“We will call you pilgrims, then, and place you under the protection of the city of Rav Magar. But if you accept our protection, you must fight in our defense.”
That struck Gaven as odd, but he was willing to accept it. He turned to Rienne.
“She says she’ll accept us as pilgrims and protect us, but we need to help them fight these other ones.”
“I suppose that answers my original question.”
“Right. At least these ones were willing to talk to us.” He looked back at the dragonborn, who had listened intently to their conversation but showed no sign that she understood. “We accept your protection and offer our swords to your defense,” he said, aware that he’d lapsed back into more formal dragon-speech.
“The left flank could use our aid,” the dragonborn leader said. Gripping her axe and shield more tightly, she strode to where one of her soldiers was struggling to beat back the long hafts and biting blades of two of the farmers. The leader opened her mouth and released a blast of lightning that shot through the two enemies, leaving them scorched and dazed but still standing.
So the resemblance to dragons is more than superficial, Gaven thought.
Gaven spoke a spell to shield himself in cold fire and charged after the dragonborn leader, charging the nearest dragonborn farmer. He knocked his foe’s halberd aside with a swing of his sword, then brought his blade back around in a deadly cut. Rienne whirled into motion beside him, Maelstrom dancing easily between the farmers’ long polearms.
The skirmish was over quickly, before Gaven reached his stride. The woodland dragonborn outnumbered their opponents and seemed to outmatch them in skill as well-not surprising, Gaven supposed, considering that the farmers were laborers who left their fields to pursue Gaven and Rienne through the woods. A few of the farmers ran off into the woods, but fleet-footed woodland dragonborn pursued them.
“Thank you for your help,” the dragonborn leader said. She pressed her fists together in front of her chest and bowed slightly to Gaven and Rienne.
Gaven returned the bow. “Thank you for not turning your wrath on us.”
“I’m Lissann Orak,” she said, “first captain of the Magar scouts. Or Lissa.”
“I am Gaven. My companion”-he tripped over that word, unsure of which nuance of meaning to put on that word, finally deciding on the most neutral-“is Rienne ir’Alastra.” Hearing her name in the midst of Gaven’s Draconic babble, Rienne gave a small bow.
“As pilgrims you are under the protection of Rav Magar, and we are obligated to see you safely there. But we must go a little farther before we can return to our city. Will you accept a delay in our escort?”
“You’re asking us? Your people must hold pilgrims in high regard.” Gaven wasn’t positive he had grasped the right meaning of the word, hathandra. “Those who travel” was the simplest translation, but the word carried a definite connotation of a sacred purpose, of being on pilgrimage.