Siris came up, stumbling, and winced. He yanked the small bolt from his thigh, awkwardly holding his blade and trying to watch for the creature’s next attack. As he did so, he felt a deadening of his leg. Poison.
Hell take me! He had no choice now; he took cover beside the throne dais, then engaged the ring.
The healing effect was immediate. He felt a burning on his finger as the magic was expended, and a shock ran through his body. His skin grew clammy, as if he’d dunked himself into an icy pond in the winter.
It lasted only an eyeblink, and when he came out of it, his pains were gone. However, in that eyeblink, his hair had grown all the way down to his shoulders, and he now had a beard where previously he’d had none. His fingernails had grown long.
The healing rings sped up his body in a twisted way. Though they made him heal quickly-wounds scabbing over, then becoming scarred-they also made him age as long as it would have taken to heal wounds naturally. As near as he could figure, each use of the ring took about a half of a year off his life.
He raised a hand to his newly grown beard as he glanced at himself in the polished marble of the throne’s dais. He hated healing. The more he did it, the more . . . alien his own features seemed.
He peeked around the side of the large throne. The assassin was slinking along the side of the dais toward him, obviously expecting him to be succumbing to the poison. The creature yelped in a quite undaerilic way as Siris dashed out from behind the dais, running toward the side of the room.
The assassin raised its crossbow again, but Siris was ready. He ducked low and jumped in a roll. He came up beside the table and grabbed his shield, turning and raising it.
The enemy scuttled away, taking cover. Siris gritted his teeth. Every beast he had faced in the God King’s palace-even the most foul of daerils and most primitive of trolls-had followed the ancient dueling ideals. Obviously, he was facing a different kind of evil now.
“So . . .” a feminine voice called from beside the pillar where the assassin had fled. “You’re not dead then, I see.” Her voice had a faint accent that Siris couldn’t place. She said her “eh” sound too long, like it was an “ee” instead, and she punctuated her syllables too much.
Siris blinked in surprise, but didn’t reply. He moved across the room back toward the throne dais. It made for good cover.
“This is very awkward,” the hidden assassin said, voice echoing in the room. “I’m going to flay that vendor alive; he promised the poison was a three-breather. You’ve taken considerably more than three breaths since I shot you.”
Siris reached the base of the dais.
“I don’t suppose you’re starting to feel tired?” the voice asked.
“Afraid not,” Siris called back.
“Weak? Dizzy? A little peckish?”
Siris hesitated. “Peckish?”
“Sure. You know, like something has pecked you? Isn’t that what the word means?”
“It means hungry,” he said flatly.
“Damn.” There was a sound coming from one of the back pillars, like the assassin was writing. Taking notes? “Your language is stupid, immortal.”
“Wait,” Siris said. “Immortal?”
“And might I add,” the voice continued, “that when people speak of awe-inspiring divine powers, spontaneously growing a beard doesn’t really come up. I expected lightning, thunder, earthquakes. Instead I got facial hair. I’m less than impressed.”
Thunder . . . earthquakes . . . immortal?
Siris almost laughed. She thought he was the God King!
What else would she think, finding someone sitting in the throne, with the God King’s sword beside him, speaking with a troll?
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding-” Siris began.
At that moment, she leaped out from behind her pillar and leveled her crossbow at him again. She’d removed her mask, and he was surprised to see that she was completely human.
And she was not unattractive, with long black hair that she kept in a simple ponytail. But her eyes spoiled it. Those were grim and hard. Dangerous.
Siris’s hard-won reflexes meant he got the shield up in time to deflect a crossbow bolt; the woman ducked back behind the pillar, her black coat swishing. She’d been trying to lull him with the conversation.
“Look,” Siris said. “You’re making a mistake. I-”
The door to the room exploded. A massive, hulking thing of sparks and darkness broke its way through the far wall, tossing down chunks of rock. It held a blade as wide as a man’s stride, and its head was capped by a helm that trailed black mist through the eyeslit.
“What’s that?” Siris demanded.
“You didn’t think I came alone, did you?” the woman called.
Great, Siris thought, turning toward this new foe-though he had to be careful not to put his back to the woman. That would likely earn him a crossbow bolt between the shoulder blades. His armor was good, but she obviously had an enhanced crossbow built to punch through the best steel.
The newcomer stepped into the room, the beautiful marble tiles crunching and cracking beneath its feet. Siris was half-afraid the tower floor would fall out from under them. They were at the highest point in the castle, and the drop would be deadly.
Most of the daerils fled, though Kuuth retreated to the side of the room. The ancient troll rested on his staff, head cocked to listen.
None of the daerils offered to help Siris, despite their willingness to call him “great master.” Siris put himself into an Aegis fighting stance-well, as best he could, while watching two places at once. The machinelike monster took a pair of crunching steps forward, and then another one just like it followed through the hole the first had made, knocking pieces of rock to the ground.
Great, Siris thought. He made a snap decision, then attacked forward, intending to try to defeat one of the monsters before he could be overwhelmed.
The assassin had been waiting for that move, however, and took a shot at him as he charged. Siris had to lurch to a stop, letting the bolt shoot in front of him, then awkwardly raised his shield to block a blow from the first golem.
The monster’s gigantic sword crashed down, hitting hard and sending a shower of sparks from his shield. The shield’s magic held, but just barely. Terrors, he thought, I’d never be able to parry a blow from something like this unaided.
He breathed out, bringing his sword around to strike, but caught another motion from the corner of his eye. He leaped to the side in time to dodge yet another crossbow bolt. She was fast with those reloads.
“Did that one kill you?” a feminine voice called.
Siris grunted as he blocked another blow from the golem. The second golem was rounding to his right, each footstep shaking the room.
“You’re downright unaccommodating, Deathless,” the girl called at him.
“I’m not the God King!” Siris yelled desperately.
“I’ll be satisfied with one of his minions.”
“I’m not one of his minions. I . . .”
Something about this situation seemed suddenly familiar. One foe in front, one to the side, one to the back. Siris felt as if he knew how he should stand, how he should fight. As if he’d done it before.
But he’d never been in a situation like this. He’d trained in the Aegis Forms. One on one.
Except . . .
The golem attacked again with a crash. At the same time, the second one charged in from the right.
Siris cursed, jumping into a roll. The first golem’s sword smashed into the ground, spraying chips of stone, and Siris rolled up just inside the reach of the other. He met its blow with his shield.
Terrors, but these monsters were strong. The shield’s magic gave out, and he heard a distinct crack. His arm felt numb, and the force of the blow hurled him backward.