“Hedge sorcerer!” the man stopped and shouted up. “I am Learned Kyrato of the Bastard’s Order in Patos, and in the god’s name I order you to surrender to me. Come peacefully, and no harm will come to you!”
“Demonstrably not the case,” Pen shouted back. “Ask Velka what he did to me in the bottle dungeon!”
The man’s head went back in perplexity, quickly mastered. “For the second time, I demand your surrender! Or your life will be cast from the Temple’s shelter!”
Penric glossed to those at his back, “It’s a ritual he’s obliged to try. No point in interrupting him before he gets through it.”
Kyrato repeated his warning three more times, each more strongly worded. Arisaydia drew his sword and looked even more untrusting. Nikys’s dark brows bent in dismayed curiosity.
“I am sorry,” said Kyrato solemnly, signed himself, and opened his hand as he attempted to set Pen’s clothes and hair on fire.
Pen snapped up the arriving impulse with his cold skill. Kyrato’s body jerked slightly, then he tried again, to the same end. And a third time.
It only took that horse two bites to learn better, Des observed, amused.
The sorcerer stared nonplussed at his own hand, then made to ignite Nikys and Arisaydia. Pen whipped those efforts aside even faster, and flipped out the chaos to land where it would; a few rocks worked loose around them and began to tumble downhill. Kyrato dodged, startled. Des was humming like a bowstring released, Let me, let me, let me…
“What are you?” Kyrato cried, his eyes widening in real fear at last.
“I told Velka I wasn’t a hedge sorcerer,” Pen returned impatiently. “Didn’t he pass you the word? That was really unfair. I swear the man doesn’t listen to a thing one tells him.”
Pen wondered how inexplicable this intense contest looked to outsiders. Two eccentric men standing on a slope making faces and gesturing at each other…
Velka bellowed up the hill, “Arisaydia! Surrender or be slain!”
Arisaydia muttered, “He meant ‘and’, there.” He gripped his sword in an impatience to match Des’s.
The Patos sorcerer put in loudly, “Surrender and your sister will be spared, and be made safe under my authority.” Which he probably imagined to be true.
“Sod you,” snarled Nikys, and heaved her first rock. It was well-aimed, but burst into fragments before it stuck its target. Another followed, to tumble aside in its arc.
“Why don’t they hit him?”
Pen wasn’t sure if that was plea or complaint. Both, really.
Arisaydia dropped a hand on her arm to hold her next launch, muttering, “Useless…”
“No, keep them coming. They’re a good distraction.” Pen cast her a sunlight smile over his shoulder. “Make him work. Heat him up.”
Her eyes flared with understanding. Ha, at least someone had listened to him, and remembered. The next rock whistled through the air. Arisaydia woke up and joined her effort, his rocks hissing more viciously.
The sergeant hadn’t been an idle spectator. The archers, in two pairs, had edged their way up each side of the slope into tolerable range, and loosed their arrows at last.
Have fun, Des.
The arrows, variously, burst into blue flame as they arced, to arrive on target as harmless puffs of ash, or tumbled end-over-end to clatter on the stones. A second flight met the same fate.
Why doesn’t he move faster? Doesn’t he have the trick of it? asked Pen, his senses racing along with Des’s.
He’s controlling his demon tightly. They can only do one thing at a time. It’s almost sad, really.
Remember, he’s a fellow divine, not your plaything.
Then he shouldn’t have threatened you.
The archers had almost worked close enough for Pen to reach, but as long as they were content to waste arrows, Pen was content to let them. A little closer, and he could clip their bowstrings at will, and their hamstrings nearly as easily. Pen trusted Kyrato had more defenses than thus seen, but since Pen hadn’t really attacked him yet, he’d had nothing to demonstrate them upon. Pen was growing adroit with that brutal tweak to the sciatic nerves, if he wanted to render this enemy unable to run away, not really his preference here. But the axilla offered equally distracting possibilities…
The sorcerer shifted the dusty pebbles under Pen’s feet, trying to dump him on his backside presumably; Pen danced aside to solider stone. A formless flurry of hallucinations whirled before Pen’s eyes; an interesting natural talent, suggesting the man could create extraordinary visions someday, with practice. Though not today, alas. Even without Des’s aid, Pen had no trouble ignoring them. The sorcerer was momentarily distracted averting one of Arisaydia’s sizzling projectiles—during which Nikys’s latest lob came down square on his head with a satisfying thunk. That had been a heavy rock she’d heaved, two-handed. He fell half-stunned, sliding down the path and grabbing at his staff to stop himself. With a distraught cry, he flung out his hands.
Pain boomed in Pen’s chest as his heart tried to tear itself apart. He went over backwards as if hit by a ram. Des was abruptly nowhere else but inside him, wrapping herself around the organ, holding it back together. The next flight of arrows fell unimpeded all around them, missing by inches.
Yells from below as the soldiers, taking his fall as their signal, started forward.
Pen climbed to his knees, chest bucking for air, mouth gaping in astonishment. That had been a killing blow.
Kyrato was also on his knees, mouth open in dismay and horrified triumph. He hadn’t quite, Pen thought, intended to do that forbidden thing, but he didn’t look as though he wanted to call it back. His gaze jerked all around, as he struggled to guess where Penric’s demon would jump as he drew his last breath.
Chaos spewed from Desdemona.
Half the hillside shook itself apart and thundered downward.
Kyrato slithered several yards with it, ending half-buried in scree. Sweating and scarlet, he heaved, twisted, drained suddenly pale, and then… passed out.
Heat stroke, Pen diagnosed, from some strange detached plane of continued consciousness, as uncomfortable and unwelcome as his trip to the bottle dungeon. His chest ached. The rest of him wasn’t doing terribly well, either, although there was a nice moment when frantic hands gathered him into a soft, soft lap.
Arisaydia’s boots passed him by; a sudden scrape and clang of steel rang descant over the throbbing echo of the slide.
“Don’t kill the sorcerer!” Pen cried in warning.
A grunt, a scuffle. “I remember,” Arisaydia’s voice floated back, sounding irritated. “Didn’t he?”
“Oh Mother’s blood, Pen, are you all right?” Nikys choked above him. Wet drops splashed his face, although the early evening sky was an impossible deep blue, cloudless. Could tears be also a blessing? But gods, he loved the sky in this country.
“Will be.” I hope. “Don’t you need to keep throwing rocks right now?”
“You just threw all of them. I think Adelis has it under control… the rest are running away. I mean, the ones who can. The sergeant is yelling for them to come back, but he’s running just as hard.”
“Huh. Good.” Des…?
…Des…?
Hsh. B’sy. But then, after a moment, in muzzy indignation: Kyrato was going to sacrifice his demon, in killing you. Let the god take it with your soul. He would have lived.