Out came the elf s twin swords, snapping up to the ready. "Cleansing flames!" the elf cried, commanding the powers within his swords. Greenish fires licked at the metal, blurred the distinct lines of the razor-sharp blades.
The closest two ores, those two who had been right before the elf and had thus escaped the fury of the fireball, skidded in surprise at the sudden appearance of the flaming blades and, for just an instant, let their guards drop.
Too long; Josidiah's left sword slashed across the throat of one, while his right plunged deep into the chest of the second.
The elf spun about, deflecting wide a hurled spear, dodging a second, then picking off a third with a furious down-cut. He dived into a roll and came up charging fast for the back side of the hill, meeting the rush of three monsters, cutting at them wildly before they could get their defenses coordinated.
One fell away, mortally wounded; another lost half of its arm to the searing sweep of the elf s deadly blade. But almost immediately Josidiah was pressed from all sides, ores stabbing in at him with long spears or rushing forward suddenly to slash with their short, cruel swords.
He could not match weapons with this many, so he moved his flaming blades in purely defensive motions, beginning the chant to let loose another spell.
He took a spear thrust on the side and nearly lost his concentration and his spell. His finely meshed elven chain armor deflected the blow, however, and the elf finished with a twirl, tapping the hilts of his swords together, crying out a word to release the spell. His swords went back up straight, his thumbs came out to touch together, and a burst of flame fanned out from the elfin a half-circle arc.
Without even stopping to witness the effects of his spell, Josidiah spun about, swords slashing across and behind. Ahead charged the bladesinger, a sudden rush of overwhelming fury that broke apart the orcish line and gave Josidiah several openings in the defensive posture of his enemies.
A surge of adrenalin kept the bladesinger moving, dancing and cutting down ores with a fury. He thought of the panther again, and her undeserved fate, and focused his blame for that act upon these very ores.
Another fell dead, another atop that one, and many went scrambling down the hill, wanting no part of this mighty warrior.
Soon Josidiah stood quiet, at the ready, a handful of ores about him, staying out of his reach. But there was something else, the elf sensed, something more evil, more powerful. Something calmed these ores, lending them confidence, though more than a score of their kin lay dead and another dozen wounded.
The elf sucked in his breath as the newest foes came out onto the open grass. Josidiah realized then his folly. He could defeat a score of ores, two-score, if he got his spells away first, but these three were not ores.
These were giants.
The cat was restless, pacing and growling; Anders wondered if she knew what was to come, knew that this was her last night as a mortal creature. The thought that she might indeed understand shook the old mage profoundly, made all of Josidiah's arguments against this magical transformation echo again in his mind.
The panther roared, and threw herself against the cage door, bouncing back and pacing, growling.
"What are you about?" the old mage asked, but the cat only roared again, angrily, desperately. Anders looked around; what did the cat know? What was going on?
The panther leapt again for the cage door, slamming hard and bouncing away. Anders shook his head, thoroughly confused, for he had never seen the panther like this before-not at all.
"To the Nine Hells with you, elf," the wizard grumbled, wishing he had not revealed Whiskers to Josidiah until the transformation had been completed. He took a deep breath, yelled at the cat to calm down, and drew out a slender wand.
"It will not hurt," Anders promised apologetically. He spoke a word of command, and a greenish ray shot forth from the wand, striking the panther squarely. The cat stopped her pacing, stopped everything, just stood perfectly still, immobilized by the magic of the wand.
Anders took up the figurine and the specially prepared knife, and opened the cage door. He had known from the very start that this was not going to be easy.
He was at the cat's side, the figurine in hand, the knife moving slowly for the creature's throat.
Anders hesitated. "Am I presuming to play the role of a god?" he asked aloud. He looked into those marvelous, intelligent eyes; he thought of Josidiah, who was indeed much like a ranger, much like Anders had been before devoting his life to ways magical.
Then he looked to the knife, the knife that his hand, his ranger hand, was about to plunge into the neck of this most magnificent creature.
"Oh, damn you, elf!" the mage cried out, and threw the knife across the cage. He began a spell then, one that came to his lips without conscious thought. He hadn't used this incantation in months, and how he recalled it then, Anders would never know. He cast it forth, powerfully, and all the cabinet doors in his shop, and the door to the hallway, and all the doors in the lower section of the tower, sprang open and wide.
The mage moved to the side of the cage and slumped to a sitting position. Already the great cat was stirring- even the powerful magic of his wand could not hold such a creature as this for long. Anders clutched that wand now, wondering if he might need it again, for his own defense.
The cat shook her head vigorously and took an ambling step, the sensation at last returning to her limbs. She gave Anders a sidelong glance.
The old mage put the wand away. "I played god with you, Whiskers," he said softly. "Now it is your turn."
But the panther was preoccupied and hardly gave the wizard a thought as she launched herself from the cage, darting across the room and out into the hallway. She was long gone before Anders ever got to his tower door, and he stood there in the night, lamenting not at all his wasted weeks of effort, his wasted gold.
"Not wasted," Anders said sincerely, considering the lesson he had just learned. He managed a smile and turned to go back into his tower, then saw the burst of flame, a fireball, mushrooming into the air from the top of a hillock to the north, a place that Anders knew well.
"Josidiah," he gasped, a reasonable guess indeed. That hillock was Josidiah's favorite place, a place Anders would expect the elf to go on a night such as this.
Cursing that he had few spells prepared for a confrontation, the old man hustled back into his tower and gathered together a few items.
His only chance lay in speed, in darting about, never letting his enemies close on him. Even that tactic would only delay the inevitable.
He rushed to the left but had to stop and spin, sensing the pursuit coming from close behind. Backing them off with a sweeping cross of his blades, Josidiah turned and darted left again and, predictably, had to pull up short. This time, though, the elf not only stopped but backtracked, flipping one sword in his hand and stabbing it out behind him, deep into the belly of the closest pursuing ore.
His grim satisfaction at the deft maneuver couldn't hold, however, for even as the dead creature slid from his blade, even as the other few ores scrambled away down the side of the hill, Josidiah noted the approach of the three giants, fifteen-foot-tall behemoths calmly swinging spiked clubs the size of the elf s entire body.
Josidiah considered the spells remaining to him, tried to find some way to turn them to his advantage.
Nothing; he would have to fight this battle with swords only. And with three giants moving toward him in coordinated fashion, he did not like the odds.