Lanaal frowned. "You tried to turn into the behemoth," she said, "but you lost the partial transformation that you had already achieved. How did this happen?"
"I think it rejected me," said Vell. "Whatever's inside me did not care to rear its head. Perhaps it did not deem the situation serious enough."
"Or perhaps you did not call it properly," Lanaal said. "Not seriously enough. You talk as if it's something else. You need to think differently. Acknowledge that it is another side of Vell."
"Are you in my head, elf?" asked Vell. "Do you know what I feel? Keirkrad, Kellin, Sungar, you, and everyone else think they know better than me. But who among you looks through my eyes?" He clenched his fist in anger-not the barbarian rage that he could sate with violence, but something much more complex and difficult to drive off.
"So you consider this experience a failure," said Lanaal.
"No," Vell smiled. "My eyes are clearer now. I tasted battle and felt alive again. No thanks to the enemy inside."
"It's not an enemy, Vell!" Lanaal protested. "Just a resource. A powerful one for good or ill-it will destroy you if you don't make it obey you."
"It's a demon," Vell proclaimed. "One I must strive to cast out."
Lanaal breathed heavily, her bronze-tinged face streaked with redness. "It may not be possible to remove it, Vell," she warned.
"I will strive nevertheless," Vell promised. "Thank you for helping me, Lanaal. I hope I can still call you my friend."
"Have no fear," she whispered. Her smile was filled with concern. "I will help however I can. But if you are seeking answers to your puzzle, I don't know if I can help you any further."
"There may be other possibilities," said Vell. "Rask mentioned something about the Fountains of Memory."
CHAPTER 10
Sprites fell like hostile rain. The Antiquarians, Leng, Ardeth, and Gan held their ground against waves and waves of them. The sprites were joined by grigs playing their dreadful fiddles, gossamer-winged pixies, and even some of the seldom-seen nixies. The fey climbed the trees, dived down on the party below, and launched their arrows. The battlefield rang with the grigs' discordant music.
"If we were to surrender," Ardeth shouted through the cacophony, "do you suppose they'd stop playing?"
Amid a duskwood grove carpeted in damp moss, the fey ambushed them and pressed the attack, seemingly unconcerned about their massive casualties. Each swing of Gan's greataxe killed five of them at a time, and the blades of Nithinial and Royce swung unceasingly, slicing the small, fragile creatures with ease. Ardeth crouched with her crossbow and targeted the pixies with her deadly bolts, while Gunton used a net to trap them, then finish them with the point of a short spear. Fey blood pooled on the forest floor. Bessick swung his chains, snagging wings and ripping sprites apart with their cruel spikes. Vonelh blasted the creatures with huge gusts of wind that blew their arrows astray and toppled the smaller sprites, their wings beating hopelessly as the air funneled them hard against the trees.
"If only I could drop a fireball and let them all burn away," Vonelh said, but he knew the danger to the trees was far too great.
Leng was responsible for the most damage. Laughing and cackling with the dark energy of an asylum inmate, he took perverse glee in killing his attackers slowly and painfully. Deep blue bolts of cold erupted from his hands that withered the sprites at a touch, their wings shriveling until their desiccated flesh seemed to slide off their bodies. Leng released dark waves of despair and grief that set some of them weeping. Walls of thorns erupted to rip them apart, and he conjured disembodied black claws that tore into the tiny grigs and pixies as a cruel child might torture a butterfly, plucking off wings and ripping bodies apart.
A flail hung at Leng's waist, and many magical items were concealed in his clothing. But he had no interest in fighting with anything but his spells.
The Antiquarians watched Leng's depredations in awe. He wore an expression of joy as he went about his vile work; his face showed no concern that they were fighting for their lives. This was sport for him; his companions even suspected that Leng could readily kill all the fey with much greater speed, but instead he was drawing out the pleasure, challenging himself to find new and crueler ways of slaughtering them. He almost seemed disappointed as the number of fey around them declined. Whether the large folk were really killing the small ones or if some had decided to flee-fey being notoriously fickle-they could not tell.
"The pixies may be waiting for us to let our guard down," warned Gunton, skewering one on the end of his short spear.
Although equally as small as the grigs, the pixies were far more dangerous foes. Leng and Vonelh tried to wipe out the creatures' invisibility with spells, but the small folk easily crouched unseen in the distance and fired their arrows.
No fewer than ten grigs sprang cricketlike from various places at Vonelh. They all struck his upper body, prodding him with their tiny dagger-points. The surprise was enough to knock the wizard off his feet and disrupt the spell he was casting. Nithinial rushed over to help him, but not before five pixies took wing and buzzed over Vonelh's prone body.
A well-placed sweep from Bessick's chains tore most of them out of the air with cruel accuracy, but as Nithinial rushed to help Vonelh to his feet, he noticed the mage was in a strange state. His eyes darted wildly, and he looked at his companions as if he'd never seen them before. At the same time, all of the pixies, grigs, and nixies hovering on the battle's edge seemed to turn tail and vanish into the forest.
Vonelh opened his mouth and began to chant some arcane syllables.
"Their magic has scuttled his mind!" shouted Leng. "Stand clear." He spun to face Vonelh, took a few steps, and laid his hand on the wizard's exposed forearm. As soon as he made contact, all life left Vonelh. His face and body went slack and he fell to the ground without ceremony or grace, his lifeless eyes staring up at his companions.
"What have you done?" howled Nithinial, standing only inches from Leng.
"He was going to drop a fireball on us all," Leng said calmly.
Nithinial swung at Leng's throat with his dagger, but he never made it. A few words from Leng, and the half-elf was paralyzed, a mask of anger frozen on his face. The dagger was nearly at Leng's neck, but the priest did not flinch.
For a few moments, silence fell over the group as everyone tried to come to grips with the scene. Leng took a few steps back from the others.
"You didn't have to kill Vonelh," said Royce, stepping around his corpse and the living statue that Nithinial had become. The leader of the Antiquarians stepped forward, his sword lowered in a subtly threatening posture. "You could have dissolved the magic on him."
"Or perhaps I would have failed, and we would all be dead," said Leng.
"You have ruined this mission," Bessick shouted, stepping next to Royce with his chains ready. "If you hadn't killed that treant, we wouldn't have every damned fey in the woods on our trail."
"Oh," Leng replied. "No, there's a different reason for that. Is there not, Ardeth?" He bent over to pick up the blue-tinged corpse of a nixie, took a few steps, and tossed it down at the young woman's feet. "Let's ask Geildarr's official representative among us. Why are we really on this mission? Nixies don't stray far from their waters. So tell us all," he spat as he looked into her dark eyes, "just how close are we to the Unicorn Run?"
Ardeth showed no reaction, only matched Leng's steely gaze. But Gunton, Bessick, and Royce all let out gasps of surprise.
"Your hobgoblin's dedication is admirable," Leng went on, sending Gan a glare that made the hobgoblin grip the axe more tightly. "But his thespian skills leave something to be desired."