“Damn you, Kitiara!” Dalamar gagged in pain. Staggering backward, he pressed his hand against his side, feeling his own blood flow warm through his fingers.
There was no smile of elation on Kitiara’s face. Rather, there was a look of fear, for she saw that the stroke that should have killed had missed. Why? she asked herself in fury. She had slain a hundred men that way! Why should she miss now? Dropping her knife, she drew her sword, lunging forward in the same motion.
The sword whistled with the force of her stroke, but it struck against a solid wall. Sparks crackled as the metal connected with the magical shield Dalamar had conjured up around him, and a paralyzing shock sizzled from the blade, through the handle, and up her arm. The sword fell from her nerveless hand. Gripping her arm, the astonished Kitiara stumbled to her knees.
Dalamar had time to recover from the shock of his wound. The defensive spells he had cast had been reflexive, a result of years of training. He had not really even needed to think about them. But now he stared grimly at the woman on the floor before him, who was reaching for her sword with her left hand, even as she flexed the right, trying to regain feeling in it.
The battle had just begun.
Like a cat, Kitiara twisted to her feet, her eyes burning with battle rage and the almost sexual lust that consumed her when fighting. Dalamar had seen that look in someone’s eyes before—in Raistlin’s, when he was lost in the ecstasy of his magic. The dark elf swallowed a choking sensation in his throat and tried to banish the pain and fear from his mind, seeking to concentrate only on his spells.
“Don’t make me kill you, Kitiara,” he said, playing for time, feeling himself grow stronger every moment. He had to conserve that strength! It would avail him little to stop Kitiara, only to die at her brother’s hands.
His first thought was to call for the guardians. But he rejected that. She had won past them once, probably using the nightjewel. Falling backward before the Dragon Highlord, Dalamar edged his way nearer the stone desk, where lay his magical devices. From the corner of his eye, he caught the gleam of gold—a magical wand. His timing must be precise, he would have to dispel the magical shield to use the wand against Kit. And he saw in Kitiara’s eyes that she knew this. She was waiting for him to drop the shield, biding her time.
“You have been deceived, Kitiara,” Dalamar said softly, hoping to distract her.
“By you!” She sneered. Lifting a silver, branched candle stand, she hurled it at Dalamar. It bounced harmlessly off the magical shield to fall at his feet. A curl of smoke rose from the carpet, but the small fire died almost instantly, drowned in the melting candlewax.
“By Lord Soth,” Dalamar said.
“Hah!” Kitiara laughed, hurling a glass beaker against the magical shield. It broke into a thousand, glittering shards. Another candlestand followed. Kitiara had fought magic-users before. She knew how to defeat them. Her missiles were not intended to hurt, only to weaken the mage, force him to spend his strength maintaining the shield, make him think twice about lowering it.
“Why do you suppose you found Palanthas fortified?” Dalamar continued, backing up, creeping nearer the stone table. “Had you expected that? Soth told me your plans! He told me you were going to attack Palanthas to try to help your brother! ‘When Raistlin comes through the Portal, drawing the Dark Queen after him, Kitiara will be here to greet him like a loving sister!’”
Kitiara paused, her sword lowered a fraction of an inch. “Soth told you that?”
“Yes,” Dalamar said, sensing with relief her hesitation and confusion. The pain of his injury had eased somewhat. He ventured a glance down at the wound. His robes had stuck to it, forming a crude bandage. The bleeding had almost stopped.
“Why?” Kitiara raised her eyebrows mockingly. “Why would Soth betray me to you, dark elf?”
“Because he wants you, Kitiara,” Dalamar said softly. “He wants you the only way he can have you...
A cold sliver of terror pierced Kitiara to her very soul. She remembered that odd edge in Soth’s hollow voice. She remembered it was he who had advised her to attack Palanthas. Her rage seeping from her, Kitiara shuddered, convulsed with chills. The wounds are poisoned she realized bitterly, seeing the long scratches upon her arms and legs, feeling again the icy claws of those who made them. Poison. Lord Soth. She couldn’t think. Glancing up dizzily, she saw Dalamar smile. Angrily, she turned from him to conceal her emotions, to get hold of herself.
Keeping an eye on her, Dalamar moved nearer the stone table, his glance going to the wand he needed.
Kitiara let her shoulders slump, her head droop. She held the sword weakly in her right hand, balancing the blade with her left, feigning to be seriously hurt. All the while, she felt strength returning to her numb sword arm. Let him think he has won. I’ll hear him when he attacks. At the first magical word he utters, I’ll slice him in two! Her hand tightened on the sword hilt. Listening carefully, she heard nothing. Only the soft rustle of black robes, the painful catch in the dark elf’s breath. Was it true, she wondered, about Lord Soth? If it were, did it matter? Kitiara found the thought rather amusing. Men had done more than that to gain her. She was still free. She would deal with Soth later. What Dalamar said about Raistlin intrigued her more. Could he, perhaps, win?
Would he bring the Dark Queen into this plane? The thought appalled Kitiara, appalled and frightened her. “I was useful to you once, wasn’t I, Dark Majesty?” she whispered. “Once, when you were weak and only a shadow upon this side of the glass. But when you are strong, what place will there be for me in this world? None! Because you hate me and you fear me even as I hate and fear you.
“As for my sniveling worm of a brother, there will be one waiting for him—Dalamar! You belong to your Shalafi body and soul! You’re the one who means to help, not hinder, him when he comes through the Portal! No, dear lover. I do not trust you! Dare not trust you!”
Dalamar saw Kitiara shiver, he saw the wounds upon her body turning a purplish blue. She was weakening, certainly. He had seen her face pale when he mentioned Soth, her eyes dilate for an instant with fear. Surely she must realize she had been betrayed. Surely she must now see her great folly. Not that it mattered, not now. He did not trust her, dare not trust her... .
Dalamar’s hand snaked backward. Grasping the wand, he swung it up, speaking the word of magic that diffused the magical shield guarding him. At that instant, Kitiara whirled around. Her sword grasped in both hands, she wielded it with all her strength. The blow would have severed Dalamar’s head from his neck, had he not twisted his body to use the wand.
As it was, the blade caught him across the back of the right shoulder, plunging deep into his flesh, shattering the shoulderblade, nearly slicing his arm off. He dropped the wand with a scream, but not before it had unleashed its magical power. Lightning forked, its sizzling blast striking Kitiara in the chest, knocking her writhing body backward, slamming her to the floor.
Dalamar stumped over the table, reeling from pain. Blood spurted rhythmically from his arm. He watched it dully, uncomprehending for an instant, then Raistlin’s s lessons in anatomy returned. That was the heartblood pouring out. He would be dead within minutes. The ring of healing was on his right hand, his injured arm. Feebly reaching across with his left, he grasped the stone and spoke the simple word that activated the magic. Then he lost consciousness, his body slipping to the floor to lie in a pool of his own blood.
“Dalamar!” A voice called his name.
Drowsily, the dark elf stirred. Pain shot through his body. He moaned and fought to sink back into the darkness. But the voice shouted again. Memory returned, and with memory came fear. Fear brought him to consciousness. He tried to sit up, but pain tore through him, nearly making him pass out again. He could hear the broken ends of bones crunching together, his right arm and hand hung limp and lifeless at his side. The ring had stopped the bleeding. He would live, but would it be only to die at the hands of his Shalafi?