After glaring at Rhayn for a time, Huyar hissed, “I’m no coward. As for Faenaeyon’s ‘guest’, she has cast an enchantment on him.”
“For what purpose, Huyar?” Sadira demanded, taking her defense into her own hands.
Huyar came toward her and did not stop until he was within few inches of her face. “Yesterday, did you not tell me that you had reasons of your own for returning to us?”
“I said that,” Sadira conceded.
“I think you came back to enchant Faenaeyon,” Huyar concluded. “To force us to take you to the Pristine Tower.”
Rhayn cast a sidelong glance at the chief’s torpid form. “Whatever’s wrong with Faenaeyon, he isn’t enchanted.” she said. “If you had any sense, you’d know that.”
“What would you know?” countered the warrior.” You’re no more than a trickster.”
“I’m skilled enough to put you into your place.” spat Rhayn. Not that I’d need magic to do it.”
Huyar stepped toward his long-sister, fists clenched in rage. Magus slipped between the two, conveniently preventing Rhayn from having to make good on a threat. “We’re members of the same tribe!” he growled. “Act like it!”
Though Magnus pretended to be speaking to both of them, his black eyes were turned only toward Huyar.
Before Huyar could respond, a young warrior rushed into the chamber from the room above. “Templars are coming!”
Huyar motioned at the warriors standing by Gaefal’s body. “Stall them, and see to the kanks,” he said. As they rushed down the stairs, the elf looked to Sadira and snarled, “It wouldn’t surprise me to learn you’ve brought this upon us, too.”
“We should be getting the tribe out of this tower, not worrying about why the templars are here,” Rhayn said, rushing up the stairway. “Let’s go.”
Huyar threw his brother’s body over his shoulder, than ran up the stairs after her.
“Where are they going?” Sadira asked. “We’ll be trapped.”
Magnus shook his head. “Elves can always run,” he said, starting to follow the other two Sun Runners.
“Wait!” Jeila called. “I can’t get Faenaeyon to stand. We’ll have to carry-”
A resonant thump shook the tower, interrupting the woman in midsentence. This noise was followed by a moment of eerie silence, then cries of injured elves began to ring out from the floor below. Magnus rushed for the stairway.
“I’ll see if I can help,” he said. “Take Faenaeyon up to the others.”
The windsinger had barely reached the threshold when the hum of a dozen bowstrings sounded from the stairs below. Magnus threw an arm up to protect his eyes, then grunted as a flight of arrows ticked into his thick hide. To Sadira’s surprise, he did not fall. Instead, he slapped the shafts off his body, screaming madly-as a normal man might after being stung by a swarm of wasps.
The sorceress went to Jeila’s side and slung one of Faenaeyon’s arms over her shoulder. As they dragged the chief’s limp form across the floor, the windsinger roared in anger. Sadira saw the tip of an agafari spear glance off his knobby elbow, then he plucked a shrieking templar off the floor and hurled her down the stairway. She crashed into a file of women that had been following close behind, and they all went tumbling down the steps. Magnus opened his great mouth and began a deep-toned ballad of war, making Sadira’s heart pound and stirring the bloodlust in her spirit.
A deafening blast silenced the windsinger, sending his huge form sailing into the air. He crashed into the opposite side of the chamber and slammed his skull into the wall, then dropped to the floor amid a clatter of loosened stones. Despite the charred circle in the middle of his chest, Magnus shook his head to clear it, then braced his massive arms by his sides. Gathering his legs beneath him, he slowly pushed himself upward.
The windsinger was about halfway to his feet when his knees buckled. He crashed back to the floor and did not move, his chin resting on his chest and the black in his eyes fading to gray.
Once again, Nibenese voices and the slap of sandals on stone echoed from the stairway. Jeila slipped Faenaeyon’s arm off her shoulder. “Come,” she said, pulling the steel dirk from the chief’s belt. “We must give the tribe time to escape.” She handed her own dagger, made of a simple bone, to the sorceress.
Sadira let the dagger drop to the floor. “Hold them for just a moment,” she said, reaching for her spell ingredients. “I have better way.”
Jeila nodded and leaped to the stairway. She dodged a wild slash from the first templar’s obsidian sword, then sliced open the arm holding it. The elf kicked her attacker back into the stairwell and, with her free hand, snatched up the falling sword.
As Jeila fought against the next pair of templars, Sadira shaped a lump of clear paraffin into a small cube. After summoning the energy for a spell, she tossed the wax over Jeila’s shoulder and spoke her incantation. The paraffin burst into a fine mist and spread through the entire stairwell. An instant later, it congealed into a transparent gel and engulfed the templars.
The Nibenese women tried in vain to free themselves, their arms and legs straining against the viscous mass in slow motion. Jeila stepped away and watched in amusement as the templars’ faces turned purple with suffocation.
Wasting no time on such frivolities, Sadira went to Magnus’s side and cast another spell. When the massive windsinger rose off the floor, she took him by the arm and tugged him to the stairway.
As she started up the steps, Sadira called “Jeila, bring Faenaeyon and hurry! That plug won’t stop our enemies forever.”
The elf slipped the dagger and sword into her belt, then grabbed the heavy chief under the shoulders and dragged him after Sadira. By the time they had ascended halfway up the stairway, both women were out of breath. Even though Magnus was floating in the air, it was no easy matter for a woman of Sadira’s size to pull that much bulk up the steep pitch.
As they neared the top of the stairs, they heard a confused babble of elven voices coming from the room above. Jeila stopped and looked toward the noise. “Half the tribe should be gone now,” she panted. “Something’s wrong.”
“We won’t find out what until we get there,” Sadira gasped, continuing to climb.
As Jeila moved to follow, the clatter of claws on stone came from the bottom of the stairwell. Summoning the last of her strength, Sadira dragged Magnus upward at a run.
Jeila did not follow. Instead, she laid Faenaeyon down and began to descend. “I’ll hold them below. You get help and come back for Faenaeyon,” she said, drawing her sword and dagger.
“No!” Sadira yelled, stopping on the highest step. “It doesn’t sound like the templars.”
Her warning came too late. Dhojakt’s head peered around the bend. Sadira’s jaw fell open in astonishment, for he was covered with sticky slime from the crown of his black skull-cap to the bottom of his round chin. From the looks of it, he had forced his way through her magical mire with his strength alone-something not even a giant could have done.
Sadira shoved Magnus over the threshold, then began preparations for another spell. At the same time, Jeila launched herself at Dhojakt, slashing her sword at his neck and thrusting her dagger at his dark eyes.
The prince did not even bother to block the attacks. Instead, he simply turned his face away from the dagger and allowed the sword to strike his neck. Without causing even the tiniest wound in Dhojakt’s skin, the obsidian blade shattered into dozens of chips. The steel dagger fared little better, glancing off his cheekbone and opening a small scratch beneath the eye.
Jeila landed just ahead of the prince, her eyes as wide as saucers. She raised the dagger to attack again, but Dhojakt’s arm shot out and three of his fingers pierced through her throat. The dirk slipped from her grasp, and she clutched at the prince’s arm. He casually tossed the elf over his shoulder and scurried up the stairs.