Next to him, Councilor Orland was having trouble unfastening his glider from his shoulders. The clod had obviously never been in battle before, living a soft life inside Lumengrid. Pontifex thought briefly about stabbing the man in the gut, right here on the open plain, while his arms were tangled. But he stayed his own hand. The time would come when he could do that in a much more private setting. Judging from Orland’s twisting and wrenching display as he tried to free himself from the glider, it wouldn’t be too hard to kill the bumbling politician even if his hands were free.
Marek and his group of gliders would land and join the fight in moments. The two dozen pilots Pontifex had come to ground with were circling the elf girl and her comrades, but their numbers had dwindled. Already six were down, including the three who had been killed by the growing razor grass. The vedalken lord didn’t want to have to wade in himself, but if it came to that, he would. Nothing was going to stop him from getting that elf.
Somehow that girl had tarnished his image as a leader of his people. She had stormed through their fortress, committed the sacrilege of swimming in the Pool of Knowledge, and escaped without punishment.
But that wasn’t the worst of it.
Somehow that bitch had managed to get between him and his god, had managed to make him insignificant in the eyes of the Guardian. For that she must die.
* * * * *
Glissa fought for her life.
The vedalken carried halberds-long thick blades attached to even longer poles, so that a warrior could reach out and attack an opponent from a distance. The heads of these weapons coursed with power, and two came right for her legs as a pair of warriors leaned in. Her back up against the razor grass field, all she could do was bat them away. Again and again the sharp, glowing blue points came at her, and each time she knocked them away.
Bosh leaned out with his long arms, able to match the vedalken warriors with his reach. Glissa felt the impact as his hand hit the ground, a smashed foe underneath. He swung down with his other fist, punching a guardsmen in the face. The warrior was thrown, loosing his grip on his weapon and falling on his back. Despite the heavy impact, the soldier got to his feet, dazed and shaking his head but still alive.
Bosh lifted his hands back for another strike. Large droplets of blood dripped from between his clenched fingers. Splashing to the hot metal ground, the liquid sent up a short wisp of smoke as it quickly dried. In the strange mixed light Glissa couldn’t tell if it was the blue blood of the vedalken warrior or the red blood of the now fleshy golem. The thought of Bosh bleeding to death brought a sudden chill to the elf’s spine.
Two more halberds came from nowhere, forcing Glissa to spin to one side. Unlike the other weapons the vedalken had been using, these did not have sharp heads. Instead, they sprouted loops of heavy wire meant to ensnare rather than wound. One of those loops lunged for Glissa, and she narrowly managed to duck under it. The warrior who carried it had a handle near the end of the shaft, and he pulled on it now. The loop tightened just as the elf pulled away.
“What am I?” she shouted. “A wild boar?”
The vedalken answered by lunging in with another thrust of their pointy weapons. These too Glissa pounded away, but this time she managed a counter attack. Not bothering to aim for any one warrior in particular, the elf jabbed the tip of her powerful blade into the throng of blue-skinned guardsmen. The tip momentarily caught on one warrior’s robes then tore free, sending her tripping forward.
Losing her balance, the elf lifted up on the tiptoes of her right foot. She could feel her weight dragging her forward. The thought of landing prone before four warriors, all of whom wanted her dead, had absolutely no appeal to the young elf, and she struggled to stay upright. With her left leg held out behind her, she toppled forward.
Skipping once and reaching out, she jabbed her sword point into the nearest warrior, hoping to push herself back and regain her balance. But the head of the sharp weapon punctured the vedalken’s armor and slipped through into soft flesh. The creature screamed, turned sideways, and pulled away. The hole in the warrior’s armor, now twisted to one side, clamped down on the tip of Glissa’s blade, trapping it and dragging the elf farther forward.
Glissa was extended as far as she could go, and she held onto her sword with all of her might. Reaching over, she grabbed the pommel with both hands, letting her toe slide across the hot metallic ground as the vedalken pulled back. Warrior and elf moved as a pair, the tip of Glissa’s sword still lodged in the vedalken’s chest.
The injured fighter struggled to free himself, flailing all four of his spindly arms. Blood now covered the blue ornamental robes he wore over his armor-looking like a dark brown stain on light brown robes in the mixed light of the converging moons. Then his struggles slowed, and he looked at the elf through his visor. His eyes were sad, even frightened, and Glissa felt a pang of pity.
The warrior collapsed, dropping to his knees. Glissa was yanked forward, and she watched the ground come up toward her face. This is it, she thought.
Something grabbed hold of her left foot, still lifted high in the air, and she was tugged back. She watched two halberd blades and a heavy wire loop strike the ground. The enchanted weapons cut into the metal plates of the plain, leaving huge gouges beside the dying vedalken-right where she would have been lying facedown.
Coming to ground on both feet, Glissa turned back to see her savior-Slobad. His bony hands were wrapped around her ankle, but he lost his grip and fell backward from the force of his tugging her free of the dying vedalken. She wanted to thank him, but there wasn’t time. More warriors pressed in.
* * * * *
Marek came to ground right beside Pontifex. His two dozen glider pilots landed closer to the melee. The elite guard commander shucked his glider wings and crossed to the two vedalken Synod members.
“Councilor,” he said to Orland, bowing his head slightly. He turned to Pontifex. “My lord, we were to pin them between the two groups. I fear I have failed you.”
Pontifex shook the comment off. “Nonsense. You flushed them right into our hands.”
Marek nodded.
Pontifex looked over his bodyguard’s shoulder at the fighting. The elf and her companions were still backed up against the razor grass field, but the vedalken warriors had made little progress in capturing Glissa.
Pontifex gripped his sword tightly.
Marek took another shallow bow. “I bid you farewell,” he said. “I will capture the elf and bring her to you.” The warrior turned on his heels and marched toward the battle.
“Kill her,” said Pontifex, his teeth clenched.
Marek stopped in his tracks.
Orland turned to the vedalken lord, a look of utter astonishment on his face. “Kill her? You can’t be serious?”
Pontifex grabbed Orland by the collar of his robes, forcing the gangly politician’s visor up against his own. “Quite.”
Marek stepped closer. “Are we not to return the elf girl to Memnarch?” He paused. “My lord?” he added late.
Pontifex glared into Orland’s eyes. Not letting the councilor loose, he spoke to Marek. “Plans have changed,” he said. “The Guardian no longer wants her.”
Orland shifted his eyes. Pontifex followed his gaze to Marek. “He’s not going to help you,” he shouted at his captive.
“I am not your enemy, Lord Pontifex,” claimed the councilor. “Please, let me go.”
Marek stood watching the scene. Pontifex could see him from the corner of his eye. “What are you waiting for, Marek?” he said. “Go kill the elf girl.”
Marek nodded. “As you wish, my lord.” This time he was more forthwith with the title. “But I would not be doing my duty to you if I did not ask you to reconsider.”