Leaving the glabrezu to Jhesrhi, Vandar, and its other berserker assailants for the time being, Aoth aimed his spear and hurled darts of light at the shadows. It was far from the most powerful attack spell in his arsenal, but he didn t dare cast any of the deadliest ones for fear of hitting Cera as well.
Two dark forms with ragged black wings and long horns curling up from their heads spun out of the whirl in his direction. He charged his spear with the seething essence of chaos and struck at one of the shadows. It dodged, and at the same moment, something jolted him, although the shock was psychic, not physical. His body abruptly felt numb as his spirit began to separate from it.
Aoth snarled a word of defense, invoked the magic bound in a tattoo, and flesh and soul locked together once more. But his instant of clumsiness allowed the demon he d struck at to tear the spear from his grip and toss it away. Both shadows rushed in raking with their claws.
Covering up with his shield, trying to keep either of the demons from getting behind him, Aoth scrambled backward, bumping into someone, and struggling to retain his balance. He snatched out his sword and charged it with a shimmer of destructive power. He feinted a cut at one of the demons, before spinning and extending at the other.
That shadow was lunging at him, and it impaled itself. The magic in the blade frayed it into wisps of darkness.
Aoth pivoted back in the opposite direction. The other shadow demon wasn t there anymore.
Suspecting that it had shifted behind him, he kept turning, just barely in time to block a claw slash with his targe, and then slice the demon across the belly. His foe broke apart into tatters of murk, which then dissolved entirely.
He turned back toward Cera and found he was farther away and could barely see her. The vault was crowded with berserkers and stag warriors rushing to engage one foe or another, or else tottering back from the battle line with streaming wounds. Still, no one could have missed the flash when she finally succeeded in channeling Amaunator s power. All but one of the remaining shadow demons vanished instantly. The last one tried to shield itself by dropping down into the floor, but unraveled away to nothing when it was only waist-deep in the stone.
Aoth weaved and shoved his way to Cera. Are you all right? he asked.
Yes, she panted, the Keeper protected me.
I saw, he said, wanting to embrace her but knowing he didn t have time. He looked around and decided that, although Vandar and his lodge brothers had done a fair job of carving up its lower body, and Jhesrhi, of burning the fur off patches of its upper parts, the glabrezu remained the greatest threat in view. He cast about, found his spear, and picked it up. We need
A blast of dirty red flame hurled back the Rashemi fighting in one of the doorways. Into the breach charged a blaspheme, a hulking monstrosity made of pieces from many different corpses. One green eye and one brown one, the former a finger-width higher than the latter, glared from beneath the rim of the creature s helmet. The ugly face was lumpy, mottled, and crisscrossed with scars.
The patchwork creature wore a suit of plate articulated differently than any that Aoth had ever seen. But he was more concerned about the brute s weapon than its armor. To his eyes, the greatsword fairly sweated destructive power, and when the blaspheme slashed one of Vandar s brothers with it, the berserker s flesh withered even as his knees buckled underneath him.
Beside the blaspheme advanced the skull lord from the roof of the keep, hacking with a falchion. And behind them, a wedge of howling goblin-kin and bellowing ice trolls surged forth. Aoth realized that, once again, the glabrezu would have to wait.
The Stag King felt cold and dazed. Through his muddled thoughts whispered the promise that if he d only flop down on the floor and submit, the chill would turn to ecstasy.
Bellowing, he dropped his antler-axe so that he could grab hold of Nyevarra, rip her fangs out of his throat, and fling her away. It was only after he did so that he realized a second vampire was clinging to him and sucking at a bite in his forearm. He tore her loose and threw her down the corridor as well.
Unharmed, both durthans rolled back onto their feet. Meanwhile, he was still numb and weak. He shouted for help with both his voice and his mind. Some of his offspring would surely hear the former, and every spirit animal he d brought under his sway should register the latter. He just had to hold out until help reached him. He stooped to grab his axe, but it wasn t there.
Nyevarra laughed, and he saw that she d collected the weapon when he wasn t looking. She tossed it clattering down the passage, putting it even farther out of his reach. Her gaze stabbed at him. It made him feel like she was lunging at him, or that the world had tilted on end and sent him falling down at her.
Her stare would paralyze him if he let it. He jerked his eyes away and saw a brown-robed witch rushing in on his flank with her clawed, decay-mottled hands poised to snatch and rend. He lowered his head and whipped it up again. His antlers ripped both her black leather mask and the face beneath it away.
By that time, one of the vampires was rushing him. He caught hold of her as he bellowed, and he jerked her head off her shoulders. Slime pattered out of her robes as her flesh began to liquefy.
He grinned at the other undead witches. Who s next? he croaked.
He didn t really expect his bravado to frighten them into turning tail, and it didn t. But no one else was reckless enough to fight him hand to hand. Instead, standing together, they snarled and hissed curses that made his heart stutter, his guts twist, and fresh blood stream from the cold, throbbing bites in his neck and forearm.
A single phantom hawk swooped through the archway behind him. A witch robed in black and white rattled off a rhyme, and the telthor s body twisted as though invisible hands had seized it and wrung it like a washcloth. It vanished as it fell to the floor.
Zyl hopped through the opening and cried the opening words of an incantation in his shrill voice. A durthan in a brown cloak had pounced on him like a cat before he could finish. She ripped at his body with her jagged claws and flung bloody chunks through the air. The Stag King grieved momentarily for his servant, before grimly refocusing on his own plight.
Through gritted teeth, the Stag King muttered charms of protection that seemed to do no good at all. He struggled to advance on the witches, but it was like walking into a gale. In his addled, pain-ridden condition, he couldn t tell if the enemy had conjured an actual wind or if it was the pressure of Nyevarra s gaze shoving back at him.
Whatever it was, after a straining step or two, it stopped him. He wondered, with more amazement than dread, if, after all these millennia, he d finally fallen into the trap he wouldn t be able to fight or trick his way out of. He gathered his strength for a supreme and perhaps final effort.
Growing in an instant, brambles shot up from the floor. They whipped around him, yanked themselves tight, and plunged their long thorns deep into his flesh.
He strained to break free, but to no avail. The only effect was to tear the punctures wider around the thorns. The durthans pounced on him.
First, the Stag King stopped flailing, then he stopped twitching, and a few heartbeats after that, Nyevarra and her sister witches stepped back from his corpse. She wiped her bloody lips with the back of her hand and slipped on a tarnished silver mask.