That one turned out to move and fight in exactly the same manner as the first one he’d killed, and he disposed of her in a similar fashion. Afterward, when he looked around again, no other spirits remained, and he hadn’t lost any more of his allies, although Dalabrac’s remaining underling, a wiry, walleyed fellow, was squeezing a gash in his forearm in an effort to stop the bleeding.
Unfortunately, that didn’t mean their troubles were over. Anton strode to the railing and looked over. On the ground floor, the temple guards and the sunlords with martial training had their shields on their arms, their maces in hand, and had just about finished forming up to climb the stairs and engage the intruders.
Stedd scurried up to stand beside Anton. “You can’t just kill them all,” said the boy. “They’re only doing what they think is right.”
Anton snorted. “I appreciate the implied compliment. But given the numbers involved and the quantity of priestly magic on their side, the trick will be to keep them from slaughtering us.” He turned to Dalabrac. “There’s not much point in worrying about being quiet anymore.”
“Sadly,” said the halfling, “that’s true.” Of them all, he was the only one who didn’t look sweaty, out of breath, or generally disheveled. His fraudulent vestments still hung straight on his child-sized form. He picked up a dead spirit’s fallen sword and took a step toward the nearest stained glass window.
“Let me,” the wizard said. She placed herself before the window and gave a shout that boomed like the thunderclaps crashing outside.
The glass mosaic shattered, and despite the drumming of the storm, Anton heard the pieces smashing again on the cobblestones outside. Cold rain blew in through the window frame.
Anton shot the mage a smile. “Nicely done.”
It took her an instant to smile back. “I can be useful from time to time.”
The wounded Fire Knife hurried to the opening, produced a coiled rope from under his disguise, and dropped the line over the edge. Meanwhile, Dalabrac took out a lump of something spongy, kneaded it a few times, and pressed it to the stonework. His confederate then stuck the end of the rope into it.
“Don’t worry, it will hold.” Dalabrac grinned at Anton. “My alchemist does better work than my tailor.”
“Stedd and I don’t need a rope.” The wizard took the boy by the hand and led him to the drop. “Just jump.”
The boy took a breath, then stepped off the edge with her. Presumably, a word of command would cushion their fall.
Anton slid down the rope. The wounded Fire Knife followed. Dalabrac simply scurried down the wall like a lizard, somehow never needing to fumble or grope for the next finger- or toehold despite the dark and the wet.
The five fugitives hurried away from the temple. Judging that the disguises were no longer useful, Anton and the Fire Knives stripped their outer garments away. Then a figure stepped out of a shadowy doorway.
Stedd gasped, and, hands darting for their weapons, Anton and the gang members pivoted to face the potential threat. “It’s all right!” said the mage in brown. “He’s on our side.”
“Indeed I am,” said the newcomer. Like his confederate, he was tall, slender, and had an oval of fair-complexioned face within his cowl, although in the dark, Anton couldn’t make out much more than that. “That is, if you’re helping to rescue the Chosen. My-”
“They’re not!” said Stedd. “This man”-he pointed-“is Anton Marivaldi, a pirate! He wants to sell me to Umberlee’s church on Pirate Isle!”
Anton wracked his brain for a lie that Stedd-and the mage and her friend-might conceivably believe. “That’s over, Stedd, I promise. The halfling here believes in Lathander, and he made me a better offer.”
“It’s true,” said Dalabrac, joining in without hesitation. “I’ve seen the Lord of the Morning in my dreams.”
Seemingly not certain what to think or say, Stedd looked from one of his would-be deceivers to the other.
“Look,” Anton said, “if we don’t keep moving, the rest of it won’t matter anyway.”
“That’s true,” said the pale stranger, “and my friend’s wizardry will protect you if it turns out that these three aren’t what they claim to be. Let’s-” He frowned. “Drat.”
For a moment, Anton couldn’t tell what the other man was reacting to. Then something leaped from the broken window and soared on lashing wings.
The flying creature glowed with an inner light, and thus, even though he had to squint, Anton could tell at once that the new threat wasn’t another silver woman; perhaps Randal Sweetgrove had given up on those. The male angel’s wings were snowy white, and his lithe, mostly naked body, golden-bronze. He carried a flanged mace in his hands.
“What is that thing?” asked the mage in brown.
“An astral deva,” the pale man replied.
“Hide us,” said Stedd, looking up at the wizard, “before it spots us!”
“I can’t,” she replied. “I used up all my invisibility spells. I didn’t expect to need so many.” She squeezed Stedd’s shoulder. “But it will be all right.”
“Indeed,” said the pale man. “Our wizard will stay behind long enough to kill the angel and then catch up with us.”
The wizard shot her associate a startled look that seemed to ask, You want me to fight this thing alone? But she didn’t express the thought aloud. Instead, she swallowed and answered, “Yes, Saer.”
“Now that that’s settled …” Dalabrac waved his hand to indicate the rain-spattered street before them.
Everyone but the mage started running. Red light gleamed from the curtains of rain and the drenched cobbles beneath them as she threw an initial spell at the oncoming astral deva. Meanwhile, Stedd scrambled to put himself beside Anton.
“You can’t just leave her!” said the boy.
Watch me, Anton thought.
“She can’t beat it by herself!” Stedd persisted.
Anton didn’t need the wizard to win, only delay the creature long enough to cover his and Stedd’s retreat. Still, in his way, the lad had raised a disquieting point.
Long ago, in a life he’d thrown away, Anton’s teachers had stressed that a combat wizard was often the most powerful weapon in a battle … right up until the moment a single cut or thrust silenced the spellcaster in mid-incantation. Thus, a sensible officer never left such assets unprotected.
The woman in brown had coped without anybody playing bodyguard when she and her allies were fighting the silver spirits, but it was plain from her reaction that the astral deva was significantly more powerful. What if, battling alone, she couldn’t even slow it down? What, then, would the remaining fugitives do without her?
Besides … besides …
Anton had another thought in his head, but it wouldn’t come clear, and he didn’t have time to pick at it. “Dalabrac!” he called, hoping by that one word to somehow convey that he was trusting the Fire Knives to follow through on the plan and wait for him. Even though he didn’t trust them in the slightest. Then he turned, snatched his blades out of their scabbards, and charged back toward the wizard.
The wizard hurled a pale flare of cold from her outstretched hands. The magic froze raindrops, which for a moment then clattered on the cobbles with a sharper note. But as far as Anton could discern, the astral deva endured the freezing blast without even flinching, let alone suffering genuine harm.
The winged man brandished his mace. Floating lengths of golden phosphorescence shimmered into being around the mage. Recognizing the spell, Anton sprinted even faster than before. He plowed into the wizard, and despite the impediment of the weapons in his hands, wrapped his arms around her and bulled her forward. The clumsy tackle sufficed to carry her clear of the blades of force just before they finished materializing and started spinning.
Anton and the wizard splashed down together in a puddle. He hastily disentangled himself from her and looked up to check on their foe. Who was seemingly no longer interested in that role. The astral deva had seen fit to strike a blow at the mage when advancing in the teeth of her harassment, but now, intent on pursuing Stedd, the spirit was simply flying over her head and Anton’s.