Anton grinned. He’d at least hurt his adversary. He just couldn’t tell how much.
Hoping to land a cut to his torso, he lunged again. But the spirit flowed backward like a wave sweeping across the surface of the sea, and the attack fell short. The entity then riposted with a horizontal swipe.
Thanks to his aggressiveness, Anton was in too close to defend by retreating. He pivoted and slashed.
If his first attack had hurt the spirit, then the stop cut had likely done the same. But the creature’s arm kept spinning at him anyway, and as it did, it expanded. A sheet of water like the sort of wave that swept mariners overboard during a tempest bashed him from head to toe.
The impact was hard enough to bruise and bloody him. It also knocked Anton off balance and left him teetering on one foot, and only part of that foot still atop a steppingstone.
In a normal battle, falling into the pool might not be disastrous. It shouldn’t be all that deep if it had steppingstones sticking up out of it. But if, as Anton sensed, all the water was in some sense his opponent, it seemed like a bad idea to end up submerged in it to the knees or the breastbone. Wrenching himself sideways, he regained stability.
As soon as he did, he hurled himself forward. Once again, the water spirit flowed backward. But it didn’t react as quickly as it had before, and the saber caught it across what, in a man, would be the stomach.
Losing cohesion, the whole entity plunged toward the surface of the pool. Only for a heartbeat, though, and then the liquid mass of it surged up and put on form once more.
At the same time, someone shouted, “There he is!”
The voice came from behind Anton, where the sanctuary stood.
But when it startled him into glancing around at something besides the water spirit, he saw that a dozen of Cindermoon’s pilgrim hunters had assembled at the other end of the chain of steppingstones as well.
Sighing, he wished they’d let him finish his duel with the water spirit, just so he’d know if he really could have won. But he supposed he couldn’t expect them to share his curiosity.
Hoping the elemental spirit wouldn’t instantly smash and drown him, he lowered his saber and turned to face the druids and rangers in front of the temple. “I surrender,” he said.
“Is he allowed to do that?” a young druid asked.
“Cindermoon said to kill him,” an older one replied, whereupon the woodsmen around him drew back their bows. No doubt, on the other shore, other archers were doing the same.
And just like that, plunging into the pool became the only option. In the highly unlikely event that the ploy enabled Anton to dodge flights of arrows while the spirit somehow failed to kill him, either, he’d swim to the top of one of the waterfalls and see if he could survive a ride bouncing from rock to rock all the way to the bottom.
He flexed his knees, and then a female voice cried, “Stop!” And everyone did. It was, after all, a voice servants of the Forest Father were accustomed to obeying.
Cindermoon strode from the temple. She glowed from head to toe with green phosphorescence, presumably to make it easier for her subordinates to orient on her.
Stedd, Ashenford, Umara, and Shinthala trailed along behind her. The Red Wizard was moving stiffly. The snowy-haired druidess had a bloody leg and hobbled with the aid of a staff.
Clearly, Anton’s confederates hadn’t had an easy time of it. But their scheme must have worked.
Anton shot Stedd a grin, but the boy didn’t return it. Rather, his mouth tightened.
All right, Anton thought, we might as well find out to what extent your worries are justified. He inclined his head to the shining elf. “Lady Cindermoon.”
“Please, call me Shadowmoon,” she replied.
Anton smiled. “With pleasure.”
The hierophant didn’t return his smile, either. “Anton Marivaldi, the Assembly of Stars itself long ago judged you a traitor and condemned you to death.”
“Yes, and started a fashion. In the years since, a number of places have sentenced me to death in absentia. Which is all right. I couldn’t have offered much of a defense had I been present.”
“Nonsense!” Umara snapped. “Tell these people you weren’t privy to the real traitor’s plans! You had no idea the talismans you helped smuggle could be used to summon a balor!”
Anton sheathed the saber and walked slowly back toward the Red Wizard and the four Chosen. “Would that explanation win me leniency in a Thayan court?” he asked. “Would it soften your heart if demons had butchered your loved ones?”
“Whatever happened years ago,” said Stedd, “you brought me here to help Turmish. You helped save Lady Shadowmoon and stop the Emerald Enclave from murdering people.” He looked up at the hierophant. “That has to be worth something!”
The elf frowned. “It is, Chosen, and I don’t desire your friend’s death. How could I when he just risked his life on my behalf? But the enclave can’t simply flout the judgment of the Assembly of Stars, certainly not in a matter as serious as this. Anton Marivaldi must answer for the malfeasance that resulted in the balor and all the piracy against Turmishan vessels in the years since.”
Stedd shook his head. “It isn’t fair!”
“You know better,” Anton said. “So set it aside and concentrate on finishing Lathander’s business.”
Clearly pondering, Shadowmoon bowed her head and toyed with one of the carved wooden buttons running down the front of her gown. Finally, she said, “While we can’t overturn the assembly’s sentence, I don’t see that we’re obligated to carry it out here and now. I recommend that when the time is right, we escort Anton Marivaldi to Alaghon and turn him over to the assembly. He can plead for mercy, and I’ll speak on his behalf.” She looked to Ashenford and Shinthala. “Does that meet with your approval?”
“Yes,” the half-elf replied.
“I agree, too,” Shinthala said.
Shadowmoon turned back to Anton. “You heard the plan,” she said. “Will you cooperate? Will you swear to remain with us for now and surrender yourself to the assembly when we command it?”
“I swear it on my honor,” Anton said.
Shadowmoon inclined her head. “Then we’ll treat you like a guest and not a prisoner. And with that decided, we need to take up the greater matter before us: how to feed the multitude who are starving.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The lean-to leaked. Annoyed by the trickling and dripping, Umara tried to rearrange the weave of branches over her head and only succeeded in making matters worse. “The Black Hand take it,” she growled.
Lying beside her, Anton chuckled. “You’d think rangers could build a better shelter.”
“I don’t suppose they could have, really. Not one that this rain couldn’t find its way through. When I get back to Thay, I’m never going out in foul weather again.”
“We could still watch the ceremony from inside the sanctuary. The rain hasn’t worked its way through that roof.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to try to make out what’s happening from the other side of the pool. I want to be up close.”
It surprised her to learn that the Chosen’s ritual wouldn’t take place inside the temple. But as Ashenford explained, the entire plateau was sacred to the Oakfather, whereas only the easternmost patch of land could be considered holy to the Morninglord. Thus, it made sense to perform the rite where the petitioners would find it easiest to draw power from both gods.
There were plenty of them to do the drawing, too. After Shadowmoon canceled the massacre of the scar pilgrims, she’d dismissed most of the rangers and other warriors from her little army. But the Elder Circle had summoned additional druids to gather in their place, along with a miscellany of nature spirits and forest creatures. Sprites the size of mice flitted on dragonfly wings, and treants towered over everyone else, remarkably easy to mistake for actual trees with their gnarled, asymmetrical bodies, crowns of leafy branches, and bark-like skin, shifting ponderously when they moved at all.