She galloped on, dealing with any enemy who lunged or blundered into her path, but seeking one particular target. Assuming that Nuldrevyn had accurately described the trap, there should be a spellcaster here on the south side of the tavern, either Master Moon himself or a Talendar retainer, and said wizard posed a greater threat than any one of the men-at-arms. She wanted to eliminate him before he could do any damage.
Finally she spotted the mage. To her disappointment, it wasn't Marance but a tubby little man with a bald pate and luxuriant side-whiskers, clad in a checkered mantle. It was, in fact, Dumas Vandell, a jolly, down-to-earth fellow with a limitless supply of jokes, riddles, and humorous poems and ditties. Over the years, Shamur had chatted with him at many a social function, and rather liked him. Now, in the heat of battle, she couldn't afford to regard him as anything but an enemy, and judging by the alacrity with which, upon catching sight of her, he began to weave a spell, he was indeed resolved to kill her if he could.
She wrenched her destrier's head around and charged, hoping to reach the wizard before he completed his incantation. She didn't make it. A shadowy bolt of force, so indistinct against the night that she would never have noticed if not for the sparkling motes and whining sound, leaped from Master VandelPs fingertips. She swayed to the side, and the magic crackled harmlessly past her.
An instant later, she closed with the wizard. He threw up his plump white hands to fend off her sword, but her cut smashed through his defense and gashed his hairless scalp. He collapsed, and, perched on her stamping, chuffing war-horse, she watched him until she was convinced he was unconscious, then rode on. For a second, she rather hoped she hadn't killed him, and then, when another guardsman tossed a javelin at her, she forgot all about him.
She had to cut down two more warriors before she reached the entrance to the Drum and Mirror, and by that time her children were wandering out the door to see what all the commotion was about. Tamlin, exquisitely dressed as ever, although for some reason, he had an ordinary axe, a tool, not a proper weapon, slung across his back, as well as a pewter goblet of wine in his hand. Talbot looked unkempt as usual. Thazienne, eyes bright with curiosity and excitement was clad in a suit of dark, close-fitting leather.
Shamur had rarely been so glad to see anyone, and judging from the way the children's faces lit up when she careened out of the gloom, they felt much the same. Now, however, was scarcely the time for sentiment.
As Thamalon galloped up behind her, she shouted, "Mount up! Hurry! You're in a trap!"
Feeling eager and slightly melancholy at the same time, Marance strode through the fish market, an open space equipped with tables and stalls. With him marched a band of Talendar men-at-arms and Bileworm, cloaked in the flesh of Ossian. In another minute or so, Thamalon's get would be dead, and then, the wizard supposed, his soul could at last enjoy a measure of peace. But what a shame that he'd had to kill his own nephew to accomplish his purpose, and in so doing, forfeit his brother's good opinion.
Perhaps one day, after the Uskevren were extinct and in consequence, the House of Talendar had grown more wealthy than ever before, Nuldrevyn would understand and forgive. In any case, Marance resolved that he wouldn't dwell on the matter, lest he cheat himself of his enjoyment of the slaughter to come.
Shouts, hoof-beats, and the ringing of blades sounded from the darkness ahead, jarring him from his reverie. He and his companions faltered in their advance.
"Those idiots attacked before us," Bileworm said.
"No," Marance replied. He pointed to a three-story cedar building still some distance ahead on the east side of the bridge. "That's the Drum and Mirror, and no one's fighting there yet. Someone has attacked our men."
"Should we run and help our lads?" asked one of Nul-drevyn's sergeants.
The warrior had actually been addressing Bileworm, or, as he imagined, Ossian, but it was Marance who answered. "Not yet."
After positioning his men and disposing of the Scepters in their guardhouses, Marance had elected to wait at the north end of the bridge, where it was absolutely impossible that the Uskevren would catch sight of him. Then, as midnight approached, he had created a magical implement that would enable him to see when his prey rode onto the span, and subsequently to survey the battlefield at need.
Though no one could see it, that small, spherical tool was floating above him now, following him about like a faithful dog. He focused his thoughts on it, and, abruptly, he was gazing down at his henchmen and himself, peering through the invisible orb instead of the eyes in his skull.
He sent the magical eye speeding along the bridge until he caught sight of the riders who had engaged his men. So far, it appeared there were only two attackers, but, mounted on destriers and fighting superbly, they were wreaking havoc even so.
As one of the newcomers cut down Master Vandell, Marance sent the eye winging closer, then twitched in amazement. Though the riders had made some small effort to disguise themselves, he recognized them, but how was it possible?
Bileworm sensed his master's stupefaction. "What is it?" he asked. "What do you see?"
"Thamalon and Shamur," Marance replied. He heard the quaver in his voice, felt himself shaking, and struggled to calm himself. "They evidently survived the demolition of the ruined fortress."
"How?" the spirit asked.
"I don't know," Marance replied, transferring his power of sight back into the eyes he had been born with, "anymore than I comprehend how they knew to come here to rescue their offspring. But it scarcely matters, does it? What does is killing the lot of them together." He gestured to one of the warriors, a burly fellow with a black mustache and a red scarf knotted around his brow. "Run to the north end of the bridge and bring up the rest of the men. Everyone else, attack."
The guards trotted forward. Marance turned to Bile-worm. "You, too."
The familiar arched an eyebrow. "Me?"
"Yes. The soldiers may fight better with one of their patrons in the thick of the fray."
"Master, I'd really rather not."
"Don't be such a coward. Even wearing a corporeal body, you're all but invulnerable to any real harm."
"Still…"
Rage flared up inside Marance, and his body clenched with the effort to contain it, though he knew it wasn't truly his impudent servant who had so roused his ire, but rather these maddening Uskevren who had somehow frustrated his attempts to slay them time after time after tune.
"You're my slave, and you will obey me," he snapped. "Go."
Bileworm sighed, drew Ossian's golden-hilted long sword, and scurried forward. He glanced back once or twice in the hope that his master would relent, but by that time Marance was already weaving magic, a candle held high in one hand and his staff in the other. Magenta sparks danced on the black, polished wood, and the cold air reeked of myrrh.
As Tamlin, Talbot, and Thazienne swung themselves onto their horses-destriers, Shamur noted approvingly, not palfreys, her children hadn't ridden out into the night completely unprepared for trouble-warriors in mufti came trotting down from the north. More of Marance's henchmen, joining the battle as expected.
Drawing her long sword, Tazi grinned at the approaching force. "Let's charge them," she said.
The wild, reckless part of Shamur's nature cried out in assent, but the portion that had loved and protected these children since their births demurred. "Not a wise idea," she said. "The guards will be receiving conjured reinforcements any second."
"All the more reason to punch through them now," Tazi said, "get within sword range of the masked wizard, and-"