With her back against the door, Magiere spotted the wooden bar. She grabbed it and slammed it down in the braces, locking them all inside.
Leesil pulled one punching blade and held his empty hand out toward Darmouth. "Get back."
The two Anmaglahk shifted toward the tyrant along the outsides of the stone coffins. One might get to Darmouth the moment Leesil committed to going after the other. And behind him was Magiere.
He knew how strong she was in her dhampir state, but he was afraid it wouldn't be enough in close quarters against one of the elves. She needed more room than he did to wield her blade.
Leesil took in the lay of the room. To the left and right were archways between plain and stout stone columns. He'd seen the two blocked-up doors outside, and there had once been three separate rooms here. The spaces beyond the archways were dark, as the braziers upon the columns spilled most of their light into the center space holding the coffins. Perhaps Darmouth's hunger to legitimize his rulership extended to this room, where he would lay to rest the dead who would mark his descendants as true kings.
The far back wall was dimly lit, and Leesil saw a series of black pockets, row upon row of stone cubbies. Each one contained something the brazier light couldn't quite reveal.
Darmouth remained poised, watching everyone in the room. Then his gaze settled on Leesil.
Leesil went hollow inside when he saw any sign of fear fade from the man's eyes.
Darmouth gripped the stout hilts of both war daggers on his belt, and pulled the long blades from their sheaths.
"Come on, boy," he said. "I'll send you to your mother!"
Leesil's thoughts ground to a halt in confusion. His mother was with her people. What did Darmouth mean?
The warlord's weapons were as long as his forearms, the blades' bases wider than a hand's palm. Their edges ran straight to pointed tips, with a tapered ridge along the middle of each blade to reinforce its strength.
Darmouth was older now. Leesil couldn't see the man holding his own against one Anmaglahk in close quarters, even in his prime, let alone two. Leesil's panic rose as he realized Darmouth was now ready to die… just to kill him.
Both elves watched Leesil out of the corners of their eyes, but their prime attention remained upon their target. Leesil couldn't see their mouths, but the tall and solid one had strands of silver hair hanging down his forehead from under his cowl. There were long scars around one of his eyes.
"Stand aside," he said to Leesil and pointed at Darmouth. "This one's life is forfeit, and you, of all who breathe, should have no reason to save him."
His manner was different from Sgaile, the Anmaglahk whom Leesil had encountered in the city of Bela. This one was cold but polite, as if making a request and waiting to hear Leesil's reply. The tall elf spoke in perfect Belaskian with his lilting accent. His words struck Leesil.
This one knew him-knew at least who he was-knew some small part of his life enslaved to the tyrant.
"I can't," Leesil answered, with a fleeting hope that reason might work. "Kill him, and the people here will suffer more in the following conflict than they suffer under his rule."
The elder one spoke quick Elvish words to his companion and then fell silent. Leesil knew that the time for talk had ended. Both elves ducked through the archways into the dark spaces beyond.
They were trying to close in on Darmouth from both sides.
Magiere raced by Leesil on his right, heading after the elder Anmaglahk, and Leesil almost cried out. He didn't want her facing the one so obviously the superior. The younger elf lunged at Darmouth from the far archway on the left, and Leesil had no choice but to run to the tyrant's
Magiere slashed at the elder elf, hoping to turn him aside, to block him from Darmouth.
He did turn, but only for an instant. As her blade dropped low, he leaped upward.
His foot touched halfway up the column. One fist clenching a stiletto braced against the ceiling.
Magiere passed under him in her rush and heard him drop down behind her. She couldn't turn quickly enough and blindly swung the falchion back. It clanged against the stone column as she finished her pivot.
She caught only a glimpse as he ducked through the previous archway into the room's center section. Magiere twisted back the other way and stepped through the archway to get between the elf and Darmouth.
She knew he'd try to break inside her guard with his stilettos. She knew he would underestimate her strength.
This wasn't an undead she fought, but if she didn't kill him, he would kill her. Leesil would be alone against two of the Anmaglahk. More than he could face himself or to save Darmouth.
Rage fed her strength and speed, and she needed both to keep up. The tall elf charged her from between the columns and the nearest stone coffin.
Magiere spun the falchion low, cutting upward in the narrow space. As she'd hoped, he leaped, stepping off the coffin to plant his other foot sideways at the column's top. He twisted aside as her blade passed before his face. Before he could come down on her, Magiere reversed her swing downward.
The falchion's tip sliced through his cloak's shoulder and his vestment, and she felt it go deeper and drag for an instant.
She spun around, following with a level swing across the coffin's top where he had to land. But he wasn't there.
Pain pierced through her left shoulder.
From the corner of Magiere's eye, she saw a dark hand wrapped around a stiletto hilt. Half its blade length was buried through her hauberk. He had ducked under the archway, landing around the column, and stabbed her before she'd spotted him.
Magiere flicked the falchion across at his arm. When he jerked his blade out and stepped away into plain sight, she threw herself into him. More pain flooded her left shoulder as she struck his chest, and they both collided into the next column.
Magiere rolled away, stumbling, and brought the falchion up again. A flash of gray passed in the dark beyond the archways. She lunged along the coffin's side and set herself in front of the next opening before he could reenter the room's center section.
How could she fight him if she couldn't keep him in sight? Her shoulder hurt but hunger slowly masked the pain. Somewhere behind her, steel scraped on stone, but she didn't dare take her eyes from her opponent to look for Leesil.
In the dark beyond the archway, she saw the elf face her in a half crouch. A dark stain was spreading through his tunic around a slash in the fabric over his collarbone. She had wounded him.
Magiere's jaws ached under the shift of her teeth. When she separated her lips to relieve the pressure, a flash of uncertainty passed across the elf's eyes.
"Dead thing!" he whispered.
He had seen her teeth, her eyes-both surrounded by her pale skin.
"No," Magiere answered with effort, "much worse."
He moved toward her, slower than before. As she raised the falchion to block his slash with one stiletto, he leaned back and kicked up. His boot caught her sword hand.
The falchion tore from Magiere's grip. Before it hit the floor, his foot came down and he staggered slightly. Blood loss or pain had made him falter.
Magiere jerked the dagger from her belt and made a lunging slash at his face. Like smoke in the dark, he simply wasn't there when the blade passed. Before she reversed her swing to follow, he struck.
His stiletto slipped inside her hauberk's right armhole.
She felt its slide, cutting her instead of piercing her chest. The pain was still sharp enough to make her buckle, and she dropped to one knee, losing hold of the dagger.
The hunger inside of her made his movements suddenly appear slow. She lashed out with her left fist into his midsection.