SylverMoon Chronicles: SylverMoon Chronicles, #3

Continuations

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A very dangerous dozen is coming your way, bringing with them shadows of chronicles before.  They are indeed used blades... but they have yet to lose their edge!

So, be it the one you fear from pages gone by, or a tale that has found a place in your heart, look upon these familiar shadows and come to know a new light of the SylverMoon!

In the Wake of Shadows

Continuation of:

Hero of Junn-Gladeer (Vol. I) &

Bane of the WarloKs (Vol. II)

(Fantasy Serial)

by Reiter

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Fear and family, it seems, can make people do some fairly strange things, Efam said softly, speaking just above a whisper. Seated on the floor of the great casting chamber, his back leaning against the cold, black wall, the young NoblE-AcrobaT massaged his hands as he looked around the room and the hall beyond.

Even with the smoke and settling dust, Efam felt as if he could blink his blue-green eyes and see the enormous room the way it had appeared when he first entered into it, less than one PahT ago. It was still dimly lit and dreary by comparison to most of the places he had visited in his travels with his good friend and Master, the SorceroR Jharsen. But then again, few casting chambers were places of décor and artistic expression. However, the red colors on the wall, before steel had cleared scabbard, had been paint, not blood. The black, too, had been placed carefully on the floors and walls. Now swirls of gray and white had been forced to join the shadowy hues, as burn marks were seen in every direction and in various capacities.

Down the long corridor was another large room which looked to be, by design, a meeting chamber of some sort. Two of the walls were mostly large windows which allowed a gracious sight of the valley below. The DoaH Star had gone from yellow to burnt orange as it began its descent beyond the horizon, painting the spots of clouds as they moved ever so slowly through a gray sky. It would be dark soon. At least then the light of the DoaH would match the hue which permeated throughout the chamber... throughout the entire castle!

They have stolen my Master’s Light, Efam whispered as he tried to work the tension out of his hands. They have taken his Tharra, he muttered, shaking his head. But they failed to kill him! They failed to end Jharsen. Don’t they know what forged hell they have called down?

He stood up from the floor and added his own huffing breaths to the moans which had yet to pause or lessen. The chorus of death had been per-formed in the hall and, as always, the audience had been captivated; drawn into its embrace and forced to sing along.

What had started as a sorrowful solo, the WarloK that Jharsen had manipulated into leading himself, Tharra and Efam to this forbidden place, soon became an ominous choir of doom, destruction, mayhem and agony. The WarloKs, along with their various entourages, fell to sure steel, striking spells and swiftly-applied skill. The three of them had pushed on, wailing into the masses that had dared to believe that Jharsen, Tharra and Efam had fallen to the efforts of the assembled body of evil.

The speed with which the trio had moved had combined with the threads of confusion, shock and disbelief. The resultant tapestry had blinded many, keeping them from clear and conscious thought. Such had been the aim of Jharsen’s strategies. And to aid in securing that objective, Jharsen had prepared four crystal clusters. On four separate occasions he applied his skill and sword to the cause of the attack only to pause, allowing Tharra with her silver Bi-Blade and Efam with his pair of Ashari Dueling Swords to continue to press the advantage. He had withdrawn a stride, reached into his shoulder bag, and thrown one of the clusters, causing it to break against the floor.

As the polished rock shattered, a burst of light flashed brightly, blinding anyone in the immediate vicinity. Out of the light burst strode another threesome, appearing in every way like Tharra, Efam and Jharsen as they would begin their attack. But the trios were simply enchanted shadows, striking only with the power which also had been placed inside the cluster. It was released in the form of streaking sparks of light, and shards of the cluster hurled at speeds great enough to rend skin and soft armours. This, of course, made the thrusting hands of the casters and the swinging swords of the Sword Dancer seem incredibly real, and the enemy thought they were being attacked on several different fronts.

The shadow forms had been created to do two things: strike in accordance with the energy burst and then maneuver the enemy into a situation where they would do harm to each other. It had been intended to be a distraction, a means of confusing the enemy and taking advantage of their momentary ineptitude. Perhaps Jharsen had considered the arrival of panic, but it seemed to be too great a hope for Efam... until he looked upon the frenzy as cohort cut into cohort and spells were dispersed without the slightest regard for anyone, aside from the caster who was casting.

"And so it becomes clear, Efam had thought. At last, even to me! So, WarloKs can know fear too, eh?" Forced to come face to face with the reported Bane of their kind, the casters shed their sentiments toward the Coven. The Ashari blades had drunk their fill of WarloK blood, and Jharsen had soon begun enchanting the bricks of the walls, setting them to hurl themselves at the masters and mistresses of the estate.

Tharra had not been without her measure of input and effect. As she fought, the gifted SpellCasteR had collected the overage of each spell cast by the members of the Coven, combining them. Each amount was collected and folded into the first. It had started off as small slivers of black light, but three more siphoning grasps had caused it to burst alive into a burning red-orange ball of raw destructive force. She made four more efforts, failing only in the last measure, as she could no longer hold the raging power and maintain her fighting form. But instead of splitting the mass into smaller bolts and hurling them, Tharra had used the massive energy cloud to fuel a spell she had crafted. She had taken a Seeker Spell and attuned it to find wielders of OmnahtI who had pledged themselves to the death of Jharsen. Each ghost-like serpent was given a portion of the energy mass left over after the crafting of the incantation. Tharra staggered back as she released a score of Seekers and they streaked in all directions, passing through the WarloKs and their apprentices. The math had been simple to follow: twenty Seekers meant a potential twenty targets. However, the SpellWeaveR had under-estimated the power she had collected, and the Seekers flowed through one target, streaking their way to a second, a third and sometimes a fourth! What had been intended to give the three of them some fighting and casting room had become the most telling blow in the attack. The Ekanu and the Ashari fighting swords had made quick work of the aides of the falling WarloKs. They fell like rain before the storm of edged steel.

Jharsen and Efam were quite used to fighting side-by-side and had worked out a silent system whereupon they would exchange opponents or change direction. In retrospect, Efam thought it should have been increased into a mixture of three combatants instead of two. This was only, however, the benefit of hindsight. As Master and Efam had made short work of the muscle, the Mistress of the Coven and her consort, who had called her Mother more than once, had also acted in concert, seeing to their escape as they captured Tharra at the same time. When the portal had closed, all Jharsen could hear was Tharra screaming that she had been taken to Daemonshire!

What in all the worlds is Daemonshire? Efam had asked as Jharsen pounded his fists against the wall.

It is the Sal-Ban word for MoGo, Efam, Jharsen had eventually replied. They have taken my Tharra to the Realm of Demons! The young SorceroR’s hands had come away from the wall and he had slowly eased his forehead forward onto the same pounded surface, closing his eyes against the pain of what had just happened. As Efam had stumbled and stammered for the right words, Jharsen’s eyes opened and he turned away from the closed portal. Looking over his shoulder, he had directed Efam to remain in the casting chamber. One of us will need to remain here to receive them, he had spoken in a very soft tone before taking his leave of the enlarged black-walled cavity.

Efam was barely given a SuPahT to ponder who ‘them’ might have been. With his Master just out of earshot, winds started to blow and swirl inside the casting chamber. Moments later he witnessed the entrances of two parties. The first party to arrive was Moroshar Neasstar, an Ashari KnighT, who came with his squire that looked to be more of an ArcheR than anything else, and a SpellCasteR of obvious power and age. The young swordsman had never seen Tharra’s mother, but seeing her oldest sibling once more told him that the children must favor their mother. Tharra looked just like her brother, save for the given differences of his masculinity which were quite pronounced even though the Ashari build seldom displayed those attributes.

The second group consisted of several bodies, but only one of them walked like a member of the Q’uor-Kwyn. Eight were winged mounts of various breeds, and one was a slender male Ashari who walked in front of the birds.

Efam was relieved to see Tharra’s father, and Jharsen’s mentor, Gwathyn Neasstar; he looked as if he had been crying and was struggling not to reengage in the display of emotion. Efam was quick to tell the Arch Mage that when he last looked upon Tharra, she was alive and being taken to Daemonshire. Gwathyn barely heard a word, locking is eyes on the young Champion of Jharsen. Seeing the truth of his words, he sighed and a wave of relief, albeit temporary, washed over Tharra’s father and brother. They now had an explanation as to why they could no longer sense her.

Daemonshire, Moroshar stated as he sighed. She may as well be lost!

Moroshar! Gwathyn scolded.

What words can you say to change the truth, Father?! the young KnighT barked. Isn’t it true that no MajiK can force an entrance into the realm of MoGo? And that is to say nothing of how the flow of MannA is retarded there.

Then I suppose we will be without you when we go, Jharsen said as he returned to the chamber, followed by four individuals wearing tattered rags, and two who looked as if they had just come from the store where their clothes had been purchased. Would you mind so much then to stand guard and ensure we have a safe haven to which we will return?

How dare you?! Moroshar snapped. Simply because I am not willing to throw myself into death-

No one is asking you to throw yourself anywhere, Jharsen interrupted in a matter-of-fact tone. I accept the responsibility of this moment, and retrieving Tharra is my task!

Careful, my son, Gwathyn warned with a very gentle tone to his voice. You’re starting to sound Terran again. It was clear that Jharsen wanted to argue with the old Sal-Ban Ashari, but he held too much respect and love for him. "If you think Tharra would stand anywhere but by your side, then I have not taught you well enough of the subject of Awareness.

That is why she asked me to take you into... Gwathyn trailed off after his eyes flared for a brief moment. Moroshar’s chin fell to his chest and he started shaking his head.

She asked you to take me into what? Jharsen asked as he stepped closer to his teacher. As his mind searched for possible answers, the SorceroR read the man who had ushered him through the gates of the fantastic and came to several conclusions. Only one of those could have made Gwathyn fall silent in mid-sentence.

The Blood Embrace?! he guessed and Gwathyn’s orange eyes closed in response. Mother of Fate! Jharsen exclaimed as he stepped back. When?

It was during the feast we had a Tide before Tharra’s declaration, Gwathyn explained. The sacred blood was added to the woodfork wine.

And here I thought something had been put into my bathing waters, Jharsen said in realization. No wonder my hair started growing faster.

I had some of that wine, Efam said, half-choked.

Of course you did, Jharsen replied. It is considered especially sweet by the Terran palate.

And what is the bloody embrace?! Efam asked, rubbing his neck.

Be at ease, my brother, Jharsen said, waving off Efam’s mounting fear. We simply age like the Sal-Ban now.

And how long do they live?! Efam barked, beginning to lose his demeanor.

Only about 2,000 YahrtoN compared the Terran 200, Jharsen advised. Efam started to speak in protest, but his mind soon caught up with the math. His only confusion then was why Jharsen seemed to be angered by the revelation. Oh yes, the downside, Jharsen anticipated. There is only one: a name of good standing order must take claim for the lives that have been added to the Scarlet Keep. Simply put... everything we do reflects on the house Neasstar.

And why is that a bad thing? the young Champion asked.

Technically speaking, Efam, you and I are a Sal-Ban that cannot fly! Aaahhh, old man, I cannot believe you did this!

It was a daughter’s request to her father, Gwathyn defended his position. "And I saw no reason to deny it.

Besides, you are one to talk about the keeping of secrets... son!

Son? Efam repeated, taking issue with the tone that had been used.

The time had not yet presented itself, Jharsen quickly explained. He then looked to Efam and sighed. He thought for a moment, trying to find the right words. He knew that delivery would not keep him from righteous retribution. Not all nuptials are ceremonious, my friend.

Nuptials?! Efam and Moroshar shouted together. They looked at each other and quickly identified they had both been kept in the dark.

You married my sister? Moroshar asked.

You married his sister?! Efam pressed.

Yes... to both, Jharsen replied. But we have more pressing issues here. Jharsen said, walking back to the four figures that had entered the chamber with him. I took it upon myself to look in the dungeons of this estate, considering that an enemy of our enemy might just be our ally. Of the scores I found, these four actually want to lend their skills in the retrieval of my Light.

"Stop right there, brother, Moroshar spoke. I can already see where this is going, but the destination has not changed! You are a gifted SorceroR; greater than any I have ever seen, despite the differences or our peoples."

Thank you.

Not even your sorcery can grant you access to MoGo!

You’re right, Jharsen said quickly, robbing Moroshar of the wind to argue. "Not direct access, at any rate.

Correct me if I am wrong, my teacher, Jharsen started.

Oh, I will, Gwathyn quickly added.

Can any realm deny access from the Realm Astral?

No, Gwathyn said with a very proud smile. A point I had not considered. Gwathyn then turned to the four strangers; the hope in his eyes was quite clear for all to see. I think presentations are in order.

Jharsen’s eyes had been locked on Moroshar and as he saw the KnighT’s yellow eyes drop in consideration, Jharsen slapped the Ashari on the shoulder. "Indeed they are, Master.

First we have the fair Edala, a TribesMan whose bond with the spirits may be of great service to us. The female K’Dano bowed her head in deep respect for those around her. Head nods made a silent response.

Next we have Pran, a young but very gifted Toneiron swordsman.

And how do we know he is gifted? Efam asked.

You didn’t see how the WarloKs had him bound, Jharsen added.

Welcome aboard, then, Efam said, offering his hand to the man. Jharsen kept from smiling as he read his Champion’s intentions. As the two locked forearms, Efam smiled and nodded. It was an old swordman’s trick: measuring the ability of a fighter by the development of their forearms. Efam nodded to Jharsen and the SorceroR continued with his introductions.

T’Dalvosonn, Jharsen called out. He is a Faldri with considerable knowledge of demons and their Realm. It was his words that gave me the idea of going through the Realm Astral.

An unintended outcome to our exchange, the white-haired Faldri shared, blinking eyes which were of a solid royal purple hue with no pupils. Still, it is a worthwhile consideration. It is both surprisingly plausible and reasonably unexpected. His eyebrows tightened as he tugged at his pointed earlobes.

You’ll be doing most of the talking to him, right, Master? Efam asked, causing Gwathyn and Moroshar to snicker. Jharsen quickly moved to the fourth man. He was a very healthy red-headed individual with a very content smile on his face.

And our fourth is a PriesT of Glami. Allow me to introduce the Disciple Beetros.

This Glami must be a Terran deity of the harvest, Moroshar whispered to his father who covered his smile and choked laughter but nodded in agreement.

Then it is providence, Gwathyn declared, looking at the winged mounts. Eight birds are here for eight riders.

Has the stress of having your daughter taken robbed you of your senses, Father? Moroshar asked. I count-

It is as Jharsen said; I will remain here and protect the door into the Realm Astral. And your accompanying SpellCasteR will hold the aperture from there to MoGo. That leaves eight, son.

Perhaps it is my nerves that are in need of reexamination, Moroshar concluded. To even raise argument to you.

A trait you have picked up from your mother, Gwathyn admitted. "And one I hope you keep. If you can question your own father, you can challenge anything! Let us hope that includes the stuff of MoGo.

It does, Father, Moroshar assured. And with my squire, Saar Woodthorne at my side, we shall strike a blow the demons will not soon forget!

You will need the proper weapons to strike such a blow, my son, Gwathyn said as he lifted his hands over his head. His eyes glowed white for a brief moment as the north wall of the chamber faded from sight and returned adorned with weapons and armour racks. Weapons enchanted with MannA will be weaker in MoGo. These are Gwearlyn-forged devices, blessed only with their endless skill and few kisses of ElemahntiA and EnerJa.

That’s quite a collection! Efam said in shock.

When you have seen over 1,400 YahrtoN, dearest Efam, your collection will also be considerable, I am sure.

"I adore the way you can say that to a man who is not long beyond fourteen YahrtoN!" the young swordsman quipped.

The Age of Mahn is ten, is it not?! Gwathyn asked. Efam nodded and the elderly Arch Mage put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. "It is not the age of life that matters, young one. It is the life within the age! You were besting full grown men with the blade before you were discharged from the tutelage of my cousin.

I look around this room and there are many with signs of aging about their faces and you stand over them all! Keep to your skill and your spirit. Let time see to itself.

Each took their turn choosing weapons and armour. Jharsen made it a point to go last. He was not surprised to see an Ekanu Cane among the treasures. He took it with a bright smile on his face, but quickly turned to assure his father-in-law that it would be returned and as quickly as he could afford. The eight took to their mounts, and Efam took the SpellCasteR with him as he would only need to ride double for a short term. Gwathyn started casting and while Jharsen, Moroshar, and Efam already knew and would never forget, the others in the room became acquainted with why the Lord of the Neasstar Clan was an Arch Mage. Thunder rolled through the chamber, exploding in pockets of light which combined into a single orb that spun and burrowed its way through the fabric of the dimension, cutting its way into the Realm Astral.

We fly! Moroshar commanded, helping the Ashari WiZarD up and into the saddle. He then jumped up and kicked the sides of the BloodWing, urging his mount to take to the air. He cried out as it jumped from the ground and began flapping his wings. Moroshar’s squire nimbly jumped and landed very softly on the back of an unclaimed BloodWing. Feeling the urgency of her rider, the large bird started to fly without making a sound.

Hmmm, Jharsen muttered, throwing his leg over Vakreem, the first born son of the BloodWing he had ridden when he and Efam took their leave of Junn-Gladeer. Jharsen knew very well what his father-in-law was saying by giving him this particular mount. Tharra had been there the DoaH he had hatched, and was also Vakreem’s first rider. The two had grown close over time, and if any of the BloodWings could find her scent, it would be Vakreem. Though he would not be my choice for the task, Moroshar has taken the point. Let us see to it that he does not fly alone for too long.

Right behind you, Master, Efam notified and the two were quickly above the ground of the enormous casting chamber. Efam looked to see how Pran fared with his mount, while Jharsen kept a gaze upon the red-headed PriesT and his abundant girth. He felt for the winged mount, but it did not look as if the BloodWing had trouble managing the mass.

Jharsen smiled when he saw Moroshar turn away from the forming aperture. There was enough of an opening for his BloodWing to fly through, but the KnighT wanted more speed! He did not know what surprises awaited them in the Realm Astral, but he did not want to make it easy for the slow-moving ones to take advantage. Once around the casting chamber, the BloodWings all gaining in their speed of flight, and Moroshar looked to the ground; to his father who had completed his castings.

Now! Gwathyn shouted. Call my name when you wish to return.

Stay thee well and strong, my father! Moroshar shouted as he turned his BloodWing to the dimensional doorway.

As well as I can stay, my son, Gwathyn muttered as he lowered his head. For you take my strength and hope with thee! Wise Lynneas, curse me for a fool if I have wagered one child to save another... only to lose them both!

Moroshar flexed his shoulders and stretched his neck. He was grateful for all of the treasures his father had ever presented to him, but to take new armour and weapons into battle without having tried them was a fool’s errand. He looked back on those who flew in his wake and shook his head.

"New armour, new weapons, and new allies, he thought. Fear and family can make one do very strange things!"

Efam gasped as he looked around what seemed to be an endless sky with no ground in sight. The sky was a soft-hued white with black stars. Various colored pockets of gas rolled all around them, giving off sparks of lightning when they passed close by one another.

We have all come through, the old SpellCasteR advised as he took a firm hold of Efam’s shoulders. It is time for me to conjure now.

To your task then, old one, Moroshar commanded. The old Sal-Ban WiZarD pushed up and flew away from the winged mount. Jharsen’s hand quickly went into his shoulder bag. Efam wanted to say something, but thought better of any possible retort.

Rest yourself upon this! Jharsen commanded as his hand came away from his bag. He held a small golden disc that he hurled toward the old Ashari. When the WiZarD touched booted foot upon the disc, it had grown in size, stretching to a three-meter radius.

Many thanks, Jharsen, the aged caster said before he closed his eyes and started his conjuring. Moroshar took a path around the WiZarD in hopes of maintaining the speed the BloodWings had reached.

Ready yourselves, Moroshar directed. "Old friends and new, we no longer are friends of occasion; but brothers of the blood of Fate! For one stride or another has brought us all to this path at this time. I curse none of those strides, or those who have taken them. But know that a blade stands for you now, and there be a soul behind that blade! Take heart, and let the numbers of those fools who cross us wrongly begin to count and multiply.

For justice, my kindred, Moroshar shouted. The Realm Astral seemed to perceive his emotion, as three red clouds burst into being around the casting Ashari and moved into the path of light created by his spell. For Tharra!

Master, did you see that? Efam asked.

Aye, my brother, I did! Jharsen replied, his eyes flaring bright as discovery swept through his mind. And if the Realm Astral can devote its energies, who am I to deny this effort? Vakreem, old boy, stay with Efam. The BloodWing cried out in response and took up a position flying behind Efam’s winged mount. The youth from Junn-Gladeer released a bittersweet sigh. He wanted to be in front of his master, but now he was not in a position to catch Jharsen should he weaken and fall.

"Rilo nelbixo tirs LaxxA!" Jharsen commanded, his voice echoing throughout the area. Bronze streams of MannA shot from his hands and struck the edges of the forming aperture. The framework changed from a glowing white light to a glistening black. It shimmered as if it had stars within it, coursing through the frame.

Show us the one we seek! Jharsen commanded, struggling to keep his voice sounding strong as he closed his eyes and grasped the saddle horn. Show us the instance!

By the dragyn’s eyes! Moroshar exclaimed as he looked into the aperture. It shifted through colors before an image appeared in the center of it. In the image, three hominid bodies entered the Realm of MoGo through a doorway much like the one they now peered through. The largest of the three carried Tharra over his shoulder and she was encased in some sort of energy capsule. Attack with me! Moroshar commanded, forcing his mount into a turn. Before Jharsen could speak against the notion, the KnighT and his squire were already through.

Damn fool of KnighT! Jharsen said through a strained throat. His vision was clearing and the strength of his body returning. He would have preferred a few more KronePahTs... but then again, he would have preferred not to have come at all! But we have little choice than to aid his effort. The four of you, remember your pacts with me. MajiK may not flow as strongly here, but that will do little to lessen the grip of a Blood Oath!

The other BloodWings flew through the aperture, blinded only for a moment, hardly a KronePahT, before they felt the chilling cold of MoGo. The vast tunnel-way they found themselves within was not a place meant for the Q’uor-Kwyn; not the living ones, at any rate. The place was not cold as a matter of temperature, but rather the touch of death which crept through the skin of all living forms, tickling even the soul. It was a sampling, and the Realm was soon going to respond to the influx of life force.

Turn! Efam cried as he put his head down the right side of his BloodWing’s neck and grabbed the right wing. He pulled the reins and forced the BloodWing into a barrel roll as a fireball surged by them. Jharsen sighed in relief. He had heard his Champion’s warning, but could not react quickly enough. It was simple luck that he was flying behind and to the right of Efam’s mount. The rest of the group was almost just as fortunate... all save the BloodWing Pran was riding. The fireball exploded against the feathered chest and it cried its last before plummeting to what seemed to be a grove of stalagmites.

Efam, see to my Light! Jharsen shouted as he reached into his shoulder bag and took out the sword-cane Gwathyn had provided. There was something to the way Pran fell. He did not struggle against the fall; he seemed to flow with it. The SorceroR, however, kept his focus on the cane.

"I sense the touch of ElemahntiA about you, my new friend," Jharsen thought.

"As well you should, young SorceroR, a voice replied as the head of the cane sparked with a green glow. But you need not worry as to which one of the six I can manipulate. I am a seedling of Father OmnI and-"

Say no more, Jharsen interrupted, thrusting the cane forward. A sheath of air formed around Vakreem and soon the BloodWing was flying faster than the wind as Jharsen turned him into a steep dive.

Your hand, Pran! Jharsen shouted as he and his mount flew by the falling man. An instant later, the man locked arms with Jharsen and pulled. His legs wrapped around the BloodWing as Vakreem extended his wings and leveled out two meters from the highest jagged peak.

Might as well do something with the speed we’ve attained, Jharsen suggested.

Agreed, Pran said softly as he hopped up to stand on the back of the BloodWing. Lean Left, please. And I will assume I have your permis-sion.

That you do, Jharsen assured.

Moroshar and his squire had made good on their surprise entrance and the KnighT had been assured his new sword was worthy of combat as he slashed the back of the legs of the man carrying his sister. Tharra had done well in the training of these birds, as his wings folded at the last moment to fly close to the target and allow his rider to strike. Moroshar then opted to jump from the saddle and glide to the ground. Ashari KnighTs were not like their Terran counterparts; they did not prefer mounted combat.

The woman who led the three was not one to be taken lightly. She deflected both of Saar’s arrows with her bare hands and released a series of energy bolts that drove the squire to seek refuge behind his master. The shield of Moroshar had also passed its field test, but the power of the impact concerned Moroshar. The energy had been issued with great haste and ease. He had lost ground blocking just two of the five she had fired.

See to N’Dal! the woman commanded to the third of their group. My Prince, there be strangers in your kingdom. Mortals who would dare to enter here!

Nooooo! a low and powerful voice boomed over the grounds and shook the scene. The woman stumbled a bit, but kept her feet until a boot hammered against her jaw.

No one likes a tattler! Efam said as he landed. He did his best to keep the shock from registering on his face. He had cracked columns with that kick, and only the surprise of his attack had driven her to the ground. She rolled and was quickly up to her hands and knees.

You! the woman exclaimed. But how?! We just left you and your accursed master in our wake!

Then it must be a race of wits, Efam said coldly, drawing his swords. My Master soars while you creep along like the slug you are! The woman screamed in response, thrusting her hand toward Efam. Black fire spewed from her open palm and arched over toward the swordsman who rolled under the arc and then leapt forward, spinning and swinging as he passed by the woman. She gasped as her chest and back started bleeding.

Mistress! the third man gasped as he had just reached his lame colleague. He lifted his hand, which started to glow with blue fire, but the hand was removed as Pran landed in the back of the leg-struck man. The back snapped from the impact, and the man was not given time to grunt before death claimed him. Standing up from his landing, Pran’s blade swung again and the man who had cried out was suddenly without a linking portion of flesh between his shoulders and his head.

The woman looked at her wounds and turned to face Efam who smiled apologetically as he shook his head. You forgot about the ArcheR, he managed to say before the first arrowhead came out of her stomach. Another soon protruded out of her chest. The woman slowly turned, trying to gather power and her concentration, but all she could do was scream as Moroshar’s blade plunged into her chest and ran her through.

That was for my sister! The Ashari KnighT spat before he twisted the blade and pulled it free of the woman’s chest. The woman fell to her knees and Efam’s brow drew tight, believing he had heard the woman chuckle. An energy bolt exploded against Moroshar’s back and he was thrown across the ground into a large stalagmite.

And that was for my minion!