Sethra Lavode (Viscount of Adrilankha) (34 page)

“Well?”

“I see it rather differently.”

“That is but natural,” said Illista magnanimously.

At this moment, there was another chime from in front of the cave.

“Perhaps,” said Grita, “that is our guest.”

“Let us hope so,” said Illista. “I confess, I am growing impatient.”

“Bide, my dear Dzurlord,” said Grita. “We must see to our visitor.”

Illista moved to front of the cave and called back, “It is he!”

“Welcome, my dear Lyorn,” called Grita.

“Come,” said Illista. “Let us begin, then.”

“Aerich!” cried Tazendra. “It is a trap!”

“Thank you, my dear,” said Aerich. “But the observation is useless.”

Illista walked behind the table where Tazendra lay, drew out a large, curved knife, and said, “On my word, my dear, release the spells, and I will perform the surgery we discussed.”

“I am ready,” said Grita, drawing a poniard.

Aerich, at this moment, stepped into the light of the lamps, dressed in his old red blouse and skirt, vambraces gleaming, wrists crossed over his chest, holding his sword in one hand, poniard in the other. He was looking, however, not at Tazendra, but at the immense, impenetrable darkness that rose directly before him.

“Aerich, don’t!” said Tazendra.

“Now,” said Illista coolly.

Grita released the spell.

For an instant, Tazendra was free. She started to rise, but Illista struck her hard in the chest with the butt end of the knife—Tazendra’s head struck the table, and Illista quickly grasped her ear, holding it out to be removed. Tazendra coughed.

Mica stood up, picked up the bar-stool upon which he had been sitting, and struck Illista in the face.

Grita snarled and stabbed Mica in the back with such force that the point of her weapon actually emerged from his chest.

“Mica!” cried Tazendra.

The faithful Mica stood very still, an expression of surprise on his face, as blood began to trickle from his lips.

“They killed Srahi,” he observed.

As this happened, Grita reached into the area of darkness with her left hand, and, with her right, she made a gesture, and immediately a sort of glow began to emerge from her skin, and, at the same time, from Illista’s. Grita then gestured at Aerich, who, before he could move, was picked up and thrown against a wall of the cave.

Tazendra rolled off the table and onto her feet, stumbled, fell to her knees, and rose again even as Illista recovered from the blow struck by the brave Mica—we should add that this blow had cut her face so that she was bleeding, and was, moreover, forced to spit out two or three teeth.

Aerich shook his head and made an effort to rise, but Grita, still with one hand in the darkness, reached out at him, slowing drawing her hand into a fist. Aerich threw his head back and his mouth opened as he struggled vainly to breathe. “Do you see, Dzurlord?” cried Grita. “I am killing your friend.”

Illista, who had left her knife in Mica’s back, drew a sword as the Teckla, moaning softly, fell face-forward onto the ground.

And, once more, there came a chime from the front of the cave.

Grita frowned and looked toward the mouth of the cave, the spell she had been casting momentarily relaxed, and Aerich took in a great lungful of air.

“Who are you?” said Grita.

“I am the Viscount of Adrilankha,” said Piro coolly. “And these are
my friends. This gentleman and that lady are friends of my father. What are you doing to them?”

“Killing them,” said Grita.

“I believe,” said Piro, “that I will attempt to stop you.”

“Good luck,” said Grita. As she spoke, she made a certain gesture, and a sound not unlike that made by the striking of a large gong echoed throughout the cave. “You may now have the honor of contending with the troops I have just summoned. Should you survive them, you are welcome to do your best against us.”

“May I inquire about that strange glow the two of you seem to be emitting?”

“Why? Don’t you think it fetching?”

“Oh, certainly.”

Grita shrugged. “Well then.”

Piro turned to those behind him, and said, “Spread out. It seems we are about to be attacked.”

“So much the better,” said Kytraan, gripping his sword. “But I would suggest we attack first.”

“An excellent notion, my friend,” said Piro.

“Let us do so at once.” Illista, who, we should say, was not exceptionally skilled as a fighter, swung her sword at Tazendra, who easily ducked beneath it. The Dzurlord then stepped back, reached down, and removed the poniard from Mica’s back. The Teckla moaned softly. Tazendra continued her motion and, ducking under another wild swing by Illista, struck with the poniard at the Phoenix’s chest with tremendous force, all of her anger adding to her own natural strength.

Rather than penetrating, however, the blade snapped off near the hilt.

Grita pointed her finger at Kytraan, who gave a strangled cry as his head, neatly severed by some invisible force, fell from his shoulders.

“I hope,” observed Illista, “that this answers the question you have asked about the peculiar glow we are emitting. You can no longer harm us.”

How Tsanaali Attempted
To Take the Orb

N
o doubt the reader is, by now, curious about what might have become of Tsanaali, whom we last saw about to enter the presence of Her Majesty in an effort to take the Orb itself. Be assured that it was not our intention to hold the reader in needless suspense, which we will prove by answering this question at once.

Khaavren had been in the covered terrace, sitting quietly in a corner having a conversation with Pel, when he suddenly heard Zerika cry out softly. Soft as it was, such a sound from the Empress at once caused the captain to come to full alert; he fairly dashed over to her. “Your Majesty, what is it?”

The Empress looked at him with an expression in which alarm mixed with confusion. “The Orb,” she said.

Khaavren had been about to ask what about the Orb caused her alarm, when he realized that, instead of circling her head and glowing with some color that gave a chromatic representation of her spirits at the moment, it was a dull black, and lying in her hands.

We should explain that, in fact, the Orb was not completely inert: no one has reported, during this time, becoming aware of a disconnection to it, as thousands upon thousands reported at the moment of Adron’s Disaster. Yet, it was clear at once that something was very seriously wrong with it.

“Your Majesty,” said Khaavren, “what can cause such a thing?”

“I have not the least idea in the world,” said the Empress, in a tone that indicated a laudable if not entirely successful attempt to remain cool.

At this moment, Pel approached them and bowed. “Your Majesty—”

“What is it?” said the Empress, a hint of desperation tingeing her voice.

“I do not know what is causing this, but, I wish to make two observations.”

“Very well, I will listen to whatever you have to say.”

“First, you know that we have been looking for the Pretender to strike from an unexpected direction, as he cannot possibly win a purely military action. I make no doubt that this is, at the least, part of his plan.”

“Very well. Next?”

“Next, unless I am mistaken, I heard sounds in the corridor that I like not at all, wherefore I would suggest that Your Majesty take herself and the Orb into that corner, and that my friend Khaavren draw that sword which has served the Empire for so long, and we be prepared to do what we must.”

These words were no sooner out of the Yendi’s mouth than acted upon, both by the Empress and by the captain.

“They can come in by the door, or by the glass,” said Khaavren. “But if they break the glass, we shall hear them.”

“And so?” said Pel.

“Let us position ourselves by the door.”

“Very good,” said Pel. “But—”

“Yes?”

“Have you a spare sword?”

“Blood of the Horse! You haven’t a sword?”

“In my apartments, but, you perceive, that will be of no help now.”

“That is true. Here is my poniard. My left hand still has some weakness, so it does me no good in any case.”

“Very good. I will have a sword presently.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

“Ah. Here they are.”

“We can hold them for a long time at this door.”

“Perhaps.”

The first one through the door received the edge of Khaavren’s sword across his face, the second took Pel’s poniard in his stomach, at which time Pel stepped out from beside the door, took the sword from his hand, and kicked him backward into his companions.

“That’s two of them,” observed Khaavren.

“I wonder how many of them there are.”

“Let us count them as we go.”

“Very well.”

“Three,” said Khaavren, as he gave the next a full-extension lunge, as pretty as if it were out of a training manual, striking his enemy in her throat.

Pel spun his sword in a tight circle parallel to his body which ended scoring a long cut down the face and body of one, then cutting up at another who was attempting to squeeze to his side. “Four and five,” he observed.

As it happened, the one who had sustained the long cut was not badly hurt, a fact which Khaavren pointed out by saying, “
Now
it is five, my friend,” as he lowered point to run him through the thigh.

“Very well,” said Pel. “I accept that.”

“Apropos, how is the weapon?”

“Serviceable,” said Pel laconically, after which he added, “Six,” as he used an elegant move which involved a thrust that both deflected his enemy’s blade and, at the same time, ran her through the shoulder.

“You must teach me that one,” said Khaavren.

“I should be more than happy to, as soon as this is over.”

“So much the better,” said Khaavren, adding “Seven” an instant before Pel said, “Eight,” as they both struck in the same manner at nearly the same time. Their blades pierced the hearts of the two soldiers in front of them so they both fell to the ground as dead masses, striking at very nearly the same instant, although one was considerably heavier than the other, introducing certain interesting questions concerning the physical properties of falling objects.

Whatever the theoretical issues involved in falling objects, the practical result of the falling of these bodies was that it interfered with those attempting to enter the room. This interference was quickly translated into an advantage for Khaavren, who held to the principle that a missed opportunity in combat was identical to giving an enemy a second chance, which, in turn, was the same as if there were a second enemy. With this principle firmly in mind, he made certain that each hesitation, stumble, or slip by an enemy was greeted by as good a thrust or cut as he could manage, with the result that, in seconds, three more of the enemy were “bit by the steel snake,” as the saying is.

Pel, who was never at any time troubled about taking any advantage
that might be offered in a skirmish, was even more effective: he went for his opponent’s legs, and in the drawing of a breath, four more of them were on the ground, unable to rise.

At this point, however, one of the enemy, in a daring maneuver, made a leap over the wounded or dying bodies on the ground, rolled, came to his feet, and turned around, striking quickly and then recovering into good guard position.

“One of them is behind us,” observed Khaavren, who was, at this moment, dueling with next soldier who, standing on the bodies of his friends, was attempting to pass the doorway.

“The observation is useless,” said Pel. “He has already cut me with his stick.”

“No badly, I hope.”

“A sting in the left shoulder, nothing more.”

“Very good.”

“Apropos, he’s mine,” said Pel.

“If you like,” said Khaavren.

Pel faced the soldier, saluted him, and said, “Hello, Lieutenant. I hope seeing me is as agreeable for you as seeing you is for me.”

Tsanaali, whose blade did not move an inch as he waited for the engagement to begin, said, “Well, my dear Duke, that I had not expected to have the honor of your company only increases the pleasure with which I greet you. Is it not always so with unexpected guests?”

“Nearly,” said Pel. “But come, my dear Lieutenant. Must I beg you to engage with me?”

“Not at all,” said Tsanaali, who did not need to have such a compliment paid to him twice. He feinted a lunge for Pel’s body, then executed a furious cut at the Yendi’s head; a cut which the Yendi parried with a quick motion of his wrist, after which he replied by lunging at the lieutenant’s torso with such speed that the officer was saved only by twisting his body at the last instant.

“Come,” said Pel, “was that close enough?”

“Nearly,” said Tsanaali, and attempted the same head-cut again, only this time dropping the point and striking for Pel’s side, an attack that Pel parried easily enough by dropping the point of his own blade, and then, with a wrongwise twist of his wrist, he brought the Dragonlord’s weapon out of line, after which Pel simply straightened his arm, running the point directly through Tsanaali’s heart.

“That was closer,” observed the Yendi.

“I believe it was close enough to kill me,” said Tsanaali.

“I think you are right,” said Pel, as the lieutenant, dropping his sword, fell to the ground. “Unfortunately, you have caused me to lose count.”

The lieutenant, being quite dead, did not reply.

This contest, as it happened, had left Khaavren facing two of the enemy. As was his custom under such circumstances, Khaavren had given ground slowly, parrying widely and striking for the sides of his enemies in an effort to prevent them from separating. This technique was sufficiently successful as to delay them until Pel was able to rejoin him, at which point, seeing that their commander was dead, and that more than half of their number were either wounded or dying, they became demoralized, and, instead of attacking, or even defending themselves, at once turned and, in a body, fled the way they had come.

Khaavren followed them out after calling to Pel to remain behind and guard Her Majesty. In the antechamber Khaavren saw that Sergeant, the son of his old comrade, Sergeant, had been killed by a thrust through his heart before even having time to draw his sword. Khaavren reached down and gently shut the guardsman’s eyes.