Return of the Sorceress (4 page)

Two miles to the east, the black-robed wizard called Maddoc looked up from the spellbook he had been studying and frowned.

There was magic in the air. Someone was working an enchantment nearby. A mile away, two at the most. In the direction of … he closed his eyes and murmured a spell. In the darkness of his mind a pinprick of light appeared. The light lay in the direction of Ravenscar.

He opened his eyes. A burst of mystic energy that strong, coming so close to the keep … could it be Nearra? And if it were her, if she were releasing so much power, it could well mean that the Emergence had finally taken place.

Maddoc felt a wave of exhaustion crash into him. His head swam and his vision blurred. For a moment he feared he might lose consciousness. But the sensation passed, though he remained weakened.

Ever since the death of Shaera, his beloved falcon familiar, Maddoc had been in ill health. The bond between a wizard and his familiar was a strong one, and it ran deep in both of their beings. When the bond was broken by the death of one, it was as if the other died as well, or nearly so. With a supreme effort, Maddoc stood and walked away from the reading table. The magic in Ravenscar needed to be investigated at once.

When he’d first initiated his plan to resurrect Asvoria and make her magic his own so many months ago, he’d underestimated just how powerful the sorceress’ spirit would be, not to mention how resourceful her host would prove. But the death
of Shaera had driven home the truth to him, and since then he’d made alterations in his plan, researching new spells and waiting for the day the little fools would walk right into his trap. It appeared that day might finally have arrived.

Since Maddoc no longer had a familiar to send to investigate on his behalf, he would have to make do with one of his more macabre servants.

Excited, Maddoc shuffled out of the library, into the cold stone hall of his keep, and headed toward one of the chambers where he conducted his magical experiments, a chamber known as the Ossuary.

The Ossuary contained a number of wooden tables covered with all manner of bones—some animal, some human, some unidentifiable as either—along with spools of wire, leather straps, and metal pins. This was the chamber where Maddoc conducted his experiments in necromancy. And the results of his most successful experiment stood in the middle of the chamber, hidden by a large woolen blanket.

Maddoc pulled the cover off his greatest creation, and looked into its empty eye sockets. “To Ravenscar!” he commanded. “Go now, and go swiftly! Bring me the girl called Nearra!”

Though the undead thing possessed no vocal chords, it nevertheless let out a loud screech and then crawled across the floor toward an open window, bone-talons clacking hollowly on stone. It climbed onto the sill and leaped out into space. Artificial wings stitched together from leather spread wide and began to flap, bearing the skeletal creature toward Ravenscar.

As Maddoc watched his undead creation soar off, he smiled a dark smile. Soon, the power that he had worked so long and hard to possess would be his at last.

    D
avyn heard the lizard-boar scream in agony, but he was too busy trying to keep Snake Skin from cutting him to pieces to investigate.

Snake Skin swung his sword at Davyn’s midsection in a clumsy but powerful blow. Davyn was able to block the strike with his hunting knife, but the barbarian was so strong that Davyn feared his blade might break. As it was, the vibrations from the impact made his hand go instantly numb. As if sensing Davyn’s injury, Snake Skin grinned and raised his weapon high, clearly intending to bring the blade down upon Davyn’s head for a killing blow.

Stupid, Davyn thought. The idiot should take a thrust at my heart. He moved to block the blow, but his knife arm felt heavy as lead, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to parry Snake Skin’s strike this time.

So instead of waiting for Snake Skin’s blow, Davyn leaped forward and rammed his head into the barbarian’s gut. Snake Skin let out a whoof of air and staggered back. Davyn didn’t give him time to recover. He gripped his bow in his good hand and hit Snake Skin as hard as he could on the side of his head.

But instead of falling to the ground unconscious, as Davyn had hoped, Snake Skin’s face flushed a fiery red and fury filled his eyes. The guard gave an angry roar and came at the young ranger, wildly swinging his sword.

Davyn turned and ran toward the edge of the Pit. Thick black smoke rose from the sunken arena, making it difficult to see. But when Davyn judged he’d gone far enough, he stopped and fell on his hands and knees. Snake Skin couldn’t stop in time. His foot hit Davyn’s side, and the thug tripped and fell forward right onto the spikes jutting from the Pit’s edge.

Davyn stood. He checked his bow and was relieved to see that it wasn’t broken. His side ached from where Snake Skin had struck him, but the leather armor he wore beneath his tunic had kept any ribs from breaking. He felt no triumph at defeating Snake Skin; he’d simply done what was necessary to survive.

Davyn took a quick glance to see how his other friends were faring. Catriona was battling Kuruk while Elidor fought Shiriki. The Kagonesti elves fought like a pair of dervishes, moving with speed and grace. Elidor, half Kagonesti himself, was having little difficulty matching Shiriki blow for blow, her sword and his two daggers ringing like musical instruments as they collided time and again. Catriona, however, was having a harder time of it. Though still technically a squire, she had trained to be a Solamnic Knight, and since the five companions had come together in Treskva, she’d gained even more training and experience. But in the end, she was only human, and though she had acquitted herself well so far, she couldn’t hope to stand against Kuruk for much longer.

Davyn’s hand was still too numb to effectively wield his hunting knife, so he dropped his blade and took hold of his bow. His numb fingers would still be a liability, but he thought he could—

“Davyn! Look out!”

Davyn turned just in time to see Bolthor coming at him, no doubt furious at having his beloved games interrupted. The outlaw chieftain gripped a curved scimitar that had been honed to a deadly sharp edge.

“Davyn, eh?” Bolthor said as he approached. “I thought I recognized you! You’re Maddoc’s whelp, aren’t you?”

Forcing his numb fingers to move as swiftly as he could, Davyn strung his bow, drew an arrow from the quiver on his back, nocked it and took aim at Bolthor’s heart. But he didn’t fire.

“That’s right,” Davyn said in his best haughty voice. “And my father is going to be extremely unhappy that you raised your weapon against me.”

Bolthor laughed, but he stopped his approach less than ten feet away. “I don’t know what your game is, boy, but I have a hard time believing your father put you up to this. He and I have had a business relationship longer than you’ve been alive.”

Davyn shrugged. “What can I say? He’s an evil wizard, remember? He’s capable of doing anything to anyone at anytime—as long as it increases his power.” Davyn wasn’t lying about this part, and Bolthor knew it. A look of uncertainty came into the half ogre’s eyes, and he started to lower his sword.

But then Bolthor grinned. “Your hand’s shaking, boy.”

Davyn’s injured hand trembled. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep his bow drawn.

“You’re scared,” Bolthor said. “If you really were here at your father’s orders, you wouldn’t be afraid.”

Davyn wasn’t afraid. At least, no more so than he ever was during a battle. But he knew better than to try to convince Bolthor that his hand shook because he’d been hurt. The outlaw chieftain would think that he was only bluffing.

Davyn risked a glance over Bolthor’s shoulder and saw that
Catriona had been forced to her knees. Kuruk held his sword aloft, preparing to deliver a killing strike.

Davyn didn’t hesitate. He took aim, willed his hand to be steady, and released his bowstring. Bolthor jumped when the arrow flew, but it sailed past the outlaw chieftain and struck the male Kagonesti in the shoulder.

Drat!
Davyn thought. He’d been aiming for the elf’s throat.

Kuruk hissed in pain and dropped his sword. Catriona immediately took advantage of the opening and swung one of her dragon claws at the elf’s legs. With a howl of pain, Kuruk fell to the ground. Catriona stood and looked down at her opponent. Davyn knew that she wouldn’t slay the elf unless she was forced to. A Solamnic Knight—or a squire, for that matter—didn’t take a life unless it was necessary. It was against their Code.

Catriona turned to help Elidor, but before Davyn could see more, Bolthor charged.

“You should’ve killed me when you had the chance!” the outlaw chieftain roared.

Just as Davyn reached for another arrow, he heard the clop-clop-clop of horse hooves. Bolthor heard it too, and he turned to see Ayanti galloping toward them, a dagger held in her hand.

The outlaw chieftain turned to Davyn and grinned. “Looks like your old friend has come to say a last goodbye to you, boy.”

Bolthor raised his sword, but before he could swing, Ayanti charged up and slammed the hilt of her dagger into the side of Bolthor’s head. The outlaw chieftain dropped his sword, and fell to the ground, unconscious.

Davyn looked at Ayanti and smiled. “Thanks. And thanks for warning me earlier. That was you who yelled my name, right?”

The centaur nodded. “It’s good to see you again, Davyn. I hoped you’d return, but I didn’t expect your homecoming to be so eventful.”

Davyn laughed. “Eventful is a good way to describe what my life has been like the last several months. I’ll tell you all about it later after we get out of this mess.”

He checked on his friends. Together, Catriona and Elidor had managed to drive off Shiriki. She cradled a wounded arm against her chest as she dragged Kuruk with her other arm. Davyn wasn’t surprised to see her do this. Bolthor’s bodyguards were cousins—one would never leave the other behind, no matter what.

Shiriki glared at Elidor and Catriona. “This isn’t over,” she said in a soft menacing voice before she and her cousin were obscured by the smoke drifting from the pit.

Where was Nearra? The last time Davyn had seen her, she was by the Pit. Fear surged through him, and without a word to Ayanti, he ran to Sindri.

“Is Nearra …” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

“She’s all right,” Sindri said. “I’ve been trying to levitate her out of there, but I’m having trouble concentrating. I keep losing my grip on her, so to speak.”

Davyn waved his hands to clear away the smoke so he could get a better look into the Pit. He saw the blackened carcass of the lizard-boar. So that’s where the smoke came from, he thought. Not to mention the stink. But what had set the beast aflame? There had been no open fires in or around the Pit.

Then he saw Nearra. He was relieved to see that she appeared unharmed, but she just stood there, looking up at them with a strange smile on her face. The smile, which was so unlike Nearra, sent a chill through Davyn. If the Emergence—when the spirit of Asvoria assumed control of Nearra’s body—had finally taken place, it would explain what had happened to the lizard-boar: Asvoria had cast some sort of fire spell at it.

“Are you all right?” he called out to her.

Nearra didn’t answer right away, and Davyn began to fear the worst, but then she said, “Of course, though I’m going to smell like smoke for days after this.”

Davyn smiled in relief. Perhaps Asvoria’s spirit hadn’t emerged after all.

“Just hold on for a few moments. We’ll find a way to get you out.”

He turned to Sindri and put a hand on the kender’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about using magic. Ayanti can get her out.”

Sindri’s brow smoothed as he stopped concentrating, and he let out a weary but grateful sigh.

Ayanti walked up and nodded toward Nearra. “A friend of yours?”

“Yes. Can you help us get her out of the Pit?”

By this time Elidor and Catriona had joined them. The elf looked down at the blackened remains of the lizard-boar and wrinkled his nose in disgust. “What a stench!”

“I’m not sure I
should
help her,” Ayanti said. “Not after what she did to little Oshi.”

“Little!” Elidor said in astonishment. “You mean that thing would’ve gotten even bigger?”

“Whatever Nearra did, she did in self-defense,” Davyn said.

The centaur and the ranger looked at each other for a long moment. Finally, Ayanti nodded. “Of course, but we must be quick about it. I don’t know how long Bolthor will remain unconscious—or how long it’ll take Kuruk and Shiriki to see to their wounds and return to seek vengeance. Let’s go and—”

Before the centaur could finish speaking, a shadow passed over them. They looked up, and at first Davyn thought a dragon was attacking. But the creature was too small, and he didn’t feel a surge of dragonfear. Then he saw what the thing was, and he knew fear of a different sort. The creature was a collection
of bleached bones held together with wire and leather straps instead of cartilage, tendons, and ligaments. Where in life it had possessed wings of muscle and feathers, it now had wings made of leather. Its skull had large round hollows where eyes had once been, and instead of a mouth it had a cruel curved beak of bone. The creature’s front legs were avian, but its body and back legs were feline. Davyn knew that thing had been a griffin when it was alive, but now it was nothing more than an undead puppet, one whose strings were no doubt being pulled by Maddoc.