Taraak decided instantly that he did not like this elf. This guy had just taken a full explosive blast to the face, one that had apparently demolished or destabilized the entire side of a building, and he had gotten up with little more than a dazed look on his face. However, Taraak wasn’t all that worried that the elf made to attack. If he wanted to send them both plummeting to their doom about eight stories below by doing so, he was welcome to it.
As he visibly pulled himself back together, Taraak actually watched as the emotion withdrew from his features, fading behind a mask of stone. Gods, this guy was good. Taraak had been trained to conceal his emotions, but he realized now that he was in the presence of a master at it. He made a mental note that if he ever got out of this, he would have to set some analysts on finding out who the hell this guy was.
“I do not have time for careful.” The elf said finally, apparently finished gathering his thoughts. Taraak watched as he made his way toward him with effortless, inhuman lightness that typified his race, taking up position on the intact wall not far from where Taraak was standing. “You are going to want to hold on as best you can.”
Taraak blinked.
What?
Before he could get halfway through an analysis of what that could possibly mean, the elf had pushed himself off of the wall and launched himself toward the missing wall with a raised hand, shouting a word whose meaning Taraak had come to know all too well.
You have got to be kidding me…
[/Color]
He leaped backward instinctively as the magical flame struck the ground at his feet, close enough for him to feel the heat through his boots. The slab of flooring instantly turned black, giving an ominous groan. Taraak held his breath as it
shifted… And held, leaving the floor intact. But before Taraak could breathe a sigh of relief, the elf had landed on the slab of flooring with all his weight, dislodging it from its perch. Taraak watched, astounded, as the elf stood on the slab of stone and used it
ride down the sloping rubble. It was impossible. No person in his right mind would even
think of what this elf was doing now, and yet there he was, maneuvering over and around obstacles as if it was his favorite sport.
Just then, the floor that Taraak was laying on gave an ominous groan, louder than before. Because of what the elf had done, the whole side of the castle was about to collapse, sending Taraak to broken, bloody, and very final end. He had a few seconds, at the very most. He jumped to his feet, looking down at the unforgiving stone slope beneath him, his mental calculations enhanced by fear. The slope was made up entirely of stone architecture blown off the castle by the explosion, ranging in size from pebbles and scree to large, flat boulders. The uneven gaps between these pieces were just waiting to twist an ankle, or trip someone to make them slide the rest of the way down on their face. Taraak was sure that loose slabs awaited, ready to turn at the worst possible time and send him plummeting. After his years of training, Taraak counted it one of his greatest assets that he knew his limits. He knew that there was almost no way that he would make it down the slope alive. But if he did not, he would be buried where he stood. Faced with such a choice, he did not even hesitate. Aiming for the largest and most flat looking slab he could see, he jumped. Even as he did, the floor he had been standing on gave an earsplitting
crack, beginning a new avalanche of dust and debris.
The race was on.
As he landed, the slab rolled under him like a swamped boat. Having been expecting it, he managed to catch a grip on the upward edge just in time to stop himself being thrown to the mercy of the rockslide. Running along the tilted surface, he jumped over a large gap to land solidly on the next slab down the line. This one was steeper than he had expected, and his run quickly turned into a slide. He managed to right himself just in time to make a desperate leap toward the
next slab...
He continued this way all the way down the slope, jumping, sliding, scrambling and tumbling, just managing to keep ahead of the avalanche of rubble from the floors above waiting to bury him. Once something struck him in the lower back in the middle of a tricky jump, knocking him off balance. Only a panicked, adrenaline-driven roll on the landing kept him out of the out-of-control tumble down the slope that would surely have been fatal. Finally, he ran off the edge of a jutting slab and fell farther than he had been expecting. His training taking over, he landed instinctively on the balls of his feet, rolling forward to dissipate the impact across his body. Coming up in a fighting crouch, he realized that instead of another stone platform, he had landed on grass. Knowing he wasn't out of it yet, he stood up and sprinted away from the slope just as the falling rubble buried the spot he had just vacated. As the rumbling ceased, he came to a slow halt. As he looked back over his shoulder at the slope he had just descended, he found that he had no idea just how he was still alive. For the first time it what seemed a long time, one of his hated mentor's favorite sayings came to mind.
"It's amazing what you can do when you're properly motivated."He sighed, forcing himself to collect his thoughts. Miraculous escape or not, he had a job to do.
Trying to control his racing heart, he took stock of his surroundings. After arriving at the palace, the first things he had done was explore as much as he could, committing every hallway, every room, every window and door, every crack in the walls to his perfect memory. Because of these, he recognized where he was standing in the palace's south lawn, a manicured expanse of grass set between the castle and the wall. Obviously the geography had changed somewhat since he had filed away the details of the place, but he knew that there were only two entrances to this place, and one of them was now buried under the rubble. The other came in from a side passage that led off the hallway where the bomber had been running. If the man did not plan on trying to sneak past the forces guarding the gates of the palace walls, then this would be an ideal place to go. He was probably here right now.
About the same time as Taraak came to this realization, he caught a shadowy movement from the garden in front and to his left. An arrow implanted itself softly into the grass just beside his left foot, causing him to jump back. At a glance, he saw that the arrow was of the same make and color of fletching of the arrows used to kill the soldiers in the balcony. Without stopping to try and find out where the bomber was shooting from, he sprinted toward what his memory of the courtyard told him was the nearest cover, weaving in a jagged line to hopefully throw off his attackers aim. He threw himself behind the ornate stone fountain just as his assassin's instincts told him that the bomber had managed to draw a bead. Sure enough, another arrow bounced off the masonry above his head and dropped into the fountain with a
plop.
"Ah, you again." Taraak's gaze snapped toward the voice, finding the crazed elf lying beside him.
"Aye, we meet again, no thanks to you." He shot back icily. He briefly considered letting his anger show, but his discipline easily won out. They were both on the same mission, and in the elf's position, he probably would have done the same. "Where is he?" He asked instead.
The elf reached up and pointed vaguely. Peering over the edge of the fountain in that direction, Taraak thought he saw a shadow of movement from behind the pedestal of a large horse sculpture at one corner of the garden. Half a second later another arrow hissed over his head.
Gotcha. So what are you doing back there? If I were you, I wouldn't be waiting around and keep us pinned down just on the off chance of a lucky shot taking us down. Unless...[/Color]
"He has to be waiting for backup. Probably some friends to lower a rope to get him over the wall."
"The elf nodded calmly.”I suspected as much. What I haven't thought of yet is just how to get to him."
Taraak frowned. "I just saw you take an explosion to the face. And you're letting a few arrows bother you?" It might have been his imagination, but he thought he caught a flicker of a sheepish smile as it passed over the elf's face.
"Yes, well, it was that explosion weakened me. I don't want to try my strength again unless I absolutely have to."
"I see." Taraak said drily. Despite its reputation of omniscience, he found himself glad that he was born without an affinity to magic. He knew of far too many mages who had relied on it far too much, and that dependence had led to their downfall. A few times, that downfall had been brought about by Taraak's own knife. It seemed that yet again, he was left only with his body, a few simple tools, and most importantly, his mind.
Knowing he probably only had minutes before the bombers backup arrived, he took stock of his resources. He greatly lamented the loss of his bow. If he hadn't had to leave it in the tower with the rest of the weapons, the situation would be easy. At least he had managed to hold on to his knife, and a few prepared packages of Banger sewn into the lining of his belt. Ah, Banger. Someone in the bomber's line of work would definitely be startled by a loud noise and burst of smoke that he did not prepared going off anywhere near him. The problem was getting the small rolled packages of mildly explosive powder from Taraak's hiding spot to the hiding spot of the bomber. There just wasn't enough mass to them for a good throw, and even if they did, his pitching arm wasn't good enough to even get them half the distance...
By chance, he happened to look down, feeling the fabric of his cloak brush his arm. He smiled. That took care of the propulsion, now he just needed the mass...
Mass. Weight. Rocks.[/Color] He looked over his shoulder at ruined walls and rubble slope.
"I have an idea." He said finally. "I need you to go over there and bring back sixteen or eighteen stones, about so big," he made a circle with thumb and forefinger. "as round as you can find. Think slingstone, if that helps." The elf raised one sculpted eyebrow, but did not question, crawling backward to do as he was bid. Setting his mind to his own task, Taraak removed his cloak and laid it out on the grass in front of him. There were three different rents in the fabric from his sliding and tumbling down the slope, but it did not matter for his purpose. Drawing his knife, he proceeded to cut the cloak into inch-wide strips of varying lengths. He just hoped that he would finish in time. If not, they would never find out who was responsible for this, and all the lives lost would mean nothing.
. . .
"I am actually trying to find Endorin, who has been kidnapped by Cesar Insalata and Schrren, both workers for Galbatorix. Now, I need your help. They are somewhere below us, and seeing as your dragon is occupied, it would be great if you could help," The queen spilled breathlessly, mostly abandoning royal decorum in her obvious agitation. Kyemen blinked up at her, doing his best to process this new piece of information.
Endorin? The elf child? He was here?[/Color] He chided himself for the last question. Obviously, he was here. And if he had been captured by Insalata and the shade…
Before he could fully think through all the implications, Islanzadi got to her feet and charged off through the inexplicable snowstorm toward the edge of the room. Apparently completely unaware of the imperial delegation members whose attention she had drawn, and were waiting to leap on her with knives drawn. “Wait… Look out!” He cried, but his words were either lost to the billowing wind, or she was not listening. Kyemen looked down at the injured dragon in his arms, then at the queen, then back to the dragon. He knew that he had to make a choice, save the dragon or save the elven queen, and only seconds to decide. He decided to take the choice that would make Sierthra groan aloud if she knew.
He chose both.
Scrambling to his feet, he tucked Ikehr into the crook of his right arm, pressing the scaly body as hard as he could into his side. The attackers where almost to Islanzadi now, three of them moving to cut off her exit. The queen slowed slightly, probably only just realizing the danger she was in. One of the imperials was coming up behind her, knife raised.
Out of time, Kyemen raised his left hand as he sprinted, his
gedway ignasia glowing brightly. “Freohr!”
As the energy left his body, the imperial collapsed to the floor, his eyes rolling back in his head. This bought Kyemen just enough time to reach the queen and shove her out of the way of a knife thrust. This put him neatly in the middle of the five imperials, but at least now they were focused on him instead of Islanzadi. He was just now in about as disadvantageous a position as a fighter could ask for, and he didn’t think he would have enough time to compose another spell…
At that moment, his quick ears alerted him to the movement behind him. He spun just in time to block the imperial’s knife-arm with his free hand, darting sideways at the same time. Not expecting this, the man was carried past him with the force of the attack, placing him in the way off two of his fellows and distracting the forth. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Kyemen rushed at the remaining imperial, getting too far inside the man’s guard for him to bring his short sword into play. Kyemen foiled the instinctive punch with his forearm, in the same motion grabbing the hilt of the man’s weapon. Instead of wrestling for it as he probably expecting, the elf let his knees collapse under him, falling backwards as if in a faint, still holding onto the hilt and dragging the man down on top of him. Just as his back made contact with the ground, he planted both feet on the imperial’s chest and kicked hard.
The man flew.
The sword stayed.
Kyemen rolled to his feet, his newly acquired sword in a defensive stance with his left hand.
The imperials might have been angry, but they weren’t stupid. They could calculate the odds of success with their knives against an elven rider with a sword.
They turned and ran.
Kyemen breathed a sigh of relief, lowering the sword. “Better stick with me, your majesty…” He started to say, turning towards where he had shoved Islanzadi, only to find that she was no longer there. In her place stood a red-armored imperial soldier, eyes blazing, the long-hafted slashing spear in his hands descending at terminal velocity towards his head.
He only just managed to fend off the blow, getting his borrowed sword up into an awkward block that would have broken any human’s arm. The soldier however was very quick with his weapon, and Kyemen was barely able to twist sideways under the slash that would have taken Ikehr’s head off. He tried to go inside, but the man easily drove him back with the butt end of the spear. There was just no way that he could bring his much shorter weapon to bear, and his opponent was giving him no time to try something else. Kyemen realized that he was being chivvied back towards a knotted group of soldiers in the center of the room. And there was nothing that he could do about it. He parried yet another slash of the spear and took yet another step back, and he found himself yet again surrounded.
The next few minutes were a blur, his fatigued body operating entirely on its own. He whirled and slashed and dodged and parried and rolled and flipped and jabbed and blocked, not really conscious of anything but staying alive amid the nightmare. He had no idea where he was or where he was going, only that he was evading his enemies. He did not think when he found himself staring into an altogether different face than the soldiers he had been fighting. He didn’t think as he swung at that face, an untimely slip of his back foot on the slick floor causing his slash to cut across the cheekbone and sever the lengths of luxurious black hair instead of making a killing stroke. It was only several seconds later, as he was locked in combat with another soldier, that he realized the face he had just maimed belonged to Malandra Ramakrishna.
He wasn’t sure what happened next. His ears were filled with an uncanny sound, and his vision reddened strangely, as if he had been struck. It was only when the soldier started screaming as well that he realized his vision was fine, and it was the world that was reddening.
Blood magic.[/Color] He knew its name only out of legend. He did not know its function, nor had he ever seen it used, but the name alone was enough to tell him what was happening here. He turned back to Malandra, raising his hand to try and perform a counterspell, only to find himself facing down the end of bloodied knife suspended telekinetically in the air, pointed straight at him. His wards would usually protect him from such attacks, but he realized this would probably be no ordinary knife-throw. The knife sped forward, and he started twisting sideways, knowing that he was much too slow…
But the knife was not aimed for him.
. . .
Come and face me! Or are you too scared to face a clearly more powerful opponent![/color]
Sierthra knew only rage.
She did not really remember her fight in the hall. She did not remember where she had gotten the wound in her leg and neck, nor if the blood in her mouth was her own or her enemy’s. She did not remember how she had gotten knocked out of the castle through the hole in the wall, nor how that hole had come to be there in the first place.
But she was now in open air, and that was all that mattered.
Her wings snapped open instinctively as she started to fall, and too her joy, she was not mired by stone walls or human bodies.
She was free.
She beat her wings once, using the upward force to maneuver herself from falling to diving. This allowed her to swoop low over the courtyard below instead of smashing into it, also bringing her back up to altitude. For a moment, she forgot even about her opponent, simply reveling in the joy of flying. But then his arrogant challenge flashed through her mind, drawing her attention back to the task at hand. She looked up, seeing Thorn making a break for the clouds. She smiled. She would make him regret this. The clouds were hers, and she owned the sky.
Her wings giving powerful strokes against the air, she quickly built up momentum. She was the fastest thing in the sky, and she knew it. She reached the cloudcover nearly twice as fast as Thorn ever could, and from there it was an easy operation to swing around in front of his destination, concealed from his view by the billowing mists. The clouds rushing past her chilled her scales, helping to calm the battle-rage of her ancestors, if only a little. While it was all well and good on the ground, a battle in the sky required thought, tactics. Reason.
She glanced off to her left, looking for her opponent… Ah, there was the telltale glimmer of moonlight on his dinted armor, about half a mile distant.
Far enough.[/Color] She banked left, angling her wings to turn her fully around and come straight at Thorn in a full-on attack. She pumped her wings as hard as she could, flying so fast that her passage left an expanding wake in the clouds. At a quarter mile, Thorn finally saw her coming, angling to meet her head on. What she was attempting, she knew, was suicide. There was no way someone with her frame could simply ram a dragon as large as Thorn. She would break against his scales like a sparrow against a mountain. This, however, was not her plan.
Both dragons sped towards one another, moving so fast that their meeting was sure to shake the very stars…
But they did not meet.
At the very last possible second, Sierthra swerved downward, passing beneath Thorn so close that she felt his back claws scrape the tip of her tail. Immediately she angled upward again, letting the momentum of her headlong charge put her into a steep climb. Looking back and down, she saw her opponent trying to mirror the action, but he was simply too slow. Sierthra made a complete vertical loop that brought her directly above him. Her gambit successful, she dived straight for her Thorn. This time, she didn’t miss.
They met with a resounding
crack, Sierthra’s front claws and the front of her body making contact with Thorn’s back. Instead of drawing back, Sierthra hung on, bearing down on her opponent like a lead weight. Thorn was unable to counteract the downward force of the blow, and they dropped like stones, gaining more and more speed with each foot of altitude lost. They passed through the clouds, and suddenly the world was darkness. Still they fell, Sierthra gritting her teeth hard as she fought the larger dragon’s attempts to get free. She knew the ground was approaching fast, but she refused to let go until she was sure that he could not pull out. At last, when she knew she could fall no more without hitting the ground, she let go, her wings stretched nearly to the breaking point as she halted her fall. She looked down for Thorn as he continued to plummet, hoping that she had pushed him too low to recover. He would either be hitting the ground within the next two seconds, or a miracle would take place.
But Sierthra had seen enough miracles to know that nothing was certain.
Just then, it almost felt as if her mind went numb. She started, searching the dark sky for the source of what had to be a mental attack of some kind… After a moment, she realized that the feeling was not hers, but her Rider’s.
Kyemen![/Color]
In her rage to battle Thorn, she had almost completely forgotten about him. Now she sensed him in pain, his mind enveloped by a feeling of black despair. Uncaring now of Thorn’s fate, she wheeled around and sped back toward the darkened city some miles back with all of her natural speed, pleading with fate that she was fast enough.
. . .
Kyemen had never experienced a silence as profound as this one. His ears were still damaged from the explosion, but this silence was much deeper than that. There was no sound of breath, no rustling clothing, no patter of footsteps. No sound at all. Literally everyone in the room was staring at the tiny, crumpled form in their midst, so bloodstained that she was only distinguishable from the men she had killed by knife hilt in the back of her head.
That should have been me.[/Color] He thought numbly to himself, opening the floodgates. The knife had been aimed at him. He had been the one to see that she had no wards, not once but
twice. Why hadn’t he done anything? He had been in a position to kill Malandra, but he had even failed at that. I wave of guilt washed over him.
It’s my fault this happened. I failed. I got her killed.[/Color]
Ikehr screamed, a sound that tore straight to Kyemen’s heart. The young dragon squirmed and writhed straight out of his numb arms onto the bloodstained floor. Kyemen wanted to follow him down, begging the young dragon’s forgiveness in his failure, but he found he couldn’t move. He could do nothing but stand and watch as Malandra glared down at Ikehr, perhaps killing him as well.
Kyemen felt crushed as the weight of the silence descended again upon the room.
“This has gone far enough,” Malandra said at last, her voice chilled with cold fury. “I can see that the violence of the sentient species will never cease, not even to stop a threat that dooms all of us. You have all failed miserably in your task.” She gestured to Nemo’s pathetic crumpled form, and for the first time, Kyemen noticed the Kull honor guard that had taken up position. “This is nothing compared to the slow starvation you shall all suffer in the face of the coming infection, and even that will not redeem the utter idiocy you have committed at these negotiations today. That being said, I am concluding them. Since no one here has the heart nor the brains to put our differences aside, you may all continue on killing each other like the savages you truly all are. Farewell and good night, esteemed members of the Varden and the Empire. I earnestly hope your dreams are dark and terrible this night.”
For several minutes, no one said a word. Kyemen waited, unable to take his eyes from Nemo’s body. Eventually, sanity began to return. He tried to think about what had just happened, and found that he could do so without going numb again. All of his guilt and shame drew together into a cold, hard weight around his heart, joining the weight of all his other failures. Yes, this was his fault, but there was nothing he could do about it now. All he could do now was make sure that her death had not been in vain.
“She’s right.” He said, his voice husky. He swallowed, and then tried again. “She’s right.” This time, his voice carried around the room, shaky but firm. “There is no point to any of this. There is no point in fighting for land when our land is dying.” Suddenly he felt tired, just sick of everything. For the past three years, his life had been defined by his sense of duty, his belief that what he was doing was right and just. No, looking down at all the bodies that littered the floor, he felt that precious certainty crumble. There was no point to any of this fighting and killing. All of it was just wasted lives.
“Just go.” He said finally, his eyes roving the room before settling on Malandra. “Just leave. Doctor, please gather your delegation and go back to the Empire. I wish you luck in your studies, and I hope that you will discover a cure.” He glared back toward the Varden side, gripping the sword in his hand with a sudden strength. “Anyone who hinders them will deal with
me. They will leave peacefully, and we will go back to where we started. Fighting for a doomed land.”
. . .
“What exactly are you doing?” The elf asked, laying out the stones he had gathered on the lawn. Taraak looked up to inspect them. Perfect size and shape for his purposes.
“Well, our problem is with range, right?” He started to answer, flinching as another arrow zipped over his head, then resumed cutting up his cloak. “So we need some ranged weapons.” Finished, he held up his work. The strips of cloth made perfect slings. He passed one to the elf. “Now, second problem, he can reload faster than us, so we have to get his head down right from the start. And nothing makes a bomber jump quite like a bomb.” He held up one of the small, marble-sized rolls of parchment that contained one of his favorite tools. “Not much, but hopefully enough to get him to duck.” He opened the sphere of parchment, careful not to let the powder spill out, dropped in one of the stones, then rewrapped the whole package before loading it into his improvised sling. He looked up at the elf. “Ready?” The elf nodded wordlessly, loading his own sling and taking a handful of stones with his free hand. Taraak did the same. “On my signal then.” Almost before he finished saying it, an arrow fell into the fountain with a splash. “Now!” Taraak called, leaping out of cover, whirling his sling above his head as the elf broke around the other side. Knowing he only had seconds before the bomber could set another shaft to string, Taraak released one thong of his sling at just the right time to send the small package of explosive sailing toward the base of the statue behind which the bomber was hiding. It struck the stone almost dead center, disappearing with a sharp
crack and a brief, bright flash in the night. At the same time, the elf pelted the spot with uncanny accuracy, whirling, firing, and reloading his sling with inhuman speed. The gambit appeared to work, because neither of them got shot.
At last, Taraak threw himself down at the base of the horse sculpture, dropping his sling and drawing his knife from his sleeve. We waited half a second in order to catch his breath, nodding to the elf. So far so good. Now for the takedown. He stood up, padding his way around the pedestal, knife at the ready… And abruptly realized why their plan to cross the lawn had worked so well.
There was no one there.
Realizing that the bomber’s backup had to have arrived to help him over the wall, Taraak turned and sprinted through the garden, hoping to catch his target before he made his escape into the city. As he weaved past the manicured trees and bushes, he hoped that the elf was making better progress. Finally, the wall appeared before him, blocking the moonlight. Here he slowed, looking around carefully. If the bomber now had friends, they would probably have someone covering the area with a bow on the top of the wall while they helped him over. He swept the face of the wall, not finding any movement or signs of life. His stomach sank. Either the bomber wasn’t here yet, or he was too late.
Just then, his foot snagged on something in the dark, tripping him onto his face. He bit back a curse, trying to find the offending object…
Taraak’s eyes widened. It was the bomber, his body soaked in blood.
His head was a short distance away.[/size][/blockquote]
