Magician (47 page)

One, who had stayed behind in the
tunnel during the fighting, hastened forward when his comrades were
obviously in retreat. Instead of weapons he carried two bulging skins
filled with liquid.

The rear guard was pressed back toward
the escape tunnel, and twice soldiers tried to circle to cut them
off. Both times Tomas struck out, and they fell. When Dolgan and his
fighters stood atop the bodies of the fallen monsters, Tomas yelled,
“Be ready to jump.”

He took the two heavy skins from the
dwarf. “Now!” he shouted Dolgan and the others leaped
back, and the Tsurani were left standing on the other side of the
corpses. Without hesitation, the dwarves sped up the tunnel while
Tomas threw the skins at the bodies. They had been earned carefully,
for they were fashioned to rupture on impact. Both contained naphtha,
which the dwarves had gathered from deep black pools under the
mountain. It would burn without a wick, as oil would not.

Tomas raised the lantern and smashed it
in the midst of the pools of volatile liquid. The Tsurani, hesitating
only briefly, were moving forward as the lantern burst. White heat
exploded in the tunnel as the naphtha burst into flame. The dwarves,
blinded, could hear the screams of the Tsurani who had been caught.
When their vision recovered, they could see a single figure striding
down the tunnel. Tomas appeared black, outlined against the
near-white flames.

When he reached them, Dolgan said,
“They’ll be upon us when the flames die.”

They quickly made their way through a
series of tunnels and headed back toward the exit on the western side
of the mountains. After they had traveled a short distance, Dolgan
halted the party. He and several others stood still, listening to the
silence in the tunnels. One dropped to the floor and placed his ear
on the ground, but immediately jumped to his feet. “They come!
By the sound, hundreds of them, and the creatures too. They must be
mounting a major offensive.”

Dolgan took stock. Of the hundred and
fifty dwarves who had begun the ambush, only seventy or so stood
here, and of these, twelve were injured. It could be hoped that
others had escaped through other passages, but for the moment they
were all in danger.

Dolgan acted quickly. “We must
make for the forest.” He started to trot along with the others
following behind.

Tomas ran easily, but his mind reeled
with images. In the heat of battle they assaulted him, more vivid and
clear than before. He could see the bodies of his fallen enemies, yet
they looked nothing like the Tsurani. He could taste the blood of the
fallen, the magic energies that came with him as he drank from their
open wounds in the ceremony of victory. He shook his head to clear
the images. What ceremony? he wondered.

Dolgan spoke, and Tomas forced his
attention to the dwarf’s words. “We must find another
stronghold,” he said as they ran. “Perhaps it would be
best to try for Stone Mountain. Our villages here are safe, but we
have no base to fight from, for I think the Tsurani will have control
of these mines soon. Those creatures of theirs fight well in the
dark, and if they have many of them, they can ferret us out of the
deeper passages.”

Tomas nodded, unable to speak. He was
burning inside, a cold fire of hatred for these Tsurani. They had
savaged his homeland and taken his brother in all but name, and now
many dwarven friends lay dead under the mountain because of them. His
face was grim as he made a silent vow to destroy these invaders,
whatever the cost.

They moved cautiously through the
trees, watching for signs of the Tsurani. Three times in six days
they had skirmished, and now the dwarves numbered fifty-two. The more
seriously wounded had been carried to the relative safety of the high
villages, where the Tsurani were unlikely to follow.

Now they approached the southern part
of the elven forests. At first they had tried to turn eastward toward
the pass, seeking a way toward Stone Mountain. The route was thick
with Tsurani camps and patrols, and they had been constantly turned
northward. Finally it had been decided to try for Elvandar, where
they could find rest from the constant flight.

A scout returned from his position
twenty yards ahead and said softly, “A camp, at the ford.”

Dolgan considered. The dwarves were not
swimmers, and they would need to cross at a ford. It was likely the
Tsurani would hold all the fords on this side. They would have to
find a place free of guards, if one existed.

Tomas looked around. It was nearly
nightfall, and if they were to sneak across the river this close to
the Tsurani lines, it would best be done in the dark Tomas whispered
this to Dolgan, who nodded. He signaled the guard to head off to the
west of the espied camp, to find a likely looking place to hole up.

After a short wait the guide returned
with word of a thicket facing a hollowed rock, where they could wait
for nightfall. They hurried to the place and found a boulder of
granite extruding from the ground, twelve feet tall, and broadening
to a base twenty-five or thirty feet across. When they pulled back
the brush, they found a hollow in which they could tightly fit. It
was only twenty feet across, but it reached back under the rock shelf
for over forty feet, angling down When they were all safely tucked
in, Dolgan observed, “This must have been under the river at
one time—see how it is worn smooth on the underside. It is
cramped, but we should be safe for a bit.”

Tomas barely heard, for he was once
again fighting his battle against the images, the waking dreams, as
he thought of them. He closed his eyes, and again the visions came,
and the faint music.

The victory had been swift, but
Ashen-Shugar brooded. Something troubled the Ruler of the Eagles’
Reaches. The blood of Algon-Kokoon, Tyrant of Wind Valley, was still
salty upon his lips, and his consorts were now Ashen-Shugar’s.
Still there was something lacking.

He studied the moredhel dancers, moving
in perfect time with the music for his amusement. That was as it
should be. No, the lack was felt deep within Ashen-Shugar.

Alengwan, one whom the elves called
their Princess, and his latest favorite, sat on the floor beside his
throne, awaiting his pleasure. He barely noticed her lovely face and
her supple body, clothed in silken garments that served to accent her
beauty rather than conceal it.

“Art thou troubled, master?”
she asked faintly, her terror of him as thinly veiled as her body.

He glanced away. She had glimpsed his
uncertainty, that earned her death, but he would kill her later.
Appetites of the flesh had fled lately, both the pleasure of the bed
and that of killing. Now he thought upon his nameless feeling, that
phantom emotion so strange within. Ashen-Shugar raised his hand, and
the dancers were on the floor, foreheads pressed to the stone. The
musicians had ceased playing in midnote, it seemed, and the cavern
was silent. With a flickering of his hand he dismissed them, and they
fled out of the great hall, past the mighty golden dragon, Shuruga,
who patiently awaited his master . . .

“Tomas,” came the voice.

Tomas’s eyes opened with a snap.
Dolgan had his hand upon the young man’s arm. “It is
time. Night has fallen. You’ve been asleep, laddie.”

Tomas shook his head to clear it, and
the lingering images fled. He felt a churning in his stomach as the
last flickering vision of a warrior in white and gold standing over
the bloody body of an elven princess vanished.

With the others, he crawled out from
under the overhanging rock, and they set out once more toward the
river. The forest was silent, even the night birds seemingly cautious
about revealing their whereabouts.

They reached the river without
incident, save that they had to lie hidden while a patrol of Tsurani
passed. They followed the river, with a scout in front. After a few
minutes, the scout returned. “A sandbar crosses the river.”

Dolgan nodded; the dwarves moved
quietly forward and entered the water in single file. Tomas waited
with Dolgan while the others crossed.

When the last dwarf entered the water,
an inquiring shout sounded from farther up the bank. The dwarves
froze. Tomas moved quickly forward and surprised a Tsurani guard who
was trying to peer through the gloom. The man cried out as he was
felled, and shouting erupted a short way off.

Tomas saw lantern light rapidly
approaching him, turned, and ran. He found Dolgan waiting on the bank
and shouted, “Fly! They are upon us.”

Several dwarves stood indecisively as
Tomas and Dolgan splashed into the river. The water was cold, moving
rapidly over the sandbar. Tomas had to steady himself as he waded
through. The water was only waist deep for him, but the dwarves were
covered nearly to their chins. They would never be able to fight in
the river.

As the first Tsurani guards leaped into
the water, Tomas turned to hold them off while the dwarves made good
their escape. Two Tsurani attacked, and he struck them both down.
Several more jumped into the river, and he had only a brief moment to
see to the dwarves. They were almost at the opposite bank, and he
caught sight of Dolgan, helpless frustration clearly marked on his
face in the Tsurani lamplight.

Tomas struck out again at the Tsurani
soldiers. Four or five were trying to surround him, and the best he
could manage was to keep them at bay. Each time he tried for a kill,
he would leave himself open from a different quarter.

The sound of new voices told him it was
only a matter of moments before he would be overwhelmed. He vowed to
make them pay dearly and lashed out at one man, splitting his shield
and breaking his arm. The man went down with a cry.

Tomas barely caught an answering blow
on his shield when a whistling sound sped past his ear, and a Tsurani
guard fell screaming, a long arrow protruding from his chest. The air
was at once full of arrows. Several more Tsurani fell, and the rest
pulled back. Every soldier in the water died before he could reach
the shore.

A voice called out, “Quickly,
man. They will answer in kind.” As if to demonstrate the truth
of the warning, an arrow sped past Tomas’s face from the other
direction. He hurried toward the safety of the opposite bank. A
Tsurani arrow struck him in the helm, and he stumbled. As he righted
himself, another took him in the leg. He pitched forward and felt the
sandy soil of the riverbank below him. Hands reached down and pulled
him unceremoniously along.

A dizzy, swimming sensation swept over
him, and he heard a voice say, “They poison their arrows. We
must . . .” The rest trailed away into blackness.

Tomas opened his eyes. For a moment he
had no idea of where he was. He felt light-headed and his mouth was
dry. A face loomed over him, and a hand lifted his head as water was
placed at his lips. He drank deeply, feeling better afterward. He
turned his head a little and saw two men sitting close by. For a
moment he feared he had been captured, but then he saw that these men
wore dark green leather tunics.

“You have been very ill,”
said the one who had given him water. Tomas then realized these men
were elves.

“Dolgan?” he croaked.

“The dwarves have been taken to
council with our mistress. We could not chance moving you, for fear
of the poison. The outworlders have a venom unknown to us, which
kills rapidly. We treat it as best we can, but those wounded die as
often as not.”

He felt his strength returning slowly.
“How long?”

“Three days. You have hovered
near death since we fished you from the river. We carried you as far
as we dared.”

Tomas looked around and saw that he had
been undressed and was lying under a shelter fashioned from tree
branches, a blanket over him. He smelled food cooking over a fire and
saw the pot the savory aroma came from. His host noticed and signaled
for a bowl to be brought over.

Tomas sat up, and his head swam for a
moment. He was given a large piece of bread and used it in place of a
spoon. The food was delicious, and every bite seemed to fill him with
increasing strength. As he ate, he took stock of the others sitting
nearby. The two silent elves regarded him with blank expressions.
Only the speaker showed any signs of hospitality.

Tomas looked at him and said, “What
of the enemy?”

The elf smiled. “The outworlders
still fear to cross the river. Here our magic is stronger, and they
find themselves lost and confused. No out-worlder has reached our
shore and returned to the other side.”

Tomas nodded. When he finished eating,
he felt surprisingly well. He tried to stand and found he was only a
little shaky. After a few steps, he could feel the strength returning
to his limbs, and that his leg was already healed. He spent a few
minutes stretching and working out the stiffness of three days
sleeping on the ground, then dressed.

“You’re Prince Calin. I
remember you from the Duke’s court.”

Calin smiled in return. “And I
you, Tomas of Crydee, though you have changed much in a year’s
time. These others are Galain and Algavins. If you feel up to it, we
can rejoin your friends at the court of the Queen.”

Tomas smiled. “Let’s go.”

They broke camp and set out. At first
they moved slowly, giving Tomas plenty of time to gain his wind, but
after a while it was evident he was remarkably fit in light of his
recent brush with death.

Soon the four figures were running
through the trees. Tomas, in spite of his armor, kept pace. His hosts
glanced questioningly at each other.

They ran most of the afternoon before
stopping. Tomas looked around the forest and said, “What a
wonderful place.”

Galain said, “Most of your race
would disagree, man. They find the forest frightening, full of
strange shapes and fearful sounds.”