The Gauntlet (3 page)

And she had Elinor to think about.

She spun on her heel, brushing past the
vampire and racing back inside the small gatehouse. The trunk was
still there, with its bit of stale loaf. She brushed it aside and
threw up the heavy lid, hoping for weapons--charms, potions,
protection wards--anything designed to hold a reservoir of magic
for use in times like these. But there was nothing, aside from a
few scattered rat droppings.

She slammed the trunk shut in frustration,
wishing she had the strength to throw it at the wall. The guard
must have taken the staff as a trophy. Because wherever the Circle
was storing their weapons, it wasn’t here.

“The other gate is still open,” the vampire
said, from the doorway. “And I am skilled at glamourie. Let me
inside your shields and I can hide you and the girl. We can walk
out of here while the fight distracts the guards.”

“Why should I trust you?” she demanded
harshly, desperate for a reason, any reason.

“What choice have you?”

Gillian didn’t see that they had much either
way. Getting outside the walls would do them little good if it left
her drained and defenseless, and at the mercy of a creature whose
kind were well known to have none. But with no weapons and her
magic all but exhausted, staying here would mean certain death at
the hands of the Circle.

The vampire’s head suddenly came up, reacting
to something beyond the reach of her senses. “Help me and I’ll help
you,” he said urgently, holding out his hand.

Gillian hugged Elinor against her, every
instinct she had screaming that she was mad to put their lives in
the hands of a creature who saw them merely as prey. But if her
only choice was between dying now and dying later, she would take
later. “If you betray me, I will use my last breath to curse
you!”

“I would expect nothing less.”

Gillian licked dry lips. She didn’t believe
him, didn’t think for a moment that he really wanted to help. But
the wind had died and booted feet were pounding up the stairs, and
she was out of options. She readied a curse, hoping it wouldn’t be
her last. And dropped the tattered remnants of her shield.

Chapter Three

This was typical
, Kit thought sourly,
slamming them back against the wall as a mob of mages rushed in.
Find the perfect candidate and, naturally, everything went to hell
before he could get away with her. Unfortunately, his lady was not
one to understand unforeseen difficulties. He really did not want
to think of the reception he was likely to get if he returned
empty-handed.

Of course, at the moment, he would rather
settle for returning at all.

“Search every inch,” the dark-haired leader
snapped, and Kit silently cursed.

He’d been hoping for a group of slow-witted
guards who might have assumed that the witch had somehow slipped
past them in the confusion. But judging from their windblown hair
and murderous expressions, these were the men she’d attacked
outside. And he couldn’t take a half dozen war mages on his
own.

At least, he didn’t think he could, having
never before tried. And he discovered that he wasn’t all that keen
on finding out. He decided some subtlety was in order and started
shuffling his little party toward the ruined door.

He thought their chances of making it out
undetected were reasonably good. He’d used one of the talents he’d
manifested since becoming a master and gone dim as soon as he heard
the men approaching. Dim wasn’t invisible--he could still be seen
if someone was looking right at him. But even then he’d be only a
faint, indistinct outline, like a haze of black smoke. And with all
the real smoke choking the air, who was going to notice?

A war mage, apparently. He’d almost reached
the door, where only a single mage stood guard, when one of the
nearby searchers suddenly changed direction and grabbed a fold of
his cloak. “Sir! They’re—”

So much for subtlety. Kit seized the man’s
arm and slung him into the mage guarding the door, hard enough to
send them both staggering backwards off the ramparts. Then he
snatched the child into his arms, grabbed the witch by the waist
and bolted.

It wasn’t the most elegant escape he’d ever
made, but a lifetime of close scrapes had taught him not to be
picky. He dodged a spell that came blistering through the air after
him, sidestepped a small battle, and headed for the stairs. And
then pulled up abruptly and spun them back against the wall.

“What is it?” the witch demanded. “Why are
we—” She stopped, catching sight of the same thing he had.

The stairs were choked with guards and the
courtyard of the castle had turned into a particularly colorful
hell. The flimsy wooden shacks that housed the kitchen, stables and
blacksmith had caught alight and were burning merrily, with
spell-fire tinting the billowing smoke in glowing colors. Horses
were neighing, people were screaming, and spells were exploding on
all sides.

In other words, it was the usual battlefield
chaos, which was what gave him pause. On any given battlefield on
any given day, there were about a hundred ways to die--and that
multiplied tenfold if it was a magical battle. He going to have
to—

A spell he hadn’t seen coming hit them
broadside before he could finish the thought, sizzling against the
shield the witch had managed to raise before flaming out in a burst
of acid green sparks. And while no one might have been able to see
them, that spectacle had been all too visible. Even worse, the
effects didn’t dissipate; instead, a glowing nimbus pulsed in the
air around them, like the corona of the sun on a foggy day.

“Marker,” the witch gasped, before he could
ask. “They used it to hunt us in the forests, to make it impossible
for us to hide. You can’t conceal us now and I cannot protect all
three of us!”

She started struggling, probably deciding to
use her remaining strength to save herself and the girl. But it
wouldn’t be enough and Kit knew it. They had to stay together, and
they had to get out that gate, but the stairs were impossible. He
could probably survive the assault of the guards; but not the
witches.

That left only one option.

“Hold on,” he said grimly, renewing his grip
on them.

The witch was quick; he’d give her that. “Are
you mad?” she stared from him to the chaos below and back again.
“We can’t go down there!”

“And we cannot stay here! We’re sitting
ducks. The smoke should hide us.”

“Hide our bodies, mayhap,” she snarled,
struggling to get away.

Kit held on and dragged her to the edge of
the rampart, trying to spot the least lethal landing place. But
mages were converging on them from all sides, and there was no more
time. He jumped, right before a bolt of pure power tore through the
air he’d just vacated.

It hit the side of the stairs behind them,
blowing a hole in the stone and sending sharp shards raining down
onto the crowd below. The screaming and cursing and spell throwing
from the surrounding witches increased four-fold, but Kit barely
noticed because something hit him full in the face.

It wasn’t a spell, unless the mages had
invented one that smelled like burnt feathers and tried to peck
your eyes out. He cursed, but couldn’t do much more with his arms
full of witches. But whatever-it-was went into a frenzy anyway,
squawking and flapping its wings wildly, as if he was attempting to
murder it.

And then the ground tilted under his feet and
he landed on his arse.

It took him a few seconds to realize that he
hadn’t hit the ground at all, but the edge of a cart full of woven
cages of chickens. Half of them had been broken open in the battle
and the contents were floundering around in the mud or getting
roasted mid-flight by the spells crisscrossing the air. Except for
the one which had somehow gotten its claws trapped in the wool of
his doublet.

The witch had righted herself and her
daughter and was hunkered down beside the cart, watching in
disbelief as he did battle with the guards’ dinner. Kit had the
distinct impression that his credibility might have just taken a
knock, especially since he seemed to be losing. And then wounded
dignity was the least of his problems when a dark-haired mage
jumped off the stairs and landed on the cart’s other end.

Kit went flying into him, bird and all, and
the three of them tumbled off the back of the cart. The mage was
cursing and trying to raise a shield, while Kit attempted to drain
him before he could manage it. They were both half successful. The
mage snapped his shields shut, but they didn’t completely stop the
flow of blood Kit was leeching out of him through the air.

In a panic, the man sent out a cluster of
magical weapons. Half of them collided with crazed birds while the
rest attempted to bury themselves into Kit’s flesh. He swatted at
them, but like a storm of angry bees, they kept buzzing around,
rushing in to stab at him whenever they got the chance.

“You’re losing as much blood as you steal,
vampire!” the mage crowed, attempting to gut him with a sword.

“But I can replace mine,” Kit said sweetly,
sending the sword spinning across the fight with a well-aimed kick.
“How about you?”

“Well said,” the man replied, and kicked him
in the square in the groin.

Kit stumbled back, fervently wishing that
padded cod pieces hadn’t gone out of style, and landed in the cages
of squawking fowl. His impact burst most of the ones left intact
and sent up a whirlwind of flapping wings and clawing feet. He
fought his way free, finally tearing his own damned passenger loose
and tossing it aside. But by the time he got back to his feet, the
mage was gone.

And so was the witch.

“God’s Bones!” he hissed, staring around
wildly. But she and the girl were nowhere in sight. That could mean
that a mage had her, but he doubted it. The spells the Circle’s men
had been casting weren’t the kind they used when they wanted to
take prisoners, and he didn’t see her body.

No, it was a safe bet that she’d run off
somewhere while he was distracted. The question was, where?

He glanced at the secondary gate, or what he
could see of it through drifting clouds of smoke. It was temptingly
close, and the mages hadn’t yet managed to lower the portcullis. It
looked like they’d tried, but the witches had hit it with something
that caused the metal to run like honey. And enough had dripped
into the crevices of the track to cause the gate to stick partway
down.

There looked to be room to squeeze out
underneath, but that required getting to it first. And that didn’t
look likely. The Circle had placed a double line of guards across
the opening to act as a human buffer, leaving their own men free to
slowly decimate the witches who were gathering in force nearby. In
between the two groups was a hell pit of smoke, spells and running,
screaming people.

If she’d headed that way, she wouldn’t last
long.

It had seemed such an easy task, Kit thought
grimly, as he ducked and dodged his way through the melee.
Interrogate Lady Isabel Tapley, a coven witch lately apprehended by
the mages who was suspected of being in league with the Black
Circle. There were rumors that another plot was brewing against the
queen, whom the dark blamed for sheltering their enemies, and Kit
had been sent to find out if there was any truth to them.

But nothing had gone right from the
beginning. Lady Isabel had poisoned herself before he arrived,
leaving him to question a corpse, and not the animated kind. The
fact that she’d resorted to such extreme measures made him that
much more convinced that the plot was genuine, but she’d left no
papers behind and her servants knew frustratingly little about
their mistress’ plans. The only thing he had been able to glean was
that she had a meeting in three days’ time with several men newly
arrived from Spain.

And that one of them shared the name of a
noted Black Circle member.

Kit needed to be at that meeting. And for
that, he needed a credible Lady Isabel. But young, red-headed,
coven witches were a little thin on the ground these days, thanks
to the Circle. And his request to be allowed to borrow one had been
flatly refused. He had therefore gone to the source and bribed the
guards, only to land in this mess.

The more sensible side of his brain offered
the observation that, really, there had to be other witches who fit
Lady Isabel’s description. And some of them might be found in
somewhat less trying circumstances. The other part of his brain,
however, the one that was always getting him in trouble, was dead
set on this woman. He’d bled for her; he would have her. And the
Circle would not.

Assuming he could find her before they
did.

Chapter Four

So much for my knight errant,
Gillian
thought, watching her rescuer getting beaten up by a half-roasted
bird. She was about to go rescue the creature when one of the war
mages dove off the side of the ramparts, flinging a curse in front
of him. She acted on instinct, dropping her all-but-useless shields
and throwing up a
declive
instead. It took most of her
remaining strength, but it worked; the protection spell acted like
a mirror, reflecting the caster’s magic right back at him.

It caught him in the middle of his leap,
popping his shields and sending him crashing headfirst into the
cart. The vampire had landed on the other end, and the two hundred
pound mage smashing down at the edge of the cart caused him to go
flying, chicken and all. And then she didn’t see any more, because
strong arms clapped around both of hers from behind, lifting her
completely off the ground.

She tried to mutter a curse, but found she
couldn’t draw a breath. The guard—and it had to be a guard, because
she was still alive--was doing his best to squeeze her in two. She
couldn’t aim the staff with him behind her, so she brought it down
on his foot instead, as hard as she could. The man bellowed and
dropped her, and Gillian scrambled away, only to be dragged back by
the ankle.