The Magestone

23 Kasarian/Mereth—events at Krevonel Castle, and later at Lormt (20th Day, Moon of the Knife/21st Day, Month of the Ice Dragon)

As Gurborian engaged me in an aggressive pursuit around the room, I heard the impact of Mereth’s body against the paving stones, but I could spare no more than the briefest of glances in their direction. Gurborian furiously pressed his attack at that point, and I was forced to transfer my full attention to our dispute. It could not have been more than a moment or two later that Gratch screamed. As I retreated toward the conference table to survey Mereth’s situation, I tossed one of the chairs in Gurborian’s path to obstruct him.

I could not immediately see Mereth, but Gratch was dead, lying half under the table, his face contorted. I had to assume that Mereth had somehow acquired his dart gun and shot him—a most unexpected but welcome action on her part. I had no time to search for Mereth, being again assailed by Gurborian. In case Mereth was alive and hiding under the table, I drew Gurborian toward the far end of the chamber. As we fought our way past the barred doors, a volley of blows rang out against them from the corridor side. Bodrik’s force was doubtless engaging Reptur’s quartet. I felt confident that Krevonel would prevail in that encounter; I had to be equally certain that I was the victor on my side of the doors.

As I caught my breath, I realized that along with the clash of blades inside the room, I could also hear definite sounds of conflict outside in the hall. The two Alizonders were warily circling one another in the far end of the room. I shivered at the thought that with both sword and dagger blades poisoned, even the slightest scratch might be fatal. I crept nearer, hoping to trip Gurborian with my staff, but like Kasarian’s, his huntman’s senses alerted him to my stealthy approach. Dropping his dagger to free both hands, Gurborian toppled one of the iron cressets to block Kasarian’s way, and grasping a heavy chair, he rammed it toward me, forcing me back against the stone wall.

I tried desperately to squirm to one side, but the chair arm cruelly impacted my thigh. The pain was so severe that my sight clouded for an instant. When my vision cleared, I saw Kasarian wrench the supper-laden trestle table away from the wall and sling it side over end, sweeping Gurborian off his feet. Kasarian hastened to release me from the crushing weight of the chair. As I collapsed to the floor, the entire room seemed to slide sideways in the most sickening fashion. I had somehow held on to my staff, which was fortunate, for Gurborian, having regained his footing, was skulking behind Kasarian, raising a broken chair arm over his head. I managed to deliver a glancing poke to Gurborian’s ribs, partly deflecting his stroke so that the length of wood smote Kasarian’s upper right arm and shoulder instead of his skull. Gurborian snarled at me, and viciously kicked my outstretched leg. I felt the bone crack. He likely would have assailed me further, but Kasarian, surely half-stunned by the blow he’d taken, whirled around, interposing his sword, which he had transferred to his left hand.

Gurborian hesitated, backing away from Kasarian’s naked blade. “Your right hand appears quite limp,” he observed with a savage grin. “Can it be that your arm is broken?”

Kasarian smiled equally unpleasantly. “So paltry a blow could produce only a transient numbness and possibly a minor bruise,” he said, executing a complex flourish with his blade. “Arms Master Shivar insisted during my earliest training that I develop expert skill with either hand. Do not indulge in any false hopes that you have disabled me.”

Gurborian growled several Alizonian words which I did not know, but their import was obviously insulting. Kasarian’s expression hardened. He regarded Gurborian with icy scorn, and declared, “You bring disgrace upon the Line Sired by Reptur.”

Suddenly, I smelled the sharp scent of scorched or burning fabric. Coals from the overturned cresset had ignited torn chair upholstery, Gurborian’s cloak, and a tangled tablecloth ripped loose during the earlier phase of the duel. To my immediate distress, bright flames were feeding along the debris, drawing ever nearer to my injured legs, which I could not move no matter how hard I tried. Desperate, I waved my staff to attract Kasarian’s attention.

As Gurborian warily retreated from my sword’s reach, he cast unforgiveable aspersions upon my sire’s breeding, thus providing more than ample grounds for slitting his throat had I not already determined to kill him.

From the corner of my eye, I sensed a frantic movement. Unable to attract my attention by crying out, Mereth was waving her staff. The cresset’s spilled coals had ignited debris scattered on the floor, and a line of fire was licking toward her. At once, I slashed a panel of tapestry from the wall and cast it, tentlike, over Gurborian. I knew that even such a heavy fabric would not contain him for long. Although somewhat hampered by my numbed right arm, I cast aside my sword, seized the overturned trestle table by its edge, ramming it over against the far wall to squeeze the swathed Gurborian behind it.

I could then turn to assist Mereth. There was no time to skirt around the mounting flames fed by Gurborian’s discarded cloak and other wreckage. I reached directly through the fire to haul Mereth to safety. Using Gratch’s unburnt cloak, I smothered the worst of the flames and dispersed the remaining coals and debris.

Kasarian sped to assist me, thrusting his bare hands unflinchingly through the flames to grab my boots and pull me away from the mounting danger.

Having untangled himself from Kasarian’s impediments, Gurborian emerged like a wounded boar from its den, his eyes wild, blood welling from a scrape on his forehead. He had retrieved his dagger, and lumbered toward us, intent upon striking Kasarian while he was distracted with my rescue. Alert to his approach, Kasarian executed a tumbler’s roll, snatched up his own sword, and leaped back to guard me.

In his single-minded frenzy to penetrate Kasarian’s defense, Gurborian dashed at us, but stumbled when his foot struck one of the fallen goblets. Instantly, Kasarian lunged, slicing Gurborian’s outflung hand. Unable to check his forward progress, Gurborian fell heavily. He lay motionless on the floor for the space of a heartbeat, then gave a chilling cry. As he rolled over, we could see that in addition to the sword cut on his hand, he had impaled himself upon his own dagger. In obvious agony, Gurborian pleaded in a choking voice, “Kill me, I beg you—this blade is steeped in flesh-rot poison!”

Kasarian warily neared his fallen foe, but not close enough to come within dagger reach. What he saw prompted him to take three rapid steps and pierce Gurborian through the heart. After withdrawing and wiping his sword, Kasarian dropped to one knee beside Gurborian’s body. When he stood up, I saw for just an instant the glitter of something silver in his hand before he thrust it into his tunic pocket and hurried back to me.

Had my leg pain not been so overwhelming, I would have smiled at the disgusted expression on Kasarian’s face. Our violent combat had produced deplorable disorder. I had seen enough of his living quarters to know that Kasarian preferred everything around him to be maintained neatly in place. He was now obviously far more annoyed by the disarray and damages to his audience chamber than by his own injuries.

He stooped to lift me up. Having previously experienced his raw strength first hand during the postern transit, and now having seen his fighting energy, I was surprised by his gentle touch. He eased me into the only unbroken chair, then turned toward the barred doors.

I brushed tears of pain from my cheeks as I watched with trepidation. We could hear no further sounds of battle from the hall outside, but we could not know which force of retainers had triumphed—Krevonel’s or Reptur’s.

No further sounds of combat emanated from the hall, but I felt it was still advisable to proceed prudently. I eased the bar out of its supports. Then, sword in hand, I quietly opened the right-hand door.

It was as well that I forbore from rushing out into the hall. Bodrik was poised just outside with a poleax, ready to strike our enemies, had they prevailed. I complimented him on his preparedness. He reported that all of Reptur’s men were dead, along with two of ours.

“Come within,” I ordered. “We must hasten to dispose of our primary guests. Baron Gurborian unwisely chose flesh-rot poison for his dagger, so observe the necessary precautions.”

Bodrik glanced at what was left of Gurborian, and smiled. “The safest way to transport yon carrion to the river will be to wrap it in some of the downed tapestry cloth,” he said. After appraising the chaotic state of the chamber, Bodrik added, “Gennard will be sore vexed, Master. He dislikes spills and stains, so he does. I wager.

He’ll complain of the damage as well.” “Gennard can attend to the cleaning in the morning,” I observed. “Be sure none of the poison soaks through when you lift the . . . residue. Gratch’s body will not require special handling; his darts were evidently prepared with smother root. I shall be occupied attending to the Worthy Baron’s injuries. We may be obliged to consult a bonesetter.”

Bodrik saluted Mereth respectfully, then departed to assemble his work party. I lifted Mereth in my arms and carried her as quickly as I could to the nearest passage-way leading to Krevonel’s vaults.

Fortunately, my right hand had recovered from the effects of Gurborian’s blow. Had Mereth not so ably employed her staff to deflect his stroke at my head, I should likely have been killed. It was frustrating not being able to ask her the extent of her bodily injury. She had shut her eyes, but I did not know whether she was wearied or had swooned from pain or weakness. I dared not stop to request that she write upon her slate. Having broken bones myself in falls during hunts and melees, I presumed she must be enduring considerable pain. I attempted to proceed as fast as I could with the minimum of jarring. Even so, the journey to the postern chamber seemed interminable. I was particularly gratified that due to forethought, I had slipped down earlier in the evening to kindle the slowest burning torches. We were therefore assured of a minimal lighted path had we been forced to make a hasty—or fighting—retreat to the postern once we secured Elsenar’s jewel. Striding with Mereth in my arms, I had no free hand to carry a torch or taper.

When I at last reached the lowest corridor, I had to lay Mereth down in order to extract the elder’s key and unlock the door to the postern chamber. Recalling how that door had shut behind me before, I had to assume the same magic could again protect our backs once we had entered the room. It was still deeply unsettling to behold the heavy door swinging shut and locking by itself, but I was almost immediately distracted by the formation of the eerie floating patch of light signaling the postern’s opening. Carrying Mereth, I stepped through, hoping that the Lormt folk would be aware of our coming.

Evidently, Ouen had ordered that someone be present in Lormt’s cellar at all times. When I emerged, one of the elderly scholars was standing nearby, his face stricken with fright and amazement. I cudgeled my wits for the proper Estcarpian words. “Do not stand there, man,” I told him. “Fetch a healer!”

Speechless, he snatched up his lantern and scurried toward the distant door, but before he had proceeded very far, was met by two figures hurrying toward us.

Alerted by their unnatural talents to the postern’s activation, Duratan’s mate and the Wise Woman were approaching at a fast walk that quickened to a run when they saw that Mereth was injured. Dispatching the scholar to inform the others, they assisted me in laying Mereth on one of the wooden benches. “What happened to her?” the Wise Woman demanded.

“It was necessary to fight,” I replied. “Gurborian and Gratch are dead. I believe Mereth’s leg is broken.”

The Wise Woman had been delicately feeling Mereth’s body and limbs. “Also some ribs,” she snapped, “and who knows what else.” She glared at me as if she held me personally responsible.

“Were you wounded in the fighting?” Duratan’s mate asked, raising her lantern to shed more light on me.

“A mere bruise or two,” I said. “Attend to the lady—her injuries are more severe.”

Mereth suddenly opened her eyes and fluttered her fingers. “I think she wants her slate,” Duratan’s mate observed. She turned to Mereth. “Is that what you wish?”

Mereth nodded vigorously. By great fortune—or perhaps the force of long habit—Mereth had retained her slate and chalk in her tunic pocket. The Wise Woman extracted them, while Duratan’s mate supported Mereth to a sitting position so she could write. I lifted a lantern to provide illumination.