When Dragons Rage

61

Isaura clapped her hands over her ears to shut out the screams of the burning mage. The Murosan sorcerer who had opposed Corde collapsed in a flaming mass. People on the walls of Nawal shrank back or reeled away. Seated there before Naelros’ pavilion, which had been set up barely five hundred yards from the city, Isaura could not smell the roasting flesh. For that she was thankful, for at least that was one aspect of the display she could escape. Being Chytrine’s daughter, there was no way she could avoid watching, since all of Lord Neskartu’s charges saluted her, their master, and Naelros before marching off to do battle. For her to absent herself would greatly affect morale, so she sat there.

And there was a part of her that did not shy from watching her mother’s enemies die. She would have preferred to see them led to see reason, but it was obvious that having an army camped outside a city was hardly something that would encourage compromise. As it was, they opposed her mother, so they were a threat that had to be neutralized.

Death duels between the wizards was accomplishing that rather well. Isaura admired the courage with which combatants from both sides approached the battleground. Though they were mortal enemies, they still showed respect for each other. Neskartu had been very careful in selecting the opposition for his mages. He had previously cast a spell that allowed him to assess the strength and number of the sorcerers hidden in Nawal, and he planned accordingly.

The Aurolani had fared very well in the combats. While a handful of the kryalniri had been killed, and two of Neskartu’s Apprentices had been slain, a full dozen of the sorcerers from Nawal had been destroyed—including the last four in a row. Corde had dispatched two of them by herself, one after the other, and gave the appearance of remaining for a third. While that did seem a bold move, the Murosans had the habit of sending their strongest mages out first and working down.

Neskartu, who was able to sit without a chair, was a varicolored presence between Isaura and the dracomorph. They are reduced to Apprentices, all of whom will be swept away. Naelros, you will have little opposition from the realm of sorcery.

The dracomorph nodded slowly. He, likewise, used no chair but instead squatted back on his heels. A hooded cloak covered him, but Isaura could still see his large eyes glittering from within the hood’s shadow. “There is no haste. The longer we wait, the less powerful they become, and the more time we have to build our stores of firedirt.”

His assessment came firm and even, yet sent a chill down Isaura’s spine. She had seen Porjal fall, and its subjugation had been savage. Anarus’ assault had concentrated the dragonels such that they collapsed a section of wall; the army then poured through the breach. The slaughter had been horrifying and the city was taken in short order.

Naelros, however, had been given two weeks to take Nawal and showed signs of using every minute of it. The dragonels had been laid such that they would shoot over the walls and destroy buildings within—proving the walls to be ineffective protection. That could suffice as inducement for surrender and might allow him to take the city with the walls intact, which would make it very difficult for anyone to retake.

Isaura realized their strategy would save Aurolani lives, and she applauded that idea. What she hated was the visiting of the war on those who were not warriors. She had seen the same thing in Porjal, but it had resulted in the bloodlust frenzy of the city’s storming. Here the death would be random and its only purpose would be to terrorize the people so badly they could not think of resistance.

She wondered, though, if such random slaughter might not stiffen resistance. She further wondered why Naelros couldn’t see that as a possibility. Being a dracomorph who likely was centuries old—though this mind might only possess decades of consciousness—he doubtless had a differing view of humans than she did. She was even willing to consider that her interaction with Neskartu’s Apprentices had inflated her view of their capabilities, since his students were drawn from the smartest of the humans.

When she had raised this point with Naelros, the dracomorph had thanked her for her words. “I shall consider your ideas, Princess.” His voice rang with sincerity, but he commented no more on what she offered. Instead, he concentrated on his preparations, and seemed not to have altered things one bit.

The small mageport in Nawal’s gate opened again. A heavyset, dark-haired youth squeezed through it and strode toward the battleground. He wore a simple robe of dark brown that had been secured around his bulbous middle with a length of white cord. He tried to stride purposefully, but a trick of wind lashed him with the smoke from the burning woman. He sidestepped awkwardly, stumbled for a moment, then caught himself against the black dolmen and slowly straightened up.

Laughter and hooting sounded from the Aurolani lines, but it did not appear to daunt him. He straightened his robe, then lifted his chin. “I am Kerrigan Reese, Adept of Vilwan. I come in challenge.”

His right hand came up and forward. His fingers were curled into a fist around the middle of a wand. His hand glowed blue for a moment, then that glow sprang off into a soft sphere. It bounced across the snowy ground between Nawal and the Aurolani lines. It took short, high hops, and some long ones as well. It leaped over warriors, then rolled for a bit before coming to rest before Lord Neskartu.

The sullanciri flowed down to one knee and scooped a hand beneath the spell. His fingers contracted, raking through it. A similar color played through him. In an eyeblink he was standing full upright and the colors quickened as they flowed through him.

Most curious.

The dracomorph lifted a hand to suppress a yawn. “How so?”

He was undetected in the survey of Nawal. And the wand he is carrying is one I created and gave to Wheele. Wheele used it to slay an old acquaintance of mine.

Isaura studied the youth. The brown robe indicated his area of expertise was conveyance magick—though she admitted it could just have been the only color robe he could find. That he was from Vilwan and in a Murosan city was a bit of a curiosity. His moving into the dueling circle, which was a Murosan custom, was unusual, and his daring to challenge a sullanciri remarkable.

Young and very foolish, or young and wise beyond his years.

Corde, who yet stood in the circle, turned to face the youth. “I am Corde of the Aurolani Conservatory. I will face your challenge.”

No, Corde. Neskartu’s command barely brushed Isaura’s mind, but she felt a tingle. One kryalniri who had the misfortune of standing between the sullanciri and Corde caught the full brunt of it and fell twitching to the ground. It hit Corde hard, shaking her badly, but she bowed and withdrew to her own lines.

Naelros peeled his hood back and looked at the sullanciri. “You will accept this challenge?”

/ have no reason not to. He possesses that wand and clearly wishes to avenge Orla’s death. He cannot stand against me, and if he uses that wand, it will be his certain death. Without another comment, the sullanciri took a step forward with his left foot. In an eyeblink he was there, ten yards from the Adept, his colors rippling down his body in tigerish stripes.

Naelros shook his head. “So foolish.”

“That is not certain.”

The dracomorph’s forked tongue flicked out through the air for a moment. “Ah, you refer to the boy. I do not.”

Isaura watched Kerrigan intently. He was obese and awkward, yet there was something about him. Not anything attractive in any sexual sense. Some of the Murosans had intrigued her in that way, but in Kerrigan she had not the least flicker of interest. She realized, after a moment’s reflection, it was less because of his appearance than another sense she had of him.

One of kinship.

They were linked in some manner, but that feeling was completely outside her ability to understand. She felt as if she were trying to hear a color or taste a song. She had no means by which to identify what she was feeling.

Neskartu let his thoughts seep out in a circle. You are the youth. You may strike first.

Kerrigan shifted his shoulders, then clasped his hands on the wand at the small of his back. “I issued the challenge. Yours is the first strike.”

More laughter pulsed from the Aurolani lines.

Naelros’ nostrils flared. “I do smell fear from the boy, but not enough. Not nearly enough.”

Isaura shook her head. She could feel the power gathering around Neskartu. The sullanciri pulled from pure, strong flows, but only skimming bits and pieces of currents. What he was gathering would be strong, but merely a fraction of what he could have drawn were he open to the reality of magick. Neskartu’s right hand rose slowly, and his fingers flowed through a series of forms before he pointed his hand at Kerrigan and cast his first spell.

The argent brilliance of the attack did not surprise Isaura, for she knew the sullanciri would try to overwhelm his enemy at a shot. A jagged bolt of lightning as thick as her thigh sizzled through the air, crossing between the combatants in a heartbeat. Pure power burned the air, and snow melted into steam.

The bolt never hit the youth. It skittered wide, then curled back around, spawning smaller bolts the way a vine might sprout thorns. They stabbed at him with little silvery blades. Some curled and hooked, trying to rake over him, but none touched him. The lightning swirled around him faster and faster, tightening as if to crush him, but the silver slowly evaporated in an ectoplasmic fog that revealed Kerrigan unrumpled, unmoved, and unharmed.

Isaura reached out and could feel the dissipating energy of Neskartu’s spell, but she caught nothing of what Kerrigan had used to resist it. As a rule, like would have had to meet like. While a skilled magician might be able to block or deflect a spell using a lesser spell, that was a function of the defender’s superior knowledge of magick.

Which means he is so far above Neskartu that… No, that could not be possible.

Kerrigan nodded slowly. “Please, you were a Magister on Vilwan. Out of respect for that position, I offer you a second strike.”

The colors running through Neskartu danced as if they were drifting on the surface of a storm-wracked sea. Both his hands flowed wide at shoulder height, then descended and rose again. As they did, so did the power gathering around him. The mist from the snow began to gather and creep toward Kerrigan. It flowed up his robes, frosting them. Quickly enough he would be entombed in ice. Deprived of air, he would collapse, and Neskartu would let him smother.

That was the intent of the spell. In reality, the vapor rose and some did frost the hem of Kerrigan’s robe, but it never got past his knees. The vapor did continue to flow upward, but it kept going, higher and higher, until it began to curl back around in a mushroom shape. The cloud above him continued to boil until the sullanciri’s arms fell and it all vanished.

Naelros’ dark eyes blinked. “Now I smell much fear.”

“From the boy?”

“No.”

The Vilwanese youth bowed his head to Neskartu a third time. “You knew my mentor. You caused her death. I will allow you a third strike, but no more.”

Neskartu’s anger radiated out wordlessly. Even Isaura flinched, but the youth did not. The sullanciri’s body shifted as his fury built, and he gathered in power. Neskartu grew and expanded, rippling with shadow muscle, sprouting huge dragon wings. Colors raced, bouncing within him as if trapped in a closed vessel, melding and shifting. Incredible amounts of power poured into him, more than Isaura would have ever thought he could contain.

The sullanciri twisted, lifting a wing past the dolmen behind him, and grabbed the stone. He yanked it side to side, as if it were a tooth to be loosened in the jaw, then tore it free. Muddy clods of dirt dripped and fell fcom the thick end. He raised it over his head, then smashed it down on the Adept.

Isaura caught no sense of Kerrigan employing magick in his defense. Ungainly and jiggling, he danced aside. The stone slammed into the ground hard and heavy. Isaura could feel the earth shake even where she sat. The impact bounced Kerrigan back and dumped him on his fat backside.

He slumped against the black stone and grabbed at the edge with his right hand.

Mine! Neskartu’s triumphant mindburst made her breath catch in her throat. The hulking sullanciri bent over, grasping the stone again. Muscles rippled over his back and arms. Colors intensified to outline them. Once more the stone would rise, once more it would fall, and Kerrigan would be pulverized.

The stone did not move.

Calmly, despite the violent effort shaking the sullanciri, Kerrigan rolled to his knees, then levered himself up with his hands on the stone. Though the stone had landed in turf softened by spells and melting snow, Neskartu might as well have been trying to uproot the whole of Nawal. All of his efforts were for naught.

Kerrigan’s voice gained a bit of an edge. “Enough. You have had your third strike. You had one for being challenged. You had one for what you had learned. You had one for what you have done.”

Neskartu’s clawed hands released the scored stone. The sullanciri straightened, but kept his wings unfurled to make himself larger. The colors no longer raced through him, but flowed in bright, twisting sheets.

And now you would have your strike?

Kerrigan nodded slowly and brought the wand to hand. “My strike, yes.”

The sullanciris colors quickened. He had said that Kerrigan’s use of the wand would bring certain death. Isaura did know that Neskartu graced the most promising and treacherous of his students with gifts like that wand. While these gifts enhanced the ability to cast magick, they were not without danger. Through them the sullanciri could destroy a rebel.

Isaura found herself wanting to shout a warning, but she could not. Her mother had told her that she would be betrayed, and the words came back to haunt Isaura. I will not be the one to betray her.

A heartbeat later, she knew neither the warning nor the betrayal was necessary.

The youth looked up at the creature towering over him. “I know two things. If I cast through this wand, you will kill me. If I use this wand, I will kill you.”

Power flowed so quickly into Kerrigan that Isaura could feel currents warping to fill him. Neskartu began preparing defenses against any number of combat spells, but they mattered not. The sullanciri had missed the most important clue about his attacker, and had he spotted it, he might have been able to prepare correctly.

Isaura doubted that would have saved his life.

Kerrigan was not a combat mage. He did not cast a spell through the wand, but on the wand—a wand Neskartu had enchanted himself. The spell hyperaccelerated the wand. In the blink of an eye it went from motionless to a blur.

Like an arrow, it punched through Neskartu’s chest. It tugged at the flesh of his back, tenting it between the wings. The wand lifted the sullanciri so quickly into the air that his arms and legs streaked out behind him like streamers. The wings collapsed around him, and his body followed, until he had become nothing but a dark line ringed with angry colors. Then Isaura heard a thundercrack, felt it ripple through her chest. The end of that line snapped forward to the front, then it disappeared into a puff of white vapor high in the sky.

In the thundercrack’s wake, silence reigned. Shock showed on all faces, save that of the Adept. He looked mildly curious, then rubbed his hands over the thighs of his robe. He frowned as he looked at the stone, then gestured almost blithely and it floated back into its original position.

Off to Isaura’s right, a fire captain snarled an order. A spark was set to the firehole of a dragonel. Smoke spurted upward with a hiss, then a moment later the weapon roared. It belched fire, and an iron ball arced out. It bounced once, splashing water and grasses, then bore down on Kerrigan.

The youth froze. The ball struck him solidly in the chest, tumbling him back two dozen feet. A great cry rose from the Aurolani lines and the dragonel crew heartily congratulated itself.

Then the Adept struggled to his feet. He wove unsteadily, but appeared to draw strength from the cheers of the spectators high on the walls. He staggered over to where the ball lay steaming on the ground, then lifted it awkwardly. He waddled off with the thing suspended between his knees.

Naelros shot to his feet and snarled at the dragonel crew. The gibberers mewed and hid themselves behind their weapon. The dracomorph turned his head and looked at her. “He will use the metal from the ball to shape wards to deflect anything with a similar content, will he not?”

Isaura nodded. “If all the balls are from the same crucible, or the ore was mined in the same place, they would be effective.”

“But not wholly.”

“After what I saw here, I could not judge.”

The dracomorph nodded slowly. “This changes things.” He settled back onto his heels. “This changes many things.”

The calm that bled into his voice surprised her. “He has slain a sullanciri and is very powerful. You cannot be thinking to continue the siege.”

Naelros fixed her with a dark stare. “He is powerful, but not the most powerful. He has changed things, so shall we. With proper aid, your mother shall be pleased, and Nawal will be mine.”