Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [46]
Taen gasped as the wraith's long fingers passed through the skin of his neck and reached deep into his being. Instantly, the world spun away, replaced by a thick haze of gray fog. He stumbled forward, anxious to find his companions, trying to avoid the follow-up blow that would surely fall, but the fog swirled around him, filling his lungs. Taen's chest burned. His heart had stopped beating, and was replaced by a single ball of white ice that sat in his chest like a lodestone. Choking and retching, he nearly didn't hear the woman's voice that called out to him from the depths of the fog.
"Murderer!" it shouted, and again, "Murderer!"
Taen wanted to protest, to deny the accusation, but he knew the truth. He was a murderer. Talaedra's face formed in the fog swirling around him.
"Murderer." This time several voices accused him-then several hundred, until the air reverberated with the word-"murderer."
"Talaedra!" he shouted-then knew no more.
* * * * *
Marissa's blood froze in her veins when she saw Taenaran fall beneath the wraith's attack. Fear and anger rose within her at the thought that he might be dead. She gripped the Staff of the Red Tree tightly and swung it with all her strength at the stooped form of the feeding wraith. Power flowed through the staff once again as it struck the undead monster, but this time the impact caused the wood of the staff to ignite with a flaring blast of silver energy. Whatever she had done had awakened life from deep within the wood. She could feel the whispering voice in her mind grow stronger, more urgent, until it nearly shouted ancient wisdom and ancient wrath.
Marissa fought it while she could, but the voice overcame her. For a moment, she knew the terrible power held within the still-living branch of the Red Tree, knew how to tap into it and how to unleash it on the world.
A moment was all she needed.
Raising the staff high into the air, she brought its heel down hard on the earth, singing the words to an ancient song in a voice both her own and not her own. The ground trembled. Light exploded from the artifact, as bright as the searing light of noon at High Summer. It filled the road with its blinding rays, and against its elemental force, the wraiths had no defense. In a flash of darkness, they imploded, leaving only the memory of death behind.
Then, as suddenly as it had flared into existence, the light winked out, and darkness descended like a shroud upon the trade road.
Selov was the first to recover.
"By all the gods and the wisdom of the elders," he whispered in obvious amazement. "What have you done?"
Marissa was tired, almost too tired to stand.
"I am not sure," she said wearily, "and right now I don't care." She forced her body to move toward the fallen half-elf. "Is he-?"
"He is alive," Selov said, examining Taen carefully.
"So is Borovazk," called out Roberc.
Relief flooded through her body, giving a lift to her wearied spirit.
"Then we must hurry to the well," Marissa said. "I fear that our friends need help that only the wychlaran can provide."
Or withhold, she thought cynically.
In the distance, a lone wolf sang mournfully to the dying moon.
CHAPTER 13
The Year of Wild Magic
(1372 DR)
The goblin screamed.
Yulda, wrapped in her hag illusion, smiled at the foul creature's pain-though her eyes held little humor. She watched it beat ineffectually at the incorporeal form of the snow tiger, like a small child denying its mother's discipline. Her smile deepened as Fleshrender batted the hapless creature between its paws, purring loudly while its claws sank through the goblin's skin.
In truth, her mood was fouler than the snowstorms that battered the mountains surrounding her citadel. When word had come to Yulda, through her spy at the Green Chapel, regarding the outsiders and their peculiar journey to Immil Vale, she was incensed. The presence of the Staff of the Red Tree among the outsiders drove her beyond reason. If Durakh had not had the sense to try to calm Yulda down, the witch would have set about