Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [51]
Marissa cast a glance at Najra. The witch glared from behind her mask but said nothing.
"Selov speaks the truth," she continued. "If you are angry, direct your anger toward us and the telthor of your land. It was they who sent us to you, bearing a message of warning. Please-"
"You lie," Najra shouted, interrupting the druid. "If Rashemen were truly in peril, do you not think that we would sense it? We are the defenders of this land, not some outland impostors without the sense to make their lies even remotely believable." The witch drew even with Marissa. "You are lucky that the telthor tolerate your presence in Rashemen, let alone speak with you."
The witch's anger was a palpable thing, hot and sharp edged. Marissa took a step back, despite her own mounting emotion, and struggled to regain her composure. One wrong word or heated phrase could jeopardize the future of Rashemen-not to mention doom one of the most important people in her life. She was grateful when Roberc dismounted from Cavan and walked to her side. The halfling strode slowly and purposefully to stand within arm's reach, his chain mail rattling with each step.
Najra looked askance at the warrior's approach but did not seem impressed by his show of solidarity.
If anything, it looked to Marissa as if the diminutive fighter's presence poured oil on the fire of the witch's ire. Najra drew breath to speak again, but the sound of the halfling's sword slowly sliding from its worn scabbard stilled her tongue.
"Nadir, or Nadya-or whatever your name is," Roberc began softly, in a voice that held the promise of menace, "all we have done since we have entered this blasted land is freeze and bleed. We never asked to be the bearers of apocalyptic news, and we certainly never asked to be on the ass-end of a tongue whipping that my own grandmother, dead these twenty years, could have done better."
The witch sputtered and hissed behind her mask, obviously stunned by the halfling's audacity and struggling to put words to her anger.
Roberc continued, looking out at each of the witches as he spoke.
"You all may be the most powerful of the guardians of Rashemen," Roberc said, "but you don't seem to see very well at all. We are wounded and bleeding because someone didn't want us to make it to this meeting. They sent a wraith lord and its foul servants after us in the shadow of Urlingwood, right under your noses. Why would such a thing happen if we were making this whole thing up?"
Marissa held her breath as the halfling's question hung in the air. All around her, she could sense the hum of the witches' mental communion rise to a fevered pitch. For good or for ill, Roberc had spoken the truth, she thought, and now that truth would either save or damn them all.
"You dare!" Najra shouted, finally finding her voice. "You, a stranger and a man, dare to insult the wychlaran. Sisters," she said, turning toward the assembled witches, "I demand that these outlanders be punished for their transgressions-for violating the sanctity of the Red Tree and perverting its power to summon us from our duties."
With that, she raised a pale white hand over her head and began to chant softly in the language of magic. Roberc leaped forward before Marissa could stop him, sword poised to strike at the figure. She watched the first steps of the halfling's deadly dance as if he moved in slow motion, watched the arc of the sword begin to cut downward, and watched as Selov and Borovazk inched forward, trying somehow to stop what was to come.
Too late.
Everything was too late. The witches would move against them, and even if they could survive, they would have to escape from Rashemen while they were being hunted by the wychlaran.
Taenaran would still be lost in the midst of the wraith lord's cursed touch.
For a moment, Marissa lost faith. She wondered why Rillifane would have called her to Rashemen only to have things end so poorly. Why had she come?
Then she heard a word whispered softly from across a great distance,