Bloodwalk - James P. Davis [115]
He focused on the dormant blade, the dull shine of its screaming steel. Something stirred in his stomach, rising to pound in his heart and remind him of aching limbs still frozen in magic. Fresh pain surged as daggers of air pushed through his legs and knees. Nerves screamed in his brain for movement, a primal instinct to resist or flee, fight or run. He found anger again as he imagined his fingers closing on Bedlam's hilt. He longed to wield the blade and teach Khaemil his own form of vengeance, a lesson that, once dealt, could not be unlearned or ever put to use again.
Khaemil crossed in front of him again and he studied the heavy black mace in the shadurakul's hands, gripped tightly and held close. The tower shook again, and only the canomorph's magic kept him standing. A gamble eased into his mind comfortably, the intricacies of the game spinning once again. He had little to lose, and only one piece of the pattern was left unplayed. He listened carefully, counting the canomorph's rhythmic step, and summoned his voice through a raw and scratchy throat.
"Dog," he said, coughing slightly with the effort, but not so much that he did not hear Khaemil stop to listen, just a stride away behind his left shoulder.
"What's that, sweetblood? Some plea for mercy, perhaps?"
He leaned closer, almost half a head taller than Quin, eagerly listening to catch the sweet sound of begging from his captive. Quin smiled slyly, choosing the words of his own spell, far more primitive than Khaemil's chanting or prayers, but just as effective.
"Dead dog," he continued. "Nothing more pitiful than watching the kicking and scratching of a dying dog beaten by its own master. Least of all one like you, that doesn't even know it yet."
Quin braced himself, daring to place hope in the rage that he attempted to evoke. It was a simple kind of magic, targeting pride, and he knew that even devils-especially devils-valued a certain amount of pride.
The effect was immediate. Quin heard robes rustle and a deep breath being inhaled. He squeezed his eyes shut in the instant that the mace slammed into the backplate of his armor. The solid pain of the impact was refreshing as he was thrown to his right, a physical pain more easily accepted than that induced by magic.
His legs fell across the flat of Bedlam's blade. His torso crashed into the heap of bones, shattering old skulls and rib cages. His right arm, outstretched and bound by the spell of paralysis, fell flat on the face of the hidden shield. Sudden and unmistakable warmth washed over his body. He flexed his fingers and gripped the shield's edge, careful to hide the movement from the seething Khaemil. Patterns of stones spiraled and flourished in his mind, the game restored by the simple Shield. Such was the Fate Fall, that even gods could not thwart the smallest details.
A feral smile graced Quin's features as he quietly gave thanks to the foresight of long dead Shaaryan wizards and the legends they spawned. The grinning skull he'd dubbed Ossian lay nearby, and he was suddenly curious to observe the shield, to see the face of the fallen warrior's love, Zemaan. His left hand was only inches from Bedlam's hilt and once again, he counted the steps of Khaemil's familiar stride approaching from behind.
* * * * *
The hunters worked feverishly to man the walls and fight growing fires inside the city. Some covered themselves as best they could with their ironvine cloaks, protected from the falling flames but unable to see the enemy clearly. The sky was brilliantly lit, as if the stars themselves fell from the sky to burn and destroy the city. Puddles of water hissed and boiled as globs of fire landed in the streets. Steam filled the air, rain vaporizing before it reached the ground. Black smoke billowed from empty homes as they were set ablaze.
Lesani was exhausted from fighting the flying devils and ducked beneath a slate overhang not touched by the flames. The devils reveled in the fiery rain, taking advantage of blind archers and crushing them in powerful