Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [93]
Right down the length of a loaded crossbow.
Even as he fell backward, Meris fired and the druid threw herself aside. The bolt grazed the side of Amra's head, sending a small splash of blood on to her light tunic. With a gasp, she collapsed, moaning, to the ground. At the same instant, Meris slammed into the turf with numbing force, and shivers of pain ran through his right leg.
After a long, agony-filled moment, the scout drew himself up. His leg was not broken, but it certainly did not appreciate being moved. Biting his lip against the pain, he dragged himself over to where Amra lay. The antimagic field had faded by now-the stone only dispelled all magic for a short breath-but the damage had been done. Amra lay squirming and gasping, clutching at the side of her face where the crossbow bolt had struck her.
Perhaps she was still protected by her accursed skin of stone, but Meris wondered if her magic would stop Walker's shatterspike sword. If it did, there was always smothering.
"Now, you little half-breed strumpet," spat Meris. The shatterspike came out of its scabbard and Meris admired the gleam along the mithral blade. "You've given me enough trouble, and it's time to-"
Too late, he caught sight of her eyes. Where they were usually soft blue, now they were stormy, and he thought he caught sight of tiny flickers of lightning.
Too late, he understood their significance. Too late, he heard the thunder overhead.
Too late, he realized that his antimagic stone had only suppressed, not dispelled, her connection with the lightning storm.
Amra shouted a word in Elvish and pointed. In reply to her call, a crack of lightning struck Meris full in the chest.
The cry blown from his lungs, the dusky youth tumbled, limp and senseless, back through the air to land, spread-eagled, with a bone-crunching smack against a wide shadowtop. He slid limply to the ground. Lightning coursed through his body, causing his limbs to spasm, then he lay still, thin vapors of smoke rising from his inert body. His eyes were wide and staring but saw nothing. The shatterspike fell from his nerveless hand.
The world existed in a cacophony of ringing agony for a long moment before blissful darkness surrounded him.
* * * * *
Panting, it was a while before Amra could stand. The bolt's impact-grazing her temple-had thrown her from her feet. Her shocked body refused to obey her commands. Nothing had hurt so badly in all her life. If the shot's angle had been just a few degrees steeper… Well, Amra thanked Silvanus, Mielikki, Tymora, and whatever other gods may have been responsible that it had not been.
Finally, she mustered the courage and energy to rise to her knees with a hand on the hilt of her belt dagger. It was dangerous, for she could not manage the concentration for a spell, and if Meris had been ready with his crossbow, she would have been done for. Fortunately, no lancing death came from any side. Scanning around quickly, Amra decided she was in no immediate danger.
Meris still lay where she had blasted him against a tree, unmoving. At first, his open eyes startled her and she drew her dagger, uttering a prayer to Silvanus. Meris did not move, so Amra felt it was safe to kneel beside him. Using techniques perfected by many years as Quaervarr's chief doctor and midwife, she inspected the young man. His breathing was shallow and his heartbeat faint. Even with the burn on his chest and back, he was not dead. He was, however, far from conscious.
Amra contemplated pulling her dagger across his throat. She had never killed anyone in cold blood, but the scout certainly deserved it for the murder of Peletara and the other couriers. Amra suspected that the arrogant and violent Meris was also guilty of plenty of other crimes she could hardly imagine. Few would miss him, and those who might-Lord Singer Dharan Greyt, just as conceited and foul a man