Sentinelspire - Mark Sehestedt [42]
Maddened by pain, the tiger barreled away, plowing right into Valmir and sending him crashing into a thorn bush.
Sauk descended on Berun. Lewan saw that all mercy and all remembrance of their friendship was gone, replaced by complete rage. The half-orc brought his sword around in a backhand sweep that would have beheaded his master had Berun not thrown himself back. But the move cost him. On the slope in the slick mud, Berun slipped and fell. He hit a carpet of leaves made slick by the rain and seasons of rot. He slid several paces down the hill and might have gone all the way to the bottom had a large brake of holly not caught him.
Color was fading from the world, and shadows were closing in round the edges of Lewan's vision. Still the roaring filled his ears, but in those last moments he thought he heard a voice behind the roaring-a raspy, smoky voice chanting a rough sing-song. An incantation, almost.
Lewan's left arm collapsed under him and he rolled to one side. But he kept his eyes open, fixed on his master, who was rising from the holly, covered in mud, leaves, ages-old pine needles, and blood. Sauk was still coming down the hill, right for him.
A huge patch of ground erupted before Berun, scattering leaves, branches, and the rotted remains of an old tree. The ground rose up, almost three times taller than Sauk. Shaped almost like a man it was-or a half-formed shape of a man, like the beginning of a sculptor's statue. It dripped mud and leaves, and branches protruded from its torso and head.
Stunned, mouth agape, Sauk slid to a stop only a couple of paces from the shambling mound of man-shaped earth. But the thing fell upon Berun. In the final instant before it struck, Lewan could have sworn he saw a mouth open at the crown of the man-shaped earth. It grew and grew until the mouth took up most of its torso. It closed over Berun, and the mound lost all shape, becoming nothing more than a wave of undulating earth and detritus.
The earth settled again, but Berun was gone. Blackness closed over Lewan, and he didn't feel his face strike the wet ground.
Part Two
The Fortress of the Old Man
Chapter Thirteen
19 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning
Storms (1374 DR)
Awareness returned little by little. First the sensation of warmth. Not like fire, nor even sunshine. A soft warmness. Then sound, though it was no more than a breeze sighing over stone. Then scent. Many subtle aromas-fire, both wood smoke and the spicy aroma of candles, clean water, the particular thin scent air takes at high altitudes, and the sweet smell of spring blossoms-all blending in a pleasant whole. Last of all came true awareness.
Lewan opened his eyes. He lay in a soft bed wide enough for five people, his head nestled on goose down pillows, his body wrapped in silk sheets over which had been laid a soft coverlet sewn of rabbit skins.
The room around him was… luxurious. Lewan knew the word, though he had only been able to ascribe meaning to it from bard's tales. Never had he seen such opulence. A massive stone fireplace centered the wall opposite his bed. A fire was burning to embers in it. The bed itself lay under a canopy around which a netting of sheer red fabric had been pulled up. Tiles the color of rich cream lined the floor, over which lay thick rugs. A door of some wood the hue of burnt cinnamon centered the wall to the right of his bed. Scented candles burned throughout the room. The wall to the left of his bed opened onto a balcony, beyond which Lewan could see blue sky interspersed with high, thin clouds, fine as gossamer strands. Even through the scent of wood smoke and candle wax, he could tell that the air was thinner, crisper, yet a scent of many growing things pervaded all. Mountain air-but lush mountain air.
Lewan sat up, and a tiny spark of pain ran through