The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [23]
Boreas fingered the knife tucked into his belt. “Whatever weapons they might have, these men of the kingdom of Duratek sound like bandits. I do not know how things are on your world, Goodman Wilder, but here we know what to do with bandits.”
Travis shook his head, and Grace gave him what she hoped was a look of understanding. She could talk to Boreas tomorrow, but not right now. She felt so terribly heavy.
A small form crawled into her lap. Tira. The girl looked up and yawned, and Grace yawned back.
“We can speak more of this in the morning,” Melia said, rising. “It has been a dark day.”
Lirith met the lady's eyes. “I can concoct a tea for anyone who wishes for sleep . . . without dreams.”
“I believe we could all do with a cup, dear.”
As they rose from the table, Aldeth cast a look at Vani. “I'm sure you're thinking what I'm thinking, so we might as well go together.”
She rested her hands on lean hips. “The intruder you saw will not have gone far. The voice that spoke through the device implied that the one called Hudson had not yet returned to their base, wherever it is. No doubt he wishes to stay close to the castle to see the result of his handiwork.”
The Spider and the T'gol exchanged looks, then both vanished into the dim air.
“Who else thinks their habit of disappearing is getting a little annoying?” Falken said.
A number of hands went up around the table.
The bard sighed. “Come on, Melia, let's do our own vanishing act.”
The two rose and departed the hall, along with Sir Tarus. Boreas was asking Travis more questions about Earth as they walked from the hall, with Beltan, Durge, and Teravian following behind. Grace picked up Tira's limp form and headed after them, along with Sareth, Lirith, and Aryn.
Grace had just reached the doors of the great hall—the others had already passed through—when she heard a snarl echo off stone. It was like the feral sound of a wolf, but higher-pitched, and full of malice. There were shouts, and the ringing of a sword being drawn.
“Travis, get back!” came Beltan's voice through the doors.
Grace set Tira down. “Keep her safe,” she said to Lirith, then dashed through the doors.
She turned to her left and saw Travis and King Boreas with their backs to the wall. A spindly gray form wove toward them, maw open. Boreas slashed with his knife, and Travis gripped his stiletto before him, the gem in its hilt blazing crimson. They were holding the feydrim off, but just barely; the knives were pitifully small.
On the other side of the broad corridor, Durge, Beltan, and Teravian had been cornered by two more of the monsters. Beltan stood in front of Teravian, pressing the prince back against the wall. Like Boreas, he had only a small knife, but Durge gripped his Embarran greatsword in his hands. Only there wasn't enough room to get a proper swing. The two feydrim hissed and spat, looking for an opening.
Grace knew she should feel fear. Instead outrage rose within her. Before she thought about what she was doing, she had drawn Fellring from the scabbard belted at her side. The slender blade gleamed in the dim light, the runes on the flat undulating like things alive.
“Get away from them,” she commanded.
Snarling, the two feydrim closest to her turned, glaring at her with yellow eyes. Her hand sweated around the sword's grip. Maybe that hadn't been such a good idea after all.
Before she could move, Durge let out a roar. The two feydrim had scuttled a few feet toward Grace, and now he had room for a proper swing. The beasts tried to leap aside, but Durge's sword caught one of them on the neck, and the thing's head flew across the corridor. The blade continued its arc, cutting a deep gash in the other feydrim's belly. Its black guts spilled onto the floor. The thing kicked and whined, then went still.
The last remaining beast lunged at Boreas, going for his throat. Travis thrust with his stiletto. The move was unskilled,