The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [56]
“A western man . . .” Her voice is a throaty whisper meant only for him, and her smile is an invitation. She steps closer, and the scent of ryall and woman enfold him. She takes another step.
Creslin waits, his eyes taking in the erect nipples on the high, full breasts, the delicate collar bones, the not-quite-full and pouting red lips . . .
Idiot!
From whence comes the thought, Creslin does not know, but he blinks and forces himself to look beyond his eyes.
He swallows, nearly retching. While the woman is not ugly, the whiteness that swirls around her, suffused with angry red, reeks of evil, and the white-blond hair is merely white, the eyes promising another kind of oblivion.
“So . . . he can more than see.” The words are still throaty, whispered but rasping, like those of a speaking snake.
No one seems to notice them; a heavyset guard walks by less than a cubit away, oblivious to their presence.
“But they cannot—”
He starts to step back, but his muscles do not seem to move.
The giant behind the white-shrouded woman steps forward, and each step vibrates the hard ground. The only saving grace Creslin can see is that the man carries a broadsword big enough to use as a lever for boulders. A sword . . . perhaps. Except that Creslin cannot each reach for his own sword. He reaches for what he can—his thoughts—and they grasp for the high winds overhead, for the thin line that ties them to the storms and thunders that rule the Roof of the World.
“Struggle, little silver-head. I love to watch men struggle.”
The giant pauses, his hand on the hilt of the massive sword.
Creslin strains, bending the high winds down . . . down . . . grasping for the water, for the ice within the air.
. . . wwwhhhssssSSSTTTTT!
Around him, Creslin can hear the canvas of the tents begin to flap in the wind and sense the haze forming in the air above.
The woman’s mouth turns into an “O,” but her movements seem gelid as Creslin seizes the winds and flings them across the whiteness that infuses her.
Lightning flares somewhere, and hailstones begin to patter down on canvas and traders alike.
Aeeeiii . . . The cry is snuffed out, and the whiteness vanishes.
Creslin jerks out of his paralysis. So does the giant, who takes in the ice-covered figure on the ground and brings forth the broadsword. Creslin darts back, grabbing his own sword, shrugging out of his pack, and moving fast.
The big man is quick, very quick, and Creslin cannot try to reestablish his hold on the winds, not if he wants to survive beyond the instant. So he dodges, parrying. Blades caress, for Creslin knows that he can do no more than slide the other’s blade.
Cling . . . clunk. His whole arm rings, but he steps inside, twisting . . .
The giant tries to swing the sword for a last time, but Creslin’s arm blocks the swing at the locked wrists. The man looks stupidly at him and collapses into a heap.
“What’s that?”
“Turque and her man!”
Creslin replaces his sword without wiping it clean. Then he sweeps up his dropped pack with one hand and hurries away, twisting behind tents, hastening toward the road, betting that more than a few traders will not be displeased to see the giant dead. Turque is another question, but he did not seem to have a choice.
A silent question strikes him, and he looks overhead just in time to see the wide-winged white bird vanish into empty air, air that swells into more than the brief hailstorm Creslin has called.
The wind continues to whip through and around the tents, and the warm air has already begun to cool as Creslin reaches the road. He swallows, thinking of the white bird. Megaera? Had she voiced the warning? Why? Who is she, and what does she want? He shivers, feeling colder than the ice he has flung around the White Witch called after