The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [26]
The Stone had to be removed from the magic, to prevent it-and thus this place-being traced by anyone with a Stone that Embra might happen to "see." And that would leave this washing white fire with only one place to take energy from… a healer, an armaragor, and a procurer. There was a rude old rhyme about such a trio, but the Three cast down if he could remember it now…
In a slow, grand sweep of fire-wreathed motion, the Lady of Jewels floated up into the air, arching over backwards as she rose, until she was perhaps twice the height of a tall man off the ground, flat on her back with her arms spread, linked to the ground beneath by a web of restlessly silent magical flames.
Sarasper's hand swept down. "Now," he growled, not knowing if either Craer or Hawkril were close enough to really hear him. "Just as I showed you, mind."
Hawkril thrust his drawn sword carefully into the soil behind him, leaving it standing upright like a sentinel, and strode forward, up the hill. As he reached the steep part of its slope, he crouched forward until he was almost advancing on all fours.
Fires snarled and dipped towards him, whirling near his head and shoulders, and their light flashed back from sweat glistening on the armaragor's face.
Hawkril Anharu, Sarasper realized suddenly, was terrified. Well, he wasn't exactly cheerful himself just now. Both he and Craer had thrust their hands into nearby streams of magical fire-and were staggering.
It was like trying to walk into a flood of water racing the other way, an endless, tireless stream that dealt no pain, but sucked life out of one with every step…
The fires were surging through and around them both now, taking energy at every ebb. Sarasper vaguely became aware that he was staggering sideways with slow, aimless steps, like a drunken man, the hair all over him standing on end and dancing in time with the pulses of the spell's fire…
Hawkril had grimly crawled through flames that seemed to reach for him and rake at his face and arms and armor-which seemed to be growing hot, judging by the smell and the redness and creases of pain on the armaragor's face. Yet as Sarasper watched, the armaragor's hand was steady as it reached out with no trace of hesitation or fear, to close around the humming, glowing Stone of Life, from whence silent fire was roaring up in a column to Embra's body, and thence from her fingers to the ground-and to two fools staggering around the edges of the hilltop.
He and Craer were facing each other now, driven by instinct to balance the flows of fire between them. The little man's face was as dripping as Hawkril's, and his hands were trembling, but his flesh was as pale as bone. Sarasper swallowed and tore his gaze away, back up to Embra hanging unseeing in the sky above them, her body trembling in the flames of her own making. Gods, but they'd all die if this went on too long…
Hawkril was crawling back down the hill now, not quite daring to turn around, the Dwaer firmly clutched to his chest. The surges of fire were growing swifter now, and deeper, draining more as they fed on Sarasper and Craer, as if knowing the Stone would soon be lost to them.
Fire washed over his eyes, dazing him, and rolled away again. Dimly Sarasper became aware that he'd fallen to his knees. Embra's spread-eagled form was rippling, as if blown in a gusty breeze, mere feet off the hilltop now; Craer must have fallen to the ground.
From where he was, the trembling healer could just see Hawkril's slowly moving body back up against his own sword. The armaragor sat against the steel as if in a chair, threw back his head and gasped for what seemed like an eternity-and then crawled around the blade to its far side.
Fire sprang back as if severed, howling in soundless rage through