Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [147]
Another ore thundered into the room. Bronwyn pulled her knife and deflected a sword slash. For several moments they exchanged ringing blows, moving about the room in a shifting pattern of advance and retreat. She was beginning to think she might be able to take the match when the sound of more footsteps in the hall below dashed her chances.
She heard the scrape of a small wooden chest across the floor, and instantly knew what Cara had in mind. The blanket chest would hit the ore at just the right spot, if only she could maneuver him into position.
Bronwyn went into furious attack, slashing and jabbing at the ore and forcing him into a defensive stance. Slowly she beat him back across the room. He stumbled over the chest and went down heavily. Bronwyn leaped, knife leading, and threw her weight against his suddenly unprotected chest.
She rolled aside, wrenching her knife free. Two ores roiled into the room. Bronwyn flipped her knife and caught it by the tip. In the same motion, she hurled it at the first ore. But the knife was slippery with blood, and her aim faltered. She went for the throat. The knife went considerably lower.
The ore roared and stumbled, doubling over as if he’d been gut-punched by a giant. Bronwyn snatched up the dead ore’s sword and leaped up, swinging out wildly. The blade sliced across the chest of the ore just entering the room and he slumped over his doubled-up comrade. They both fell. Bronwyn finished first one, then the other with quick, decisive strokes.
She straightened up, breathing hard, and looked to the far side of the room for Cara. The child had flattened herself against the wall. Her face was white and her eyes huge. It made Bronwyn heartsick that the child had seen all that.
“You should have gone,” she panted.
“I moved the chest,” Cara reminded her in a small, pale voice.
Bronwyn smiled faintly. “You did well, but you aren’t safe here.”
The child’s eyes darkened, and suddenly they looked far too old for her tiny face. “I really don’t think,” she said softly, “that I’m safe anywhere.”
* * * * *
Back in Thonhold, Dag Zoreth paused before the altar and studied the purple flame that leaped and danced in an ever-changing sunburst, and the enormous black skull that leered out from the fire. It was a symbol of his god, proof of Cyric’s favor. Such a thing would bring him great honor, and inspire men to consider him with fear. It was more than he had hoped for.
But it was not enough.
Dag carefully knelt before the altar, lowering a round, low bowl to the floor. The bowl was brass and so finely crafted that not a single ripple or flaw marred its surface. A perfect receptacle for power, it would seize mystical force and throw it back, much as mountains playfully turned a shout into an echo. Filled with water, the bowl became a scrying pool of enormous power.
Filled with blood, it begged the level of dark power that only an evil god might grant.
Dag braced his hands on either side of the bowl and stared intently into the dark pool. He began to chant, an arrogant prayer that importuned a god for power, and scorned the price that would surely come due. He would pay it in time, and consider it worthwhile-as long as he found Cara.
He formed an image of the girl in his mind and reached out to her through the dark thread of the chant.
The words of the prayer enveloped him, gathering in power. Magic rose like incense toward the purple flame, carrying with it a heady scent of night-blooming flower, musk, and brimstone.
That scent prodded at his memory. Through the ritual-induced haze, Dag felt the first sharp tugs of alarm. His chanting faltered, then broke off altogether as blood began to rise