Word of Traitors_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [97]
She rose to her knees, watching the battle and at the same time listening to the darkness. After a long moment, she heard a muffled thump, like a falling body, from the direction Chetiin had gone. At least one of the unseen elf archers was no longer a danger. She crept forward in the long grass, then stood, singing as she moved. Magic danced along her skin. She felt it as a tingling, a kind of scraping as if her flesh were being gently drawn apart; then, like a soap bubble, the feeling burst. The song flicked away from her and took on another form.
Three more Ekhaases rose out of the grass alongside her. Thin echoes of song tied them to her—what she did, they imitated. She strode up the slope of the hill, closer to the battle. Elves who had managed to escape the close fighting and retreat for the moment cried out as they saw her. Or rather, as they saw them.
The warriors acted just as she’d hoped they would, in the heat of battle seeing four figures, lightly-armed scouts perhaps, instead of just one surrounded by magical illusions. Three of the elves broke off and came gliding toward her, eager for an easy kill to dishearten their opponents. Ekhaas smiled and eased sideways a little so the Valaes Tairn were across the hill from her rather than uphill with Darguuls at their back—
One of the elves brought up a bright throwing knife, hurling it with a snap of his arm.
She threw herself aside, a move that was both too slow and completely unnecessary. The knife flashed in the air and plunged through one of her illusory duplicates. Ekhaas felt as much as she saw her double wink out of existence.
Even if the knife hadn’t struck it, she’d given herself away. Not even the most coordinated troops would dive for cover with the same movement. She spoke a little Elven, more than enough to understand one of the elf warriors as he pieced together what had just happened. “Spellcaster!” he shouted. “She’s a spellcaster!”
No time now to draw them closer to her. Ekhaas cursed, rolled back to her feet—the elves were charging, bounding across the hill—and sang again. Not an illusion this time. Not a diversion. Not a stunning burst of sound. The song that rippled from her lips was dark and deep, a haunting song that played across hearts like footsteps in an empty room or the distant cry of carrion birds. The strides of the elves faltered. Above their veils, their eyes grew wide. One began to tremble, his scimitar falling from his hand.
They turned and fled, gripped in the terror inspired by her song. They weren’t the only ones—two more, caught by the edge of the magic, fled with them. Another two, perhaps sensing a shift in the tide of battle, went too.
Seven of the Valaes Tairn taken out of the fight. Perhaps not dead, but as good as until they stopped running. Her side of the hill was nearly empty of living elves. Only a handful were still on their feet. The fighting had shifted to the other side of the hill, beyond the remains of the Darguul camp, and even that sounded like it was growing less frantic.
The same commanding elf warrior whose whirling scimitar had signaled the Valenar attack seemed to realize the same thing. She thrust away from the hobgoblin she had been fighting, raised her scimitar again, and this time Ekhaas heard distinctly the orders she cried. “Arrows! Feather me these dogs!”
But no arrows fell out of the darkness except those loosed from the ruined clanhold. The elf’s veil had been dragged aside in the fighting and Ekhaas saw her fine-featured face twist in rage. Her scimitar fell as the hobgoblin she’d thrust away came at her again and he went down with his shoulder half cut from his body. Ekhaas ran forward, but the elf was turning away, hand reaching into a pouch to produce a ceramic flask very much like the one the elf in the trees