Chapter 28
Syla could sense the artifact and see its silver light flowing through the open door of the chamber, so it hadn’t been destroyed yet, but she hurried forward, afraid Lesva was poised in there with a gargoyle-bone blade capable of destroying the shielder.
“Wait.” Fel shuffled his weapons so that he could grip Syla’s shoulder.
Syla didn’t want to wait. She needed to check on Abrya as well as the artifact but agreed that this felt like a trap. And then, she felt the familiar powerful presence of Lesva. Not inside the chamber but behind a statue. The silver-haired rider captain sprang toward them with a sword.
Fel rushed to intercept Lesva, blocking her from reaching Syla.
Though Syla wanted to help, she sensed that the shielder was in danger and, while Fel engaged with Lesva, ran toward the doorway. She forced herself to leave Abrya to check on later and rushed inside, her aunt’s bag gripped in her hand and an explosive drawn to throw.
The shielder chamber, reinforced with magic, was the one place in this low-ceilinged section of the mine where she might get away with throwing one, but she would have to be careful not to detonate it near the shielder itself. As sturdy as the artifacts were, she didn’t want to risk it.
A rider in black crouched with a gargoyle-bone blade raised, about to try to destroy the great silver orb mounted similarly to the shielder on Castle Island.
Syla almost threw the explosive at him without hesitation, but he was so close to the artifact.
Fortunately, he spun toward her instead of striking it.
Unfortunately, he rushed toward her in the doorway and swept his blade at her throat.
Syla darted to the side, her new speed rather than any skill allowing her to escape what would have been a killing blow. That speed startled her though, and her shoulder clipped a wall. If not for the strap holding her spectacles on, they would have flown off.
If her enemy was surprised by her unexpected athleticism, he didn’t show it. He simply sprang after her again.
She ran around the shielder and into the chamber but bumped a statue. Afraid she would detonate the explosives by accident, she took a heartbeat to lower the bag to the floor, then spun and threw the remaining booby trap at her pursuer. It caught him in the chest.
As it boomed, white light flashing, Syla half-leaped and half tumbled behind the shielder. She hit the ground hard and rolled to the back wall, stunned for a moment as she stared up at a depiction of the full moon carved into the salt, the eyes of its benevolent god clear in the craters.
Something landed with a wet thud beside her. A portion of the man’s torso.
“Dear gods,” Syla rasped, rolling away, tears stinging her eyes. The atrocities were too much. This was all too much.
Clangs came from right outside the door, and she made herself rise. She sensed that Lesva was out there, and Fel couldn’t defeat her, not alone.
Syla ran around the shielder and toward the door, stepping over body parts while trying not to look too closely at them.
She glanced back, remembering the bag she’d left behind, but the dead man’s head had landed on it.
Her gorge rose, and she wavered, telling herself she needed to go back and grab the explosives but horrified by the thought of rolling the bloody head aside.
Movement outside the doorway drew her attention. Lesva had turned to face Syla. There wasn’t time to go back for the explosives. She had to keep Lesva from entering the chamber and striking at the shielder.
Syla sprang outside, almost tripping over Abrya, and flung her palm against a flat panel integrated into a carving near the door.
Only because she’d visited the mine before did she know it was there.
Even as Syla’s palm touched it, activating the door closing mechanism, Lesva ran toward her.
She jammed her boot against the door to keep it from shutting.
Syla grabbed Lesva’s arm, sending power into her and hoping to push her back. But Lesva, too, had magic, and, as she had in all their other confrontations, she armored herself from within, using her power to push back against Syla’s attempt to stop her.
“Fel!” Syla rasped, hoping that if she distracted Lesva he could rush up from behind and brain her with his mace.
But he only answered with a faint groan. He lay crumpled several yards away, blood staining the white ground beneath him, and neither his crossbow nor mace near him.
The shadows in the tunnel stirred, and a black-clad figure with a sword strode toward them from the darkness. Syla groaned, remembering that Lesva had allies down here with her. Many allies.
Then she realized she could sense the man, the powerful magic within him, and he was familiar.
Lesva groaned.
“Vorik!” Syla blurted.
Lesva snarled and reached for Syla’s neck.
Syla jerked her arm up to block the grasp and managed to twist her hand to grip Lesva’s wrist. Lesva grabbed her back with a snarl.
Syla summoned all her strength to attack the woman with her power, to send a dozen tendrils of magic into her, to various parts of her body.
Surely, Lesva couldn’t deflect them all. And Vorik could brain her.
But would he? He’d come with his people for the shielder, hadn’t he? He might care about Syla, but nothing had changed. He was a stormer, an enemy.
“Release her, Lesva,” Vorik said coolly, stopping a few feet away and raising his sword.
Busy deflecting Syla’s magical attacks, Lesva didn’t glance at him, only snarling, “You act like she’s the victim here. She’s attacking me.”
“You’re trying to destroy her people’s shielder.”
“That’s our mission, you ass. You betrayer!”
“If that’s what you believe I am, come over here and challenge me.”
Teeth bared, Lesva glared at Syla instead of Vorik.
Lesva marshaled her power, letting her defenses lower so that she could counterattack.
Syla found herself on the defensive, trying to do something she’d never, as a healer, learned to do: create a defensive wall of power around her body to block magical attacks meant to crush her organs, to kill her.
She groped to learn on the fly, to push Lesva away, just as Lesva had been doing to her.
A dagger of power got through, stabbing her like a knife to the gut, and she gasped, almost bending over, but she managed to strengthen the wall and push that magical dagger back.
“You will fight me, Lesva,” Vorik commanded. “Face to face. Don’t make me stab you in the back.”
“Only a coward would do that,” Lesva said, her icy eyes locked on Syla.
“No. A man defending the woman he loves would do that.” Vorik looked squarely at Syla.
Later, she would treasure that statement—he’d never said before that he loved her—but it took all her mental and physical strength to keep Lesva from slaying her.
“All you love is her flabby body,” Lesva said.
Tired of her insults—and of her—Syla growled as she drew upon both her moon-mark and her dragon tattoo for power. Sending more magical tendrils into her foe, she also used her weight and strength to thrust the woman back, wanting her foe away from her.
Surprisingly, Lesva flew backward. She was agile enough to catch her balance and keep from going down, but surprise widened her eyes. She lifted her sword, and Syla braced herself for another attack, but Lesva instead turned on Vorik.
“I challenge you,” she said. “To a duel. You know the rules.”
“I do, and I accept your challenge.” Vorik looked at Syla. “You may not interfere.”
Syla should have snorted and said she wasn’t bound by their ways, but what came out was, “Oh, I’m fine with that.”
She didn’t want anything else to do with Lesva and hoped Vorik killed her, once and for all. Judging by the wary glance that Lesva threw at her before striding toward Vorik, she might not want anything else to do with Syla either.
“I sure hope that’s true,” Syla muttered.
As the duelists sprang for each other, Syla finished what she’d started, pressing her palm to the wall to close the door. It ground shut, and a faint hiss sounded as magic engaged, once again sealing the chamber.
Clangs and clashes rang out, drowning out the thuds from the distant drill. New bangs, sounding more like a hammer on nails, had joined in with the distant cacophony, and Syla had no idea what it signaled.
Exhausted, Syla wanted to slump against the door as Lesva and Vorik battled, but she knelt by Abrya instead.
She was so still that Syla touched her throat, afraid Lesva had killed the lady after forcing her to open the door, but her heart was beating.
Abrya didn’t stir at the touch, however, and Syla worried she would be trampled by the combatants.
As they’d once done on a cliff in the rain, Lesva and Vorik fought, gargoyle-bone blades a blur as they clashed.
The combatants threw in kicks as they danced about, dodging and lunging, mesmerizing.
Before, Vorik had seemed the stronger fighter, but he’d also hesitated, not committed to killing the woman who’d once been his lover.
Would he hesitate again? He knew Lesva was doing what his people wanted, and he…
he was probably disobeying orders again.
“I love you too, Vorik,” Syla called, in case it mattered, in case it would make him believe his sacrifice—his betrayal—was worth it.
He glanced at her but only for a second. Grunting and snarling, Lesva attacked him with unrelenting fury.
Movement to the side made Syla look away.
Fel was pushing himself into a sitting position, looking blearily around for his weapons.
Blood ran from the side of his head and a split lip.
The tip of his ear was missing, but that didn’t keep him from detecting a new threat, and he turned, squinting into the gloom.
Two men in Storm Guard uniforms were creeping down the tunnel toward them.