Moira’s mind shrank as her duplicate selves collapsed inward until at last there were only two remaining, her and her spellmind-twin. Much of the pain that had emanated from her face and other places on her body was gone, but the agony in her skull was even more intense.
She released the shield she had created around herself and felt some of the strain ease. I need to rest.
Grace’s body was still, but her heart still beat, and her chest moved slowly as she breathed. She was alive but unconscious. Her body was still damaged in ways that went beyond the ability of ordinary wizardry to heal, but Moira hoped time would mend the rest.
Cassandra brought her head closer, sniffing as she examined her smaller companion, Will she recover?
Moira wasn’t entirely sure. My father created you to house the immense energy that he took from the gods, part of the enchantment uses that power to fuel your rapid growth, but it also gives your kind an amazing ability to regenerate from almost any wound—or so he told me. I can only hope that today will give us a proof of that ability, she answered.
What of her mind? Her skull was cracked. Her brains could be scrambled.
I know more about that, replied the young wizard. Her true mind is a spell construct; so long as the brain can physically heal, the memories and the knowledge that make her who she is, will survive.
“I hate to interrupt your moment of silence,” interrupted the ranger, “but there are more people coming. We need to leave.”
Of course, the archer had had no way of knowing that a conversation he couldn’t hear had been going on. Moira spoke aloud, pleased that she was again able to hear the sound of her own voice, “Cassandra, can you carry Grace out of here?”
Barely, I think. But what about yourself? I cannot carry you and the other two if I’m trying to lift her.
“We can walk. We will meet you outside the city, where we first parted. Keep a close guard on Grace until we get there,” said Moira.
But…
“No arguments. Go, we don’t have time to debate this,” ordered Moira. She and Chad helped Stretch get the Baron into place on his back, while Cassandra gently cradled the smaller dragon in her claws. The massive dragon rose into the air with a rush of air as her wings beat fiercely to get her and her precious cargo off the ground.
Moira let the hunter lead the way. She could already sense the great wall that encircled Halam in the distance. They didn’t have much farther to go, but there were also more people approaching. The first three were running toward them from a cross street at the next intersection.
She winced at the thought of using her magic again, but Chad was already moving. “Save your strength,” he called back.
Sprinting forward, the ranger drew two long knives. His opponents moved awkwardly, like children, enthusiastic but clumsy as they attacked him with improvised clubs that looked to have been part of an unfortunate chair until recently. The veteran ducked and cut, taking one in the throat and hamstringing the second. Unable to avoid the third, he took a heavy blow to his shoulder before disemboweling the man that struck him. Seconds later he finished off the one that he had hamstrung.
Moira saw the strained look on his face as he rolled his shoulder, trying to stretch the battered muscle. There wasn’t much she could do for bruises, and there were ten more running toward them from the rear.
“Keep going,” said the older man with resignation in his voice. “If you can make the gate, you might have a chance. My road ends here.”
“No,” she told him, standing firm. “I’ve had enough.”
“Don’t be stupid, girl!”
The townsfolk running toward them were less than a hundred feet off now, and Moira felt a shock of recognition as she saw Gram’s distinctive aythar among them. “Gram is with them,” she announced. One of the women felt familiar as well, although she couldn’t immediately place her.
Chad stepped forward, bloody knives at the ready, “Alyssa is with him. You don’t want to see this, lass.”
The mention of that name surprised her, but it also firmed her resolve. “No,” Moira said again. “I won’t give them anymore blood today, not from me and mine.” Her head was throbbing but she ignored it with an act of will. Letting her anger fuel her desire, she pushed her aythar outward once more. Take them, she told her alter ego, focusing her power on her other self.
Pain blossomed in her mind, almost blinding her with its intensity, but her rage was greater than that. Moira’s mind expanded, splitting into pieces, becoming greater than the agony she felt. One for each of them, she commanded. Invisible threads of aythar flashed outward, touching each of their enemies, and as quickly as that, the fight was over.
Her spell-twins blocked the control of the parasites and began issuing their own commands. Their would-be attackers slowed and moved to take guard positions around Moira and her companions. They were stiff and awkward, but now they were hers.
Gram, are you there? She sent the thought out, searching his mind through her proxy.
She found only silence. Gram seemed to be unconscious within his doubly trapped mind. A similar search showed that Alyssa and the others were in the same condition. Perhaps it’s a mercy they aren’t awake, she thought. “Let’s go,” she told Chad and Stretch.
The hunter watched their new guards warily, “Are you sure this is safe? What if you lose control?”
“I won’t,” she reassured him. Never again. She knew the true secret of the Centyr now. Everyone thought the strength of the Centyr was in their spellbeasts, but that was only the surface, the face that they showed to others. The truth was darker. The hidden power of the Centyr lineage was control, total and absolute control. And if these metal vermin think they will beat me at that, then they are sorely mistaken.
The rest of their journey was almost anti-climactic. Two or three men attacked them as they approached the gate, but her new retinue outnumbered them. The fight was short and bloody, costing her two of her guards, but it was also a relief to reduce the number she had to control. Through it all she kept Gram and Alyssa quietly by her side. She wouldn’t risk them.
The gate was very nearly unguarded. Many of the soldiers who guarded it had been parasitized and had abandoned their posts earlier to attack them at Wat’s home. The few that remained were confused by the events of the evening. They cowered at their posts near the gate, afraid to confront the strangers.
Moira’s new servants opened the gate, and they marched into the night.
They marched down the road from the gate for only a few minutes before turning off into a field. Another half an hour of slogging through wet grass and muddy irrigation channels, and Moira felt herself reaching her limit. Mentally she ordered her guards to halt and held up a hand to let Chad know she was stopping.
The field was black except for the starlight, not that she needed light to see. Her feet and legs were cold, soaked to the knees with wet mud. The world around her seemed to sway. I can’t keep this up much longer. She knew what she had to do, while there was still time. Luckily, it wouldn’t take much more aythar.
Cassandra was within her mental range, so she sent a quick message, I can’t go any farther. We are safe for the moment. I’ll head for you in a little while. I just need to rest a bit.
The dragon’s warm thoughts came to her a second later, Very well.
She had no intention of resting yet, though. Instead she ordered the people she controlled to run in separate directions. Her aythar was so low now that she doubted she could maintain the copies that were controlling them much longer. She needed to get them as far away as possible before releasing them.
Killing them would have been easier, and the thought occurred to her, but she still wasn’t ready to stoop that low. Straightening her shoulders, she made Gram and Alyssa lie in the wet grass.
“What are you doing?” asked Chad.
“What is necessary,” she told him.
“An’ that would be?” he replied, stretching out the last word for emphasis.
She held a finger to her lips and then pointed to her ears before looking back at Gram and Alyssa.
The ranger understood her meaning, but it still left him wondering what she intended to do.
“Be ready,” she warned. “I may lose control of the ones I sent back. If I do, you may have to protect us.”
She looked upward; the stars seemed to be moving back and forth, like fireflies in a summer breeze. Gritting her teeth, she summoned her will and began creating more spell-twins. The pain became a white hot fire in her skull as she channeled her remaining aythar into them.
Three of you for each of them. One to shield the parasite’s body and claws, one to extract the control tendrils, and the third to heal any bleeding or damage as we remove them, she told her newer selves, although they already knew the plan.
The world was already spinning. Now, move quickly!
Her duplicates lashed out, sending their power into the bodies of Gram and Alyssa simultaneously, wrapping the metal creatures in their necks within fine shields to contain them.
Moira was barely aware of them now, even though all six of her helpers were sending back a steady stream of observations. The fire in her brain was starting to blot out everything else. Just a little more, don’t give up yet…
And then she was falling. The ground raced toward her like a welcome friend. Her mind was a misery of pain, and the darkness that she had hoped for refused to come. Instead the world turned pale, and she began to burn. The universe became a white torment of flames that consumed everything.
***
Chad watched her carefully. Whatever she was planning, he doubted it boded well. One second she stood alone, and the next there were six others standing around Gram and Alyssa. They stretched out their hands and he saw the bodies on the ground stiffen.
Shortly afterward, he saw Gram’s mouth open, and something dark and glistening emerged. It seemed to squirm in the dim light for a moment, but then he heard a sharp ‘pop’ before whatever it was fell away to one side. A quick check told him that the same thing had happened to Alyssa while he watched his young friend.
The six women faded away like ghosts into the night, and Moira fell before he could catch her. She began twisting and flopping on the ground, arms and legs alternately tensing and then flailing outward once more. Moira’s head was drawn back and her mouth gaped in a rictus grin. Her eyes were open, but all he could see was the whites.
She’s having a damned seizure, he realized.
Dropping beside her, he did his best to hold her body down, avoiding her face since her teeth were clenching at random intervals. Fuck. Stripping his belt off, he tried to get it into her mouth, worried she might bite through her tongue. It felt as though an eternity passed before her mouth opened again, but when it did he was ready. He couldn’t tell in the dim light, but he thought she hadn’t hurt herself—yet.
Minutes went by while she jerked violently, but gradually her movements slowed, becoming milder spasmodic twitches. Moving behind her, he cradled her head and made soothing sounds, as though he were calming a child. Idiot, she can’t hear you. Why are you doing that?
Eventually she grew still, but he stayed where he was, brushing her hair away from her face with one hand. The old veteran’s eyes were wet with tears, though there was no one to see. “Don’t you dare die on me, girl,” he quietly intoned, his voice thick and husky.
Blinking to clear his eyes, he examined the area. Gram and Alysa lay in the grass, their bodies as still as corpses. He had to watch them for a while before he could see that their chests were still moving. That’s something at least. They’re alive. Moira’s bizarre magic horse-thing still stood nearby, a seemingly dead man on its back. It gazed back at him while he studied it.
Easing her head out of his lap, he stood and made a mental tally. “This is a fine mess you’ve left me with, four unconscious people and some sort of fucked up magic horse-wagon.” His eyes met Stretch’s momentarily before he added, “No offense intended.”
The spellbeast lifted his shoulders in a shrug. He hadn’t been given the ability to talk, but he could understand spoken conversation. The gesture made it clear he wasn’t worried about the ranger’s comment.
Chad kept talking, primarily to calm his nerves. “You’re quiet. That’s what I like about you; you don’t fill the air up with unnecessary noise, unlike most people.” He waved his hands to indicate the others, “Like this lot for example—I should count myself lucky the damned fools are out cold. Otherwise they’d be rattling my skull with their constant yammering. But not you…”
His voice trailed off. He didn’t have a name for the magical creature. Since meeting back up with Moira she hadn’t had a chance to fill him in on such mundane details. “I don’t know what your name is,” he said apologetically, “but no matter, I can come up with one for you.” Cradling his chin in one hand, he thought seriously about it, studying his subject. Man-like torso, horse-like body with some sort of weird concave back for carrying people—hmmm.
“Damn, you’re an odd one, but I’ll keep it simple. Let’s just go with ‘Horse-ass’.”
Stretch didn’t care much. He tilted his head to one side as he thought but then nodded to indicate his approval. It was about then that his limited magesight detected something. Turning his head, he looked around and then pointed for the hunter’s benefit.
“What is it?” asked Chad in a softer tone.
The spellbeast pointed in a second direction, and then a third. Then he closed one hand and put two fingers out, pointing at the ground. He wiggled the fingers while moving his hand from one side to the other. It was moderately clear he was trying to indicate someone running. Stretch pointed again toward the darkness, marking three directions.
Chad sighed, “Three people, coming toward us.”
Stretch nodded affirmatively.
“Thanks, Horse-ass.”
The past day had shown him that for some reason the people being controlled were following Gram, not him. He had already reasoned that it must have something to do with magic, and having none, they had largely ignored him when he was on his own. “If they don’t have true wizard sight, I might be able to hide from them, but they’re being drawn to those two like moths to a flame.”
The spellbeast pointed to itself and tilted his head to one side.
“Yeah, and probably you too, Horse-ass, since you’re actually made of magic,” agreed the ranger. He thought for a moment. “You go stand over Moira. If anyone gets too close, kick them or something. I’m going to walk a little ways off and test a theory.”
Stretch tilted his head again, obviously curious.
Chad smiled, “I’m going to find out if they can see me in the dark. If they can, things will be harder, but if they can’t, I’ll teach them a lesson or two.” He walked in one of the directions that Stretch hadn’t indicated, fingering his knife sheaths, making certain the blades were still there and that they could be easily drawn.
After thirty feet he began to circle his friends’ position in a clockwise manner for a moment before stopping. Then he waited, listening. The starlight wasn’t sufficient for illuminating much more than dark shapes and sudden movement. He crouched, trusting the short grass to keep him unseen. If he was wrong about the perceptual abilities of his enemy, he would be in for an unpleasant encounter.
His ears warned him of the first to approach, and he smiled as he took note of the sound. The poor bastard was trying, with very limited success to run in the dark. A lot of squelching noises punctuated by an occasional heavy thump told him everything he needed to know about whether his enemy could see in the dark.
A dark blob moved against a grey backdrop, and the ranger rose to his feet, walking carefully to intersect the stranger’s course toward his unconscious friends. He stopped once he had found the right spot, and seconds later his nearly blind opponent tried to run over him.
Ten inches of cold steel went in under the man’s ribs, ripping upward to cut through lungs and arteries. The poor bastard thrashed for a moment, but the hunter was thorough, shifting his blade until he had found the heart. The dead man grew still, and Chad moved away, circling a short distance before waiting again.
He caught the second one in similar fashion, but then he heard noises coming from where his companions lay. Rushing back he found a heavyset woman attempting to drag Gram’s limp body in the direction of the city. Stretch remained dutifully standing over Moira’s form, making no attempt to interfere.
The woman heard him coming and turned to face him. Neither of them could see well, and she threw up one arm to ward his first strike. The blade sank into her forearm, passing completely through and catching between the bones. Her other hand caught him solidly in the stomach, driving the wind from his lungs, but it was worse for her. His second blade had found its mark, and he shoved it home, entering from her shoulder, beside the neck.
He fell beside the dead woman, coughing and wheezing as he tried to catch his breath. The night air was cold on his skin, so he figured he was covered with blood. Or mud, he corrected silently. Some of the shit on me is probably just mud. No need to be excessively macabre.
Glancing at Stretch, he saw the spellbeast was pointing again, marking four new directions.
“More of them, Horse-ass?”
Stretch nodded.
“This shit is getting old fast,” complained the hunter. Or I am.
The next one was easy, but the last four of Moira’s ex-servants slowed down and banded together before approaching. Chad let them pass by in the darkness, considering his options. He felt reasonably sure he could kill two of them before the others could get their hands on him, but things would get ugly after that. People being controlled by the parasites were stronger than one would ordinarily expect. He still had a persistent ache when he tried to take a deep breath, which served as a constant reminder of that fact.
What I wouldn’t give to have a quiver full of arrows again, he silently complained for what was probably the tenth time.
He knew what he would have to do, not that he liked it. This whole evening reminded him far too much of things he would rather never remember. The nightmares will be back and worse than ever, I expect.
Rushing forward in the darkness, he cut through the back of the leftmost man’s leg, hamstringing him before leaping to one side and racing away into the night. His enemies were slow to react, and by the time he had gone ten feet he was lost to sight again. The cut he had given was a deep one, and the poor fellow would likely bleed to death if it weren’t treated promptly.
The wounded one remained standing, hobbling on one good leg as the four of them arranged themselves with their backs together. The parasites must have realized they were low on manpower, if they were willing to fight defensively.
Which suits me just fine.
Chad moved closer, close enough to verify their position before running away again. He hoped they would be foolish enough to follow, but they disappointed him by remaining together. He’d have circled to finish the wounded one if they hadn’t. Instead, he stayed far enough away that he could just barely see their outlines against the dark horizon. If that fool stays on his feet much longer…
Several more minutes passed, and he saw a hint of motion. He guessed that the injured one had collapsed from loss of blood. Leaping up, he ran toward them. He planned to take one down in his charge and finish a second quickly after. The third one would be messy.
The dim light almost proved his undoing, for he failed to see, until he was already on them, that these three had armed themselves. The one he had chosen for his charge held a modest belt knife as did the one to his right. The third had improvised a club from what looked to be a piece of deadwood.
Chad hated knife fights. Well, he hated them if the other guy had a knife too, at least. The problem was that they never ended well. Often the only difference between the victor and the dead was that the victor just had fewer cuts on him. And I’m outnumbered.
Ducking low, he tried to slip to one side to avoid the first man’s outstretched blade, but the muddy ground betrayed him. Stepping into an unseen hole, he fell forward. He missed skewering himself on his enemy’s blade by pure chance. Hitting the ground, he rolled and kicked out, striking the man behind the knee.
The knife-wielding townsman fell backward and landed full on the ranger’s upraised steel.
The hunter was forced to abandon his blade, as the dying man’s body had it pinned beneath him. Rolling, he avoided the club wielder’s swing. Springing to his feet, he started to run. An escape at this point would be a win for him. He could ambush them again in a few minutes.
Unfortunately he ran headlong into the other man with a knife.
The force of their collision sent both men reeling backward, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Chad felt the pressure of the knife as it struck his ribs on the right side, accompanied by a terrible grinding noise that he could only guess was steel on bone. A wash of dark fluid flowed down his side. There was no pain, but that wasn’t unusual in the flush of battle. The pain would catch up soon enough. He’s fucking killed me.
Recovering first from the shock of their collision, he leapt back in and drove his own weapon home, sinking the long knife in to the hilt, once, twice, and then again just to be sure. “Godsdamned whoreson! How does that feel!” he shouted.
The deadwood club landed squarely across his back—and broke. It hurt like hell, but apparently the owner hadn’t been careful to choose a solid piece of wood. Chad fell forward still cursing and rolled to his feet. His back hurt like hell from the blow, but his wet side gave him no trouble at all.
Feeling his side, he realized that the knife hadn’t pierced him at all. Reaching into his shirt he pulled out the silver flask that until recently had held six ounces of fine whiskey. “Son of a bitch!” he swore, madder than ever.
He jumped sideways to avoid a barehanded lunge from his only remaining opponent. “I was savin’ that!” he yelled. “What the hell am I supposed ta drink now?!”
The townsman ignored his question, rushing him again. Chad danced lightly to one side, cutting a deep line along his foe’s arm as he passed. He was angry, and his anger lent strength to his weary limbs. No, I’m not just angry—I’m pissed! And now I won’t be able to get pissed after this is all done.
The second exchange opened the stranger’s belly, spilling his guts onto the ground even as he wrapped his big hands around the ranger’s neck. Bright lights flashed in Chad’s vision as the pressure mounted on his throat, but his knife arm kept working. The brute’s grip slackened, and Chad pushed him away, gasping for air.
Winded, bruised, sore, and exhausted he sat beside the gory body of his late-enemy. He could feel the mud seeping through his trousers, but he was beyond caring. Addressing the corpse, he spoke, “Serves you right for being so fuckin’ ugly. Your ma would probably thank me fer doin’ her the service o’ puttin’ you outta yer fuckin’ misery.”
His anger was fading, but his irritation only grew. Holding up the damaged flask he shook it gently. There was something left! Opening the cap, he tilted it, careful to keep the torn side upward, and managed to get two good swallows before it ran dry.
Patting the dead man beside him, he apologized, “I’m sorry. I was just mad about me flask. I had no call to talk about yer mother like that.” He paused a second before laughing, “Even if it was true.”
Briefly, he considered removing his shirt and trying to wring the last of the spirits from the fabric into his mouth, but the cool night air had already dried it too much. Doubtless he wouldn’t get more than a drop.
He was still sitting there when a new group of people emerged from the darkness. They had the same dead expressions, but they weren’t the ones that Moira had captured earlier. This was a fresh group. Chad counted at least ten and then gave up.
Smiling sadly, he eased himself to his feet, “Well fuck me. This just ain’t my day is it?”