This Scepter'd Isle (71 page)

On the wall Pasgen had been staring at appeared a black spot, at the same time utterly dark and dazzlingly brilliant. Pasgen looked toward his sister, who had screamed with rage and frustration as Aleneil's skin turned dull silver and Rhoslyn's claws broke against it. The spot on the wall hesitated, began to shrink. Pasgen drew his mind from the battles around him and concentrated. The spot began to enlarge into a dead-black oval, but if one looked hard with witch-sight, one could make out the glints of red and gold of Vidal's throne room far, far back.

With one last word, Pasgen fixed the Gate he had built to carry Elizabeth away to hold until he terminated it. It would draw power from him, he knew, which would limit the magic he could do, but it would not limit his physical acts. Pasgen turned back to aid his sister, but hesitated, unsure of how to intervene. Rhoslyn was attempting to gouge out Aleneil's eyes while Aleneil had her hands wound in Rhoslyn's hair and was threatening to pull off Rhoslyn's scalp.

Dunstan and Ladbroke had been waiting in the darkened dressing room watching the door to the servants' corridor. When they heard the sound of fighting, they were torn between the need to watch for a secondary attack and the more immediate need to join the battle. It only took a few moments to decide because the door to the dressing room had an iron bolt. Dunstan checked to make sure it was shot firmly home, and both men rushed toward the fighting.

They barely saved themselves from tripping over Blanche, warned by her soft singing. Both shivered and parted right and left around the writhing, whimpering body and the shut-eyed smiling nursemaid. They emerged just in time to see a blond Sidhe who looked very much like Denoriel reach out to seize Lady Aleneil, who had grown a strange silver skin and was wrestling on the floor with another female Sidhe.

Two men burst into the room and Pasgen whirled to face them, backing away to cast a sleep spell, which had no effect, and then one of paralysis, which rolled off their shields. Uttering a string of obscenities, he drew his sword and blocked their thrusts, but he knew he could not hold both men off for long. He was probably a better swordsman than either, but together they were too much for him. He continued to back away toward the closest concentration of Dark Court fighters.

Denoriel was still fighting sword-to-sword with Vidal Dhu. The Unseleighe lord's face was sickly pallid with two crimson spots high on his cheekbones. His eyes were almost as red; his mouth was distorted by fury. He had his sword in hand, but had obviously been mostly unsuccessful in blocking Denoriel's cuts and thrusts because he was bleeding freely from a number of small wounds.

Those were less owing to bad swordsmanship than to a lack of concentration. Most of Vidal's attention was on throwing spells at Denoriel. Little shining knives, ribbons of light, threads of poisonous worms, balls of light that burst over Denoriel's head and ran down over his shields. Those shields were not what they were at the beginning of this fight, because Vidal's spells were not totally ineffectual. Each new assault wore away at Denoriel's protection and he had to renew it. And he began to wonder, at the back of his mind, which of them would run out of power first.

FitzRoy had managed to drive the Sidhe who had attacked him down the full length of Elizabeth's bed. He cursed in a fluid sing-song under his breath because the elf was just good enough that FitzRoy was unable to finish him off. He could have shot him, of course; the iron-bolt-throwing gun was in his hand, but he could not stop hearing the screams of that other Sidhe he had shot and he could not make himself pull the trigger.

There was a shriek of pain from the outer chamber. No one except Nyle cared. Nyle heard, but he could not finish off Chandler and go to help his friend. Chandler was far more powerful than he looked and a much better swordsman than any manservant should be. Nyle's moment of inattention was costly. Chandler beat his sword aside and thrust. Nyle twisted away, but the blade slid along his ribs and he cried out in pain.

"Coming!"

That was Gerrit's voice. Nyle could feel blood running down his side and he called again. Gerrit's blade beat aside Chandler's return stroke. Nyle slipped under his guard. Gerrit ran him through. They both stood for a moment, panting, and then guiltily looked for their master. He was still fighting gamely, although he was now dripping sweat. Both men looked for the quickest way to him.

Just beyond them a black-haired devil was holding a sword in one hand and making throwing motions with the other. Things seemed to crawl over Lord Denno and then drop to the ground or disappear. Lord Denno had his sword out; he had wounded the other man. Beyond him someone who looked a lot like Lord Denno was fighting with Ladbroke and Dunstan.

Nyle and Gerrit consulted each other with a quick glance. They would never get through that way. Both looked toward the other side of the room and, simultaneously let out roars of rage. Another one of those blond demons was sneaking toward their master's back. He had a bundle in one arm, but the other hand held a bared sword and there could be no doubt that he intended to stab His Grace in the back.

Ten strides took them across to him, still shouting, and he whirled to face them, parrying the blows launched at him not only with his sword but with the thick bundle in his left arm. Nyle's sword slid along his opponent's and the tip touched him. He shrieked with pain, which startled Nyle so much—because he hadn't actually wounded the man, only touched him—that he jerked back.

Gerrit stepped smoothly in front of him, thrusting. Again the bundle was thrust into the sword's path; it stuck, and while Gerrit struggled to pull it free, Nyle attempted to stab his opponent over that awkward shield. He thrust so hard that his sword went right through and nicked the body behind. The long-eared creature squalled with pain, dropped the bundle, and began to shout the same unintelligible phrase over and over while slashing so furiously with his sword that neither Nyle nor Gerrit could close on him.

That Sidhe had been infused with great power, which he was supposed to feed to the changeling just before he placed it in Elizabeth's bed. But the changeling was dead now, stabbed many times by steel swords. Doubtless he would be punished for that, but the pain of the scratches he had already received was so great that his master's punishment faded in comparison to his fear of being wounded by steel. He took the power he had been given and wrapped a spell of sleeping in it and cast it at the men who fought him.

Nyle hesitated and shook his head. His eyes closed; he fought them open, and they drifted closed again. He fought it because he saw Gerrit wavering on his feet. He tried to raise his sword, lest the person they were fighting take advantage of this overpowering lassitude and skewer them. Since he knew that in another moment he would not be able to use the sword, he gripped it near the hilt by the blade and threw it. He never knew whether or not he had hit his target, only that it squalled again, as the lassitude overcame him and he dropped to the floor.

FitzRoy had been unaware of the Sidhe who intended to take him from the back until he heard his men call a warning. He turned then, so he could watch better while still keeping most of his attention on the Sidhe he was fighting. It was not a good plan, and he would have been dead in a few minutes, except that the Sidhe had seen something that distracted him as much. Vidal Dhu was down on his knees and over him, with one hand extended, stood a figure that glowed and crackled with white lightning.

Hastily the Sidhe disengaged and leapt back, actually dropping his sword as he pulled his small bow out of the spell-protected sheath in which he carried it. From a pocket in the sheath, he pulled a shaft. He nocked the short arrow with an evilly gleaming head and drew the bow. FitzRoy saw that the elf-shot was aimed directly at Denoriel. He leapt forward, shouting, and slammed his sword across the Sidhe's arm. The bolt flew wide.

Pasgen heard FitzRoy's shout of warning and turned his head. His eyes went wide as he saw the bow swing in his direction. He flung himself sideways, screamed as Dunstan's steel sword nicked his forearm, but it was not the pain of the iron touching him that wrenched the cry from him. To his horror he realized that the elf-shot had passed between the two mortals attacking him and struck his right shoulder, and the pain that screamed through him was unbearable.

Rhoslyn heard Pasgen scream. She launched a terrific blow at Aleneil and then thrust her away with all the strength she had. Aleneil, unable to avoid the blow completely, was rocked off balance and staggered back, raising her arms to guard herself and launch a blow of her own, but Rhoslyn's attack had ended. She rushed to Pasgen and fell on her knees beside him.

FitzRoy's cry had another, more disastrous, effect. His voice drew Denoriel's attention. The bolt of white lightning, that Denoriel had been about to loose on Vidal hung suspended for just a breath, but in that breath Vidal had lunged to his feet and muttered a spell. Poison now glistened along the blade of his sword, and that blade was only a few fingers'-breadth from Denoriel's throat.

Because he was watching to be sure that the elf-shot had not hit his Denno, FitzRoy saw the new danger. Without a regret, the silvery gun rose. The iron bolt hit Vidal Dhu with such force that it flung him backward. He began to shriek, his voice warbling with agony, but his head struck the floor forcefully, mercifully stunning him into silence.

The strange Sidhe with the crossbow cried out and, unthinking in his fury, nocked another elf-shot, turning the bow on FitzRoy. FitzRoy flung back his head to clear the hair from his eyes. To the Sidhe's vision, the blue star suddenly visible on his forehead gleamed, almost pulsing with energy against the threat of elf-shot. Simultaneously, FitzRoy raised his gun. The Sidhe cried, "No!" and tried to fling away his bow, but the bowstring snapped forward, the nocked shaft flew the short distance between the Sidhe and FitzRoy and the bolt struck FitzRoy full in the chest.

There was no force behind the bolt, it did not penetrate even past FitzRoy's clothing, but elf-shot was deadly stuff, and needed only to touch a mortal to harm.

The bolt fell to the ground. FitzRoy coughed once, wetly, tried to draw a deep breath, and could not. The air rattled in his throat, but the gun was steady, trained on the Sidhe before him.

"No, please!" the Sidhe cried, raising empty hands.

The room was almost quiet. Keeping the gun leveled at the Sidhe, FitzRoy looked around. There was nothing to fight for any more. The mortal who was supposed to remove Elizabeth's cross was dead. The Sidhe who had been fighting Nyle and Gerrit huddled on the floor, moaning with the pain of steel-poisoned wounds. Rhoslyn had lost all interest in Elizabeth; she knelt by her brother, trying to block both the poison of the steel-inflicted wound and the elf-shot. Blood gleamed wetly on Vidal Dhu's black doublet; he was unconscious but still breathing.

FitzRoy saw movement by the door to the dressing room. He stepped back so he could cover both the Sidhe and that doorway, but it was Blanche Parry, dragging Aurilia by the feet. He looked at the Sidhe.

"I can kill you all," he said, lifting the gun, fighting the strange tightness and pain in his chest, "and remove your ears so there will be no hint you are not mortal. Then my men will bury you, and you will be no embarrassment. Or, you can remove the living—and go—"

Rhoslyn had turned her head to listen and rose to her feet. "Quick. Help me with Pasgen and I will help you with the others. We can use the Gate Pasgen built, but hurry. I don't know how long it will last with him unconscious."

The Sidhe cast a nervous glance at FitzRoy, but he nodded and gestured with the gun. Pasgen was quickly moved through the Gate, then Rhoslyn and the Sidhe carried Vidal Dhu through it. The Sidhe moaning over his steel-poisoned wounds was dragged to his feet by his unsympathetic companion and shoved through the gate. Rhoslyn returned, stood beside the sole unwounded Sidhe, and looked to see if there were any more survivors.

"Here," Blanche called, "don't forget this one," shoving the limp, softly moaning Aurilia in his direction. "Nor this." Her face hardened as she picked up the still-covered bundle and thrust it at Rhoslyn. "Remember," she added, as Rhoslyn took the blanket-wrapped changeling, dead before it had ever been awakened to life, not ungently into her arms. "I can smell them at twenty feet, and there's always this." She lifted the black iron necklace with its dangling crosses. Rhoslyn shrank back. "Look at that other one when she wakes up, if she wakes up, and decide whether it's worth it to try again."

"To me she is not," Rhoslyn snarled. "But I do not rule."

Rhoslyn turned on the words and ran through the Gate, following the Sidhe with Aurilia. Blanche's eyes following her, widened as she saw the empty blackness. She wrenched one of the crosses from her necklace and threw it into the void. A moment later there was a violent flash. Plaster rained down from the wall and a blackened area of lathe showed behind it.

Blanche bit her lip. That those who wished ill to her princess could come through solid walls had not before occurred to her. The cross had solved the problem. She would need to have more made, larger and heavier, since she would not need to wear them, and she would need to put some kind of warning spell, possibly a warding spell too, on the wall. But it was no immediate problem. The demons would need time to lick their wounds. And meanwhile . . . Blanche went to kneel between Nyle and Gerrit and began to whisper the spell to wake them.

Denoriel was dying. He knew it. He was only dimly aware of Aleneil kneeling beside him, her hands on his chest, holding back the worst of the agony of burned-out channels of power. His whole body burned. He had been full when he confronted Vidal Dhu and his shields had been layer upon layer, the strongest he could build. But Vidal was strong, stronger than he thought—having assumed wrongly that the dark magics were weaker than the bright—and his shields had melted away under the repeated assaults.