Quentin had listened carefully for the sound of trouble, for any indication that this place that seemed so like a trap in fact was. He had his sword out already, gripped in one hand and laid flat against the metal square on which he crouched, the ridged pommel not nearly reassuring enough against his sweating palm. Get out of here! He kept shouting the words in the silence of his mind, as if by thinking it he could somehow make it happen. Get out of here now!
Then the first fire threads speared toward the Druid, and Quentin was on his feet instantly, catapulting from his crouch and charging ahead. Rusten went with him, the two of them rushing to Walker's aid, reckless and willful and foolhardy, ignoring the shouts from Panax to come back. They should have both died. But Quentin tripped and went down, sprawling across the metal floor, and the fall saved his life. Rusten, ahead of him and still charging toward the Druid, was caught in a crossfire of deadly threads and cut apart while still on his feet, screaming as he died.
Moving forward, his dark-cloaked form somehow sliding past the fire threads, Walker was yelling at them to stay back, to get clear of the ruins. Heeding the Druid's command, Quentin crawled back the way he had come, the fire chasing after him, passing so close that it seared his clothing. He caught a glimpse of the others, Bek in the center group, the Elves on the right wing, all dispersing and taking cover, shielding themselves from whatever might happen next. Ryer Ord Star bolted from Bek's side, her slender form streaking away into the ruins after Walker, ephemeral and shadowy as she passed ghostlike through walls that were now shifting in all directions, charging ahead heedlessly into the heart of the maze. He saw her stumble and go down, struck by one of the deadly threads, and then he lost sight of everything but what was happening right in front of him.
"Creepers!" Panax screamed.
Quentin rolled to his feet to find the first of them almost on top of him, seemingly come out of nowhere. He caught a glimpse of others behind it and to either side. They were of different sizes and shapes and metal compositions, a strange amalgam of what looked to be castoff pieces and oddly formed parts jointed and hinged to make something that seemed not quite real. Blades and powerful cutters glittered at the ends of metal extensions. Protruding metal eyes swiveled. They advanced in a crouch, as if they were armored insects grown large and given life and sent out to hunt.
He destroyed the first so quickly that it was scrap metal before he was aware of what he had done. All those long hours of training with the Elven Hunters saved him from the hesitation that would have otherwise cost him his life. He reacted without thinking, striking with the Sword of Leah at the creeper closest, the magic flaring to life instantly, responding to his need. The dark metal blade flashed with fire of its own, blue flames riding up and down the edges of the weapon as he left his antagonist a metal ruin. Without slowing, he leapt over it to confront the next, fighting to reach his companions, who were backed against a nearby wall, struggling with their ordinary weapons to keep a tandem of creepers at bay. He smashed the second creeper, then was struck from the side by something he didn't see and knocked flying. Red threads sought him out, searing their way slowly over the metal carpet, leaving deep grooves that smoked and steamed. He rolled away from them once again, came to his feet, and with a howl of determination launched himself back into the fray.
He fought for what seemed like a long time, but was probably no more than a handful of minutes. Time stopped, and the world around him and all it had offered and might offer again in his young life disappeared. Creepers came at him from everywhere, creepers of all shapes and sizes and looks. He seemed to be a magnet for them, drawing them like flies to the dead. They converged from everywhere. They turned away from Panax and the Elven Hunters to get at him. He was slashed and battered by their attempts to pin him down-not necessarily to kill him, but as if their goal was to capture him. It occurred to him then for the first time that it was the magic they were after.
By then, the magic was all through him. It surfaced with his first sword stroke, the blue fire racing up and down the blade's surface. But soon it was inside him, as well. It fused him with his weapon and made them one, leaving the metal to enter flesh and bone, rushing through his bloodstream and back out again, all heat and energy. It burned in a captivating, seductive way, filling him with power and a terrible thirst for its feel. Within only a short time, he craved the feeling as he had craved nothing else in his life. It made him believe he could do anything. He had no fear, no hesitation. He was indestructible. He was immortal.