“You cannot destroy Maastrik, he has told me, without destroying all those around you. You cannot afford to do that … no matter how much you wish to destroy Maastrik … or me. You do not wish to destroy Lord Mykel. Nor do I wish that, either. Therefore, the best thing for both of us, and especially those you wish to protect, is for you and your men to depart.” Jhosef smiles warmly.
Lerial blocks the overwhelming feeling of warmth and friendliness that surrounds him and smiles in return … coldly. “I think you have overlooked something. What if I don’t wish to depart?”
“Then we will remain here until Maastrik wears you down, and he will, and then you will depart, in one fashion or another. Or, possibly, you will attempt a foolish attack, and you and your men will watch Mykel perish, and I will rally the merchanters against Cigoerne and to restore Afrit to its former glory.”
He’s truly mad. With what he now understands, Lerial cannot allow either alternative. He also knows that he cannot hold out forever against the insistent voices projected by the chaos-mage. Even if he can, he cannot let Jhosef and such a deadly chaos-mage escape, and the longer the standoff continues the weaker his position becomes.
What can you do?
“Well?” asks Jhosef.
Lerial can think of only one thing. He can only hope that it will work. He immediately creates three almost minute order-chaos separations in the stone under the white mage’s right boot, knowing that the mage’s shields will block the direct impact. He also knows that no one can do much of anything but fling out their hands when they feel themselves falling.
The explosion muffled by the mage’s shields staggers him, and the white-clad man flails, while pulverized rock and dust flare up around him.
Lerial contracts his shields almost to his body, sprints forward, and attacks through the swirling dust, not with either order or chaos, but with the ancient iron-cored, cupridium-plated blade. While he runs into what feels like a wall, the ancient blade continues onward, slicing into the mage’s shoulder.
The unvoiced scream dies, and ugly reddish silver mud-black splotches—not even close to the usual black-silver death mists—spray out from the near-instant ashes that are all that remain of the wizard. Even the shimmering white cloth turns gray and then ashen, before joining the pile of ash so fine that it will sift with any movement anywhere close.
“Kill them all!” screams Jhosef.
For a moment, Lerial does not understand to whom Jhosef is talking, not until a chaos-bolt slams against his shields. He turns toward Jhosef, only to see Mykel half-wreathed in flame from a second chaos-bolt, far weaker than the first. Lerial’s eyes turn to the other side of the entry hall, where another mage in white stands, a dark-haired man most likely younger than Lerial.
Lerial immediately attempts an order-pulse against the younger mage’s shields, if only to distract him. That pulse, likely aided by some chaos depletion, does just that, and the mage flings another chaos-bolt at Lerial, one that he returns to the attacker with enough force that the younger mage staggers, his shields disintegrating, then turns and runs, heading toward the corridor behind the columns.
Unwilling to let the mage escape, although he is more properly a white wizard, and unable to project significant chaos that distance, Lerial separates the smallest possible section of the fleeing man’s belt into order and chaos, because that is all he can do at that moment. A chunk of the man’s back explodes. The white wizard pitches forward onto the polished white and brown tiles, his body slowly turning to ash as the chaos consumes it.
Lerial immediately turns to face Jhosef, only to see Oestyn and his father in an embrace—except it is more deadly. Jhosef’s arms flail as Oestyn steps back and wrenches the knife from his father’s body.
“You … you…” Jhosef cannot seem to speak more as his hands clutch at his abdomen. Lerial can only see blood everywhere across Jhosef’s chest and abdomen, and it is clear enough that Oestyn has struck more than once. Abruptly, Jhosef sags, and then collapses like a marionette whose strings have been cut.
Oestyn turns, the bloody knife in his hand. “I tried so hard … I did…” Tears are streaming down his face. “It was never … never enough. Never…” He looks down at Mykel’s half-charred form, then lifts the knife again. “I’m … sorry, Mykel … sorry … so sorry.” Then the knife clatters on the floor tiles.
Lerial is frozen for a moment before he lunges toward Oestyn, but by the time he crosses the almost ten yards that separate them, even his efforts to use order to stanch the blood from Oestyn’s neck are too little and too late … and the quick shower of black and silver tells Lerial that Oestyn is dead. Lerial sees that, as Oestyn collapsed, he had reached out and clutched Mykel’s hand with both of his.
Lerial slowly straightens, ignoring the blood on his hands … and in those places from where you can never wash it away,
Belatedly, his shields in place, Lerial immediately searches for yet another concentration of chaos. If there were two, could there be another? He can find no sign of another chaos-mage, and he glances toward Norstaan, who looks stunned, if not more than stunned.