The shattering of her shields brought Vantra’s attention back to the confrontation. The cat woman settled her elbow in her palm and tapped at her chin while a fellow brown cloak struck the protections in quick succession. Her attacker had blond fur covering the back of their hands, and claws instead of nails at the tips of their fingers; a changeling of some kind, though she could not place the magic.
“I ask you again, to leave,” the cat woman said. “Any who still require intonations to focus spells are weak prey to us.”
Perhaps, but they had yet to break through her shields.
She flung layer after layer up as quickly as her attacker cracked them. She focused on them, but the others worried her; no one attempted to help. Did they expect her to fall to their comrade? What might happen if another joined in the assault?
The cat woman cocked her head. “If you let us reach our prey, he will live. You bring his doom with your ill-advised protection.”
Vantra glanced back; he had slumped to the ground, limp, eyes closed, blood continuing to drip from his wound and pool under him. She much doubted he would live if he ended up in their claws.
HELP! she shouted mentally. Would volume help attract attention? He suffers, he needs help!
Her attacker flexed their hand; the claws lengthened, the tips glinting in the dull lighting. They slashed, leaving fire-yellow streaks across her shields. The flames licked at the outer surface, eating through with ease. She slammed a Sun-drenched defense beneath her current layers, and those she formed behind it took on a decidedly Sun-cast.
Lorgan repeated over and over during their training sessions, to add a hint of Sun to her Mental Touch. When she cast a Sun-specific spell, the potency strengthened. She needed to lean more into it, rather than run from it.
Her gaze flicked between the brown cloaks. Ten stood as enemy. If she used Clear Rays—
The broken body of the snake from the ruins erupted into memory. No. She refused to kill, even if her enemies sought her harm. She would hold the shield until help arrived.
If it arrived. Katta and Red remarked she had a strong mental voice when in prayer, but Verryn told her that syimlin did not listen constantly for pleas because the overwhelming inaneness of most wants aggravated them. How was she going to attract attention, if the being she needed to contact actively ignored her?
The woman growled, shoved the second attacker away from the shield, raised her hand, and punched.
She broke through and howled as flames raced up her arm and bit into her cloak. Screeching, she flung her appendage around to rid it of the fire as her friend cut the hood’s clasp. The cloth crumpled into a heap behind her, where her companions stomped on it until the golden licks of Sunfire died.
The woman was definitely a shape-changed elfine. Her long, elegant ears ended in reddish-brown tufts, her eyebrows were arched and wispy, her face thin with reddish fur running from her gold-pierced earlobes to the center of her jaw. Sleek reddish-brown fur capped her shoulders and formed points at her elbows. Her sleeveless dress was unfitted and short, a perfect wardrobe choice for a shape-changer who preferred quick transformations.
“You rot, prey,” she snarled, her cat eyes molten in anger. Her lips parted, revealing elongated canines, as she raised her injured arm. The fur coating her left appendage was nothing but ash; why had she not changed into Ether form? The flames would have nipped at her essence, but not discorporated her.
Magic swirled around her opponent’s claws, nasty green with vicious yellow streaks. She slammed it into the defenses; fire again erupted from the impact. She screamed in pain but, undeterred, forced her fist through the protection.
Vantra formed Sun shield after Sun shield. The woman smashed through the outer layer and continued to the next; her arm muscles bulged at the stress she placed on them, her teeth clenched, her eyes bugged.
Another layer splintered.
How badly did they want the being she protected? Vantra glanced at the pool of blood. How was she going to get him help? If Light ignored her prayers, what else could she do? Pray to Darkness and hope he listened? Verryn recovered from Black Temple and was not available, so perhaps Sun? No Sun acolyte other than her traveled with them, but maybe her altar might attract notice—if anyone was up and near her packs to see the ominous warning glow, rather than snuggled in bed, resting.
If the hooskine were a ghost, she would gather him up and try to make it to the ziptrail. Unlike the mini-Joyful, she did not know the specific protections that allowed a living being to weather the caustic touch of raw magic, so she needed another plan.
Another plan? She had no first idea, let alone a second.
Flames flared around the woman as she continued her strike, her fur lighting, then snuffing out in abrupt gusts of wind. The brown cloaks whispered at each other, a couple moved to intercede, thought better of it, and remained in the background, shuffling their feet.
Vantra set another shield, filling it as full of Sun-tinged magic as she could. She hated to think what might happen to the ghost, but—
You must do something.
Her essence vibrated and despair shot through her before she ground her mental fingers into it and dragged hope back. “Go away.”
The attacker grinned wide, thinking she spoke to her. Dammit.
Come now. I am here, when those you claim as companions ignore your plight.
She did not need help from Rezenarza. She had no doubt, the ex-syimlin would exact a high price for any such aid.
Why rebuff me? Time and again I have Touched you when you voiced need. And now, another’s life hangs in the balance. If you wish to save him, take the assistance I offer.
He did not wish to help, but subjugate. She had read enough mythology concerning Veer’s ascension to know how he treated those he believed slighted him. She raised more layers, conscious of the ones the woman broke, and looked around, desperation chittering through her mind, doubt slamming as hard as the changeling’s fists against her resolve.
The uninvolved had fled. Doors and windows were closed, curtains drawn, shutters shuttered. She did not see a single being watching the fight. If she screamed for aid, she would only embolden the enemy and not guarantee attracting the notice of authorities.
What was she going to do?
Accept my Touch. Rezenarza’s voice lowered into a seductive cajoling. You have nothing to fear from it.
A shrill screech caught her and the brown cloaks’ attention. Only her opponent did not look up, too invested in her punches to fall to distraction. Fyrij dove, sliced across her forehead with his fang, and soared away.
“Fyrij!” Vantra shouted. What was he doing there? The caroling landed on a second-story balcony with bright red and white flowers decorating the railing and sang; a cacophony, a sour note joined with bitter reverb. Vantra winced. Lorgan decided the avian needed training in an underdeveloped skill and sought to teach him how to use his sweet voice to attack. Standing as a test dummy for his screech had sent shudders through her essence; the impact of the current note, with harmful intent backing it, disconcerted her.
The brown cloaks slapped hands over their ears and bent over, cursing and moaning. The changeling did not notice the sound, let alone the wisps of essence leaking into the wind from her cut. Her attention remained on her fist and the shields—obsessive, much?
Fearing her temper if she shattered them, Vantra whirled and knelt by the Sun acolyte, concentrating on him and not the quivering of her essence. Could she lift him over her shoulder and carry him? She knew it was a viable way to cart an injured man, but how to get him up and over her was another matter. She did not think pulling him through the dirt was a good idea, but she did not have a choice. How distant was the Sun Temple? Could Fyrij keep the enemy distracted while she escaped with him?
Another shield fractured.
Wind buffeted the remaining protections. Vantra added yet more layers as green gusts swirled around the woman, ruffling her hair, her dress, before solidifying into a bauble and coating her fist. A changeling with a Touch of Wind to her spells? Her fire-hot gaze focused on Vantra, her lips pulled into a wide, seething grimace.
She snagged the hooskine’s arm on his non-injured side and pulled, intent on the shimmery beam of the Sun temple. Wind spiraled upwards around her, drawing bits from all corners of the street to cloud the surrounding air. It pushed against her shields; flames sprouted where magic touched magick, neither overcoming the other. She pushed, but realized her defenses could not move past the blockade.
Dropping them was a no.
Fyrij stopped singing. Concerned, Vantra looked up at him. Had the enemy attacked him? The little caroling dove off the railing, aiming for the changeling’s face. He dug his talons into her nose; she reared back, taking him with her. He smacked her with his wings, then jerked his head down, slicing through her essence. He knocked her head to the side as he leapt away, flying high to avoid retaliation.
She screamed, stumbled, slapping her forehead as the wind died and debris fell to the ground. Vantra tugged the unconscious being across the cobblestones, shuffling backwards so she had a better grip, but the distraction ended within three breaths. Magic bubbled around her, a mix of rain-scented wind and rage.
“Oh shit.”
Vantra snapped her gaze to Red, who planted his hand on her shield, leaned over, and puked on the woman’s soft, soleless shoes.
She shrieked in shocked revulsion and slopped back, staring down at the bright green splatter coating her legs.
More green stuff flowed from the ancient ghost’s mouth, liberally spraying the attackers and the paving stones. Vantra’s mind whirled; how could a ghost vomit like that? They had no stomach! She shoved the back of her hand against her nose and mouth. What had he eaten last night, drank last night, to make that hideous color? Or was that typical of a ghost who could eat and drink and got sick from . . . from . . . overindulgence?
Katta, rumpled and sleepy-eyed, glared in disgusted annoyance at his friend and remained outside her shielding. Kjaelle, Mera and Tally focused on the unconscious hooskine and hustled through her protections. Until that moment, Vantra did not think she appreciated triggers to their full extent, but linking the other members of the mini-Joyful to her magic, which allowed them to pass through her defenses while keeping the enemy out, proved handy.
Tally hissed as she bent over the unconscious being. “Vesh and Jare went to get a healer,” she said. “But we need to get him out of the street.”
“You’re going nowhere!” the changeling shrieked, desperation and defiance sharpening her tone. She jumped at Red, claws over-extended.
Katta reacted, a blur of movement. He snagged her shoulder and spun her around, then planted his boot on her lower back and shoved her into the animated second attacker, who belatedly rushed them. Both tumbled to the green-stained paving stones. “We do as we please,” he whispered. The air darkened, as if a heavy rain shower approached. “And we please to help him.”
Half the brown cloaks looked up, tense, while the rest froze, eyes on the green stuff spreading in a wide puddle on the ground. Ew ew ew. Vantra turned away; if she continued to look, she would get sick, too.
More green splattered the paving stones.
“Qira, go back to bed,” Katta muttered. “If we need you, I’ll call.”
“He does this every time,” Mera said, unbuckling the hooskine’s belt as Tally slid it and the sheath away from him and handed the weapon to Kjaelle, who handed it to Vantra.
“We are speaking of Qira,” Katta said with a sigh.
Red coughed, as if he wanted to snap and snarl, but could not stop vomiting long enough to do so.
The hooskine wore a rib-length midnight vest coated in blood and dirt, and a matching cloth tied about his hips, just above his grey waistband. Kjaelle sliced through both with her sharp blade. Mera and Tally pulled the waistcloth away and Vantra tugged at the vest. She held it up, tapping the Sun badge with the pommel of the sword. The elfine freed the shimmery patch before handing the vest to the twins. Vantra took possession of the badge; a burst of warmth coursed from it before dwindling in strength.
“Interference will be a rock around your neck.” The enemy woman’s snarled promise met with mocking laughter from the mini-Joyful.
“Save your dignity. Leave.” Command whipped through Katta’s words, and all eyes snaked to him. The changeling flinched, rolled onto her hands and knees in the green stuff, and rose to a crouch, rocking back and forth.
“We are not yours to control.” Her growl sounded strained, as if she pushed her voice through a sore throat. Her shape flowed into that of a small gyirindi with reddish-brown fur, longer fangs, and eyes bulging in anger.
She roared, as terrifying as a true forest cat, and leapt.
Katta did not move. She rammed into a Darkness shield and slid down the side, unconscious. Her essence flumped into the puke.
Vantra whimpered, nauseous herself. Nope. Nope. She turned back to the being who needed her help, certain she could not get sick, despite the instinctual reaction of her form.
Mera finished attaching the vest to the waistcloth with magic, then laid the creation on the ground. The makeshift stretcher shimmered as a Light spell with a Darkness base infused it, adding strength to items not meant to be used in such a way. Tally and Kjaelle lifted the hooskine onto it, then the twins hooked their hands through the vest’s armholes and pulled in unison.
“Lord Hrivasine will hear of this,” a brown cloak gritted, jaw clenched hard enough that his voice barely made it past his teeth. Vantra stiffened. Hrivasine? The mokosie of Selaserat? “Interfering with—”
“Lord Hrivasine, hmm?” Katta’s low thrum wrapped around his listeners; the enemy shuddered and whimpered and debased themselves, while Vantra only perceived mesmeric annoyance. “Then send our regards, from Katta and Qira. He’ll want to know.”
“You think this is a joke?” he choked as the second attacker grabbed a paw and dragged the woman from the sloppy mess, green bile trailing.
“No. The acolyte bleeds too badly for that.” Katta folded his arms and stared. Unease prickled through Vantra’s essence as nature sounds faded and the immediate area dimmed to resemble a storm-blanketed evening, when beings huddled in safe spaces and prayed their dwellings did not wash away in the ensuing flood. “But your assault is at an end. Leave. Report to Hrivasine, if you’ve the courage.” He smiled in soft and silken malice. “And if I sense one of you anywhere near me and mine during our stay, I’ll send the nearest Shades enclave after you. For all Hrivasine’s bloviating, he refuses to interfere with their hunts. Follow his lead—he learned from his mistakes.”
The enemy shrank, hands up as if to ward off menace and harm, then employed Ether Touch and zipped in the opposite direction of the Sun temple, trailing wisps in their haste to vacate. They left the one pulling the changeling behind. He continued to drag her at the same speed, either uncaring or unable to quicken his step.
Fyrij landed on the Darkness acolyte’s shoulder, spread his wings, and issued a final, ear-breaking note as they disappeared into the nearest alley.
As soon as the last two rounded the corner, the Darkness lifted.
“What in the Void did you eat last night?” Katta muttered, staring at the ground, face wrinkled in abject disgust. Red smacked at him with the back of his hand, missed, spit, and faded into rainbow sparkles before disappearing.
“I bet it was that skunky stuff Reci had him try,” Kjaelle grumbled. “Vantra, you can drop your shields. The healer needs to get by.”
She did so just as Vesh, Jare, and an unfamiliar human ghost with primly bound brown hair and a green robe sporting Zibwa’s badge rushed up, all carrying leather bags.
“Oh, Yut-ta!” The healer sprinted to Mera and Tally. They paused and she bent and settled a hand on his stomach. “The Sun temple’s the nearest place that has public healing beds, and since he’s a Sun acolyte, they should let us use them.”
“Follow me,” Jare called. Fyrij zipped past Vantra and fluttered over the broken wand; she snagged it and followed the rest of them, leaving behind bright green and a pool of blood as signs something happened on those paving stones.
