Kethry’s silence and significant stare were answer enough. Tarma flushed. “Let’s just do this, shall we?” was all she managed to say.
It would not be fair to say that they cut across the landscape like a team of experienced mowers across a hayfield. Nanca had been correct; the closer they got to their goal, the more difficult and numerous the foes became. And the closer to their goal, the more magician-constructs also appeared, designed specifically to neutralize or at least occupy Nanca herself.
This were the most clever and the closest to actual intelligence and Tarma was very glad that she and Kethry were not the ones directly facing the things. They were not coming out of this unscathed, that much was certain, too. At the end of each battle, they were at the very least completely exhausted. And the injuries they got were quite real. Yes, Nanca could and did heal them almost immediately, but they did hurt, and they did incapacitate.
But Tarma, at least, was finding something exhilarating about this. It was like having the perfect training scenario. You didn’t learn anything in fighting by not getting hurt, after all.
And the closer they got to the “endgame” as Nanca called it, the more cheerful she became. “If we can pull this off as a draw,” she said finally, “I will be happy. Quite, quite happy, actually. Coming into this handicapped—”
“I am not settling for a draw.” Tarma had opened her mouth to declare something of the sort, but Kethry, to her astonishment, beat her to it.
“Eh?” the Swordsworn said, looking curiously at her partner, who was at the moment looking rather the worst for wear, with her robes more than a bit cut up, her hair straggling out of its tail, and the beginnings of a black eye that was just one of the many sets of bruises they had both collected. Bruises, after all, were not incapacitating, and Nanca’s reserves of healing energies were limited.
“I am not settling for a draw. I think we can win this one. But I’d like to suggest a strategy change myself.” Kethry settled an unsheathed Need across her lap. “Am I right in thinking we are going to encounter your opponent in this endgame?”
Nanca nodded. “Absolutely. And rather than relying on the constructs going through their patterned moves, he’ll be directing some of them personally.
“That’s what I thought.” Kethry looked over at her partner. We’ve been taking out the weakest of the constructs first, then concentrating the fighting of all three of us on the strongest. This time I think we should ignore all that. Instead, we all converge on this mage-friend of Nanca’s and take him out. Once he’s down, the game is over. Right?”
“Right!” Nanca pounded a fist into her cupped hand with delight. “And that is the last thing he is going to expect, because we’ve been doing the opposite of that until now. The essence of what is going to work is that we can’t be predicted!”
“Is there any way you can give us an overview of the battle site?” Kethry asked.
“I don’t—” Nanca began, and then—her eyes fell on Warrl. And she began to grin.
Mind-mate, Warrl said, with alarm, backing up a pace, I am not at all certain I like where this is going—
I knew I would not like where this was going, Warrl complained bitterly, as he hovered in place, four paws dangling limply in midair. If the gods had intended us to fly, they would have made us gryphons.
“Hush up and practice.” Tarma admonished him. “Just do what Nanca told you to do; run as if you were running on the ground.”
It’s undignified. He protested, ears laid back flat, but obeyed.
Finally even Nanca was satisfied with what he was doing. “You’re no Tayledras bondbird, but you’ll do,” she said with satisfaction. “Now just make sure Jendran doesn’t see you, and you’ll be fine.”
I’m doomed, Warrl said bitterly. I’m a calf-sized flying predator. How is he not going to see me?
But he galloped clumsily up into the sky anyway.
Tarma closed her eyes and concentrated on what Warrl was showing her. The layout of the troops. The disposition of the “special” constructs that their opponent would be operating himself. And most importantly, the whereabouts of Jendran himself—
Ack! bleated Warrl, as suddenly crossbow bolts from three separate units came hurtling toward him.
And Warrl came hurtling back at top speed, now displaying a great deal more agility than he had going out.
Or at least, agility in the air. He landed like a sack of wet sand, three crossbow bolts sticking out of his improvised battle-armor.
And he glared at Tarma.
“They know we’re coming,” Tarma said hastily. “The advantage of surprise is over. Let’s move, people.”
The victory feast was very real. It was held outside the game-world, in no small part because what was inside the game-world was not entirely real. Jendran had a small, but comfortable Keep literally on the threshold of the Gate terminus, complete with several servants and a really good cook, none of them constructs.
“Brilliant!” he kept saying with delight. “I don’t know when I’ve had a better game! But, of course, now we’re going to have to agree to ban all other players from the field except the two of us, or agree to incorporate an even number on both sides.”
Jendran was a small, wiry fellow in person, not at all formidable. But Tarma had immense respect for his ability to think on his feet and strategically deal with the unexpected. They had won, but it had been a very near thing, and only the last-minute appearance of Warrl, who body-slammed the mage from the rear, knocking him off his feet, had given them the victory as quickly as they had it.
Warrl was inordinately proud of that fact. Tarma was more than inclined to let him bask.
“I just want you to keep us in mind at some point in the future,” she said, polishing off a second slice of apple tart. “Being able to practice large-scale strategy like this—”
“It will be a while before we can manage something that is not so predictable,” Nanca put in. “But—well, I, for one, would value your input. And that of any other fighter you feel you can trust.”
The discussion went on long into the night hours, and in the morning, fully resupplied and with their fee jingling in the pouches, they rode off towards Kata’shin’a’in and hopefully, some work.
But their did remain one small question in Tarma’s mind.
Did you really mean what you said about biting me if I ever made you fly again? she thought hard at Warrl.
The kyree did not look back over his shoulder, but she got the distinct impression of a glower.
:You are feeling, precisely, how lucky?: was his only response.
And on reflection she could only come to one conclusion.
Not that lucky.
NOVELS BY MERCEDES LACKEY
available from DAW Books:
THE HERALDS OF VALDEMAR
ARROWS OF THE QUEEN
ARROW’S FLIGHT
ARROW’S FALL
THE LAST HERALD-MAGE
MAGIC’S PAWN
MAGIC’S PROMISE
MAGIC’S PRICE
WINDS OF FATE
WINDS OF CHANGE
WINDS OF FURY
THE MAGE STORMS
STORM WARNING
STORM RISING
STORM BREAKING
VOWS AND HONOR
THE OATHBOUND
OATHBREAKERS
OATHBLOOD
BY THE SWORD
BRIGHTLY BURNING
TAKE A THIEF
EXILE’S HONOR
EXILE’S VALOR
VALDEMAR ANTHOLOGIES:
SWORD OF ICE
SUN IN GLORY
CROSSROADS
Written with LARRY DIXON:
THE MAGE WARS
THE BLACK GRYPHON
THE WHITE GRYPHON
THE SILVER GRYPHON
DARIAN’S TALE
OWLFLIGHT
OWLSIGHT
OWLKNIGHT
OTHER NOVELS
THE BLACK SWAN
THE DRAGON JOUSTERS
JOUST
ALTA
SANCTUARY
THE ELEMENTAL MASTERS
THE SERPENT’S SHADOW
THE GATES OF SLEEP
PHOENIX AND ASHES
THE WIZARD OF LONDON
And don’t miss:
The VALDEMAR COMPANION
Edited by John Helfers and Denise Little