something that might have been chain, had chain been light and magical. Significantly to Kallandras, he did not draw his sword; he gestured briefly, and wind played in the sweeping fall of platinum hair as he turned toward that roar and began to walk.
His stride was supple and wide; Kallandras kept pace with some difficulty. But he was grateful in some fashion for the interruption. The mage’s gaze was now brighter, the line of his shoulders, straighter. He took the lead; Kallandras was content to follow. If he did not relish the possibility of combat, he prepared for it; it had become a fact of life, as necessary as breath if one wished to continue to breathe.
Through the night forest, in the light surrendered by moon in a clear, dark sky, they at last approached a clearing similar in shape and size to one they had just left. Kallandras could see the edge of living foliage as it circled fallen branches and the husks of great trunks. But there was no stillness, no silence, in its center. Each time Kallandras and Meralonne had approached such a clearing, there had been a tree of ice awaiting their arrival; what stood in this dead clearing barely resembled a tree, it was so misshapen. The earth was overturned where roots had broken free of its confinement; they rose like armored tentacles, slashing and stabbing at the only thing present that was not likewise bound in a similar fashion.
He was as tall as Meralonne APhaniel, if not as fine-boned, and his hair was ebon to the mage’s platinum; his skin looked all of red in the light cast by the shield and sword he bore. Where Meralonne had touched the tree with his exposed palms, the Kialli did not; he slashed at its trunk. Fire gouted from the edge of blade as roots writhed and coiled. In one wide sweep of sword, they fell, but they were almost instantly replaced.
Kallandras was silent; Meralonne, silent as well, although the mage exhaled sharply. The bard glanced at him, seeking direction; in response, the mage drew sword for the first time in this long march of days. It was blue, its glow harsher than the red illumination of Kialli sword.
Invoke the Summer, Kallandras thought; he gave no breath to the words—he had no time. Meralonne APhaniel leaped above the circumference traced by dead foliage; he leaped above the easy reach of roots coiled like armored snakes. The sword crossed his chest as he gestured with both arms. Blue light cut a trail across the bard’s vision. When it cleared, Meralonne was a yard above the ground; roots flew where they sought to attack him as he cut his way toward the heart of the moving trunk.
Kallandras whispered a benediction to air and it came; he leaped, as Meralonne had done, landing at the same height. He did not attempt to make his way to the heart of the trunk; instead he fought a rearguard action. He had no desire to strike the killing blow; if APhaniel or the Kialli now engaged in combat brought a ferocity of exultation to their battles, Kallandras did not. Nor had he ever. Necessity was his only guide.
Not so, these two: the Kialli, seeing the direction Meralonne took, roared again. Kallandras almost froze at what he heard in the demon’s voice. Had he, he would have died, and if he had no desire to claim a kill as his own, he had no desire to die in this forsaken place. He leaped beyond the reach of both Kialli blade and piercing root, changing his trajectory in the air as he did. If the tree in this form seemed a nightmare of bestiality, it was not without its cunning.
He did not choose to alight; because he rode the currents of the wind, that choice was his to make. Air was caprice personified, but without rage, it had little malice. He landed, cut roots and parried them before vaulting into air again, losing some part of his boots in the process. Although at each stage of this isolated search he’d been forced to defend himself against the oppressive hunger of trees such as this, he had yet to see the earth erupt so violently.
Because it had, he could only peripherally observe what occurred beyond his immediate fight for survival—but the sky flashed red and blue and white and the song of swords clashing implied a sword-dance. He wanted to turn, to watch; he wanted