Stormwarden by Janny Wurts Page B

had no choice but hope that the second had done the same. "By the Vaere," he murmured. "Let me be right."
    "Won't you bid for your powers?" the sorcerer urged; He pitched his confidence to antagonize.
    Anskiere gathered his will and calmly thrust his consciousness into the spell which spread like a web across the dark. He thought he heard laughter in the moment before his mind caught in the strands. But whether the sound arose from the sorcerer or from an older memory of Ivain, he could not tell. Power snared his awareness like birdlime; fierce opposition blocked all effort to fathom the forces aligned against his inner control. Anskiere never hesitated. The forces which held him were flawed. Poised on that knowledge, he condensed his consciousness to a pinpoint and darted through a gap. The move triggered a sharp blaze of heat. The trap had sprung. Anskiere had no choice but discover the sorcerer's intent swiftly, and try to unbalance his enemy through brash action. Since the threat had been left linked through each break in the spell, Anskiere embraced the pattern's entirety and rammed thoughts like hot needles across every weakness he encountered. Then he withdrew.
    Aware once more of the cold illumination from his staff, he shivered, gripped by the distinct impression he had raised a holocaust. Seconds later, when a high, keening wail arose from the bowels of the tunnel, he understood why. The dead sorcerer's threat had been a real one.
    "Fires," the Stormwarden said softly. "Between us we've roused the frostwargs." And where Ivain would have laughed outright, he felt only terrible calm.
    Below, his enemy stirred from a pose of taut concentration, and the spell's bright pattern faded. Though pleased by the success of his plot, Anskiere's lack of response startled him. Only the insane would linger to face a frostwarg. The sorcerer masked uncertainty with scorn. "Fool. You've accomplished nothing but Tathagres' bidding after all."
    A second ululation issued from below, reverberating eerily through the cave. A faint click of claws followed. Anskiere sat down on his rock. "I see that."
    The rattle of horny carapaces echoed up the shaft; the frostwargs scuttled wildly toward freedom. They moved with horrifying speed, Anskiere recalled. He watched his antagonist's face turn pale, triumph transformed to dismay. The only available exit was still blocked by the aura of an active staff.
    The sorcerer snatched up his torch. "I'll not set you free. You must flee. You have no other alternative."
    The staff burned steady as a brand in Anskiere's hands. He did not move.
    The scrabble of the frostwargs drew nearer. Their frenzied whistles rose, braided into a shrill crescendo of harmonics. A crystal shattered into slivers.
    The sorcerer started forward, careless of sharpened edges under his boots. "Fly! Is your memory gone? No ward can stop a frostwarg."
    "I hadn't forgotten." Anskiere stood solidly in the tunnel.
    The sorcerer checked. His mouth opened, speechless, and his hands fluttered in an imploring gesture he already guessed was futile. The Stormwarden evidently intended to meet the frostwargs, and die.
    Furious, the sorcerer shouted over the rising clatter of claws. "You have lost, Cloud-shifter! The frostwargs are released, and no Firelord remains to control them. The Free Isles will fall, and Cliffhaven also." He spat. "You're a suicide, unmanned by a child's tears and a mother-clinger's principles. Were you worthy of your training, you'd not lie down for death."
    "Have I?" said Anskiere.
    A ringing clash underscored his words. Armored by heavy shells, the frostwargs spilled around the lower bend in the shaft. Mustard and black by torchlight, mottled bodies hurtled over the bottom rung of crystals, tumbling them like glass. The sorcerer glanced down, saw a row of glowing purple eyes, and horny mandibles glistened with curved spikes. Nimble as centipedes, the frostwargs swarmed through the cavern, arched tails rattling