Syla grabbed Lesva’s arm, sending power into her and hoping to push her back. But Lesva, too, had magic, and, as she had in all their other confrontations, she armored herself from within, using her power to push back against Syla’s attempt to stop her.
“Fel!” Syla rasped, hoping that if she distracted Lesva he could rush up from behind and brain her with his mace.
But he only answered with a faint groan. He lay crumpled several yards away, blood staining the white ground beneath him, and neither his crossbow nor mace near him.
The shadows in the tunnel stirred, and a black-clad figure with a sword strode toward them from the darkness. Sylagroaned, remembering that Lesva had allies down here with her. Many allies.
Then she realized she could sense the man, the powerful magic within him, and he was familiar.
Lesva groaned.
“Vorik!” Syla blurted.
Lesva snarled and reached for Syla’s neck.
Syla jerked her arm up to block the grasp and managed to twist her hand to grip Lesva’s wrist. Lesva grabbed her back with a snarl. Syla summoned all her strength to attack the woman with her power, to send a dozen tendrils of magic into her, to various parts of her body. Surely, Lesva couldn’t deflect them all. AndVorikcould brain her.
But would he? He’d come with his people for the shielder, hadn’t he? He might care about Syla, but nothing had changed. He was a stormer, an enemy.
“Release her, Lesva,” Vorik said coolly, stopping a few feet away and raising his sword.
Busy deflecting Syla’s magical attacks, Lesva didn’t glance at him, only snarling, “You act likeshe’sthe victim here. She’s attackingme.”
“You’re trying to destroy her people’s shielder.”
“That’s our mission, youass. You betrayer!”
“If that’s what you believe I am, come over here and challenge me.”
Teeth bared, Lesva glared at Syla instead of Vorik. Lesva marshaled her power, letting her defenses lower so that she could counterattack. Syla foundherselfon the defensive, trying to do something she’d never, as a healer, learned to do: create a defensive wall of power around her body to block magical attacks meant to crush her organs, to kill her. She groped to learn on the fly, to push Lesva away, just as Lesva had been doing to her. A dagger of power got through, stabbing her like aknife to the gut, and she gasped, almost bending over, but she managed to strengthen the wall and push that magical dagger back.
“You will fightme, Lesva,” Vorik commanded. “Face to face. Don’t make me stab you in the back.”
“Only a coward would do that,” Lesva said, her icy eyes locked on Syla.
“No. A man defending the woman he loves would do that.” Vorik looked squarely at Syla.
Later, she would treasure that statement—he’d never said before that he loved her—but it took all her mental and physical strength to keep Lesva from slaying her.
“All you love is her flabby body,” Lesva said.
Tired of her insults—and of her—Syla growled as she drew upon both her moon-mark and her dragon tattoo for power. Sending more magical tendrils into her foe, she also used her weight and strength to thrust the woman back, wanting her foe away from her.
Surprisingly, Lesva flew backward. She was agile enough to catch her balance and keep from going down, but surprise widened her eyes. She lifted her sword, and Syla braced herself for another attack, but Lesva instead turned on Vorik.
“I challenge you,” she said. “To a duel. You know the rules.”
“I do, and I accept your challenge.” Vorik looked at Syla. “You may not interfere.”
Syla should have snorted and said she wasn’t bound by their ways, but what came out was, “Oh, I’m fine with that.”
She didn’t want anything else to do with Lesva and hoped Vorik killed her, once and for all. Judging by the wary glance that Lesva threw at her before striding toward Vorik, she might not want anything else to do with Syla either.
“I sure hope that’s true,” Syla muttered.
As the duelists sprang for each other, Syla finished what she’d started, pressing her palm to the wall to close the door. It ground shut, and a faint hiss sounded as magic engaged, once again sealing the chamber.
Clangs and clashes rang out, drowning out the thuds from the distant drill. New bangs, sounding more like a hammer on nails, had joined in with the distant cacophony, and Syla had no idea what it signaled.
