Devoth rose. He drew great gusts of air into his mouth. His companions helped him gain his feet. Once he had, he roared them away and stood swaying. The Ishtat archers, who had a perfect view of him, let their bows droop. Devoth, before the eyes of all, reached behind him, snapped off the arrowhead protruding from his back, and then tugged the shaft in his chest out with his other hand. He tossed both pieces away.

It was a casual motion, filled with disgust, but immediately afterward he went into convulsions. He managed to stay on his feet, but he shook and jerked and tossed his limbs around. He gibbered, cried, moaned. For a few moments his arms spasmed so frantically that he seemed to Dariel like more than one being, as if there were shadow versions of himself beneath his skin, trying to break free, angry and twisting him with pain as punishment. He seemed so completely driven with anguish that Dariel expected him to drop and die finally from the arrow shot that should have already killed him.

Instead, Devoth came out of the convulsions and moved with the same incredible speed he had shown earlier. Devoth closed the distance to the Ishtat soldiers, swung his mighty sword as if it had no weight to it at all, and cut down the three guards in front of Sire Neen. He dropped to the floor, avoiding the first volley of arrows sent at him; then he spun upward, sweeping his sword diagonally. The blade sliced through Sire Neen’s head, starting above the lower jaw and angling up. When the steel cut free, the leagueman’s half face twirled in the air above his crumpling body.

Dariel stood as the chamber erupted into chaos. The Ishtat rushed forward. The shadowed masses of Auldek poured into the lighted square, swords drawn. The prince had no idea what to do. His hands were bound. Rialus was no longer beside him. In front of him, the Ishtat and the Auldek fell on one another in a wild confusion of blood and gore.

A hand gripped his shoulder and yanked him around. He thought that it must be an Ishtat soldier or Rialus or a leagueman. It was none of these. He spun to see a person with a thin whitish-blue face and a long nose, a woman whose hair sprang from her head like the plumage of some bird. The next instant, someone wrapped an arm around his torso, lifted him off the ground, and began running. It was not the bird person who carried him, however, but rather a gray, muscled bulk of a being.

On Love and Dragons

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N INETEEN