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Felassan’s hopes for survival took a sharp dive the moment he saw the mirror go dark.
He strained at the ropes binding his wrists to the metal tree, but it was no use.
Magic like this, woven by a woman like that, was not something that was likely to have loopholes, or minor flaws, or any easy out. Solas was bound on the other side of it, exactly the same way, as far as he could tell. She’d left them just loose enough, with toes touching the ground, to be able to struggle and exhaust themselves, until she deigned to return.
And then, Felassan would find out whether Andruil chose to keep him for use as a footstool, or skin him for a pillow sham.
His companion already knew his fate.
“You didn’t have to do that! We could have left this place without a fight,” Felassan said. Insulting and embarrassing Andruil on her own lands was not the wisest thing a person could do.
Though as the words came out of his mouth, he realized that Solas had never intended to avoid one.
“I said nothing that was not the truth. She simply chose her own interpretation,” Solas said, his voice so calm, he might as well have been laying on a beach smoking elfroot.
Felassan wanted to punch him—an increasingly common occurrence, as the rebellion moved from quiet, meticulous planning, to actual implementation. Solas didn’t respond to violence or threats. To prove anything to this idiot, you had to surprise him with something he didn’t know.
“What good does it do us?” He craned his neck to see the other man trying to pull himself up by his tied wrists on the other side of the rounded, multi-pronged, tree-shaped magic conductor.
“A great deal, if my gambit plays out as intended.”
Felassan failed to stifle a groan. He reminded himself he’d chosen this, despite knowing Solas’ quirks for centuries.
“I hate this about you. You could have at least warned me.” He would have come better equipped, for one.
“It wouldn’t have worked if you knew. I am sorry, but it was the only way,” Solas said.
He didn’t sound sorry.
Felassan had to bite his tongue not to say something very regrettable. Better to focus on the matter at hand. He could lambast him later when they were free. If they got free.
“Solas, I know when we are outmatched. I can see that you think you have a plan, but you can’t fight her.”
“Who claimed I would be the one to fight her?” he said.
Felassan could hear his crooked smile, he didn’t need to see it. “What did you do?”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
Such a liar.
“Stop smirking, you incredible ass. She threatened to make you a bed slave for a year.”
“And a day. An unexpected threat, yes, but one I doubt she will be able to collect upon,” Solas said. He didn’t try to hide the distaste in his voice, at the prospect of being available for use by Andruil, or anyone she brought to bed, for any length of time.
There were worse punishments, but none would be quite as humiliating for someone so attached to his dignity—something which Andruil was already fond of trampling. Felassan would be more alarmed on his behalf, if he wasn’t certain he’d be made an example of to further hurt and shame Solas.
“Well isn’t that a relief. Are you planning to let me in on the rest of your scheme anytime soon? What did you do?”
Solas sighed; a sure sign he had hoped Felassan would be more easygoing about their situation.
“I allowed my whereabouts to slip to certain individuals who are known spies for Anaris, before we came here. I suspected Andruil would notice our presence, as her spies have been tracking me for weeks through the Fade. In any case, Anaris should be arriving here shortly with a small army, looking for me. I’m going to assume that after such a proclamation of intent, Andruil will not give me over without a fight.”
“Mythal’s sweet bosom. All this for a bit of intelligence? No, there’s more, isn’t there? Tell me you were at least planning to run off with some of her slaves.” Now that Solas had given him details, he could begin to see the mad spiderweb of his plan.
The only part he’d been told of, because this was Solas he was dealing with, was that they’d be sneaking into Andruil’s lands to carouse with her servants. Which, if caught, could earn them each either a swat on the bottom, or imprisonment and probable death, depending on how suspicious and peevish the noble Huntress was feeling.
Felassan had gone into it knowing in theory how horribly wrong it could go, mostly because that was what made it exciting. Being face to face with Andruil, and seeing her Evanuris’ eyes glowing white at him, however, had altered his attitude towards chasing thrills, considerably.
“That, and I did need to visit Ghilan’nain before the insurgency progressed. She has her own work to do, after all, and she seldom leaves this place; the Fade has been treacherous,” Solas said.
“You have the strangest friends.”
“I am aware. You’re one of them.”
“Ouch, from the wolf’s mouth. If I survive this, you owe me. I don’t know what, yet, but I’ll think of something. It will probably involve me saying ‘no’ to you, at an inconvenient time,” Felassan said.
“I promise nothing, except an earnest attempt to free us both.”
“No, I suppose you don’t. But the next time you want to get your rocks off with the halla maidens, do not invite me.”
Solas laughed at his disgruntlement. “They asked me to bring you—and I found the idea worth entertaining,” he admitted, and did not have the grace to look even remotely apologetic.
“The rest of the world does not exist for your entertainment. I do not exist for—”
“I did not see you complaining at the time. In fact, you seemed quite satisfied. Ecstatic even. It was nice to see you relax,” Solas said.
“I made the mistake of forgetting you can’t enjoy yourself without instigating some sort of trouble. You didn’t tell me you were deliberately baiting her!” Though, to be fair, he hadn’t really forgotten; he’d mentally glossed over the fact that any excitement—carnal or otherwise—which Solas endorsed would most likely end in explosions of the fire and lightning variety.
“Hush.”
Just as he spoke, a tremor rippled through the tower, small fragments of the ceiling raining down onto them. The branches of the magic conductor they were tied to rippled dangerously over their heads with green bolts of energy.
The tang of burned air, heavy in his nose, did not remotely allay his panic. “Are your ears singed, yet? Tell me, how are we getting out of this?”
“With great care. Hmm. If we can disrupt the field inside the tree a little more, it should flare outside the branches. That should allow us to alter the wards, assuming they’re not destroyed outright.”
“How do you propose we do that?” The devices were very stable most of the time; tampering with them was generally frowned upon, as was throwing objects into them to see if they would burn, or be repelled.
“We could attempt to topple it,” Solas said.
“Um, that might shatter the field completely and then fry us both? Not to mention the energy reservoir beneath it would probably explode.”
“Yes, but-”
“No,” Felassan said.
“Shall I stick my foot in it?”
“You usually do.”
“Very funny,” Solas grumbled.
“I am apparently only here to amuse you. What if-”
The ground shook again, and a sizable piece of masonry above them came loose, clanging down onto the branches. This created a blinding light as the fragments scattered into the field, harsh against his skin like hail. As Solas had predicted, the resulting flare was strong enough to burn away the wards on their bonds.
Solas was on the ground first, and pulled a knife which Andruil had somehow not managed to find and confiscate from him. He quickly cut Felassan down, then healed their painfully scorched and blistered hands.
“You can’t tell me you planned for that,” he said, noticing that Solas had blood dripping from the side of his mouth.
“I didn’t, but we both know Anaris is fond of earth magic,” Solas said. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips, which only ended up smearing the blood. Felassan wanted to offer him his handkerchief, but he’d left it with one of the lovely souls who’d occupied much of his previous night.
“Pure luck, then.” They could just as easily have been killed by the falling stone, or a significant flare from the tree.
“I was already chewing through mine. Spider silk, enhanced with magic. Her wards are always so stretchy,” Solas said.
“What?”
“Never mind, we must go. One of us is going to have to unlock the eluvian.”
They were too high up to break through the wall, and blasting through through floor would be suicidal because of the power reservoir beneath.
“I hear myself being volunteered for this,” Felassan said, cracking his knuckles. He’d likely sacrifice all of his mana doing it, too, leaving him weak as a lamb.
“I didn’t say anything,” Solas replied, frowning, looking offended.
“You don’t have to. I know how this works.”
On the one hand, Solas was the one who knew his way around Andruil’s massive palace, and knew the sympathizers among her people. On the other hand, his mana reserves were considerably larger and faster in regenerating than Felassan’s. On the magical third hand, Felassan enjoyed the idea of him being further in his debt.
“If you insist.” Solas shrugged and crossed his arms.
Felassan smirked back at him, and walked towards the eluvian. “And I was so looking forward to running for my life with all my faculties uncompromised.” It was a shame he couldn't draw power from the tree; without the right tools, like a focus orb, or a properly made staff, it would be like touching a lightning bolt barehanded.
The silvery glass was smooth and warm, and shivered under his palms when he started pressing mana into the threads of lyrium laced through it.
It took a few moments of intense concentration, but he found the spell layer within, which directed the mechanism of the lock, opening and closing it. This was dangerous work, of course; he would have to drive a wedge of magic into it very precisely, without destroying the larger transportational spell. That would leave them stranded in this room unless they learned to fly. And, as soon as he unlocked the eluvian, he would have to activate that spell, which cut a hole in reality and told the mirror to exit at one of several pre-set locations.
These locations were usually inscribed on the eluvian’s frame in runes, and could be selected easily. No such luck with this one; without a guide, they could end up in Andruil’s main hall, instantly swarmed by her guards, or they could end up in Elgar’nan’s second favorite breakfast nook on the other side of the world.
Upon further examination, he sussed out that there were six locations keyed, the whereabouts to which they opened were likely only known to Andruil and her closest servants.
“Solas, it’s a blind mirror; six outs, no directions,” he said, his voice straining while he tried to pick out more details.
“Is there a path that seems brighter, as if it is used frequently?”
“Yes.”
“Open it.”
“Be ready to catch me. This one is obedient to its mistress,” Felassan said, gritting his teeth.
He pushed more and more of his power into the wedge he’d worked into the stubborn locking spell. The mirror already glowed bright blue with it.
“I’m ready,” Solas said behind him, though Felassan barely heard.
His vision blacked out for a moment, as he made a final push.
The eluvian’s glass seemed to strain and almost wobble then bend inwards for a moment, but it opened to him without shattering.
All of the excess mana was forced outwards, carried by the mirror’s spell. It sounded as if it made a bit of an explosion on the other side. Felassan couldn’t really see for certain, for the floor was rushing to meet him.
Solas caught him quickly, and got a shoulder under his arm. Taking his weight with ease, he cast a barrier spell, then hefted him through the eluvian, all in one smooth, elegant motion.
The room on the other side, appeared to be the vault-ceilinged hall Andruil had dragged them both through earlier. Now, though, it was in a shambles from both the explosion and quaking earth. Great pots of red and white flowers and toppled golden statuary littered the mosaic tiles.
They didn’t see any bodies. Her guards seemed to have fled, either away from the latest explosion, or to aid their Huntress in fending off Anaris.
“Can you stand?” Solas asked, though Felassan was still leaning on him heavily, trying to pretend he wasn’t seconds from falling into a boneless heap.
“I can sit,” he said, in irritation.
“A shame we didn’t end up in her rooms. There would have been lyrium potions.”
“And large bitey guardian wyverns. She keeps them as pets, you know.”
“True. Hmm. I suppose it would be easier while it’s still quiet.”
“Easier?” Felassan said in alarm.
“For you to ride, than for me to drag you,” Solas said. “Don’t move.”
The air around him went hazy, and purple, scentless smoke billowed out, his form shifting disturbingly fast from elf to monstrously huge canine. Lucky for them, Andruil’s hall was constructed to accommodate creatures as large as high dragons. Solas’ most infamous form was almost as comparably big, and yet, somehow, he’d managed not to knock him over.
“I was not expecting this,” Felassan said, his hand now clutching at the elbow of a warm, dark, muscular, furry foreleg, rather than a leather-clothed shoulder.
“I would have questions for you, if you were,” Solas said. His voice was deeper, and more resonant as a wolf, though it didn’t seem to exactly originate from his mouth. A mouth which was now quite large enough to snap him in half.
“Don’t be smart.”
“I am not sure how to even reply to that.” The rumbling laugh his massive wolf’s chest vibrated with, was terrifying to hear. Even with the knowledge that Solas had no intent to harm him, it turned his already weakened muscles to jelly.
“Pretend I said something clever, then,” Felassan said, his voice gone thin.
Reminded of his friend’s depleted state, Solas immediately lay down on his side like a furry mountain. It was slow going, but Felassan pulled himself onto his back, grabbing tufts of his thick, coarse, grey fur in hand, the musky smell of warm dog in his nose. He found the spot behind his withers and thick ruff, where it was easiest to hold on, and dug his toes into his ribs, which rose and fell with each great breath like a massive bellows.
Not a bad mount, if he let himself forget that Solas was entirely in control of this ride; he would have to hang on for dear life if he started running—and of course he did.
The tall, rare-wood doors of of Andruil’s opulent, fur-hung hall made little impediment; Solas bounded into them with such a force they were thrown off their hinges. Sprawled on his furry back, Felassan tried to keep his head down, lest he be struck by a chandelier or door jamb in passing.
Solas didn’t slow at all, and the next chamber they entered was lit with screams as he streaked through—bowling over liveried guards and past cowing servants and drifting spirits, splintering tables and chairs, carelessly splashing through the scrying pool—anything in his path to the next exit, was trampled like a massive boulder had rolled across it.
“Where are you going?” Felassan yelled.
“Outside,” was the only answer he gave.
The last archway opened up into daylight, fresh air and blue sky, and a lush water garden; all full of carefully tended flowerbeds, tiny streams, misting fountains, and arched footbridges. It was piece of living art, the gradient colors and shapes of the greenery layered in exquisite harmony—likely at least one elf’s life’s work. They did only minor damage, until Solas put his massive paw into the middle of what was formerly a beautiful and ancient crystal grace plant.
Felassan winced, and then saw a heavily-tattooed slave, huddling against the wall with a rake in his hands, just faint dead away at the shattering glass sound the crushed blossoms made. Two leaf-wound garden spirits sent out vine tendrils to help him up, and screeched curses behind the interlopers.
“Damn,” Solas said, picking his way across the garden with a little more care after that. “I want to see who’s winning.”
“And you don’t think they’re going to both stop what they’re doing and attack you at the same time, if you show up in front of them looking like this?”
Felassan had been around him long enough to know Solas didn’t really make much distinction between his forms—one was simply more convenient than the other for certain purposes. He had tended to remain an elf most of the time, though, since he’d left Mythal’s service. He preferred him that way, honestly. It was easier to forget how terrifying he was.
“Let me get a little closer.”
The Huntress’ palace complex was an enormous, but orderly maze of towers, walled gardens, and clever defensive bottlenecks—some of which they almost couldn’t fit through—but Solas covered much more ground in his current form, than he could have otherwise.
In other circumstances, the guards would have made more of an effort to stop their progress. Other than a few stray arrows and fireballs, they met with little opposition; Solas’ barriers deflected such pinpricks with ease. Too much attention had been drawn to the assumed greater threat of Anaris on their doorstep.
They circled around towards the main entrance, slinking through an orchard of ripening stone fruit. The ordered rows made for decent cover, and had fewer servants within to frighten. Although, the halla wandering between the trees, scavenging, ran screaming away.
His hand skimming over the leaves, Felassan reached out and stole a fat red peach from the top branches as they passed. He carelessly dripped sweet-smelling juice onto Solas’ fur as he ate it, too. Even if it didn’t restore much of his energy, it would help.
Glancing back, he saw the tree’s spirit attendant giving him a nasty look, so he thumbed his nose at it. The gesture angered it enough for it to throw a rotten peach, which narrowly missed him, but definitely grazed Solas’ ear.
His friend didn’t seem to notice, advancing through the trees toward the fight he’d picked for Andruil.
Before they approached the main complex again, though, Solas stopped. He hunched down to the grassy ground, behind a high garden wall of white stone, allowing Felassan to dismount. Felassan accomplished this with about as much grace as could be expected, sliding down his side, feet first. On his hands and knees, he felt the heat and bulk of the wolf next to him dematerialize in an instant, leaving Solas standing next to him offering a hand.
“I don’t suppose I’ll ever get to do that again,” he said with a snort, while Solas helped him to standing. Still unsteady, Felassan accidentally trod on his foot, so Solas braced him with a hand on his shoulder, allowing him to find his balance.
“It was no trouble—but if there ever is a next time, try not to get me sticky,” Solas said, scowling. He scrubbed at the back of his neck with his sleeve.
Felassan chuckled. “There’s nowhere I can go with that comment, that wouldn’t be lewd.”
“Presumably, you could apologize.”
“I am deeply sorry I got juice all over you, oh Lord of Tricksters,” he said, using one of Solas’ more ridiculous titles, straight-faced, but wobbling as he looked him in the eye.
Solas pursed his lips, but he seemed more amused than anything else.
“Are you sorry, or did you just want to suck it off my neck?” he replied.
His expression was so shameless, that Felassan felt his ears go red, unprepared for this particular side of him. They were not at a party, nor were they drunk, two conditions which generally coincided, before Solas would let his mask slip enough to try to get anyone into bed—or a convenient garden alcove.
“Well, not while you were a wolf,” he laughed.
He had baited him and gotten a fitting response; Felassan wasn’t quite sure what to do with it, though. It wasn't just their current situation. They weren’t exactly superior and subordinate, anymore. Or, at least, Solas had divulged that he did not want to be anyone’s master. Yet they fell into old patterns, deferring and deferred to, as easy as breathing.
At the moment, their existing physical proximity and his lightheadedness made these boundaries seem trivial to cross. There was no way Felassan could put more space between them without falling over, in any case, and that was giving him plenty of room for ideas. Whimsical ideas about how he really ought to close that space, despite the non-trivial possibility of Andruil having already started a hunt for them.
“That would be unpleasant for-” Solas started to say, when Felassan leaned forward and kissed him to shut him up.
Honestly, sometimes, it was the only way.
It wasn’t a long kiss, or a deep kiss, or even a particularly good one, for that matter, but it did the job.
Solas unabashedly returned the gesture, and he let himself enjoy it for what it was—a pause, a grounding moment, a reminder of how much he cared for him, despite his stupid, marvelous, deeply audacious plans, which were most likely going to get one or both of them killed one day.
“Can I just say, that I am still in awe of how utterly enraged you managed to get Andruil in less than five words?” he said, as he pulled away, a little breathless.
“I will try for three when we see her again,” Solas said, running his hands down Felassan’s shoulders to his upper arms, and then back up again clasping them, as if to reassure him. “You seem to be recovering your strength.”
“No, not really. I can’t fight at all.”
Solas gave a snorting laugh. “Very well. If this works out the way I intend, that shouldn’t be necessary. We’ve already thrown her household into chaos and established my presence. The agents here have their instructions.”
“Good to know. I suppose you’ll have to leave me here. Should be able to sneak out on my own in a few hours, if I'm quiet.” He assumed, of course, Solas would have no time to come back for him once Andruil knew they’d gotten loose.
“No. That would be easier, but I’d prefer not to risk it,” he said. “We seem to be in a safe place for the moment, I can share my mana with you.”
“Are you sure?” It was a very intimate thing to do, and would leave them both extremely vulnerable in the process. “It’s rather like fucking in the middle of a battlefield,” he said.
“I’ve already said I am not leaving you,” he said, his violet eyes stern and determined, as he held his gaze.
Felassan nodded; maybe Solas was being stubborn and foolish, but he was not any less impulsive than his friend for choosing to come here. He didn’t particularly want to be left behind weak and defenseless, either.
It was a straightforward decision, and together they sat cross-legged on Andruil’s prickly manicured lawn, hidden by the wall and a few artful shrubs.
He closed his eyes as Solas put his warm, rough palm on his forehead, magic washing over them both.
Felassan had done this before, with healers who were trained for it, in camp after various skirmishes over the years, with other comrades in need of a boost. It was a little different with Solas.
Opening himself to his spirit was not difficult; it felt rather like falling asleep in a way, but touching on something other than the Fade. What always overwhelmed him immediately, was having the full awareness of another person… there really was no way to prepare for connection on this level, or to really look away. They both managed to hide so much of themselves usually, even in the Fade.
Linked like this, he felt utterly exposed. Yet, Solas still managed to conceal part of himself.
It seemed to be entirely self-defense, against those who would try to dominate or control him—namely, the Evanuris.
To all appearances, his well of power was not that much greater than Felassan's. The bright, brutal elegance of his spirit was another matter entirely. For a moment he understood completely why he felt drawn to him, and yet there was fear. His will, his mind, they awed him; the threads tying him to the fabric of existence and memory, they were strong and vital, far-ranging, and integral to things future and past Felassan could not even force his mind to perceive.
He was Solas, but Solas was also, inextricably, the Dread Wolf.
A spirit like that could tear their ordered world to its foundations, given the chance.
And empty and weak, and somewhat besotted, Felassan had left himself open enough, that if he wanted to, Solas could peel back the layers of his being and shape him into whatever he needed him to be.
He could have, but as far as Felassan could tell, he didn’t.
Instead, he gave him a share of that well he held within, a gesture of affection and goodwill and hope. The power flowing into him felt shimmering and cool, like cloud shadows and the moon on snow. Like the blade that parted your skin before it knew to bleed.
Just as suddenly as it began, the feeling faded, and Felassan was blinking at sunlight. He took a deep breath and let it out.
While he doubted he’d be casting fireballs anytime soon, he would be able to run from them.
Across from him, Solas, eyes still closed, had tears streaking his face.
Felassan sat up straight in alarm, and knelt over him, grasping his shoulders. “Solas?”
“You... I would never-” Solas started to say, but was interrupted by the sound of approaching hooves.
Cloven ones, in fact, attached to a pair of bright white halla, groomed to a peculiar sheen. They had no riders, and stood in front of he and Solas, as if they very much had a will of their own, and had found what they were looking for.
A moment later, the halla disappeared in a cloud of purple smoke, and were replaced with two very lovely women in fine, white leather armor.
Both had their bows nocked and pointed down at them.
It got even better. Felassan was fairly certain he remembered their names from the night before.
The first, who had hair like a curtain of black silk, bright red vallaslin and a knack for using her tongue, had kept him good company; the other, brown-skinned and blonde, and freckled from head to toe, was her friend, though he only knew her in passing from the baths.
“You’re looking well, Souvelani. I had hoped you’d seek me out again,” he said. Grinning broadly, he tried to distract them from Solas, and give him time to gather his wits. “Though maybe not quite like this. Nice to see you, too, Artelena.”
Souvelani lowered her bow, and reached into the pouch at her belt. Rummaging in it for a second, she withdrew a square of green cloth.
“You forgot this,” she said with an impish smile, and tossed the handkerchief to him.
“I don’t suppose this is about the garden?” he asked, catching it and stuffing it in his sleeve; his cloak and other accoutrements had long since been confiscated. Holding his hands up in front of him, he made to stand.
So far, so good.
“Her Worship is dueling at the moment. I imagine she will want to know all about the damage when she is done, however,” Artelena said. She wrinkled her nose at him, disapprovingly.
“I imagine you’re right,” Felassan said. “If she wins.”
He didn’t hear Solas move, only noticed that the air beside him was a bit more solid from one second to the next, because a person was standing there. His face seemed impassive, his mouth thin and tight, and he had his hands behind his back.
That was never a good sign. At least, not for his enemies.
“Take us to her,” Solas said.
The two women looked at each other, and Souvelani shrugged.
“Don’t try anything, Dread Wolf, or your friend gets pincushioned,” said Artelena.
Solas laughed coldly. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Frowning, she gestured with her bow for the prisoners to walk in front of them.
Soon, they arrived at the wide, rubble-strewn courtyard where Andruil and Anaris had squared off against each other. The two were locked in single combat, their movements sometimes so fast, they were almost imperceptible without using magic.
Around them pillars and statues were toppled, and one wall caved in on the palace’s otherwise beautiful facade. It seemed some unfortunate soldiers had gotten in between them, too. There were bodies strewn from one end of their dueling ground to the other.
Andruil, in her red-lacquered ironbark armor and helm, seemed to be fighting mainly with daggers. Across from her, huge and monstrous, as many of the Forgotten Ones were, Anaris wielded a great, spike-hilted broadsword.
Their fight had already drawn blood, for Anaris had a streak of red dripping from the top of one armored thigh. Andruil appeared untouched, and she hadn’t even bothered to draw her bow on him. Still, he kept her on her toes, throwing bolts of black lightning, and rending the earth when she got too close.
Every time Anaris’ blade slammed into the ground, though, Andruil would flit away untouched. She’d then come around to his back, trying to stab through his immense and hideous suit of void-twisted armor, which was his main advantage.
Their men had mostly backed away, watching and waiting, fear and admiration for their masters’ skills written on their faces. Above them, flitting in the sky, mounted on winged stags, circled several of Andruil’s elite warriors. They all seemed to be on orders not to interfere.
The two halla guards brought Solas and Felassan as close as they dared, and stood behind them, observing in silence.
“Hmm,” said Solas, arms crossed, tapping his forefinger on his upper lip, while he tracked Andruil’s movements carefully. “She hasn’t fixed her armor from when we grappled.”
“That was a sight,” Felassan said, and shuddered. He could go the rest of his life without ever again seeing Andruil and Solas rolling on the ground like a pair of angry dogs. There were still marks on Solas’ neck where Andruil had raked him with her nails.
“If I can just get Anaris to notice it, though,” Solas said.
From that point on, Felassan watched Solas watch the fight. Finally, the corner of his friend’s mouth turned up. Anaris had come within striking distance.
“Anaris! Above her right hip. There’s a plate hanging loose, stab her there, now!” Solas yelled to him.
Blood streaking his twisted face, Anaris looked at Solas, and upon recognizing him, seemed like he was going to snarl. Instead, he turned on his heel, roared and rushed Andruil, his sword leveled at her abdomen.
He struck true, stabbing her so deeply, Felassan was convinced for a moment after she screamed, that he’d cut her in half. Not that such a grave injury would kill her or anything, but she’d suffer a bit.
As soon as Andruil hit the ground, Solas called to Anaris, whose helmeted head whipped around sharply at his voice.
“I don’t suppose you will forget about that unpleasantness with Hartor, now that we’re even?” he asked.
The Forgotten One laughed, and kicked Andruil the rest of the way off his sword, leaning down to spit on her. Then he hefted his bloody blade onto his shoulder, and stomped towards Solas.
“No, now we’ll finish this, Dread Wolf!” he shouted, pointing at him in a rage that made magical electricity roll over his armor. “You left my brother to Elgar’nan’s fire! I’ll have your unclean hide.”
“I think not. I just saved you,” Solas replied, his arms crossed, holding his ground. “A few more minutes and she would have lost patience and finished you with an arrow.”
“Lousy flea-bitten, lying, slave-stealing, underhanded, dragon-fucking bastard. I’m going to look forward to feeding you to the gurguts in my moat!”
Anaris lifted his sword to make a run at him. Solas didn’t move a muscle.
Felassan did, backing up into Artelena, which somehow seemed a safer place to stand.
His eyes widened though, when he saw what Solas saw over Anaris’ shoulder—Andruil moving, up on her side. She had scrabbled for her bow, and was nocking a thick golden arrow, which had some kind of guttering red spell on the head.
If he’d had any magic to call on at all, Felassan would have cast a barrier. Unfortunately, all he could do was yell, “Down!” and try to cover his head.
The explosion rocked the entire palace, knocking down anyone within fifty feet of it, and burning many who were closer. All of it washed over him. Solas had covered them both with a barrier as strong as any he had ever seen.
In moments, it was over, leaving the scent of blood and smoke and fear, while people began to creep forward to see what was left in the rubble.
While the arrow didn’t manage to kill Anaris, he’d been ventilated from front to back, and he lay in a bloody heap. Andruil had collapsed again, and now her servants and soldiers were running to her.
Solas, unharmed by Anaris’ sword, or Andruil’s arrow, turned and regarded the two women who were bracketing Felassan.
He lifted an eyebrow at them, and then nodded at Artelena. She trained her bow on Souvelani instead.
Souvelani gasped at her friend, looking hurt, but dropped her weapon.
“Come,” Solas said to Felassan. “We have work to do.”
