He fought for what seemed like a long time, but was probably no more than a handful of minutes. Time stopped, and the world around him and all it had offered and might offer again in his young life disappeared. Creepers came at him from everywhere, creepers of all shapes and sizes and looks. He seemed to be a magnet for them, drawing them like flies to the dead. They converged from everywhere. They turned away from Panax and the Elven Hunters to get at him. He was slashed and battered by their attempts to pin him down-not necessarily to kill him, but as if their goal was to capture him. It occurred to him then for the first time that it was the magic they were after.
By then, the magic was all through him. It surfaced with his first sword stroke, the blue fire racing up and down the blade’s surface. But soon it was inside him, as well. It fused him with his weapon and made them one, leaving the metal to enter flesh and bone, rushing through his bloodstream and back out again, all heat and energy. It burned in a captivating, seductive way, filling him with power and a terrible thirst for its feel. Within only a short time, he craved the feeling as he had craved nothing else in his life. It made him believe he could do anything. He had no fear, no hesitation. He was indestructible. He was immortal.
Smoke drifted across the battleground, obscuring everything. He heard the cries of his companions, but he could not see them. Walker had disappeared entirely, as if the earth had swallowed him. Disembodied voices cried out in the darkness. Everyone was cut off, surrounded by fire threads and creepers, caught in a trap from which none of them seemed able to escape. He didn’t care. The magic buoyed and sustained him. He wrapped himself in its cloak and, unstoppable, fought with even greater fury.
Finally Panax shouted to him that they had to get clear of the square. It took several tries before he heard the Dwarf, and even then he was reluctant to break off the battle. Slowly, they began to retreat the way they had come. Creepers sought to bar their escape, turning them aside at every opportunity, giving pursuit like hungry wolves, skittering along on their metal struts and spindly legs, strange and awkward machines. The chase veered from one building to another, down one passageway to the next, until Quentin had no idea where he was. His arms were tiring, leaden from swinging the sword, and the magic did not come so easily. The Elves and Panax were grim-faced and battle-worn. Time and numbers were eating away at their resistance.
Then, without warning, the creepers pulled back, the fire threads disappeared, and the Highlander and his three companions were left in an empty swirl of smoke and silence. Weapons held before them like talismans, the hunted men backed through the haze, putting distance between themselves and their vanished pursuers, watching everywhere at once, waiting for the attack to resume. But the ruined city seemed to have become a vast burial ground, a massive tomb empty of life save for themselves.
So it had gone ever since, with Quentin and the other three edging their way ahead, not entirely certain to where they had gotten themselves or were going. Once or twice, there had been sudden, hurried movements in the shadows, things skittering away too swiftly to be clearly seen. The night had begun to fade and dawn to approach, and sunlight was creeping through the haze that cloaked the city. They searched for signs of their friends, for familiar landmarks, for anything that would tell them where they were. But it all looked the same, and the look never changed.
Now, crouched in yet another part of the ruined city, Quentin found himself almost wishing he had something to fight again, something of substance to combat. The sustained tension of watching and waiting for invisible creepers and vanished fire threads was wearing him down. Traces of the magic still roiled within him, but a mix of fear and doubt had replaced his craving for it. He did not like what the magic had made him do, as if he were as much a fighting machine as those creepers. He did not like how thoroughly it had dominated him, so much so that even thinking became difficult. There was only response and reaction, need and fulfillment. He had lost himself in the magic, had become someone else.