Gair of Ceangail, of all people.
Gair of Ceangail, whose daughter had possibly cast a spell of un-noticing over herself and escaped drowning in evil.
But had the little girl escaped nothing more than that first wave of evil? Had she perished in the forest? Or had she been taken in by kindly souls and was now living out her life, blissfully ignorant of her parentage and what she was capable of?
Or was Gair's daughter walking next to him, remembering spells she'd learned as a child and dreaming memories?
There were just too many things that made his mind expand far beyond where it should have been. Gair, Morgan, the Sword of Angesand, Weger… and he himself who couldn't seem to stop finding ways to suggest to Morgan that she spend more time with Adhémar.
He wondered if he should just turn and invite Morgan to run him through. At least with the latter, he wouldn't have to watch his brother woo her?
Which he was sure Adhémar would do when he took a long enough look at her.
Miach cursed silently as he walked along. He had ample time to curse because he wasn't walking all that quickly. There was no sense in showing up at camp sooner than he had to. He supposed the others might have continued on their way and perhaps he and Morgan would have some running to do to catch up with them.
Perhaps while they were running, he would cast a spell of ugliness over Morgan that only Adhémar could see. It was possible, of course. After all, he was the bloody archmage of the realm. What good did all that power do him if he couldn't use it for good now and then?
He spent the better part of the morning thinking about that. In fact, the idea was so beguiling and he was concentrating so thoroughly on its implementation that he didn't see the trap laid before them until he'd walked into the middle of it.
Creatures came at them from all sides.
It took him a moment or two to regroup. Before he could manage it completely, Morgan had spun him around so they were standing back to back.
"Draw your sword, you idiot!" she shouted. She paused. "Do you even have a sword? Damnation?"
Miach pulled one out of thin air.
"Where did that come from?" she said, looking briefly over her shoulder.
"Found it on the ground?"
"Good," Morgan said. "Use it."
He wasn't a bad swordsman. In fact, if he'd taken the time to judge dispassionately, he would have said that he was a better swordsman than Adhémar and at least Cathar's equal?and that without the benefit of any finger-waggling.
He fought now with all the skill he had and he could hear Morgan behind him doing the same, but he knew almost instantly that it would not be enough. Had it been just men attacking them, it would have been otherwise, but not with these monsters. Miach continued to fight, but while he was doing so, he wove his spell of death.
It wasn't something that he did lightly. Indeed, it was something that he hadn't done since he'd inherited his mother's mantle. He certainly hadn't managed it with any success the one time he'd done it before that, which had been during his extended visit to Lothar's dungeon. There had come a point during that incarceration where he had been so desperate to see light, so desperate to be free, so desperate to be anywhere but where he was, standing in slime and knowing he would die anyway if he didn't act, that he had woven a spell of death to include everything in Lothar's keep save him.
The spell had dropped like a coin into a bottomless well, silent and useless.
Fortunately for his sorry, shivering young self, his mother had felt what he hadn't realized had been a tremor in Lothar's fortress and that had been enough to convince her he was still alive.
Those were memories perhaps left for a better time.
He wove his spell of death now over the hearts of all who lay within the scope of the battle, taking care to make certain it didn't include him or Morgan. He also took care to make certain there were no others within the reach of the darkness he created who might innocently fall to his power.
He quietly spoke the final word.
All but three of the remaining creatures tell to the earth.
Miach staggered as his spell rebounded oft the remaining three. He gathered it to himself and dissolved it, managing at the same time to kill one of the last three with his sword. What were these creatures covered with? It was a spell, surely, and one that seemed faintly familiar.
He realized why. It was the same magic Adhémar had smelled of after the battle in which he'd lost his power.
Miach promised himself a good moment of being startled later, when their lives were no longer in peril. He heard one of their remaining two foes bellow in fury. He would have turned to aid Morgan but he saw that she didn't need it. Sword skill alone would win the day with her, apparently. That left him with the final creature, a drooling troll who laughed maniacally as he strode across the glade.
Miach focused all the rest of his power at the creature, smashed through the spell that had been woven over him, and crushed his body with a single command.
