The early stages of the attack were surprisingly easy. The protective sphere was mental rather than physical and thus presented none of the inconveniences associated with mass, weight, and inertia. Grantin, Chom, and Castor entered the Gogol caverns without the slightest difficulty. Above them and on each side the misty shield disappeared as it insinuated itself between the molecules of solid rock. Only in front and behind could its existence be discerned.
Suddenly a group of screaming soldiers raced down the tunnel, intent on repulsing the attackers. In less than five seconds the frozen bodies of the defenders littered the floor. Encouraged by this initial success, they increased their pace. Except for the distraction of being forced to dodge drastically slowed crossbow bolts, nothing except the intricateness of the network of tunnels hindered their advance.
"How long do you think we can keep up the shield?" Grantin asked Chom.
"I do not know. Perhaps hours, perhaps only a few more minutes. It may just slowly fade away to nothing, or it might disappear all at once. The only thing we can do is proceed as rapidly as possible."
"I assure you, Chom, I am proceeding as fast as possible."
From the bend in the tunnel ahead of them another flight of arrows was loosed at them. In the dim light of the phosphorescent mosses the missiles flickered dully like a flight of peculiar insects. The arrows entered the shield and, as in each previous attack, slowed to a rate of one or two feet per second, imparting a brighter whiteness to the portions of the barrier surrounding the points of penetration. Almost absentmindedly Chom waved his four arms and plucked the bolts from midair.
The three reached the right-hand bend in the tunnel and increased their speed to a run as they made the turn. This tactic never seemed to be anticipated by the defenders, and always their increase in speed caught a few of the waiting soldiers by surprise. This time was no exception. They stepped over the immobilized defenders and continued at a rapid pace. Ahead of them the tunnel swung to the right, rising toward the central chamber.
Judging by the height of the tunnel and the number of turns already made in the spiraling passage, Grantin estimated that in another five minutes, ten at the most, they would reach the surface of the lake. As if to confirm his hypothesis, the tunnel seemed to be getting brighter, almost glowing with the illumination of reflected daylight. And it seemed to be getting warmer, too.
Grantin noticed that the front edge of the shield appeared thicker, frostier, while at the same time he detected within himself a great lethargy.
"Chom, something's happening. Do you feel it?"
"We are being attacked," Castor said. "They are trying to hex us."
For the first time in their relationship Grantin detected signs of weariness in Chom. The Fanist's head, neck, and shoulders glistened with a thin, oily film.
"We must make it colder," the Fanist rasped. "We must put more energy into our spell before their weapon defeats us."
Grantin's forehead became knotted in concentration, while Castor's tendons and muscles stiffened with the increased strain. Chom gave no outward sign of his redoubled efforts except for a thickening and spreading of his glistening second skin. Each of the three dredged up images of numbing cold, mountains of steaming ice, wintry vistas of bleak terrain frozen from horizon to horizon. Each visualized a blizzard driving sleet and snow through every tunnel, nook, and crevice of Grog Cup Mountain.
Two levels above the attackers their efforts made themselves felt. A burning shiver sliced through Hazar's body while, at the edge of the room, Greyhorn's flesh became as stone. The horror of Mara's suspension over the pit had caused her to faint before the latest attack. Since the sorcery achieved its goals through mental rather than physical power, her unconsciousness protected her from the incantation's worst effects.
Not so spared, however, was Hazar's servant Nimo. Even though he stood a bare ten feet from Hazar's protection, he received enough of a blast to remove from his members the power of voluntary movement. Sensationless fingers held the dagger and a frozen arm poised the blade a quarter of an inch above the rope.
Hazar alone of all the defenders survived the counterattack. The sorcerer squeezed his hands in a grip so strong as to be painful. The bloodstones forced deep indentations into his flesh. Hazar struggled to formulate a yet more potent spell.
Grantin felt that he could not keep up his strength much longer. The attack might even now have forced him to halt had he not noticed a sign announcing that the mine's central chamber lay just ahead. Grantin, Chom, and Castor turned another corner. Ahead of them on the right-hand wall Grantin spied a doorway which he hoped marked the end of their search. With blind eyes he stepped over the stiffened form of a Gogol subdeacon who had been waiting too close to the bend in the tunnel. They were almost there.
Twenty feet from the doorway a great hammer blow struck the three attackers. Grantin felt as if he had stood inside a huge bell while outside a sledgehammer wielding giant struck the hour. Around him the field clouded almost to opacity. The three struggled to rebuild their defenses, but as they worked another massive blow crashed against their magic sphere. It seemed to Grantin that he could now see cracks on its milky surface.
Chom pressed his own stone tighter against his skull. At the same instant that Hazar loosed his third attack Chom released a bolt of his own. The two titanic energies met and, like a grounding of high-voltage potentials, their powers canceled in a display of sparks and flame and shards of ice.
The Fanist had employed great power in his beam but in so doing had exhausted his last reserves. He collapsed unconscious to the floor, with a consequent weakening of the protective shield. While Grantin struggled to rebuild their defenses Castor summoned his powers for what he hoped would be a triumphant effort. Energies flared in the corridor and spilled through the doorway into the main chamber, even so far as to singe the tips of Hazar's mustache. For a moment the wizard stood on the edge of unconsciousness. Grantin gave up all attempts to maintain the shield, and with a psychic pop the misty wall disappeared.
The atmosphere of the tunnel was filled with magic. Grantin felt as if he were walking between two huge cats whose bodies were charged with static electricity. He dared not launch an attack by sorcery even if he had the energy. With the drain of the spell ended, a bit of Grantin's physical powers returned. He staggered ahead and turned through the doorway and into the mine's central chamber.
Grantin saw Hazar three or four yards in front of him, glassy-eyed and swaying on his feet but not yet beaten. To Hazar's right waited another man, knife in hand. The second man was frozen stiff. The Hartford flicked his gaze around the room and in an instant spied Mara's bound form perched over the edge of oblivion.
The Hartford had not the slightest idea what to do next. He had not thought to remove a knife or sword from one of the fallen soldiers, and even if he had he doubted that he would be able to plunge the blade into Hazar's chest. The Gogol's eyes blinked and became clear. The wizard shook his head, looked at Grantin, and brought himself back to full awareness. With neither word nor gesture of warning the Gogol leaped forward and extended his arms to clench Grantin's throat.
For a fraction of a second the Hartford stood immobilized, then forced himself to fall backward out of Hazar's way. The two went down together. Hazar's fingers wrapped themselves around Grantin's throat. The Gogol summoned up all his remaining energy and channeled it to his hands. As he fell Grantin managed to double his right leg, which he pressed against Hazar's chest. With a wrenching kick he pushed against the sorcerer and propelled him away.
Both men rose to their feet and circled with arms outstretched. Grantin tried a kick at Hazar's stomach and barely avoided having his leg caught in an ankle-wrenching grasp. Hazar charged Grantin in a shambling run. The Hartford jumped to his left and struck at Hazar's onrushing head. Hazar's shoulder struck him a glancing blow. The wizard careened ahead and Grantin fell backward against the cutters' table. He put out his hand to steady himself, but instead of gaming firm purchase his fingers drove into the shallow, velvet-lined box at the edge of the table. His hand clenched automatically. As he staggered to his feet Grantin held in his palm eight of the finished stones.
Grantin pushed himself from the table, then backed across the room in hopes that he might be able to pull Mara's chair from the pit before Hazar attacked again. He was still ten feet from the edge, however, when Hazar returned to the attack. From his boot the wizard extracted a gleaming dirk. He waved the blade in small hypnotic circles.
Grantin tried to avoid watching the flickering highlights. Instead he concentrated on Hazar's eyes. For a moment he considered attempting to cast another spell but then abandoned the idea. Even with the amplification supplied by the gems the effort required would surely bring him to unconsciousness. Best to get rid of the stones, they were only a distraction now. Grantin opened his hand and allowed the gems to cascade to the floor. The sight of his precious bloodstones strewn about the chamber shocked Hazar. For an instant his attention was diverted.
In spite of his exhaustion Grantin was still a young man with a young man's reflexes. Instantly he seized the initiative. He grasped Hazar's left arm with both hands. Using all his strength, the Hartford turned the dagger away from himself and squeezed Hazar's wrist, hoping to break his grasp. The Gogol was startled by the suddenness of the attack. Hazar tried to move past Grantin. The combination of Grantin's forward movement and Hazar's attempted maneuver snapped the wizard's wrist like dry kindling. In the blink of an eye the point of the blade was reversed and forced to the hilt into Hazar's torso.
Grantin released his grip. An observer would have found it hard to determine which of the two men was more astonished. Hazar stood on rubbery knees, his head bowed, eyes staring in dumb amazement at the dagger's protruding handle and the crimson ribbon which spilled down the front of his gown. In openmouthed surprise the Gogol sorcerer pitched slowly forward and sprawled upon the floor.
Grantin watched the wizard's demise with the same emotion felt by an innocent bystander who has chanced to observe a natural catastrophe. He staggered toward Mara, then, engulfed by a roaring in his brain, toppled over, three feet short of Nimo's menacing blade.