Free The Fall to Power by Gareth K Pengelly Page B

quick succession every candle and torch, plunging the hall to darkness and causing a wave of commotion and nervous muttering to sweep over the guards.
                  “Steady, men!” roared the Lieutenant, his unwavering voice instilling a modicum of discipline and bravery in every heart.
                  “Yes,” mocked another voice, this one cold and creeping, sending a shiver up every spine as it echoed about the pitch-black room. “Stay still for us… will make it easier…”
                  The scuttling of metal on stone clinked from all about as the soldiers strained in the gloom to pick out any hint of their enemy. First it seemed to be coming from the left, then the right. Then…above?
                  A scream as a guardsman was flattened by an impact, stabbed in the throat before the assailant fled again into the gloom, like a ghost. Then another. Then another.
                  Marlyn span in fearful circles in the dark, sword held out in front of him to fend off any foes, though knowing in his heart of hearts that he was already dead, for the enemy were dropping from the vaulted ceiling like invisible spiders, his comrades in arms dropping to the floor like flies.
                  A hand on his arm caused him to start and he span, sword raised to strike his attacker, but a female voice cut him off mid blow.
                  “Come with me, now!”
                  He allowed himself to be led by the voice, past the semi-circle of blinded soldiers until he reached the middle of the shamanic circle.
                  “Hold this!”
                  He dropped his sword at the command, reaching out his hands and feeling the cool ceramic sides of the bowl of water.
                  He stood, confused, wondering why he was here, when a searing light erupted, driving all shadows from the room in an instant.
                  He craned his neck, turning to look at the source of the illumination whilst still holding the bowl level as instructed.
                  The red-headed shaman girl stood, gazing up at the ceiling that crawled with now-revealed Khrdas, her raised hands sheathed in gloves of crackling blue-white lightning that left after-images with every blink of the eye.
                  A Khrda dropped from the ceiling, poised with daggers to hand to end her life, but she raised a hand towards him and the room resounded to the booming blast of thunder as a bolt of lightning reached out like the finger of a wrathful god to snatch the Khrda out of mid-air and hurl him, smoking and broken, a hundred feet to the far wall.
                  “Gwenna!” shouted Arbistrath over the fading echoes of the boom. “Get back to the circle!”
                  She went to reply, but a Khrda dropped down directly behind her. She felt his presence, ducking just in time to avoid his grasping arms, before spinning and delivering a blow to his chest with the palm her hand.
                  The Khrda convulsed, steam billowing from his ears, before collapsing to the ground.
                  “Go,” she shouted to the young Lord. “I can hold them off.”
                  Hofsted appeared at her side in the flickering light of her lightning, making to grab hold of her arm but recoiling, realising that to do so would be death.
                  “My lady…” he implored.
                  She looked to him with empathy in her  eyes, for the old lieutenant had been good to her the last weeks.
                  “Go to him,” she told him. “Deliver the message that we have failed this time. I will make my way back to the valley, have no fear.”
                  He hesitated, then gave a curt nod before turning.
                  “Men! To the