Free Night of Madness by Lawrence Watt-Evans Page A

hesitated, her attention clearly focused on Yorn’s uniform.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Hanner called.
    â€œYou’re … you…” She stared about wildly, and then froze, speechless, when she saw Rudhira and the other two flyers.
    â€œYorn, tell her we won’t hurt her,” Hanner ordered.
    â€œIt’s all right, ma’am,” Yorn said. “These people are all under control. Now, tell Lord Hanner what’s wrong.”
    â€œDown there,” the woman said, pointing back along Fish Street. “It’s horrible! Two of them, throwing everything around…”
    â€œI think we’d better take a look…” Hanner began—but then he stopped. Rudhira was already swooping around the corner, flying down Fish Street. Hanner sighed again. “Come on,” he told the others, waving them forward as he ran after Rudhira.
    The entire party broke into a run—or a glide, for those capable of flight—in pursuit of Rudhira. They were not evenly matched; the faster quickly left the slower behind.
    They heard the confrontation before they saw it—people shouting, glass shattering, loud thumping. At last Hanner rounded a curve and stopped.
    Rudhira was still airborne, but only a few feet off the ground, her waist roughly even with the top of Hanner’s head. Her hands were flung up defensively, guarding her face as a storm of hard and heavy objects flung themselves at her—bricks, stones, broken furniture. All turned aside before they reached her, to drop harmlessly to the hard-packed dirt.
    Fifty feet farther down Fish Street two men hung in the air, one scarcely out of his teens and dressed in a fine velvet tunic that was at least a size too small, the other middle-aged and wearing good brown homespun. The street beneath them was strewn with debris—and bodies. At least four people lay motionless amid the rubble, and Hanner could not tell whether they were alive or dead.
    It was from this field of rubble that objects were rising and accelerating toward Rudhira.
    The entire scene was eerily lit by the flames of burning buildings; several of the houses and shops here had been torn open, their doors, walls, and windows ripped out into the street, and spilled lamps or flung torches had set curtains, carpets, and other furnishings ablaze in the ruined interiors thus exposed. One thatched roof had caught as well; fortunately, Hanner noticed, the surrounding roofs were proper tile, so the flames might not spread—though burning wisps of straw might be carried on the hot winds …
    â€œGods!” someone behind Hanner said.
    â€œDon’t just stand there,” Hanner snapped. “Stop them!”
    The other two flyers in Hanner’s party had already come up alongside Rudhira; now the three of them formed a united front, and the hail of flying rubble slowed and stopped. Rudhira lowered her hands and glared at the two men.
    â€œYou shouldn’t have done that,” she said in a voice that carried unnaturally, echoing from the walls still standing on either side.
    â€œMind your own business, witch!” the young man bellowed back.
    â€œWarlock,” Rudhira answered. “Not witch. I’m a warlock now, just as you are.”
    â€œOh, no,” the man replied. “Not like me. I’m the most powerful of all!”
    â€œYou haven’t proved that to my satisfaction,” the older man barked.
    â€œI would have, if she hadn’t interrrupted!” He turned his attention from Rudhira to the older man. “I already knocked down three people who thought they could match me—”
    â€œYou’re forgetting something,” Rudhira interrupted. “It took both of you to stop me—and now I have help!” She raised her hands again—not in a defensive gesture, but spread wide in defiance.
    The young man dropped heavily to the ground and fell back, lying supine across a smashed window