Lorth’s captors grumbled with laughter. The lieutenant said, “You just proved yourself useful. Keep moving.” They hustled him out of sight of the stairs.
Leda’s scream rent Lorth’s heart clean from his breast. But it turned cold as she cried something in the Dark Tongue that sounded like an avalanche. A howling force blasted through the hall, shaking the stones in the floor, ceiling and walls, and causing them to crumble. Lorth stumbled as the passage heaved around them.
“Run!” the lieutenant shouted.
Lorth slowed, and turned around. Faerins slipped and screamed as the high arches above the stairwell came down to meet the trembling floor. Two Eusirons fell out of the air and landed in the rubble. Something shifted, and a chorus of cries rang out as pieces of the stairs flew down and crashed into the outer wall, burying the bodies.
The Void loves nothing. The Old One doesn’t discriminate. The hunter gazed in awe at the devastation, even as the supports above him began to crack.
Leda! He couldn’t get to her now.
“Damned fool!” someone shouted behind him. Lorth turned just as something struck him in the head. The walls spun as he collapsed into black.
Chapter 20
Shade of Illusion: The sun casts shadows.
Sunlight glimmered on new leaves stirred by a warm, fragrant breeze. On the pads of a wolf, he moved over ferns, mossy stones and the roots of ancient trees. He followed the sound of water, and found a chasm. It yawned before him, echoing with whispers. He leaned over the edge and gazed into the starless, endless Void.
“What is the true meaning of darkness?”
He looked up at the sound of his master’s voice. On the far side of the abyss stood the Dark Warrior, Creator of Ostarin.
The war god beckoned him to jump.
Lorth swirled up through the pitch black, clawing for the surface. He awoke with a gasp. His head split with pain, he had trouble breathing, and he hurt everywhere, as if he had tumbled down several flights of stairs.
He opened his eyes to a chamber lit by a dying fire. It smelled of underground, burning herbs and water, reminding him of thirst. He pushed himself up, his breath catching as pain shot through his chest and back. His wrists and ankles were bound in shackles attached to heavy spikes in the floor—a new addition, given the chips of stone scattered around.
The sheath in his boot was empty. Leaf had finally left him.
He got to his knees and leaned against the wall, as far as the chains would allow. On the far side of the room, in a grate in the door, a face appeared, and then vanished.
“Here comes the entertainment,” Lorth muttered, looking around. The walls contained arcane symbols woven into patterns that ran around the room without a gap. A fire pit on the far end glowed with coals. In the center of the chamber lay a pool ringed by stone. Something disturbed the black surface of the water; in the dimness, Lorth couldn’t tell what it was.
A metal-chain rattle brought his attention to the door. Another face appeared, and the portal opened with a groan. A dozen Faerin soldiers entered, carrying torches. They filed out around the perimeter of the room, paying only cursory attention to Lorth, chained to the floor. One of them rustled a log from a pile and threw it on the coals, sending sparks crackling and whirling into the air; another held his torch to the iron cage of an unlit cresset. Light leapt across the walls, illuminating the dank chamber.
A body, frail and pale as ice, floated in the pool.
The door opened again. The soldiers stiffened to attention as a man strode in wearing a bright red cloak trimmed in green and silver. He glanced at the pool as he moved by it. Behind him walked the lieutenant who had taken Lorth in exchange for the girl. A pair of hounds flanked him.
One of the hounds trotted to Lorth and sniffed his leg, then touched his gaze with an odd expression. Sorry, friend, Lorth thought. No magic here. The lieutenant barked a command that prompted the hound to move off and join the second one by the fire.
Lorth lifted his chin as the red-cloaked man approached him. He wore fine mail, tanned doeskin trousers, wrist guards studded with silver leaves and an elm tree on his tunic. He had brown, curly hair shot with gray, hazel eyes and cruel, weathered features. Around his neck hung a leather seal inlaid with silver and chips of precious stones depicting the Faerin standard, red hills riven by the sword by which these men lived and died.
“Forloc,” Lorth said, as if casually greeting an acquaintance.
“The same,” the warlord replied. “And you would be our infamous wizard.”
I am not a wizard. Lorth saw himself dancing to a silly tune and if the gods could have laughed, they would have.
The balding lieutenant moved to Forloc’s side. Leaf’s silvery, flowing hair stuck out from a sheath on his belt. “Been drained like the other one,” he said.
The other one. Eaglin? Drained by what?
Forloc stepped close, as if to study him. “Whom do you serve?”
“The Old One knows,” Lorth replied, almost sarcastically. The Hunter’s Rede no longer served him any better than the Eye.
Forloc folded his arms over his chest. “Perhaps you would consider working for me.”
“You can’t afford me.”
“I think you underestimate my resources.” The warlord turned and walked to the pool. “The Old One,” he mused, gazing at the pale-clad corpse floating amid an unmoving spray of red-blond hair. “A mother goddess, queen of life and death, protector of the innocent. An interesting idea, created by your women. Makes them think they have power. They even have the men fooled.” A smile curled on his lips. “In the name of your Old One, this priestess handed me Eusiron for nothing but a promise.”
Astarae. An odd, though not surprising, turn of events—though this went far beyond a backwoods deal with the Faerins to see Lorth hanged.
“And what promise was that,” Lorth said with a weary exhale. “My head on a tray?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” He eyed Lorth sidelong. “They say you’re the finest assassin in the land. That you care for nothing and no one. Kill for sport. Given the trouble you’ve caused me these seven moons, that’s easy to believe. But you killed no one here”—he cocked a thumb at the pool—“not even her. You hired out your services for naught but time in a witch’s bed. Was she worth it?” In response to Lorth’s deadpan stare he continued, “This priestess thought so. She made me swear on the Old One not to harm her Mistress.”
“She’ll hold you to that.”
“Will she? All I needed to enter Os was a Tarthian witch. You wolves talk of magic and goddesses—fairy tales to comfort you when darkness falls. But it falls anyway, doesn’t it.”
While Lorth had questioned the claims of esoteric disciplines himself enough times, the irony of this staggered him. This man had a short memory—or an extremely selective one—to act so cavalierly when the powers he condemned had barred Faerin from Os for decades, killed the Raven protecting it, plucked a child from the center of a Faerin Net and trapped Lorth inside a tree for month.
A useful thing, arrogance.
“So why did you kill her?” Lorth asked the ceiling.
Forloc glanced over his shoulder at the pool. “Who, her? Oh, I didn’t kill her. She heard you were coming and took her own life rather than give it to you.”
Lorth snorted. “Who’s flattering me now?”
“It’s true, I’m afraid. One more sticker you put in my side. She was useful, and you managed to kill her without lifting a blade.”
“Were you fucking her?” Lorth asked with casual innocence.
The warlord guffawed. “Na! She had higher aspirations than me.” His eyes glittered. “As I have higher aspirations than her.” He folded his hands behind his back and began to pace. “They call your Mistress the heart of Ostarin, the Old One in flesh. Now I know that’s ballocks—but the people believe it. Contrary to what this priestess believed, I have no intention of harming her. If I am to rule this land, she must stand by my side.”
Lorth coughed on a laugh. “You know as little about women as a high wizard. The Mistress of Eusiron wouldn’t stand by your grave.”
Forloc’s hazel eyes burned with challenge. “I’ll show you what I know about women.” Like a cat grown tired of a dead mouse, he strode to the door. “Lefors!” he called over his shoulder. The lieutenant threw Lorth a glance, and followed him.
Lefors. The name tumbled down on a frothy wave of wrath, tears and the clutch of a child. Ivy’s killer, in spitting distance, with Leaf in his belt. The Destroyer did have a sense of humor.
Lorth sagged against the wall and glanced around at the Faerins standing guard. Some of them looked at nothing; others at him. They were well fed on the bounty of Eusiron, stocked from the autumn harvest. The hound that had earlier inspected him lay by the fire pit, gazing at him with big brown eyes and the same weird expression as it had earlier.
And Astarae lay dead in the water, silent. Some mortal instrument Eusiron had chosen for his tasks! Instead of preening under the influence of that soul-stealing potion, Lorth could have been hunting Astarae. He could have found Eaglin and possibly restored him to strength. Leda had even tried to warn him. But did he heed that? No, he’d been more interested in getting her dress off. Now he sat in chains, powerless and hollow, awaiting Maern knew what.
I’ll show you what I know about women. Arrogant bastard. Without what he thought was the weakness of women, Forloc would be nothing in this land. A woman had gotten him into Os; a woman had gotten him into Eusiron; and now he sought Leda to prop him up as the ruler of the North. Lorth had no delusions about how this would go. Forloc would use him to maneuver her. Somehow.
He rattled a chain. There had to be a way out of this.
One of the hounds got up and walked towards him. “To me,” a soldier said. The animal ignored the command. The second hound rose from its spot, stretched its haunches and walked in front of the soldier as he moved towards Lorth.
As the hound neared the door, it spoke a word in the Dark Tongue.
The hunter’s wits scrambled into focus as the familiar voice hit the air. By the door, a sword sang from its sheath as a warrior with flaming hair appeared, wearing a Faerin uniform with the single-leaf helmet of a foot soldier. Cael. He killed the guard with a sweep of his blade, then spun around and met the onslaught as the others figured out what was happening. Someone shouted an alarm.
Lorth jumped back against the wall as the first hound changed before his eyes. “Hold still,” Regin said as he fumbled a key into the shackle on Lorth’s wrist.
“Behind you,” Lorth informed him.
The shackle snapped open. Regin dropped the key into Lorth’s hand and jumped up to deal with the soldier rushing him.
The two guardsmen dispatched the men in the room, but not before a fresh company had rallied to the alarm. Cael braced his weight against the door as they slammed into it. “Hurry!”
Once free of his bonds, Lorth got up and staggered under the pain and stiffness in his body. He looked up and caught his breath as Regin tossed something in his direction. His sword. He slung the strap over his shoulder and cinched it. “You have that potion?”
Regin strode to the pool. “Mistress said you’d ask that. She threatened to feed our balls to her cats if we gave you any.”
Lorth came to his side as an irrational glitter of hope and light spiraled away from his heart like a dead butterfly. “Where is Leda? How do we—”
“Get on with it!” Cael shouted.
Regin pushed Astarae’s corpse to one side with the flat of his blade. “This your work?”
“You heard Forloc. What are you doing?”
“I didn’t believe Forloc.” He gestured to the water. “Get in.”
Lorth stared at him. “What?”
“They have an axe!” Cael called out in a singsong voice.
Regin grabbed Lorth by his belt and strap before the hunter realized his intention. “Take a deep breath.”
“Unhand me you sodding—”
With a shout, the big guardsman threw him in.
As Lorth hit the water, he flashed the image of Eusiron beckoning him into the chasm. He struggled for the surface, but Regin dove down beneath him and clamped onto his ankle with a steely grip. The hunter mouthed a curse, his breath bubbling from the depths as the guardsman dragged him down. He lost all sense of direction as he moved through the cold, his veins burning for air. At last, he saw a surface glowing with light. Regin let him go.
Lorth kicked upward and broke the surface with a rough inhale. “Son of a bitch!” He swung out to clip Regin in the jaw.
The guardsman ducked the blow. “Look out!”
They both went down again as an arrow struck the water near Lorth’s head.
As they came up for air, Faerins surrounded the pool, hollering commands.
“Eaglin’s alive,” Lorth said. But Regin no longer floated in the water by his side.
A dozen arrow tips pointed down from the edge of the well. Lorth held up his hands slowly, glancing around. Regin could be anywhere in here. Or he could have swum down to another well—an option the hunter no longer had unless he wanted to do it riddled with quills.
“Get out,” one of the brown-cloaked solders ordered him.
Lorth moved to the edge of the stones, reaching up. None too gently, the Faerins grabbed his arms, hauled him out and tossed him onto the floor like a fish. One of them kicked him in the ribs hard enough to break one. As the hunter rolled up to protect himself from the next blow, a commotion erupted around him.
Regin and Cael had appeared from nowhere. They scattered the archers and fought them off, giving Lorth time to get up. Gasping with pain, he drew his sword with a swift motion that knocked an arrow off-course before it struck him. The three men fought their way to the arched opening, and then ran. Shouts and cries filled the halls. Cael had a broken arrow lodged in his arm. Regin led them down stairs and around a corner, then opened a door to an unlit place and hurried them through. Silence fell as he closed the door.
As the companions moved through the dark, Regin said, “You mentioned Eaglin.”
“Omefalon,” Lorth replied, panting under the pain in his rib. “What is it?”
“You’ve been there. The room with the Om Tree. Why?”
“I think Eaglin is in there, alive. He’s been following me around as an apparition.”
The air changed as they entered a chamber. Cael touched Lorth’s shoulder. “Can you make light?”
“Maybe. Shapeshifting potion took my powers. I need a stone.” After some shuffling around, Regin pressed a small rock into his hand. Lorth wove his earthlight spell, and a faint glow lit the walls of an empty room with a grate in the floor. “It won’t last long.”
“How long did you use that stuff?” Regin asked him.
Lorth shrugged. “Since I left Mrin. Couple of days.”
Cael made a sound of astonishment. “You’re lucky to be alive. When it wore off me the first time—after an hour—I was ready to throw myself into the gorge.” He moved to a wall and leaned against it, then brought his arm around and grasped the arrow. “Regin. A hand.”
Regin slung a pack from his shoulder to the floor.
“That’s my pack,” Lorth observed.
Ignoring him, Regin pulled out a rag and one of the vials in Leda’s pouch, a red one that contained erialas. He splashed the dark green liquid onto the cloth, and went to Cael’s side. He felt around the wound for a moment, and then grunted. “Must have gone off. Not too deep.” He grasped the splintered shaft, made eye contact with his friend, and then pulled it out with a swift jerk, causing Cael to shout a ragged expletive referencing the female genitalia. Regin pressed his cloth into the wound. Cael clutched it and slid down the wall with a groan.
“You’re next,” Regin said to Lorth.
Lorth looked at his shoulder, where one of Eamon’s men had cut him. “It’s all right.”
Regin’s blue gaze iced over. “Let me se
e the damned thing.” Lorth exhaled, set down his faintly glowing stone and removed his sword. He slid his shirt from his shoulder. The guardsman soaked another cloth and began to clean the wound. “We owe you an apology.”
Cael coughed on a laugh. “Mistress hit Eamon so hard we all felt it.”
“We thought she was going to turn him into something ugly and throw him into the ruins,” Regin added.
“I saw her bring down the stairs behind me,” Lorth said.
“Stairs?” Cael snorted. “She brought down half the South Hall.”
“Is she still up there?” Lorth asked Regin.
“She’d better be.”
“Freil ok?”
Regin nodded. “Asks about you every day.” He finished up and stepped back. As Lorth pulled on his shirt and sword, Regin rustled the pack together, and then handed it to him. “Let’s go.” He leaned down and heaved the grate aside, then looked over his shoulder. “It’s not in there.”
Lorth looked up and pulled his hand out of the pack. Gritting his teeth, he wrapped his fist in the straps and yanked them closed.
Just then, his stone blinked out.
Cael’s boyish laughter rang out in the darkness. “Poor sneaky wolf!” The guardsman moved to the hole and jumped in. A splash echoed up from the depths. Lorth felt for the opening with his boot, and went next. Regin came down behind them.
“Wish I’d grabbed a torch,” Cael complained. He grasped Lorth’s arm and pulled him against the wall. “Watch your step. Water can get deep down here.”
Regin sloshed past them. “Hug the wall. We’ll get light farther down.”
The companions moved through the dank, moldy passage. Running and dripping water echoed around them, and it smelled of death. Lorth told them what he knew about the occupation. “You’re outnumbered by several thousand,” he said. “But something is happening. Faerins are under pressure. They must have received reports that Morfaen is moving north. He didn’t know the palace had fallen.”
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