by Sanan Kolva
Cailean said nothing else, only paced like an angry wolf in a cage. Lyan had nothing to say to ease the tense silence. He rested Equinox across his lap and closed his eyes to catch what little rest he could.
“Protect us from discovery, if you can,” he thought to the Spear.
As Lyan started to doze, he wondered if he only imagined amusement—a response in which he could all but hear Equinox answer, “Why don’t you try asking me to do something difficult?”
Lyan woke when Dalrian returned.
“Where’s Yion?” Cailean asked. He sounded calmer and less angry than before. Lyan blinked away sleep and rubbed his eyes.
“He’s keeping watch on the entrance we found, sir,” Dalrian said. “Two guards are posted at it, but they look bored. I’m surprised Yion found the door—I missed the gap completely. The guards came on duty not long before I headed back here, so the watch shouldn’t change again soon. They let out a couple of hunters, and I don’t expect they’re going to be back soon either.”
“You want to break in now, in the morning?” Shiolto asked.
“They’ll lock the door at night,” Dalrian said. “Yion thinks we should go now.”
Eyes turned to Cailean. He looked over the group, then nodded. “Leave the horses here. We’re going.”
Chapter Four
Fear us
If our weapons you take, fear our hands.
If our hands you take, fear our feet.
If our lives you take, fear our spirits.
We do not live, we do not die,
But to take what you hold dear.
We are the shadows, creeping ever closer.
We are elves.
Fear us.
The closer they drew to the looming stone fortress, the more oppressive the structure grew. Dalrian led at a pace barely faster than a crawl, paralleling the wall. The undergrowth had been cleared from the base of the walls, and the group clung to the minimal shelter of the brush line. Lyan struggled not to tangle Equinox in the undergrowth, and envied the comfortable ease with which Cailean carried Solstice. Insects buzzed and droned around them, disturbed by the intruders’ passage. Lyan fought the urge to slap at them or wave them away from his face. On occasion, he glimpsed figures on the walls above, and each time a patrol passed, the group froze, ducking low to the ground. An insect crept under the brown bandanna Lyan had tied to cover his red hair, and he scratched his scalp, feeling the itchy prickle of its crawl. A dew-laden spider web caught him in the face, leaving Lyan spitting away strands.
Dalrian paused, looking around, then up. He gestured for the others to follow, then bolted across the stretch of open ground to the wall’s base. Lyan clutched Equinox, finally freeing the Spear from a tangle of ground-crawling vines. He watched the Tathrens cross the gap until only he remained.
Don’t let the guards notice me, he pleaded desperately. Lyan cast a look up for any movement, then sprinted to the wall, heart pounding and ankle throbbing. At any instant, he expected to hear an alarm from above. He was sure everyone could hear the rapid thudding of his heart. But no alarm rose, and after several tense moments, Dalrian started moving again.
A dip in the ground and an alcove in the wall proved to be a doorway low enough that anyone taller than a child would have to duck. The wooden door was painted the same color and pattern as the stones, and if it hadn’t been standing slightly ajar, Lyan would have missed it. Yion leaned against the wall, searching for threats and absently rubbing the shallow divot in his forehead. He nodded to Cailean and the rest of the group.
“Where are the guards?” Cailean asked in a low voice.
“They will not wake, Lord Cailean,” Yion answered. The mercenary pulled the door open and stepped inside.
Cailean’s expression darkened. “You killed them?”
Yion paused and looked back at Cailean with the same calm air he always projected. “Lord Cailean, if we are to rescue elves, then best that those within the keep believe the rescuers are elves as well. The elves of the forest would not have been satisfied with merely incapacitating those who stood in their path. As well, if they are loyal to Ewart, they are by definition traitors to you.”
An uncomfortable silence fell over the group. Yion walked into the passage with a nod for them to follow. Lyan followed Cailean and Aikan, wincing as Equinox scraped against the low ceiling. He tried to shift the Spear’s position enough to keep it from banging, though the shake of his hands didn’t help him hold the weapon steady.
Lyan couldn’t stand straight in the narrow stone passage, bumping his head against the ceiling even though he ducked. Scuffs marked the floor where muddy feet had tracked often enough to grind the dirt into the pores of the rock.
Shiolto, behind Lyan, whispered, “Somehow, I expected getting inside to be harder.”
“I think getting out will be the difficult part,” Torqual responded.
“Then perhaps someone should think more about how to use his Spear for something useful and less about how to bang it against every stone in this tunnel,” Aikan said. The older man probably intended the words to be spoken under his breath, but the tunnel carried sound well enough that even the other humans heard him.
Lyan flushed angrily and shifted his hold on Equinox. Shiolto put a hand on his shoulder and whispered, “Not here.”
Lyan took a deep breath, reminding himself that this was one of the worst possible places for him to lose his temper at Aikan. Equinox, is there an easier way for me to carry you, or at least, a way I can make less noise?
A touch of amusement in his mind, then several words ran through Lyan’s mind. He whispered them aloud.
“What did you say, Lyan?” Cailean asked.
“Nothing,” he answered quickly. Lyan straightened a little, and winced as the butt of Equinox scraped on the floor. But the Spear made no noise against the stones. Lyan’s step faltered for a moment, then he kept walking. Thank you.
Yion motioned for silence, then moved ahead of the group. Lyan listened, straining to hear hints of what might lie ahead. He jumped when voices spoke, the tunnel carrying the guards’ words as clearly as if they stood in front of Lyan.
“No sign of elves yet, eh?”
A nasal voice answered with a laugh. “Not a hint. Maybe Cap’n Horst was right, without their leader they’re nothing. Just a bunch of starving savages.”
“Getting what they deserve,” agreed the other with a chuckle.
You call us savages? Lyan gripped Equinox. You laugh about elves starving in the forest and you mock prisoners being tortured within your stone fortress. You’re worse than Vynzent. At least he had a goal behind his torture. He closed his eyes and prayed to his gods. I don’t know if you can hear me inside a Tathren fortress, but please, watch over and guide us to the prisoners.
The nasal voice spoke. “Hey, look, they’re going to bring one out.”
“Really? I wondered why no one opened the gates yet. Think we can see from here?” Metal rattled as someone took a few steps. “Damn, barely. What do you think? Anyone going to notice if we get a better angle?”
The nasal voice didn’t answer. Lyan heard the other guard turn. “What’s wrong, Lak? Hear something?”
“Yeah. Come over here for a sec.” The nasal voice sounded off to Lyan, though he couldn’t say why—some inflection to the voice sounded wrong.
“What is it?” More movement ahead, just outside the tunnel. Then, silence.
Yion reappeared moments later. “The way is clear. Shall we continue?”
“Yion, what did you do?” Cailean asked, voice tight.
“I have learned tricks to imitating voices, my lord. We must take care. A crowd gathers in the courtyard.”
“For what?” Dalrian asked.
Yion’s expression grew grim. “I believe they intend to bring a prisoner from the dungeon. Come, and raise no alarm when you step from the passage.”
Even with the mercenary’s vague warning, Lyan started and grabbed Equinox when he discove
red a guard standing at either side of the tunnel exit as he ducked out of it. Yion rested a hand on his shoulder.
“Be at ease. Their absence would be noticed, so here they stay, neither dead nor alive.”
Neither man leaning against the wall breathed. Lyan shivered and looked to Yion. “Yion, can I ask you something?”
Yion smiled faintly. “Do you intend to ask about Kithr’s suspicions of my nature? I do not follow the path of the assassin.”
Lyan wanted to believe him, but it bothered him that Yion both knew the suspicion Kithr had once revealed to Lyan and anticipated the question. “Then how…?”
Yion spoke quietly in a language not Tathren. Lyan couldn’t identify the tongue, though his enchanted ear cuff translated it. “I am a humble servant of my god, he who chose to bestow his blessings upon me, an undeserving soul, and free me from the shackles of my past. The skills of my former life, however, still cling to me, and they have proven useful for better purposes than they were first intended.” He spoke in Tathren again. “Come. Time waits not for us.”
The tunnel opened into a short, narrow alley between the wall and a stone building. Lyan heard voices rising and falling in excited conversation. He edged down the alley and peered around the corner. A crowd stood gathered around a raised platform, though no one stood on the platform. A pair of wooden posts rose from it, but he didn’t see anything of extreme interest about them.
Cailean joined Lyan. “I’ve heard tales of previous Spearbearers of Solstice who could hide entire armies from sight. Can Equinox do such things?”
Lyan looked at the Spear, and an answer came. He spoke loud enough for all his companions to hear as they gathered at the alley’s edge. “Not exactly unseen, but we can be… unnoticed. People will see us, but we’ll become unworthy of attention—uninteresting, not even worth remembering. We still have to be careful. If we try to draw attention, we will succeed, and the magic isn’t flawless. It’ll get us through the crowd, but I don’t know if it’ll get us into the dungeon unnoticed.”
“Any help is better than trying to go through that crowd by stealth,” Cailean said. His voice grew softer, for Lyan only to hear. “If I could, I would, but…”
“I know, Cailean,” Lyan said. He gripped Equinox. Warmth ran through the Spear. Lyan sensed magic wrap around them like a soft blanket, not smothering or stifling.
Not without misgivings, Lyan stepped from shelter and walked toward the crowd. His companions scrambled after him. Lyan glanced up to the wall. A sentry passed on his rounds. The man cast a look toward the crowd, but ignored Lyan. Lyan let out a breath.
We can do this.
As he neared the crowd, the sensation of something wrong slammed into his mind. Lyan staggered, head whipping around in search of the source. He saw only an empty, open space, then the fortress wall.
Cailean caught him, voice tight and worried. “What’s wrong?”
“Do you feel that?” Lyan asked. “Please tell me you do.”
“Feel what?” Cailean asked. “I don’t… maybe? Something in the back of my head.”
Lyan shook his head sharply. “Something’s here. Something’s hidden. Something…”
“Equinox is telling you something?” Cailean prompted.
“Yes.” Lyan closed his eyes and moved toward the sense of wrongness. One hand rose, searching for anything, and found stone. Opening his eyes, Lyan didn’t see anything before him, but felt smooth stones. He touched Equinox to the surface, and saw a ripple shimmer over the surface of the illusion.
“Uh… Lyan? What’re you doing?” Dalrian asked.
“Something is here,” Lyan said again, more confident. “Something hidden.” He traced Equinox along the edge of the structure until he found a door. Lyan tested the knob, but it didn’t budge. On impulse, he retrieved Patch’s key from his pocket and tried it in the lock, expecting nothing.
To his surprise, the key clicked, and the door opened. He stepped inside without a second thought.
Softly glowing elven lamps lit the interior of the single large room. The air smelled of spices, incense, and blood. A tapestry hanging on one wall drew Lyan’s gaze—a star chart all but identical to one that had hung in his teacher’s home. He stepped toward it, then stopped, looking down at a table littered with calculations. He knew what they were: an attempt to solve the riddle of the stars and locate Equinox. Alongside the calculations, he saw detailed diagrams of what he guessed to be some sort of stronghold.
“Lyan, what are you thinking? You have no idea what protections or alarms you might disturb in here,” Cailean hissed, catching his arm.
“I think we found one of your enemy’s lairs,” Lyan answered. “Are these familiar to you, Cailean?” He gestured at the diagrams.
Cailean looked, then his face grew hard, his admonitions to Lyan forgotten. “They are. These… someone made a very thorough examination of my keep and all its entrances.” He cast a look over his shoulder at his men, perhaps thinking once more about Lyan’s implication of treachery within his ranks.
Cailean’s men filed nervously inside, casting looks around the room. Yion lingered just inside the door. “This place is profane,” he said, shuddering.
The prickling sensation in Lyan’s head directed his attention to the back of the room. A section of the floor lay empty of tables or workbenches, with only a shrine in the far corner. He frowned, wondering at the placement of a shrine here, and trying to guess what gods it honored. Carvings ringed the flat stone altar, the details too small to distinguish from a distance. The etching atop the altar depicted a pair of crossed spears, their outlines highlighted in rusty red. Sealed jars clustered in the corners. Lyan walked toward the shrine.
His foot hit a line drawn on the floor, and a jolt of power, swift and sharp, threw him back. Lyan yelped in surprise and pain as he hit the ground. His companions scrambled to him. “What happened?”
“Protection,” Lyan managed. “Wards around that shrine.” He panted for breath. He’d last felt such a sensation when he rested his hand on Solstice—a painful warning. “I’m all right.”
Torqual helped him stand. “Better not try that again,” he said.
Lyan’s mouth moved in a small, wry smile. “I won’t.” He looked toward the shrine again, then turned to Cailean. “You said your enemy is a mage. I… am not sure he is. Or if he is, that’s not all he is.”
Cailean’s brow wrinkled in a deep frown. “Oh?”
Lyan licked his lips. “Elder Brenhan puts wards around Heartshrine Village to protect us from danger. He can because he is a priest of our gods. If this is your enemy’s lair, and he crafted these wards and the shrine, he’s not a mage. He’s a priest.”
“A priest?” Aikan repeated. “What god would condone this?”
“Murdo,” Lyan whispered, hesitant even to speak the name. “I think this is the work of a priest of the Mad God.” Murdo, the only mortal to ever have claimed both Spears of the Stars and complete the ritual at the Altar of the Heavens. The only mortal known to have gained the powers of a god.
The Tathrens stared at Lyan, shocked wordless. Even Aikan fell silent, mouth agape. Finally the older man shook his head. “I cannot believe even Ewart would sink so far as to--”
“Oh gods…” Shiolto whispered from his spot by the door, voice choked. “Lyan…?”
“What?” Lyan turned from the shrine and moved to see what had arrested Shiolto’s attention. Then he saw, and his breath caught in his throat, the shrine to the Mad God dimming in importance to the scene unfolding outside. He stepped from the hidden building, drawn almost against his will by the sight.
The platform no longer stood empty. The chains fixed to the two wooden posts were locked around the wrists and ankles of an elf, restraining him spread-eagle between them. The prisoner had been stripped to the waist, and blood streaked his raw skin. He was more gaunt than the warriors in the forest, ribs clearly showing. His eyes burned with rage as he twisted against the chains to look over his tor
mentors.
People cheered when a man climbed onto the platform. The elf fixed a baleful glare on the smirking human. Lyan shuddered and closed his eyes when the man uncoiled a whip.
“Let them hear you scream, elf.”
The whip cracked, drawing a choked cry of pain from the prisoner, to the cheers and mockery of the crowd. Someone rested a hand on Lyan’s shoulder—the elf’s heart skipped a beat. Opening his eyes, he saw that his companions stood around him.
“Do we have to watch this, Lord Cailean?” Shiolto asked in a strained, tight voice.
“When he is returned to the dungeon, we shall have the best opportunity to follow,” Yion said. “But… we need not wait here.” The mercenary quickly scanned the surroundings and made for an outbuilding.
“You will all rot.”
Lyan had turned to follow Yion, but those words, spoken in Elven, stopped him in his tracks. He looked back to the prisoner, who panted for breath after another strike of the whip. Blood dripped from the prisoner’s mouth as he continued. “Everything you touch will crumble and die. Blight and locust will devour your crops. Your women will be consumed to die screaming in agony as wasting takes them. Your brats will be eaten alive by disease before your eyes.” He screamed as the whip tore across his back again, ripping into skin.
Like a miasma, power gathered in response to the elf’s curse, drawn to the blood—not the blood running down his back, but that willingly shed where the prisoner had bitten into his lip. Lyan could feel a blight spreading around the courtyard, wanting only a little more strength to take hold.
“Lyan?” He distantly heard Cailean say his name. “Lyan, don’t. You don’t want to watch this.”
“Stop it,” Lyan whispered. “Stop it. That’s enough. Stop.”
“Lyan?” Cailean caught his arm and pulled him toward the rest of their group.
Don’t do this. Lyan’s gaze fixed on the prisoner. Do not lay a blood curse on this land. Do not end your life for this.
