“Shouldn’t we fight a little? Aren’t you supposed to be guarding me?” asked Tyrion.
“I’m not here,” said Gareth. “Since I’m the only mage in the palace currently there haven’t been continuous watches on your cell. I’m in bed as far as anyone knows.”
Looking disappointed, Tyrion responded, “That’s too bad.” Stepping out of his cell, he began to walk down the hall. He glanced back for a moment and saw the archmage walk into the stone wall, passing through it as though it were made of air. I guess that explains how he got down here unseen.
Alone at last, he stopped for a moment, propping himself up against the wall to brace himself against a sudden wave of dizziness. His injuries still hadn’t healed completely and his time wearing the aythar-sapping manacles had left him weak. The wine probably hadn’t been a good idea, either. Breathing slowly, he waited until his balance returned, then continued on.
As tired as he was, he kept his escape simple. Once he had reached the upper levels of the dungeon, where there were actual guards, he restricted himself to merely putting them to sleep. He had to conserve his strength, for he worried that some of the krytek that Moira had suborned might still be within the palace. If he encountered one of them in his current condition, it might well be his last fight.
He didn’t sense any of them within his range, however. Moira had probably removed those that survived to further her pretense that they were part of some sort of rebellion on Tyrion’s part. But did she kill them or hide them away somewhere? he wondered. Most of them had less than a month left to live, but it would still have been a waste of a valuable resource to eliminate them. She probably hid them outside the city, he decided.
Once he emerged onto the ground level of the palace, he detected Conall’s unmistakable presence. The boy was in one of the rooms across the palace, one that hadn’t been given a privacy ward. The young mage’s aythar seemed weak, as though he were recovering from a wound, and after a moment Tyrion decided he was probably unconscious. Good, he thought, otherwise I might have to kill him to get out of here.
Using a simple illusion, he disguised himself as one of the palace servants and began making his way to the main gate. No one questioned him as he went, but his fatigue and injuries worked against him as he struggled to walk without staggering.
Then he felt the arrival of a powerful source of aythar, one he recognized. It was Carwyn, the Queen’s dragon, flying in from the east. He had been fortunate the dragon hadn’t been there when he emerged, but his luck had run out. Just as he sensed the dragon, it recognized him as it landed in the courtyard near the gate and its head immediately swiveled to stare in his direction.
Shit.
At his best, the dragon would have been an opponent worth careful consideration before confronting, but in his current state, it would be a disaster. The beast was a creation of flesh and magic, and although it couldn’t use magic, it contained as much aythar as one of the Shining Gods. It was resistant to magic, had magesight, could fly, and its teeth and claws were enchanted.
Carwyn was also fully grown, and consequently possessed a body the size of a small farmhouse. The dragon’s roar as it spotted Tyrion was loud enough that it seemed to shake the palace all the way down to its stone foundations.
The blue sky above beckoned him, whispering that freedom was close at hand, but he discarded the idea of trying to fly immediately. He didn’t have Mordecai’s skill at flight, and any construct he created to allow him to take to the air would be too slow to escape the dragon. If I even had the strength to do so…
Running was likewise foolish but facing the monster in the courtyard was utter suicide. The palace gate might as well be miles away. He would never make it.
Tyrion turned and ran back toward the door leading into the palace. For a second, he attempted to create an aythar-laced fog to block the dragon’s magesight, but the effort nearly caused him to collapse. He abandoned the idea and hoped he could reach the door in time. If he could get back inside, the dragon’s size would work to his advantage. It couldn’t follow him without destroying the building.
He heard the beast’s loud inhalation and dove behind a low stone wall that divided a covered walkway from the rest of the open courtyard. Servants, groomsmen, guards—everyone ran to get away from the area the dragon’s mouth was facing and Tyrion could hear their cries of fear and terror for a brief second before the blast came. Using what little power he had, Tyrion activated his shield tattoos and hoped they would be enough as a wall of flame rushed over the courtyard and covered the stone wall he hid behind.
It seemed to go on forever, and he felt his skin begin to burn as the blistering heat bled through his inadequate shield. The stone beside him cracked, crumbled, and began to melt along its edges.
“Betrayer!” roared Carwyn when the flames finally subsided, his voice too deep for any human throat to reproduce. “Tyrion is loose! Guard the Queen!”
As soon as the dragon’s breath stopped, Tyrion was up and running once more. The great beast leapt after him, and he passed through the stone archway that led into the front hall of the palace with barely a second to spare. Behind him Carwyn smashed into the stonework, sending stone chips and fragments flying in every direction. A second later the arch collapsed as the dragon forced himself in, his great jaws snapping at the air behind Tyrion.
Carwyn continued to bellow warnings to the palace staff as Tyrion pelted down the corridor and ducked into the first crossway he found. He wasn’t sure if Carwyn would risk using his fire inside the palace, but he wasn’t going to tempt fate.
Where to run? It was an open question. His intent was to get out of the palace, not back in, but with the dragon outside that was no longer possible. Mordecai had taught him the method for creating teleportation circles, but he hadn’t made one yet, and without a circle to teleport to it was pointless. The Queen’s chambers. It was his only hope, he realized.
If Moira was at home, he would be unable to handle her, but he doubted she was there. No, she’ll be hiding here, in the city somewhere to oversee the activities in the palace.
His illusion melted away as he ran, for he didn’t have the strength left to squander maintaining it. Most of the staff were too surprised to do anything when they saw him anyway, other than gape and stare. He didn’t meet organized resistance until he was just outside the royal chambers. Four armsmen waited for him with bared steel.
“Shibal,” he put them to sleep with a word, though he could feel the strain it put on him. Without pausing, he threw the door behind them open and charged in.
He nearly lost his head as Sir Harold’s enchanted blade whistled through the air. The knight had been waiting for him, using the Queen’s privacy ward to his advantage, since he knew Tyrion would be blind as to what waited within.
Tyrion had been expecting something like that, however, and he had gone in low. If his opponent had been a normal man, it would have been enough, but Harold was inhumanly fast. The knight changed the angle and sweep of his blade at the last moment, cutting a long, bloody slash down Tyrion’s back. The pain shot through him like fire as he dove forward and rolled, leaving bloodstains on the floor as he went.
He came back to his feet and dodged to the right, narrowly avoiding Harold’s follow up. There was no time to think; the big knight’s attacks came at him without pause, delivered with a speed and strength no normal human being could hope to match. Tyrion evaded the next few strikes only because he didn’t think; years of life and death struggle were burned into his body and mind.
Tyrion didn’t need to fight, he only needed to escape, but the door that led to the portal was also the door to Ariadne’s bedchamber, and it was locked and barred. Retreating before Harold’s relentless assault, he made full use of the furniture in the room to buy precious time and within seconds most of the furnishings were ruined beyond repair as the knight’s sword cut through wood and marble alike with ease.
He marveled at Sir Harold’s combat prowess
. He had watched him in the practice yard and sparred with him a time or two in the past, but that was nothing compared to facing the man in a real fight. In a fair fight, without armor and using his own power to increase his strength to something comparable to Harold’s, he would probably lose. Of course, if I had my usual power, I wouldn’t fight him on those terms.
“Can’t we talk about this?” said Tyrion, scrambling back behind the pieces of a recently bisected divan.
Harold’s voice sounded strange as it echoed from within his metal helm. “You lost the right to speak to me when you betrayed the Queen. Coming here to complete your treachery only reaffirms my decision to end your miserable existence.”
As the knight answered, Tyrion’s eyes searched the room, looking for something he could use. He found his answer sheathed on Harold’s right side, an enchanted misericord. The weapon was similar to a dagger, but with a triangular cross-section and a needle-like point. It was designed for dispatching an armored opponent, as it had no edge to speak of, only a strong, slender point for driving through the joins and weak spots in a foe’s armor.
His plan formed in an instant, and Tyrion leapt forward as though ready to attack. Harold responded perfectly, whipping his sword across into a guard position, but Tyrion stumbled before getting within reach and fell to the floor. Seeing his chance, Harold stomped the ground as he moved forward, setting his stance for the deathblow as he brought his blade over and down at Tyrion’s vulnerable head and neck.
Tyrion was waiting. As Harold stomped, his foot came down on an invisible object of pure force that sent his foot sliding awkwardly to one side, causing him to lose his balance. With a thought, Tyrion used his power to draw the misericord from the knight’s belt and pulled it to his open hand. Harold’s left arm went out reflexively to catch a side table and prevent himself from falling.
At that moment, Tyrion attacked. Directing all his remaining power into strengthening his own body, he struck like a snake, driving the point up and over, straight into the knight’s armpit.
The armor Mordecai had crafted for Harold so many years ago was strong and well made, and even the vulnerable spaces, like those beneath the arms, were protected by mail. A normal point would have failed, and even the enchanted blade Tyrion held wouldn’t have succeeded, if he hadn’t driven it in with the force of a charging bull. It tore through steel links, linen padding, skin, ribs, and finally, Harold’s heart.
Harold’s sword swept inward, but Tyrion stayed close, pulling himself up against the knight’s chest. Even so, the force of Harold’s armored arm landed on his back like a hammer, nearly driving the wind from his lungs. Then the big man began to collapse. Tyrion held onto him and eased him to the ground, ignoring the pain in his back.
He stared at his defeated opponent, watching him die, and all he could feel was regret. “Damn it.”
The only reply Sir Harold could manage was a thick gurgling noise, and then he was gone.
Though it went against his every instinct, Tyrion paused for a moment. “I really liked you, Harold.”
Chapter 19
A blazing beam of brilliant light seared into Chad’s private agony, forcing him to consciousness and dragging him into the waking world. His head was pounding, and his tongue felt fuzzy and dry. Closing his mouth, he tried to moisten it, but that only made him keenly aware of the fact that he had apparently been eating shit the day before, judging by the taste.
“Fuck me if I ever drink in that dive again,” he rasped out. He’d had his doubts the night before. The ale had seemed passable, but he’d already had too many to taste properly when he got there. Now he knew for sure it had been bad. Good ale never hurt this much the next day.
Two days of heavy drinking while he explored the various pubs and taverns of Iverly, and he still had found nothing. “Investigative work is hard,” he muttered to himself as he stumbled across the room to see if there was any water left in the pitcher on the nightstand. There was, but as he lifted it to his lips he paused, then took a sniff. A vague memory of the previous night came to him, and his keen sense of smell confirmed it. I had trouble finding the chamber pot last night, he remembered.
Going to the window that had offended him, he tipped the pitcher out of it before thinking to look and see if anyone was below. That wasn’t such a big deal in some cities, but Iverly had strict laws about waste disposal, so the citizens weren’t as wary about walking beneath them, since people generally didn’t empty chamber pots out of them. He waited a moment, listening rather than revealing himself by looking out. He didn’t hear any swearing, so he assumed no one had gotten a foul bath.
He was near to dying of thirst, so he found his jacket and went downstairs quickly, admiring his own agility as he nimbly made his way down. The stairs had been a formidable opponent the night before. The common room was empty when he got there, it being too early for customers, and the innkeeper was nowhere in sight. Then the main door flew open as a woman stepped in.
Chad could tell at a glance that the woman was as angry as a wet hen, his impression being strengthened by the fact that she was indeed wet. Her hair was heavy and dripping, as though she had just poured water over herself. Oh damn, he thought, as a terrible realization sank into his still foggy brain.
She glared at him, then barked, “You! Where is the proprietor of this place?”
He stared blankly at her for a moment while his brain ran through possible answers, none of which did any good for his headache. “That would be me,” he answered finally.
Her eyes narrowed with obvious suspicion. “I am here to lodge a complaint, and you are not the proprietor. Where’s Ham?”
Ham was the name of the man who had rented him the room two days prior, and clearly the woman knew him. “He’s upstairs dealing with a problem. I’m his cousin,” corrected Chad hastily. Then, to add a dramatic touch, he studied the woman’s wet hair with concern. “You weren’t outside under the window just now, were you?”
She turned for the stairs, ignoring him, as what he knew to be urine dripped from her hair to the dusty floorboards.
“You can’t go up there right now!” Chad barked.
The woman glanced back, fixing him with dark brown eyes. “Why not?” she asked angrily.
“There’s been some violence. It’s not a scene fit for a sensible woman’s eyes,” he improvised. “He caught one of the boarders flinging something unmentionable out the window, and a fight broke out.” Moving around the main bar, he found a towel and held it out to her. “You’ll want to wipe your face.”
She didn’t respond at first, but after a second she took the proffered towel and used it to wipe her face and dry her hair and shoulders. “I hope he gave him a good beating,” she added.
“He knocked the fool unconscious,” offered Chad with a grin. “Might have broken his jaw. Mind if I ask yer name?”
“Priscilla,” she replied dourly.
His brows went up in surprise. “I have a friend by the same name,” he answered, thinking of his dragon. He hadn’t seen Prissy since his abrupt flight and escape from Albamarl after Mordecai’s rescue. Presumably, the dragon was still somewhere in the vicinity of Lothion’s capital, but it had been so long he couldn’t be sure anymore.
She grunted with obvious disinterest.
Chad needed to get her out of the inn. It was only a matter of time before Ham returned, and then his house of lies would collapse. “I’m sure Ham would want me to compensate you for your misfortune.” He reached into his purse and pulled out two silver coins. “This should be enough to pay for a bath, laundering your dress, and some extra besides.” Gently he took her elbow and began steering her toward the door. “I was just heading to the bathhouse myself.”
Priscilla’s eyes searched him, up and down, but she let him guide her. “You do reek of alcohol and sweat.”
He bit back his near automatic response; it wouldn’t be helpful. An’ you smell like piss and vinegar. He couldn’t help smirking, though, and Prisci
lla scowled at him when she saw his expression. She pulled her arm from his grasp and quickened her stride, exiting the inn ahead of him.
“You don’t need to follow me. I know the way,” she said as they stepped outside.
“I already told you I’m going to the same place,” he responded.
She kept up her brisk walk. “Don’t walk beside me. I’d rather not have people thinking I know you.”
Stuck up bitch, he thought silently. “Have it yer way.” As they walked, he studied her figure. He’d always had a weakness for watching women walk. Or breathe. Or pretty much anything, he added mentally. Priscilla looked to be a townswoman of average means, going by her modest clothing, but her stride was firm and purposeful, with just enough femininity to distract him from his normal watchfulness.
If he had to guess, he thought she might be a merchant’s wife. She was of a similar age as himself, though she showed less gray in her hair. Probably has four brats and a mangy dog waiting at home, he decided. He caught himself staring at her hips as she walked and made a conscious effort to bring his gaze back up to the back of her head, where he found himself admiring the curve of her neck. Blinking, he looked around and studied the street. It’s been too damn long.
He found himself thinking about Danae, the barmaid back at the Muddy Pig in Washbrook. He hadn’t seen her in well over a month, and he wondered how she was doing. The two of them had had a few intimate encounters in the past, but he still thought their relationship was purely casual. They were merely friends who happened to be of different genders. Friends who had let themselves get carried away by too much drink a few times.
Why did he keep thinking about her, though? I’m just worried about her, he decided. The turmoil of the events surrounding Castle Cameron could have caused all sorts of trouble in Washbrook. I hope she’s alright.
It was just normal concern, however. The huntsman was wise enough to know the difference between lust and love. She was just a friend that happened to be a little more fun than his male drinking buddies. I should have left Priscilla to keep a watch on her, instead of taking her to Albamarl, he thought. The damn dragon was certainly doing no one any good wandering around the countryside near the city.
Transcendence and Rebellion Page 15
