by Brandon Mull
On the other side of the room, not far from the entrance, many of the remaining soldiers were pressing toward Galloran and Dorsio. Galloran fought with the same skill and exuberance as when he had first entered the room, but Dorsio had an arrow in his back and a gruesome wound in his side. As he stood between Galloran and two enemies, Rachel watched a sword skewer the silent bodyguard.
Fury flooded through her, and with a shouted command, a nearby table flipped sideways and rammed the two assailants into the wall. With a fresh Edomic command she set the entire table aflame and then sent it hurtling across the room, crashing against soldiers like a demonic bulldozer.
Rachel felt a thrill as the ambitious commands worked, but the exertion left her feeling like she had sprinted a mile uphill. She fell to one knee and tried to stay conscious.
The flaming table had helped break the soldiers. Drake had joined the fight now, and Tark, Farfalee, Jason, Io, and Aram seized weapons from fallen enemies as soon as Nedwin cut them free. The soldiers were no longer trying to win. They were trying to escape.
Rachel crouched behind an overturned table, trying to get her breath back, trying to stop the room from spinning, hoping that some scurrying soldier wouldn’t stumble across her in this weakened state. She smelled burning wood. She was unsure how much time had passed when Nedwin helped her to her feet, the wound on his forehead bound with her former gag. She began to cough. Smoke billowed everywhere. The inn was on fire. Nedwin hurriedly escorted her to the road. Most of the others were already outside.
Drake and Ferrin exited the inn, their swords to the backs of Conrad and Torvic. A few other soldiers, who had apparently surrendered, knelt in the street, minded by Tark, Jasher, and Farfalee. Rachel overheard Drake telling Nedwin that he had found Ferrin in the storeroom, restraining Conrad with his arms and Torvic with his legs. Ferrin explained that he had quietly unbound himself inside the sack and then attacked his interviewers when he heard the commotion. Drake took Kerick’s seed from Conrad.
Galloran strode out of the inn, cradling Dorsio in his arms. He laid the lifeless body gently on the street. It was still morning. Flames leaped from several of the upper windows of the inn. Smoke leaked into the otherwise clear sky.
Galloran came to stand before the new prisoners, regarding them stormily. Rachel realized that the mismatched eyes had been a deliberate insult. The glaring discrepancy emphasized that his vision had been restored by displacers. “Do you surrender to us?” Galloran asked.
The prisoners responded in the affirmative. Except for Conrad.
“I will not surrender,” Conrad said stiffly. “I was disgracefully withheld from combat. It was my right to face my adversaries. I must have satisfaction.”
“Let me,” Drake said.
“Galloran,” Conrad demanded. “I challenge Galloran to a duel.”
“Swords?” Galloran asked.
“Naturally.”
“Now?”
“Immediately,” Conrad responded.
“Very well,” Galloran said.
“No!” Farfalee protested.
“He’s not a duke anymore,” Jason complained.
“He has a reputation with a sword,” Ferrin warned.
“Let me have him,” Jasher begged.
“He accepted,” Conrad insisted.
“I did,” Galloran said. “Arm him.”
“I have his sword,” Ferrin said. Galloran nodded, and Ferrin reluctantly handed the weapon to Conrad.
“If I best you, I go free,” Conrad stipulated.
“Agreed,” Galloran said. “You lost a duel to Lord Jason. He left you with your life. I will show no such kindness.”
“I have won eleven mortal duels,” Conrad said. “The one I lost was a farce fought with billiard balls. I have heard tales of your prowess with a blade. In my experience, most tales grow with the telling.”
Rachel overheard Jason murmuring to Jasher. “Conrad hasn’t seen him fight.”
Galloran backed away into the street, and Conrad stepped toward him. Galloran drew his sword.
“A remarkable blade,” Conrad conceded.
“Begin?” Galloran asked.
“Begin.” Conrad edged forward, sword ready.
Their blades touched twice before Conrad was impaled. Galloran withdrew his sword and wiped it clean while Conrad expired in the road, a stain spreading across his white uniform. Rachel could not suppress a quick, involuntary laugh of relief. She heard beams collapsing inside the inn. Sparks gusted from some of the windows.
Then Galloran became very still. He slowly turned to look down the road. Rachel felt no premonition of her own, but the expression on Galloran’s face gave her chills. She followed his gaze. A figure was approaching, still a long distance away. A black silhouette bearing a shining sword in each hand. A living shadow defying the morning light. A torivor.
“This adversary has come for me,” Galloran said, his voice heavy and resigned. “I believe it followed me from Felrook. I did not know it had brought swords. Keep back. Unless you attack, it can only claim one victim like this. If I fall, proceed to the Temple of Mianamon with haste.”
They watched in silence as the torivor drew near. It did not hurry. The swords it carried matched Galloran’s perfectly, superbly crafted, chromium bright.
“We do not have to cross swords!” Galloran called throatily. “I have no quarrel with your kind. Depart in peace.”
The lurker showed no indication of having heard. The steady tread did not falter until the creature stopped ten paces from Galloran. The torivor tossed one of the swords. Galloran caught it by the hilt. He now held an identical sword in each hand.
“Very well,” Galloran said, perhaps answering words the others could not hear. Rachel could vaguely sense communication. She strained her mind to understand, but could catch nothing. She fingered the necklace the charm woman had given her, realizing that it must be causing interference.
Galloran waited placidly. The lurker stood still as well. Until it rushed forward with otherworldly speed and its sword scythed outward in a hissing arc. Galloran narrowly blocked the attack, and the next stroke, and the next.
The blades did not clash or clang as they connected—they chimed musically, beautifully, like a battle fought with expensive tuning forks. Rachel could almost feel the vibrations.
It did not take Rachel long to see that Galloran would lose this fight. The torivor was clearly quicker and stronger. Only by moving with flawless economy was Galloran able to deflect the relentless blows. Rachel suddenly understood where Galloran had learned to fight so efficiently. It was the only way he could have previously survived combat with an opponent such as this.
Rachel held her breath. Any moment Galloran would make a tiny mistake and lose his life. Even with two swords—one used primarily to protect himself, the other to attack—he was only barely staying ahead of the lurker. No thrust or slash from Galloran came close to touching the tenebrous surface of the torivor. The only question seemed to be how long Galloran would last.
The blades flashed in the sunlight. Heat radiated from the burning inn. Galloran slowly retreated, his breathing becoming labored. Any moment the torivor’s sword would slip past his defenses. Except it didn’t.
Rachel had never envisioned such virtuosity with a weapon. It was like watching a concert pianist play an impossible piece of music, fingers flying to strike mind-boggling patterns of notes and to pound sprawling chords. No, it was more than that. It was like watching that pianist play an impossible piece with dynamite strapped to his back, rigged to detonate if he touched a wrong note.
The frantic blur of motion was almost too quick to follow. Before Rachel could feel nervous about any particular blow, it had been blocked, a counterstroke had been parried, and the blades chimed on.
Galloran was no longer giving ground. The combatants slowly circled each other, swords ringing relentlessly. Galloran looked determined, his eyes fierce with concentration. The lurker fell into a pattern of swinging
high, forcing Galloran to defend his head, then lashing out with a shadowy leg to kick Galloran in the side.
A blade blurred down and took the black leg off just below the knee. The severed portion disappeared with a brilliant flash. Whiteness gleamed from the stump, as if the torivor were bleeding light. The fight continued, with the torivor clearly wavering. A moment later, Galloran cast aside one of his swords.
Single sword against single sword, the blades met over and over. Perfectly balanced on its remaining leg, the torivor was now defending as often as attacking. Galloran’s face was red and perspiring. They seemed to be standing too close together. And then Galloran’s blade sliced through the torivor’s midsection, and the creature vanished with a blinding flash.
As Rachel blinked away the dazzling afterimage, she saw Galloran stagger back and drop to his knees. He bowed his head forward, hands on his thighs. Had he been wounded at the end? Had she missed it?
Nedwin hurried forward and helped Galloran to his feet.
“I’m not as young as I once was,” Galloran muttered, wiping a sleeve against his glossy forehead. “I am thankful that the fiend grew impatient and tried that kick.”
“That was unbelievable,” Ferrin mumbled humbly to no one in particular. “I’ve never … if I hadn’t seen …”
“I’ve lived a long time,” Jasher told him. “Nobody handles a sword like Galloran.”
“You mean to defy me,” Torvic said flatly, the comment unsolicited. The words did not belong to Torvic. Everyone looked his way. The displacer sat with his legs crossed, staring blandly.
Galloran faced Torvic, still panting. He was uninjured, but clearly exhausted. “You offered the eyes long ago. I finally came to claim them. I pledged no fealty.”
“After all the futile suffering, after all the fruitless effort, after the countless disgraced followers, you persist in returning to your folly. I can see through those eyes, Galloran. You are mine. I will watch your every move.”
“Then you will watch me dismantle your empire piece by piece,” Galloran said. “When you see anything, it will be the cowardly criminals you employ perishing by my blade. Come for me if you can. I will be waiting.”
And with that he replaced the blindfold.
CHAPTER 27
THE ORACLE
As a furry snake, longer than a shower rod, rippled across his path, Jason decided that he liked the jungle even less than the Sunken Lands. The tropical chaos of ferns, fronds, vines, and towering trees was much hotter than the swamp and just as poisonous, and the journey was taking much longer.
They followed the remnants of an ancient stone road that survived mostly as a jumbled mess overgrown with shrubs and creeping plants. For much of the way, the broken paving stones seemed more likely to turn an ankle than to provide solid footing. But the vanishing roadway still provided access through dense portions of steaming jungle that appeared otherwise impenetrable. And according to Galloran, the archaic thoroughfare led directly to the Temple of Mianamon.
Galloran had not removed his blindfold since the battle at the Last Inn. He shuffled forward with one hand on Corinne’s shoulder, the other using a walking stick to tap the ground ahead. Drake had tried to convince him to abandon the blindfold during the journey, stressing that Maldor must have already assumed where they were headed, and that views of the surrounding vegetation would reveal little if anything. But Galloran had maintained that he wanted his enemies to see as little as possible, whether or not the view was considered consequential.
Nedwin led the way, using a bright torivorian sword as a machete to hack through the worst of the verdure. He had commented several times about how the edge never seemed to dull no matter how many obstacles he slashed. Galloran had lent the other captured sword to Jasher.
Jason had spent time in conversation with Jasher as they walked the jungle road. Jasher had been reborn in time to witness Lodan’s First Death, and then had tracked Galloran and the diplomats from the Seven Vales to Felrook. The Amar Kabal had reached a peaceful settlement with the emperor, and Galloran had claimed the eyes that Maldor had offered years before. Following the grafting, the emperor had let him depart with no argument.
Once Galloran and Dorsio left Felrook, Jasher had joined them and traveled southeast until meeting Nedwin in the wilderness near the Last Inn. Apparently, Nedwin had heard a disturbance in the hall and slipped out the window with his bedding an instant before the soldiers had entered his room. He had stealthily made his way across the rooftops in order to sneak away and go for help.
Jasher looked younger, but his mannerisms were the same as ever. Jason felt grateful to be back in the company of the first seedman he had met in Lyrian, but he could tell he was not nearly as grateful as Farfalee.
Murky clouds had threatened overhead all morning. From off to one side of the road came the familiar patter of raindrops on leaves. A moment later, rain came bucketing down, soaking Jason’s hair in seconds.
Downpours tended to come and go quickly in the jungle, but the wetness inevitably lingered. The air was too humid for clothes to really dry, so Jason generally ranged between drenched and damp. He felt certain they would all end up reeking of mold before the tropical trek was complete.
He saw a parrot with feathers like flower petals roosting on a nearby limb, head tucked to hide from the deluge. Thanks to his interest in animals, the staggering variety of wildlife in the jungle had been one of Jason’s compensations for the heat and the danger. Bright frogs, exotic birds, vivid lizards, vibrant insects, and numberless serpents contributed to the local fauna. Nedwin had pointed out a constrictor longer than a school bus, slithering among high limbs in a sinuous series of loops and curves.
Jason’s favorites were the monkeys. The diversity seemed limitless—short black hair; long golden hair; striped hair; tiny round ears; huge pointed ears; two arms; four arms; slender tails; bushy tails; stubby tails; colorful ridges; spurs on the ankles or wrists to aid in climbing—all ranging from the size of squirrels to the size of toddlers.
The plants exhibited comparable variety. Broad fanlike leaves; limp streamers; ferny fronds; corkscrewing tendrils; slim, pointed greenery; clusters of minute leaflets; and seemingly every other conceivable manner of foliage decorated the shrubs and trees. Jason had never pictured flowers of such striking hues—metallic, fluorescent, iridescent. Nor had he imagined such an assortment of carnivorous flora—grasping vines, clutching leaves, sucking tubes, stalks affixed to mouthlike pods, stinging bowls of sweet nectar, and sticky mats that folded around unsuspecting prey.
The pelting rain persisted until puddles had formed at frequent intervals along the ancient road. By the time the rain relented, the delegation had been thoroughly soaked. Even with all the wetness, Jason didn’t feel chilled. Nor did he feel refreshed. The air was too hot and sticky to feel much besides uncomfortable.
Galloran slipped and splashed to his knees in a brown puddle. He did not arise any wetter, but he was certainly muddier. His face remained composed, but Jason noticed one hand clenched into a fist, veins standing out on the back.
“You could take off the blindfold, Father,” Corinne said.
“It is better this way,” Galloran replied in his raspy voice. “My borrowed sight comes at a price. I must never rely too much on these eyes. They are a last resort.”
Jason felt a sting on his neck, like the bite of an insect. The tropical bugs had not bothered them so far, thanks to a lotion Nedwin had devised. Slapping the sting, Jason found a small dart, little more than a feathered needle.
Soft hisses came from the surrounding foliage. “Blowguns!” Nedwin called. “We’re under attack.”
Galloran tore the blindfold from his eyes and drew his sword. The others sprang into action as well. Nedwin and Ferrin raced to one side of the path, pushing through tall stalks of reddish wood similar to bamboo. Drake, Jasher, Tark, and Aram ran the other way, slashing foliage when necessary. Farfalee set an arrow to the string of her bow, as did Nollin. Io, Ni
a, Corinne, Rachel, and Jason all drew weapons, positioned near Galloran on the road.
As part of the group plunged into the jungle and the others scanned high and low, there came no more whispers of blowguns. Nor was there any sight or sound of enemies fleeing. After passing out of view for a few minutes, all of the delegation besides Nedwin returned to the road.
“They moved like ghosts,” Ferrin said. “Nedwin kept after them.”
The group remained alert as more time passed. No further attacks came, and eventually Nedwin returned. “I glimpsed green figures, apparently clad in ivy. They were too swift. Few can outmaneuver me across difficult terrain, but these folk were my superiors. They fled through the trees like monkeys and across the ground like wildcats. I was fortunate to catch sight of them from a distance. I had no hope of reaching them. I was hit by three darts but can perceive no effects.”
“A dart pricked me on the hand,” Galloran said.
Jason, Corinne, Tark, Io, and Drake had all been hit on their skin. Several of the others had little darts sticking to their clothes. Nobody was feeling adverse reactions.
“What were the darts for?” Jason asked.
Galloran inspected the tiny pinprick on his hand, sniffing it and tapping it. “When last I visited Mianamon, I heard tales of treefolk who dwelled deep in the jungle. I never saw them, nor heard of any this far north. But times change.”
“One of the races of Certius?” Ferrin asked.
“Most likely,” Galloran agreed.
“Would they have used a slow-acting venom?” Ferrin asked.
“I sense no irritation,” Galloran said, perplexed, flexing his hand. “None at all. Why risk drawing near and firing darts? We’ll have to watch these injuries.”
Two days later, the first short tufts of moss appeared around the spots where the darts had pierced skin. The dense green growth looked as though it could be carelessly plucked away, but was actually anchored deeper in the flesh than a first glance could discern. A sharp knife could scrape away some of the moss, but it became apparent that a deep incision would be required to root it out. Of all who had been hit, only Io remained unaffected.
