“Listen to me, lad.” Garavin’s voice shook him, unrelenting. “Ye can wound the thing a thousand times, but his link to this world has to be severed. He’s holding onto it desperately. As long as he’s sure it’s safe, he can kill us all at his leisure. By Dumathoin’s will, Kall.”
“Kall!” This time it was Meisha, shouting to him from the bridge. “The eye, Kall! The empty eye!” the Harper cried.
Kall swung his sword around. It seemed to have grown heavier with the weight of Garavin’s voice coursing through the blade. He flew into the demon’s path, angling to its left. The jarilith didn’t need eyes to find him, but the beast turned anyway, running alongside Kall, using the points of his spines as defensive weapons.
Kall pulled back, sucking in his gut. He didn’t trust his armor to hold, and wasn’t surprised when he heard cloth and chain rip. His cloak, caught against his flank, tore into two ragged slits.
My hands are already ruined, Kall thought, so …
Reaching out, Kall grabbed a handful of red and black mane and pulled, hoping to wrench the beast’s head around.
He might as well have tried to turn a statue’s head.
The demon jumped straight up, pulling Kall with him. His grip shaken, Kall fell onto his back on the walkway. He managed to hold onto his sword, but the weapon still vibrated painfully in his hands. Its guard wedged against the stone bridge, allowing him to see the silver light clearly. Movement reflected within it like a mirror, showing the demon as he turned and jumped again, intending to finish his prey while he was out of the air.
Bringing his arms and legs in close to his body, Kall swung the humming blade around until the demon filled the reflective surface, and all he could feel was heat, a great waterfall of it coming down on him. The blade’s edge crossed his center of vision then thrust back, deep into the demon’s empty socket.
His sword ripped out of his grasp, and the last thing Kall heard before the fire buried him was the demon’s roar, a scream that sounded almost human.
Varan screamed, clawing at the punctured eyeball. He tore it out of its socket and cast it aside. The Shadow Thief guarding him skittered back a step in revulsion.
Crying, the wizard flopped onto his back. His breath hissed erratically in and out of his lungs. Blood that was not his own ran from his ruined eye socket. After a moment, he raised his hands to wipe the moisture away—blood from one eye, tears from the other. He began to laugh, a relieved, hysterical sound that echoed through the caves and brought the other thieves running.
“What happened?” asked Geroll.
“Don’t know,” said the guard, taking another step back just to be safe. “He just started screaming, then pulled out his own eye. Crazy bastard looks almost happy about it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Howling Delve
5 Marpenoth, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)
Kall felt the weight of the demon come down and knew the battle was over. He prayed the spines would impale him and end his life quickly. If they did not—panic rose sickeningly in his throat—he would burn to death from the demon’s flesh.
A silver light filled the cavern, blinding him, but the killing weight did not follow. Kall blinked the brightness out of his eyes and strained to see. Running feet came across the bridge toward him. Dantane’s wall had come down. The wizard and Aazen were coming to him, but neither wore looks of fear or alarm. If anything, their expressions were confused.
Kall rolled onto his side, still shocked at his ability to do so. A few feet away, his sword lay on the walkway.
The jarilith was gone. There was only a small puddle of blood left on the bridge. Either the demon had fallen from the bridge, or Kall had truly severed his link to this place.
“He’s gone,” said Dantane, echoing Kall’s thoughts. He knelt beside Kall to examine his wounds. “You need healing, or you’re going to die,” he said.
Kall laughed. Pain flared in his abdomen. “No need to spare my delicate feelings. Tell me the truth.”
“Kall! Dantane!” cried Meisha from above them. “It’s Garavin!”
Garavin—his voice had cut off sometime during the flash of silver light. Kall used Dantane’s arm to haul himself to his feet. Light-headed from wounds and the terror gripping his heart, he flew unsteadily to the upper bridge. Dantane flew beside him.
Out of the corner of his vision, Kall saw Aazen looking past them, up to the double doors Kall and Garavin had come through. Green portal light spilled out through the doorway. Aazen motioned to his man on the opposite bridge.
Let them go, Kall thought. Dantane was right. He wasn’t in any condition to fight.
He crested the stone lip, and all thoughts of Aazen deserted him.
Garavin lay prone on the bridge. Meisha and Talal crouched beside him. The dwarf clutched his holy symbol in his hand, his eyes fixed and staring at nothing.
Kall bent, trying to pry the symbol loose, but stopped when he felt the latent heat. “What happened?” he demanded.
“It was the ghost,” said Talal. “The one from the room, where we found Braedrin’s body. Meisha’s messenger. I saw it touch him. I don’t think he’s breathin’ at all.”
“Garavin,” Kall said, taking his friend by the shoulders. There were no visible wounds on the dwarf’s body. “Wake up. Wherever you are, we need you back here.” He held his maimed hands in front of the dwarf’s vacant eyes. “Look at this. See what a wreck I make of myself when you’re not here?” His voice cracked. “By the gods, you’d better not be dead.” He leaned close and spoke in the dwarf’s ear. “There are too many ghosts down here already, old friend. Please.”
Kall thought he heard a shallow push of air fill his friend’s chest. Garavin’s bloodshot eyes slid closed, then opened again, and something of a presence returned. Kall breathed a quiet prayer of thanks. “Can you hear me, old friend?” he asked.
“He’s gone,” said the dwarf, looking beyond Kall to something unseen. His voice held a sadness Kall had never heard before.
“Who’s gone?” Kall asked quietly.
“Dumathoin,” replied the dwarf. Beside him, Meisha drew a startled breath, but Garavin’s attention was on Kall. “He’s gone, and so are the Howlings. Their penance is done.”
“Is it safe to go now?”
Garavin nodded. “Best to leave it all to the dust, lad.” This time he did look at Meisha. “And take the warning to other secret keepers. This Shanatar doesn’t exist.”
The Harper nodded, and Kall stood up. Garavin touched his hands and stomach and began a healing prayer.
“As soon as we can move, we’re getting out of here,” Kall said, feeling the pain of his wounds diminish. When Garavin would have tended other hurts, he gently pushed the dwarf away. “I’m all right, old friend. Save your strength.”
“To what fate are we escaping?” spoke up Dantane. When Kall turned, he pointed to the double doors. “Your friend is gone through the portal.”
“Could be an ambush waiting for us up top,” said Morgan. He sounded as if he did not care either way.
“Or the portal malfunctioned again, and they could be sitting anywhere in the Delve,” said Kall. He thought of Cesira, back at the estate. “We don’t have any other way out.”
While the others gathered themselves, Kall went to Morgan, but the thief remained subdued. He would not meet Kall’s eyes.
Kall tried to speak, to confirm what he hadn’t been able to acknowledge when Morgan had run onto the bridge without Laerin, when he’d seen the fresh blood on the demon’s claws.
“Is there …” Kall cleared his throat and tried again. “Is there a body?” Morgan paled, but it was Talal who answered.
“There’s nothing you’d recognize,” he said, shuddering at a memory he could never be rid of. “Your friend’s gone.”
Kall nodded, but inwardly, the rage was so profound he thought he might burn from it. Was this what it was like for Meisha, he wondered, to be filled with fire and anger so
consuming it swallowed his thoughts? To think that his friend, who loved the light, the road, the open air—that this should be his tomb.…
“Kall.”
Kall blinked. For a breath, he’d thought it was Cesira’s voice—impatient, always commanding, but with an underlying softness she tried to hide. He looked up, but it was Meisha who addressed him.
“There might be another way out,” the Harper said. “The Climb. It should lead all the way to the portal room.”
Kall met her eyes and saw the reluctance there. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“We might all die in the attempt.”
“Of course.” Kall looked around the group and received answering nods of assent. They were with him. “Let’s go,” he said. Cesira’s face was still bright in his mind.
I’m coming.
Marguin slid around the corner, using a mirror the size of her thumb to see that the way was clear. Elsis came behind her with an arrow nestled in the curve of a fully drawn bow.
“We know you’re here, Lady,” Elsis sang out mockingly. He tipped a silver candelabra off a side table onto the floor. Flames licked at the expensive woven rugs, sending up charred fumes. “The longer you hide, the more painful it will be when we catch you.”
Movement from one of the doorways caught his eye. Elsis trained his bow on the spot, but it was only Marguin’s reflection in a mirror on the opposite wall.
The house was too damn quiet. There were so many rooms that connected to other rooms without spilling back into the main hallways. The bitch could be leading them around the house, and they’d never know it.
Catch this, breathed a voice at his ear.
Elsis swept the bow in an arc and released. The arrow did not have far to travel. Less than two feet away, it splintered through Marguin’s armor near the base of her spine. The woman made a small, pitiful cry and dropped in front of him. Elsis fumbled another arrow from his quiver and nocked it, but he did not hear the voice again. He was alone in the hallway with Marguin’s body curled at his feet.
Cesira watched the man with the bow scour the hallway. She didn’t have enough spells to run him out of arrows, but she was more than willing to disquiet his search. Murmuring a word, she cast the ghostly whisper again. This time, his arrow shattered a mirror.
Crouching low, Cesira crept back to the servants’ stair. Two down—more if any from the downstairs trap were still incapacitated. Still too many, she thought, plenty enough to box her in, and there was no sign of Balram. He must still be in the main hall. He wasn’t going to make it easy by coming for her himself. Going to him would be beyond foolish.
Cesira tried to recall how many weapons and traps remained. Not enough to take out all of them at once, but if she could get a clear path to the garden—yes, it might work. Or she might die carrying out her plan.
“You were right,” she said, holding Kall’s emerald to her breast. “I’m an arrogant, stubborn fool.” She’d underestimated Balram and the Shadow Thieves, and now she was hopelessly outnumbered. “Time to even the odds.”
Aazen came through the portal, appearing on the rocky rim of the cavern floor before a circle of drawn weapons. The thieves saw Tarthet’s body clutched in Aazen’s arms but did not lower their steel. If anything, suspicion grew in their eyes.
“Where is Morel?” The man who addressed him was Geroll, one of Daen’s men.
“Food for a demon, when I left him,” Aazen lied. He settled the dead man on the floor and drew Morgan’s dagger from his back. He’d picked it up on the bridge just before they’d entered the portal room. Tarthet might have corroborated his story. Aazen would never know. “Does the wizard live?” he asked.
“If you can call it that.” Geroll nudged the unconscious Varan with his leg. The wizard did not stir. “He’s been like that ever since he lost his eye.”
“His eye?” Aazen echoed, then he saw Varan’s empty socket. So that was the link. “Perhaps it’s best. Now we can safely remove him from the Delve.”
Geroll nodded carefully. “Call the others back,” he said to the man nearest him. “We have what we came for.” He looked at Aazen, clearly reluctant to relinquish the authority he’d thought would be assured by Aazen’s treachery. But he had no proof, and to accuse Balram’s son without it would mean his death. “Balram will be expecting your report,” he said finally.
“Of course.” Before Aazen could issue an order, the portal in the shaft above his head flared green, and Tershus dropped through, wounded but alive. The halfling saw Aazen and ran right up to him, ignoring Daen’s men completely.
“You’d better come,” he said breathlessly. “It’s your father.”
Aazen stiffened. “What about my father?”
“He took a group of men to Morel house. They haven’t returned, and there’ve been reports of fire in that section of the city.”
Aazen grabbed Tershus by the arm, digging in until the small man yelped. “Bring the wizard,” he said.
“What about the portals?” demanded Geroll. “We can’t leave them open.”
“My men and I were separated,” said Aazen. “If you wish to eliminate any hope of them returning alive, by all means, close the gates. I’ll be happy to explain your decision, and the manpower lost, to Daen.”
He didn’t wait for the man to formulate a reply. He shook the halfling in his grip. “Bring the wizard,” he repeated. “Now.”
Tershus pulled away, his eyes wide at the alteration in Aazen’s demeanor. But for Aazen, the feelings that coursed through him were familiar, shameful, and completely unsurprising to him.
His father was in danger. His father—who’d sent these Shadow Thieves to kill him—needed his son. And Aazen ran to answer that need, as he had always done, as he would always do, for as long as Balram was alive.
Cesira knelt on the floor by the stairway, preparing to change form, when the bolt struck her. Her leg gave out, and she sprawled. Twisting, she pressed her back to the meager protection of the pillar at the landing.
Below her, Balram lowered his crossbow, a weapon he hadn’t been carrying when he’d entered the house. “You are far more fetching in that shape than any other, my dear,” he called up to her. “And you are not the only person outside the Morel family who knows where the master of the house kept his toys. Come down, and perhaps I’ll show you a few Kall doesn’t know about.”
A generous offer, my lord, Cesira replied. She bit her lip against the pain in her leg. But I’m afraid I must decline. Shadows stirred in the upper hallway, and Cesira heard footsteps coming, running toward their voices.
She risked a glance down to the hall. She couldn’t see Balram, but there was, as she’d hoped, an unobstructed path to the garden. The question remained, how many crossbow bolts would she take getting there?
Elsis’s shout from the hallway decided her. She could not outrun arrows and bolts.
Elsis came around the corner, his eyes widening in surprise when he saw her just sitting, exposed, at the top of the stairs. Cesira grabbed a knife from her belt and threw it, forcing him to duck back around the corner.
Standing unsteadily, she found her balance and flipped forward over the stair rail, hanging from her fingers. She swung out feet first and let go, landing in a painful crouch on the first floor. Her eyes tracked the room for Balram—corner pillar; there you are.
She jumped before she heard the twang of the crossbow. Her feet left the floor at the same time her hands came down. She pushed off, into a forward roll, and the bolt struck wood somewhere above her head. Free in that breath, she sprang up and ran, ran as she used to run with the mist stags in the deepest parts of Mir. Her leg was on fire, but she ignored the pain.
She hit the doors to the garden, flung them open, and the third bolt slammed into her back, driving her forward. She felt the tip scrape a rib and resisted the urge to scream. She would not give Balram, a man who reveled in pain, the satisfaction of seeing hers.
Cesira stumbled into the garden, breathing
night air and taking in her first—and possibly last—glimpse of the cloudy sky since her vigil on the tower. She ran through the garden’s heart, calling silently as she went. In her mind, she screamed their names with her true voice, a voice only the wild beasts could hear.
Sparks flew as an arrow skittered off the stone fountain. Distracted, Cesira tripped and fell to the walkway, striking her head against the ground. To the side, she saw Elsis and another man with a lantern step into the garden alongside Balram.
“So many memories from Esmeltaran,” Balram remarked idly. He reloaded his weapon as he approached. “An empty garden, a dry fountain, and finally an end to the Morel family.”
He stepped onto the walkway. “What form would you care to die in, my lady?” he inquired politely. He raised the crossbow. “The woman … the beast?” His lips curved. “Or are they all the same?”
All, my lord, the druid gasped as a rush of wind filled the garden. We are all bitches with sharp claws.
Balram felt the wind and looked up in time to see the birds—Morel’s hunting raptors—descend on the garden. Balram snapped his crossbow up, aiming for Cesira’s heart, but the flock absorbed the bolt. The night filled with wings, talons, and the high, shrill cries of incensed animals.
Balram took a step forward, but the swarm only increased the closer he got to the druid. A sharp pain burst from his ear, ripping up into his head. He touched the side of his face and found the earlobe gone. Blood dripped down his neck.
“Back inside!” Elsis cried. “Get back!”
“No, damn you!” Balram grabbed the lantern from the other man’s hand. He waved it in the air, batting aside the large bodies. The lantern broke, sending birds up into the sky aflame. Balram threw up his other arm to protect his eyes, but he felt scratches and bites all over his body.
Through the violence, he saw Cesira—once helpless at his feet—now with her eyes changing shape and color. Her arms joined the mass of wings, and for a bizarre breath she was a hybrid of woman and bird. Balram swung the lantern again, charging forward, but she was already gone, transformed and carried away by the flock.
Howling Delve Page 28
