The Black Road

by Mel Odom

  “My apologies, master,” Nullat whimpered, jerking the torch away. He moved it so fast that the speed almost smothered the flames. A pool of glistening oil burned on the stone floor where the torch had lain.

  Cholik would have berated the man further, but a sudden weakness slammed into him. He tottered on his feet, barely able to stand. He closed his eyes to shut out the vertigo that assailed him. The spell, so soon after the one he’d used against Raithen and so much stronger, had left him depleted.

  “Master,” Nullat called out.

  “Shut up,” Cholik ordered. The hoarseness of his voice surprised even him. His stomach rolled at the rancid smell of burning flesh that had filled the chamber.

  “Of course, master.”

  Forcing himself to take a breath, Cholik concentrated on his center. His hands shook and ached as if he’d broken every one of his fingers. The power that he was able to channel was becoming too much for his body. How is it that the Light can make man, then permit him to wield powerful auguries, only to strip him of the mortal flesh that binds him to this world? It was that question that had begun turning him from the teachings of the Zakarum Church almost twenty years ago. Since that time, he had turned his pursuits to demons. They, at least, gave immortality of a sort with the power they offered. The struggle was to stay alive after receiving it.

  When the weakness had abated to a degree, Cholik opened his eyes.

  Nullat hunkered down beside him.

  An attempt to make himself a smaller target if there are any vengeful rats left, Cholik felt certain. The priest gazed around the chamber.

  The magical fire had swept the underground chamber. Smoking and blackened bodies of rats littered the debris piles. Burned flesh had sloughed from bone and left a horrid stink. Only a few slight chitterings of survivors sounded, and none of them seemed inclined to come out of hiding.

  “Get up, Nullat,” Cholik ordered.

  “Yes, master. I was only there to catch you if you should fall.”

  “I will not fall.”

  Glancing to the side of the trail as they went on, Cholik gazed down into the abyss to his left. Careful exploration had not proven there was a bottom to it, but it lay far below. The excavators used it as a pit for the bodies of dead slaves and other corpses and the debris they had to haul out of the recovered areas.

  Despite the fact that he hadn’t been down in the warrens beneath Tauruk’s Port in weeks, Cholik had maintained knowledge of the twisting and turning tunnels that had been excavated. Every day, he scoured through all manner of things the crews brought to the surface. He took care in noting the more important and curious pieces in journals that he kept. Back in Westmarch, the information he’d recorded on the dig site alone would be worth thousands in gold. If money would have replaced the life and power he was losing by degrees, he’d have taken it. But money didn’t do those things; only the acquisition of magic did that.

  And only demons gave so generously of that power.

  The trail they followed kept descending, dipping down deep into the mountainside till Cholik believed they might even be beneath the level of the Dyre River. The constant chill of the underground area and the condensation on the stone walls further lent to that assumption.

  Only a few moments later, after branching off into the newest group of tunnels that had been made through Ransim’s remains, Cholik spotted the intense glare created by the torches and campfires the excavation team had established. The team had divided into shifts, breaking into groups. Each group toiled sixteen hours, with an eight-hour overlap scheduled for clearing out the debris that had been dug out of the latest access tunnels. They slept eight hours a day because Cholik found that they couldn’t be worked any more than sixteen hours without some rest and sleep and still stay healthy for any appreciable length of time.

  The mortality rate had been dimmed by such action and the protective wards Cholik had set up to keep the rats and undead at bay, but it had not been eradicated. Men died as they worked there, and Cholik’s only lament was that it took Captain Raithen so long to find replacements.

  Cholik passed through the main support chamber where the men slept. He followed Nullat’s lead into one of the new tunnels, skirting the piles of debris that fronted the entrance and the first third of the tunnel. The old priest passed the confusion with scant notice, his eyes drawn to the massive gray and green door that ended the tunnel.

  Men worked on the edges of the massive door, standing on ladders to reach the top at least twenty feet tall. Hammers and chisels banged against the rock, and the sound echoed in the tunnel and the chamber beyond. Other men shoveled refuse into wheelbarrows and trundled them to the dumpsites at the front of the tunnel.

  The torchlight flickered over the massive door, and it inscribed the symbol raised there for all to see. The symbol consisted of six elliptical rings, one spaced inside another, with a twisting line threading through them in yet another pattern. Sometimes the twisting line went under the elliptical rings, and sometimes it went over.

  Staring at the door, Cholik whispered, “Kabraxis, Banisher of the Light.”

  “Get him! Get him! He’s up here with us!” Orphik screamed.

  Glancing up, not wanting to leap into the path of the little man’s knives as he came at him on the cliff ledge, Darrick watched the pirate start for him. The hobnailed boots scratched sparks from the granite ledge.

  “Bloody bastard nearly did for me, Lon,” Orphik crowed as he made his knives dance before him. “You stay back, and I’ll slit him between wind and water. Just you watch.”

  Darrick had only enough time to push himself up on his hands. His left palm, coated in blood from his sliced finger, slipped a little and came close to going out from under him. But his fingers curled around a jutting rocky shelf, and he hurled himself to his feet.

  Orphik swung his weapons in a double slash, right hand over left, scissoring the air only inches from Darrick’s eyes. He took another step back as the wiry little pirate tried to get him again with backhanded swings. Unwilling to go backward farther, knowing that a misstep along the narrow ledge would prove fatal, Darrick ducked below the next attack and stepped forward.

  As he passed the pirate, Darrick drew the long knife from his left boot, feeling it slide through his bloody fingers for just a moment. Then he curled his hand around the weapon as Orphik tried to spin to face him. Without mercy, knowing he’d already been offered no quarter, Darrick slashed at the man’s boot. The leather parted like butter at the knife’s keen kiss, and the blade cut through the pirate’s hamstring.

  Losing control over his crippled foot, Orphik weaved off-balance. He cursed and cried for help, struggling to keep the long knives before him in defense.

  Darrick lunged to his feet, slapping away Orphik’s wrists and planting a shoulder in the smaller man’s midsection. Caught by Darrick’s upward momentum and greater weight, Orphik left his feet, looking as if he’d jumped up from the ledge. The pirate also went out over the dizzying fall to the river below, squalling the whole way and flailing his arms. He missed Mat and the other sailors by scant inches, and only then because they’d all seen what had happened and had flattened themselves against the cliff wall.

  Dropping to his knees and grabbing for the wall behind him, clutching the thick root from the tree on the next level of the cliffs that he spotted from the corner of his eye, Darrick only just prevented his own plunge over the cliff’s side. He gazed down, hypnotized by the suddenness of the event.

  Orphik missed the river’s depths, though. The little pirate plunged headfirst into the shallows and struck the rocky bottom. The sickening crunch of his skull bursting echoed up the cliff.

  “Darrick!” Mat called up.

  Realizing the precariousness of his position, Darrick turned toward the other pirate, thinking the man might already be on top of him. Instead, Lon had headed away, back up the ledge that led to the passable areas on the mountains. He covered ground in long-legged strides that slammed a
nd echoed against the stone.

  “He’s makin’ for the signal fire,” Mat warned. “If he gets to it, those pirates will be all over us. The life of the king’s nephew will be forfeit. Maybe our own as well.”

  Cursing, Darrick shoved himself up. He started to run, then remembered the rope tied around his loins. Thrusting his knife between his teeth, he untied the knots with his nimble fingers. He spun and threw the rope around the tree root with a trained sailor’s skill and calm in the face of a sudden squall, gazing up the rocky ledge after the running pirate. How far away is the signal fire?

  When he had the rope secure, giving Lon only three more strides on his lead, Darrick yanked on the rope, testing it. Satisfied, he called down, “Rope’s belayed,” then hurled himself after the fleeing pirate.

  “Get up and get dressed,” Captain Raithen ordered without looking at the woman who lay beside him.

  Not saying a word, having learned from past mistakes that she wasn’t supposed to talk, the woman got up naked from the bed and crossed the room to the clothing she’d left on a chest.

  Although he felt nothing for the woman, in fact even despised her for revealing to him again the weakness he had in controlling his own lusts, Raithen watched her as she dressed. He was covered in sweat, his and hers, because the room was kept too hot from the roaring blaze in the fireplace. Only a few habitable houses and buildings remained in Tauruk’s Port. This inn was one of those. The pirates had moved into it, storing food and gear and the merchandise they’d taken from the ships they’d sunk.

  The woman was young, and even the hard living among the pirates hadn’t done much to destroy the slender lines and smooth muscles of her body. Half-healed cuts showed across the backs of her thighs, lingering evidence of the last time Raithen had disciplined her with a horsewhip.

  Even now, as she dressed with methodical deliberation, she used her body to show him the control she still felt she had over him. He hungered for her even though he didn’t care about her, and she knew it.

  Her actions frustrated Raithen. Yet he hadn’t had her killed out of hand. Nor had he allowed the other pirates to have at her, keeping her instead for his own private needs. If she were dead, none of the other women they’d taken from ships they raided would satisfy him.

  “Do you think you’re still so proud in spirit, woman?” Raithen demanded.

  “No.”

  “You trying to rub my nose in something here, then?”

  “No.” Her answer remained calm and quiet.

  Her visible lack of emotion pushed at the boundaries of the tentative control Raithen had over his anger. His bruised neck still filled his head with blinding pain, and the humiliation he’d received at Cholik’s hands wouldn’t leave him.

  He thought again of the way the old priest had suspended him over the long drop from the rooms he kept in the city ruins, proving that he wasn’t the old, doddering fool Raithen had believed him to be. The pirate captain reached for the long-necked bottle of wine on the small stand by the bed. Gold and silver weren’t the only things he and his crew had taken from the ships they’d raided.

  Taking the cork from the bottle, Raithen took a long pull of the dark red wine inside. It burned the back of his throat and damn near made him choke, but he kept it down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced at the woman.

  She stood in a simple shift by the trunk, no shoes on her feet. After the beating he’d given her the first time, she wouldn’t dream of leaving without his permission. Nor would she ask for it.

  Raithen put the cork back into the wine bottle. “I’ve never asked you your name, woman.”

  Her chin came up a little at that, and for a moment her eyes darted to his, then flicked away. “Do you want to know my name?”

  Raithen grinned. “If I want you to have a name, I’ll give you one.”

  Cheeks flaming in sudden anger and embarrassment, the woman almost lost control. She forced herself to swallow. The pulse at the hollow of her throat thundered.

  Grabbing the blanket that covered him, Raithen wiped his face and pushed himself from the bed. He’d hoped to drink enough to sleep, but that hadn’t happened.

  “Were you an important person in Westmarch, woman?” Raithen pulled his breeches on. He’d left his sword and knife within easy reach out of habit, but the woman had never looked too long at either of them. She’d known they were a temptation she could ill afford.

  “I’m not from Westmarch,” the woman answered.

  Raithen pulled on his blouse. He had other clothing back on his ship, and a hot bath as well because the cabin boy would know better than to let the water grow cold. “Where, then?”

  “Aranoch.”

  “Lut Gholein? I thought I’d detected an accent in your words.”

  “North of Lut Gholein. My father did business with the merchants of Lut Gholein.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “He was a glassblower. He produced some of the finest glassware ever made.” Her voice broke a little.

  Raithen gazed at her with cold dispassion, knowing he understood where the emotion came from. Once he’d found it, he couldn’t resist turning the knife. “Where is your father now?”

  Her lips trembled. “Your pirates killed him. Without mercy.”

  “He was probably resisting them. They don’t much care for that because I won’t let them.” Raithen raked his disheveled hair with his fingers.

  “My father was an old man,” the woman declared. “He couldn’t have put up a fight against anyone. He was a kind and gentle soul, and he should not have been murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Raithen threw the word back at her. In two quick steps, he took away the distance that separated them. “We’re pirates, woman, not bloody murderers, and I’ll have you speak of that trade with a civil tongue.”

  She wouldn’t look at him. Her eyes wept fearful tears, and they tracked down her bruised face.

  Tracing the back of his hand against her cheek, Raithen leaned in and whispered in her ear. “You’ll speak of me, too, with a civil tongue, or I’ll have that tongue cut from your pretty head and let my seadogs have at you.”

  Her head snapped toward him. Her eyes flashed, reflecting the blaze in the fireplace.

  Raithen waited, wondering if she would speak. He taunted her further. “Did your father die well? I can’t remember. Did he fight back, or did he die screaming like an old woman?”

  “Damn you!” the woman said. She came around on him, swinging her balled fist at the end of her right arm.

  Without moving more than his arm, Raithen caught the woman’s fist in one hand. She jerked backward, kicking at his crotch. Turning his leg and hip, the pirate captain caught the kick against his thigh. Then he moved his shoulders, backhanding her across the face.

  Propelled by the force of the blow, the woman stumbled across the room and smacked against the wall. Dizzy, her eyes rolling back up into her head for a moment, she sank down splay-legged to her rump.

  Raithen sucked at the cut on the back of his hand that her teeth had caused. The pain made him feel more alive, and seeing her helpless before him made him feel more in control. His neck still throbbed, but the humiliation was shared now even though the woman didn’t know it.

  “I’ll kill you,” the woman said in a hoarse voice. “I swear by the Light and all that’s holy that if you do not kill me, I will find a way to kill you.” She wiped at her bleeding mouth with her hand, tracking crimson over her fingers.

  Raithen grinned. “Damn me for a fool, but you do me well, wench. Spoken like you’d looked deep inside my own heart.” He gazed down at her. “See? Now, most people would think you were only talking. Running your mouth to play yourself up, to make yourself feel maybe a little braver. But I look into your eyes, and I know you’re speaking the truth.”

  “If I live,” the woman said, “you’ll need to look over your shoulder every day for the rest of your life. Because if I ever find you, I will kill you.”
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  Still grinning, feeling better about life in general and surprised at how it had all come about, Raithen nodded. “I know you will, woman. And if I was an overconfident braggart like a certain old priest, let’s say, I’d probably make the mistake of humbling you, then leaving you alive. Most people you could probably terrify and never have to worry about.”

  The woman pushed herself to her feet in open rebellion.

  “But you and me, woman,” Raithen went on, “we’re different. People judge us like we were nothing, that everything we say is just pomp and doggerel. They don’t understand that once we start hating them and plotting for them to fall, we’re only waiting for them to show a weakness we can exploit.” He paused. “Just like you’ll suffer through every indignity I pass on your way to break you, and then remain strong enough to try to kill me.”

  She stood and faced him, blood smearing her chin.

  Raithen smiled at her again, and this time the effort was warm and genuine. “I want to thank you for that, for squaring my beam and trimming my sails. Reminds me of the true course I have to follow in this endeavor. No matter how many scraps Loremaster Buyard Cholik tosses my way, I’m no hound to be chasing bones and suffering ill use at his hands.” He crossed to her.

  This time she didn’t flinch away from him. Her eyes peered at him as if she were looking through him.

  “You have my thanks, woman.” Raithen bent, moving his lips to meet hers.

  Moving with speed and determination that she hadn’t been showing, the woman sank her teeth into the pirate captain’s throat, chewing toward his jugular.

  FOUR

  Darrick drove his feet against the rocky ledge, aware of the dizzying sight of the fogbound river lying below. Here and there, moonlight kissed the surface, leaving bright diamonds in its wake. His breath whistled at the back of his throat, coming hard and fast. Knowing that Mat and the other sailors were already clambering up the rope cheered Darrick a little. Plunging through the darkness and maybe into a small party of pirates encamped along the cliff wasn’t a pleasant prospect. He carried his knife in his hand but left his cutlass in its scabbard at his side. The heavy blade thumped against his thigh. Covering his face with his empty hand and arm, he managed to keep the fir and spruce branches from his eyes. Other branches struck his face and left welts.