A hiss escaped the larmarsh’s mouth, and a plum-colored tongue flicked out to lick blood from its lips. As fast as lightning, it lunged for Tarrik.
He focused on the blackness behind it and poured himself into the shadows. His essence dissolved into the void just as the larmarsh reached for him. He almost felt its talons slashing through the space he’d left.
He re-formed behind the creature and sprinted for Gaukur’s axes, sliding on his knees through the dust as he scrambled for their leather-bound handles.
A blow to his back scored burning lines into his skin and sent him slamming into a wall. His vision blurred. Wetness trickled down his spine.
He twisted and lashed out with a fist, hitting something with a solid thump. An iron grip latched on to his arm. Talons bit deep into his muscle, and he hissed with pain. He knew that trying to free his arm would result in shredded tissue, but if a lacerated limb was his only injury when this was finished, he’d count himself lucky.
Ignoring the agony, Tarrik threw himself into the larmarsh’s clutches. The creature was strong, but as he’d found out when hunting with Contian, it was used to killing weak humans and therefore lacked finesse. He grabbed the larmarsh’s arm with his free hand, yanked it toward him, and as quick as a snake, twisted the limb behind the creature’s back. At the same time he stamped on the back of its knee. As its leg bent under the sudden pressure of body weight, the creature stumbled.
Tarrik grabbed a fistful of the larmarsh’s hair and used momentum to hammer its head into the wall. Chips broke from the bricks, and he thought he heard bone crack. The larmarsh wailed, a sound filled with pain and rage.
Before the creature could recover, he wrapped his arms around it and grasped his wrists to lock his hold. The move wasn’t ideal but all he had time for. The thing’s rank hair pressed against his face, and he had to push his cheek hard against the back of the creature’s head to prevent it from twisting around and sinking fangs into his flesh.
Screeching and gnashing teeth, the larmarsh writhed, trying to shake him off. Tarrik jerked back and forth, holding on for life. The larmarsh threw itself backward into the wall. Tarrik’s head cracked against the brick, and his spine erupted in pain. His grip slipped for an instant, and a sudden surge of strength from the larmarsh almost caused him to lose his hold. This was a bad idea.
He slammed into the wall again, and spots swam before his eyes. Blood and fire! Where’s Ren?
He tangled his leg with the larmarsh’s and threw his weight onto it, bearing the twisting creature to the ground, where they thrashed among the dirt and splinters of bone. He had no choice now but to bring forth his shadow-blade, but his position was tricky. If he let go, the larmarsh would be on him in a blink, wreaking untold damage before he could kill it. Likely his wounds would be fatal.
Dust filled his eyes and mouth, and he coughed and blinked. When he could see beyond the blur of tears, Ren stood above them, Tarrik’s spear in her hands. She was in danger now too, and her bindings forced him to protect her. The enchantment locked his arms and legs in place before his strength failed. She looked down on him struggling in the dirt with the larmarsh, muscles burning with exertion, sweat and tears trickling down his face, breath aching in his chest.
“Stay away!” he snarled at her. “Dawn- and dusk-tide won’t do much against it.”
A flicker of amusement crossed Ren’s face, so brief Tarrik thought he’d imagined it.
“Some sorcery is effective only in the right hands,” she said with a faint smile, then spoke a cant.
A light as bright as the sun erupted overhead. Spots swam before Tarrik’s eyes, and he squeezed them shut against the painful white glare. Still, it penetrated his eyelids. He turned his head away.
The larmarsh keened and thrashed wildly, struggling against Tarrik’s sinewy muscles and iron grasp. The tantalizing aroma of burned flesh filled his nostrils. All of a sudden, the larmarsh stilled. He opened his eyes to see the creature’s skin had blackened and cracked, as if scorched by intense heat. His own skin was unharmed.
The larmarsh twisted and screamed, and Tarrik almost lost his grip. Flakes of charred skin fell from the monster, and its mouth opened wide, tongue writhing like a snake.
Ren thrust down with the spear and drove its blade through the larmarsh’s skull. The creature shuddered, then went limp. Tarrik held tight still, fearing the beast might come alive for one final surge, even though the spear had surely taken its life.
More words spilled from Ren’s lips, cant after fluid cant. She yanked the spear out, and the blade dripped gore onto the dust. A faint crackling sound came from the desiccated, burnt corpse, and its skin and muscle crumbled in Tarrik’s grip to reveal blackened bones.
He pushed the skeleton away, and it clattered to the ground, leaving charcoal smears on his shirt and trousers. He stood and brushed down his clothes, trying to find something to say, wrestling for an explanation of what he’d just witnessed.
The last time he’d fought a larmarsh, Contian’s sorcery had been all but useless—and he had been a grandmaster of one of the eminent schools. Afterward, the old sorcerer had expounded at length about the creature’s innate resistance to the dawn- and dusk-tide forces. Yet Ren had used those same powers to kill the larmarsh. The spear through its skull hadn’t been needed. Her incantations, almost effortlessly, had already pierced the creature’s protections.
What was she? What powers did she have that other sorcerers didn’t?
Ren clicked her fingers to catch Tarrik’s attention and held his spear out to him. “You used them as bait.”
She meant Aimy and Gaukur. “Yes. Are you upset?”
She glanced away, lips drawn into a tight line, then shook her head. “Many more will die before we’re through. You do what you must to get the job done. Now, if you’ve finished prettying yourself, we still have work to do. Now that her creature is dead, Lischen will know we’re here.”
No somber words for the unfortunate Gaukur and Aimy from this heartless woman, even after they’d died to give her the advantage of surprise. Still, it was Tarrik who’d decided to use them as bait. He wouldn’t shed a tear over the deaths of two more of this slaver race.
Tarrik took his spear and cast one final look at the remains of the larmarsh. “I take it you think you can best her one-on-one?”
Ren’s mouth curled into a sad smile. “We tested one another long ago. We were evenly matched. Lischen will not run from me today, but she will fight with all the tricks she has learned over the centuries. I have disrupted her plans, and she will be angry. She will believe this is all part of my maneuvering for the return of the Adversary.”
“So you two will fight each other to a standstill and then give up and both go your merry ways?” It sounded like a waste of energy to Tarrik, for no gain.
“I said we were equal long ago, not that we still are.”
“Why is she called the Nightwhisperer?”
Ren stared at Tarrik, expressionless. “She went mad after . . . after what Samal did to her. As did we all.”
Interesting. Ren admits her madness. But surely if she is mad, she wouldn’t know it?
“Apart from you,” he said, humoring her.
“Oh no, I went mad too. It was a bleak time for many years . . . anyway, Lischen believes there are creatures living in the darkness. There aren’t, of course, but it’s one of her symptoms. She sees them, talks to them.” Ren turned her back and gestured for Tarrik to follow. “Come. Let’s get this over with.”
They passed the shredded corpses of Aimy and Gaukur. The axeman had a gaping slash across his belly, and his red-purple guts glistened wetly. Aimy’s hair was slathered with congealed blood. He hoped her child would receive the coin Ren had paid for her mother’s death. All young deserved a fighting chance.
Tarrik could only hope he would soon be done with this madwoman who’d bound him. If she’d been driven insane by Samal, there was no telling what she was capable of. And that meant danger for h
im. He could feel his chances of survival slipping away. He touched on the essence of Ananias in his mind, yearning for time.
Chapter Ten
Ren’s footsteps quickened as she led Tarrik along more disused passageways. Her sorcerous globe traveled a dozen paces ahead, illuminating their path. She showed no hesitation at the intersections, not even pausing slightly to consider which path to take. Eventually they emerged into a sizeable passage with a ten-foot-wide stream of sludge flowing down the middle. The surface bubbled and emitted a foul-smelling stench. Tarrik gagged and brought an arm up to cover his nose and mouth.
“Sewage,” said Ren, her fingers pinching her nose. “We’ll be past it soon, I think. Lischen wouldn’t live with this smell.” She strode alongside the oozing channel for a hundred paces until they reached another side passage. “Here.”
Rusty iron bars blocked the opening. Two had been pried apart wide enough to squeeze through, and recently, judging from the rust scraped off to reveal uncorroded metal beneath.
Ren whispered a cant, and her globe winked out, shrouding them in blackness. As his eyes adjusted, Tarrik saw a faint glow coming from along the passage. It looked like the yellow flickering of a candle.
“I’ll go first,” said Ren.
That was fine by Tarrik. He was out of his depth here and would try to keep his distance once the two sorcerers went at each other unless Ren’s bindings forced him to intervene, which would mean her confidence in overpowering Lischen had been misplaced and Tarrik would have to face the other’s sorcery without any of his own arcane defenses. Not an enticing prospect.
Ren squeezed easily through the gap between the bars and stood waiting for him. Tarrik led with his spear, sliding the tip up toward the ceiling, then felt a mild surge of panic as his shoulders became wedged. He grunted and pushed with his legs, and the bars scraped across his skin. Once through, he wondered if he should have feigned getting stuck so as to stay behind, but Ren knew of his shadow-step ability.
The passage was short, and they emerged into a small room with a narrow table and a single chair. Broken, scorched furniture stood piled in a corner. A lit lamp hung from a hook on one brick wall, with another opening opposite them. An inkwell had spilled its contents across the table, the ink still glistening wet, though no pen or papers or books were to be seen. Another smaller table contained dusty plates and vermin-chewed scraps of food covered in black-green mold. One plate held relatively fresh bread and a wedge of cheese. The room must have easier access to get the furniture through, Tarrik thought. The bars in the grate must have been widened for the larmarsh to come and go.
He tightened his grip on his spear and loosened his shoulders. Judging from the lamp, uneaten food, and still-wet ink, someone had clearly been here recently.
“She’s in the next room,” said Ren. She unbuckled her chest strap, letting her sword swing to her left hip.
Tarrik nodded. He wasn’t sure he was ready for this confrontation. He felt as powerless as a leaf blowing in a storm.
They crossed the room and entered the opening in the opposite wall, which led them into a larger chamber. A woman—Lischen, Tarrik assumed—sat cross-legged on the floor, cradling a young girl in her arms. The sorcerer’s long blonde hair hung forward, concealing her features. The girl’s eyes stared sightlessly from a strangely sunken face, with skin so dry it had cracked but hadn’t bled. Lischen stank strongly of goat. Wet goat.
Positioned around the room were old wooden relics, waist-high sculptures with only a few fragments of gold leaf remaining. One had tooth marks, and there were faint scratches on the brick walls. A cracked alembic, broken mortar, and various shattered vials and bottles littered a bench. Three cots stood against one wall, blankets covering the inert shapes that lay in them. Tarrik guessed they were the missing youths. From the look of the girl, there was no vitality left in any of them. Was that what happened when a sorcerer stole another’s arcane spark? For that was what was happening here; Tarrik couldn’t think of any other reason the youths had been taken.
He edged away from Ren a little, in case Lischen attacked without warning. To his surprise, Ren’s bindings didn’t restrict him in any way.
“Serenity Branwen,” hissed Lischen. “You are far from your usual haunts. Why aren’t you delving into another dusty old ruin to plumb its secrets?”
“What are you doing here?” Ren asked.
Lischen’s head remained lowered, and her hand stroked the corpse’s brown hair, which came out in clumps and fell to the floor. Tarrik saw that the back of the sorcerer’s hand was crisscrossed with scars, like Ren’s back.
“I was concerned about what I heard was happening here,” Ren continued when Lischen didn’t answer.
“And what did you hear? A few young sorcerers went missing? Who cares? Their loyalties would be to others, and that wouldn’t serve me or our master, would it?”
Ren’s voice grew hard. “You have gone too far. Your actions would turn the populace against us.”
“Why would I care about them? Stupid worms. They are nothing! Our master has shown us the way. Take power for yourself, if you can. He took us, and we can take others. I have found a way, you see. The night whispers showed it to me. Oh, I know you think me insane, but they are real and have proven themselves.”
Tarrik stepped to his right and turned his spear blade toward Lischen in case there was an opportunity to strike. His eyes flicked left and right, searching for a trap.
Lischen pointed at him, and he froze. “Leash your dog, Serenity, or I’ll do it for you.”
Ren held her hand up. Tarrik nodded and backed away a step, then brought up his spear so it was no longer pointed at Lischen. He reversed his grip in case he needed to throw the weapon.
“You killed my pet,” Lischen accused Ren. “Should I repay your deed with the death of your bodyguard? Blood for blood, a life for a life?”
A chill swept over Tarrik’s skin, and his heart pulsed faster. If she attacked him with sorcery, he was as good as dead.
“Its presence was disruptive,” said Ren. “It should not have been taken from the wilderness.”
“You are in no position to order me to do anything.”
“What you are doing is an abomination,” said Ren. “To augment your own power with the essence of others—”
“You always believed you were better than the rest of us,” Lischen sneered. “While we came to our master willingly, you had to be dragged screaming.”
Tarrik saw that Ren stiffened at the words, but she didn’t reply.
“How we laughed at you when the bright knives went to work,” Lischen continued. “When our master broke your body, it was just the beginning of your anguish. When he broke your mind, it was ecstasy. You were reduced to nothing, the same as us. And now you do his bidding willingly.”
“You must stop what you are doing with these youths.”
“I will not.”
“Then I will be forced to stop you.”
At that, Lischen brushed her hair from her face and looked at Ren for the first time. Tarrik was surprised to find her alluring. Burning blue eyes, full red lips, cheeks flushed pink, and the rest of her all pale-white skin. Then her face twisted with rage and the beauty became ugliness.
“It will be a pleasure to kill you, Serenity Branwen. You were never truly one of us. An outsider.”
And if Lischen succeeded and Ren’s bindings were broken? Dared Tarrik hope? It was unlikely she’d let Tarrik live after killing Ren, but could he offer Lischen something in exchange for his life? Her pet, the larmarsh, would need to be replaced, and she would need more youths for her experiments. He wouldn’t undertake such action, of course, but offering to would buy him enough time to get away and return to the abyss.
“We are evenly matched,” Ren said.
“Do you think I am truly mad? You are a fool! I am now so much more!”
Lischen snarled a cant, and a sphere of sky-blue crackling energy surrounded her.
Re
n responded in kind, except her shield was composed of swirling golden sparkles.
Tarrik moved away until his back was against the wall. He could tip over the bench to his left to gain some protection, but he knew it wouldn’t stand up to a sorcerous assault.
Lischen’s eyes narrowed when she saw Ren’s shield. “What is this? Did you find a warding artifact while you were grubbing underground among the remnants of your betters? It will not save you. The fledgling sorcerers’ powers are now mine, and you will not stand against me. Even Ekthras, the greatest of the Nine, will fall to me.”
She shrieked a cant, and violet and sapphire incandescent lines scissored and sliced over Ren’s ward, crackling and spitting like water spattering on hot oil. Ren cried out and threw an arm up to protect her eyes from the glittering assault.
Yes! crowed Tarrik to himself, at the same time crouching low to avoid being scorched.
Lischen’s mouth twisted into a sneer. She barked cant after cant. The air itself keened and shattered as all heat was leached from their surroundings. Tarrik’s breath steamed, and his skin prickled as frost crystals spread across the floor, ascended the walls, and covered the furniture.
A fresh onslaught of indigo sparkles hammered Ren, and she fell to her knees. Her hands clenched into fists, knuckles white, and she grimaced in pain. Tarrik could see the tendons in her neck bulging. But still her shield held under the arcane assault. The air smoldered with fiery embers that scattered and danced in an eldritch wind, and the white frost evaporated, sending mist swirling around the room.
Lischen screeched with rage, her pale face red, eyes bulging. She spat more cants, fingers curled into claws, as if she would tear the flesh from Ren’s bones. Her sorcerous lines battered Ren’s spherical wards, which writhed and trembled.
Lischen’s fury and Ren’s impotence inflamed Tarrik. He found himself grinning, even as he shielded his face from the conflagration. He moaned with the yearning to be free, to see Ren’s wards crack, for her flesh to be carved by sorcerous knives, her blood to boil. It was a fitting end for her, to be scourged by one of her own kind.
Shadow of the Exile (The Infernal Guardian Book 1) Page 19
