Arrayan absorbed the compliment just long enough to recognize the implication behind it then her face screwed up with horror.
“I did not create the castle,” she said.
Nyungy started to respond, but he stopped short, as if he had just caught on to her claim.
“Pardon my mistake,” he said at last.
The old half-orc bent lower to look into her eyes. He bade Olgerkhan to go and fetch her some water or some soup, spent a few more moments scrutinizing her, then backed off as the larger half-orc returned. With a nod, Nyungy motioned for Wingham to escort him back into the house’s front room.
“She is not ill,” the old bard explained when they had moved out of Arrayan’s chamber.
“Not sick, you mean?”
Nyungy nodded. “I knew it before we arrived, but in looking at her, I am certain beyond doubt. That is no poison or disease. She was healthy just a few days ago, correct?”
“Dancing lightly on her pretty feet when she first came to greet me upon my arrival.”
“It is the magic,” Nyungy reasoned. “Zhengyi has done this before.”
“How?”
“The book is a trap. It is not a tome of creation, but one of self-creation. Once one of suitable magical power begins to read it, it entraps that person’s life essence. As the castle grows, it does so at the price of Arrayan’s life-force, intellect, and magical prowess. She is creating the castle, subconsciously.”
“For how long?” Wingham asked, and he stepped over and glanced with concern into the bedroom.
“Until she is dead, I would guess,” said Nyungy. “Consumed by the creation. I doubt that the merciless Zhengyi would stop short of such an eventuality out of compassion for his unwitting victim.”
“How can we stop this?” Wingham asked.
Nyungy glanced past him with concern then painted a look of grim dread on his face when he again met Wingham’s stare.
“No, you cannot,” Wingham said with sudden understanding.
“That castle is a threat—growing, and growing stronger,” reasoned Nyungy. “Your niece is lost, I fear. There is nothing I can do, certainly, nor can anyone else in Palishchuk, to slow the progression that will surely kill her.”
“We have healers.”
“Who will be powerless, at best,” answered the older half-orc. “Or, if they are not, and offer Arrayan some relief, then that might only add to the energy being channeled into the growth of Zhengyi’s monstrosity. I understand your hesitance here, my friend. She is your relation—beloved, I can see from your eyes when you look upon her. But do you not remember the misery of Zhengyi? Would you, in your false compassion, help foster a return to that?”
Wingham glanced back into the room once more and said, “You cannot know all this for sure. There is much presumption here.”
“I know, Wingham. This is not mere coincidence. And you know, too.” As he finished, Nyungy moved to the counter and found a long kitchen knife. “I will be quick about it. She will not see the strike coming. Let us pray it is not too late to save her soul and to diminish the evil she has unwittingly wrought.”
Wingham could hardly breathe, could hardly stand. He tried to digest Nyungy’s words and reasoning, looking for some flaw, for some sliver of hope. He instinctively put his arm out to block the old half-orc, but Nyungy moved with a purpose that he had not known in many, many years. He brushed by Wingham and into the bedroom and bade Olgerkhan to stand aside.
The large half-orc did just that, leaving the way open to Arrayan, who was resting back with her eyes closed and her breathing shallow.
Nyungy knew much of the world around Palishchuk. He had spent his decades adventuring, touring the countryside as a wandering minstrel, a collector of information and song alike. He had traveled extensively with Wingham for years as well, studying magic and magical items. He had served in Zhengyi’s army in the early days of the Witch-King’s rise, before the awful truth about the horrible creature was fully realized. Nyungy didn’t doubt his guess about the insidious bond that had been created between the book and the reader, nor did he question the need for him to do his awful deed before the castle’s completion.
His mind was still sharp; he knew much.
What he did not comprehend was the depth of the bond between Arrayan and Olgerkhan. He didn’t think to hide his intent as he brandished that long knife and moved toward the helpless woman.
Something in his eyes betrayed him to Olgerkhan. Something in his forward, eager posture told the young half-orc warrior that the old half-orc was about no healing exercise—at least, not in any manner Olgerkhan’s sensibilities would allow.
Nyungy lurched for Arrayan’s throat and was stopped cold by a powerful hand latching onto his forearm. He struggled to pull away, but he might as well have been trying to stop a running horse.
“Let me go, you oaf!” he scolded, and Arrayan opened her eyes to regard the two of them standing before her.
Olgerkhan turned his wrist over, easily forcing Nyungy’s knife-hand up into the air, and the old half-orc grimaced in pain.
“I must … You do not understand!” Nyungy argued.
Olgerkhan looked from Nyungy to Wingham, who stood in the doorway.
“It is for her own good,” Nyungy protested. “Like bloodletting for poison, you see?”
Olgerkhan continued to look to Wingham for answers.
Nyungy went on struggling then froze in place when he heard Wingham say, “He means to kill her, Olgerkhan.”
Nyungy’s eyes went wide and wider still when the young, strong half-orc’s fist came soaring in to smack him in the face, launching him backward and to the floor, where he knew no more.
CHAPTER 11
PALISHCHUK’S SHADOW
Hurry!” Calihye shouted at Entreri. “Drive them harder!”
Entreri grunted in reply but did not put the whip to the team. He understood her desperation, but it was hardly his problem. Across a wide expanse of rocky ground with patches of mud, far up ahead, loomed the low skyline of Palishchuk. They were still some time away from the city, Entreri knew, and if he drove the team any harder, the horses would likely collapse before they reached the gates.
Jarlaxle sat beside him on the bench, with Athrogate next to him, far to Entreri’s left. Pratcus sat in the back, along with Calihye and the two wounded, the soldier Davis Eng and Calihye’s broken companion, Parissus.
“Harder, I say, on your life!” Calihye screamed from behind.
Entreri resisted the urge to pull the team up. Jarlaxle put a hand on his forearm, and when he glanced at the drow, Jarlaxle motioned for him to not respond.
In truth, Entreri wasn’t thinking of shouting back at the desperate woman, though the thought of drawing his dagger, leaping back, and cutting out her wagging tongue occurred to him more than once.
A second hand landed on the assassin’s other shoulder, and he snapped his cold and threatening glare back the other way, face-to-face with Pratcus.
“The lady Parissus is sure to be dying,” the dwarf explained. “She’s got moments and no more.”
“I cannot drive them faster than—” Entreri started to reply, but the dwarf cut him short with an upraised hand and a look that showed no explanation was needed.
“I’m only telling ye so ye don’t go back and shut the poor girl up,” Pratcus explained. “Them half-elves are a bit on the lamenting side, if ye get me meaning.”
“There is nothing you can do for the woman?” Jarlaxle asked.
“I got all I can handle in keeping Davis Eng alive,” Pratcus explained. “And he weren’t hurt much at all in comparison, except a bit o’ acid burns. It’s the damn bites she got. So many of ’em. Poisoned they were, and a nasty bit o’ the stuff. And Parissus, she’d be dying without the poison, though I’m sure there’s enough to kill us all running through her veins.”
“Then have Athrogate smash her skull,” Entreri said. “Be done with it, and done with her pain.”
�
�She’s far beyond any pain, I’m thinking.”
“More’s the pity,” said Entreri.
“He gets like that when he’s frustrated,” Jarlaxle quipped.
He received a perfectly vicious look from Entreri and of course, the drow responded with a disarming grin.
“That soldier gonna live, then?” asked Athrogate, but Pratcus could only shrug.
Behind them all, Calihye cried out.
“Saved me a swat,” Athrogate remarked, understanding, as did they all from the hollow and helpless timbre of the shriek that death had at last come for Parissus.
Calihye continued to wail, even after Pratcus joined her and tried to comfort her.
“Might be needing a swat, anyway,” Athrogate muttered after a few moments of the keening.
Ellery pulled her horse us beside the rolling wagon, inquiring of the cleric for Parissus and her soldier.
“Nasty bit o’ poison,” Entreri and Jarlaxle heard the dwarf remark.
“We’re not even to the city, and two are down,” Entreri said to the drow.
“Two less to split the treasures that no doubt await us at the end of our road.”
Entreri didn’t bother to reply.
A short while later, the Palishchuk skyline much clearer before them, the troupe noted the circle of brightly colored wagons set before the city’s southern wall. At that point, Mariabronne galloped past the wagon, moving far ahead.
“Wingham the merchant and his troupe,” Ellery explained, coming up beside Entreri.
“I do not know of him,” Jarlaxle said to her.
“Wingham,” Athrogate answered slyly, and all eyes went to him, to see him holding one of his matched glassteel morning stars out before him, letting the spiked head sway and bounce at the end of its chain with the rhythm of the moving wagon.
“Wingham is known for trading in rare items, particularly weapons,” Ellery explained. “He would have more than a passing interest in your sword,” she added to Entreri.
Entreri grinned despite himself. He could imagine handing the weapon over to an inquiring “Wingham,” whoever or whatever a “Wingham” might be. Without the protective gauntlet, an unwitting or weaker individual trying to hold Charon’s Claw would find himself overmatched and devoured by the powerful, sentient item.
“A fine set of morning stars,” Jarlaxle congratulated the dwarf.
“Finer than ye’re knowing,” Athrogate replied with a grotesque wink. “Putting foes to flying farther than ye’re throwing!”
Entreri chortled.
“Fine weapons,” Jarlaxle agreed.
“Enchanted mightily,” said Ellery.
Jarlaxle looked from the rocking morning star back to the commander and said, “I will have to pay this Wingham a visit, I see.”
“Bring a sack o’ gold!” the dwarf hollered. “And a notion to part with it!”
“Wingham is known as a fierce trader,” Ellery explained.
“Then I really will have to pay him a visit,” said the drow.
Pratcus waddled back up to lean between Entreri and the drow. “She’s gone,” he confirmed. “Better for her that it went quick, I’m thinking, for she weren’t to be using her arms or legs e’er again.”
That did make Entreri wince a bit, recalling the bumps as the wagon had bounced over poor Parissus.
“What of Davis Eng?” Ellery asked.
“He’s a sick one, but I’m thinking he’ll get back to his feet. A few tendays in the bed’ll get him up.”
“A month?” Ellery replied. She did not seem pleased with that information.
“Three gone,” Entreri mumbled to the drow, who didn’t really seem to care.
Ellery obviously did, however. “Keep him alive, at all cost,” she instructed then she turned her horse aside and drove her heels into its flanks, launching it away.
Accompanied by the continuing sobs of Calihye, Entreri took the wagon the rest of the way to Palishchuk. On Ellery’s orders, he rolled the cart past Wingham’s circus and to the city’s southern gate, where they were given passage without interference—no doubt arranged by Mariabronne, who had long ago entered the city.
They pulled up beside a guardhouse, just inside the southern gate, and stable hands and attendants came to greet them.
“I promise you that I will not forget what you did,” Calihye whispered to Entreri as she moved past him to climb down from the wagon.
Jarlaxle again put a hand on the assassin’s forearm, but Entreri wasn’t about to respond to that open threat—with words anyway.
Entreri rarely if ever responded to threats with words. In his thoughts, he understood that Calihye would soon again stand beside Parissus.
A trio of city guards hustled out to collect Davis Eng, bidding Pratcus to go with them. Another couple came out to retrieve the body of Parissus.
“We have rooms secured inside, though we’ll not be here long,” Ellery explained to the others. “Make yourself at ease; take your rest as you can.”
“You are leaving us?” the drow asked.
“Mariabronne has left word that I am to meet him at Wingham’s circus,” she explained. “I will return presently with word of our course.”
“Your course,” Calihye corrected, drawing all eyes her way. “I’m through with you, then.”
“You knew the dangers when you joined my quest,” Ellery scolded, but not too angrily, “as did Parissus.”
“I’m to be no part of a team with that one,” Calihye retorted, tipping her chin in Entreri’s direction. “He’ll throw any of us to our doom to save himself. A wonder it is that even one other than him and that drow survived the road.”
Ellery looked at the assassin, who merely shrugged.
“Bah! But yer friend fell and flees to the Hells,” Athrogate cut in. “We’re all for dyin’, whate’er we’re tryin’, so quit yer cryin’! Bwahaha!”
Calihye glowered at him, which made him laugh all the more. He waddled away toward the guardhouse, seeming totally unconcerned.
“He is one to be wary of,” Jarlaxle whispered to Entreri, and the assassin didn’t disagree.
“You agreed to see this through,” Ellery said to Calihye. She moved over as she spoke, and forcibly turned the woman to face her. “Parissus is gone and there’s naught I, or you, can do about it. We’ve a duty here.”
“Your own duty, and mine no more.”
Ellery leveled a hard stare at her.
“Will I be finding myself an outlaw in King Gareth’s lands, then, because I refuse to travel with a troupe of unreliables?”
Ellery’s look softened. “No, of course not. I will ask of you only that you stay and look over Davis Eng. It seems that he’ll be journeying with us no farther as well. When we are done with Palishchuk, we will return you to the Vaasan Gate—with Parissus’s body, if that is your choice.”
“And my share is still secure?” the woman dared ask. “And Parissus’s, which she willed to me before your very eyes?”
To the surprise of both Entreri and Jarlaxle, Ellery didn’t hesitate in agreeing.
“An angry little creature,” Jarlaxle whispered to his friend.
“A source of trouble?” Entreri mused.
“Mariabronne has returned,” Wingham informed Olgerkhan when he found the large half-orc back at Nyungy’s house. “He has brought a commander from the Vaasan Gate, along with several other mercenaries, to inspect the castle. They will find a way, Olgerkhan. Arrayan will be saved.”
The warrior looked at him with undisguised skepticism.
“You will join them in their journey,” Wingham went on, “to help them in finding a way to defeat the curse of Zhengyi.”
“And you will care for Arrayan?” Olgerkhan asked with that same evident doubt. He glanced to the side of the wide foyer, to a door that led to a small closet. “You will protect her from him?”
Wingham glanced that way, as well. “You put the great Nyungy in a closet?”
Olgerkhan shrugged, and Wing
ham started that way.
“Leave him in there!” Olgerkhan demanded.
Wingham spun back on him, stunned that the normally docile—or controllable, at least—warrior had so commanded him.
“Leave him in there,” Olgerkhan reiterated. “I beg of you. He can breathe. He is not dangerously bound.”
The two stared at each other for a long while, and it seemed to Olgerkhan as if Wingham was fighting an internal struggle over some decision. The old merchant started to speak a couple of times, but kept stopping short and finally just assumed a pensive pose.
“I will not care for Arrayan,” Wingham said decided at last.
“Then I will not leave her.”
Wingham stepped toward Olgerkhan, reaching into his coat pocket as he did. Olgerkhan leaned back, defensive, but calmed when he noted the objects Wingham had produced: a pair of rings, gold bands with a clear gemstone set in each.
“Where is she?” Wingham asked. “Back at her house?”
Olgerkhan stared at him a bit longer, then shook his head. He glanced up the stairs then led the way to the first balcony. In a small bedroom, they came upon Arrayan, lying very still but breathing with a smooth rhythm.
“She felt better, a bit,” Olgerkhan explained.
“Does she know of Nyungy?”
“I told her that he was with you, looking for some answers.”
Wingham nodded, then moved to his niece. He sat on the bed beside her, blocking much of Olgerkhan’s view. He bent low for a moment then moved aside.
Olgerkhan’s gaze was drawn to the woman and to the ring Wingham had placed on her finger. The clear gem sparkled for a brief moment then it went gray, as if smoke had somehow filtered into the gemstone. It continued to darken as Olgerkhan moved closer, and by the time he gently lifted Arrayan’s hand for a closer inspection, the gem was as inky black as onyx.
The warrior looked at Wingham, who stood with his hand out toward Olgerkhan, holding the other ring.
“Are you strong enough to share her burden?” Wingham asked.
Olgerkhan looked at him, not quite understanding. Wingham held up the other ring.
Promise of the Witch-King Page 18
