A guttural shout from below told her that she was too late; an instant later, she heard the heavy clumping of Seron boots as one of the monsters charged up the stairs after her. As Brexan ran for the back stairwell he was close behind; she could almost feel his foul breath on her neck. She glanced back for an instant: the half-human animal had wild eyes, flaring nostrils and huge, crooked yellow teeth. It – maybe a he - was gaining ground fast. Brexan threw the bag at its feet, hoping it might trip and give her an instant more to escape, but the ploy didn’t work.
The Seron was reaching for her with large hairy hands that looked so human it was unnerving, though the nails were gnawed down to the cuticle, and they were filthy, as if the warrior had spent all morning digging in pig-shit. Brexan froze, remembering the horrible moment when Lahp, the big Seron at Seer’s Peak, had punched her hard enough to crack her cheek and leave her senseless. This Seron was not interested in punching her, though, so clutching Sallax’s cloak like a lifeline, she leaped out over the stairs, throwing herself down to the lower landing behind the kitchen.
Brexan landed with a bone-jarring thud and tumbled into a stack of wooden crates. She felt something go in her ankle, but whatever she had injured, it held together long enough for her to crash through the back door and out into the alley behind the Redstone.
She had gone just three or four paces when she heard the Seron burst through the door and start down the alley after her. She was not going to get away; it would catch her and probably kill her before realising it … she hoped the Malakasian captain punished the creature for bringing back a corpse; even through her fear she grinned at the thought that the Seron’s penchant for brutality might mean its own execution.
As she rounded the corner, rough hands reached out and seized her, pulling her violently into a dead-end corner.
‘No!’ she cried, flinging back her arms in a futile effort to break free. Whoever it was let go, and tossed her back into the alcove between two buildings.
It was Sallax.
‘Demonpiss, Sallax! He’s right behind—’
The Seron, still running at full speed, turned the corner, saw them and skidded to an awkward stop, blocking their only escape route.
As Brexan bent to catch her breath, her mind flashed to the morning she and Versen had charged Haden, the scarred creature who had beaten her and torn out Versen’s throat. Drawing her knife, she sliced the leather strap holding her cloak closed and it fell to the dirt.
Sallax had slipped out of his bandages and she guessed his shoulder must have been blazing with pain. He backed towards her until she was pressed up against the wall then, never taking his eyes off the Seron, he felt around for Brexan’s arm. He followed it down to her hand and took the knife. He brandished it and walked back towards their assailant.
‘Come on, motherhumper,’ Sallax rasped. ‘I’m just one man. Take me.’
The Seron growled a warning and sprang.
Sallax stood his ground, his hair falling in greasy strands about his face, his shoulders drooping. With his eyes focused on the Seron’s waist, he looked as though he was waiting for a pretty woman to turn him down at a harvest festival dance.
Brexan was certain he had taken the knife from her to ensure the Seron attacked and killed him first – suicide at the hands of an enemy. She screamed when the creature leaped out at him.
A few moments later, Brexan was thanking the forest gods she hadn’t been with her platoon the day Lieutenant Bronfio led the attack on Riverend Palace to flush out the Ronan partisans. Had she remained inside with her fellow soldiers, she might have come face to face with Sallax Farro, one of the most dangerous men in Eldarn, and Sallax would have killed her in an instant.
The big Ronan kept her knife extended towards the Seron, the most rudimentary mistake all fencing students made: extending themselves too far and opening themselves up to an opponent’s counterthrust. Sallax looked like an instructor’s demonstration on how to get killed in the first moments of any battle.
But when the Seron flew at him, it leaped for the knife. In a blur, Sallax turned and removed his own blade from the back of his belt. As the creature lunged towards him, grabbing at Brexan’s knife, Sallax brought his own up and into the creature’s ribs with a slash that opened a ragged gash across the Seron’s ribcage before burying itself to the hilt in the monster’s back. The Seron screamed as it rolled away, releasing Sallax’s arm and tumbling to the dirt.
As it rolled back to its feet, barking insults, the Seron grabbed for the knife, but it couldn’t reach it. Brexan watched the soldier struggle, turning in circles like a dog chasing its tail, while its gurgling complaints became ever more choked.
Sallax watched without expression; he could see frothy red bubbles between the warrior’s lips, then he lunged, using Brexan’s knife to stab the monster in the throat. He opened the carotid artery and they watched the Seron bleed to death in a matter of moments.
Brexan stared in mute horror, the pounding of her heart almost deafening her.
Sallax wiped both blades on the Seron’s tunic, sheathed one and handed the other back to Brexan. ‘Come on,’ he said, and led her out of the alley into the street.
Brexan followed in stupefied silence, following Sallax’s lead as he ducked behind wagons and into shop doors to avoid Malakasian soldiers. She lost all sense of direction, but she couldn’t summon the strength to argue.
Left then right, another right and then left again, they moved stealthily, quickly, across wide boulevards, through alleys and down side-streets. They crossed a bridge and followed the shoreline of a river until the path climbed up an embankment and ended beside a run-down waterfront business; Brexan guessed it might be an alehouse – but before she had a moment to take in her surroundings, Sallax shoved her roughly inside a huge cask, one of a number of enormous barrels someone had rolled out onto the quay above the river and obviously forgotten. The only light came through a tiny crack in one of the slats.
Brexan realised she had been crying and dried her tears on a corner of Sallax’s tunic; she had forgotten her cloak where it had fallen in the dirt. Sallax reached over to place a hand gently on her shoulder. She reached up with her own to take his. It felt good, strong and warm in the darkness.
‘Carpello,’ Sallax said.
Brexan nodded, though he couldn’t see it. ‘You’re right. Next is Carpello.’
‘Soldiers will be looking.’
‘After your little demo of short-blade combat, I bet they will, lots of them.’
‘But we will find Carpello?’
‘Yes, after we find someplace to stay for a few days, maybe a Moon, while that shoulder of yours heals. Fighting can’t have been very good for it. That’ll give things a chance to quieten down – and after that, we’ll find Carpello.’
‘For Brynne.’ He reached into his tunic and removed the watch Mark Jenkins had given his sister and buckled it back around Brexan’s wrist.
‘For Brynne,’ she said, ‘and for Versen.’
THE SPELL CHAMBER
‘Gilmour,’ Steven shook the old man’s shoulder, ‘Gilmour, you need to get up. We may not have much time here and we must find that Windscroll. If you want to go back down to the village and hide somewhere, that’s fine, but let’s get that scroll.’
‘I let him back in, Steven,’ Gilmour said.
‘Nerak? What do you mean?’
‘I tried to read the spell book. He reached across the Fold and knocked the shit out of me. I had not a clue how to free myself. The second time, he did the same, then came through as a rush of wind and power. I let him back in, and now I’ve lit a rutting signal fire.’
‘I don’t care if Nerak’s back, Gilmour – in fact, I prefer having him here, where we have the resources to destroy him, rather than over there where he might kill my parents or my friends. He already killed Myrna Kessler. I watched him burn down the entire south face of the canyon above Idaho Springs. For all I know, he left Denver in ruins before he came back lo
oking for us. So to tell the truth, I’m glad he’s here. As for him knowing where we are, why do you suppose he met us in Traver’s Notch? He knows we have the key. He’s been trying to get it since the day we arrived in Estrad. He damned near shat himself when he discovered it was on my desk that entire Twinmoon, and he raced me across the United States to get to it. So he’s always known we were coming here; opening the gate only confirmed that we had arrived.’
Gilmour lifted his head from his hands and looked around the great room. It would have been dwarfed by the main dining hall at Riverend Palace, but it had been the scene of so many debates and drunken discussions. A wry grin crossed Gilmour’s face despite his mood. Even with the sun directly overhead, little light broke through the arched windows lining each wall. Above, a narrow balcony ran around the entire hall; tapestries decorated with the crests of each territory and the various branches of the Larion Senate hung from the walkway, their tail ends limp above the main floor.
Gilmour rolled his shoulders back. ‘Let’s get some light in here,’ he said.
‘Garec,’ Steven ordered, ‘grab that torch over there; I’ll use the staff.’
‘Don’t bother, Garec,’ Gilmour interrupted, reaching a hand towards the ceiling. As he chanted a brief spell, turning on his heel to point at the torches and fireplaces, they all burst into flame and the mood in the hall changed at once. Steven could see that this had been a welcome meeting place, not the cold, inhospitable hall it had first appeared.
Mark hugged Gilmour comfortingly. ‘Don’t worry about it. This way we know where the bastard is.’
‘I don’t know if that makes me feel any better, Mark, but thanks anyway.’
‘I like the trick with the torches, too. Steven did it down in the cavern below Meyers’ Vale and scared the wits out of Gita and her Falkan roughnecks. Do you know any others? Like maybe how to open the kitchen?’
‘I can open the kitchen, Mark, but I’m afraid there weren’t any spells working to preserve the food. All we’ll find in those cupboards is dust.’
‘How about the wine cellar – or at least some water?’
‘Ah,’ Gilmour perked up again. ‘I can get the water going.’ He chanted again, and cast a half-moon arc over his head.
For a moment nothing happened; then Mark heard a low groaning noise, like tired metal shifting. ‘What’s that? A dragon in the basement?’
‘An aqueduct,’ Gilmour said.
‘I just wanted a drink, and maybe a nice shower – you didn’t need to open the hose quite so far!’
Just as all the torches had come to light at once, so all the fountains in Sandcliff Palace began simultaneously to spout, pour, dump or seep water, depending on their particular design. In this chamber alone there were four fountains and soon the lively crackle of the fires was punctuated with the tinkle of clear mountain water as basins beneath sculpted fountains began to fill.
‘It should be clean,’ Gilmour said. ‘Drink all you like. We can fill the skins before leaving. As for a wine cellar, Mark, I don’t know if we have time, but we had nearly four hundred casks – most of it has probably turned by now, but there were a few vintages that should have aged quite well. There’s nothing like a thousand Twinmoons to bring out the flavour in a Falkan grape.’
‘Great,’ Mark said, ‘well, if old Demon Prince Ugly doesn’t join us right away, maybe we can run down there and grab a few flagons for the road.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it.’ He gestured for the others. ‘Let’s go. It’s not far to the north tower.’ Gilmour led the way up a spiral staircase tucked into a back corner to the balcony. Gilmour paused to look back across the open expanse above the dining room.
‘What is it?’ Steven asked.
‘There will be some bodies between here and the tower – probably quite a few. I’m sure they’ll be nothing but bones now, but…’ He swallowed hard. ‘The carnage that night was unprecedented. I don’t know what Nerak might have done with the bodies after I left. So be warned.’
‘Why do you suppose he did something with their remains?’ Steven asked.
‘Because this is where I stood, with that old broadsword still dangling from my hand, and I faced Nerak, in Pikan’s body, right over there. From here I could see Callena and Janel, the two young senators Nerak killed first, across the balcony over there.’ He pointed towards the other side of the room. ‘Nerak threw their bodies down into the main hall, right in front of that fireplace, but they’re gone now. I’m not sure why, or to where. I had planned to cover their remains with one of the tapestries, but that’s when I saw her – him - here. And the sword is missing too.’
‘The broadsword you carried?’ Garec asked.
Gilmour stared towards the far end, his voice a murmur. ‘I dropped it right here before sprinting all the way across the balcony and jumping through that window to the stone walkway outside.’ He nodded towards the still-shattered panes of a broad circular window.
‘It’ll be all right,’ Steven said. ‘We’ve seen a lot on this journey; we’re too close to let a few piles of bones frighten us into turning back.’
Gilmour turned and smiled. ‘I know. Maybe I’m the one who needs convincing.’
They made their way up two more levels towards a chamber at the end of a corridor lined with wooden doors. Some of the doors had been left slightly ajar, others were wide open. The only closed room was a corner chamber at the end. As he had on the Prince Marek, Steven stood by while Gilmour placed a palm flat against the wooden doorframe.
‘Anything?’ he asked.
The old man shook his head. He pulled at the latch and the door swung open without a creak.
Steven’s view was blocked momentarily, but when he heard Gilmour gasp, he pushed past, afraid that Nerak might be waiting for them. He needed only a glance to understand: this had been Gilmour’s room. Much of the chamber was undisturbed: books, brittle and disintegrating over the Twinmoons, rested on a small table near the window. A paraffin taper lay in a shallow dish. A crammed bookshelf stood against the wall, next to a narrow closet still full of clothes.
Gilmour’s bed was pushed against the wall, little more than a wood and leather-strap cot. The straw mattress that had once provided some measure of comfort had rotted away and a threadbare blanket was all that remained of Gilmour’s bedding, but far more disturbing was the skeleton, clothed in the rotting remains of a pair of under-breeches, lying on the bed. The stark grey-white bones were held together by bits of putrefied ligament. The skeleton’s arms were draped over its chest and its fingers gripped the pommel of a rusty old broadsword, a crude weapon.
Steven knew at once that this was Pikan Tettarak, Nerak’s assistant and the one Senator powerful enough to mount any kind of counterassault against Nerak. She had failed; Gilmour had been busy in the scroll library when the fallen Larion sorcerer attacked, but had he been at Pikan’s side, he would not have survived the devastation either. Watching the old Larion leader gaze down at the remains of the brave woman, Steven understood that his friend was wishing he had been beside her, hands with hers deep inside the spell table, when the end had come.
Rodler, surprising them all, acted first. Stepping into the closet, he removed an old cloak, tattered and moth-eaten but whole enough to cover the body. ‘Whoever he is, he shouldn’t be laying there with nothing covering him,’ he said firmly. ‘I understand we don’t have time to give him his rites, but leaving him like that is unholy.’
‘She,’ Gilmour managed, ‘her name was Pikan.’
‘She then.’ Rodler draped the cloak over the skeleton. ‘Do you want the sword?’
There was a long silence in which no one moved. Finally, the wear-worn sorcerer, looking old, and thoroughly defeated, in the torchlight, said, ‘No. Leave it.’ He pushed his way past Garec and Mark and back into the corridor.
As he followed the others, Rodler was surprised to find Mark waiting for him. ‘That was a nice thing you did back there,’ Mark said, offering his hand.
/> ‘Thank you, Mark.’ Rodler looked down, uncertain what to do. ‘What is this?’
‘This is one way we say I’m sorry where I come from.’
Rodler extended his own hand, and the two men settled their differences without another word.
They climbed staircases and crossed hallways, Gilmour mouthing incantations at every new junction to get through the restricted access, until they reached a short spiral of five or six stairs that ended at a heavy wooden door. Whispering a command, he pressed it open.
Steven felt a cold rush of wintry air swirl across the darkened landing: the door led to an exposed causeway of sorts, only a few paces wide, that ran from the top floor of the keep to the middle of the north tower.
‘It’s not far now, my friends,’ Gilmour said as he stepped out into the late-day sun. ‘The spell chamber is up there.’ He pointed towards the upper room. ‘That was where Nerak did the greatest damage.’
‘Let’s just get up there and grab that scroll,’ Mark said. ‘We’ll haul the table out and hide it in one of those university buildings, or maybe at the bottom of the gorge, down in the village.’
They crossed the bridge and stepped inside the tower, taking a moment to allow their vision to readjust to torchlight, then pressed on towards the scroll library, quickly and silently.
No one appeared to have noticed the storm blowing in from the west.
On the uppermost landing, Gilmour knelt beside a body he identified as Harren Bonn. He had ordered him to guard the spell chamber door, knowing it was a death sentence; Harren had realised it also. While Pikan’s remains had been recognisable as human, Harren was a jumble of cracked and shattered bits of bone in an untidy pile on the floor. Gilmour didn’t care to let himself imagine what the dark prince had done to the novice Senator.
Joining him on the landing, Rodler asked, ‘Is this someone else you knew?’ He had casually accepted Gilmour as – somehow - a Larion Senator, one who had survived the past five generations and was returning to Sandcliff Palace for the first time.
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