by Dave Gross
Shamur nodded and said, "First let's feed Ripper, boys, then let's find some rope."
Despite her cavalier tone, Shamur's eyes were lined with concern. She hadn't liked the sound of these "Vanes" any more than Cale had. She prodded one of the men with the point of her sword.
"Back here in fifteen minutes," said Cale.
The attendants had answered quickly enough and seemed frightened enough to be telling the truth, but Cale couldn't count on that. Cautiously, he descended the steps to the guardroom. Lying on the stone steps, he crept down far enough to peer into the room below.
He saw two guards, both of whom had doffed their helms and set aside their breastplates and pauldrons. One of them sat at a table along one wall, rinsing bandages in a basin. The other carried a hot cauldron carefully into another room. Through the open door, Cale saw three occupied cots and inferred that there were at least three more in the room.
He got back to his feet and considered the two weapons in his hands. The sword was more certain, and he didn't have time to waste. Still, neither of the men was his assigned target, and he had no reason to believe that either of them was particularly despicable. Seeing them tend the wounded only aggravated Cale's qualms about killing them.
He made his choice and slipped quietly down the stairs, pausing only for an instant to scan the rest of the room. Satisfied that it was empty except for the men he had seen, he stepped behind the guard with the bandages and rapped him sharply on the head. The man fell forward, his arm knocking the basin off the table. Cale lunged forward and caught it just before it would have shattered on the floor.
"You all right in there?" called the other guard.
Cale heard the man set his cauldron on the floor and begin returning to the room. He stepped to the side of the door and pressed his back against the wall. When the guard came through, Cale shut the door behind him with one hand while raising his truncheon to strike.
The guard was no mere stable hand, however. Sensing the motion behind him, he ducked his head forward and kicked backward, striking Cale in the hip and groin. He spun in the same motion, reaching for his sword as he opened his mouth to shout for help.
Cale thrust the truncheon into the man's open jaws, choking him and smothering his alarm. The unorthodox attack shocked the guard into clutching for Cale's weapon rather than using his own.
Cale pushed forward, forcing the man's head back as he reached for his sword arm. He caught the man's wrist and twisted, turning him to face the ground, and removed the truncheon in the same motion. The man coughed and gasped for breath. Cale knelt on his back and rapped his head once. The man stopped moving, but his breath continued to come in struggling little wheezes.
Satisfied that the two men would remain unconscious a while longer, Cale bolted the door to the sick room, and he turned to his main task.
A little less than three minutes had passed since he'd left Shamur.
*****
"You're late," said Shamur. She stood beside the same griffon. Cale knew there hadn't been time to remove the beast's saddle, but the lather had been wiped from its tawny coat.
"I had a hard time choosing the right color," Cale replied.
Shamur looked at the bright red armor Cale had lugged up from the guardroom and laughed. Cale wasn't sure whether she or he was more surprised at his banter. It was a great relief to jest after all his brooding on the journey to the castle, and it reminded him again of his friend Jak Fleet. The wise-cracking halfling always helped Cale shed some of the gloom that naturally gathered around him.
"At least this way they won't shoot us down on sight," Cale said.
He began putting on the armor and immediately realized it would never look convincing on his tall, gaunt frame. Even had it been made to fit him, Cale thought he would never prefer metal armor to his familiar black leathers. At least in them he felt he could breathe.
Despite her height and her decidedly feminine shape, Shamur looked far more convincing as a Vermilion Guardsman once she tied her hair back and donned the helmet.
They finished their disguises by securing the long capes to their shoulders. Cale added the short sword to the long sword at his weapon belt. Once they found Thamalon, he wanted his master to be armed.
"Ready?" asked Shamur.
Cale nodded and said, "Are you prepared? This Sorcerer sounds even more dangerous than Marance Talendar."
"Wizards fear me," said Shamur. "Just don't get between us."
"If he is there, my lady, perhaps it would be best-"
"Shamur," she corrected him.
"Shamur," he said. "Let me deal with the Sorcerer. If Thamalon is up there, he will need you."
"Yes," she said, "that would be best."
Cale was surprised that she didn't argue the point, but he didn't wish to question this small good fortune.
They mounted the griffon and took to the sky. Shamur urged Ripper to climb, and they followed a rising spiral up to the central tower of Castle Stormweather. They spied three other griffon-riding teams circling above the high tower, and Shamur kept a safe distance from them.
A dozen or more courtiers stood upon the tower surface, their fine clothes damp from the surrounding storm. They held palms over the mouths of their goblets to protect them from the drizzling rain. Servants coursed among them, refilling cups and offering hors d'oeuvres. Despite the weather, they chatted cheerfully as they observed the spectacle above them.
Ugly posts of rusty iron rose from the edge of the tower at the four corners of the world and their children. At each of the eight points swung the metal blades of a gigantic weather vane, each facing the next as the wind swirled around the tower. Beneath each vane stood a red-armored guardsman, a sword at his hip and a long spear in his hand.
Strapped to four of the wheels were corpses, one so long rotting that its body flopped where its arms had pulled away from their sockets. Bound to a fifth was an elf whose brown skin had burned to gray flakes in the wind and sun. Two of the wheels were empty, but lashed to the last of them was Thamalon Uskevren.
He couldn't have been on the rack for more than a few hours, a day at most. His eyes were closed, but his head lolled against the spinning of the wheel. The cold had drained the color from his face, and his clothes were damp with rain and sweat. Except for the blood at his wrists, where his wire bonds chafed his skin, he appeared unwounded but for profound privation and the torture of the elements.
"I changed my mind," shouted Shamur. "Leave the Sorcerer to me!"
"It would be better if we concentrate on-ulp!"
Shamur leaned forward to send Ripper plunging toward the congregation among the torture wheels. The diving griffon sent the courtiers and their servants scattering to the edges of the tower, their fine goblets crashing to the stone floor behind them. The guards raised an alarm before gathering near the center of the tower to form a unified defense.
"Get ready to jump!" Shamur yelled above the cacophony of terrified courtiers and the screaming wind. She pulled Ripper's neck to the side to force a tight turn and dived toward the tower again. "Get him down from that thing!"
"This is not the best way to-" Cale gave up trying to persuade Shamur of a less direct attack. The sight of her tormented husband had driven out any lingering inclination toward subtlety.
He gripped the back of the saddle with one hand while unbuckling the straps with the other. Shamur brought the griffon in close to the vane on which Thamalon slowly spun. Too late, Cale realized how hopeless it was to leap from the flying animal to the wheel. He had no choice but to jump anyway.
He hit the sheet metal blade hard enough to make a Cale-shaped dent in its surface. He grabbed for the rigging with both hands and held fast with one. Fortunately, one was enough to let him swing around and catch hold with the other. He might have climbed the blade as nimbly as a spider were he not hindered by the vermilion armor, yet he took one glance down at the spears of the guards and was glad for the protection.
The shock of impa
ct stirred Thamalon to wakefulness. He craned his neck to see Cale clinging to the vane above him, then beside him, then below him as the wheel turned in the wind.
"We've come to get you out of here," said Cale.
"Oh, good," said Thamalon thickly. He sounded drunk, more like his wastrel son than himself.
Cale felt a sudden thickness in his throat. Like Shamur, he felt a rising fury against the man who had set his master upon this torture device, but even more he felt the sour tang of guilt that he'd failed to protect Thamalon.
"Let's get you off this thing."
"The guards," murmured Thamalon.
"Shamur is keeping them busy."
"Where?" Thamalon asked. He lifted his head, blinking through his grogginess.
Ripper screamed as Shamur brought him in for another pass over the Vermilion Guard. Cale hoped she stayed out of range of their spears and that the flying guards who circled the tower hadn't yet arrived. He put his trust in her and concentrated on freeing Thamalon.
"Hold still," said Cale, "this is going to be tricky."
He cut the wires binding Thamalon's right wrist to the blade. Thamalon's arm fell limply to his side, all sensation long since squeezed out of the limb.
The heavy armor made it difficult to maneuver on the spinning vane, but Cale thrust one foot between the frame and the metal blade. Wedged there, his leg gave him an anchor. He unclasped his weapon belt, looped it through Thamalon's belt before securing it once more, and freed his master's legs.
Awkwardly, Thamalon put his limp arm around Cale's neck. Cale felt a feeble strength in his embrace and hoped it would return more quickly once he got Thamalon down.
"Hold on," he warned Thamalon. "Go limp, and make sure to stay above me."
He cut the remaining bonds, then kicked away to fall to the tower floor. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, but the ill-fitting armor at last proved useful as more than a disguise.
Thamalon rolled off of Cale and lolled on the stone roof. Cale rose to a crouch and drew his long sword. To his surprise, none of the guards approached him.
The courtiers and servants had already fled the roof, and the guards had withdrawn to the far side, near the stairs. They held their spears up at attention and watched the sky above.
Cale looked up to see Shamur and Ripper circling the tower, waiting to land near Cale and Thamalon. She looked down at her husband lying on the ground, struggling to rise to his hands and knees as Cale stood protectively above him.
She didn't see the Sorcerer rising in the sky behind her.
"Shamur!" cried Cale. "Look out!"
She turned just in time to see the man shake his winged scepter at Ripper. A spear of red lightning shot from the scepter's giant ruby to plunge into the griffon's back, straight through the archer's seat in the double saddle. Sparks from the scintillating shaft ignited Shamur's red cloak. As the griffon fell onto the tower floor, she threw herself to the side, rolling to smother the flames. They had spread from the cloak to the long plume on her helm.
Ripper's body rolled until it hit the low wall at the tower's edge. Its impact sent half a ton of stone tumbling from the tower's edge, but the creature came to a halt, its wings splayed horribly as its leonine legs twitched for a few seconds before going limp.
"How many more uninvited guests must I endure?" bellowed the Sorcerer.
To Cale's ear, the voice sounded like Tamlin imitating his father. He couldn't see the man's face within its barred helm, but he feared he already knew whom he would resemble.
Shamur whipped off her flaming helmet and cast it away. She drew her sword and glared up defiantly at the Sorcerer.
"We are the death of you," she said, "if you don't allow us to leave here with my husband."
The Sorcerer laughed and glided slowly down to her.
"What a fierce one you are! Lady Uskevren, is it? However did mild Thamalon win you over with his ledgers and abacus? Let me have a look at you."
Cale saw her frown in puzzlement at the Sorcerer's words. Perhaps she was beginning to recognize his voice as well. Cale hoped that wouldn't cause her to hesitate at the wrong moment.
"Can you stand?" he whispered to Thamalon.
Thamalon rose to his feet, but he stood hunched painfully, his arms hanging in simian fashion at his sides.
"Barely," he said, raising one hand to receive the short sword Cale passed him. He held it gingerly but with the unconscious grace of a practiced swordsman.
Cale doffed his helmet and pulled open the straps on his pauldrons, letting them slip to the roof.
"Stay here," he said, before circling around the tower.
All eyes were on the Sorcerer and Shamur, so he felt he had at least a slim chance of closing with the man should he land.
The Sorcerer remained carefully out of reach of Shamur's sword. He lowered his scepter and gazed appreciatively at the woman.
"I can see the resemblance in your eyes," he said. "I suppose I should be grateful."
"Reveal yourself," Shamur shouted. "Show me your face!"
"With pleasure, my dear girl," said the Sorcerer.
He lifted his helm and tossed it to his soldiers, who fell over themselves to catch it before it struck the floor.
Shamur grimaced at the sight of her son's face.
She snapped at him, "What have you done to Tamlin?"
The Sorcerer flinched.
"Do not speak that name," he growled. "I will not tolerate-"
The tower shook as thunder rumbled up from the castle's foundation-exactly as Cale had felt at Stormweather Towers twice before falling into the strange alternate plane. He'd made it halfway around the tower's edge, slightly behind the Sorcerer. It was still too far, and the man still floated too high above the tower roof. Cale crept ever closer, praying that none of the guards would notice him and cry out a warning.
"Who dares?" said the Sorcerer, shooting a glance at Thamalon and dropping slightly closer to the tower floor as he did so. He seemed surprised to see his guest was still present. "How-? Who else have you brought here?"
"Tamlin!" cried Shamur. "Where is he?"
"Of course," the Sorcerer said. "He would be able… But that means…"
Cale sensed that the man was about to flee. He would have no better opportunity than this one. He ran at the Sorcerer.
"My lord!" shouted one of the guards.
Shamur spotted Cale at the same time. Her gaze flicked uncertainly from the Sorcerer to Cale.
"No!" she shouted. "Wait!"
But Cale knew that to hesitate would mean their deaths, not to mention thousands more when the elves arrived. He leaped while still two yards behind the man, thrusting at his spine.
The Sorcerer turned just enough to elude instant death. Cale's blade sank deeply into the man's back, piercing his lung.
Despite her uncertainty, Shamur pounced upon the wounded Sorcerer. Shocked by his wound, he sank to the floor as she pulled him down. Cale had already withdrawn his sword and pressed it to the man's throat. He pinned the Sorcerer's left arm to the roof and kicked away his scepter.
"Don't kill him," hissed Shamur. She knelt on the man's right arm, though not too heavily. Her expression flickered between mistrust and wonder. "He could be…"
She didn't finish her thought.
"Don't worry," said Cale. He shouted at the approaching guards, "Stand back!"
At the sight of the blade to their master's throat, the guards withdrew a few steps.
"Drop your weapons," said Cale.
They grudgingly complied, throwing down their spears and unbuckling their sword belts.
"Idiots," grunted the Sorcerer.
His handsome face was twisted in a rictus of pain and annoyance. He twisted his pinned arms to press his fingers to Cale's leg, and he spat out a word of Art.
Even as Cale drew his blade across his enemy's throat, an electric jolt snapped his spine like a whip and blinded him with a flash filled with green afterimages. His body jerked in uncontrollab
le spasms, and the Sorcerer pushed him away. Cale fell back on the roof. As the Sorcerer rose painfully to his feet, Cale saw Shamur twitching on the roof beside him.
The shock passed in mere moments, but that was all it took the guards to recover their weapons and form a line between their master and his foes. Cale rolled slowly to his side and seized the sword he'd dropped.
The Sorcerer looked up at the sky.
"You!" he shouted, shaking his fist at the heavens. With a gesture that left incarnadine trails behind his fingers, he waved away whatever vision only he had perceived then he snapped to one of his guards, "Take me to the Vault!"
The Sorcerer leaned heavily on the man's shoulder, and Cale saw he was leaving a trail of blood. Perhaps he would die before he reached his destination. Cale thought a prayer to Mask that it would be so.
Before descending the stairs, the Sorcerer paused to give his men one last command.
"Take these interlopers. When I return, I want to them all spinning on the Vanes."
CHAPTER 25
PASSAGE
After the blinding light and the horrid keening sound, Tamlin floated in a white abyss. He'd lost both his sword and the mysterious key that had pulsed in his hand as they uncovered the gate. His hand went to his breast. Not only was the flesh unbroken by the wound he was sure had killed him, but it was also bereft of clothing.
As the light receded to a comfortable level, Tamlin saw that he was completely naked.
Also, he was flying.
Tamlin floated in the center of a high hall. Its ceiling soared so far above him that he could barely make out its vaulted arc. He looked down to see that the floor was a distant shadow. All around the curving walls were doors and windows, crooked passages and candlelit promenades, half-balconies and flights of stairs that rose up past balconies of mirrors and portraits, only to turn and end abruptly in midair.
The room looked like a jumbled jigsaw puzzle of Stormweather Towers stacked four stories too high, with pieces lost from a hundred other puzzles mixed in. There stood a gigantic suit of armor that Tamlin's uncle Perivel had once worn. Upon a flight of stairs was a painting of his mother as a young woman, but Tamlin had never seen the portraits to either side of her. One of them was a green-faced lion-woman.
