by Dave Smeds
He sheathed his weapon. The phantom of Keron had already vanished. But it was not simply relief that Alemar felt; no, it was exultation. He had beaten a fear that had plagued him during his entire stay in Zyraii and found in its place a new sense of self-worth. The sorcery of the room had actually helped him. He was a more complete being now than when he had entered. He understood why the ken had conceived of the tests. Those who survived the rooms could rightly provide the spiritual leadership for a nation.
He noted the green flicker of the jewel on his chest. The ghost had lied about everything, even Elenya's death. Alemar refrained from attempting contact. His sister might be struggling for her life this very instant and need all her concentration.
Lies. Who could say whether or not his father was alive, or how the war was going? They might still have a chance; perhaps a good one. Furthermore, Alemar had not failed. He had thwarted the third room. Beyond, somewhere through the portal that now beckoned, the weapon left by Alemar Dragonslayer was waiting for one of the Blood to claim it. Excitement, not fear, drew him to the entrance of the fourth room.
* * * *
He was waiting for her in the middle of the third room.
Elenya tensed, expecting the rush of menace or other psychological attack, but all she saw was the lone figure in the middle of a room identical to the previous two. The werelight was back, so she set her own torch in place of the charred remnant in a niche by the door, and moved forward.
He wore a gleaming set of leather armor, cut in the style of the Calinin Empire. The hide could turn or slow all but the best sword thrusts, yet it was light enough so as not to slow its wearer down appreciably. In one hand he bore an Aleoth longsword, as thin as her rapier but, she knew, far stronger, with an edge that allowed him to slash as well as parry and thrust. In his other hand he held a stiletto, an excellent balance to the longsword: he commanded both reach and infighting. The man himself was well over six feet tall, lithe and young. As she came nearer, she recognized the emblem on his chest. He was a member of the Shadow Corps of Xais, the elite assassins whose charter generations had played the vital role in winning the Old Kingdoms for the Calinin.
She began to worry.
“Draw your weapon,” the shadow dancer said. “Or be cut down where you stand."
He had hardly spoken before he charged her. She drew her rapier and deflected his chop in one motion. Though she had almost stepped clear, avoiding most of the force, her arm almost went numb from the impact. She drew her dagger with her other hand and backed up.
He followed, the longsword prodding her like a stubborn oeikani, its length thwarting any counterattack she could think of. He denied her the luxury of time to gain her composure. It was all she could do to stay alive.
A trickle of blood ran down her dagger forearm. She hadn't even seen the jab that had nicked her. Casually, contemptuously, he pinked her on the underside of each breast.
Damn, he was good.
But she survived the first sixty seconds. Though bleeding from half a dozen small cuts, he had not wounded her critically yet. She had time to develop her defense.
She used classical strategies, to save her mind, to give her the time to originate better moves. First the Tiandra Block.
He sloughed it off with the Ezenean Offense, the maneuver Hoy of Orr had developed exactly to circumvent the Tiandra. The man knew his fencing. Not that she had doubted it.
She tried the Square next, and was nearly disembowelled. Likewise he mocked the Southern and the Rhidan Feints. By now she had backed up so far that her ankle came up against one of the dead men. She fell, making it appear that she had stumbled. He leaped forward. She thrust toward his groin. He sprang back, pinked in the inner thigh, while she rolled and regained her feet.
Bones and old flesh lay underfoot everywhere in this part of the room. Good—Elenya liked obstacles. Small in stature, she could avoid them with greater ease than a large opponent. She hopped from spot to spot. The assassin imitated her, graceful and sure—but not quite as fast. She had gained the respite needed to take the offensive.
She had realized her earlier error. She had used strategies that were too classical; they all stemmed from the days of the empire and would be well known to one of the Shadow Corps. When she attacked, she used the unique Cilendri Maneuver that had made the original Lord Garthmorron famous.
She was jolted by a sharp pain in her ribs. Suddenly she was on the defensive again, blood pouring out of her side. The shadow dancer had skewered her well that time. She tasted bile deep in her gullet.
He had her now. Already it was hard to hold the dagger on that side. He didn't even have to press the attack now. If he simply held her at bay until the loss of blood sapped her strength, she would be putty in his hands.
He obviously realized this. He broke off and retreated to the center of the room, where the clear floor put the advantage squarely in his territory. He wasn't going to leave her the opportunity for tricks. He was making it plain—she was going to lose.
She was. She could tell. She had met the one. Lonal might have been able to beat her and maybe not, but there was no question with this man. He was a demon. She dropped her dagger and held a palm against her wound. The blood leaked through between her fingers, sticky, hot.
“Amateur,” he taunted. “You should have left this art to men."
She stumbled forward, already finding it hard to walk a steady line.
“Such a dainty babe,” he said. “You would have made a fine ornament for a harem.” He snorted theatrically. “Look. You are so tiny, I could blow you over."
Her rapier began to twitch in her hand. She was still walking forward.
He only smiled. “Put down your toy and—"
She lunged, swallowing the last few paces between them. His point speared her heart, the pain blacking out her awareness. But nothing was going to stop her. She buried her rapier in him up to the hilt even as she fell.
The impact with the floor woke her up again. She ached incredibly. She hadn't thought it could get much worse after the first two rooms. It took her several long, heavy breaths before she could lift her head up.
The room was empty.
Gradually she understood. She had ceased to care whether she lived or died. She was willing to sacrifice herself, as long as she could avoid defeat. In so doing, she had lost all fear.
Three times the spell had captured her. She should have felt like a fool; instead she laughed. She pitied the man who might challenge her with the sword in the future. After this, what could intimidate her?
Three rooms, three types of fear. In the first, primal terror—all the things that traditionally frighten human beings. In the second, the fear of the enemy, of sudden death at the hands of the Other whose greatest desire is to destroy you. In the third, fear of failure—self-doubt—not technically a fear at all, but just as threatening. What, Elenya wondered, would come next?
She stood up. Her knees were skinned, her jaw sore from banging it on the floor, but she had suffered no permanent damage. She was ready, full of an intoxicating sense of resolve, to enter the fourth room.
* * *
XLII
THE FOURTH ROOM WAS DIFFERENT, Elenya realized. It was smaller and contained none of the human remains that had distinguished the others. But like its predecessors, it resembled a vault, hollow and barren. Only after a few seconds did she notice that the walls seemed smoother than in the other chambers. They were marble, polished slick and so perfectly seamed that the cracks between the sections barely showed. There was no door on the other side of the room; the way she had come was the only visible access. She took a few cautious steps forward.
Four things happened.
First, the by now familiar blue illumination increased to full, white light, painful to her pupils. While she blinked, a stone partition sealed off the portal through which she had come. Simultaneously, a section of the far wall slid away, revealing a niche that housed a large, sealed tank of water. The tan
k contained objects Elenya immediately recognized as Elandri airmakers. Finally, a crack appeared in the floor, splitting it down the middle across her path. Both halves of the floor began to fold downward, as if hinged at the walls. The widening crevice smelled dank and led to darkness.
She could hear mechanisms whir within the structure. The floor dipped slowly but inexorably. It took only a moment for her to ascertain that neither the walls nor the floor would provide any hand or foot holds. She was going to be dumped into whatever waited below.
All at once she identified the scent rising from the opening. It was water.
The gap spread to almost six feet across. The slope was now almost thirty degrees. Cursing, she sprinted to the edge and jumped. She landed on the balls of her feet and scurried up the other side.
The tank lid was not locked. She lifted it, grabbed the nearest airmaker, and quickly set it over her head, letting go of the lid. By the time she had adjusted the fit securely, the floor was listing sharply. She could stay there until the room dumped her, or she could face the pit immediately. She made her decision, sat down on the floor, legs flat in front, and slid down past the edge and into space.
She fell only a dozen feet before she struck the water. She scissor-kicked, halting her descent. She didn't bother to rise; she was already breathing through the airmaker. To her relief, she had only been down a few moments when the light increased. Soon she could make out her surroundings.
Above, the floor of the room continued to unfold. It didn't stop until both halves hung perpendicular to the surface of the water. The fourth room didn't like visitors, but its riddle was now plain to Elenya.
It was a physical trap, not one of sorcery. Small wonder that no one had ever returned from beyond the third room. If, as she suspected, most of those who had tried over the ages had been Zyraii, then they had endured the most unusual cause of death the desert people could imagine. Except for occasional flash flood victims, no one in the nation drowned.
The room wanted only individuals who knew what airmakers were to survive.
The smooth marble walls continued downward on all four sides. Somewhere far below Elenya detected the convoluted rock that must have been the original, natural walls of the spring that lay under Setan. On one side, however, she could see a large, square opening some twenty feet from the surface.
She descended, rediscovering how good it felt to have water around her body. The coolness invigorated her and rinsed the sweat of fright from her skin. She took a moment to wash herself more thoroughly, feeling better than she had since entering Setan.
Such a long period without swimming awakened vivid memories of her first use of the airmakers. She had finally reached an age when Obo, her grandfather, and Lord Dran had agreed that she and Alemar could be told their heritage, and one of the first fringe benefits took the form of training to use the ancient devices. The experience by itself would have been memorable enough, but coupled with the idling through the deeps and shallows was the chance to fantasize about being an Elandri princess. She was young enough for that to seem grand and precious, and the airmakers had always thereafter represented the romantic visions that failed to come true once she neared adulthood. Thus far being an Elandri princess had meant little beyond hard training and personal sacrifice.
Armed with a little bit of feckless confidence of a more naïve point in life, she passed through the opening into a tunnel. She saw no markings or side openings. The passageway tilted slightly upward, and at the far end the light seemed brighter.
The distance was greater than could be expected of a man holding a single breath. Finally the tunnel ended and her head popped up into clear air.
* * * *
Alemar found himself in still another barren chamber. But this one, unlike the others, contained a living man.
Alemar pulled the airmaker off his head and jumped out of the pool. He knelt down beside the stranger and gently lifted his head. The man opened rheumy eyes. He was middle-aged, emaciated, and ripe with the odor of diarrhea and vomit. He wore a tattered robe similar to that of a Po-no-pha, but so soiled and worn that it was difficult to tell if it had ever been white. Only his sword seemed to be in good condition.
“Who are you?” Alemar asked in Zyraii. “How did you get here?” He saw no other entrances.
“Eehhhhh,” the man said. Just to exhale seemed to cause him strain.
Alemar took the man's hand and concentrated. What is wrong? Why do you suffer? How may I ease your pain?
The voices of the man's body were faint. Alemar felt like a beginning apprentice, his attempt feeble when the man's condition required sure and tested talent. He heard hollow echoes. It was nothing like any other living human he had ever scanned before. It was almost as if the man were ... empty.
“Help me,” the stranger rasped.
But Alemar didn't know what to do. He couldn't tell if the man's intestines were inflamed, if his lungs were rotted, if he had been poisoned, or even if his heart were beating normally. The Sight had left him.
He had only one choice. He opened the man's collar and placed both hands firmly on the latter's chest. He called on his energies and felt them begin to flow from his finger tips.
The man screamed.
Alemar broke contact, smoke rising from the spot he had touched. Livid imprints of his hands still remained, seared into the man's skin. The man emitted a rasp and his eyes glazed over.
“No!” Alemar cried. He looked at his betraying palms.
The smoke increased. Hissing and popping, the man's hair, skin, and clothing began dissolving away. Alemar stepped back, horrified. Greasy pools formed beneath the body, themselves bubbling and evaporating away. The rib cage appeared, at first covered with red, brown, and grey coatings of tissue, until these in turn fumed away, leaving only gleaming white bone. The eyes exploded. Foul gases burbled out of body cavities. Finally, every last bit of soft tissue had vanished. The floor contained only a skeleton, an ancient one at that.
All except the sword. Its belt and scabbard had melted along with everything else, but the blade sparkled in the artificial light.
The skeleton reached out and grasped the sword hilt.
Alemar retreated halfway to the pool. The skeleton clambered to its feet, joints rattling and creaking, united as if tendons, muscles, and cartilage were still present. It advanced toward Alemar.
It's not real, Alemar told himself. It is another spell. Another test of the mind. Though filled with a preternatural dread, he planted his feet and waited for the creature to come.
It didn't hesitate a moment. When it came within range, it swung the sword like an axe at Alemar's neck.
Just in time, Alemar fell back. The sword tip nicked his throat, leaving a superficial but profusely flowing cut.
The skeleton laughed.
The blood convinced Alemar. The wound was real. This spell wasn't like the others. It had found a fear he could not conquer. He would always hold inside the worry that one day his healing talent would fail him. The skeleton wouldn't go away. It could, and would, kill him. As the knowledge settled into his mind, the room shifted. The dust of the centuries appeared. Lying in molding piles were the remains of three previous visitors who had penetrated this far. To his shock, the freshest corpse wore the insignia of the Claw, Gloroc's prized cadre of assassins.
The skeleton waited patiently. It knew it had no need to rush. It had waited centuries for its few victims. It might wait many more before another breached the chamber. In the meantime, it would enjoy the diversion. Alemar felt the trickle from his neck pass his belt and start down his leg.
Tentatively he drew his weapon.
The hilt felt alien. He had not wielded it in actual conflict since the pass of Hattyre. But his childhood training had been exhaustive, and his general physical condition was as good or better than it had ever been, though impacted by the ordeal of the past few hours. Perhaps he had a chance.
The skeleton, as if reading his thoughts, cackled a
gain and began with a thrust.
Alemar avoided it, returning a riposte. The skeleton ignored it. The tip of the saber slipped between two ribs, inflicting no damage. The skeleton casually lapsed into the Ezenean Offense. Alemar parried and retreated. The classic move was not a potent one, but it was difficult to counter or redirect—a safe, time-consuming way for a superior player to wear out an unskilled challenger.
Alemar swore. This was a situation for armor and a battle axe. The only threat he could pose to his enemy were in hacking blows designed to break the bones. His saber wasn't meant for that.
Nevertheless, he had to try. The skeleton taunted him, left him openings, so he took one. He slashed toward the thing's ribs again. The edge of the weapon clattered against the target, creating sparks and leaving a numbing tingle in Alemar's wrist.
More sorcery. The skeleton was not only animate, it was invulnerable. At any point, whenever it tired of the fray, it could simply step in and butcher him.
Alemar fenced for his life. He was far better than the thing. Its movements were mechanical; it was slow as well. Even out of practice, Alemar would have won in seconds if the contest had been against a mortal being. But each time he successfully jabbed or slashed, the only reward was a bell-like clang and more sparks. Once, he knocked a few grains out of the skeleton's collarbone, but the blow left Alemar's arm so nerveless that he had to transfer his weapon to the other hand.
Alemar had always been an ambidextrous swordplayer, and he continued now to fight with nearly equal skill, but it was increasingly hard to motivate himself. He adopted a strictly defensive strategy. But he was tired and could only get more tired, while the thing never wore out.
Finally, the skeleton thrust more strongly. Alemar parried. Another thrust, another parry. Five more, and Alemar met each one. Then the thing nicked him on a bicep. A few blows later, another scratch on the thigh. Within another two minutes, he was wounded superficially in several places, and droplets of blood splattered the floor. The time had come. The creature was through with its games.
