Castle of Deception bt-1

by Mercedes Lackey

  “No! Curse you, no’ No!” Nearly sobbing with panicky strain, Kevin hacked and hacked and hacked at the hand till it shattered, releasing him. But the headless horror was getting to its feet once more.

  This is impossible! The thing is never going to give up!

  No, it wouldn’t, the bardling realized. None of the undead would. Not while the human necromancer’s spell bound them.

  Panting, Kevin glanced to where the Dark Elf stood. Naitachal was still battling his foe as fiercely as ever, eyes blazing with will. But to the bardling’s alarm, signs of strain showed all too clearly on the elegant face. Of course! Determined though he was, strong magician though he was, the Dark Elf had no sorcerous staff to feed him extra Power, nothing but the strength within his own slim body.

  He c-can’t hold out much longer, Kevin realized, not without help! But I don’t know any spell-songs to help him!

  Wait a minute ... Maybe he didn’t know any useful Bardic Magic—but maybe he wouldn’t need it! Didn’t all the old ballads claim when magic failed, plain common sense would save the day? There was one very practical thing he could do.

  Before the headless monstrosity could grab him again, Kevin snatched up the rock that had tripped him, hefting its weight experimentally in his hand as he ran, racing past the battle of undead against undead till nothing stood between him and the enemy sorcerer.

  If he sees me now, I’m dead.

  But the necromancer, absorbed in his magical trance, showed not the slightest sign he knew the bardling was there.

  Please, oh please, let this work ....

  Kevin threw the rock with all his strength—Ha, yes! It hit the necromancer smartly on the side of the head! The man staggered helplessly back, trance shattered, and from the other side of the field, Naitachal gave a hoarse cry of triumph as his magic blazed free. A blue-white bolt of magic slashed through the air, engulfing his human foe in flame. Frozen with shock, Kevin heard the necromancer give one wild scream of pain and terror. Then that sorcerous flame flared up so fiercely the bardling flung his arms protectively up over his eyes.

  It took no more than a few heartbeats’ rime. The fire vanished as swiftly as it had begun. Kevin warily lowered his arms, fearful of what he might see. But there was nothing, not man, not cloak, not staff, nothing but a small swirling of ash—

  The necromancer’s death shattered the binding spell. As simply as puppets with cut strings, the undead fell where they’d stood, the jumble of their bones melting quietly back into the earth. In only a few moments, the meadow had returned to grassy serenity, and nothing at all remained of the horror that had just been. I don’t believe ... I couldn’t have seen ...

  Kevin hurried back to Eliathanis, Lydia, and Tich’ki, suddenly wanting nothing so much as to be near other warm, living, mortal beings. Ah, he was glad to clasp their hands, glad to let Lydia hug him and to hug her back, glad even to feel Tich’ki tousle his hair with rough affection. All three started at the same time:

  “Are you hurt? I’m—”

  “I’m not, not—”

  “—really. Just bruised and—”

  “—tired and—”

  They broke off at the same time, too, then burst into laughter.

  “Hey, Naitachal!” Lydia called. “Don’t you, Naitachal?”

  A rigid figure swathed in his somber cloak, the Dark Elf never moved from where he stood.

  “Naitachal?” Eliathanis echoed hesitantly. “Are you ... ?”

  Without a sound, the Dark Elf crumpled to the ground and lay still.

  Interlude The Fourth

  “My lord. My Lord Count.”

  Volmar, hurrying down the corridors of his castle, grit his teeth, trying to ignore that dry, precise voice, but it. continued relentlessly:

  “Count Volmar. Please stop for a moment.”

  The count sighed silently. When D’Krikas got an idea in its insectoid head, nothing would do but to hear the Arachnia out. Reluctantly, he turned to ask, “Yes, What is it?”

  “You told me yesterday that you would read and sign these scrolls today.”

  Curse it! An Arachnia never forgot anything^.

  I don’t have time for this nonsense now!

  Carlotta was hidden in the count’s solar, studying her scrying mirror, and if he wasn’t there when she learned whatever she learned—He didn’t dare let the sorceress gain any advantages over him.

  “These are nothing,” Volmar said, glancing at the scrolls. “Small matters. Sign them yourself.”

  D’Krikas1 silence held a world of disapproval.

  “All right, all right!” The count held up a helpless hand. “I’ll sign them later. I don’t have time now.”

  “No. I can see that.”

  Something in the dry voice made Volmar stare up at the Arachnia. And all at once, the count felt the smallest prickle of unease run through him. Usually he managed to ignore the fact that his seneschal wasn’t human; D’Krikas kept pretty much to itself, after all, so quietly efficient Volmar could almost forget the being was there. Efficient, yes, meticulously so. The castle was never going to be short so much as a single copper coin or a loaf of bread as long as the Arachnia was in charge.

  But in this narrow, close corridor, D’Krikas seemed Co loom over him. Volmar had never stopped to realize just how tall an adult Arachnia grew, how tall and thin and alien, so alien ... The great, compound eyes studied him without blinking, the shiny chitin, half hidden by the being’s cloak, gave off a faint, spicy scent that was never a human scent, and Volmar, all at once overwhelmed, forced out a brash:

  “You don’t like me, do you?”

  D’Krikas drew back slightly in surprise. “What has ‘like’ or ‘dislike’ to do with matters? When my home hive grew overcrowded, I left co ease the burden of feeding all. I swore the proper oath to your father. You know that. I keep my oaths. You know that, too. I served your father the count and I serve you, as I will continue to serve the master of this castle, whomever that may be. As long as honor is not compromised.”

  Was there a hint of warning in the precise voice? Volmar fought down a shudder. He had once seen D’Krikas save a servant’s child from a rabid dog by calmly tearing the beast in two with those segmented, fragile-seeming arms, neatly and effortlessly as a man would tear a piece of parchment. And that precise Arachnia beak could sever bone. Everyone knew the one thing no Arachnia could endure was a loss of honor. If D’Krikas somehow suspected—No, no, that was ridiculous! No Arachnia wielded magic, and without magic, even clever D’Krikas would never be able to learn how his master was aiding the crown’s worse foe.

  “Your honor will not be compromised,” Volmar said shortly.

  He sent a page for pen and ink and signed the scrolls one after another, hardly bothering to read them, and hurried off, D’Krikas’ speculative gaze hot on his back.

  Carlotta never looked up from her scrying mirror as he entered, but Volmar knew she could tell perfectly well by her arcane senses who he was.

  “I don’t believe it.” The sorceress straightened in her chair, voice sharp with disbelief.” I simply don’t believe it”

  “Don’t believe what?” Volmar craned his neck, trying his best to see past the woman to the mirror. But to his frustration, what he could see of the images looked, to his non-sorcerous sight, like nothing more than blurs of color swirling on the smooth surface. “What’s happening? What’s wrong?”

  “That ridiculous nuisance of a boy just killed Alatan!”

  “The sorcerer?” Volmar gasped. “But that’s impossible! The boy is just a bardling, a nothing! Come now, Carlotta, from what I’ve seen of him, he couldn’t have managed enough Bardic Magic, or any other kind of magic strong enough to—”

  “He threw a rock.” Each word was savagely bitten off. “It was the Dark Elf who did the rest. Ann, damn him, damn them both!” She glanced sharply up at Volmar. “You would include a Dark Elfin the party!”

  “Hey now, don’t blame me!” the count exclaimed.
“It wasn’t my idea. Not mine alone, anyhow. We both agreed having one of that cursed breed in the group would help discredit the unholy elven lot.”

  “Unholy, is it?” Carlotta purred, her eyes narrowing to green slits. “In all the years I’ve known you, Volmar, you’ve never yet been able to shed this obsessive hatred of the elf-kind. It is beginning to grow quite .—wearisome.”

  Oh Powers. He’d forgotten all about her being half of fairy blood. Horrified, Volmar remembered the woman’s quick temper, and realized he might just have doomed himself.

  “I d-don’t,” he stammered, struggling to find the words to soothe her, “I didn’t—I—I mean ...”

  Ignoring his helpless attempts at placation, she returned to studying her mirror.

  “Poor Alatan,” Carlotta murmured after a moment, without a hint of softness in her voice. “Poor fool. For all your Power, you never could control the weaknesses within your own mind. You let yourself be haunted all these many years by the memory of flame. And now the fire has snared you after all.” Her chuckle was soft and chillingly cold. “What a pity.”

  She was silent for a moment longer, staring into the mirror. Volmar stood frozen, hardly daring to breathe, wondering what other bad news the woman was going to announce.

  He jumped when Carlotta straightened with a sharp little cry. “So-o! Is that the way of it?” She glanced quickly up at the count again, one eyebrow raised in surprise—”It appears that at least the late Alatan managed to take the Dark Elf with him.”

  “Did he, now?” Volmar breathed an inner sigh of relief. “One less would-be hero to concern us.”

  With a wave other hand and a commanding Word, Carlotta banished the images, and got restlessly to her feet “Yes, one dead elf, but the others remain. And with that cursed hunter, that warrior-woman, to guide them, such a small party is going to be able to elude almost anything.”

  Well now, wasn’t this interesting! For once the mighty Carlotta seemed to actually be at a loss! Her pet necromancer’s death must have shaken her more than she’d admitted.

  Volmar straightened in dour delight. Good. Let her know for a change what it felt like to be uneasy and unsure. And in the meantime, let him at last take charge of the situation!

  “Never mind,” the count said, his voice gentle with false concern. “Let them come.”

  She glared at him. “Have you gone mad?”

  “Please. Hear me out Don’t, hinder them, I say.” Volmar smiled at her, enjoying her confusion. “Who knows? While the boy is here, perhaps he’ll find that elusive manuscript for us.”

  “Yes. but—”

  “Carlotta, my dear princess, you worry too much.”

  “Don’t patronize me.” It was all the more alarming for having been quietly said.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Ah, but you did.”

  He could have sworn she hadn’t done anything more than raise a hand. But suddenly Volmar was——. nowhere, floating helplessly in empty grayness with no sense of up, no down, no light; or dark or life ... Choking, the count fought in vain to breathe, but oh gods, there was no air here, either. His lungs were aching, his heart was pounding painfully, he was dying ....

  Carlotta, no! Please, no!

  All at once there was a real world about him once more. All at once he was fallen to hands and knees on a hard stone floor, able to think of nothing but drawing air into his lungs.

  After a time, Volmar realized he was back in his casde, with Carlotta standing over him, face impassive. “Never underestimate me, either,” she murmured.

  The count dragged himself to his feet, collapsing into a chair, bathed in cold perspiration. “Never,” he echoed weakly.

  Illusion. It had to have been illusion. He couldn’t have actually left this realm. He couldn’t really have just been trapped in—in that deadly emptiness.

  Volmar took a deep breath. “You misunderstand me.” He forced a ghost of sincerity into his voice. “I never meant to belittle you. Nor,” the count added honestly, “to deny your powers.”

  She raised a skeptical eyebrow, then smiled sweetly.

  “No. You wouldn’t dare, would you? All right.

  Continue.”

  “This is my castle, these are my people. What, did you think I’d been idle all this while?” Little by little, Volmar felt self-confidence stealing back into him. Of course it had been illusion. “Once the boy and his misguided comrades are actually here, I have a few surprises of my own to spring on them. And I don’t believe,” the count added with dark humor, “that they will enjoy them.”

  Chapter XVI

  “Naitachal!”

  Eliathanis raced to the fallen elf’s side, closely followed by the others. Kevin got there an instant before Lydia and the fluttering Tich’ki, dropping to his knees beside Naitachal’s still form. The White Elf glanced across at the bardling, green eyes wide. “I d-don’t think he’s breathing.”

  “Oh no, that can’t be right, he has to be!”

  Kevin hastily snatched up a dark wrist. For a panic-stricken, seemingly endless while, he couldn’t find any pulse at all.

  Come on, come on, you can’t he dead, not now.

  All at once the bardling felt ... yes. Kevin released Naitachal’s wrist with a sigh of relief. “He’s alive. I... think he’s just asleep. Deeply asleep. That sorcerous duel must really have worn him out.”

  Eliathanis shuddered faintly. “Yes.” He straightened slowly, fussing with the set of his now sadly tattered cloak, plainly struggling to regain his composure. “Of course it did. I should have realized that.”

  Well, what do you, know? Kevin stared at the White Elf in surprise. You really were worried about him!

  Not that such revelations mattered right now. Kevin glanced doubtfully down at Naitachal. Sleeping like this on bare ground couldn’t be doing the Dark Elf any good. Particularly not on this ground. Everybody else seemed to be too battle-dazed to suggest anything, so the bardling said as firmly as he could:

  “Eliathanis, why don’t you see if you can coax our mules back here?”

  “Ah. Yes.”

  “And, Lydia, can you help me lift Naitachal? The sooner we get him—and us—away from here, the better.”

  “Right.”

  For all his worry and ever-growing weariness, the bardling couldn’t help but feel a little thrill of wonder at the way they were obeying him without question.

  Maybe I am o leader after all. Sort of, anyway, he added wryly. For now, anyhow.

  Naitachal slept without stirring all during Eliathanis’ finally successful efforts to persuade the snorting, still-trembling mules to return. He slept during that entire day’s ride through field and forest, alternately supported in the saddle by Kevin, Lydia and Eliathanis—He continued to sleep while they set up camp for the night, lost in so deep and still a slumber that Kevin began to worry.

  He’ll wake up soon enough. Of course he will.

  But Naitachal continued to sleep. And at last Kevin’s worry grew to the point where the bardling couldn’t stand it any longer. Glancing uneasily at the others, he burst out with the question he suspected they were all thinking:

  “What are we going to do if Naitachal doesn’t wake up?”

  “He’ll wake.” Eliathanis, tending the campfire, didn’t sound quite sure about that.

  “But what if he doesn’t?”

  “He will,” Tich’ki said firmly. “Look, I’m the only other one of us who has any real magic, and believe me, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen a magician overtax himself to-the point of collapse. There’s only so much strength in a body, you know.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Very true.”

  It was little more than a whisper, so unexpected a sound that they all started.

  “Naitachal!”

  “So I am.”

  The Dark Elf sat up, very slowly and carefully, as though he wasn’t quite sure his body would obey him. Lydia made an abortive little move towards him,
then stopped with a cautious, “How do you feel?”

  “Like something dragged up by one of my own spells,” Naitachal admitted wryly.

  “But you’ll be all right?” Eliathanis’ eyes were oddly wary.

  “Indeed.”

  This is ridiculous! This is Naitachal, the comrade who’s been riding with us all along. He hasn’t turned into a monster.

  But even as he thought that, Kevin knew they were all a little leery of Naitachal now, this Dark Elf who had suddenly revealed himself as a fearful necromancer who could destroy a foe with one blast of sorcerous flame—