by Barb Hendee
Her weight gave, and she splashed down to one knee. But Chane staggered as well, smoke still rising from the quarrel in his back. He moaned, clutching at the shaft.
Magiere braced with the falchion to get back up, but she couldn't keep weight on her wounded leg for too long. Chane was in no better shape. If she could get close enough for one swing…
"Aim for his head!" she yelled to Wynn.
But Wynn stood frozen in place. Tears ran down her cheeks.
The world slowed to a stop and all three stared at each other in silence.
If Wynn would simply fire, there would too much pain for Chane to defend or flee. If Wynn did not, Magiere's wounded leg might stop her from catching him.
Chane searched Wynn's face as if looking for something in it.
"If you take a step toward Magiere—or try to cast your magic," Wynn whispered, "I will shoot."
Chane took one stumbling step back, disbelief on his face.
"He's a killer—a monster," Magiere shouted to the sage. "Shoot him!"
Their positions were all wrong. If Magiere tried to close, she would simply be in Wynn's line of fire.
"Wynn?" she snarled. "Pull the lever, damn you."
But Wynn didn't move or take her eyes off of the undead.
Chane looked at her. The crystal of his irises faded to deep brown as a strange loss passed across his face. The tall undead turned and fled down the tunnel.
The dank air caught in Magiere's chest as she tried to stumble after her prey and nearly fell in the sewer water. She turned to Wynn.
"What have you done?"
"He may be a killer," Wynn whispered with effort as the crossbow sagged in her arms. "But I am not. Not like that. He spared me—and you."
"He didn't have a choice!" Magiere snapped back.
Wynn dropped the crossbow with a flinch, as if discarding something repugnant to the touch. She stepped down into the water and lifted Magiere's free arm over her shoulders.
"You made me believe we hunted savage beasts," the sage said accusingly.
"You stupid… girl," Magiere answered. What lunacy this woman had developed amid dusty books and isolation from the real world. "That's all they are."
"Then why did he let me live?"
"You were his tool."
"No," Wynn said firmly. "Now we must leave and see to your wounds."
Magiere drew a long breath, prepared to tell this idiot what she thought of her grand ethics, and the sound of footsteps resonated into the intersection.
"So much for your mercy," she said. "He's coming back to finish this."
She was about to shove Wynn away when she realized the footfalls were against stone and not splashing through the water. Slow and even, they came from up the wide flow way toward the city's center rather than down the tunnel into which Chane had fled.
Magiere's night vision was almost gone. Hunger had faded with the fury to call back her sight, leaving only frustration and fatigue. She barely made out the dark figure moving along the left-side stone walkway, and heard his voice echo to her.
"A moment, if you please."
Hollow and cultured—and familiar in a way that made Magiere tense.
A figure of medium height stepped into the far reach of the torchlight, wearing a black cloak over dark clothes that obscured him from view. With black-gloved hands, he pulled his cowl back, and even in the low torchlight, Magiere caught the streaks of white at his temples. Her leg gave again, and she leaned on Wynn.
"Welstiel?"
"Not quite what I expected," he said, ignoring her puzzlement as he glanced down the side tunnel Chane had taken. "But your skills are increasing. And I suppose this was still a worthwhile lesson. Never depend on anyone beside yourself, except perhaps for the half-blood or the majay-hi."
His voice. It was strangely familiar, urgently so, aside from when she'd last seen him in Miiska.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
Again he ignored her and looked at Wynn. "Leave."
Magiere felt Wynn's grip around her waist tighten. Weistiel lifted one black-gloved hand to point down the side tunnel.
His earlier words came back to Magiere— a moment, if you please.
She shoved Wynn in the direction Welstiel pointed and stumbled over to snatch the loaded crossbow, cradling it across her sword arm.
"Run now," Magiere ordered. "Find Leesil."
Wynn looked between Magiere and Welstiel in confused panic, then turned and slogged away into the tunnel.
Magiere leveled the crossbow directly at Welstiel.
Leesil watched in frustration and rage as Ratboy vanished.
Chap trotted down the slope to him, pushing his nose through the iron bars. At least he was all right. As much as Leesil should thank the elf for this, he was too angry.
"Open the damn gate!" he shouted.
The elf gazed at him from the top of the passage and turned aside out of view. Leesil heard rattling gears and chains, and the gate slowly lifted. When it was but halfway up, he ducked under and hurried up the walkway, picking up his torch along the way and gripping it along with the blade in his left hand. Chap followed close behind him.
The chamber was a large half circle, its flat side holding the archway entrance. Along this same wall, to either side, were narrow passageways. Ratboy had likely fled down the one to the left, and Leesil saw the elf standing on the right side, cranking a metal wheel. The man flipped a lever, locking the mechanism used to open the gate.
The walls reached up to four times the height of a man. High in the curved wall, a wide chute spilled a steady but light fall of water to the chamber floor. The smell of brine thickened here, and Leesil guessed this place was beneath the salt mill, where excess seawater was pumped in to flush the sewers.
"We're going after him," he said to the elf. "Are you coming?"
Chap began softly growling at the mouth of the left passageway, and the elf watched him with a puzzled expression that made Leesil briefly follow his gaze.
"You are alike," the elf said. "You care for only one thing—to kill the dead. Why?"
Leesil had no time for this. Ratboy was escaping yet again.
"Because they prey upon the living," he answered quickly. "No one else will… can hunt them, so we do."
"Humans," Sgaile said, as if spitting out something foul to the taste. "They feed on humans, are spawned from them. That creature serves his purpose in thinning the blight upon this world. These humans have even failed to remember their own folly that brought the world to the edge of death in their long-forgotten past."
"Then why didn't you kill me, a half-human?" Leesil asked in spite. "Why did you come after me at all?"
"An error of judgment was made—we do not kill our own," the elf said with difficulty, though his study of Chap made Leesil believe there was more to it.
"Slaughter, you mean," Leesil retorted. "That's what you do, just like these monsters." And he pointed down the passage Ratboy had taken.
"Is this why you abandoned your parents—to hunt the humans' dead?"
Leesil tensed. What did this elf know of his past?
"I left because my life was a horror, and I could no longer do as Darmouth forced me. I know they both were executed because of me."
"I care not what happened to your human sire," elf replied. "But Cuirin'nSn'a is a traitor to her people and their future. She will never again teach another our ways. And it matters little if you choose to waste yourself in such meaningless pursuit."
Chap snarled and lunged at the elf, and the man backed away two steps. But Leesil was only barely aware of this. For a moment he couldn't breathe.
Father had called mother Nein'a, and that was close to the name the elf had spoken.
Chap lunged again with a snap of teeth, backing the elf against the wall. The anmaglâhk looked at Leesil as if he were something unpleasant that couldn't be discarded.
"I came to you for one reason," he said with reluctance, not letting Chap slip
from his field of view. "To tell you that you must never step in our way, or our shared blood will not save you from the fate of a traitor."
Leesil waved Chap back, and the hound retreated several steps. The elf moved away from the wall, sidestepping toward the sloped passage.
"What is your name?" Leesil asked.
"Sgailsheilleache a Oshagairea gan'Coilehkrotall," he replied, as if challenging Leesil to even try to repeat it. "Sgaile, if that is easier for you to speak, though it gains you nothing. I am not known to anyone you will ever meet."
He stepped partway down the slant before looking back.
"You were my task, but you are no threat to us. You are anmaglâhk, but not yet a traitor. Go your way and do not interfere with ours."
Sgaile turned and disappeared into the sewers.
Chap's growl pulled Leesil's awareness back. The hound stood at the narrow passage down which Ratboy had fled. Leesil was about to follow but stopped and faced down the slope.
Sgaile's words rushed together in his mind and spread an anguish that nearly made him cry out. He ran down the slope, footfalls splashing in the open tunnel, but the elf was gone.
We do not kill our own… She will never again teach another our ways.
If the elves wouldn't kill their own but still punished a traitor…
Where was this Cuirin'nen'a—what had truly happened to his mother?
Toret ran, arms swinging wildly, barely clutching his short sword.
Elves—cursed elves everywhere.
He turned with the flow of water, heading toward the bay.
The quarrel wound in his head still seared, and the elf's wire had cut deeply into his throat. His damaged eye was not fully healed, and he needed to feed.
All of his lessons with Chane seemed useless. Master of his own family and house, he'd wanted to take Rashed's place. Such a role begged for skill at arms. But even with superior strength and speed, he couldn't match in two moons what took a swordsman years of practice. What a fool he'd been.
Chane, on the other hand, could fend for himself, yet the coward had left him with the dhampir and the half-blood. Toret simply wanted to find Sapphire and leave this place behind.
He ran hard. Sapphire must have escaped into the city near the bay, but he still couldn't sense her presence no matter where he turned. What if she'd managed somehow to find her way completely out of the city? That would explain his lack of connection.
Ahead, the tunnel roof curved downward, creating the illusion of meeting with the sewer floor. As he approached, he noted the passage dipped steeply downward. Water at his feet rushed faster. When he crested the slope, he looked toward the tunnel's end and saw the opening to the bay.
An iron gate was closed over the exit. He heard voices— many voices.
Toret crept a little farther along the tunnel wall and crouched to listen. City guards stood outside the sealed spillway to the bay. By voices, he counted at least seven or more men. Toret crept back up the slope to the level tunnel and began backtracking.
The other bay openings would be similarly guarded, so likely Sapphire had escaped into the city itself. If she'd followed the same path he had, there were any number of shafts she could have climbed up to the street. Most likely, she'd have traveled as far as possible through the tunnels and then used the last ladder shaft to slip out to hide in the city. She must be frightened out there all alone.
At the next intersection, he found the iron bars of a ladder leading up. Any way out would have to do. He reached for an iron rung, and a flicker of yellow light danced across the wall.
Toret flattened against the stone wall and glanced back down the tunnel.
The light came from a glowing stone on the half-blood's neck as he and the hound splashed into the intersection.
Leesil tossed his torch onto the closest tunnel walkway and stood before Toret with both blades out. The hound snarled, his fur wet and matted.
Toret no longer cared if the half-blood died or not. He was tired of all this and wanted nothing more than to find Sapphire and flee this city. In the kingdoms of the Suman Empire, he and his love could feed at will, safe in each other's company. All he need do was scramble up the rungs, and he would be into the streets before that half-blood could blink. If Toret was nothing else, he was quick.
Leesil's face was expressionless. "Wait."
The half-blood shifted both blades to one hand and pulled a dark blue velvet drawstring bag from behind his back. Puzzlement passed through Toret as Leesil clumsily pulled an object from the bag and held it up.
Sapphire's head hung from the half-blood's grip, with black fluids smeared from her gaping mouth across her pale cheeks.
Leesil steeled himself for Ratboy's screaming assault.
The small undead merely lowered his sword arm until the blade point dipped into the flowing water. He stared blankly with his one good eye and his head slowly turned from side to side in denial.
"You couldn't," he said weakly. "She was in the sewer ahead of me. It's a trick."
Leesil flung the head and shifted his second blade back to his free hand.
Sapphire's head struck Ratboy in the stomach, and he closed his arms around it, still clinging to his sword.
"Take a closer look," Leesil said.
Ratboy looked upon Sapphire's blond curls matted with her own black fluids. For a moment, he didn't react, still denying what he held in his hands. His pale face suddenly twisted in a soundless, tearless sob.
"That's for Beth-rae," Leesil spit out. "You cut her throat with your nails back in Miiska. Remember? And Eliza. You left her dead in her own backyard for her brother, Brenden, to find."
Rage welled in Leesil again for all the lives Ratboy had destroyed.
"How does it feel," he whispered, "to lose?"
This time, Ratboy did cry out. The head slipped from his hands as he rushed forward, swinging wildly with his sword.
Leesil controlled his hatred as he sidestepped. All he needed was a clear shot at the monster's neck. Chap howled and closed in.
"Stay back!" Leesil ordered.
The hound snarled in frustration but retreated, circling behind Leesil.
Ratboy swung again—and again. Leesil blocked, the short sword glancing and sliding away along the curves of his blades.
This butchering whelp wasn't skilled, but he was strong and enraged, and Leesil feared becoming locked in a stalemate until he was too exhausted to continue. Undeads seemed to possess endless stamina. But as he circled, forcing Ratboy to keep changing positions, he saw the undead falter once.
Leesil heard Chap growling from behind, but the hound stayed clear. Ratboy struck hard. As Leesil blocked, he dropped to one knee in the water. He kicked out with his free leg to the inside of Ratboy's knee.
The joint gave a muffled crackle on impact, but Ratboy only stumbled and struck again. Leesil rose up inside the downward stroke, his blocking blade's edge up. When the blow connected, there was no clang of steel.
Ratboy's wrist struck the blade's edge, and Leesil slashed outward.
Hand and sword flew away in the water. The undead jerked up his arm to strike again and then gaped in disbelief at the stump of his wrist.
Leesil kicked out to Ratboy's other knee, letting his whole weight drop down and drive the blow home. A resounding crack followed as his boot collided with bone. His outstretched foot dropped through the water to the tunnel floor, and he shifted his weight to it. He slashed his second blade across, waist level, and Ratboy retreated two steps.
Ratboy's movements were halting and unstable, but he showed no sign of outright pain, only angry disbelief. The lower half of his tunic hung loose from the cut, and his sunken stomach was slick with his own black blood.
Leesil lifted his left blade at guard, the right low and ready. Ratboy lunged, and his one remaining hand lashed out.
It was so fast that Leesil couldn't block or duck in time. Thin, cold fingers closed on his throat as fingernails bit into his skin.
> The grip faltered briefly, squeezed painfully tight, and then faltered again.
Gasping for air, Leesil realized what was happening. The small-boned bastard was bleeding out, weakening. Undeads were not inexhaustible after all.
Ratboy opened his mouth, head thrusting forward. Sharp teeth and fangs rushed at Leesil's face, and he jammed his right blade upward. Its point pierced the underside of Ratboy's jaw, snapping his mouth closed. Ratboy's head barely flinched, but it was enough, and Leesil sliced up with his left blade.
It cut halfway through the forearm of the hand about his throat, and the grip released.
The undead swung wildly with the stump of his right arm, and Leesil ducked aside, slipping to Ratboy's flank. He dropped his right blade and braced his free hand against his left forearm as he swung the remaining blade back.
Ratboy turned his head, open mouth dribbling dark fluids.
Leesil swung down with his full weight. Bone ground on steel as his weapon severed straight through Ratboy's neck.
The headless body splashed down.
Leesil fell to his knees with a second splash, panting.
Anger and dark delight washed from him in the bite of cold water. The tunnel became instantly quiet but for the soft sound of lapping liquid running against the walkways.
Finished—but Leesil felt his past failures only partially rectified.
Exhaustion took him, and he remained there for a long while with his head down, trying to regain his breath. What finally stirred him was Chap's warm and wet tongue upon his cheek.
Leesil crawled slowly to his feet and sheathed one blade, then felt through the water for the other until he found it. Both blades in place, he turned about, searching for the heads, and spotted Chap standing on the walkway next to the torch. Both heads rested before his front paws, as did the sack. Leesil gathered the trophies with a sense of release instead of triumph.
The moment he finished tying the sack to the back of his belt, Chap took off down the tunnel toward where they had first entered. Leesil followed without questioning the hound's decision.
