Jade faced, Selliar Rosen danced across the room, laughing and howling as Burr crumpled into death. Blood swirled around his blade like tassels of bright crimson.
"Hells!" cried Nickon. "What are you doing?"
Selliar laughed and lunged at the big man, rushing forward with a manic howl. Nickon evaded the attack by the breadth of a single hair.
"Sel!" cried Parten. "Have you gone flaming mad?"
Madman. Madman. Tara tara trill
Dance in the moonlight
O'er the bloodied window sill!
He attacked again, tracing a line of blood across Nickon's face.
Parten drew his sword. Blade to blade, he couldn't hope to match Selliar's skill or Flameborn strength, but he thought he might be able to surprise him, incapacitate him enough to beat some bloody sense into him. Or at least get that cursed mask off his face. Parten had taken one step forward when the first shadow rose up out of the tarnished copper urns. It twisted and turned, contorting at impossible angles as it half stepped and half sagged down onto the floor. The urn tipped with a clang before popping back up into place.
The thing was shaped like a man, but bent and twisted, with arms that were too long and an expressionless face that drooped like wet clay. Its eyes were noticeably crossed, and the colour of rotting mushrooms. Fine wisps of gossamer hair clung to its withered skull.
"Ghast!" someone shouted.
Clang!
Another monster emerged from an urn. Clang! Clang! Within moments, a half-dozen monstrosities filled the corridor and small room, clicking and hissing, groaning and gushing. The first came at Parten with a snarl. His sword flashed out, slashing into the monster. It fell back, howling.
Selliar continued to laugh.
Somewhere nearby, Treg was shouting. His quarterstaff lashed out, tracing rapid circles and creating a rushing whoosh as he brained the nearest ghast. Parten jumped back from another of the monsters, cutting its feet out from under it.
He turned to find Nickon struggling with Selliar. Somehow, the big man had managed to pull one of the ancient blades down off the wall. He was using it as both a shield and a weapon. But for all his strength and size, the hand of the Servant was a gentle-hearted man, little used to swinging a sword.
The jade-masked Selliar was too much for him. Nickon already bled from a dozen small wounds hatched across his flesh.
"Enough!" cried Parten.
Darting past one of the ghasts, he rushed Selliar, slamming into his oldest friend with all the force he could manage. They went tumbling past a shocked Nickon, landing in a knot of flailing limbs. Parten rolled until he was straddling Selliar. His hands grasped at the edge of the mask. Clutching tightly, he yanked upward.
The mask came loose.
I did it!
And then the thing in his hands turned to a noxious mist, billowing away like a stream of pipe smoke. Parten looked down to find the mask on Selliar's face. Still smiling. Still laughing.
A strong hand clasped around Parten's throat, crushing it closed and blocking the flow of air. He coughed and sputtered, even as Selliar rose to his feet.
"Worm!" he giggled. "You cannot save this body. It is mine!"
Then Parten was flying through the air. He crashed through a pair of lumbering ghasts, slowing him enough that when he hit the wall, it merely crushed the breath from his lungs. The lack of broken ribs was scant comfort as he lay coughing and wheezing, spitting blood and wondering what it would be like to die.
As he tried pushing himself to his feet, a hulking ghast appeared, looming over him.
"I think we summoned them," Parten said in response to the stranger's question. He glanced toward Treg. The conversation did not seem to be rousing his wounded friend. If anything, Treg's breathing seemed shallower and hoarser.
"That was a piss poor decision," said the voice.
"It wasn't on purpose."
"No doubt. Listen, I have a length of rope. If I jostle this ceiling a bit, I think I can pull you up here."
"And then what?"
"We get you back home."
"My friend's down here with me. He's unconscious and injured. I can't just leave him."
There was a moment of silence before the stranger spoke again. "Very well. A different course, then. I'm coming down."
Another pause was followed by the sound of grunting and grinding stone. A cloud of dust fell from above. Parten covered his face and moved back a step. An instant later, a piece of the ceiling crashed down where he'd been standing.
"Curses! You okay, lad?"
"It missed me," said Parten. Barely.
"Good."
A shadow dropped from the ceiling. When the stranger stepped into the light, he was not at all what Parten had been expecting. The man was of average height, but his presence seemed to dominate the entire room. His long black hair was piled atop his head. The hilt of a large, two-handed sword jutted ominously over one square shoulder.
"Parten Hollyth, I assume?"
"That's me."
"You've the look of your sister about you."
"You know Amara?"
"I'm here at her request," said the stranger. "She's grown worried for you and sent me to find you. My name is Tolias Loh."
Parten gasped. "The sentinel?"
"Once." He pursed his lips. "You've heard the story?"
"Which story? The one where you defended the High Arbiter from a band of assassins? Or the one where you fought and killed a dune lion with your bare hands? Or how you held the breach at the Battle of Nightstone until reinforcements arrived?"
"It was three unskilled assassins, and I wasn't alone at Nightstone." He spoke slowly, almost sadly. "Two of my sentinel brothers stood at my side. I was the only one to survive."
"And the lion?"
"Was a right, bloody bastard. I still bear the scars he gave me. But there's another story told of me these days. One that's far more common."
Somehow, Parten had the sense that the other man was weighing him as he awaited a response.
"About being a heretic…" said Parten.
The man nodded.
"I've heard that, too," Parten admitted.
Now it was his turn to regard the other man thoughtfully. He noticed that Tolias Loh didn't deny the allegations. It was an unexpected response that caught Parten somewhat off-guard. The truth was that he really didn't care about the opinions and accusations of the Sanctum. In his estimation, they were just a group of stuffy old men and women, locked away in their high towers in Taralius. It seemed the once-sentinel didn't care either; that suited Parten just fine.
"I find," the young heirocrat said at last, "that I don't much care."
"Good to hear," replied Tolias. "Now let's see to your friend." He knelt beside Treg to examine the wound. The stablehand groaned in pain but did not wake.
"I did what I could for him," Parten explained. "With an evocation of healing, but my Soulblaze is running low, and I've had no chance to draw."
"You did well enough," said the once-sentinel. His dark, narrow eyes were intent and thoughtful. "He'd surely have been dead without your help. It's an ugly wound, and there's still a danger of it turning septic. But with the right medicines and ministrations, I've seen men recover from worse. There's hope, but only if we can get you both out of here. But first, tell me what happened."
The ghast was big and thick—almost corpulent if such a thing was possible for the damned monsters. It opened its mouth, revealing a tongue like black slime, flicking across twisted and yellowed teeth. Its jowls undulated when it shrieked and clicked. Parten tried to scamper away but felt a thick, clammy hand grasping at him.
He twisted away, just in time to see the ghast's face collapse under a sudden impact. All at once, the creature was falling, and Parten was being hauled to his feet by Treg. The stablehand offered him his sword. Parten accepted it gladly.
There was no time for thanks.
Two more ghasts were sham
bling toward them. Parten gripped the hilt of his blade. No more hesitation. Fight and kill or fall and die. The words rang in his mind like something out of one of the old epics, a rousing mantra meant to stir the fires of his courage. Parten could only hope they'd help him control his bowels as he threw himself forward.
Long hours of drilling and training took over. He planted his feet, balanced himself and lashed out, cleaving one ghast's arm from its body. The second took his blade full in the gut. Its flesh was soft. Parten's cold steel cut through it like a fresh spiced pudding gone horribly wrong.
The ghasts fell and died, but others always appeared to take their place. There were dozens now, filling the room with their hissing and groaning, and with the stench of soured fruit. Treg's quarterstaff continued to whirl, throwing the ghasts back, and braining any that drew too close.
"We need to get out of here," he muttered.
"What about Nickon?"
"Where is he?"
"There!" Parten gestured toward the far corner, where Nickon was beating back a swarm of the creatures with his massive sword. His face was flushed, his brow soaked with sweat and blood and grime. He grunted as he hacked the closest ghast in two.
The jade-masked Selliar appeared behind him, laughing a like a deranged hyena. Nickon never stood a chance.
Selliar's sword blade burst through his gut.
"No!" Treg's howl blended with the clatter of Nickon's weapon falling to the stone floor.
Selliar withdrew his blade, spun Nickon like a maid in some hellish dance, and lashed out again, opening the dying man from groin to sternum. Guts and gore spewed forth, spilling into Selliar's outstretched hand. He gathered them up like a bouquet of roses, giggling as he drew them close to his heart.
"You bastard!" Treg screamed. "You flaming, hells-cursed bastard!"
He took a single step forward, but Parten's hand came down on his shoulder.
"You don't stand a chance," he whispered. "The door, five steps to your right. Go!" He shoved Treg forward.
Then they were running, racing through the dark, musky halls of the ruined fortress. Suddenly, the place seemed like a maze. Everywhere they turned, more and more ghasts were crawling out of the shadows. The fleeing men darted down one corridor, then another. As they ran, the entire world filled with maniacal, gleeful laughter.
At one point, Treg stumbled.
A ghast burst from a shadowy alcove, barreling into the stablehand with enough force to send him sprawling. Before Parten even realized what was happening, the grimy monster was upon Treg, rending open his side. Parten rushed back, nearing slipping on freshly spilled blood. His sword flashed, cutting halfway into the ghast's shrivelled head. It fell away. Parten hauled Treg back to his feet, half dragging and half carrying him.
They turned another corner. Parten's eyes fell on the end of the corridor. Six more ghasts blocked their passage, and Selliar's laughter still haunted them.
Laughter. Laughter. Tara tara trill
Now the fool is coming,
A coming for the kill!
Parten ground his teeth, trying to ignore the mad song. He darted forward. Only one choice. He all but threw Treg into the side room, stopping to check the door. Miraculously, it was still in reasonable shape. Thank the Guardian, he thought as he threw it shut.
There was no lock.
Ashes and bloody embers! He helped Treg scramble to the side then turned onto a nearby rack of shelves. It was big and bulky—the sort of solid construction that would endure even long years of neglect. Ordinarily, Parten would never have tried to move it; now he grabbed and pulled with a strength born of desperation. For a moment, he was certain that nothing would happen. Then, the entire thing came crashing down.
Wood cracked and splintered, so loud that it left his ears ringing. Shelves split apart. Parten set to arranging the fragments in front of the door in a makeshift barricade, then adding anything else he could find to reinforce it. Soon, there was a banging at the door, accompanied by the too-familiar hissing and groaning of the ghasts.
Somehow, his barricade held.
Parten offered his thanks to the Nine, and set about examining Treg's wound. "Let's have a look," he said.
"Hells, it burns!" croaked the stablehand as Parten pulled back the short, bloody cloth.
The skin was little more than flapping crimson. He pulled off his pack and began rummaging through its contents. Burr had been carrying most of their supplies, including a limited supply of medicines. Most of what Parten found in his pack was broken or ruined, but he found a second shirt, a roll of twine and a small flask of brandy. It would have to do as a means of cleansing the wound before he could pour the power of his Soulblaze into attempting an evocation of healing.
"This might sting," he warned as he unstopped the flask.
Its contents flowed like streams of golden fire. Treg's howls drowned out the sounds of the ghasts. He screamed and screamed until he finally passed out from the pain. When Parten reached for the power of his Soulblaze, all he could hear was the distant chorus of manic laughter.
"That was two days ago," Parten told Tolias. "We've been holed up here ever since. Fortunately, I was able to use an evocation to keep up Treg's strength. I tried my hand at healing, but it's just not a skill I've ever been any damned good at. Either way, my Soulblaze is almost spent."
The once-sentinel nodded gravely. "You did well. But if he's to live, we'll need to get him out of here. Help me move this barricade. The ghasts have spread out enough that I think I can sneak us through."
"How?"
Tolias Loh offered a mirthless smile. "Heresy."
"Oh."
"Is that a problem?"
"No," said Parten. It was only half a lie. If the man decided to dabble in the forbidden power of the Midderlight, that was his business. Becoming complicit in that heresy was something else entirely. Parten wasn't sure how he felt about it, but neither could he see any other choice. The once-sentinel was here, like a beacon of help from the Nine. To refuse his aid seemed like folly, so Parten pretended at indifference and set about helping Tolias pull down the barricade of wood and rubbish. The work was easier when working together. Within moments, the pile had been moved, and Tolias stood with his hand on the door handle.
"Stay back," he said, "and stay quiet."
Tolias slipped into the corridor beyond, leaving Parten alone with Treg. He walked over to his friend to rouse him. It took some working, but eventually, Treg's eyes fluttered open.
"Par?" he wheezed. His breath was tinged with the sour stench of spoiled meat.
"It's me."
"What's happening?"
"We're going to try to make an escape. Sneak our way out."
"The ghasts?"
"They seem to have quieted."
"Sel?"
"Him too."
Somehow, that thought was the most disturbing. What had happened to their friend? What was the horrid mask doing to him now? Was there any part of Selliar left at all, or was he just a puppet now? A toy for the jade-faced demon.
Moments later, Tolias Loh reappeared, wiping black ichor from his blade. "The way is clear," he said.
"Who's he?" Treg moaned.
"A friend," Parten assured him. "He's here to help. Can you stand?"
"I think so." Trembling, the stablehand staggered to his feet with all the awkwardness of a man deep in his cups. "I feel terrible."
"Here." Tolias offered a dried, purplish fruit. "Nightberry. It'll help dull the pain."
Treg popped in his mouth and bit down. His face twisted in a sour expression.
"Sorry about the taste," said the once-sentinel. "When we go out the door, we'll turn right. The corridor will take us toward what appears to have been an old library. From there, we'll be able to reach the main foyer and the front entrance. Clear?" Parten nodded. "Good. But first…"
Tolias stepped forward and touched Parten briefly on the forehead. For an insta
nt, the world seemed to fragment, shifting on itself in a way he couldn't understand. Colour seeped away, until all that remained of the world was a dingy-grey reflection of itself. The sensation was brief. When Parten shook his head, everything seemed restored. Tolias repeated the ritual on Treg before motioning them forward.
With measured steps, they crept into the corridor, sticking close to the wall, where the shadows were a shade deeper, and where Treg could use the rough stonework for extra support. Tolias took the lead, gliding like a shadow—or the shadow of a shadow. Barely perceptible at times, it was as though he vanished entirely from their sight.
They covered the length of the corridor without incident, passing the body of a fallen ghast. Greasy blood still seeped from the gaping slash across its bulbous throat, forming a glassy pool on the floor. Parten was careful to step around it.
The room at the corridor's end did appear to have been a library. Tall cabinets of shelves lined the walls—though any books or scrolls had long since vanished to the hands of thieves and looters, or else succumbed to the passing of years. A long, narrow table sat at the centre of the room, slightly askew on account of its one broken leg. Above it hung an elaborate chandelier, dull and tarnished but still clearly wrought of fine silver.
Parten froze.
Three ghasts lumbered aimlessly around the table.
"Don't stop!" hissed Tolias.
"But—"
"Just keep moving. Slow and steady."
It seemed like madness, but Parten wasn't sure he had any other choice. With a look of assurance at Treg, the two companions ventured forward. They traced Tolias' path, sticking almost perfectly in his invisible tracks. Parten kept his eyes on the ghasts, certain that they would see him at any moment. Oddly, they didn't. Even when they shambled so close he could have reached out and touched them, the creatures remained oblivious to the presence of the humans among them.
Whatever Tolias Loh had done to them seemed to be working. Heresy or otherwise, it was something to be thankful for.
With the slowness of their pace, it took them several minutes to cross the length of the library. Parten was glad to leave the room behind as they made their way into the main foyer.
A Harlequin of Hate Page 2
