By Arunis' decree, the entire crew was gathered on deck. Officers and tarboys, sailors and Turach warriors stood side by side, helpless. When the Shaggat stepped out into the light they stumbled backward, like a mob of children who had woken a bear.
Arunis knelt and touched his forehead to the deck. “Master,” he said. “After forty years among knaves and enemies we meet triumphant.”
“Where is it?” said the Shaggat.
Arunis gestured with one hand. On the deck before the mainmast was an ash circle twenty feet across. At its center sat the forge—a mighty oven used to mend breastplates and anchors and other huge things of iron. Heaps of coal surrounded it. Six men worked the bellows that pumped air through its heart of fire. Before its open mouth the heat was so intense no one could stand it for more than a second or two.
The Shaggat stamped his foot. “There it is! Mine! Mine!”
Inside the forge, as if wading in the red-hot coals, stood the Red Wolf. A more fiendish-looking animal could scarcely be imagined. Its ruby eyes seemed fire themselves. The barnacles on its chest were exploding with heat; the lichen was in flames. It stood in a great steel crucible in the very hottest part of the fire. Already the Wolf's legs had begun to glow.
“The hour is come,” said Arunis to the Shaggat. “Once you take up that which I promised you half a century ago, no horde or legion will be able to resist. And I shall walk behind you, Master of All Men—helping, teaching, guiding your hand.”
Arunis cast his gaze over the crowd. “Do you see it at last, you conspirators? Ott's secret weapon will be more powerful than even he dared dream! We will not merely hurt the Mzithrini, we will crush them. And then we will crush Arqual. League by league we will burn both empires off the map.”
“You'll need more than a Sizzy-made Wolf,” said Oggosk with contempt. “A relic of the Dawn War, that's what you'll need. Find the Nilstone for your puppet-king, Arunis, if you want to rule the world.”
“Puppet?” cried the Shaggat's sons. “Hang her! Hang her!”
“Soon I shall have no need of hangmen,” said the Shaggat Ness.
The orange glow had spread to the Wolf's stomach. Its lower legs began to soften and bend.
Arunis turned to Lady Oggosk. “You are right, Duchess. Only one weapon will do for the next Lord of Alifros. Watch now and despair.”
Pazel blinked the sweat from his eyes. The Shaggat was only an arm's length away. If he touched him and spoke the Stone-Word it would all be over—and Arunis would kill Thasha in a heartbeat.
All around them, men were murmuring prayers. “Save us, stop him, let me live to see my wife.” Pazel looked at Ramachni. Must I do it? he thought. Must I let him kill her to stop the war? Ramachni's face told him nothing.
Then Thasha caught his eye—the same direct, dazzling look she had given him from the carriage in Etherhorde so many weeks before, but sorrowful now instead of glad. It was a look of understanding, an acceptance beyond all fear.
She was giving him permission.
Pazel looked down quickly. Let there be some other way. Any other way.
Coal flew spade after spade into the forge, to the ceaseless huffing of the bellows. The Wolf now glowed from head to tail. If Pazel spoke the Fire-Word he might make the flame go out, and delay whatever evil thing Arunis was up to. But the mage would simply light another fire, and the Word would be gone. And if what Arunis said was true it would mean Thasha's death to use the Stone-Word against him. The cursed necklace would strangle her the instant Arunis died.
Panic seized him. He was alone—surrounded by every friend he had in the world, and still utterly alone. It was up to Pazel to stop this horror, and he had no idea what to do.
But what was this? Ormali! Someone was speaking Ormali—and although it was chanted like a prayer, the words were for him.
“Look at me! At me, my Chereste heart!”
It was Druffle. There he stood at the back of the crowd: starved, bruised and shaky. But when he looked at Pazel, the freebooter's eyes lit up with rascally mischief. Druffle's gaze slid upward—and carefully, one eye still on Arunis, Pazel looked as well.
For a moment he saw nothing but the familiar jungle of ropes and spars. Then he saw him: Taliktrum. He was hidden in the mouth of a block-pulley, ten feet overhead.
“Look away from me!” he shouted.
He used the normal voice of ixchel, the voice Pazel alone could hear. Pazel obeyed at once.
“Can you stop him?” Taliktrum went on. “Answer in Nileskchet.”
“I could if I could touch him,” Pazel said aloud. “But I dare not.”
“No,” he agreed. “You dare not. But stay close to him, boy. We are not beaten yet.”
“He'll murder Thasha!” Pazel cried. “And they'll kill me if I step inside that circle. How do you expect me to stay close?”
But Taliktrum made no answer, and when Pazel risked another glance at the mainsail, he was gone.
The nearest sailors were looking at him with fear and rage: the bad-luck tarboy, speaking in witch-tongues again. But Druffle sidled up to him and clasped his arm.
“He saved me,” he said wonderingly, as if he still could not believe it. “I had a Tholjassan arrowhead six inches deep in my back. He put his arm in the wound and tugged it out. A crawly. A crawly saved my life.”
A sigh came from the crowd: the Wolf's legs had given way and its body now lay in a pool of molten iron, half filling the crucible.
“Taliktrum,” Pazel whispered. “You brought him back.”
Druffle nodded. “And his sister, under my clothes.”
“Diadrelu!”
“Aye, Her Ladyship. After Arunis pushed me out of that little boat, they held my head above water until your friend arrived. They're the finest folk I ever met.”
“Where is she?”
But Druffle made no answer. Thasha and Neeps drew near. Thasha's eyes were moist. She looked as though she was taking leave of everything.
“Pazel,” said Neeps, “Arunis is destroying the Wolf!”
“Yes,” said Pazel, still watching Druffle's face.
“What for? He nearly got us killed looking for the thing!”
“It's not the Wolf he wants,” rasped Thasha.
The boys looked at her, speechless.
“I've been reading the Polylex,” she whispered. “To the Sizzies, wolves aren't evil. They're symbols of wisdom and strength. They cooperate, protect one another, care for the pack. In Mzithrini legends wolves warn people of danger. Don't you see? This Wolf isn't a weapon—it's a hiding place for one. Arunis wants whatever's inside.”
“Thasha,” said Pazel, “I'm not going to let him kill you.”
To Pazel's astonishment, she hugged him tight. He tried to pull away—Arunis might punish her for anything—but she was stronger, and would not let go. Then all at once he felt movement against his chest. After Taliktrum's angry warning he knew better than to look down, but out of the corner of his eye he saw, and understood. Diadrelu was climbing from Thasha's shirt into his own.
“Hug her back, fool!” said the ixchel woman. “The mage is watching.”
Pazel hugged her. But Dri wasn't satisfied. “By the Pits, Arunis is staring at you! Thasha, you went to the Lorg School! Can't you feign affection?”
“Feign?” said Pazel.
“Who's talking?” said Neeps.
Thasha kissed Pazel on the mouth.
Nothing he had ever felt was half so awkward or fascinating. But it lasted only an instant. Then came pain—a sudden, searing pain at his collarbone. Pazel gasped. His first thought was that Dri had stabbed him. But she was nowhere near the spot. No, it was Klyst: her magic shell was blazing beneath his skin, scalding him with murth-girl jealousy. He jerked his head away.
“Stop it!” he said.
Thasha dropped her arms. But now she was blazing, too. “As if it was my idea!” she snapped.
The pain stopped. Behind them, Arunis cackled. “Of course it wasn't!” he said. “It wa
s your tutors'—or your father's, perhaps. Give her a tarry sweetheart—and one of the backward races, at that. Let her disgrace herself. Perhaps the Sizzies won't let one of their princes marry a tramp.”
“Seal your lips, snake!” shouted Eberzam Isiq.
“Better to command your daughter thus,” laughed Arunis. “But it will make no difference. She marries tomorrow.”
“Thasha—” Pazel stammered.
She turned to him.
But then Dri spoke for his ears alone. “Forget her, if you would save her. Get closer to the mage.”
“Never mind,” he said. Thasha gave him a look of perfect exasperation.
Pazel squeezed through the crowd to the circle's edge, with Neeps just behind him. Inside the forge, the Wolf's body was so hot it quivered like a pudding. Its ruby eyes glowed brighter than ever.
“If you kill the mage, the voyage will go on,” whispered Dri. “Rose and Drellarek will see to that.”
“I know!” said Pazel.
“Pazel, who—” Neeps began.
“Don't talk to me!”
Pazel covered his ears. He was going mad. Think, think, think! Neeps fell silent, and for a time, so did everyone else. All eyes were on the Wolf, the mage, the twitching hands of the Shaggat. The heat was staggering. Then a howl tore the air—a wolf's howl, enormous and urgent—as the whole creature turned to liquid before their eyes. The howl raced down the length of the Chathrand, stirring the limp sails, and vanished with a last whine over the bows.
But in the pool of bubbling metal one object remained. It was a crystal sphere about the size of a melon. The sphere glistened in the firelight—but at its heart was something impenetrably black.
Dri hissed in her throat. “Oh no, no. Rin forbid.”
“There it is!” cried Arunis. “Take it out! Cool it with seawater! Findre ble sondortha, Rer!”
Dutifully Rer put his tongs into the forge and removed the sphere. Great clouds of steam rose when he plunged it into a waiting bucket. The steam drenched them all: from a distance men would have thought the Chathrand ablaze. Finally it subsided, and Rer lifted the sphere again and placed it in the center of the anvil. It sparkled in the sun, but the core was darker than ever. Thasha had a sudden feeling that she had seen it before.
“Now, Refeg,” said Arunis.
Refeg set the tip of his chisel on the sphere.
“Arunis!” said Hercól suddenly. “Do not commit this atrocity! It will destroy you as well!”
“Break the sphere,” said Arunis.
Refeg lifted his stone mallet, but before he could swing another voice thundered: “No!”
It was Captain Rose. He was on his feet and barreling toward the ash circle, as savagely excited as he had been numb moments before. “Don't break it! Chabak! Chabak, Refeg, you fool! Get it away from the fire!”
“Stop, Captain!” shouted Drellarek.
Rose did not stop. At his first step within the circle the Turachs raised their swords. But Drellarek intercepted Rose before they could pounce. He dealt Rose a blow to the head that could be heard ten yards away. Rose's body stiffened, and his eyes rolled back in his head.
“My apologies, sir,” said Drellarek.
Rose staggered a last step—and fell against the mouth of the forge. There was an awful sizzling noise and a stench of burning flesh. Drellarek seized him by the shirt and pulled him backward—but not before Rose's shoulder knocked the crucible to the deck.
Screams of fear and agony. Like quicksilver, the Wolf's molten iron flashed across the deck. Everywhere, men leaped for rails and rigging—they worked barefoot, after all. The boots of the Turach soldiers burst one after another into flame; Drellarek screamed at them to hold their ground. Mr. Fiffengurt, weeping for his ship, kicked over the cask of seawater, which vaporized instantly on contact with the iron and scalded men worse than the metal itself.
Through all the chaos Arunis kept perfectly still, gripping the Shaggat's arm.
The cloud of steam lifted. Slags of iron bubbled on the deck, and Fiffengurt gave orders for them to be scooped and tossed overboard. Dr. Chadfallow ran from sailor to sailor, shouting, “Don't walk on your burns, man!”
Climbing down from a forestay, Pazel winced. In the frenzy a sailor had knocked him over, and his left palm had come down on a coin-sized splash of iron. With a cry he had torn it off—along with a patch of burned skin. In fact he had been lucky—the scalding steam had passed over his head—but what agony in his hand! The spot on his palm felt like hard leather, and somehow he knew it always would.
At the forge, Arunis had redrawn the circle and Drellarek's men ringed it as before. Rose lay groaning against the starboard rail, letting Oggosk wrap his burned arm in gauze. The crystal sphere had not moved from its place on the anvil. The sorcerer gestured again to Refeg.
“Break it, now.”
But the augrong had flung its mallet halfway to the bow. Arunis pointed at a trembling Jervik and ordered him to fetch it. While they waited, Thasha studied the sphere. Why was it so familiar?
Then she had it: the Polylex, again. She had seen a drawing of just such a sphere, being rolled into a cannon's mouth.
“Oh skies,” she whispered. “It's one of those!”
She was on the point of shouting—they were in immediate and terrible danger—when a hand closed on her shoulder, and a voice hissed: “Shhhh.”
It was the veterinarian, Bolutu. “You're right of course, Bride-to-Be,” he whispered (and his accent was very different from his normal voice—and somehow more true). “Rose guessed it also. But you must not interfere. How else will the sorcerer be defeated?”
“But we can't … all these people!”
Jervik had retrieved the mallet. The augrong took it and stepped up to the sphere once more.
“All these people are not a drop beside the sea of deaths he has in mind, Lady. You know I speak the truth. Let the dragon's-egg shot burst, even though we sink. Only then will Arunis—”
“Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip!”
Out of nowhere, snapping at Bolutu's heels, was the small, furious white dog. Arunis raised his hand, and Refeg paused.
“You. Black man!”
The sorcerer's arm shot out. He crooked a finger, and Bolutu stiffened and stumbled forward.
“You're keeping a secret from me,” said Arunis, with a perfectly hideous smile. “Oh, there's no need to speak. You're thinking about it, that will do … Ah!”
His eyes grew wide with fury. He waved sharply and Bolutu fell to his knees with a cry.
“A dragon's-egg shot! So you would let me shatter it here, where its deadly yolk would splash into the flames and explode? You knew, and said nothing? Well, since you are so fond of silence—”
What happened next gave Thasha nightmares for the rest of her life. Arunis spread his fingers. Bolutu's head jerked up, his mouth wide open. With his other hand Arunis pointed at the fire—and a coal rose and flew like a wasp of flame into Bolutu's mouth.
Bolutu gave a rending scream, then fell forward, unconscious. Beside her, Thasha saw that Ramachni too had crumpled, shivering in Hercól's arms.
The Shaggat Ness stepped forward and kicked Bolutu in the head. He toppled backward out of the circle. Dr. Chadfallow leaped forward and dragged him away.
Arunis watched the shivering Ramachni. “You put out the coal, Ramachni?” He laughed. “A final gasp of magical mercy? Why am I not surprised? As you will—Bolutu may live, but he will never speak again. Fiffengurt! Close the forge, let the fire die. You, Rer: drag it away.”
A chain was found; Rer looped it around the iron forge and hauled the smoldering thing up the deck. Arunis watched, then gestured again at Refeg.
“Now,” he said.
The augrong raised his mallet and dealt the sphere a crushing blow. The very deck of the Chathrand seemed to quake, but the crystal survived. Three times Refeg swung, and on the third blow the crystal shattered. From the pieces oozed a clear liquid like the white of an egg. And resting on
the anvil was the oddest thing Pazel had ever seen.
It was another sphere, orange-sized or smaller, but impossible to look at directly. It seemed to be made of night. It had no surface features—no surface at all, as far as he could tell. It was merely black and cold. And wrong. Something in Pazel's mind and bones and blood rejected the sphere. It was a flaw, a wound in the world. Across the ship men's faces paled.
“Master,” said Arunis to the Shaggat, “I keep my promises.”
“No,” said the Shaggat. “I take what is mine.”
Suddenly his voice rose in a thunderous roar. Spittle flew from his mouth as he turned, gesturing wildly. “Bow down, sorcerer! Bow, kings, generals, all lesser princes of this world! The Shaggat is come, the Shaggat, to cleanse and claim it! Behold, I wield the Nil-stone!”
Dozens of ixchel voices began to scream. “It's true! By the hallowed names, it's true! Kill him, kill him, Pazel Pathkendle! Kill him now!”
The little people must have been hiding everywhere. But one voice—the voice of Dri in Pazel's shirt—hissed, “Not yet!”
A wall of Turachs stood between Pazel and the forge, terribly nervous, ready to stab anything that moved. Even if he wanted to, Pazel doubted he could ever reach the two men.
“Bow your heads!” screamed the Shaggat Ness.
Arunis bowed. The Shaggat's sons groveled on their bellies. Everyone else merely gaped. The Shaggat put out his hand and grasped the Nilstone. For a moment all eyes were on him.
“Now!” said Dri. “Do it! Run!”
Pazel burst into the circle, running full tilt, and dived beneath the legs of the nearest Turach. The man stabbed at him, but too late. Pazel crashed forward, stopping inches from the Shaggat's heels.
The mad king was raising the Nilstone to the sun. A roar of triumph came from his throat. Pazel reached up—and Arunis, catching sight of him, drew his knife. But before either could act the Shaggat's roar became a wail of pain.
The hand that gripped the Nilstone was dead. Hideously dead, the fingers rotted, the bones erupting through the skin. And death was running like flame up the Shaggat's arm.
The Red Wolf Conspiracy Page 48
