The manscorpion fell and so did she, slamming down on her side. As she struggled to yank her sword free, the remaining tlincalli's tail hurtled down at her. She wrenched herself to the side, and the curved stinger smashed into the earth and splashed her with drops of venom. She grabbed the tail just beneath the deadly hook to keep it from striking at her a second time, whereupon the manscorpion whipped the member back, dragging her bumping across the snowy ground toward its ready claws. It was this pulling, rather than her own all-but-depleted strength, that actually drew her blade from the dead tlincalli's skull.
Bending at the waist, its four front legs bowing, the manscorpion stooped to rake her with its unwounded hand. Grunting, she evaded the attack, gashing the creature's forearm in the process, then drove her point up at its belly.
Her aim was too low, hitting chitin instead of skin, but the broadsword crunched through its armor. The manscorpion convulsed and toppled, and she had to scramble backward to keep it from smashing down on top of her.
Rising, she studied the writhing tlincalli, making sure it truly was incapacitated, and then, gasping, staggered toward the gate. She had to resume her station there before the rest of her enemies swarmed through the gap. If several of them attacked her at once, they'd surely drag her down.
She almost didn't make it in time, for just as she reached the entrance, a pair of lizard men skulked through. She charged and somehow managed to slay them both before they turned their chert-tipped spears in her direction.
After that, she had nothing to do but gasp for breath and wait for the next onslaught, which, she suspected, was likely to finish her. She simply had nothing left.
At least she'd perish with a sword in her hand. Better that, she'd often thought, than dying withered, decrepit, and sick, like poor old Lindrian. There was still no sign of Thamalon, and she supposed that, his courage failing, he'd hidden himself in one of the derelict buildings in the pathetic hope that his enemies wouldn't be able to find him. It gave her a bitter satisfaction to think that, even if he wasn't a murderer, her repugnance for him was justified after all.
Standing at the foot of the motte, Marance, who had enhanced his night vision with an enchantment, watched in disgust as Shamur killed two more of his lizard men, then ducked back behind the cover of the remaining leaf of the double gate.
"Unbelievable," he said. "She must be exhausted, yet none of our henchmen or conjured minions can dispose of her."
Bileworm leered. "Perhaps you should march up to the gate and fight it out with her yourself."
Marance sighed. "As I've told you on many occasions, jackanapes, I'm the warlord, overseeing the entire battlefield, not simply one of the spearmen. I'm too important to stand in the shield wall unless I absolutely have to."
"Then I suppose you'll have to wait for one of the troops to kill her. Or toss some magic at her when she shows herself again."
"I could," Marance agreed, but even a well-placed and exceptionally potent thunderbolt would only kill Shamur, not her husband, who hadn't been seen since he'd dashed inside the gate, and it was Thamalon's death that the wizard chiefly craved. If he was going to cast a spell, then let it be one that would destroy the both of them.
"We have sentries watching all four faces of the castle?" he asked.
"Yes," Bileworm replied.
"Make a circuit," Marance said. "Make certain they're at their posts. Meanwhile, I will indeed attempt 'a little magic.' "
Actually, it would be one of the most powerful spells in his repertoire, which was why he hadn't used it hitherto. Sorceries drew their power primarily from the fundamental forces and structure of the cosmos, but also drained a measure of the caster's vitality. Ordinary wizards restored their strength with rest and nourishment, but, suspended between life and death as he was, Marance had discovered that such commonplace measures would not replenish him. Perhaps his liege lord had arranged it thus to insure that he wouldn't attempt to remain in the realm of the living forever, but must return in due time to the iron city of Dis.
Petty spells, like the ones that had summoned the osquips, lizard men, and tlincallis, leeched away such an infinitesimal fraction of his strength that he cast them freely. Greater magic, however, required enough to make him pause and consider. He saw little reason to hold back when the man he wished to chastise most of all was at his mercy.
He took out his bag and candle, held them high, and whispered the charm. The candle spat blue flame ten feet into the air, and then the ground began to shake.
*****
The first tremor nearly jolted Shamur off her aching, unsteady legs. Clutching the gate to steady herself, she peeked out at the clearing.
Violet light pulsed on the snow at the foot of the motte, and then, with a sustained, grinding roar, twisting and thrashing as it emerged from its confinement, a black, vaguely manlike shape outlined in purple fire heaved itself up from beneath the shroud of white. Pale eyes glittered in its crude lump of a head. The sustained quaking ceased with its birthing, but its lurching strides were themselves sufficient to shake the ground as it started up the slope.
Shamur had once seen an earth elemental conjured, and she reckoned this creature was something similar. But this was much bigger, so huge that the sandstone battlements only came up to its breast. So immense that she had no hope of fighting it.
She started to scramble backward, and then, too vast to pass through the gate, without hesitation it simply walked through the wall. The bulwark exploded into rubble, filling the night with hurtling, plummeting scraps of rock.
One advantage of conjuring a servant tall as a tower, Marance reflected, was that he could watch it do its work even when it was standing inside an enclosure. The corrupted elemental lifted its fists above its head, then slammed them down, over and over again. Surely, it was smashing Thamalon and Shamur into jelly.
A creature created for rage and mindless destruction, the giant then proceeded to tear down the entire fortress, and the crash and rumble of stone thundered through the night. The rogues stared in awe. Bound by Marance's command to seek and slay the Uskevren, osquips, lizard men, and tlincallis advanced helplessly into the heart of the demolition, no doubt to be crushed by falling debris. With a modicum of effort, the wizard could have freed them of the compulsion, but given their ephemeral status, it scarcely seemed worthwhile. Like his band of scoundrels, he preferred to stand at his ease and watch the spectacle.
When the destruction was complete, Marance pulled his staff from the ground and murmured a spell of dismissal. The elemental crumbled like a clod of mud dissolving in a rainstorm.
Marance turned to Bileworm and said, "You quiz the sentries. I'm going to take a look at the wreckage."
Lengthening his legs to take longer paces, the familiar hurried away. The wizard headed for the motte, then glanced back at his two bodyguards, who, thus prompted, reluctantly trailed along behind him.
When he reached the crest of the mound, Marance saw that the devastation was, if anything, even more all-encompassing than it had looked from a distance. Absolutely nothing remained but a field of crushed stone and the heap of earth left by the departure of the elemental.
Bileworm loped out of the dark. "According to the watchers, the Uskevren never came out," he said. "Not over the top of a wall, and not through any sort of postern, either."
"They're buried somewhere beneath all this, then," said Marance, and with that utter certainty came a blaze of exultation tempered with just a hint of anticlimax. He'd craved his revenge for so long, and now, abruptly, the truly important part of it was over. "Farewell, Thamalon. We're quits now, or will be, once I kill your children." He started back down the motte, and his attendants followed.
"How long will the slaughter take, do you think?" Bile-worm asked.
"A day or two at most," Marance said, "for Nuldrevyn and Ossian both agree that the sons, Thamalon the Second and Talbot, are wastrels and fools. The daughter, Thazi-enne, might have more brains and gumption, but she's i
ll. I daresay the two of us can sit back and watch while our friends here"-he nodded at the bodyguards-"do the bulk of the work."
While the surviving osquips, tlincallis, and lizard men vanished, their summonings running out of power, Garris assembled the bravos for the trek back to the horses. Just as he declared them ready to depart, Marance noticed a small object gleaming in the moonlight atop a patch of trampled, blood-spattered snow. He idly stooped to inspect it, observed it was Shamur's brooch, and picked it up.
"A trophy?" Bileworm asked.
"If you like," the wizard replied. "A little memento to set on a shelf back home."
Chapter 9
Tamlin had just succeeded in luring the giggling Nenda and Vinda, the buxom twins who served ale, wine, and liquor at the Laughing Gamecock, into the closet, when someone rudely took hold of his shoulder and shook him. He turned, opened his eyes, and the closet turned into his own spacious featherbed, just as, judging from the sunlight streaming through the casement, night had changed to morning.
Tamlin's head pounded, and his mouth was dry as dust. Squinting against the glare, he scowled at the freckle-faced, pug-nosed fellow who'd awakened him. "I could have you flogged for this," he said, and then regretted it, a little.
If Escevar resented this reminder that, although Tamlin's closest friend, he was also a mere servant, no one could have told it from his unwavering smile. "You told me to wake you," he said.
"Impossible," Tamlin said, "for you jolted me out of a beautiful dream into a hideous nightmare. Weeping Ilmater, my head!"
"I have the remedy," Escevar said, his auburn curls shining in the light from the window. "Hair of the dog." He gestured to the nightstand, and the uncorked wine bottle and silver goblet sitting atop it.
"You torturer!" Tamlin exclaimed. "Why didn't you point it out before?"
Disdaining the cup, he fumbled the bottle into his unsteady hand and guzzled from the neck. Usk's Fine Old, the spiced clarry his father made, slid down his throat to ease his hangover. It amused him to think how disgusted the old man would be to see him gulp it so. The bottle was half empty when he finally took it away from his lips.
"Better?" Escevar asked.
"Marginally," Tamlin said. In truth, he felt quite a bit better, but wasn't quite ready to relinquish the martyr's role. "Why in Sune's name did I want you to wake me?"
"You and I, Gellie Malveen, and some others are going hawking, and we're likely to be late if you don't hurry."
"I'm not going to be late. I'm not going at all. Gellie's an ass to plan an outing before noon." He made a show of settling back down on the bed.
"As you wish, Deuce. Sleep well." Escevar turned toward the door.
"No, wait," Tamlin forced himself to throw back his covers and sit up on the side of the bed. Though a fire still crackled in the hearth, the parquet floor was cold against the soles of his feet. "We were going to take Brom along, weren't we? And collect Fendolac along the way?"
"Your memory is improving," said the redhead.
Brom Selwick seemed a nice enough fellow, albeit possessed of a tedious zeal which reminded Tamlm unpleasantly of Father and the old man's faithful butler Erevis. Unfortunately, thanks to his declasse upbringing, the wizard lacked the graces of a gentleman, and while that might be tolerable in a groom or scullion, it was inappropriate in a highly placed retainer whose position required him to mingle on familiar terms with the nobility. Tamlin had thought it might be amusing to teach Brom how to behave, and had intended this morning's excursion to contribute to his education.
While Fendolac, of course, had just lost his father. Tamlin had hoped a little sport would distract him from his grief.
"Then I suppose the excursion is an act of charity," the noble said, taking another swig from the bottle, "and I'm stuck. Not that Father will appreciate my sacrifice. He'll keep on calling me indolent and worthless, same as ever." He grinned. "Anyway, I'd better get dressed."
"I'll ring for your valet," Escevar said.
"No, please. I can't stand to see another face or listen to another voice just yet. You help me."
Tamlin kept nipping at the clarry while he and Escevar retired to his wardrobe. They rummaged through trunks and armoires to create a suitable outfit that the nobleman had never worn before, at least in the sense that he'd never before combined this particular cambric shirt with that branched velvet doublet, or that scarlet riding cape with these crimson lugged boots. By the time the bottle was empty, there was only one element still lacking.
Tamlin had never shared his siblings' passion for weapons and fencing. He liked to think that was his mother coming out in him. Still, no gentleman was properly dressed without a sword. It needn't be a functional sword, however, and for the stylish young nobles of Selgaunt, who had guards to protect them and tended to favor whimsy over practicality, it often wasn't. Moved by that same frivolous spirit, Tamlin selected an object d'art; a long, slender blade, spun from rosy glass, in a scabbard. The delicate ornament had been specially enchanted to a resilience sufficient to withstand casual bumps and jostles.
He attached the crystal trinket to his favorite gold sword belt, and then he and Escevar walked to the kitchen, where squat Brilla, who presided there, bustled about to provide them with fragrant, fresh-baked manchet bread, marmalade, and ale. Tamlin had once overheard the maids Dolly and Larajin complain of Brilla's harshness, and to this day, he couldn't understand it. The woman was always sweet as a sugar-sop to him.
With food in his belly, he felt better still, and as he and Escevar made their way to the courtyard, he was actually smiling in anticipation of the day ahead.
When he stepped outside into the bracing cold, he found that all was in readiness. The grooms had the horses saddled, and a pair of greyhounds roamed excitedly about the cobbles. Master Cletus, the falconer, had two hooded hawks waiting on their conical wooden blocks, while a third already perched on Brom's gauntleted wrist. It was a tiercel, ordinarily a hawk for ladies and boys, but as much bird, Tamlin had thought, as the wizard should try to manage his first time out. Judging from the leery way Brom was handling the bird, his arm extended to keep its beak and talons as far as possible from his face, Tamlin had been correct. Meanwhile, aloof from all the commotion, Vox lounged in a doorway.
Vox was Tamlin's personal bodyguard, and few who saw him doubted his fitness for the task. A hulking, swarthy, middle-aged mute with a shaggy black beard and long hair tied in a braid, he wore studded leather armor. A bastard sword rode sheathed on his back, a short sword and dirk hung at his waist, and he'd tucked another dagger into each of his high boots where squares of bronze were riveted to stop an enemy's blade.
When the greyhounds spotted Tamlin, they dashed up to fawn on him. He crooned to them and petted them for a moment, then advanced to greet his human retainers. The dogs romped along at his heels.
"Good morning!" Tamlin said. "It's a meeting of the masters, I see, master falconer and master magician, too. It looks like you're all ready to go, Brom."
"Uh, yes," the skinny young wizard replied. "Master Cletus insisted that I start becoming accustomed to the bird, and vice versa. But in truth, I wonder if this outing is wise. We might be needed here."
Tamlin grinned. "You just want to stay indoors, where it's warm." He'd noticed Brom's aversion to the cold on the very day that Father brought him into the household. "But I promise you, once the birds start flying, you'll forget all about the chill. Falconry is the grandest game on earth, or at least the grandest you can play without a pretty girl."
"It's not the cold," Brom said. "Are you aware that Lord and Lady Uskevren didn't come home last night?"
"I wasn't, and now that I am, I say, so what?"
"Master Cale is quite concerned."
Tamlin snorted. "He would be. Any excuse to be glum and grim! But the fact of the matter is, Father is frequently gone overnight, and sometimes Mother is too when she visits her friends."
"I understand that," said Brom, his cheeks ruddy above
his patchy beard, "but according to Erevis, when Lady Uskevren is going to sleep elsewhere, she always informs him in advance, and if you'll excuse my commenting on their personal habits, it's extremely unusual for your mother and father to spend a night away from home in one another's company."
"Well, maybe the old goat is finally starting to appreciate her. Look, wizard, as I understand it, Father was busy with those dreary emissaries from the other side of the sea all morning, and in consequence, he and Mother didn't depart until mid-afternoon. They probably couldn't make it back before dark, and it was truly cold last night, and snowing as well. Rather than ride all the way home through the worst of it, they likely stopped at an inn, or one of the family tall-houses closer to the bridge."
"That does sound plausible," Brom admitted. The tiercel shifted its feet, jingling the bell attached to its ankle, and he flinched just a little. "But I had a bad feeling when they rode out without an escort, and without any of us knowing precisely where they were headed, or why."
"You're every bit as bad as Erevis, fretting over 'feelings'! I guarantee you, nothing happened to my parents, and even if it had, Father can take care of himself. Believe me, I know. I spent my boyhood stupefied with boredom at the umpteenth retelling of his exploits, his doomed but valiant defense of the first Stormweather Towers, his daring trading expeditions into Cormyr and the Dales, his defiant return to Selgaunt, and all the rest of it."
"So you're not worried at all?"
"Why should I be? That's why my family employs retainers, to worry for us and sort our problems out. Retainers like you, but you won't do any sorting today. Today you're going to learn hawking!"
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