“Hartlet!” Trehl said in surprise, coming off the wall, his staff in one hand. “What in the Lifegiver’s name are you doing here?”
Reyn made a show of limping—which wasn’t all that hard to fake, at that point—and raised a hand in greeting.
“Came to give the bastard that did this to me a piece of my mind,” he said weakly, feigning a wheeze and pressing his other hand gingerly to his side. “The lizard tricked me. He’s crafty, and I don’t mean it as a compliment.”
Trehl nodded sanctimoniously.
“Told you,” he said, turning to the other sentry as Reyn continued to walk towards them. “Told you there was no way he’s as good as they say. Dirty fighting, that’s all it was.”
The man shrugged, looking over at Reyn. Danon Hest was the opposite of Trehl, a tall, wiry convert nearing fifty, but he had a talent with spellcasting that had gotten him noticed by Cullen Brern despite his age.
“May’aps,” Hest said in with his signature drawl that always made the educators amongst the faith wince. “May’aps not. I done heard he messed you up somethin’ good, Hartlet. You and Loric and Grees. And one a’ the councilwomen, too.”
“Like Trehl said,” Reyn replied, stopping between the two and trying to make it look like he were casually observing his surroundings. “Dirty fighting.”
He’d intended to get the men to tell him what cell the atherian was in, saving himself the trouble of searching every one until he got lucky, but realized at once that it wouldn’t be necessary. He had wondered—if Raz i’Syul Arro had indeed managed to create havoc in a room filled by nearly a score of consecrated Priests and Priestess—why the council had thought it wise to post only two sentries in the dungeon. It seemed a gross underestimation of the atherian’s abilities.
Or his madness, Reyn had thought.
But Reyn understood at once why the High Priest and his advisors hadn't bothered with greater security. Though the magics weren’t actually visible, they were palpable, a strong, binding essence that emanated from a singular door along the right wall, not twenty feet down the hall. Reyn cursed before he could stop himself when his eyes fell upon it, realizing the additional problem now cast at his feet. The ward was a strong one, emanating power about itself in ripples Reyn was sure even those not attuned to sorcery could sense. It seemed to have been bound into the steel and wood and stone around the door, essentially walling off the cell until such time as the council saw fit to release their prisoner.
It would take Reyn longer than he liked to unwind a spell like that…
“Aye, they’re not fooling around,” Trehl said with a jerk of his head, indicating the door as he mistook Reyn’s frustration for admiration. “You’ll have trouble giving the beast a piece of anything. The ward won’t even let us see him, much less talk to him.”
“You tried?” Reyn asked, raising a brow.
“Trehl done tried,” Hest said, spitting into a corner sourly, as though he wanted to make it clear he had no interest in getting mixed up in the nonsense his younger comrade was about. “Earlier, when we traded out with Cayst Etber and Samis Jehn. They told him some damned wild tale ‘bout the lizard tearin’ up the place and howlin’ like a banshee, and of course this idiot just has ta’ try and see what the fuss is all ‘bout.”
Trehl had the grace to blush.
“Reyn came to talk to him!” he squeaked in embarrassment. “Why aren’t you giving him shit, too?”
Hest chuckled, scratching at the dark beard around his neck.
“Cause Reyn got a chunk taken out a’ him by that snake, so Reyn ain’t just lookin’ ta’ chat him up out of stupidity—oh, I’m sorry. I meant ‘curiosity.’”
Trehl blushed deeper, and was about to say something in response when Reyn cut across him.
“Can you take the ward down?” he asked, still eyeing the door, trying to make it seem as though he truly was intent on speaking to the atherian. “Even for a minute?”
For the first time, he saw more than casual intrigue on the faces of the two men, and he instantly regretted the question. Trehl’s pudgy cheeks frowned in confusion, while Hest smartened up faster. The older man was suddenly looking at Reyn with distinct suspicion.
“No,” Hest said slowly, pushing himself off the wall to face Reyn full on, his hands by his side. “We been told the ward stays up, no matter who asks. Why you lookin’ ta’—?”
He never got a chance to finish the question.
Reyn took him down first. Hest’s magic scared him more right now than Trehl’s strength, and he was closest. With a quick step forward Reyn closed the gap between them suddenly, bringing himself within inches of the man. Hest reacted instinctively, throwing up a protective barrier, but too late.
Shielding wards only worked when your opponent was outside the shield.
Reyn allowed the magic to close in behind him, thinking it might buy him a couple of extra seconds if Trehl rushed from behind. Two quick blows caught Hest before the older man could even raise his arms in defense, one hard to the side of the head to daze him, a second to the gut, doubling him over. As he dropped, Reyn’s knee came up, catching the man a devastating strike to the face.
He felt Hest’s nose break against the tight muscle of his thigh.
The Priest’s body twisted back as his knees went limp, and he collapsed awkwardly to the ground, out cold. Turning as quickly as he could, Reyn threw up his own protective shield as he heard the crack of breaking magic.
Good thing too, because Trehl’s staff made short work of the remainders of Hest’s ward.
Reyn managed to get himself around just in time to witness the steel slammed through the rapidly fading spellwork, shattering it in a rainbow of something like splintering glass. As Hest’s magic broke, though, Reyn’s ward caught the staff, absorbing the blow. Reyn could see Trehl’s face now, though, all confusion gone from the chubby creases.
Now the man just looked mad.
“What are you doing, Hartlet?” he demanded, spinning the staff back under his arm and gathering light into his left hand. “What are you doing?”
Reyn didn't answer. Instead he pressed one hand out, willing the ward around him to expand. It weakened exponentially as it did, but it was still strong enough to disrupt Trehl’s casting when it hit him, staggering the large man and forcing him back a step, yelling in anger as he did.
The sound was cut short, though, as the shockwave Reyn had been building up in his other hand hit Trehl straight on, disguised behind the expanded ward, using the weaker magic as a distraction.
Gane Trehl was thrown back a full five feet, his heavy body slamming into a cell door with a dull thud, his head snapping back to crack against the wood so loudly it made Reyn wince. The man’s steel staff spun away with the tinkling clatter of metal on stone, and Trehl himself staggered, rattled by the blow. He had just finished taking a shaky step forward, clutching at the back of his head with one hand as he looked up, when Reyn’s stunning spell hit him square in the chest.
He’d never been as good at throwing them as Syrah was, but at this range it would have been difficult for even a novice to miss.
Trehl collapsed where he stood, all will sapped from his limbs. He tumbled to the ground in a hefty, ugly mess of thick arms and white robes, his head only saved by a meaty shoulder as he tipped sideways.
Then the man settled, rolling half onto his back in front of the door, and lay still.
Reyn stood for several seconds, listening for any distant shouts of alarm, or the clap of booted feet come running. Hearing nothing, he looked from Hest to Trehl and back again. He hadn't had a chance to truly convince himself the fight was over before he was forced to let out a dull groan, falling to one knee and clutching at his side as his ribs screamed in agony, the pain of the motions dulled until then by the rush of the scuffle. For a good thirty seconds he stayed like that, hissing in every breath, fighting hard not to give in and pass out. He feared, suddenly, what would happen to him after tonight. Would the L
aorin allow him time to heal before Breaking him and sending him out into the world? Would they cast him out as he was, pitting him against the freeze and the mountain men below?
No, Reyn thought, forcing himself up onto his feet, grimacing as his ribs protested. More likely they’ll just lock me up down here until they can figure out what else to do with me.
With that uncomfortable thought settling itself in the back of his mind, Reyn limped over to Hest, checking to make sure the man was breathing. He was—if a little throatly through his swollen, lopsided nose—and Reyn moved on to Trehl. The larger man had a lump the size of a small egg where his head had hit the door, but there was no blood and his breaths came in the dull, low lull of unconsciousness the stunning spell brought on.
Relieved, Reyn looked around.
Then he started for the door, that solid slab of iron and timber behind which Reyn was fairly sure death incarnate sat impatiently waiting.
CHAPTER 36
“It is a source of amusement to me, the irony by which the world works. It is inconceivable, for example, the places in which one might find their greatest allies.”
—Ergoin Sass
Raz had run out of patience six hours ago.
He had tried everything, everything, to get the damn door to open. He had wrenched at it, thrown things at it, tried to pick—and then break—the lock with bent nails he’d recovered from the wreckage strewn about the room. He’d attempted to leverage the hinges with lengths of wood, had even done his best to bash it open with the stocks of salted meat that had been stacked along the right wall, using two of the heavy barrels as battering rams, one after the other. When that had failed—spilling salt and slabs of cured venison over the floor—he had screamed in fury and slashed at the door, leaving long, angry gouges that crisscrossed over the wood.
The thing hadn't so much as twitched.
He knew why, of course. He didn’t know if he was sensitive to the magic—as he was to sounds and scents—or if the barrier cast about the door was just that potent, but Raz could literally feel the power radiating from the iron-bound wood and the stone around it, vibrating over him if he got too close. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, at first. For a time it was like the song made by a distant waterfall, a dull, low rumble of noise that spoke of something both powerful and beautiful all at once. After the first hour, though, Raz had started to get irritated by the feeling, associating it with his frustration.
After he was certain half the day had gone by, he wondered if he would ever get over the acute, irrational rage the thrum brought on whenever he neared the ward.
He sat now—for this very reason—some ten feet away from the door in the center of the room, chewing mindlessly on a thick hunk of meat he had scooped up from the ground nearby for his dinner. The salt tasted good after weeks spent eating unseasoned game, his sharp teeth making quick work of the tough, fibrous flesh, and he sated his thirst from a few clay jugs of what had turned out to be ale and water he’d found intact among the mess. Eating distracted him, allowing him to sit back and think.
Unsurprisingly, no solution presented itself.
“Damn trims are going to keep me in here until I rot,” he muttered through a mouthful of meat.
Great. Now I’m talking to myself even when Ahna isn’t around.
Briefly amused by the thought, Raz smirked, his eyes never leaving the cell door. For the thousandth time that day he studied the thing, taking in every inch of wood, every line of hammered metal that shone in the glow of magical light and every flicker of shadow cast by the unevenly cut granite around it. He looked for any weakness, anything that might give him so much as a hint on how to escape. He wondered what would happen if he started talking to the door, rather to himself.
And then, as though in response, the door started talking to him.
Raz froze mid-chew. He was sure he had heard something, some muffled, garbled noise that sounded all too much like someone were calling his name. He sat there, tense and still, listening.
“Ar-o. Ar—Ar—ro.”
Raz was on his feet in an instant, the remainder of his meal tossed hastily to one side, his aversion to the magic totally forgotten as he leapt for the door.
“Arr-o,” the voice came again. “Ar—ro.”
It was a male voice, sounding as though it were coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once, warped and echoed and faded, like a man were screaming at him from the other side of a very large cavern.
All the same, it was definitely real.
“Here!” Raz roared, pounding on the wood. “In here!”
The voice made no reply.
There were two slots in the door, one that slid sideways to form a peephole around Raz’s chest height, and one at the very bottom that was meant to swing out of the way so food and drink could be delivered to the incarcerated. Raz had tried both of them before and found them magically sealed, but he tried again all the same now, first digging his claws into the wood and trying to pull the peephole open, then scrabbling once more at the feed slot, again finding no purchase for his claws. He howled in anger again, punching and kicking at the wood.
And, as he did, feeling it shake.
In half-a-day of struggling, not once had the door so much as shivered. Even when he’d struck the reinforced timber and iron with the heavy frame of the meat barrels, the door hadn't even creaked in protest. It had merely existed, like it were part of the wall itself, a silent and impassive witness of his distress. Raz had become sure, in fact, that even if he had used his claws to carve through the wood, eventually he would have been met with a solid, inviolable barrier of magic.
And yet now, as he’d pounded at the door with bare fists and feet, it had shaken.
Sizzle… crack…
At first the sounds took Raz by surprise, and he retreated a cautious step back. Then he recognized them, drawing them from his memory of that same morning, of the bitch woman’s—Petrük’s—ward breaking beneath his hands in the madness Syrah’s absence had thrown him into.
It was the sound of spellwork being undone…
Eagerly Raz waited, then, knowing there was nothing and less he could do. Impatiently he shifted his weight from foot to foot, feeling he could guess exactly who it was behind the door.
“Come on,” he muttered to himself, yellow eyes darting about, watching the latch and the hinges and peephole slot. “Come ooooon.”
But there was no rushing the process, it seemed, and it was several minutes before a distinct crack came, and the dull hum of magic around Raz became suddenly much quieter.
Metal shifted, there was a clunk, and the wooden slot slid aside in the center of the door.
“Carro,” Raz breathed in relief, bending down. “About damn time. I was wondering when you were going to—”
But he stopped, then, because the face looking through to him from the other side of the door was not that of Carro al’Dor.
Reyn felt his breath catch in his throat as Raz’s i’Syul Arro bent down to peer through the hole. For the first time he became truly aware of how massive the atherian was, towering and lithe, corded muscle bunching beneath the black-scaled skin of his neck that gleamed in the firelight.
When Arro’s eyes came into view, Reyn couldn’t help but take a step back, and the man’s words were entirely lost to him.
He had, for a moment, the impression of looking in on a caged beast, such as he’d heard some of the inordinately rich kept in private sanctuaries in the Seven Cities and Perce. There were several seconds of silence as the amber orbs drilled into him, glinting in the light, one second shining like a wolf’s in twin disks of white, the next sharp and gold, with black, vertically slit pupils that held no warmth for him, no fondness.
Then the atherian spoke again, and this time Reyn heard him.
“What are you doing here, Priest?”
It wasn’t an unkind, question, truth be told. If anything Arro sounded perplexed, as though Reyn were the last person he would have expec
ted to find on the other side of the door that kept him from his freedom.
Which isn’t all that surprising, Reyn realized, seeing his mistake.
“They say you know where Syrah Brahnt is,” Reyn said, deciding to clear the air all at once. “Is it true?”
Arro watched him for a time, blinking slowly, but made no reply. He seemed almost wary.
“Is it true?” Reyn demanded, hating the desperation that was all too blatant in his voice.
Another pause.
“It is,” the atherian said finally. “Why?”
“Can you save her?”
“Yes.”
There was no hesitation to the answer this time, no moment of pondering or consideration. Rather, there was only calm, deadly confidence, and a coolness to the word that sent a chill down Reyn’s back.
The Wings of War: Books 1-3: The Wings of War Box Set, Vol. 1 Page 115
