Falconfar 03-Falconfar

by Ed Greenwood

  "Put the wand away," Tethtyn ordered crisply.

  "The... gonne!" Mori snapped. "Drop it! Now!"

  The cop thought he'd been shouting as loudly as he knew how, but disbelieving rage lent him new reserves of volume and authority.

  "You don't give orders here!" he bellowed, waving the gun. "I do! Now get down! Down on the ground, with your hands away from your sides, or I'll shoot!"

  Neither Mori nor Tethtyn even bothered to point their fingers. Two spellbolts streaked to the same target.

  The explosion was louder, brighter, and shorter this time.

  Tethtyn just sneered and turned away, but Mori strolled to where he could look down on the smoking corpse, and told it gently, " Wizards give the orders, fool. That's how it works."

  "My lord?" His most loyal bodyguard—Hondreth, the only one he trusted enough to have here in the room with him—was offering him a large goblet.

  Lordrake Anthan Halamaskar waved away the proffered wine impatiently, shifted in his large and comfortable chair, and went on gazing into the fire blazing lazily in the great hearth. "No, no more. I'll need a clear head for this. One does not treat with mighty wizards casually. Or rather: not twice."

  "I'm sorry, Master," Hondreth murmured. "It was just that you seemed, ah, a trifle unsettled—"

  "I am a trifle unsettled. He should be here by now, if he's coming at all... and if he's not coming, has he decided to tell someone else of my offer?"

  "Never think that, Lord of Maurpath. I do not tell tales." That voice was as cold and sharp as it was unexpected, and made both lordrake and bodyguard flinch, the latter aghast that someone had managed to somehow enter the room without his knowing. He should have at least sensed—

  "You can take your hand off your blade," the same voice informed him calmly, "or you can die. Choose wisely."

  The bodyguard flung his hand away from his sword as if its hilt had caught fire, looking around the room wildly for the intruder. The fire was casting wild shadows in the lofty lodge chamber, which was crowded with man-high mirrors and life-sized statues, but he'd not seen—

  Quite suddenly, a lean, sharp-featured man with the gleaming black eyes of a hawk, peering out from beneath bristling brows, was standing calmly before them, hands hooked through the belt of his black leathers.

  "Halavar Dreel, I presume?" Lordrake Halamaskar asked dryly, suddenly wishing he had that goblet in his hand after all. To toy with. Or clench.

  It wasn't that he was a complete stranger to treason. Far from it, if truth be known, but wizards were... wizards.

  WITH THE CASTING almost done and the last few words coming with careful precision, Belard Tesmer allowed himself a wry smile. The trick hadn't been worming how to cast a mind-swaying magic out of the wizard. A simple bag of gems had taken care of that.

  Nor had it been killing Sarchar "Lord of Spells" to get the gems back, afterwards. His dagger was sharp, and throat-slitting was almost routine for him by now.

  No, the trick was catching his sister asleep. Well and truly asleep, deep enough in slumber that he could stand over her, murmur things, and even touch her without having her wake before his casting was done. There were times, these last few days, when Belard had begun to think Talyss Tesmer never slept. He'd tried tiring her out by pouncing on her for slap-and-tickle again and again, but beyond making her yawn a little amid her delighted gasps and squeals, that only achieved wearing himself out.

  Yet he'd managed it at last, largely by finding a loft in one of the ruined wings of Galathgard and getting a good long sleep while Talyss was scampering around the castle spying on who was arriving, what dangerous knights, mages, and skulkers they'd brought with them, and who most hated whom.

  It had hardly been news to discover that very few Galathan nobles loved their fellow highborn enough even to be civil to more than a handful of closest allies, but Belard and Talyss needed to know which hatreds ran deepest, and who would be more pragmatic than vengeful, when it came to regicide and the scramble for the crown that was sure to follow.

  They had agreed it was time to draw back into the shadows and just watch and wait, as more and more of the mighty of Galath arrived for the Great Court. It was time to let Dunshar take the blame for their actions. Feuding Falconaar of any realm had a habit of standing together long enough to hurl down strangers, before turning back to savaging each other.

  He had to touch her to complete the casting, and did so now, trusting in his lowered breeches and where he was touching her to fool her, should she awaken.

  Talyss stirred, moved languidly among the tangled linens, then smiled faintly and fell still again.

  Quelling a sigh of relief, Belard caught up his breeches and turned away in silence, to get himself out of the room before Talyss should awake.

  Sarchar hadn't played him false. Belard had read over this spell often enough after killing the dusky-skinned Tammarlan to be sure of that.

  So when he needed his sister's obedience, in time to come, all he need do is speak the secret phrase—and Talyss would be compelled to obey him utterly.

  Well and good. Another step forward.

  There'd need to be some careful steps ahead, to be sure. Deciding when and how to tell Talyss about the unfortunate accident that had befallen Sarchar, for one.

  She'd been gleefully looking forward to devising new and interesting uses they could put the self-styled Lord of Spells to, in the unfolding years to come.

  Slipping like a shadow down one of the dark servants' passages that ran through the darkness of Galathgard's back chambers, Belard decided it was a pity, in a way, that Sarchar was going to miss them.

  "HALAVAR DREEL, I presume?" the noble sitting in the great chair before the fire asked, trying to sound dry and confident and fearlessly amused.

  "Of course," the lean man in black leathers replied, his voice sharp. "Just as you are one of all too few lordrakes in Galath, and this is your most trusted bodyguard, Palavar Hondreth—trust that is well-placed, by the way. And while we're indulging in pleasantries, know this, too: I don't think much of your taste in hunting lodges, Lord of Maurpath."

  He waved at the mirrors and crudely sculpted statues arranged around the room, then overhead to include the dusty menagerie of animal heads hanging from the rafters.

  "I inherited it," Lordrake Halamaskar replied shortly. "The lodge, not the taste. After all, I deal with wizards."

  "I have not failed to notice that doing so has become fashionable among the highborn of Galath. Yet you at least demonstrate the discernment to look to me—and, if things have not changed, meet my terms?"

  "Things have not changed," Halamaskar replied curtly. "Your payment awaits beneath yonder tabletop. Thirty-six stormstones, none of them smaller than my eyeball. One stone for each year of your life, Lord Wizard?"

  "Thus far," came the dry rejoinder, accompanied by a casually imperious gesture, directing that the tabletop be lifted.

  "Thus far," the lordrake agreed, waving Hondreth forward to see to the table.

  Slowly and carefully the impassive bodyguard swung the smooth, polished top of the table upwards. It moved on concealed hinges, rising to reveal a shallow recess half-full of fading maps—upon which had been arranged, each on its own scrap of finest linen, thirty-six gleaming stormstones.

  One could have a large keep built for what it cost to buy just one stormstone. Stormstones drank lightning, and magics that hurled lightning, and held a winking, smoky-silver radiance that shamed the finest jewelry. Only a handful of men in Galath—none of them not highborn—could have afforded, even sacrificing most else, to buy more than three or four stormstones outright. Dreel did not ask the lordrake how he'd come by so many; he had long ago learned to quell the curiosity of his youth.

  "They're real," Halamaskar said confidently.

  "I know," Dreel replied flatly.

  "So as I understand your scheme," he added, "I am, in exchange for these stones, to impersonate King Brorsavar as we ride into Galathgard together.
At that time, and thereafter so long as we remain in the castle, you will surround us both with your bodyguard. Who will strive to protect me every whit as diligently as they defend you."

  "Yes," the lordrake agreed eagerly. "And while wearing the likeness of the king, you'll follow my directions as to which nobles to summon to your side for private parley, one by one."

  "When I'll slay them with my spells—privately—and so eliminate those of your fellow Galathan nobles you most want dead. Which may well include those most likely to stand between you and the throne of Galath."

  "Quite likely," Halamaskar replied calmly, nodding. He frowned slightly, and added, "Yet I see another query in your eyes, Lord Wizard. As we're speaking plainly..."

  Dreel inclined his head politely. "Just this: what place will I have in your Galath?"

  The lordrake frowned. "Place?"

  "Reception, then. Rest assured I have no intention of dwelling in your kingdom, holding any rank in Galath, or challenging your authority, Lord of Maurpath. Yet I should like to know if I'll be denounced as a foe of King Halamaskar, a man to be hunted—or a resident of a land Galath is likely to invade as its new king casts about for some tasks for its more warlike nobility."

  "I have no intentions of denouncing or attacking you, Lord Wizard. Nor eliminating you to conceal our agreement, in future. For one thing, Galath will care not, and for another: if half my fellow highborn react as I think they will when I proclaim myself king, I may soon have need of you again. I am not so foolish as to mar or cast aside a weapon I may soon sorely need."

  "Good. Your wisdom outstrips your reputation, Lord Halamaskar."

  The man in the chair stiffened. "I am glad to hear it," he said shortly. "We have agreement, then?"

  "We have agreement. If you'll prick your finger."

  The lordrake frowned. "Just what magic... ?"

  The bodyguard stirred, but fell still and silent again at a glare from his master.

  "A simple blood-binding," the wizard replied curtly, plucking a needle-like spike from his belt buckle and sinking it like a dart into his own forefinger. He held up the bleeding digit.

  And waited.

  Slowly, his eyes never leaving Dreel, Halamaskar drew his belt- knife and did as he was asked.

  Dreel nodded, murmured something—and a streak of blue flame briefly flickered between the two fingers, causing the lordrake to curse and snatch his hand down to clutch it, and the bodyguard to glare at the mage and start to move again.

  Both wizard and lordrake raised hands to stay him.

  "We are now bound," Dreel said flatly. "If my blood spills, so does yours. If mine boils, yours suffers the same fate. If you fall enspelled, so do I. You might say we can now truly trust each other—which will probably prove a novel experience for you, as it would any lordrake of Galath."

  Halamaskar stared at the wizard, frowning. "Your words scorn both my kind and this great realm—"

  "They do nothing of the sort. I but speak plain truth about Galath. And in the continued spirit of doing so: when you venture outside, you'll discover certain of your men now lack swords— and hands. They presumed to raise their blades to me."

  The wizard turned away, then looked back over his shoulder and added, "I'd kill them, were they mine, but I've noticed many nobles of this land seem to enjoy keeping fools as servants. Presumably to make themselves feel more competent. So I spared yours. This time."

  Dreel inclined his head in farewell, and strode towards the door—but faded to nothingness long before he reached it.

  "JUST BUCKLE IT on over your leathers," Taeauna directed calmly, adjusting the buckles of her codpiece. Rod looked down at his own, shrugged, and started to cinch it tight around his waist. Turn back one spell and melt away, huh? He could live with looking a little more like an idiot, for that.

  "If you've finished sitting on your helms, that is," she added calmly. "It might be a fair while before we have leisure again to squat anywhere—or dare to leave behind anything1 a tracking- beast can smell."

  "Tracking-beast? "

  "Many of the nobles of Galath enjoy hunting men. And women. Some of them have bred or had wizards twist beasts to help them in their hunting. And we're walking straight into where the nobles are all gathering."

  Resplendent in her codpiece, the wingless Aumrarr strode across the armory to take Rod firmly by the elbows and gaze into his eyes. She looked calm, but fiercely determined.

  "Lord Rodrel, please heed me, and stop wandering about like a man with no wits. Our lives will depend on doing the right things, quickly and quietly. I'd rather not die because you feel the need to play the idiot."

  Rod grinned wryly. "Hey, we all play to our talents."

  "Indeed." Taeauna drew her sword, plucked an oddly shaped token of metal from a row of them hanging from hooks beside the door, and looked back over her shoulder.

  "Ready?" she asked. "New sword and daggers and all?"

  Rod nodded. She gave him a withering look.

  "What? Oh." He drew his own sword. She nodded briskly and waved him up to stand beside her.

  "Stand there," she ordered, "so you're not right in front of the open door. Keep your sword up in front of you, but don't move until I call you. I'm going out first."

  "You're making this sound like we're the last survivors of a platoon, deep in enemy territory," Rod muttered.

  Taeauna gave him a level look. "We are."

  She kept on staring at him until Rod looked down. "Ready, Lord Archwizard?"

  "Ready," he murmured, hastily stepping away to the spot she'd indicated and holding up his sword in front of his nose, as if he was an officer on parade.

  Taeauna took a dagger from her belt, bent, and laid it silently on the floor to the right of the door. Then she straightened up, put her sword between her teeth, clamped the token-thing between two fingers, and used both hands to slowly and quietly lift the heavy metal latch of the door. All around the door, a framework of other latches lifted, connected to Taeauna's by metal bars.

  When the door was unlatched, the Aumrarr hauled the door open, leaning a half-step to the side as she did so—and kicking the dagger out into the huge pillared hall beyond.

  Swords whirled up from the floor in a sudden storm, as the dark, shaggy shapes waiting outside the door roared and charged—and Taeauna drove her shoulder against the door and closed it again, bare moments before something crashed heavily against it.

  There were two more blows, lower down the door each time.

  When she opened the door again, the floor outside was awash with blood. The swords hovered and circled like wasps, trailing a bloody mist. The air reeked of fresh butchery.

  Taeauna swung the door wider and looked out, then nodded as if satisfied, and tossed the token out into the lake of blood. It landed with a clink—and the swords all fell to the floor in a collective clatter.

  Her sword in hand, Taeauna ducked low and darted through the door. A moment later, she looked back in and said to Rod, "Take one of those tokens—just hold it in your fist—and come."

  Rod obeyed. The gore was slippery underfoot, and sticky at the same time, and the smell was stomach-turning, but Taeauna was ignoring it, so he did, too. The armory door clanged shut behind them of its own accord, making him jump.

  Taeauna took the token out of his hand before he could drop it, thrust it down one of her boots, and waved at him to follow her.

  Swords drawn, they walked down the hall. Rod looked back. Yes, they were leaving bloody bootprints.

  "I know," Taeauna murmured, before he could say anything. "We'll stop at one of the pumps before we go to the gate."

  She led him through another side-door and down a dark stair, going first and indicating that he should keep a firm grip on the cold stone stair-rail with his free hand, and look back behind them often. "Keep close," she whispered in his ear, "but don't run into me, if I stop suddenly."

  As they turned on a landing, a level down from the armory, Rod looked back over hi
s shoulder into a vast hall, and saw dark shapes gliding through the air, like long-tailed, headless bats larger than horses.

  As they left the stair, he hissed, "Tay, there were flying things back there—"

  "I know. They'll head for the slaughter in front of the armory, though. We'll soon be long gone."

  Then she ducked through another archway and into a room that smelled of mildew, a room where water ran down a wall and across the floor.

  "Stand in that," the Aumrarr murmured in Rod's ear. "We won't have to work a pump after all. Looks like one of them's leaking."

  Rod nodded, and stood in the water. "Less noise than pumping, right?"

  She nodded, putting a finger to her lips, set her sword point-down on the stone and bent to rinse the soles of her boots. Repressing a shudder, Rod did the same, straightening when Taeauna did and silently obeying her wave to fall in behind her, as they went on.

  Back out of the pump-room, into deeper gloom, and down a hall to a place where Taeauna stopped him, and carefully led him down three steps. She then sheathed her sword, took hold of his belt with one hand, and led him slowly forward into the darkness. Rod felt her hand slap something more than he heard it. As they passed, he reached out and felt what she'd struck: the cold, smooth curve of a pillar.

  Taeauna found another pillar, and then another. When she reached the fourth one, she drew Rod right against her, hip to hip, and said into his ear, "Put your free arm around me, and hold your sword out behind you. We're about to end up in a closet in Galathgard, and I'll need you to be very quiet, no matter what we find there."

  When he'd done as she'd directed, Taeauna did something to the pillar right in front of them and stepped forward. Rod found himself stumbling along with her as his arm around her waist carried him forward.

  It seemed as if they were falling, then, through a silent but star- shot emptiness. And then, quite suddenly, they were stumbling against and falling onto something heaped underfoot. Rod didn't need the lines of light coming through a pair of narrow closed— but ill-fitting—doors to tell him what they'd both just landed on. He could feel, and he could smell.