Plague of Shadows

by Howard Andrew Jones

  Yet even though the thought of his unseen eyes upon her was cringe-inducing, Arcil had apparently been safeguarding her and Stelan for years. Did she owe him for that, and for his assistance in the tower? She would have been unlikely to survive without him. Did those actions balance out the long list of his transgressions?

  They could not. But she had given her word. "Do we wait, or move now?" she asked.

  Arcil had apparently been wondering the same thing. "Now, I think. I don't know what they intend. Suppose they drain the crown's power?"

  Elyana nodded.

  "You and those two can go look into the Chamber," Arcil said. "I will remain here."

  "Is that wise?"

  "I can watch you through this." Arcil pushed his hand through the edge of his robe, showing her a small violet globe. "I can send you aid, or reach you myself, almost instantly."

  "Don't you have to concentrate to use that?"

  "No."

  She frowned. So it was essentially a window to her at any time. "When this is all over, I want you to smash that."

  "It's practically unbreakable," he said, then, upon seeing her brows darken further, added, "but I'll see that it's destroyed."

  She told Renar and Drelm to follow and struggled through the crowd until they reached a side street. Behind her, the first speaker had called for unity, and then a woman's voice rose shrilly over the din of the crowd. Her voice grew fainter as the three of them moved away. "It's long since time to put petty factionalism behind us," she was saying. "It is I, your sister in liberty, who says this. Do you not trust me?"

  Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  Elyana took a right turn, thankful that near the central square the streets of Woodsedge were mostly straight. The route should lead them to the rear of the correct building.

  After another right they saw no one in the lane but themselves and a figure lying against some crumbled stairs, hugging an empty bottle. The distant crowd broke into another shout, then died as a speaker, his words too distant for coherence, began to harangue them.

  A few dozen paces on, two helmeted guards suddenly stepped forward from an archway at the back of a white stone building. The shorter of the two raised his hands.

  "Turn around, citizens," he said. "Your presence is required in the square."

  Elyana gave him her best smile as she advanced. "Drelm," she whispered from the side of her mouth. "Axe."

  The men were bored, but they were professionals, and they put hands to sword hilts as Elyana's group closed the distance. When they were but twelve paces away, the short one again ordered them to halt, then drew his sword.

  Drelm's hand snapped back, and an axe flew forward. It caught the short soldier in the forehead and he sank in a welter of blood.

  His companion had just cleared his scabbard when Elyana struck. He blocked the first strike, but her flashing sword darted in and found his throat before he had time to shout a warning.

  A moment later, Elyana was walking beneath the stone archway while Drelm and Renar dragged the bodies after her.

  The door opened into a grimy cellar.

  Drelm dropped his guardsman on top of Renar's and then closed the door. The light dimmed to a tiny line under the boards.

  Elyana searched the gloom, stepped around a line of crates stacked neatly against a wall, and started up creaking wooden steps. The door at the top was old and warped. And locked.

  "Drelm," she said, "smash us a way clear."

  She jumped down, and the half-orc took her place. It took him but two good kicks to open the portal. The door swung wide on its broken hinges and slammed into a cabinet, and Elyana winced at the racket. She followed Drelm through, sword to hand.

  There was no one there.

  They moved down the dark back hallway to a large kitchen and pantry. All were deserted. Elyana raised a hand for them to be still. Listen though she might, she could hear only the sounds of the crowd outside.

  It might be that the mass of people had completely drowned out their arrival. She could hope.

  She led the way out of the silent kitchen and into the brown-paneled hallways. They took the narrow servant's stair up two floors and stopped in front of a dark oak door. Elyana waited there, listening. Still she could perceive only the sound of the clamoring throng carried through the building.

  The character of the place changed on the other side of the door, becoming a structure of white stone walls and polished wood floors overlaid with decorative runners. The hall was hung with paintings of landscapes and heroic peasants. Elyana paid them little heed, her attention straining instead for sign of Gray Gardeners.

  The hallway stopped at a set of double doors carved with an elaborately detailed Galtan liberty cap circled with breathtakingly accurate laurel leaves.

  What had probably once been elegant brass doorknobs had been worn down over the years to a dull metallic color. She knew better than to grasp one if there were wizards on the other side. The doors would be warded; she was certain of it. She motioned the others back.

  "Do you wish me to kick it?" Drelm asked quietly.

  She shook her head. An old couch sat in an alcove to their left. "Pick that up. Renar, stand ready."

  The young man cast off his robe while the half-orc took up the couch. "Won't this make a lot of noise?"

  "That's why you're going to be ready to move fast," Elyana answered. "But not so quickly that you're going to walk into whatever spell it sets off. Drelm, heave away."

  The half-orc nodded once, then hefted the furniture to chest level and flung it side-first into the doors.

  The wood splintered with a crash as the doors flew open. The couch and doorframe were drenched suddenly in a storm of ice shards that materialized from thin air. Elyana threw up an arm to block the pelting ice. Drelm grunted and lifted his throwing axe. The storm petered out after only a few moments. The couch lay broken between the doors, and the half-orc vaulted over it, heavy feet crunching on the ice.

  There was no time for careful consideration of the audience hall beyond. Elyana had the sense of a large space with a high ceiling. Three gray-robed targets presented themselves in the room's center, and all were turning toward Drelm. The half-orc paused only to hurl his throwing axe, and then he faltered, groaning in pain as he fumbled for his larger weapon.

  From behind him, Elyana saw the half-orc's axe strike one Gray Gardener in the chest. Blood flew, and the man opened his mouth in a scream even as the crowd outside burst into applause, drowning out the noise.

  At the same moment a wave of pain swept over her, and she bit back a shout. There must have been a second ward. She managed only a single shot, taking one of the three Gray Gardeners through the knee. He dropped, howling.

  Elyana struggled for breath as she nocked a second arrow. The pain was intense, as though every one of her muscles was suddenly on fire.

  The room was wide and long. Dozens of desks, tables, and chairs had been pushed to the walls. In the clear space beside the Gray Gardeners were six coffins tilted against chairs facing the back of the room. Each contained a body, and Elyana was astonished to find herself staring at a face she recognized. Even over the sting of the spell she felt a chill, for she could hear the black-haired man speaking to the crowd at the same time she gazed upon his still corpse, dressed in the same clothing he wore below, even to the sash that stretched diagonally across his chest.

  One Gardener remained upright. He faced them, but did not act.

  Drelm advanced, lifting his greataxe. The wizard with the arrow through his knee raised a hand from the floor planks where he reclined, and a shimmering ray of energy struck the half-orc, now only a few paces away. A befuddled expression spread over the captain's features and he sagged to the ground, as if even his own body were too great a burden to bear.

  Renar charge
d past Elyana and the row of bodies, aiming the lance straight for the lean Gardener who had not yet acted. Stelan's son felt only a glimmer of the ward's power before the armor turned it aside.

  The Gardener axed by Drelm raised bloody hands. Renar saw the fingers glowing with eldritch light and winced in anticipation of the attack. No spell struck him, though, for an arrow stoppered the wizard's mouth and he fell sideways, gurgling blood.

  Renar sang the melody Elyana had taught him and the weapon in his hands fairly vibrated with energy. A beam of pure white light shot from its tip and struck the Gardener in the center of his chest. The man curled up as though he'd been dealt a haymaker to the gut, his hat tumbling free to expose a black gleam crowning his brow. The force of the blast flung the fellow backward through the open window, his feet clipping the sill as he spun out and down.

  Renar saw him strike the top of the guillotine and then land with a sick crunch on the guillotine's platform, right beside a fat man holding hands with a small boy.

  Few had taken notice, though, for at the moment Renar's blast hit the wizard a cry rose from the crowd outside. The parliament speakers were dissolving, drifting apart like smoky shadows. Already screaming people were pushing and shoving to escape the square.

  Drelm collapsed on top of the crippled wizard who'd cast the spell on him, his knife still embedded in the man's chest. Elyana hurried past him to the window, teeth gritted against the lingering ache of the spell. She reached the sill in time to see folk leaping off the edge of the guillotine platform and away from the body of the Gray Gardener that had plummeted into their midst.

  "Elyana," Renar said, pointing down to the broken man below, "I think he's wearing the crown!"

  As interesting as that was, Elyana's attention was caught by further pandemonium spreading through the mob. As though the Galtans were not already frightened enough, Arcil and Sareel appeared beside the podium in a flash of light. The wizard drove tentacles of darkness against the Gray Gardeners while Sareel guarded his back. A few of the soldiers rushed to aid; the rest were carried away by the crowd, or were already running with them.

  "See if you can hit the wizards with your lance," Elyana told Renar. She glanced back at Drelm and saw the half-orc lying prone. He waved her on. Good enough. They were all alive still, somehow, and the crown was below. All she needed was that, and then Arcil could get them home.

  Home.

  She gathered her aching limbs, slung the bow over one shoulder, and climbed into the window. She leapt out for the top of the guillotine.

  If she could have dropped straight onto it, she would have done so, but there was a gap of more than four feet between sill and the top of the device. The stabbing pain in her calves and triceps distracted her only a little, but even that was too much. She knew she'd misjudged the moment she launched.

  The top of the guillotine was a thick beam suspended over two wide columns, designed to support the blade as it rose for its long, deadly drop. She had intended to land with a graceful acrobatic twist. Instead, her toes slipped on the wood, and while she managed to turn herself, she landed on her belly across the beam. Her armor absorbed part of the impact, but the wind was knocked out of her. Worse, she had no purchase. She scrambled frantically to establish a grip on the beam's edge. She failed, but managed to right her trajectory as she dropped so that she landed solidly on the platform beside the blade housing, on the side where Galtans usually kept the head basket.

  The frightened mob was still fighting to exit the square. They fled, leaving dozens of dead or wounded trampled in the street. No one seemed to pay her any heed, for which she was thankful. She breathed a sigh of relief as she bent down beside the dead masked man on the platform. She could see the dark gleam of the metal band on his balding brow. She had only to snatch it up and signal to Arcil, and they could be done.

  And then she saw that it wasn't the right crown.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Crown of Twilight

  The crown she'd seen on the stone bier in the tower had been fashioned of two interwoven bands—one dark, one light, rising and falling around one another in a wave. Suddenly understanding dawned, and she cursed herself for her stupidity. She hadn't found the wrong crown, she'd just found half of it. The thing must come apart, like the metal puzzle toys blacksmiths fashioned for children.

  She pulled the crown from the dead man's brow. The moment she grasped it, she felt her armband thrum in response to the vast reservoir of power stored within the artifact.

  The metal was so black that it did not give back a reflection. Elyana stood, the artifact gripped tightly in her left hand, then absently rolled the dead wizard off the platform with one booted foot. The body struck the cobbled stones below with a thud muted by the screaming crowd. She debated how to go about contacting Arcil.

  The wizard had thrown up a glimmering shield of energy, and so too had one of the Gardeners opposite him, the magic distorting features so severely that Elyana could not pick out details. At Arcil's side, Sareel hewed through the arm of a warrior. Around them were a jumble of bodies, some hacked and bloody, others merely twisted and still. The corpses of two Gray Gardeners lay among them.

  Whomever Arcil fought was immensely gifted, for he or she lashed the wizard's shield with a blistering rain of blue lightning. Was it Nadara? Mystic energy flared against the shield, and Arcil reeled under the onslaught.

  Elyana had already turned to shout up at Renar when there was a flicker across the square. Arcil's opponent had vanished. She spun to see Nadara slide smoothly from the shadow of the guillotine's beam.

  Her pretty face was made ugly by her sneer. Her long, dark hair, flecked with gray, whipped in a tight tail pulled back from her head. She was garbed like a man, in gray trousers and waistcoat. The scorched remnant of a Gray Gardener mask was roped about her throat like a necklace.

  Most importantly, a white-gold twin to the crown in Elyana's hand glittered on her forehead.

  Elyana went for her sword, but Nadara was faster. At her gesture, the shadow from the guillotine snaked up to snare Elyana's arms above the elbow. The cold, dark force turned her with irresistible strength, pressing her arms to her chest. Elyana brushed the hilt of her sword, but was yanked off-balance toward the dead man's bed of the guillotine. She was slammed down onto the wood with such strength that she was momentarily stunned.

  The shadow arms pulled her along the bed, and as she blinked to clear her head she was not altogether surprised to see another pair of shadowy tendrils lifting the gleaming, deadly blade from its housing, carrying it up the guillotine channel. The startling thing was the music coming from above—not from a lute, but from a harp, and the soft voice of a bard.

  Vallyn! From where had he come, and on whose side would he fight? And why hadn't Renar or Drelm done anything to aid her?

  Nadara's eyes were alight with vindictive glee. Elyana heard her name being called and turned her head to find Arcil running from the far side of the square, dodging around bloody bodies. Sareel sprinted after. The warrior woman's sword blade dripped gore. Above, the shadow arms had lifted the blade two-thirds of the way toward its apex, and those that restrained Elyana had pressed her into line with the shining weapon's path. Nadara had not bothered to slam down the neck brace that would lock her in place—the shadow arms did that well enough.

  Elyana might be the metaphorical damsel in distress, but she couldn't wait for rescue. Who was her hero—the boy with the lance? The treacherous bard? The half-orc lying huddled in pain? The lich?

  Elyana knew her own magic was dwarfed by that of the wizard beside her, but she still had one resource: her half of the crown. All she needed was a way to wield it.

  In the building above, Renar's spirit rebelled against what it was being told to do by the bard, who'd appeared a few moments before, plucking away on a half-strung harp only partially in tune. Struggle though
he might, that magic had kept Renar from employing the lance to aid Arcil. Now Vallyn commanded him to use the thing, and against his will Renar's voice rose in song. A blaze of magical energy streamed forth and struck Arcil squarely in the side. The wizard caved inward as though struck by a great fist and went tumbling past his bodyguard, robe smoking.

  Vallyn erupted in gleeful laughter. Renar struggled, but could do nothing without Vallyn's voice instructing him.

  "Mistress!" Vallyn slid closer to the window. Renar watched helplessly as the guillotine blade neared the top of its channel, readying its plunge toward his elven friend. Vallyn raised his voice, shouting, "I saved you, mistress! It's me, Vallyn!"

  Drelm had little strength left, and the pain was a living thing that writhed within him, a serpent that twisted all about his muscles, nerves, and organs. But pain was an old companion to him. He pushed himself slowly to his knees even as the bard worked his magic upon Renar. The half-orc was dazed, and stars sparkled on the edges of his vision, but he could still focus. And so at the same moment Renar fired the bolt from the lance into Arcil, Drelm lumbered to his feet and ambled slowly toward the bard. He was not altogether clear what he would do, only that he would stop him. He could not even attempt stealth. He built up speed, shuffling, then jogging. He was eight paces from the bard, five, four ...

  At the last moment Vallyn whirled, and Drelm saw the man's eyes go round in shock. Though his clothes were still torn and bloody, Vallyn must have cast a healing spell over himself, for his handsome face was clear of blemishes. Vallyn lifted up the harp as if to use it as a barrier, and then Drelm crashed into him.

  Drelm had meant to grab for Vallyn's neck, but the instrument spoiled his blow. No matter—the half-orc's weight slammed into the bard and his arms encircled him, harp and all.

  Vallyn screamed, trying to cast a spell, but his fingers could not close on the strings. Drelm felt the shock as the bard's back slammed into the edge of the window, and then they were falling, falling ...