As the Crow Flies: An Epic Fantasy Adventure

by Robin Lythgoe

  With an air of weary resignation, he took them to regard intently. Not wishing to interrupt him and make things more difficult for either of us, I held my silence. “This is all... rather random,” he murmured. “As if it were bits and pieces of a greater whole.”

  Shades of Old Jelal paraded through my head. “I have other information. Can you put this together to make any sense?”

  “Perhaps, but will it be the right sense?” Ozan remained quiet as he studied the symbols and notations, moving a few things aside to spread my papers out on his table. “These symbols,” he pointed, “involve the alignment of stars and sun, and specifically reference the solstice, the longest day of the year—and the shortest night. The sun’s power is at its highest point and tremendous amounts of energy are released. It is a time of strength, of will, of passion. The position of the stars on that day indicates there is profit to be had in using aggressive—bold—energy.”

  Oh, Duzayan was bold all right. I couldn’t argue with that.

  “This,” he pointed to an odd mark surrounded by a broken, spiraling circle, “is the symbol of Pheryn, the goddess of travel.”

  “It’s a bird.” Stylized, but obvious now, and logical given all the signs that Duzayan meant to open a gate between worlds. The sheer arrogance of reordering nature so radically raised my hackles.

  Ozan nodded. “And these are—”

  “Sorix and Onuial, the gods of the afterlife and of war.” Elbow on the arm of the chair, I tapped my fist against my mouth and considered the fullness of the tale. This tapestry of demons and dragons, wizards and war gods, magic and mayhem did not appeal to me in the slightest. The easiest and most sensible thing to do would be to hop aboard the next ship sailing out of port and never look back. My, would Tanris be angry…

  Ozan moved one of the charts aside. “Logically, one would want to take every advantage of the position of the sun, but the time marked here is midnight.”

  “The traditional time for calling on dark powers.”

  The priest shrugged. “There are two schools of thought on that. Midnight, when shadows are deepest, or twilight, when night conquers day. Even so, if one were to call on the greatest powers of the dark, one would do so at the winter solstice, on the longest night of the year. Let us say, though, that some unknown timetable prevents that and the spells must be performed now. Why, then, would the author choose the day, or night in this case, before they happen? He’s obviously made an error in his calculations.”

  If only it were so easy! “No, he wouldn’t do that. There must be another factor we’ve overlooked.”

  “I don’t know,” Ozan murmured, looking through the documents again. Once he’d consented to examine them, the mystery had drawn him in completely. “There are references to spells, but they have to do with opening locked doors, protection, and control. I’m afraid I am no expert in those fields.” He smiled apologetically.

  “The stars marking the path to a doorway might not line up on the same night as the solstice occurs,” I mused out loud.

  “That’s certainly possible.”

  “Then there you have it.” I blew out a sigh and slouched a little further in my chair.

  Ozan pulled his lamp closer. Laying a straightedge against the chart he’d chosen, he scribbled some quick calculations on an empty parchment. “I think I can pinpoint the doorway.”

  “Really?” I sat up, eagerness tickling me.

  “Hush.”

  I hushed while he did complicated math, referred to a book full of equations and diagrams and illustrations, flipped back and forth between charts, and plotted out the sketch of a map. The finished product was understandably rough, and Ozan less than pleased with it. “It’s here in the city, somewhere in the Litares District.”

  Right where Duzayan lived. I huffed a laugh. “Of course it is.”

  “There’s a mention here,” he turned the documents until he found what he was looking for, “of the Cruendithar constellation—the Dragon—but it doesn’t match the other diagrams, and the trait it signifies doesn’t appear to have anything to do with, well, anything.”

  “What is it?”

  He wrinkled his brow. “Those born under its sign are rumoured to be good with money.”

  Rich as he was, I suppose that applied well enough to Duzayan, but how was that important to opening a Gate?

  “There’s also the Arthon constellation, the horn. It represents a figure from a tragic myth and those born under it are said to be hopeless romantics.”

  The only person Duzayan loved was himself.

  “Aside from that, we have symbols of Houses, of gods, of historical figures—nothing that makes particular sense, unless these are tied to something you know already?”

  It was a good ploy to try to access information I didn’t have, regretfully. “The Solstice is the day after tomorrow. I have work to do.” I got to my feet.

  Ozan, too, stood, gathering the parchments, rolling them, and tying them together neatly with a strip of cloth. “The night your wizard has chosen is tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow… Perhaps it was a good thing I didn’t have much time to develop my sense of terror. “One more thing: do you have access to Adamanta Dust?”

  “In small amounts,” Ozan hedged.

  “I need all of it. Now. And be quick about it.”

  “You can’t—”

  “Oh, yes, I can, and I will. I will do whatever it takes, and you will help me, do you understand?”

  He wasn’t happy about it, but apparently even lowly priests dream about being heroes.

  — 35 —

  Let the Conjuring Begin!

  Nothing remained of Duzayan’s huge, beautiful mansion but a blackened ruin, smoking still in places. Looking at it, I wondered how much worse the strange potions and magical items had made the conflagration. A fire will do much damage on its own, but the enchantments had set off something dire, and the resulting explosion made an impressive crater. The upper floors had crashed down into the cavity. Farthest from the blast an ell-shaped section four floors high still stood, partially intact. There was something surreal about rooms whose walls had been sheared away, leaving the remains of smoke-blackened contents exposed. The opposite corner had nothing left but a tenuous skeleton merely suggesting walls. All ruined… All the beautiful, thick carpets, the paintings, the fantastic artworks collected from the length and breadth of the empire. The coin. Jewels. I could not help but sigh at the terrible waste, but if I had it to do over again I would not hesitate.

  Upon first inspection, the ruins were deserted, but I knew better. Duzayan would have to come here. This is where he had gathered his power, and he was connected to this place just as surely as he was connected to his own heart. The Ancestors believed it and Brother Ozan had confirmed it. The wizard did not have either the dragon’s egg to make his spell of invincibility, nor the dragon to control the demon mob, but he had too much invested in this undertaking to walk away now. If he could not have his empire he would have revenge.

  Tanris would like a bite of that particular dish, and that struck me as a wrong thing. A man as good as he should not be forced to such a miserable, low state. While his grief and anger would be useful in fighting against the wizard, I worried how it would affect him in the long run. When I’d left him at the apartment—me to tend to final details and him to organize the timely arrival the army, he had worn a veritable cloak of grimness. It had nothing of his usual air of efficient, detached purpose, and he’d lost his habitual glower. No, he burned. For his sake, I hoped the army would sweep in and finish the odious baron off before he could even draw his sword, and sooner would be better than later.

  How long had I been waiting? Impatience filled me, and worry tugged at my nerves. The later it grew, the more likely were the chances that Duzayan would attempt to create the Wycked Gate, and the more complicated things would get.

  The sound of crying drew me, though I did not at first identify it as such. It came to me as a small noise
and emotion blended together, a soft murmur bearing a terrified helplessness. I picked my way slowly toward it, listening and pausing to ascertain the proper direction, on the lookout lest there were some of the baron’s Best lurking about, or wretched little demons hidden in the ruins waiting to leap out and raucously proclaim my presence while they battered, bit and clawed me senseless.

  The closer I came to the edge of the crater, the better I could hear—and see. Creeping up a thick, fallen wall, I peered over the edge. The heart of the crater was ringed about with hooded torches illuminating the interior without casting much light behind or above them. A clever design, but the uses must be quite limited. There were only four of them, and a little study along with the subdued whispering of the Ancestors revealed that they were placed at the four cardinal points. The floor of the area had been cleared, and two figures occupied it. The first, wearing a robe of some dark, faintly glittering fabric, was easy to guess: Duzayan. He held a goblet in one hand, and in the other a knife. He appeared the very epitome of every evil wizard described in children’s tales, and the scantily clad figure at his feet only completed the scene.

  It was a woman, of course, bound to iron stakes pounded into the stone floor matching the positions of the torches. Between one foot and the other, a distance of perhaps five feet—which could not have been at all comfortable for the woman—a shallow, rough channel had been carved into the floor. The wizard, who had his back more or less to me, was talking or perhaps chanting, while the woman tossed her head this way and that, crying quietly and with heart-rending sorrow. Duzayan’s robes mostly concealed her, but I thought she’d been gagged, which not only went hand in hand with the Evil Wizard Sacrifice Scene, but made perfectly good sense. Screaming—even coming from a recently burned-out building—bore the obvious risk of drawing attention that any wizard worth his salt would want to avoid like an attack of sudden charity.

  He’d already begun. My heart thudded painfully in my chest as I realized I must intervene, and quickly. Favored of the gods, I had killed two wizards already. I had the Ancestors... I could do this.

  However, the plan for stopping a dangerous wizard and actually executing the endeavor were two entirely different things, no matter how well I’d tried to think things through. Lacking omniscience or the ability to prophesy, I had not planned for the woman, which put me at a disadvantage. Still in the shadows behind the torches, I crept down the tumbled stonework, keeping my eyes on Duzayan, hardly daring to breathe for fear of drawing his attention and ruining my nebulous new plan. “Sshhh...” I cautioned the Ancestors in a whisper when they skittered through the ruined chamber. The torches flickered.

  Duzayan glanced about, but he did not stop speaking, chanting. The foreign words slid over each other and across my senses like slimy worms. I wanted to cry out, but clamped my lips shut, holding still as a statue. After a moment he moved toward the woman’s feet, stepping over her delicately. The torch light shone on his robe again. Closer now, I could see it was heavily embroidered with metallic thread, though I could not make out the designs. Wizard sophistication at its best. Holding out the goblet, he waved his knife over it theatrically several times, muttering to himself, then poured the rich, bright contents out into the channel. A vivid, glowing pale orchid color, it hissed when it hit the stone.

  Then, quicker than you can say “Blast that scheming wizard!” he bent and slashed at the woman’s nearest ankle. The gag muffled her scream; her body bucked wildly against the restraints. Duzayan stepped between her legs and swiped again.

  Thank the god of quick thinking, I was already moving. Grabbing up the nearest fist-sized chunk of rock, I hurled it at Duzayan and picked up another. The first struck him in the shoulder. He took a startled step backward, which should have landed his foot in the channel, but with an awkward twist he avoided it. The knife-wielding hand flailed about for balance, then the tip of the thing suddenly pointed at me and Duzayan’s head turned my direction, spearing me with twin bolts of sheer fury. I pitched the second rock at him. Years of practice, a good eye, and the love of the gods had made me a very good aim. My missile clobbered him right in the forehead and over he went.

  I wasted not a second of precious time, but leaped down the incline and ran to the moaning, crying woman, drawing my own knife as I went. One slice freed her hands, and then I—paused. “Tarsha! How did you get here?” I asked incredulously, and at once I knew that Duzayan had never intended she should live. Like Tanris and myself, she was nothing but a pawn.

  She could not answer, of course. Another sharp hiss, a crackle, and an indescribable snap! drew my attention to the channel, except it wasn’t just a channel any more. Tarsha’s blood flowed into it and mixed with the potion, somehow creating a towering arch of pale purple that snapped and crackled like fire but looked very much like liquid. I had not the slightest inclination to touch it and find out. The purple bled into a dark, completely opaque center. Where I should have been able to see the floor and broken masonry behind it, there was only a cloudy, roiling surface.

  Stark fear lent me speed. I could not allow her blood to fuel Duzayan’s spell. I cut through the ropes binding Tarsha’s bare legs, idiotically wondering where her darling husband might be at the moment. The awful light revealed a deep cut, blood spooling out in a black ribbon.

  The gods had not deserted me. Grabbing up the fabric of Tarsha’s gossamer gown—and deliberately not wondering why she wore such a frivolous thing in such a place—I cut off a piece. She, in the meantime, dragged at the gag. Down on one knee, I bound the cloth quickly about the cut on her leg. The delicate fabric promptly turned crimson, too fragile to serve as a bandage. That was no help at all. Casting about, Duzayan’s robe caught my eye. He didn’t move, so up I leaped to cut off a strip of the stuff, dash back to Tarsha’s side, hoping as I bound the freely bleeding wound that the robe wasn’t imbedded with magical incantations that would somehow set all my efforts to naught. Of course it took only a second or two for my hands to begin tingling fiercely.

  “Crow!” Tarsha sobbed, struggling to sit up.

  “Not now,” I responded curtly, and swept her up in my arms. The entire crater was bathed in pulsing, eery orchid light that played strange games with the shadow and made footing treacherous. I had barely reached the outer edge and the first rough chunks of erstwhile wall that we needed to ascend when there came a horrific moaning roar behind me.

  “Cccrrroooowww!!!” Why couldn’t Duzayan stay unconscious—or even dead—while I made my escape?

  Something struck me hard in the leg. I stumbled and dropped Tarsha. She gasped, and her arms tightened around my neck as she dragged me down with her. “Go. Get up. Run!” I hissed, scrambling off her and yanking her to her feet to push her unceremoniously upward, bleeding leg or no. She could hobble to safety or she could die. Either way, Duzayan would be bereft of a key ingredient. She gave me one wide-eyed, terrified look, then clambered up the side of the crater on hands and knees.

  I would very much have liked to do the same. Unfortunately, Duzayan demanded my immediate attention, and he was fairly determined about it and unwilling to let Tarsha go, besides. Something whizzed past my head and she gave a little scream. Rocks clattered down around me, and I could only guess that she was scooting upward as fast she could go, which left me to deal with the regrettably conscious wizard.

  The whizzing thing turned out to be a demon—a pair of them, even. Big surprise there, eh? Could a wizard have any less imagination? I wondered, though I was wildly disinclined to offer any suggestions. More shrieking and gasping came from further up the incline, but I could do nothing for her. Frankly, Tarsha was lucky to be alive at all, and she could just take care of herself from here on out. She’d got herself into this mess, after all.

  I could sense the Ancestors darting about in sharp, quick little dashes, and I heard a thump and a funny little squeaking noise just as the second miserable demon flung itself out of the darkness and directly at my head. I squawked and went do
wn in an inelegant heap, nearly twisting an ankle as I fell. I would thank the appropriate god for saving me in a minute or two. For the moment, I was slightly preoccupied with the leathery creature attached to my face, wings wrapped around my head. This was becoming an annoying trend.

  “THIEF!” it screamed at the top of its lungs, also nothing new and not really appropriate to the moment.

  My fall tumbled the pair of us down the slope with the demon flapping and shrieking and generally made a nuisance of itself. Burning lines opened up in my scalp, flying dust scraped my eyeballs.

  “Quiet!” Duzayan hissed. How a single word could make my ears hurt so, I do not know.

  I helped enforce the order with another chunk of debris aimed squarely—and repeatedly—at the demon’s ugly little head. Bashing it senseless took some serious dedication. When it lay still, I smacked it once more for good measure, then turned to its master.

  I had not gotten a good look at him before now. He was a monster out of the worst of nightmares—and I suddenly remembered the exact image, plucked from the visions that had plagued me in my travels across the continent, only I had not recognized him then because he so little resembled the man I knew. His nose was pushed violently to the side and his face, oh, his face! A disaster of bruises and raw, terrible burns created a ruin scorched beyond recognition. The entire right side of his visage had melted like wax, leaving his teeth exposed and his eye naked and red. I wondered if he could see out of it at all. I recalled kicking him when we’d struggled on the stairs, and I could only guess that I had been responsible for the wreckage of his nose. But the rest? He must have gone into his secret room while it burned! How he had not been incinerated when it exploded remained a mystery and still, blasted and ruined as he was, he was opening the gods-cursed Gate.