“I understand.”
Still holding onto her hand, he climbed the stairs. The darkness was total. At the top he paused, listening. There was no sound from beyond, and he slid open the panel leading to the corridor outside the Great Hall. Lanterns had been lit here, but there was no sign of people. Waylander released her hand. “Be lucky, Keeva,” he said, then moved away swiftly.
Keeva stood for a few moments, suddenly fearful. All the time he had been with her she had felt somehow protected. Now, alone, she found her hands trembling.
Be strong, she told herself, then ran along the corridor toward the library stairs.
“I cannot see them,” said Eldicar Manushan, staring out over the terraced gardens.
Three-swords did not answer. He exchanged glances with Iron-arm. The huge warrior nodded. Three-swords turned away. He had always liked Long-stride. The warrior was reliable and cool under pressure. He would be hard to replace.
“What can be taking them so long?” asked Eldicar Manushan. “Are they eating his heart, do you think?”
“They are not eating anything,” said Three-swords. “They are dead.”
“Dead?” responded the magicker, his voice rising. “They are Kriaz-nor. How can they be dead?”
“We die, too, magicker. We are not invulnerable. This assassin is obviously everything you feared. Are you sure he is human and not meld?”
Eldicar Manushan wiped sweat from his face. “I don’t know what he is, but he killed a Bezha. I was there. A little while ago he entered a house surrounded by guards and killer dogs. He killed the merchant who lived there and then left. No one saw him.”
“Perhaps he knows magic,” said Iron-arm.
“I would have sensed it,” said Eldicar. “No, he is just a man.”
“Well,” continued Iron-arm, “just a man has killed two Kriaz-nor. And now he is coming to kill you.”
“Be quiet!” stormed Eldicar, swinging around and staring out over the balcony. He gazed down at the ground some fifty feet below and watched for any sign of movement on the steps. Dark clouds obscured the moon, and lightning flashed over the bay, followed some seconds later by a rolling boom of thunder. Rain began to lash down, hissing against the white walls of the palace. Eldicar could see little now and moved to the shelter of the balcony doorway.
Back in the library, Three-swords was just about to pour a goblet of water, when he paused, nostrils flaring. Iron-arm had also caught the scent. Three-swords carefully replaced the goblet on the table and turned, his golden gaze raking the room and the wrought-iron stairs leading up to it. He could see nothing but knew someone was close. Iron-arm moved stealthily along the wall.
Three-swords strolled casually toward the stairs, then darted forward. As he did so, a crossbow appeared from thin air and loosed a bolt. Three-swords swayed to one side. The bolt flashed by him. A second followed the first. Three-swords’ arm swept up. The point of the bolt gashed the back of his hand before careering across the library and clattering against the shelves. Three-swords leapt down the stairs, grabbing the outstretched arm. With one heave he threw the assassin back over his shoulder and into the room. The archer landed heavily. Three-swords spun and ran up the stairs. The assassin had come to his knees, although that was not what Three-swords saw. He saw a head and one arm and a disembodied foot. Reaching out, he tore away the Bezha cloak with one hand while dragging the assassin to his feet with the other. He was about to rip out the man’s throat when he saw that he held a slim young woman. She kicked him, but he ignored it and turned toward Eldicar Manushan.
“This is not your Waylander,” he said. “It is a female.”
“Well, kill her,” shouted Eldicar.
The woman drew a dagger from its sheath. Three-swords absently batted it from her hand. “Stop struggling,” he said. “It is beginning to annoy me.”
“What are you waiting for?” said Eldicar. “Kill her.”
“I have already killed one woman for you, magicker. I did not relish that task, but I did it. It still sits badly with me. I am a warrior, not a woman killer.”
“Then you do it,” Eldicar ordered Iron-arm.
“That’s my captain,” said Iron-arm. “Where he goes I follow.”
“You insolent dogs! I’ll kill her myself!” Eldicar pulled his dagger from his belt and took one step away from the balcony door. At that moment something dark moved into sight behind him. A hand hooked into the collar of his robe, dragging him back. His hips hit the balcony rail, and his body cartwheeled over the edge. Iron-arm sprang toward the balcony. There was no one there. He glanced up.
Through the lashing rain he saw a dark figure scaling the wall, heading toward the upper balcony of the library tower.
Iron-arm looked down. Fifty feet below, the magicker lay spread-eagled on the stones. Moving back into the room, Iron-arm headed for the upper stairs.
Three-swords stopped him. “Trust me, my friend, you do not want to go up there.” He looked down at the woman in his grasp, then released her. She half fell. Three-swords saw a swelling on the side of her face, and her left eye was closing fast. “Sit down for a moment,” he said, “and drink some water. What is your name?”
“Keeva Taliana.”
“Well, Keeva Taliana, have your drink and gather your strength. Then, were I you, I would leave this tower.”
Eldicar Manushan lay very still. Pain threatened to engulf him, but he concentrated his powers, blocking the agony. Fighting for calm, he sent his spirit flowing through his broken body. He had landed heavily on his back, but thankfully, the spine was not severed. His right hip was smashed, and his left leg broken in three places, his left wrist fractured. His head had missed the stone of the path, striking the soft earth of a flower bed beside it. Otherwise his neck might have been broken. There were some internal injuries, but Eldicar quietly and carefully healed them. Occasionally the pain would burst through his defenses, but he held it back and continued to direct power to his injuries, accelerating the healing. He could do little about the broken bones in such a short time, but he swelled and stiffened the muscles around them, forcing them back into position.
The rain pounded down on him as he lay there. Lightning speared across the sky. By its light he saw Waylander scaling the wall. He had almost reached the upper balcony. Despite his broken bones, Eldicar felt a wave of relief sweep over him. He would not now have to be in the room when Anharat was summoned. Even better, the Demon Lord could not be summoned through him.
Carefully Eldicar rolled to his stomach and pushed himself to his knees. Sharp pain flared in his ruined hip, but the muscles around it held firm. Rising to his feet, he let out a groan as his broken leg twisted, a jagged shard biting into the cramped muscles of his calf. Bending down, he forced the bone back into place with his thumbs, then tightened the muscles once more.
Taking a deep breath, he put weight on the injured limb. It held. Almost all of his talent had been used up, and Eldicar knew he had to find a place of safety where he could rest and recoup his power. Slowly he inched his way toward the palace, entering a corridor opposite the Oak Room. It came to him then that he did not want to remain in this place. He wanted to go home. If he could just make it to the stables and saddle a horse, he could ride for the gateway and never again be forced to serve monsters like Deresh Karany. Eldicar thought of the family house beside the lake, the cool breezes flowing over the snowcapped mountains.
He paused as pain swamped him.
I should never have come, he thought. This venture has ruined me. He saw again the contempt in the Kriaz-nor’s eyes as he called for the death of the girl, and remembered the night of horror when the Kraloth had ripped into the nobles of Kydor.
“I am not an evil man,” he whispered. “The cause was just.”
He tried to hold to the teachings of his youth about the greatness of Kuan Hador and its divine purpose to bring peace and civilization to all peoples. Peace and civilization? Desiccated corpses were strewn around Deresh Karany, w
ho was at this moment summoning the Lord of Demons.
“I am going home,” said Eldicar Manushan.
He limped toward the main doors and dragged them open, stepping out into the storm-swept night.
And came face to face with an angry crowd led by the priest Chardyn.
There were many conflicting thoughts and emotions within the Source priest Chardyn as he led the townspeople up the hill toward the White Palace. First and foremost was a terrible fear. Righteous anger had led him to make his speech at the temple, allied to an underlying belief that an army of common folk would prove a match for a few score soldiers and a magicker.
But when the march began, many of the townspeople had drifted away. And when the storm came, even more hung back. And so it was that Chardyn finally arrived at the White Palace leading a bedraggled group of around a hundred people, many of them women.
He had promised them that the Source would show his power. He had pledged a shield of thunder and a spear of lightning. Well, he had the thunder and the lightning—and with it the sheeting rain that had drenched his followers, cooling their ardor.
Very few of the people with him had weapons of any kind. They had not come to fight. They had come to witness the miracle. The stonemason Benae Tarlin was carrying an iron spear, and to his right Lalitia was holding her dagger.
Benae had asked Chardyn to bless the spear, and the priest had solemnly laid his hands on it and in a loud voice had intoned: “This is a weapon of righteousness. May it blaze with the light of the Source!” That had been back in Carlis, and the crowd had cheered mightily. What Chardyn had noticed was that the spear was old and dull, the point pitted with rust.
The small crowd crested the hill and saw the palace. “When will we see the magic?” asked Benae Tarlin.
Chardyn did not answer. His white robes were soaked, and he felt a great weariness upon him. His own anger had long since been replaced by a feeling of impending doom. All he knew was that he would enter the palace and do his best to wring the throat of Eldicar Manushan. He marched on, Lalitia beside him.
“I hope you are right about the Source,” she said.
As they came closer, the doors of the palace opened, and Eldicar Manushan stepped out to meet them.
Chardyn saw him and hesitated. Thunder rumbled above them, and Chardyn could feel the fear in the crowd swelling.
Eldicar Manushan looked at him. “What do you want here?” he called out.
“I am here, in the name of the Source, to put an end to your evil,” replied Chardyn, aware that his normally powerful voice lacked conviction.
Eldicar moved out from the doorway. The crowd fell back. “Leave here now,” boomed the magicker, “or I shall summon demons to destroy you all!”
Benae Tarlin backed away from Chardyn. Lalitia swore and stepped in. “Give me that!” she hissed, snatching the iron spear from the stonemason’s hand. Spinning on her heel, Lalitia took two running steps toward Eldicar Manushan and launched the weapon. The surprised magicker threw up his arm, but the spear plunged into his belly. He staggered and almost fell. Then he grabbed the iron haft with both hands, dragging it clear.
“I cannot die!” he shouted.
Thunder boomed as he spoke, and a blast of lightning tore down from the sky. The iron spear in Eldicar’s hand exploded in a tremendous flash of white light. The magicker’s body was hurled high into the air. The force of the explosion threw Lalitia from her feet. Chardyn ran to her, helping her up. Then he walked slowly toward the charred body of Eldicar Manushan. One arm was completely gone, and a part of the man’s chest had been torn open. A blackened section of the iron haft had crashed through Eldicar’s face and was jutting from the rear of his skull.
As Chardyn stood there, he saw the body twitch. One hand opened and closed. The leg jerked. Eldicar’s eyes flared open. Blood bubbled from his ruined chest, but the wound began to close.
Lalitia dropped to her knees beside the magicker and rammed her dagger into his throat, severing the jugular. Blood pumped out. Eldicar’s eyes stayed open for a little while, wide and terrified. Then they closed, and all movement ceased.
Benae Tarlin moved alongside Chardyn, and then the other townspeople crowded around.
“All praise to the Source!” someone said.
“The spear of lightning,” said another.
Chardyn looked up from the charred corpse and saw people staring at him, their faces awestricken. Benae Tarlin suddenly took his hand and kissed it. Chardyn realized that the crowd was waiting for him to say something, some grand words, something memorable to match the occasion. But he had nothing to say.
He turned away from them and began the long walk back to Carlis.
Lalitia came alongside him, taking his arm. “Well, you are a saint now, my friend,” she said. “A man of miracles.”
“It was no miracle. He was struck by lightning in a storm,” said Chardyn. “And I am a fraud.”
“How can you say that? You promised them the Source would strike him down. He was struck down. Why do you continue to doubt?”
Chardyn gave a sigh. “I am a liar and a charlatan. You, though I love you dearly, are a whore and a thief. You think the Source would work his wonders through people like us?”
“Perhaps that is the real miracle,” she said.
The fingers of Waylander’s left hand were beginning to cramp as he eased himself up the wall, reaching for the cracks where the sections of marble dressing joined. The cracks were thin, no more than half an inch wide in places. Rain swept over him, drenching his clothing and making the handholds slippery. Waylander paused and opened and closed his left fist, trying to keep the fingers supple. Then he pushed on.
A figure appeared on the balcony just above him. Waylander froze. Lightning flashed over the bay, and the assassin saw in its fierce light a nightmare face. Hideously stretched at the temples, the head was triangular with huge almond-shaped eyes. The texture of the gray skin was scaly, like that of a serpent. Then the creature moved back from the balcony and into the tower beyond. Waylander gripped one of the stone balcony rails and hauled himself up. Lifting the crossbow from the clip at his belt, he vaulted the rail and then dove into the room.
Something bright flashed by his face. He rolled to his right. A second burning missile flew past. Coming to his knees, bow raised, he saw the creature’s hand come up. A ball of fire appeared in the palm. Waylander shot swiftly. The bolt slammed through the fiery globe, embedding itself in the shoulder of the creature. It leapt forward and then spun, its huge tail raking out. Waylander threw himself to his left. A sharp claw missed him by inches. He shot again. The bolt sliced through the creature’s face. It reared up, then fell heavily. Waylander notched the upper string of his bow and slipped another bolt into place.
The creature lay still for a moment.
Suddenly Waylander felt an immense pity for it and a powerful yearning to befriend the beast. He knew in that instant that it could not be evil, that it desired only love and friendship. He could not believe that he had come here to kill it. The creature slowly rose and turned. Waylander relaxed. Then his eyes fell on the bodies around the walls. In the corner he saw a dried-out husk. Braided golden hair clung to the desiccated skull. He knew the style of the braid. The corpse had once been Norda.
He looked back at the creature. Never in his life had he known such love as he felt now.
From somewhere deep in his mind he recalled Ustarte telling him about the charm spell used by Deresh Karany. The creature was closer now. Its tail swept around, the claw glinting in the lantern light.
“Will you die for me?” the creature asked sweetly.
“Not tonight,” said Waylander. With a huge effort of will he raised his weapon and touched the trigger. The bolt tore through the creature’s neck. Deresh Karany gave out a terrible cry. The spell broke.
Waylander dropped the crossbow and drew a throwing knife, which he hurled into Deresh Karany’s chest. The creature screamed and rushed at him. Talo
ns snaked out. Waylander dropped to his knees and flung himself to the right. The tail lashed at him, throwing him against an oak table. Waylander came to his feet and drew his short sword. The tail swept up. Waylander’s blade cut deeply into it. A high-pitched scream sounded from Deresh Karany, who backed away, his tail oozing blood to the floor.
“You cannot kill me, mortal,” he said.
“But I can bring you a world of pain,” answered Waylander. Another knife sliced through the air, plunging deep into the creature’s biceps.
Deresh Karany backed away once more and began to chant. Waylander had never before heard the language. It was guttural and harsh, yet powerfully rhythmic. The air in the room grew colder as the chanting grew louder. The walls began to vibrate. Shelves came crashing down. Realizing that the magicker was summoning a demon, Waylander hurled himself at him. Deresh Karany spun, his blood-smeared tail whip lashing out. The assassin was thrown across the room. He landed hard, striking his head against the wall. Groggy now, he struggled to rise. A bright light was beginning to form by the far wall. The stone began to ripple. In desperation Waylander drew another knife and hurled it with all his might. It hammered into Deresh Karany’s outstretched hand. Waylander heard him grunt with pain. For a moment only, the chanting ceased. Then it began again.
The cold intensified. Waylander shivered. Fear began to swell within him. Not fear of death or even fear of failure but fear itself, undiluted and pure. He felt the unseen presence of something so primal, so powerful that all his strength and guile were as nothing against it. Like a blade of grass trying to withstand a hurricane.
His limbs began to tremble. Deresh Karany screeched with laughter, the sound bizarre and insane. “You can feel it, can’t you?” he shouted. “Where are your knives now, little man? Here is one for you!” The Ipsissimus pulled the throwing knife from the flesh of his face and tossed it toward Waylander. It clattered on the floor close by. Plucking the other blades from his flesh, he casually threw them to the floor. “Quick, gather them up,” he said. “I will enjoy watching you use them against the greatest of demons, the lord of the pit. Do you feel honored? Your soul is to be devoured by Anharat himself!”
Hero in the Shadows Page 38
