More flooded road forced him to detour. He climbed to the elevated main floor of an imposing but roofless shell that faced the old temple. The rooms were cluttered with fallen beams, roof tiles, and smashed remnants of furniture. Finally he approached the open plaza at the city’s heart. Here the lake had invaded again to make a shallow reed-spotted pool running out of sight down another boulevard. He mentally kicked himself for not finding that route. He could have paddled right to the main stairs of the temple itself. It rose from the water on the far side of the plaza, close enough to hit with a long spear-throw.
Then he noticed what moved in the plaza among the rubble and reeds. Dozens of sinuous shapes rested on mud banks or slithered around scattered stones. They had bulging heads with branching antler-like fans that twitched and waved like a peacock’s tail. And teeth; lots and lots of teeth. The clawed feet were nothing compared to all those teeth. One raised its head and uttered a growl like grinding bones.
Kirin shrank behind a fragment of wall, overwhelmed by terror at his aloneness and danger. His goal lay so near, but a moat filled with monsters blocked his way and he had no idea what guards might lie beyond it. Still, somebody had come here to set things up for Chisaad, and they had to ride a horse or walk. There’s a way in, I only have to find it.
He stiffened his nerve and explored the ruined building around him. A long corridor to the east took him past rubble-strewn rooms under the jeweled sky. Calm showed a bare crescent thinner than a nail paring, by tomorrow night she’d be gone. Madness hurtled high overhead, fickle and wan. The little moon shone through a gap in the walls. Kirin went to the hole’s edge and peered through.
One of the temple’s fallen minarets had toppled right across the narrowing plaza and the spire had smashed this hole. Farther east the plaza narrowed to a road that rose out of the water.
It took some work, but he made it to that encrusted road. Curled-up plates of dried mud as big as his foot coated the pavement. He tried to pick a way between them but hadn’t got far when he stepped on one. The clay snapped with a crack that filled the night.
Kirin froze in place, listening. The ridge of rubble left by the fallen minaret blocked his view of the plaza and, he hoped, blocked any sight of him from the scaly denizens there. After a while he resumed his steps, but soon broke another. Then another. And four more before he reached the far side.
The sound of grinding bones came from the plaza. A second growl answered it, and a third.
Kirin hastily scrambled up a stair into the ruined temple. A long corridor under a barrel-vaulted ceiling led into the gloom. Remembering the guards who had almost caught him at the Royal Palace, he wrapped himself in a cloud of Shadow and crept along, his ears straining for a human sound. Up ahead, spells glowed in his magesight.
The first spell simply blocked the hallway at a junction. He throttled his Shadow and slipped through it readily. The second lay only a little farther and was as simple to pass, but now tracks appeared in the rubble and dust on the floor. He could smell wood smoke and stale cooking odors. Kirin listened, heard a trio of steady snores. Then something creaked, boots slapped on stone, and a pale-skinned man came out of a side-room up ahead. He wore half-armor and the leaf-bladed killing sword of a Gwythlo soldier. The guard crossed the corridor with a bored glance each way—Kirin didn’t dare even breathe—entered the room across the corridor, and soon the quiet sound of splashing echoed. Moments later the guard returned, still tying his codpiece shut, and went back to the first room. This time Kirin saw the shine of a ward passkey at his collar. Sure enough, the sleeping room had a separate interior ward spell.
Kirin dithered for a moment. The sanctuary of the old temple lay straight ahead, and around it the biggest spells. He thought the Prince would be there, but maybe one of those snores in that room belonged to him.
He had to be sure.
He eased closer, until he could look into the guardroom. Four sleeping men lay on pallets on the floor, a fifth on a more elaborate pallet a little distance away; Kirin guessed he must be an officer. A banked fire glowed inside a broken ceramic stove patched into a repaired chimney. Driftwood had been hauled in and piled near. The awake guard sat on a pile and tried to get a pipe going using a splinter from the fire. None of the men in the room had dark skin like the Prince.
Kirin withdrew, gradually thickened his shadow until it blocked view of the corridor from the room, and then glided across in silent care. He stopped on the door’s far side to slowly draw the Shadow back into himself. The guard puffed on his pipe unconcerned.
Kirin quickly picked his way along a path through the dust and rubble. He came to a side room with a warded doorway and slipped inside to examine a glowing decagram on the clean-swept floor. His magesight detected the umbilical tap that ran down into the World, drawing on a Node far below. This spell had to be connected to the one in Chisaad’s tower.
Kirin hesitated. The spell slept now, but he remembered how the wizard had brought the one in his tower to life with a word. At any moment someone, or a whole squad, might come through. He couldn’t leave it behind for the guards to spread swift word of the Prince’s escape.
His Shadow flowed out and blotted up the spell like a sponge gathers water.
He slipped out without damaging the ward spell. Let the guards figure that out! He moved on to a wide-arched entry at the end of the hallway, again warded by a spell. This one he slipped through the same way and gazed up at the vast hollow of the old temple dome. On the floor beneath the ocular hole lay a naked man—glowing.
CHAPTER 43: KIRIN AND TERRELL
Terrell woke from bad dreams. Darnaud and his sword featured prominently, but the worst included Pen falling to poison. He shuddered and almost shook his head before he remembered the spider.
His arms and back ached, his wrists were chaffed bloody, and his buttocks and the backs of his shoulders were raw from rubbing against the gritty stone floor. He stared up at the ocular overhead, a too-small circle of stars in an oppressive darkness. Darnaud had probably left Aretzo by now, on his way to murder Pen.
Father Haroun, hold your hand over Pen in protection, he prayed. Grant that Irreneetha detects Darnaud’s evil and saves Pen from poisoning. And Mother Umana, lend me your strength. Help me face what I must with courage and dignity, even if it be death by torture. In the Name of That which cannot be named, I pray for this.
He heard a sound and looked to the east entry, expecting to see the monster again. Nothing. When he looked to the west, a billowing cloud of utter darkness flowed right through the ward spell. It advanced on him across the floor.
Terrell didn’t know whether to greet the monstrous billow with words or screams. Abruptly it shrank to the size and shape of a man. A short man wearing an open robe knelt at his side and whispered in a deep voice, “You’re awake, good. Give me time to get these off and let’s get you out of here.”
Then he wrapped both hands around Terrell’s wrist and began squeezing the manacle. Terrell couldn’t imagine what the stranger thought that would accomplish, but before he could speak the solid iron broke into pieces. The man moved to his ankle and did the same thing, then the next ankle and finally the last wrist, each manacle taking less time than the previous. Terrell levered himself up and stifled a groan, gingerly checked his wrists and ankles while staring at his rescuer.
The man looked to be carved out of black marble, but moving. Terrell guessed him to be a few finger widths shorter than himself, narrow-waisted but broad-shouldered and powerfully built. Terrell had never seen a mage as muscular as this one; he wondered if the darkness tricked his eyes.
The stranger took a pack from his back and pulled something out of it. “Here. It’s the best I could do,” he whispered, and shoved silken pantaloons and shirt into Terrell’s hands.
Terrell dragged the shirt on while his overstressed arms made every movement torture. He fell when he first tried to get to his feet. The stranger helped him up and steadied him with a hand on his shoulder w
hile he pulled on the pantaloons. The solid grip reassured him even though the man remained an inky shadow.
That must be a disguise spell, Terrell guessed. Or perhaps a concealment spell? Though I’ve never heard of either one working like this. He tied the shirt closed with silken laces, then carefully explored the spider on his head. He’d been itching to touch it for days, and found it more complex than he’d guessed. Pain warned him not to prod it any harder, so he desisted.
The stranger stared at his head. “Damn. Highness, that thing--”
“Don’t touch it!” Terrell warned. “There’s a spike in my head holding it on. I need a priestess before I dare take it out.”
The stranger nodded back, or at least seemed to; it was hard to see his features. “All right. Now let’s get out of here.” A hand drew him toward the east entry.
Terrell resisted. “There’s a creature out there. Look!”
The beast had returned. It lifted its horror of a head, jaws parted, and once more leaned on the ward spell. This time a second creature joined it, one even uglier than the first.
The stranger flinched. “Haroun defend! Right you are, Highness. Back the other way instead.”
They hadn’t made it five steps when a clatter of footsteps announced the guard and three other soldiers. Fenman snapped, “How’d you get free?” Then he did an almost comical double-take as he noticed the stranger. But the young Gwythlo officer immediately shouted to his men, “Swords out! Take them both!”
The stranger grabbed Terrell’s arm again and the room went black. A yank made his abused body protest and nearly pulled him off his feet as he stumbled through darkness. Moments later they passed under the northern archway into a dusty corridor where he could see again.
“That ought to slow them down,” the stranger mumbled, still pulling him along. “Can you see well enough to walk, Highness?”
“Yes,” Terrell answered, then promptly stubbed his bare toes on a piece of rubble and stumbled again.
The stranger prudently kept a grip on his arm with a hand as strong as any swordsman’s. Could the man be a battlemage? Debris jabbed the bottom of Terrell’s feet, but he pushed pain out of his mind. He missed his shoes but resolved that he’d run his feet bloody to get away from his jailers. Though he hoped he wasn’t running into the arms of worse trouble by following this stranger.
He’s got to be a mage, though I’m boggled if I can name the school or even the discipline. Whatever’s covering him looks disturbingly like those Shadows that attacked us at Storm Pass. Terrell used his magesight and could not detect any spells emanating from the man, not even the weird texture of the Shadow Bears, which relieved him. If this is an illusion, it’s very effective!
They came to the end of the corridor, turned right into another and soon met a pile of rubble where the roof had come down. The stranger helped Terrell clamber over it, and on the far side they descended through a big hole to a street outside the building. Water stretched southwestward, glinting in wan moonlight reflected from the ripples thrown off by a sinuous swimming form. The stranger cursed under his breath and dragged Terrell northeast. Mud coated the pavement, soft and slippery at first, then dry and hard. Terrell ignored the occasional sharp edges and concentrated on putting distance between himself, the warped crocodiles, and his prison. His atrophied muscles were slowly awakening. Several times the stranger paused to check side roads that ran south, but all ended in more water or heaps of rubble.
“No good way through,” the stranger panted. “And not enough time. We have to try for their horses, Highness, and hope we get there before they sort themselves out again.”
“Then you didn’t kill them?” Terrell panted back, forcing his aching legs to keep moving. He’d been wondering about that sudden Darkness.
The man flinched. “Umana save me, no!”
Terrell wondered if that meant he couldn’t kill, or if he feared the consequences if he did. Perhaps this mage’s art trespassed a little too close to demonic sources for comfort? Overall, Terrell decided that flinch reassured him.
The hand on his elbow urged him to greater speed, and he obliged as best he could.
Wind-drifted sand and patches of dry grass marred the road. Occasional tracks of horseshoe and boot showed that it had been recently used by men, and therefore must lead somewhere. More alarming tracks also crossed it or even followed it for a distance, some shaped like hooves bigger than dinner plates. Others looked like a giant bird’s-foot twice the size of the human prints. Sharp indentations at the end of each ‘toe’ showed that it had claws.
Terrell and the stranger ran faster.
He estimated that two miles of ruins had flowed past while the pain in his feet steadily grew. They came to a fallen column that had strewn drum-shaped segments across the road. He deliberately stopped and parked himself on one to check his feet. The abrasions on his buttocks did not thank him for it.
The stranger jittered back and forth for a moment, then stopped.
“Have you got anything I can use to wrap my feet?” Terrell asked, picking a thorn out. The sparse vegetation growing in the road ran to stiff stems and sharp points. “If I don’t protect them I’ll soon leave a trail of bloodstains.”
The man pulled off his pack again and rooted around in it, produced another silk robe and began slicing it up with a belt knife. It didn’t take him long to wrap Terrell’s abused soles in improvised slippers that gave his feet some protection. The silk cords that had held the garment closed served as shoelaces.
Terrell studied his rescuer covertly. The illusionary darkness covering him had drained away while they ran. He looked like an ordinary man now.
No, not ordinary, Terrell thought. The man had strangely colored skin, dark as an ordinary Silbari on his face and arms, but nearly as pale as a Gwythlo where his pushed-back hood and open robe revealed more. He’s dyed most of the exposed parts. And he’s got pointed ears peeking out of that curly black hair. A halfbreed, like me, only more towards the Gwythlo side in his ears. The earlier impression of hard muscularity hadn’t been an illusion, under the open calf-length robe the man had the build of a warrior. Yet he must be a mage too, to do whatever he did to free me. That’s an unusual combination. I’d guess him to be a battle-mage from Lake Van; probably his mother had southern blood. But he speaks Silbari like a native-born and hasn’t used a single Gwythlo word yet. Of course, he’s hardly used twenty words in total. Time to change that.
Casually, Terrell asked, “What name should I call you by?”
“Kir—” The stranger hesitated, his shoulders hunched for a moment, then he relaxed. “Kirin will do, Highness.”
“Kirin,” Terrell said agreeably. “Old Silbari name, isn’t it? I believe it means Black Eyes?” He tried to engage Kirin’s gaze, since eyes were the windows of the soul. But the man avoided looking directly at him.
The hunch returned. “Yes.” The man tied off the last improvised slipper. “Let’s keep moving, Highness.”
“Gladly.” Terrell stood up and tested his footing. “But where, or what, are we moving toward?”
Kirin scanned the road in front of them. “I hoped we’d find some sign of a place where they’ve been keeping their horses, but there’s nothing yet. We’ll have to move more carefully when we reach the city wall. They’re probably stabling them there under guard.”
“Good plan.” It took Terrell a moment to find his stride in the clumsy foot-coverings, but they blunted the rocks and thorns very nicely. Soon he achieved a faster pace than before. Kirin kept up with him with apparent ease.
A round bastion loomed ahead on the right, its twin fallen in ruin to the left. Beyond them the rubble-strewn cityscape ended and a wall towered. Terrell’s magesight showed a ward spell on the standing bastion. Kirin put a hand on his arm and led him to the shadowed side of the road.
“Time to creep,” he whispered.
Terrell nodded and slowed, picking his way along in the shadows as best he could. His rescuer seemed
as sure-footed in the dark as in moonlight. The intact bastion showed no light, but Terrell smelled horse manure. Kirin pressed him to stop in the blackness under a snag of wall. Terrell obligingly sat on a stone and waited while Kirin slipped ahead, his shadow-covering in place once more. In an instant he had vanished into the night. Only a slight sound of one pebble hitting another gave him away.
The moon made the night seem paradoxically darker. During his time staked to the floor Terrell had noticed how accustomed he had grown to candles and other forms of night-time illumination, and how much he missed it. His thoughts wandered to the strange tracks he’d seen on the way here. If one of those creatures found him here, weaponless and alone . . . he huddled on his stone seat and tried to be absolutely quiet.
Several subjective centuries later Kirin returned, appearing out of the night so abruptly that Terrell jumped to his aching feet.
“Nobody there,” Kirin said in a low discouraged voice. “No horses either, they’ve left.”
“Could Darnaud have taken them?” Terrell wondered aloud, new fear seizing his heart. He had assumed that Darnaud had to go back to Aretzo by the teleporter spell and ride his own horses from there to Sulmona before he could try to kill Pen, but it might be a shorter journey from here.
“Duke Darnaud’s here?” Kirin blurted out in a worried voice. His posture tensed as if to fight or flee.
There’s a world of fear and hatred in your voice when you say my cousin’s name, Terrell thought. Why do you hate him? “Earlier today,” he confirmed. “Threatened me, threatened to kill my bodyguard and Hand, Sir Penghar. Who is in Sulmona right now on a mission for me. Could Darnaud have taken the horses across country to reach there?”
“I don’t know,” Kirin said. “But there haven’t been any horses here for three days at least. The manure is dried.”
Shadow and Light Page 43
