“Which door would you suggest, since you don’t like my choice?”
“What about that alcove?” asked Paks. “Or the center doors on the long side there?”
Macenion shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me. Why not the alcove? It’s as far as possible from those you fear.” Paks flushed but held her peace as they walked the length of the hall.
The alcove was deeper than it looked; the light was deceptive. Within it were two doors, both bronze. One had a design on it that reminded Paks of a tree; the other was covered with interlacement bands that enclosed many-pointed stars. Macenion looked at her. “Do you have any feelings about either of these? My own preference would be for the stars; stars are sacred to elves.”
Paks felt, in fact, a stubborn desire to use the door with the tree, but she felt no special menace from the other one. With Macenion grinning at her in such a smug way, she didn’t want to press a mere preference. “That will do. I don’t have anything against it, anyway.” When Macenion simply stood there, she asked sharply, “Aren’t you going to open it?”
“As soon as I figure out how. It’s locked, spell-locked—if you laid a hand on it, you’d be flat on your back. I’m surprised your intuition didn’t tell you that.”
Paks wondered herself, and thought that if her intuition worked on bigger things, they’d better pay attention to it. She said nothing, however, and as Macenion stood in apparent thought, she turned to keep watch on the rest of the room.
When she looked the length of the room toward the dais, she thought she saw a faint glow around the doors there. She looked at the other doors in the hall. They looked the same. When she looked back at the dais, the glow was more definite. It had an irregular shape, and seemed to be coming from the joint between the doors—as if it were seeping through.
“Macenion!”
“What now?!” He turned to her angrily. Paks pointed toward the dais. “I don’t see—by the gods! What’s that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t like it. Did you step up on the dais?”
“No. You yelled, and I—I may just have touched the lower step with my foot—”
“I hope not. It’s brighter, now.”
“So I see. I wonder if it’s—by Orphin, I’d better get this spell correct.”
“What is it?”
“Not now! Just watch. Tell me if it gets more than halfway down the hall.”
“But what can I do to hold it back?”
“If it’s what I think, nothing. Now let me work.”
Paks turned to stare at the mysterious glowing shape, which grew slowly as she watched. It seemed to spread, widening itself to the width of the dais, and slowing its forward movement as it did so. At first she had been able to see through it clearly, but as it grew and thickened, she could no longer see the doors behind it. She felt sweat crawling through her hair. Her intuition had been right, but what was this thing? Surely there was a way to fight it.
Now it reached the forward edge of the dais. Paks could hear Macenion muttering behind her. She heard a faint sizzle, then a little pop. Macenion cursed softly and went back to muttering. The glowing shape extended along the front edge of the dais, and began to grow taller. Slowly it filled the space above the dais, from the doors behind to the lowest step in front, rising higher and higher to the canopy that hung between the dais and the ceiling. When this space was full, the glow intensified again. It seemed more and more solid, as if it were a definite shape settling there. As it solidified, it contracted a little, no longer so regular. Just as Macenion’s triumphant “Got it!” broke her concentration, Paks thought she could see the shape it was condensing toward.
“Come on, Paks. Quickly!” Macenion grabbed her arm to hurry her through the now-open door, and looked back. “Great Orphin, protect us, it is a—Come on!”
Paks tore her eyes from the glowing shape, and darted through the door after Macenion. He waited on the other side and threw his weight against the heavy panel. As it swung closed, a curious hissing noise came from the hall they had left.
“Help me—close it!” Macenion looked as frightened as Paks had ever seen him. She, too leaned on the door, as Macenion fumbled for something in his pouch with one hand. It seemed reluctant to stay closed, as if pressure were on it from the other side. “Don’t let it come open,” warned Macenion. “If that gets out, we’re dead.”
“What is it?”
“Not now! I’m trying to—” Macenion grunted suddenly, and began to mutter in a language Paks didn’t know. Suddenly Paks felt a great shove from the other side of the door. “Blast! Wrong one.” Macenion began muttering again, as Paks held the door with all her strength. She heard an abrupt click, and found that she needed no strength to hold the door. Macenion sighed. “That should do it,” he said. “I expect it will. You can let go now, Paks.”
“What was that?” Paks noticed that Macenion still looked worried.
“I don’t know how to explain it to you.”
“Try.”
“A sort of evil spirit, then, that can take solid form, and attack any intruder, elves preferred. It has many ways of attacking, all of them unpleasant.”
“And a sword would be no use against it?”
Macenion laughed. “No.”
“Is it the thing we came to find? What’s holding the other thing prisoner?”
“No. Unlikely. I fear, though, that it may be in league with it. This may prove harder than I thought. And we certainly can’t risk returning this way to the surface.”
“Unless we’ve destroyed that thing.” Paks felt better. Her intuition had been right after all, and, as always, the joining of the fight roused her spirits. Macenion looked at her curiously.
“Don’t you understand? We can’t destroy that—and we don’t know any other way out. If what we’re looking for is as bad or worse, we may never get out.”
Paks grinned. “I understand. We took the bait, and we’re in the trap: and we don’t even know the size of the trap. But they, Macenion, don’t know the size of their catch.” She drew her sword and looked along the blade for a moment. “You managed to shut the door against that thing. I can deal with more fleshly dangers. And—I’ve been in traps before.”
“Yes, but—Well, there’s no help for it. We’d better keep moving. We want to be well away from that door if it breaks through.”
They were in a short corridor, lit as the stairwell and hall had been, and ahead of them an archway gave into a larger room. Here, too, the floor was thick with dust. Paks led the way forward, sword out and ready. Macenion followed.
The room had obviously been a kitchen. Not a stick of furniture remained, but two great hearths, blocked up with hasty stonework, told the tale of many feastings. On the left, a narrower archway led to another corridor. On their right, a short passage led to another room, just visible beyond it.
“That should have been the cellar,” said Macenion. “I wonder if any of the wine is left.”
Paks chuckled. “After so long? It wouldn’t be worth trying.”
“I suppose not. We’ll go this way, then.” He gestured to the left. As they crossed the kitchen, Paks looked around for any sign of recent disturbance but saw nothing.
“Was that thing back there what drove the elves out?” asked Paks.
“No. I don’t think so. Enough high elves together would be able to drive it away. It’s—well, you humans know of gods, don’t you? Good and evil gods?”
“Of course.” Paks glared back at him for an instant.
“Do you know of the Court of Gods? Their rankings, and all that?”
Paks shook her head. “Gods are gods.”
“No, Paksenarrion, they are not. Some are far more powerful than others. You should have learned that in Aarenis, even as a soldier. You fought in Sibili, didn’t you? Yes—and didn’t you see the temple of the Master of Torments there? I heard it was sacked.”
Paks shivered as she remembered the assault on Sibili. “I was knocked out,” she sa
id. “I didn’t see it.”
“Well, you’ve heard of the Webmistress—”
“Of course. But what—”
“Liart—the Master of Torments—and that other, they’re both fairly low in the court of evil. Between the least of the gods and the common evils of the world, there are still beings—they have more power than any human or elf, but not nearly so much as a god.”
Paks was suddenly curious. “What about the heroes and saints like Gird and Pargun?”
“Who knows? They were humans once; I don’t know what, if anything, they are now. But that creature, Paks, is more powerful than any elf, and yet is far below the gods. Our gods—the gods of elves.”
The corridor they traveled curved slightly to the left. Paks glanced back and saw that the kitchen entrance was now out of sight. Ahead was a doorway blocked by a closed door, this one of carved wood. As they neared it, Paks noticed that the dust on the floor was not nearly so deep; their footsteps began to ring on the stone and echo off the stone walls. She wondered what had moved the dust. Macenion, when she pointed it out, looked around and shook his head.
“I don’t know. Draft under that door, possibly—”
“Underground?” Paks remembered that she didn’t know much about underground construction, and put that thought aside. She moved as quietly as possible toward the door. In the cool white light of the corridor, its rich red and black grain and intricate carving seemed warm and alive. She reached out to touch it gently. It felt slightly warm under her hand. “That’s odd. It’s—”
The door heaved under her hand; Paks jumped backward just in time to avoid a blow as it swung wide. Facing them were several armed humans in rough leather and woolen clothes; the leader grinned.
“’Ere’s our bonus, lads!” he said. “The ears off these’ll give us something to show the lord—”
Paks had her sword in motion before he finished; his boast ended in a howl of pain. She took a hard blow on her shield, and dodged a thrust meant for her throat. Behind her, she heard Macenion draw, then the ring of his blade on one of the others. The noise brought two more fighters skidding around the corner ahead to throw themselves into the fight. Paks and Macenion fought almost silently; they had no need for words. Paks pressed ahead, finding the attackers to be good but not exceptional fighters. She had the reach of most of them, and she was as strong as any. Macenion yelped suddenly, breaking her concentration; as she glanced for him, a hard blow caught her in the side. She grunted, grateful for the chain shirt she wore, and pushed off from the wall to skewer her opponent. Macenion’s arm was bleeding, but he fought on. Paks shifted her ground to give him some respite. She took a glancing blow on her helmet that gashed her forehead as it passed. She could feel the blood trickling down toward her eye. Macenion lunged forward, flipping the sword away from one of their attackers; Paks downed the man with a blow to the face. They advanced again; the other attackers seemed less eager. Finally only two were still fighting. The others, dead or wounded too badly to fight, lay scattered on the corridor floor. Paks expected them to break away and flee, but they didn’t; instead, they fought doggedly on, until she and Macenion managed to kill them.
Chapter Five
Paks leaned against the wall breathing heavily. Her side ached, and she could feel a trickle of blood running down the side of her face. Her shield had broken; she pulled the straps free and dropped the pieces. Macenion had ripped a length of cloth from his tunic, and was wrapping the wound on his arm. As he moved, she caught a glimpse of the bright mail under his outer clothing.
“If I’d known you wore mail,” she said finally, “I wouldn’t have worried so much. I was sure you were being skewered.”
Macenion glanced up. “I nearly was. By Orphin, you’re a good fighter in trouble. I wouldn’t have made it alone, even with mail.” He looked at her more closely. “You’re bleeding—is it bad?”
“I don’t think so. Just a cut on the head, and they always bleed—a mess.” Paks swiped at her face with her free hand, and found the cut itself, a shallow gash near the edge of her helmet.
“Here—” Macenion sheathed his sword and came over. “Let me clean that out.” Paks looked at the bodies on the floor as he wiped out the cut with something from a jar in his pack. It burned, but the bleeding stopped. The bodies did not move, this time. When Macenion finished, she pushed herself off the wall, grunting at the pain in her side, and wiped her sword clean on the dirty cloak of the nearest enemy. She wished they could stop and rest, but she distrusted the flavor of the air down here.
“I suppose we ought to keep going,” she said, half hoping that Macenion would insist on rest and food.
“Definitely. Whatever set these guards will know, soon enough, that we’ve passed them. If we’re to have any surprise at all, we’ll have to go on. Why? Are you hurt?”
“No.” Paks sighed. “Bruised, but no more. I wish we were out of here.”
“As do I.” Macenion gave a short laugh. “I begin to think that my elven relatives have more wit than I gave them credit for—they may have been right to tell me that I would find more trouble here than treasure.”
But along with her fear and loathing of the underground maze in which they were wandering, Paks felt a pull of excitement. In a corner of her mind, she saw herself telling this tale to Vik and Arñe in an inn somewhere. She checked her sword for damage, finding none, and turned to Macenion. He nodded his readiness, and she set off carefully, sword ready.
They passed an open door into an empty room on their right, and another like it a few feet down on the left. Ahead of them, the corridor turned again. Paks looked at Macenion and he shrugged. She flattened against the wall and edged forward to the turn. She could hear nothing. She widened her nostrils, hoping for a clue to what lay ahead. Her own smell, and Macenion’s, overwhelmed her nose. Finally, with a mental shrug, she peeked around the corner. An empty corridor, its dusty floor scuffed and disturbed. Four doorways that she could see in the one quick look she allowed herself. A crossing corridor a short run ahead.
“Do you have any of your feelings about any of this?” asked Macenion when she described what she’d seen.
“No. Not really. The whole things feels bad, but nothing in particular.”
“Nor can I detect anything. I wish our friend who wants our help would give us some guidance.”
Paks felt around in her mind to see if anything stirred. Nothing but a faint desire to get moving. She sighed. “Let’s go, then.”
The doors that opened off the corridor were all of wood; all bore the scars of some sort of fire. One gaped open, and they could see into a small room with stone shelves built into the walls. At the cross corridor, Paks took one corner, and Macenion the other. To the right, her way, the corridor ended in a blank stone wall perhaps fifty paces away. To the left, it opened after perhaps thirty paces into a chamber whose size they could not guess. Macenion cocked his head that way, and Paks began to edge along the wall of the cross corridor toward the chamber door. Macenion stayed where he was.
As she neared the opening, Paks felt a wave of confidence. Surely they were going the right direction. Macenion was being too cautious, as usual. She hesitated only a moment before putting her head around to see what the chamber was like.
Here, for the first time, she saw something not desolate and ruined. The floor, laid of pale green and gold stone blocks, had been swept clean of dust so that the pattern was clearly visible. At the far end of the chamber, a great ring of candles seemed to hover in midair. After a moment, Paks realized that they were attached to a metal framework suspended from a chain that ran to a ringbolt in the high ceiling. Candlelight warmed the cool white light of the corridors to a friendlier hue. In that warm glow, on a brilliantly colored carpet, stood a tall figure robed in midnight blue. Its face was subtly like Macenion’s, and yet different; Paks knew at once that she stood in the presence of an elf of high rank. Along the far wall of the chamber stood several motionless figures clad in rough gar
ments of gray and brown like poor servants.
Paks looked at the elf’s face. Its bones showed clearly under the skin, yet with no sign of age or decay. The eyes were a clear pale green. She felt no fear, though she was fully aware of the elf’s power, so much greater than Macenion’s. The elf’s wide mouth curved in a smile.
“Welcome, fair warrior. Was your companion too frightened to come so far with you?”
Paks shook her head, uncertain how to answer. She had the vague thought that no elves should be here. But perhaps this was the person they had come to help? She could not seem to think clearly. The elf was not frightened of her, and did not seem angry—and elves were, if uncanny, at least not evil. As she thought this, she realized that she was walking forward, moving out into the chamber.
“Excellent,” the elf continued. “I shall be glad to receive you both into my service.” He gestured to the line of servants. “You see how few I have, and you have just killed some of my best fighters. It is only fair that you take their place.”
Paks found her voice at last. “But, sir, I have a deed to perform, before I can take service with another.” She tried to stand still; her feet crept forward despite her efforts. She knew she should be afraid but she could feel nothing.
“Oh?” The silvery elven voice was amused. “And what is that?”
Paks found it difficult to say, or even think. A confusion of images filled her mind: the Halveric’s face as he handed her a sealed packet, the Duke’s parting words, the images of victory and glory that had come in the dream of the night before. She had advanced to the edge of the carpet. This close to the elf, she noticed a distinct, slightly unpleasant odor. Even as her nose wrinkled in distaste, the odor changed, becoming spicy and attractive. She drew a deep breath.
“Now—” the elf began, but at that moment, Macenion cried out from the far end of the chamber.
“Paks! What are you—”
Only for a moment those green eyes shifted from Paks; then the elf chuckled. “Well, so your companion finally gathered his courage. Stand near me, fair warrior, and show him your allegiance.” And Paks stepped onto the soft carpet and stood silent beside the elf, unable to move or speak. She could just see Macenion from the corner of her eye. The elf went on. “You think yourself a mage, I understand—you have scarcely the powers to match me, crossbred runt.”
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 56