They paused to have a short meal on the steps of an impressive building off the main boulevard. Stone lions, similar to those that guarded the entrance to the city, sat on either side. A fountain stood in the street at the center of an intersection. The water no longer sprayed and the pool was filled with a black liquid.
“What books have you got there?” Alric asked, seeing Myron sift through his pack and pull out one of the five that Bulard had saved.
“This one is called The Forgotten Race by Dubrion Ash. It deals mostly with the history of the dwarves.”
“What’s that now?” Magnus asked, leaning over to look closer at the pages.
“According to this, mankind is actually native to Calis—isn’t that interesting? And dwarves started in what we know as Delgos. The elves of course are from Erivan, but they quickly occupied Avryn.”
“What about the Ghazel?” Hadrian asked.
“Funny you should ask,” he said, flipping back several pages. “I was just reading about that too. You see, men appeared in Calis during the Urintanyth un Dorin and would have—”
“Huh?” Mauvin asked.
“It means the Great Struggle with the Children of Drome. You see, the dwarves warred with the elves for centuries, nearly six hundred years, in fact, until the fall of Drumindor in 1705—that’s pre-imperial reckoning, of course—about two thousand years before Novron built this city. The dwarves went underground after that. As it turns out, the early human tribes would have failed—perished—if not for the contact they had with the exiled dwarves who traded with them.”
“Aha!” the dwarf said. “And how do they treat us for our kindness now? Ghettos, refusals of citizenship, bans on dwarven guilds, special taxes, persecution—it’s a sad reward.”
“Quiet!” Royce suddenly told everyone, and stood up. He looked left and then right. “Get ready to move,” he said, and leaving the lantern, he climbed down the steps, heading back the way they had come.
“You heard him,” Hadrian said.
“But we just sat down,” Alric complained.
“If Royce says get ready to move, and he has that look on his face, you do what he says if you want to live.”
They gathered their belongings back into their bags. Arista took one more mouthful of salt pork and a swallow of water before stashing the rest in her pack. She was just pulling the straps over her shoulders when Royce reappeared.
“We’re being tracked,” he told them in a whisper.
“How many?” Hadrian asked.
“Five.”
“A hunting party.” Hadrian drew his swords. “Everyone get moving. Royce and I will catch up.”
“But they’re just five,” Arista protested. “Can’t we avoid them?”
“It’s not the five I am worried about,” Hadrian told her. “Now go. Just keep moving up the avenue.”
He and Royce moved back down the road at a trot. She watched them go as a sinking feeling pulled at her stomach. Alric led them forward at a run, past the fountain and on up the Grand Mar.
This part of the city was familiar to her. This road, these buildings—she had seen them before. Gone were the brilliant white alabaster walls and brightly painted doors. Now they were dingy and brown, cracked, fractured, chipped, and like everything else, covered in a layer of dirt. As in the rest of the city, the columned halls stood on misaligned stones.
Alric led them around a massive fallen statue whose head had severed at its neck and lay on its side, its features bashed and broken. They then leapt a fallen column, and as soon as she cleared it, Arista stopped. She knew this pillar; it was the Column of Destone. She turned left and saw the narrow road Ebonydale. That was the way Esrahaddon had gone to meet Jerish and Nevrik. She looked forward down the Mar. She should be able to see the dome, but it was not there. Ahead was only rubble.
“Arista!” She heard Alric calling to her and she ran once more.
Royce and Hadrian paused near the headless statue, where the algae in the water cast an eerie green radiance to the underside of all things. Royce motioned with two spread fingers that a pair were coming up one side of the street and two on the other. While the two pairs were mere shadows to Hadrian, the fifth was quite visible as he loped up the center of the boulevard like an ape hunched over and traveling on three limbs. His massive claws clicked intentionally on the stone as signals to the others. Every few feet he would pause, raise his head, and sniff the air with his hooked, ring-pierced nose. He wore a headdress made from the blackened fin of a tiger shark, a mark of his station—a token he would have obtained alone in the sea with no more than his claws. He was the chief warrior of the hunting party—the largest and meanest—and the others looked to him for direction. They all carried the traditional sachel blades—curved scimitars, narrow at the hilt and wider at the tip, where a half-moon scoop formed a double-edged point. Like all Ghazel, he also carried a small trilon bow with a quiver slung over one shoulder.
Royce drew out Alverstone and nodded to Hadrian as he slipped into the darkness. Hadrian gave him a minute; then, taking a breath, he also moved forward. He closed the distance, keeping the statue between him and the Ghazel. To his surprise, he was able to reach the platform before the warrior noticed him and let out the expected howl. Immediately arrows whistled and glinted off the stone.
The warrior rushed him, his sachel slicing the air. Fighting a Ghazel was always different from fighting men, but the moment the two swords connected, Hadrian no longer needed to think. His body moved on its own, a step, a lunge. The fin-endowed warrior responded exactly as Hadrian wanted. Hadrian caught the warrior’s next stroke with his short sword and saw the momentary shock in the Ghazel’s eyes when his bastard sword came around, removing his arm at the elbow. A short spin and Hadrian took the warrior’s head, fin and all.
A high-pitched shriek announced the charge of two more Ghazel. Hadrian always appreciated how they announced their attacks. He was able to step out from his shelter now—the rain of arrows having ended.
The two bared their pointed teeth and black gums, cackling.
Hadrian shoved the length of his short sword into the stomach of the closest. Dark blood bubbled up from the wound. Without looking to see the reaction of the remaining Ghazel, he swung his other blade behind him and felt it sink into flesh.
Hadrian heard fast-moving footsteps and looked up. Across the open square Royce ran at him, carrying a Ghazel bow and quiver of arrows. The thief was making no attempt at stealth, his cloak flying behind him.
“What’s up? Did you get the others?”
“Yep,” he said. As he ran by, he tossed the bow and quiver to Hadrian and added, “You might need these.”
Hadrian chased after him as he ran back up the Grand Mar. “What’s the hurry?”
“They weren’t alone.”
Hadrian glanced back over his shoulder but saw nothing. “How many?”
“A lot.”
“How many are a lot?”
“Too many to stand around and count.”
The party reached the end of the boulevard, which looked nothing like what Arista remembered from her dream. The Ulurium Fountain—with its four horses bursting out of the frothing waters—was gone, crushed by giant stones. To the right, the rotunda of the Cenzarium still stood, but it was a faded, broken version of its former self, the dome gone, the walls blackened. To the left, the columned facade of the Hall of Teshlor remained intact. While it had weathered the years better, the building was just as grime-covered as the rest. Most importantly, the great golden dome of the magnificent palace—in fact, the whole palace—was missing. Before her, only a hopeless mountain of rubble remained. All around the parameter, every inch of space was carpeted with bones of the dead.
Reaching the end of the road, Alric spun around and held the lantern high. “Arista! Which way?”
She shook her head and shrugged. “The palace—it should be just ahead of us. I think—I think it’s destroyed.”
“That’s just great!” Gaunt bellowed.
“Now what do we do?”
“Shut up!” Mauvin barked at him.
“Is this as far as Hall got?” Alric asked Myron.
“No,” the monk replied. “He wrote that he entered the palace.”
“How?”
“He found a crevice.”
“Crevice? Where?”
“He wrote ‘Fearful of the drums in the darkness, and afraid to sleep in the open, I sought refuge in a pile of rocks. I found a crevice just large enough for me to slip through. Expecting nothing more than a mere pocket to sleep in, I was elated to discover a buried corridor. On my way out I was careful to mark it so that I might find it should I return this way again.’ ”
They began searching, crawling among the boulders and broken stones. The collapse of the building covered the entire breadth of the broad boulevard with a mass of fallen stones containing hundreds of crevices, each of which might hide an entrance. They had only begun looking when Royce and Hadrian returned, their weapons still drawn and slick with dark blood.
“That’s not good,” she heard Hadrian say the moment he saw the pile.
“There’s a crevice somewhere that leads inside,” Arista said.
“There’s a horde of Ghazel right behind us,” Royce told her.
“Everyone inside that building on the left,” Hadrian shouted.
They ran across the square, struggling over the piles of bones and rocks that blanketed the walk and steps to the Hall of Teshlor. Yelps and cries erupted behind them. Looking back, Arista spotted goblins skidding across the stone, scratching their claws like dogs on a hunt. Their eyes flashed in the darkness with a light from within, a sickly yellow glow rising behind an oval pupil. Muscles rippled along hunched backs and down arms as thick as a man’s thigh. Mouths filled with rows and rows of needle-like teeth spilled out the sides as if there was not enough room in their mouths to contain them.
“Don’t watch, run!” Hadrian shouted, grabbing hold of her arm and pulling her across the loose mounds of bones.
Alric and Mauvin sped up the steps, heaving themselves simultaneously against the great doors.
Hadrian threw Arista to the ground, where she fell, scraping her knee and bruising her cheek.
“Wha—” Her protest was silenced as a hail of arrows peppered around them, sparking off the stones. He hauled her to her feet once more and shoved her forward.
“Go!” Hadrian ordered.
She ran as fast as she could, charging up the steps. Myron and Magnus, who had just slipped inside the big double doors, waved at her to hurry. She glanced behind her. Gaunt was just reaching the base of the steps.
Arrows flew again.
Arista heard the hiss and Hadrian pulled her behind the pillars, but Gaunt had no such protection. An arrow caught him in the leg and he fell, sliding to a stop.
He rolled over to his back and cried out as the first goblin reached him.
“Degan!” Arista screamed.
A white dagger slit the Ghazel’s throat, and the princess spotted Royce straddling the fallen Gaunt. Three more Ghazel rushed forward. Two fell dead almost instantly as Hadrian joined Royce, taking one with each of his swords. Distracted, the third turned toward the new threat just as Royce stepped behind him and the goblin fell.
“Get up, you fool!” Royce shouted at Gaunt, grabbing him by his cloak and pulling him to his feet. “Now run!”
“Arrow in my leg!” was all Gaunt managed to say through gritted teeth.
“Look out!” Arista shouted as nearly a dozen more Ghazel charged.
Hadrian’s swords flashed as he threw himself into the fight. Royce vanished only to reappear and vanish again, his white dagger flashing like a sparkling star in the night.
“Back into your holes, you beasts!” Alric shouted as he suddenly ran out with a lantern in one hand and his sword in the other. Mauvin chased after his king as Alric leapt into the fray fearlessly, cleaving into the nearest goblin. Her brother took an arm off his opponent and then ran him through. Arista’s heart stopped as Alric failed to see the blade of another Ghazel swinging from the side at his head. Mauvin saw it. A lightning-quick flash of his sword blocked the attack, sliced through the blade, and killed the goblin in one stroke.
Gaunt was up and hobbling forward.
Arista hiked up her robe and ran back down the stairs to him. “Put your arm around me!” she shouted, moving to his wounded side.
Gaunt put his weight on her. From behind them more goblins entered the square. Twenty—perhaps as many as thirty—ran forward shrieking and yelping, their claws clicking the stone, and a drone came from them like the sound of a swarm of locusts.
“Time to go!” Hadrian declared. Reaching Alric, he pulled the lantern from the king’s hand and smashed it on the stone before the attacking Ghazel. A burst of flame rose along with more cries and squeals.
“I’ve got him!” Hadrian told her. “Run!”
They all bolted for the doors that Magnus and Myron held open. As soon as they entered, the monk and the dwarf pulled them shut. Royce slid the latch.
“Get that stone bench in front of the door!” Royce shouted.
“What bench?” Mauvin asked. “It’s pitch-black in here!”
Arista barely thought about it and her robe glowed with a cold blue light that revealed the entrance hall. Musty and stale, it was much like the library, covered in cobwebs and dust. The white-and-black-checkered floor was cracked and uneven. A chandelier that had hung from the ceiling rested in the center of the floor. Braziers lay toppled, stone molding was scattered, and plaster chips littered the ground. Great tapestries still clung to either wall. Faded and dirty, they were otherwise unmarred, as were long curtains that draped the walls. Stairs led up from either side of the front doors and past two tall, narrow windows that looked out onto the square. It was then that Arista realized how much like a small castle-fortress the Teshlor Guild was.
Boom! Boom! The goblins hammered against the door, shaking the dust off the walls.
Having laid Gaunt down near the center of the room, Hadrian pulled the goblin bow from his shoulder and ran up the steps. He made use of the arrow slits to fire on the goblins outside. She heard a cry for every twang of the tiny bow and soon the hammering stopped.
“They’ve moved off,” Hadrian said, leaning heavily against the wall. “Out of bow range, at least, but now that they know they have guests, they won’t leave us alone.”
Royce looked around, scanning the stairs, the ceiling, and the walls. “Question is… is there another way in here? And perhaps more importantly, another way out?” He pulled the remaining lanterns from Myron’s pack and began lighting them.
Arista moved to Gaunt’s side. The short, foul-looking arrow had penetrated through his calf with both ends sticking out. “I can see why you were having such trouble running,” she told him as she pulled her dagger and started to cut his trouser leg.
“At least someone gives me credit,” he growled.
“You’re lucky, Mr. Gaunt,” Hadrian said, coming down the stairs and approaching them. He grabbed the first lit lantern and knelt down beside him. “If the tip was still inside your leg, this next process would hurt a lot more.”
“Next process?”
Hadrian bent down, and before Arista or Gaunt knew what was happening, he snapped off the arrow’s tip. Gaunt howled in pain.
“Get some bandages ready,” he told Arista. Myron was already there holding two rolls out to her. “Now this will hurt some.”
“This will?” Gaunt asked incredulously. “What you did befo—”
Hadrian pulled the shaft from his leg. Gaunt screamed.
Blood flowed from the wounds on either side of the leg and Hadrian quickly began wrapping and pulling the cloth.
“Put your hands on the other side and squeeze tight—real tight,” he told Arista. Blood soaked through the white linen, turning it red.
“Squeeze harder!” he told her as he unrolled a second length of cloth.
As she di
d, Gaunt cried out again, throwing his head back. His eyes went wide for a moment and then squeezed shut.
“I’m sorry,” she told him.
Gaunt groaned through gritted teeth.
Blood seeped through her fingers. It was warm—and slicker than she had expected, almost oily. This was not the first time she had found her hands covered in blood. In the square of Ratibor, with Emery in her arms, there was much more, but she did not notice it then.
“Okay, let go,” Hadrian told her, and he redressed the wound. Once again he had her squeeze as soon as he was finished. More blood soaked the bandages, but it was spotty this time and did not consume the whole linen.
Hadrian wrapped another length and tied it off. “There,” he said, wiping his hands. “Now you just have to hope there was nothing nasty on that shaft.”
Royce handed him a lantern. “We should look for other entrances.”
“Mauvin, Alric? Keep watch out the windows, shout if they return.”
“I need water,” Gaunt said, his face dripping with sweat. Arista slipped a pack under his head and grabbed his water pouch. It appeared more of it dribbled down his chin than went in his mouth.
“Rest,” she said, and brushed the hair from his brow.
He gave her a suspicious look.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to enchant you,” she said.
When she entered, her robe illuminated the grand hall with a cold azure light. A great stone table stood in the center with dozens of tall chairs surrounding it. A few had fallen to their sides, as had a half dozen metal goblets that rested on the table. The chamber was four stories tall, with great windows lining the high gallery and skylights in the ceiling. She imagined that they had once filled this room with a wonderful radiance of sunlight. Painted on the upper walls and parts of the ceiling were astounding scenes of battle. Knights rode on horseback with streamers flying from long poles, vast valleys were filled with thousands of soldiers, and castle gates, defended by archers, were assailed by machines of war. In one scene, three men battled on a hilltop against three Gilarabrywn. Those same men were seen in other images, and in one, they were pictured in a hall with a throne where one sat with a crown and to either side stood the other two. Below the paintings, a varied array of weapons lined the room: swords, spears, shields, bows, lances, and maces. The one thing they all had in common: even after a thousand years, they still gleamed.
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