Kel smiled, nodded. "You too." She grinned. "Don't worry. I'm the Jedaykeen."
Orvig and Rathe drew their blades, and Kel unwrapped the rags that covered the runes on her spear's tip.
"Ready?" said Orvig.
Rathe nodded.
"Now!"
Orvig kicked the door open and charged, shouting "Jhen!" The other two followed on his heels, yelling wordlessly, maniacally.
The companions were across the room before the throgs could draw their weapons. But though the guards were surprised, they were good. One of them shouted, and kicked the table over at Kelandra. It overturned, sending the pitcher of water shattering on the stone floor. Kel jumped back, and then the throg had his own sword out.
Orvig and the other guard were locked in a duel of flashing blades. The throg had the edge on reach, but Orvig seemed filled with a demonic energy. The throg shouted loudly and attacked. Orvig parried the stroke, feinted at the throg's head, then slashed at his wrist. He cut too low, and the blade sliced away two fingers instead. Dark blood spurted. Kel thrust with her spear, holding it two-handed. Her foe parried and fell back. Kel stepped over the fallen table, advancing cautiously. She knew she had the reach on him.
Rathe faced two throgs, but the cowled youth seemed armed only with a knife. The guard with him had been looking the other way when they burst in. He whirled, eyes widening at the sight of Rathe's charge. Perhaps he would have drawn his sword in time, but then the cowled throg yelled... and shoved his companion, impaling him on Rathe's sword! They went down in a tumble of limbs. The cowled throg turned and ran for the door.
The warrior facing Orvig dropped his sword, clutching his ruined hand. Orvig followed through with a hard upthrust into the stomach. The throg went down, clutching at his belly.
Rathe gasped for breath. The warrior atop him was a dead weight, unmoving. He looked up, and saw the other door squeak closed. The cowled throg was getting away! He cursed feelingly, shoved the body away, and struggled to his feet, trying to tug his blade free of his foe's ribs.
Kel's foe looked wildly about, and saw both his friends were down. His ears flattened and he charged with a berserk yell. Kel braced herself and spitted him neatly through the breast, her rune-tipped spear piercing the boiled leather armor with ease.
Orvig stood panting, holding his bloody sword. Jhen! He grabbed the coil of rope, then examined the trap doors in the floor. Four were unbolted. The fifth was locked shut. He slid the bolt open and looked down. The pit was seven feet deep, and stank. A small niche halfway up held an oil lamp. Its pitiless light illuminated two faces staring hopelessly upwards. The only furnishing was a reeking slop-bucket.
Rathe ran to the door and opened it. It led into a long corridor. Twenty paces down its length he saw the black-cowled throg—and he wasn't alone; a half-dozen warriors surrounded him. He pointed at Rathe and shouted something. Rathe could guess what it was.
Orvig looked down into the pit. One prisoner was a throg, his green face pale and wrinkled with great age, his body thin and frail. Had he been a human, he might have been seventy or eighty. As it was, Orvig could not guess his age. His eyes were—with a start, Orvig realized he was blind. His eyes were empty sockets, surrounded by charred flesh. The second—Orvig's heart leaped. It was Jhen. Her youthful face was dirty and tear-streaked, eyes red with lack of sleep. Her clothes were rags. But it was his sister. It was Jhen.
She looked up, squinting, then shrank back, as if afraid.
"Jhen!" Orvig shouted.
The girl paused, startled to hear her name. What have they done to her? Orvig thought. She doesn't know me! He slapped his forehead, then tore off the rune-cloak. "Jhen, it's me," he called.
The dwarf-girl put her hand to her mouth. "Orvig?" she said wonderingly. She rubbed her eyes. "It is you!"
"Jhen!" he called. "I've come to get you." He lowered down the rope. "Catch."
"Orvig!" she shouted. Then she turned to her cellmate, who had watched Orvig with his sightless eyes. "Please, you have to help him, too." She tied the rope around the throg's waist.
Rathe ducked back into the room. "You've found her?"
Orvig only grunted. He and Kel had tied the rope about the table, and Orvig was straining against the rope, pulling.
A head popped into view. It wasn't Jhen—it was an old throg. Rathe stared. Was this Jevaka Raye, the ancient shaman? There was no time to waste.
"Kel, help me! Bring the table to brace the door. We can build a barricade and—" He heard running footsteps, stuck his head out the door. A half-dozen warriors were charging up the corridor. "Gods! There's no time!" He glanced back at Orvig. He was straining at the rope again, the old throg helping him. At least he was good for something, Rathe thought. "Hurry!"
Rathe drew his sword, prepared to meet them just inside the doorway. Kel moved to stand by his side.
Eight throgs charged. They had shields and light armor. Rathe could see the cowled youth behind them, urging them on.
Suddenly, Kel cast off her cloak. Rathe did the same. The onrushing throgs halted in disarray, suddenly faced by the apparition of two human warriors. Rathe shouted and charged, Kel right behind him. Caught by surprise, two throgs fell in as many seconds. Rathe grabbed a fallen shield.
Rathe shouted. "Orvig" he shouted. "Take Jhen and run!" He parried a blow, ducked and thrust. "Hurry! If you get out, meet at the cave!"
Orvig gave a final heave. His sister popped out of the well and into his arms. She stood beside him, hugging him. He heard Rathe's shout over the clash of blades.
"No time for that," he said. He paused, his hand on his sword. Rathe needed him...
He felt a hand on his arm. It was the old shaman.
"Your friends are warriors," he said, voice a harsh whisper, words strangely accented but understandable. "You cannot help them now. Your sister needs you. She will not escape without you. You came down the stairway?"
"Yes," said Orvig. "We'll try to reach it."
"We must make for it. The landing there..."
"I know, damn you!" Orvig shouted. He hesitated briefly, then looked at the door. Cursing, weeping, he led Jhen and ran from the room, into the warehouse. The shaman stumbled behind.
Rathe fought on, though the corridor ahead was alive with throgs. He thrust and parried, his sword-arm leaden, his shield-arm numb. The buckler he had grabbed was hacked nearly to bits, but it had done its work well—he had yet to take a wound. Kel had been less lucky—blood dripped from a long, shallow cut along her thigh, and Rathe could tell she was slowing.
He glanced sideways at her. Her spear darted like a snake's tongue, stabbing in and out. Though she had no shield, she turned blows deftly, using her spear as though it were a quarterstaff to block sword and axe blows. Together, they gave ground slowly, making the throgs pay for every foot. But even so, they had been forced back into the doorway of the dungeon chamber.
At least Orvig got away, Rathe told himself. And Jhen. They still have a chance.
Orvig kept urging Jhen to move faster. His sister was falling behind, slowing herself to help the blind old throg. Every so often he stopped, listening. He still thought he could hear shouts, the clash of arms. Against hope, he prayed Rathe and Kel would make it, that something—Rathe's skill, Kel's magick—would be enough to make a difference. That they would get away.
There was no rest for Rathe. Reinforcements had come, but for the wrong side. The first throg warriors had fled or fallen, replaced by copper-helmeted elite guards, armed with shields and steel swords. The last minute of fighting had claimed few casualties—they had wounded some more throgs, but had been unable to press their own attacks. The warriors they faced were more skilled, and injured guards had simply fallen back, allowing fresh warriors to take their places. He and Kel had no such respite. They had been forced back into the chamber, and now stood back to back, surrounded. There was no place to retreat, no place to run.
Through the circle of warriors, Rathe glimpsed the visage of the cowled,
youthful throg, the one who had killed one of his own warriors to escape Rathe. Now his pale green face was smiling, his cold eyes gazing at Rathe and Kel as if he already possessed them. Then he turned away, shouting orders in a calm voice, calling more soldiers into the fray.
Kel saw him, too. Hate boiled within her, mingling with the pain of her wound. She wished she dared to cast her spear—he was obviously a leader of some sort. But then she would fall, and there would be no one to guard Rathe's back.
They had reached the stairs, pounding upwards. The old throg had his hand pressed to his side, and seemed to be in pain.
"Brother," Jhen panted, "Are there many more stairs?"
Orvig nodded. "But there's a landing coming up," he added. "We'll rest there a moment."
He could hear no sounds of pursuit—not yet, anyway. He pushed that thought away. Pursuit would mean that Rathe...
Now Rathe stood alone. Kel lay on the ground, a broken spear protruding from her shoulder. Blood pooled beneath her. Unconscious or dead, Rathe couldn't tell.
"Alive," hissed their cowled leader. "Take him alive." Rathe could not understand the words, but he guessed their meaning.
A wave of new throgs came, armed with shields and clubs. Rathe raised his sword. The foe broke over him like a green tide.
Jhen's own breath came in great gasps. Confined for nearly a week, she was in poor shape to run. But they dared not stop.
They reached the landing. Jhen collapsed on the floor. The old throg dropped to his knees, hugging himself, then dragged himself to his feet. Orvig leaned against the wall.
But they couldn't rest. They could hear the pursuit now—shouts coming from below. He turned to Jhen, shook her shoulder. No more lying to myself, he thought. We won't make it.
He drew his sword.
A withered pale-green hand fell on his shoulder. Blind eyes turned to meet his own.
"Wait, Jhen's brother," said the old voice. "I have a better way."
Chapter Seven
Rathe awoke in darkness, his wounds afire, to the feel of cold, wet stone against his body. He was curled into a fetal position, and he ached everywhere, a mass of cuts and bruises. The worst was his shield-arm—he winced when he touched it. It wasn't broken, but it felt like a bone bruise.
He remembered the fight, the sight of Kelandra going down, her high scream as a spear pierced her shoulder. What happened next had been almost welcome, after that scream.
But now he lived. And he did not know if Kel did. Or Orvig.
Wincing, he staggered to his feet. The ceiling was too high to touch, the walls close. He was in a small cell only an arm-span across... perhaps the very one they had rescued Jhen from.
He was alone. He had never been alone before, not like this. The stone walls muffled every sound. The only thing in the cell was a wooden bucket of tepid water. There was no room to stretch out.
He thought of ways to escape, made ingenious plans, but in the end, they all depended on him leaving the cell. He could feel no doorway, and any roof hatch was too high for him to reach.
He tried yelling. He called for Kelandra, and Orvig, and even Jhen. He shouted insults at his captors, cursed his jailers and Gotha Karn. He got no answer. He expected none. He stopped when his throat became too hoarse to speak. Hours passed.
He played the battle out in his mind, move by move, thought of different things he might have done, tactics that did not end with Kelandra of Adra lying bleeding at his feet.
He beat the stone walls until his right hand was bloody.
More time passed. Eventually he sat, wrapping his arms about his knees, and tried to sleep. Sleep was like death, he thought. Eventually, it came.
Rathe woke. In the blackness of the cell, he had no idea how much time had passed. His wounds still ached, but not as badly. His knuckles hurt—he remembered what he had done. He no longer felt tired, although his stomach rumbled and his throat was parched. He drank the remaining water in the bucket, then used it to relieve himself.
He thought of Kelandra. Orvig might have survived. Orvig was a survivor. But Kelandra—he had seen her fall. And the throgs—they hated her. If she had lived, what would they do to her? There had to be a way to help her. If she was alive, was in a cell like this, what would she be doing? Something magickal, he guessed...
He curled up on the cold floor. What could he do? They had taken his sword and dagger, his helmet, even his boots. All he had left was the coarse throg tunic and breeches. He looked at his finger. Even his mother's ring was gone. Did it now adorn some throg's finger? It had been the focus of what little magick power he might have inherited. Without it, without weapons, he was helpless.
He closed his eyes, thought of his mother. She had vanished on a nameless quest—had she too perished in some bleak pit on the edge of the world? Would he ever know? The ring was the only thing left of her. He imagined the rune, Thera's rune. Where was it now, he thought? He could see it in his mind, unflawed, bright, intricate, the temple in his dream, the ring, black obsidian and gold, a heavy weight curled about his finger.
Rathe opened his eyes. Unbelieving, he stared at his right hand. The ring. It was back on his finger. He had called it back!
He had little time to think about it—suddenly there was a loud crash above him. The ceiling opened, and a faint radiance spilled down. Light! Rathe looked up. And was met with a wash of ice-cold water that almost knocked him to his knees.
Shivering with cold, Rathe cursed and was rewarded with throg laughter. But instead of slamming the trapdoor shut, they threw down a rope. "Char!" a voice commanded. Rathe didn't know the word, but the meaning was crystal clear. Ignoring the pain in his limbs, he climbed. As he neared the top, rough hands reached for him, and he yelped as they touched his bruises.
He stood in a chamber, surrounded by a dozen copper-helmed bullies. They twisted his arms behind his back, tying them with a coarse length of rope. "Az nab!" one of them ordered, shoving him. He nearly fell, but regained his balance.
The throgs guarding him spoke little, though he recognized a few words. "Jevaka Raye" was repeated several times, in nervous tones, and once he heard "Warrow," which he thought Orvig had said meant "dwarf." They didn't seem to be talking about him. He tried to say something in his halting throg-speech, but was rewarded by a sharp blow across the mouth.
Then he was force-marched through winding corridors and up two flights of stairs. Down a wide corridor, where curious faces peeped from curtained doorways, but drew back when the guards glared at them. Finally, he stood in front of an open archway, flanked by two hulking warriors. They bore long spears and shields, and wore leather armor sewn with iron scales. Full helms covered their faces, shaped to resemble the heads of Tse'Mara. As the party approached, they crossed their spears to bar the entrance.
"Sul ab Gotha Karn," came the challenge, slightly muffled by the guard's mask.
"Skas yi az Gotha Karn!" answered the warrior holding Rathe's arm.
The spears lifted. Rathe was marched through.
Rathe was dragged into a wide hall, its walls covered with shields, weapons and the skulls of great animals—bears and wolves, stags and great cats, mutant forest creatures that had no names. Tables were shoved against either wall, and seated on benches were a score of copper-helmed warriors. Their heads swivelled to stare at Rathe as he entered. At the far end of the room a third table stood facing the door, on a raised platform. At it sat two warriors, both wearing the fullhelmed insect masks, though these were pushed back so Rathe could see the throg faces under them.
Between them sat the hooded youthful throg who had directed the battle. He gazed down at Rathe, face twisted into a mocking smile. But he seemed nothing more than a cruel child, overshadowed by the figure seated next to him.
Rathe stared, knowing he saw his enemy face to face.
"I am Gotha Karn, Shaman and war-chief of the Une-Makkar, master of the Whispering Death." The speaker was a throg of middle years, tall but very thin, his skin stretched l
ike parchment over his skull. The throg's eyes were oval, almost too large for his narrow face. He wore a white cloak of eagle feathers, spotted with red stains, and around his neck was a sun-shaped amulet of beaten gold. In one hand he held a staff—and Rathe stared, for atop the staff was mounted a life-sized
skull, a head carved from black glass. Its forehead was carved with the same rune that marked the Tse'Mara.
Gotha Karn tilted his head sideways, exchanged a whisper with the coiled youth beside him. Then he leaned forward.
"My son Parlock tells me you led the warriors who attacked Carkulroth." With a gesture, he waved back the men holding Rathe. "Approach me, outlander. Give me your name."
"I am Rathe of Stonekeep, acting Watchmaster of Fort Thunder," Rathe replied. "Where are my comrades?"
"The female?" Gotha Karn said. There was a whisper, a susurrus of voices. Rathe thought he heard the word "Jedaykeen" whispered back and forth. But Gotha Karn raised his hand, and there was silence.
"Is she your mate, then?" When Rathe gave no answer, he paused, and studied Rathe's face. "I thought so. Well, Rathe of Stonekeep, she still lives," Karn said. "Whether she continues to do so, depends on you. Do you understand?"
"I hear you," said Rathe.
"When my Tse'Mara first spotted your spies trespassing in my lands, I was filled with wrath."
"Spies?" said Rathe, outraged. "You mean our traders?"
"Spies," repeated Gotha Karn. "Though some of my counselors were cowardly, urging me not to strike—they remembered battles in years gone by, when your dwarf-armed warriors bested ours. But those fools were living in the past, a time before Gotha Karn."
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