“Maybe he hid down here?”
“Why would he hide in the bloody dungeon?”
“I just thunk—”
“Stop thinking! He’s trying to escape, stupid! He’s probably on an upper level somewheres—Kroth, we probably walked right past him in the dark. C’mon!” With that, the two of them turned and ran up and out of the dungeon.
They did not close the gate, just as Artus had hoped they wouldn’t. Haste makes waste, Ma always said.
“Hello, Reldamar . . .” A weak, thin, whisper of a voice came from behind Artus. He jumped at the sound of it.
In the dark, Artus could barely make out a pair of delicate, bony hands sticking out between crude bars. “Don’t worry . . .” There was a long pause as the man seemed to be gathering breath. “I won’t . . . sound the alarm.”
“Who are you?” Artus asked.
“It’s me . . . Hortense. The warlock from the Stair Market?” He wheezed a soft laugh. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
Artus blinked—a warlock? “You mean . . . you work with magical trinkets and such? Spirit clocks and feylamps and—”
“Yes.” The thin hands withdrew in to the pitch-black of the cell. A narrow, haggard face with a long nose pressed between the bars. The man’s dark eyes were bloodshot and ringed by black circles. “You aren’t Reldamar, are you?”
“Listen, do you know how to make a . . . a . . . Lumenal . . . something?”
The warlock’s tired eyes closed and he nodded. “You’re shrouded, of course.”
“Can you help?”
“Only if . . . if you make me a promise.”
Artus tried not to sigh—as if he didn’t have enough to do. “Okay . . .”
“I have a daughter—Sahand took her from me, I don’t know where. You . . .” Hortense’s face trembled, tears welling under his eyes. “ . . . you must find her for me. Save her. Tell her I’m dead.”
“But you aren’t dead,” Artus said, shuffling from foot to foot as he glanced worriedly at the gate to the dungeon.
“Soon enough.” Hortense smiled weakly, “Can you promise me that, whoever you are?”
Artus took a deep breath. What was one more woman to rescue, really? “Sure. I promise.”
Hortense took a long hard look at Artus and nodded. “Bring me the shard of illumite and the wooden bowl you dropped.”
Artus retrieved the bowl and pulled the illumite down from where it hung in the hall, trying very hard not to look at Hendrieux or notice how his blood was congealing on the icy floor. “Here,” he said, pressing them through the bars. “Now what?”
The glow of the illumite lit the whole of Hortense’s cell—it was tiny, cramped—not even enough room to lie down in. Hortense himself was wearing what must have once been fine clothing—the kind of thing gentlemen wore in Ayventry. Artus thought he might have picked his pocket once upon a time. Now Hortense was a gaunt specter of a man in fraying wool and linen, and he was doing him a favor. It felt strange.
Hortense pushed the items back into Artus’s hands. “Place the illumite shard in the bowl . . . and smash it with something hard until . . . it shatters.” Hortense wheezed out a weak cough. “Then, quick . . . quick as you can, breathe deeply . . . of the light that pours out.”
Artus snatched up the remains of his padlock and did as Hortense asked. It took several blows—he was surprised at how hard the little shard of illumite was—but suddenly he heard it crack under the force of the heavy iron lock. The dungeon was suddenly lit with sun-bright light, pouring out of the bowl as though a piece of daylight had been broken off and somehow dropped in. Closing his eyes, he pressed his face into the bowl, breathing deeply. It smelled, bizarrely, like freshly cut hay and wildflowers. His body tingled with warmth and a bubble of giddiness bounced around in his stomach. He laughed, despite himself. He could do this. He was going to save Myreon and Hortense’s daughter and—
“Why . . . you’re just a boy.” Hortense’s voice sounded a bit stronger.
Artus looked at the warlock and noted the old man was standing up a bit straighter and his eyes were less bloodshot. “I’ll come back for you if I can, and I swear on my father’s honor that I’ll find your daughter.”
Artus then grabbed Myreon by the wrists and tried to pull her, but she barely moved. He pulled harder and harder until, at last, she budged a couple inches and his grip slipped. He fell on his back, panting and looking at the ceiling. “Say, Hortense,” he said, catching his breath, “do you know where I can find a wheelbarrow?”
CHAPTER 19
THE DIRECT APPROACH
“You’re a madman,” Tarlyth shouted, clutching his white cloak tightly around his body as he staggered up the steep incline. The wind was howling so loudly, Tyvian could scarcely hear him.
“We could always go back!” Tyvian shouted back. “Arrest me, and then the letter goes to Saldor tomorrow morning. You’ll be hunted by the League and the Defenders!”
“Damn your bloody eyes!”
The two of them were hiking up an icy scree slope, the city of Freegate displayed behind and beneath them like a poorly constructed model in a shop window, glazed with snow and hazy with soot. Squinting against the wind, Tyvian could see the yawning galleries and ruined atriums of Daer Trondor, the ancient mountain fortress of the long-dead Warlock Kings, a mile or two ahead of them. He tried to ignore the freezing air that cut through his thin shirt and tattered jacket, telling himself that, at the very least, he was too numb to feel all the pain he was likely in.
On his hand, the ring pulsed like a second heart, each pump like a shot of hot karfan to his veins, urging him onward, forbidding him rest. He had Tarlyth’s arm over his shoulders and, despite his injuries, he was pulling the heavyset old mage up the mountain, one step at a time. Tyvian literally couldn’t believe he was doing this—he kept checking behind him to confirm where he was; when he pinched himself, he felt nothing, and he couldn’t decide whether it was because this was all a dream or his skin had lost feeling better than an hour ago.
“We—” Tarlyth started, but stumbled, and Tyvian had to help him up. “We could at least get the Defenders I’ve got down in the city! Then we’d have a chance!”
“And give you the opportunity to arrest me as soon as this is all finished?” Tyvian snorted. “Sounds like a terrible plan to me.”
Tarlyth’s lips were blue and his teeth were chattering. “And walking up to Sahand’s front door is a good plan? We’ll die out here!”
They made it to the top of the slope and a broad ledge wide enough for two wagons to drive side by side. It was reasonably flat, but covered with several feet of heavy snow. “You know . . .” Tyvian said, dumping Tarlyth on his back in a drift and putting his hands on his hips, “I bet this was a road once.”
Tarlyth was breathing heavily. “Gods, I can see why Myreon wanted you caught so badly. Listening to you blather is torture; if I had the energy I’d zap you dead and take my chances on the run.”
“So you’re saying you’re of no use to me in a sorcerous capacity, is that it?” Tyvian crouched beside Tarlyth and ran a hand along his chin. He was due for a shave—funny how being in various forms of captivity for a few days made one forget the little things. “That’s going to put a crimp in our plans.”
“Your plan, you insufferable jackass. You’ve put me in this mess, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to be considered a conspirator.”
Tyvian shook his head. “You misunderstand me when I say ‘our.’ I’m not referring to you and I, sir.”
Tarlyth rolled onto his side to look at him. “Who, then?”
Tyvian stood up and shaded his eyes, searching the surrounding slopes of the big mountain. Finally, he spotted her, or rather, they—two furry golden shapes, one large, one small, heading straight for them at an impossible speed. “I’m referring to her, actually.�
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Hool and Brana were upon them in a matter of minutes, bounding four-legged over the snowdrifts and sliding down the rocky slopes with the predatory agility he’d come to associate with gnolls. Hool’s fur was still caked with blood and Brana was still missing patches of his mane, but it seemed the two of them were much better off than when he last saw them. “I see you found the bloodpatch elixirs in my flat.”
Hool nodded, puffs of white steam pouring out of her flared snout. “Yes, but somebody has been there already and smashed all of your things.”
Brana yipped in what Tyvian thought, presumably, was an expression of support for his mother. The little gnoll wasn’t much more than a ball of golden-yellow fur with big eyes and a black nose. He shuffled behind Hool’s haunches as Tyvian looked at him.
“Brana says for you to stop looking at him. He doesn’t like people,” Hool announced, and then looked at Tarlyth for the first time. “Who is this wizard?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute. First, did you find Sahand?”
“I found a lot of soldiers in the old ruins, as you said. I don’t know their names.”
Tyvian nodded. “Sounds like the place. And?”
“We cannot get in without being shot with crossbows.” Hool put her ears back and gestured toward the distant ruins. “They are good sentries and guard all the ways up well. I have been trying to find another way, but there isn’t one. You say the one who killed my Api is inside?”
Tyvian nodded, remembering for a moment Hool’s howls from that morning. He shivered, but not from the cold. The ring pulsed warmly. “He most assuredly is, Hool.”
She thrust a finger into Tyvian’s chest; he was so weak, it nearly knocked him over. “If we find him, you will let me kill him.”
“You have my word.”
“Ha!” Tarlyth snorted, still lying down. “You think you have a chance against Sahand? Two big dogs, a skinny smuggler, and a half-dead mage aren’t enough to make him sweat, let alone defeat him. Maybe if I were well-rested, I could—”
Tyvian hit Tarlyth in the face with a snowball. “Shut up now—no more talking.”
Hool picked Tarlyth up by the front of his robes and displayed her teeth. “I am no dog. You are more monkey than I am dog.”
“Don’t kill him, Hool—he’s part of the plan.”
Tarlyth and Hool asked in unison, “What plan?”
“When will you people realize that I always have a plan?” Tyvian sighed. “It just so happens that, in this instance, it isn’t a very good one and subject to change as we go along. Follow me.”
Tyvian started up the slope again, the ring pushing him harder along with each step.
It was almost dusk by the time they reached the final approach to the ruins. Hool had Tarlyth slumped across her shoulders, Brana bringing up the rear, sniffing the air nervously, his fuzzy ears swiveling wildly to and fro. Tyvian was in the lead, and he crouched behind a boulder so the sentries at the entrance to the camp couldn’t see him. The guards were maybe fifty yards away, up an almost forty-five-degree slope, sitting behind a barrier of barrels and bails of hay. The two sentries Tyvian could see were erect, alert, and disciplined—they wore Sahand’s silver wyvern on their black tabards, and their mail glittered in the fading daylight. Hool was right—no good way up. This was by far the easiest entryway to approach—the others were at the top of nearly sheer slopes or attended by even more guards. Sahand really did have a small army up there.
Tarlyth was looking over Tyvian’s shoulder. “Well, what’s this brilliant plan?”
Tyvian pointed at Tarlyth. “You’re the diversion—start running.”
Tarlyth’s mouth popped open. “Wh . . . what? Is this a joke?”
Tyvian looked at the gnoll. “Hool, did I mention that this man assisted Sahand in acquiring you and your pups for his little experiments?”
The hair on the back of Hool’s neck stood straight up and her lips drew back to reveal her teeth. Even after hearing it numerous times now, her growl still made Tyvian feel ill. Tarlyth looked as though he were actively wetting his pants. “Now . . . now . . . hold on . . . I didn’t . . .”
The Master Defender backed away, hands weaving various defensive guards and wards, but the duel in the Black Hall, coupled with the grueling climb, had left the mage depleted and unable to channel enough energy to more than just fling sparks at the angry mother gnoll. Brana, too, was copying his mother, and while perhaps not as thunderously terrifying as Hool, he was still about fifty pounds of angry teeth and fur.
Tyvian shook his head at Tarlyth. “You should probably start running.”
Tarlyth tried to step around Hool and Brana, but they blocked the way down. “Reldamar, you can’t . . . you said . . .”
“I said I was your ticket out of this mess—I didn’t tell you where that ticket was taking you instead. You choice, Tarlyth—get ripped apart by gnolls or see if Delloran crossbowmen can hit you in high wind at dusk at fifty paces.” Tyvian looked at the gnolls. “I know what I’d choose.”
Tarlyth turned and ran—not straight up the slope toward the guards, but at an angle, working his way across the cliff face to . . . well, Tyvian suspected Tarlyth hadn’t thought that far ahead, yet. For a half-dead old man, he ran pretty well, but then the prospect of being devoured by a wild animal had that effect on a fellow.
The Dellorans spotted him almost immediately. An alarm was called, and the first sentry shouldered his crossbow and took a shot at Tarlyth. He missed by a mile, the wind taking his bolt and throwing it well off course. The second man, noting his partner’s shot, adjusted, took careful aim . . .
Clack!
The black bolt flew in a wicked arc and hit Tarlyth below the left knee, right through his calf. The Master Defender howled in pain and fell flat on his face. He began to tumble down the cliff face, end over end, each bounce producing more cries as bones were probably broken.
The ring clamped down on Tyvian’s hand with a razor-sharp bite of pain. He clenched his teeth and hissed at it. “Not now . . .”
The Dellorans were reloading and one of them came over the front of the barricade, crossbow at his hip, heading down to investigate who it was they had just shot.
Tyvian didn’t need to tell Hool when to take her opening. She growled something in her tongue to Brana and began to slink upward, circling away from the descending guard, her chin practically touching the ground. Tyvian followed her at a half crawl, half crouch, hoping the second guard kept his attention on where Tarlyth had gone and not where he had come from.
Hool covered the fifty yards between the boulder and the barricade before Tyvian was even a third of the way up. The guard there saw her at the last moment, but it was too late—he went down beneath her bulk and only managed a gurgling cry before Hool ended him. The descending guard spun around. “Hey!”
Hool stood up and threw Tyvian the dead man’s loaded crossbow. Tyvian just managed to catch it before it sailed off into thin air, and he took aim at the remaining guard, who was aiming at Hool. They fired at the same time.
Clack. Clack.
The guard missed Hool by inches; Tyvian caught the guard in the hip. He fell backward, twisting from the force of the shot, and rolled down the hill in the same direction Tarlyth had gone, grunting and screaming as he went until he vanished from sight. Tyvian ran up the last of the slope and vaulted the barricade before anybody else could see.
He’d barely arrived when Hool slapped a helmet on his head. “Stand up and look around like a soldier, or the other guard posts will know!”
Tyvian obeyed, deferring to Hool’s exemplary infiltration instincts. Sure enough, a few other guards from other posts along the edge of the old ruins had heard the commotion and were looking in his direction. Tyvian gave them a casual salute and then hunkered back down behind the bails of hay and barrels. “Well
, so far, so good.”
“Stop talking,” Hool grumbled. “You’re always talking.”
“We should split up—you’d give me away.”
Hool snorted. “You’d give me away. You move like a sick donkey.”
Tyvian thought about inquiring after the metaphor, but remembered Hool’s admonition regarding his tendency to chatter. “What about Brana?”
Hool looked at him like he had just grown wings and tried to fly. “He is going to be a good rabbit and hide. He is too little for battle.”
Tyvian nodded. “Makes sense—good luck, then.”
“Do not die,” Hool advised, and then, picking up a shield, darted deeper into the camp. Tyvian lost sight of her almost immediately behind a cluster of tents.
Tyvian stripped the dead guard of his mail shirt, trying not to think too hard about how the man had died—his face was little more than a mushy ruin of torn flesh and blood—and fished a long dagger from the man’s belt. It wasn’t an ideal weapon, but it was a damn sight better than nothing.
The camp was built beneath what had once been a grand gallery overlooking the Trell River Valley. Treelike columns supported ancient vaulted ceilings as far as the eye could see. The “roof” of the gallery was a full thirty feet over Tyvian’s head, and he marveled at the architects who could have designed such things to be built this high in the mountains and have them stand for almost three thousand years. Most of the architecture in Freegate was lucky to last half a century. Of course, that was as much due to the occasional riot and the famously lazy for-profit fire brigade as it was to any engineering concerns.
Between the columns and the piles of rubble where the ceiling had collapsed in places over the centuries, the military camp was laid out with typically military precision. Staked into the stone ground were rows upon rows of tents, arranged in ten-tent units that formed a regiment apiece—forty to fifty men, including command group, in each section. There were burning iron braziers every three or four tents or so, lighting the gloomy gallery and spilling heat into the frosty mountain air. Indeed, the presence of all the fires and the wind-blocking properties of the columns and rubble-piles served to raise the temperature in the ruins from bone-chilling to merely cold. Tyvian actually felt a tingling in his nose indicating that it was starting to defrost somewhat. This was a relief—he had begun to worry he was going to lose it to frostbite.
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