“You risk too much,” Shadrael insisted.
“There was a time when you laughed at risk,” Urmaeor said with scorn. “What a coward you’ve become.”
“If the dead are not controlled with care they will turn on any living mortal, enemy or ally. I understand that my cohort is bait, but what of Vordachai and his barons? What of their men? They could all be slaughtered if Lord Barthel is not careful.”
“Don’t presume to tell my master what he should and should not do,” Urmaeor said angrily. “You are no praetinor now; your sole responsibility is to lead your men where we direct.”
Seeing implacable light burning in the priest’s gaze, Shadrael silenced his protests. He realized that nothing would change Urmaeor’s mind. All his protests had accomplished was to arouse fresh suspicion against himself.
Desperately Shadrael clutched at the sacred bowl. He heard the contents slosh as Urmaeor wrenched it away from him.
“You fool! Have a care!”
“Must drink,” Shadrael murmured, licking his mouth. He let his gaze wander, revealing the hunger that itched and crawled inside him. “Feel weak without—”
“Get back,” Urmaeor said without pity. “I offered you a blood potion days ago, and you would not drink it.”
“Need it now,” Shadrael mumbled.
Urmaeor spoke sharply, and a burst of flame shot up from the ground at Shadrael’s feet, driving him back.
Shadrael could hear murmurs in his mind, voices hissing of the danger he was in. He closed them away.
Urmaeor walked through the flames, which did not touch him, and the acolytes nervously followed. Glancing back, the priest said, “Never interfere with me again, Commander.”
“But I—I thirst.”
“If you crave nourishment, partake of the filthy brew you brought with you.”
“Gone.”
“Then kill for the blood you need,” Urmaeor said, and strode on his way, his assistants at his heels.
Left in the gloomy passageway, Shadrael lingered a moment, battling his feelings. He was certain that Urmaeor’s confidence was misplaced. The plan was too risky even had they several powerful donares present to govern the dead. Barthel was rushing too fast, taking too many chances.
Sighing, Shadrael shoved the problem away. The blood curse was swirling around in his tired mind, confusing him and awaking hungers he’d thought safely suppressed. Farther in the tunnels a lurker howled, and he wanted to howl with it.
Well, he had given Urmaeor sound advice based on experience. If the Vindicants chose to ignore it, let them reap the consequences.
Feel nothing, Shadrael told himself. Think nothing. You have nowhere else to go but here. Accept it.
Swallowing a curse, Thirbe pressed his face against the stone wall in an alcove off the passageway, shutting his eyes and holding his breath as Lord Shadrael trudged past.
The man walked so close that Thirbe almost felt the brush of his cloak; then the commander was gone, swallowed up in the darkness, his footsteps growing faint.
All Thirbe heard for a moment was the drumming rhythm of his heart before he let out his breath soundlessly. Sweat was beading up beneath his leather helmet. He dared make no move for several moments, fearing that someone else might come by at the wrong time.
A hand curled around his forearm, clutching it suddenly, and Thirbe nearly jumped from his skin. His dagger was in his fist before he realized it was only Hultul beside him. Swallowing his heart from his throat, Thirbe lowered his weapon with a shaking hand.
“Gods,” Thirbe whispered. “I nearly sent you to Paradise.”
“A thousand curses on your filthy person if you do,” Hultul said. “You take too many chances. We should not be in here. If Lord Shadrael had sensed our presence, he would have cut your miserable threads of life. And mine.”
“He’s not paying much attention today,” Thirbe replied, pulling the stopper from his water skin and helping himself to a sip of tepid water.
Hultul refused the water. “There is a limit to one’s luck, and then the gods make fools of us.”
Shrugging off such pessimism, Thirbe dug the opal from his pocket. It had lost its iridescent sheen and lay lifeless and pale on his palm. He could barely see it in the gloom, and the sight of it made his guts clutch in a painful knot.
“She’s running out of time,” he whispered.
“Your plan will not work,” Hultul said. “None of your plans work. Because Lord Shadrael knows you—and me—by sight, we cannot join his army as you wished. Now we have ventured deep into this filthy place of blasphemy where demons can eat our hearts, and you no longer have your guide to find her. We must leave before we are found. I do not want to feed the Vindicants my blood. Do you?”
“Can’t just let them kill her either.”
“There is no more help I can give you,” Hultul said. “I must return to the warlord, and warn him of what they intend.”
“Never reach him in time,” Thirbe said fiercely. “His only chance—and the emperor’s, too—is for us to thwart these devils.”
Hultul lifted his hands, jostling Thirbe’s shoulder in the gloom. “May the gods watch over us and guard our unworthy hearts. You ask the impossible.”
“I tell you we’ve got to try!”
“There’s nothing we can do.”
“I have served you as you forced me,” Hultul whispered. “Now I must serve my beloved master. Let me go.”
Thirbe gripped his wrist to hold him back. “Wait,” he muttered, and pressed the harnush into Hultul’s hand.
Hultul gasped audibly. “You return this to me?” Without waiting for an answer he slipped the thong over his head and kissed the amulet. “O Gault, I give praise for this kindness which has risen in the unworthy heart of a barbarian—”
“Get going,” Thirbe said gruffly, wanting no thanks. “I got a princess to rescue. And don’t get caught.”
“Farewell,” Hultul said.
Thirbe grunted and turned away, only to feel something hard crash into the back of his head. For a moment the gloom of the passage brightened to a white light, and then he knew nothing at all.
The strike of a tinderbox rasped, and a pinprick of flame shot into life, driving back a fraction of the darkness filling Shadrael’s quarters. He shut the heavy door grimly behind him and stuck his candle in its holder. The room was cold and draped with dusty cobwebs that reappeared no matter how many times he knocked them down. He could hear the night wind whistling through cracks in the building, and he shivered beneath his cloak.
He felt weary to his bones, yet too restless to sit down. The spells and magic being cast tonight crawled about, putting him on edge. It was time to act, he told himself. The game he played was growing too dangerous, and Lea obviously had little time left.
Without warning, the door creaked open behind him. He turned, and saw Urmaeor standing there. Fearing discovery, grimly Shadrael reached for his sword, but the priest was not there to accuse or attack him. Indeed, he seemed strangely exhausted, and his robes were torn. An angry scratch had risen in a red welt down the side of his face, and little pustules were forming there as though his skin had been blistered. His dark hair was mussed, and his eyes almost crazed.
“Come with me!” he said without preamble. “At once!”
Silently Shadrael obeyed, following the priest through a maze of passages to the altar room. It was in worse disarray than usual, with boxes overturned and spilling their contents. Torches smoked and blazed in wall sconces. A handful of shaken priests were trying to chant, but Lea’s voice was shouting louder.
“We are united by harmony and the three laws!” she said. “We are balanced on the fulcrum of tranquility and—”
Someone clamped a rag over her mouth, muffling the rest. Tied on her back atop the altar, with her wrists and ankles bound with ropes, she struggled and writhed. Some of the ropes were frayed and parting and others were smoking as though on fire. The priest holding the cloth over her mouth s
uddenly screamed, stumbling back, and flung the blazing cloth away.
Urmaeor rushed forward. “Hold her, you fools! Shadrael, control her now.”
A rumble shook the chamber. The Vindicants looked up with alarm.
“She’s calling the element spirits,” Shadrael said quietly.
Urmaeor shot him a wild glare. “Impossible! I have made certain she can’t—”
“Have you searched her for gli-emeralds?” Shadrael asked.
“Yes, of course. She has none.”
“Clearly she does.”
“Then remove them. Now!”
With Urmaeor glaring at him, Shadrael approached the altar where Lea was struggling like something gone wild. Her golden hair was tangled and dirty. Her blue eyes stared past him as though she no longer knew him. She was panting hard and fast, like a hare caught in a trap.
“Do something,” Urmaeor growled in his ear. “Do something!”
Drawing off his glove, Shadrael gripped her wrist and held it fast. Her struggles stopped abruptly. She blinked, her eyes regaining focus as she stared up at him.
“You,” she whispered.
The sight of her dirty, tear-streaked face nearly unmanned him. He watched sadness filling her eyes, sadness and intense disappointment, and barely checked his feelings. The danger around them had never been greater.
“Is it by your hand I’m to die?” she whispered.
He shifted his gaze away from hers and said nothing. Although his grip on her wrist never slackened, it was a strain to resist the sevaisin that tried to form between them.
Gasping, Lea uttered a cry and averted her face.
“Excellent. Excellent,” Urmaeor murmured over Shadrael’s shoulder. “Keep her quiet, whatever you do. Master, she is ready!”
The squeak of a straining axle filled the sudden quiet. There came the sound of metal wheels grating upon stone floor. Priests slowly pushed a flat wooden cart through the doorway of Lord Barthel’s inner chamber. The chief priest, grotesquely obese, reclined on it while the men labored to move him. His delicate hands fluttered and gestured eagerly. His fleshy face was actually pink with excitement. Had it not been for his inhuman eyes, red rimmed and oozing pus, he would have looked almost healthy.
Shadrael sensed something brushing his senses. Involuntarily he glanced down and met Lea’s gaze. She was pleading silently with him, and it took all his strength to shift his gaze away. Not even the slightest change of expression crossed his impassive face. From the corner of his eye he saw her bite her trembling lower lip and shut her eyes.
She drew a breath, but Shadrael swiftly spoke a word that silenced her attempt to summon an element spirit. He felt pain stab through his chest at even this small use of magic and struggled to ignore it. The gli-power within her was draining his strength rapidly, but he dared not release her. Be quiet, he thought. Be quiet.
Beside him, Urmaeor finished mixing something in the blood bowl and stared at him in approval. “So my cripple has kept a small amount in reserve,” he murmured. “Excellent. I still have a soul for you, Shadrael. I haven’t forgotten my promise, no matter what you think.”
Shadrael’s free fist clenched at his side before he could control himself. Oh, that was a sly piece of trickery, he thought. As silken a promise as the touch of haggai flesh, and none of it true. He clenched his jaw so hard a muscle twitched.
Urmaeor’s smile faded. “Have you no thanks? Are you not pleased?”
“Hurry!” Lord Barthel’s shrill voice commanded before Shadrael could answer. “Hurry! I am cold.”
“Master, this must not be rushed,” Urmaeor said patiently. He added a pinch of something that blazed briefly inside the bowl before dying down. The fumes smoking up from the potion made Shadrael feel light-headed, yet he dared not avert his face.
“There!” Urmaeor said in satisfaction. Lifting the bowl before the crudely drawn image of Beloth, he sang loudly:
Eternal Chaos, hear our cry!
Send down your howling whirlwinds from on high.
Spin forth your dark despair!
Let Death and Lamentation fill the air
Till Sorrow’s bitter cup doth overflow!
Let wraith and ghoul and shyrieas low
Sink human hearts to deepest woe!
Till day is night and night is day
And shadows rise to have their way!
His words echoed in the chamber, now silent save for the popping hiss of the torches and Lord Barthel’s labored breathing. The oppressive presence of shadow filled the room. Lea’s face had grown as pale as death. Shadrael could barely feel the flutter of her pulse against his palm. His head felt as though it were on fire, for the voices were stirring in the back of his skull. As the last vestige of his healing severance faded, madness reached anew for him. He felt his concentration slipping, wondered what he was trying to do, and grimly struggled to hang on.
Urmaeor placed the smoking bowl of dark red liquid near Lea’s throat. “Lift her,” he said to Shadrael. He glanced at one of the other priests. “You, cut her now.”
With reflexes trained for battle, Shadrael slashed Lea’s frayed ropes and yanked her away from the priest’s ceremonial knife. Clutching her against him as Urmaeor shouted and nearly dropped the bowl, Shadrael shouted the word of command, but failed to open the Hidden Ways.
Urmaeor’s angry voice rang out. The Vindicants rushed at Shadrael, but he shielded Lea behind him and defended himself with his sword. Two men fell, bleeding heavily, and the rest retreated.
“You’ll regret this stupidity,” Urmaeor said. He called out a spell that shot fiery red trails of fire through the air, but Lea raised her hand in front of Shadrael, and a glow of light shielded them both.
Urmaeor went stumbling back, howling in pain, and Shadrael pounced on Lord Barthel, who was waving his arms ineffectually and screaming the beginnings of a spell.
The edge of Shadrael’s blade at his throat silenced him. All the Vindicants froze, and there was only the sound of Lord Barthel’s wheezing breath. Urmaeor scrambled to his feet, his eyes murderous, but Shadrael stared him down.
“Don’t,” he said in warning.
“Desist!” Urmaeor said. “Do you realize what you’re doing? You cannot save her.”
Deliberately Shadrael looked at Lea, seeing joy and relief shining brightly in her eyes. He frowned. “We’ve got to run,” he said softly to her. “Take the right passage at the fork and hurry. I’ll catch up.”
She clutched him. “No! They will trick you if you stay.”
Shaking his head, he pressed his sword a bit harder against Lord Barthel’s fat throat, and the chief priest yelped. Urmaeor raised his hands, but Shadrael gave him such a look of menace that the priest did not strike.
“Shadrael, my friend,” he said instead, his voice soothing, reassuring. “You are confused. It’s shadow you serve, not this witch of light. Lord Barthel is the receptacle of Beloth’s legacy. We implore you to resist her wiles and harm not our master.”
“Hurry!” Shadrael murmured to Lea. “Don’t argue. You’re the only one that can stop the war and save Light Bringer from the trap. Warn him, Lea. Go!”
As he spoke, he drew her necklace of gli-emeralds from his pocket. They were blazing with green fire. With a shriek Lord Barthel cowered away from the light they cast, and even Urmaeor shielded his eyes.
Shadrael crammed the jewels into Lea’s hand. “In Gault’s name, go! Don’t make this in vain.”
She shot him a look he did not understand and hurried into the passageway. Her emeralds lit her path, and when Urmaeor made a move to pursue her, Shadrael nicked Lord Barthel’s throat.
The chief priest yelled, babbling curses that were no more dangerous than tiny sparkles of light showering down on everyone.
Shadrael summoned the last dregs of magic he possessed, determined this time not to fail, and opened the Hidden Ways in front of Lea.
A rumble shook the chamber, sending priests scrambling in all directions, and he
heard her cry out briefly. A gush of fetid air like an opened grave flowed into Shadrael’s face, even as he raised his fist and pulled a veil of darkness over the priests.
Then he plunged his sword deep into the mountainous body of the chief priest, and fled. Screaming, Barthel shuddered and convulsed. Black blood bubbled from his mouth, staining the tiny tentacles thrashing at his lips. Then a dark mist hissed forth from his body. Where it touched Shadrael, he felt as though his skin had been frozen. Shuddering, he seized one of the torches and plunged it into the mist.
There was a scream, and ashes rained down.
Shouts and confusion spread through the Vindicants. Shadrael fought his way through them, driving them back from him, while Urmaeor rushed to Barthel’s side.
Ahead, Shadrael could see Lea waiting for him, just inside the Hidden Ways, her emeralds blazing green light in her hands.
“Come!” she called. “Hurry!”
Her stubborn disobedience angered him. He ran for the passage, feeling something give way inside his chest. A fiery burst of pain told him it was over. Even so, with her voice calling to him, he kept running, struggling to make it. For a moment, he almost believed he could . . .
And then Urmaeor’s deep voice rose over everyone’s. His curse struck Shadrael down from behind, knocking him off his feet with such impact he skidded on his shoulder. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t command his body except to fling out his hand toward Lea.
Realizing in a sort of haze that she was standing on the very threshold he’d opened, keeping it from closing, he tried to urge her to go on. He was furious that she was throwing away the one chance he’d sacrificed everything for.
She darted to him, gripping his hand and dragging him bodily through the opening. Half-conscious, disoriented, nearly blind with pain, he felt something bumping him from beneath the surface of the ground and did not understand until the earth spirit flung him off and he went tumbling into the dank refuge of between.
Lea knelt beside him, gripping his arms. “Quickly. What is the command that will close the passage?”
The Crown Page 19