by Ed Greenwood
The scarred Aumrarr shrugged. "Your work in this isn't done. That which you were intended to affect hasn't yet arisen."
"Can I have that in plain tongue?" Gar growled weakly, glaring up from the flagstones by her feet. "Ye sound like a sly merchant trying to sell a new cure-all-ills ointment! Plain talk, wingbitches! Plain talk!"
"You need not fight, for this one," Dauntra told him, waving at the stair-hutch. "If the Falcon smiles, no Tesmer will even see you."
"Nor any of their guards," Juskra added.
Iskarra put her hands on her hips, disbelief large on her face. "You want their riches," she said almost primly, "and daren't risk your own precious necks going down in there to steal it. So the traps are? And the guards?"
"There are none," Juskra said flatly. "Nor do we need their riches; we wingbitches have always had more than enough coin to buy the best spies. Which is why we know there are spells waiting all down that stair that will cry out when Aumrarr—or lorn, for that matter—come too close. Hence your present usefulness."
"Tesmers shorn of their ready wealth," Dauntra added calmly, "are Tesmers looking over their shoulders for thieves, or assassins following where the thieves came in knowing so much. They are also Tesmers now lacking coin enough to work certain mischiefs better not promoted. Whereas Garfist and Iskarra enriched are... Garfist and Iskarra enriched."
Garfist shook his head. "Were either of ye priests, in younger days?" he asked sourly, finding his feet unsteadily and not shaking off the swift assistance of his lady. "Such verbiage!"
"I can be blunter," Juskra said with the faintest of smiles, her voice dry. "Both of you are thirsting hard to be free of us and everyone else who's been chasing you and forcing you to do this and that. You want food, rest, and riches."
Garfist and Iskarra both nodded.
Juskra held up her hand to show them her ring again; the glow had quite fled from it. She drew it off and put it carefully into Garfist's hand. "You awaken it by thinking of a vivid sunrise. It should work twoscore times more. It belonged to an Aumrarr who's now too dead to feel the lack of it. I give it to you freely."
He glared down at it, then lifted his glare to her. "So just what're ye playing at, hey?"
"If you do this thieving for us," she replied, "and come back up these stairs, we'll fly you safe out of here. To a ruin—an Aumrarr wingbitch ruin no others dare approach, though none of us are left to guard it now—where we can all rest. Then come the next day, aloft again and on to an inn in Galath we know, where you can have all the food and drink you want, and no one will ask who you are or who you may be running from. Safe we'll take you, just as I've promised; no treachery and no lies."
Dauntra nodded, and the battlescarred Aumrarr spoke again.
"We'll swear this by any bindings you desire; we want to know you as friends, henceforth."
"Because ye'll be needing us again, in time to come," Gar growled.
Juskra did smile, this time. Sweetly. "Of course."
THE MOUNTAIN SHUDDERED again, a deep, teeth-jarring rumbling that was loud and long. As its din deepened, rocks as large as human heads came crashing down in a hard rain from above, amid the usual dust and grit.
None of Narmarkoun's undead shrieked or cried out. Without the Master to empower them to do otherwise, they remained mute.
Yet their agitation was clear to each other by the ways they stiffened and hastened to vantage points in the great open interior of Closecandle, to peer in all directions to try to see what was happening.
Solid stone rocked beneath them, under heavy blows. In the great central well-shaft where Narmarkoun was wont to ride his greatfangs up into the chill mountain sky or come plunging down out of it to thunderous landings, a jutting balcony cracked off the wall and fell. One of the Master's favorite playpretties clung silently to its sheared-off fragment of railing, staring all around in wild despair, as she plunged to shattering oblivion below.
Another balcony cracked and crumbled away, spewing smaller stones down the shaft. Then, quite suddenly, there was no room for more stone to fall down that great opening, as huge scaled bodies burst into view from below, thrusting upwards wedged together and struggling, each one furious to get to the light first. Huge claws raked the ancient stone walls as if they were made of butter, and wings strained to find space enough to unfurl.
The eldest and strongest of the greatfangs suddenly prevailed, clawing its way up the surging body of the rival it was wedged against. Kicking off from its rival's head, it took wing in a great bound up the shaft.
Wings clapped wind in their wake, a blast of air that made a great roaring bellow of exultation ring deafeningly around the shuddering shaft as the greatfangs tasted freedom, climbing fast into the sky.
The second greatfangs raced up the shaft after it, and then the third, as Narmarkoun's undead watched.
Not knowing what to do, with the Master absent and sending no commands, they stood mute and helpless, doing nothing more than staring, as every last greatfang soared up out of Closecandle and flew away.
All in the same direction, long necks stretched out in raging haste.
AMTEIRA DRIFTED FOR a long time in dreams laced with the ever-present gentle rustle and earthy smells of the Raurklor. They were cold dreams, full of shivering, and frantic dreams, too, often bursting into desperate running. Barefoot, through the woods, sometimes as a doe, betimes human, and from time to time as stranger things... but always female, always bare-skinned, and always fearful.
Abruptly she came awake, huddled on her side on a bed of blackened stone shards. Lifting her head, she found it to be part of the great boulder she'd prayed on. The rest of it, riven into chunks great and small, lay all around her. She was cold.
Yet even as she stood, shivering, she cared nothing for that discomfort. The Raurklor was all around her, vast and wonderful, and she stared at it in awe, seeing it keenly for the first time.
Many, many smells cradled her and nigh overwhelmed her. The normal smells of a forest, it seemed, but she'd never before really noticed them all. Always, before, one scent—the smoke of a fire, or the sharp tang of bruised piney needles, the rotting-leaf mud of the rain-drenched Raurklor or the simmering growing smell of a hot forest day—had dashed aside all others and been all she really recognized. Now, though...
Abruptly Amteira became aware that her bare skin was now adorned with many patches of moss, and they felt a part of her, not something distasteful she should claw off as swiftly as she could.
More than that; she could feel the air around her through them. Feel it moving far more sensitively than before, every eddy and gust, subtle shifts in warmth and moments of chill.
She stood up, and abruptly knew something else. Turning her head, she nodded, certain of it. There was running water over there, though she couldn't see it—and yonder, too, though much farther off.
She felt part of the woods, now, rather than an intruder in the endless green vastnesses.
What had happened to her? This moss, her smelling and feeling... could this be the Forestmother, answering her prayer?
Amteira, will you serve me, or die?
The great, boomingly-soft voice in her head seemed as dark, tall, and terrible of power as a Stormar wave, about to crash over her and carry her away.
"F-forestmother?" she blurted out, more than a little afraid.
I am more than that, and less, but you may call me that.
"Call you—? Uh, I... I will serve you. If you'll have me."
Good. Welcome. Your first service will be to slay the traitor Cauldreth Jaklar for me. I demand his blood.
Relief flooded through her. "I'll slay him right gladly. Where is he?"
Gone back to Ironthorn. Having called on me to slay you with the wolves of the forest.
"The wolves?"
Abruptly a smoky-gray shadow loomed up over the scattered shards of the rock to regard her with blood-red, unblinking eyes. Its fangs were long, sharp, and many. There was a second shadow, movi
ng sleekly behind it, and a third.
The wolves you shall lead into Hammerhold to rend Jaklar—and bid Hammerhold farewell. Ironthorn is your world no longer. You belong to me now.
Amteira Hammerhand drew in a deep, shuddering breath, bade her dead father a silent farewell, and replied, "Y-yes. Yes, I do. Command me."
Hunt now, and hunt well. Slay for Burrim Hammerhand—and for yourself.
Before Amteira could reply, the snout of a wolf was nuzzling her, its tongue rasping on her hand and thigh.
She looked down into its eyes, and smiled.
They smiled back, turning—just for an instant—leaf-green before they faded again to blood-red. She turned, naked and weaponless, and started running through the forest, heading for where she thought Ironthorn was.
The wolves howled once, eerily, then ran with her, one of them edging ahead to turn her firmly.
She followed, then as a test turned back in the direction she'd first headed, still running hard. All the wolves pressed close in around her, bounding along to nudge her with their noses and flanks, all of them working to turn her this time.
She ran where they led her, barehanded and bareskinned, hunger for the blood of Cauldreth Jaklor growing in her again.
For some reason, she felt very happy.
RUSTY CARROLL WAS gasping for breath. When had so many God damned steps been added, between the gleaming glass ground floor of Holdoncorp headquarters and Rear Second, where the Security Office was?
It sure as blazes hadn't felt like this many the last time he'd run up them.
Huh, and when exactly had that been?
Long ago, was all he could recall just now, with a freaking sword in his hand, twenty-some frightened secretaries and managers hurrying up the stairs at his heels—and six lunatic murderers on the loose in the building!
Dark Helms, mind you, who'd come striding in here with a lorn flying backup for them!
He didn't know what he'd do about them, but he did know he had to get back to the office before they went up the stairs—or, bejesus, took the elevators!—and got there first.
To where they could watch every corner of the building, turn off the lights and heat and air in any zone with the flick of switch and a spin of a dial—and lock or unlock any doors they pleased, too.
And Pete Sollars would be sitting there with his coffee cold and forgotten in his hand, staring at the forest of monitors and flickering alarm telltales and doing effing nothing. Except maybe shifting from camera to camera to watch them better, as they came to kill him.
Sollars was a nice guy, but he'd never had a swift and original thought in his life. Thinking on his feet was something he just didn't do. He was the other sort of security guy; the stolid, too dull-to-get-bored watcher at his post.
Rusty topped the last step—at last!—stabbed his fingers at the codepad, and flung the heavy metal door open. "Pete! Where are they?"
Sollars swung around in the high-backed swivel chair—the Chief's chair, Rusty's chair—and stared at his boss, looking guilty. "Uh, I—ah—No!"
Rusty saw where Pete's stare was aimed, and flung himself at the floor and toward whatever Sollars was staring at.
Which meant the head of the fire axe came crashing down not through Rusty's skull, but over his diving body—to chip the concrete floor, right through the No-Slip tread coating. Secretaries screamed, and Hank staggered back, face going pale.
"M-mister Carroll?"
"I'm fine. No harm done, Hank!"
Rusty didn't have time for all the apologies; he was up on his feet and running to the monitors, sword in hand. He used it to point to the corridor running west. "Pete, take Hank and get all these ladies into Brain Central! Lockdown drill! Lockdown drill!"
Brain Central was the vault-like computer room not far behind him and one office to the west. It had walls like a battleship, a secure air supply, and its own power generator. It was a safe bet none of those oh-so-haughty managers had ever used such a primitive chemical toilet before, but... it beat having their throats sliced open or a sword thrust through their lovely midriffs, that was for sure.
Sollars was staring at him. "Lockdown? Brain Central?"
"Yes!" Randy roared into Pete's face. "Move!"
A frightened hubbub was rising, behind him—and amid it he could hear the President's unmistakable spluttering. Hank, at least, must be following Lockdown procedures as fast as he could.
He turned, seeing the tall custodian shooing well-dressed women ahead of him like a farmer herding chickens. "Hank?" he called. "Leave me the axe. Get another from the station inside there."
Hank turned his head and nodded, grinning apologetically. He leaned the axe carefully against the wall, then started moving toward the west corridor, spreading his arms wide and murmuring, "Let's go, people. Let's go."
He was sweeping the women—and a few bewildered-looking men in shirtsleeves and bedraggled ties, too, the angrily bewildered President of Holdoncorp among them, his golf putter still clutched in his hands—before him. Good. The fewer people screaming and rushing around to where they could be sliced open or taken as hostages, the better.
Where were those Dark Helms? By the looks of things, Sollars had been enjoying watching Holdoncorp vice presidents get chopped apart—and Rusty couldn't find it in himself to blame him for that—but had been so intent on watching tall, handsome, blustering Executive Vice President Jackman Quillroque plead for his life and loudly try to call various Holdoncorp designers to their dooms via the intercom from desk after desk, that he hadn't kept close watch over the grim Dark Helms to make sure all six of them were still together.
They weren't.
Rusty dialled most of the long row of doors shut before he even started checking monitors. Lock them in little boxes first and foremost, then worry about what to do to them.
Four of them were bullying Quillroque, slicing away clothing as the man blubbered and pleaded. Jack the Mouth was bleeding from somewhere, but Rusty didn't think he was missing any fingers or ears yet.
The other two...
He caught sight of one of them almost immediately, skulking along a corridor that would take him right to the stairs up. Up to this floor, of course.
All that was delaying him was the time it was taking to peer into every cubicle, to make sure no Holdoncorp employee still lived, cowering in hiding. Sword drawn, helmed head thrust forward, the Dark Helm was the very picture of confident menace.
Damn. Rusty looked wildly around, at monitor after monitor. He couldn't see the last of the six at all.
Had Mase or Sam or one of their men actually managed to take out one of the intruders, before getting killed?
Rusty doubted it. "All in," Hank called from behind him, and Rusty heard the heavy Brain Central door clank shut before he could even reply.
He looked around. "Pete?"
"Y-yessir?"
Rusty pointed at the monitors. "Find me the sixth one. Fast."
Two strides took him to the phone, and he found himself ridiculously relieved to hear a dial tone when he slammed it against his ear.
There was no way these Dark Helms could get to the underground fiber optic bundle, to cut it, but he'd been beginning to fear they could do bloody anything.
He pushed the panic button, that got him straight to the police.
"Yo, Rusty! What's up?" The sergeant's voice sounded bored. "Someone steal your corporate headquarters while everyone was on coffee break?"
Rusty sighed. "Derek, this is serious. We're under attack. We have dozens dead. Repeat: dozens of fatalities. Six—"
"Under attack by what? A friggin' army?"
"Uh—" Rusty caught himself on the verge of saying "hijackers." How do you "hijack" a computer company? An office building?
Right. Terrorists, then.
"Terrorists, six of them, and—"
Rusty paused again, deciding he wouldn't mention the lorn just now. The disbelief was strong and clear in the sergeant's voice; this wasn't the time t
o give the man any stronger ideas of introducing overworked security chiefs to looney bins.
"Like World War Two commandos," he said instead. "Only with swords."
"Oh, ninjas. Why didn't you just say so? Ninjas. Right."
"I'm serious, damn it!" Rusty found he was gripping the phone in both hands as though trying to strangle it. "Mase is dead, Sam's dead, most or all of their men are dead too, and—"
The line went dead at the same time as the lights flickered, sparks burst from a nearby wall-panel as its door banged open, and Sollars quavered, his voice rising almost into a scream, "S-sir? Mister Carroll, sir? I've found the last one!"
Rusty looked up from the security desk to see two spark-spewing ends of a power lead swinging back and forth. The Dark Helm who'd just severed that cable turned from them, shuddering only a little, to stalk slowly across the room toward Rusty, sword raised and ready.
For the first time in nineteen years at Holdoncorp, its Head of Security reached for a holster that held only a billyclub flashlight, and cursed the company's "No handguns outside of our computer screens" policy.
LORD IRRANCE TESMER came awake slowly. He was vaguely aware of a chill—the bedclothes were gone, leaving him bared to the night air—and knew with more pressing certainty that his head hurt.
Clara had snarled something in the night and stormed out of bed—she had, hadn't she?—and...
"Clara?" he mumbled, rolling over. No warm spot, and no heap of covers. His wife was gone.
He got himself hastily upright in bed, rubbing his eyes and trying to quell the prompt, severe blossoming of the ache in his head. "Clara?"
"I'm here, Ranee." Her voice was coming from the doorway, and it was sharp with anger.
Lord Tesmer came hastily all the way awake. Something had happened. Something that mattered. Something bad.
"What?" he blurted, looking wildly around for his sword while trying to keep an eye on his wife's face.
She was quivering like a hunting-hound straining to be let off the leash. Barefoot, in a dark gown, black hair loose around her shoulders in a flood, eyes two coals beneath scowling brows as they glared at him. She was furious, all right.