by Marc Turner
Luker crept back to the end of the passage and lowered himself to his stomach. He squinted at the stone building. The sentry sat slouched against it, eyes closed, head lolling to one side. Some new style of keeping guard Luker hadn’t heard about, perhaps. Then the Guardian noticed the pool of blood spreading beneath the man. Movement in an alley to the left. Jenna was there, crouched in the shadows, looking across at him. As their gazes met she drew a finger along her throat. Sharp work. Luker acknowledged the gesture with a nod before holding up a hand, palm outward, to signal she should wait.
Rising, he circled round to join the assassin.
He found her one road back from the square, sheltering in the shade of a rodanda tree. “Any trouble?” he said.
“I came across another sentry a couple of streets away,” Jenna replied. “He was guarding the building where they’ve stabled the horses.”
One I missed when I spirit-walked. “You silenced him?”
“Of course. Spooked the horses a little, but it gave me an idea. What if we take four horses and scatter the rest? It’s a long walk out of this place.”
Luker hesitated. With fresh mounts they should be able to outrun the soulcaster, but what if one of the Kalanese heard the horses being set loose? And how long would it take the enemy to catch the animals once they were scattered? “No, we finish this.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
Tell me that again when this is over. “Have you scouted the targets?”
“Yes. There are snores coming from the stone building and the brick ones to either side. More from the brick than the stone, though.”
“As we thought, then. Soulcaster’s probably alone in the stone house—not likely he’s going to share with the grunts, is it?” Luker took Merin’s glass globe from his belt pouch and passed it to Jenna.
The assassin accepted it like he was passing her one of her poison-tipped bolts. “I just throw it through a window?”
“Aye, hard enough so that it smashes. Don’t hang around after. From the strength of the sorcery trapped inside, I reckon that thing packs quite a punch.”
“Where will you be?”
Luker nodded toward the end of the alley. “Edge of the square. When the survivors stumble out, I mean to hit them hard.”
Jenna raised an eyebrow. “All of them?”
“I counted nineteen in the original group. Soulcaster sucked one dry, tribesmen got three, and we’ve done for three more. When the soulcaster croaks, that’ll leave eleven to take care of.”
“Eleven, as in one more than ten?”
Luker gave Jenna back her crossbow. “Count of fifty, right? Then we go.”
* * *
Parolla bowed to the old man on the throne. “Greetings, sirrah. My name is Parolla Morivan. Forgive my intrusion. I had not thought to find this place … inhabited.”
The silence stretched out so long Parolla was beginning to wonder whether Mayot could hear her. “You bring a message from your master?” he said finally. “Perhaps Shroud has had a change of heart, yes?”
She stiffened. “You mistake me. I am not one of Shroud’s followers.”
“And I am not the fool your Lord takes me for. I sense your power, woman—the mark of your god on you. Did you think I would not?”
Parolla’s lip curled. You see only what you want to see, feksha. She looked at the book on the old man’s lap. Without doubt this was the source of the threads of death-magic. Pulsing like some diseased heart, it gave off waves of black sorcery that made the darkness round the dais shimmer. The power was weakening the veil that separated this world from Shroud’s realm. In time it might fail entirely. Was this the old man’s intent? Did he even know what he was fashioning here? “You are making a portal, sirrah? I sense—”
“Is that what your master fears?” the magus cut in. “Yes, I see it now. A gateway to his realm. The souls gathered there, all under my control.”
Parolla felt her blood rise, and a shadow settled on her vision. “Your delusions are becoming tiresome. At the risk of repeating myself, I am not one of Shroud’s disciples. I seek only passage through the portal you are creating. And if I am not obstructed, our dealings here can remain civil.”
“You wish to enter the underworld? Why?”
“I have my reasons.”
The old man gave a dry laugh. “Most people try to delay their appointment with Shroud for as long as possible, yet you would have me believe—”
“I give you my word.”
“And on that score alone, I am expected to allow a banewolf into the mitrebird’s coop? I think not. Your master must be desperate indeed to attempt such a feeble ruse. He should have dealt when he had the chance.”
Parolla paused, thinking. Had the old man tried to bargain with Shroud? If so, he had much to learn about the conceit of immortals. What the gods wanted they took, without thought as to those they trampled over. And yet, the fact Mayot was prepared to oppose Shroud made him, what? A fool? An ally? Parolla’s gaze settled on the book once more. Even in her spiritual form she could detect the power contained within it. The old man had only just begun to tap into its mysteries, she sensed. And if Shroud wanted the book … Then so do I.
Mayot must have read her thoughts, for he hugged the book to his chest.
Parolla floated down to stand before him. “I see you understand the precariousness of your position. You have power, yes, but it is power that can be taken from you.”
“You would not be the first to try.” Mayot gestured at a line of figures at the foot of the dais to his right. Among them Parolla saw a short, blond-haired woman wearing the multicolored robes of a Metiscan magus; a huge tribesman, the scalps of dozens of foes hanging from his belt; a gray-haired, grim-faced man with a note of steel behind his quiet gaze. “All of these fools,” Mayot went on, “harbored the same simpleminded fantasies of seizing what is rightfully mine. Now they serve me.”
“It would seem you are not short of enemies. Unwise, then, to make another.”
“Unwise?” Mayot sneered. “Tell me, woman, was it wise to reveal yourself to me as you have? To warn me of your coming?” He gave a thin smile. “To extend yourself over such a distance.”
Before Parolla could react, the old man’s hand shot out, death-magic erupting from it to envelop her. Pain lanced her skull, and she felt herself spinning away.
* * *
Romany pursed her lips as Parolla’s spirit faded. The woman was something of a mystery. For her to have made it here without disturbing a single strand of Romany’s web was nothing short of miraculous—Impossible!—meaning her spirit must have passed along the threads of death-magic in the same way Romany traversed her web. A feat that only someone well versed in the dark arts could have accomplished. But one of Shroud’s disciples? The priestess was not so sure.
Mayot, as ever, had displayed a breathtaking disregard for the nuances of the exchange. Why, for instance, had Parolla not demanded that he hand over the Book? Why had she made no threats, delivered no ultimatums? The poor woman had clearly been as surprised to see Mayot as he had been to see her. And as for wanting to pass through into the underworld … Romany’s mouth twitched. The woman’s story was altogether too implausible to be anything other than truthful. But then who was she, and what was her interest in Shroud’s realm?
Safely concealed behind her wards, the priestess had studied Parolla closely. The woman’s most striking feature was her eyes, the orbs entirely black like two windows onto the Abyss. There was an ageless quality to her aquiline features that reminded Romany of the Spider. Was the woman a goddess, then? No, Mayot would not have been able then to drive her away so easily. And for all Parolla’s power there had been a circumspection in her parlance, a vulnerability in the lines of remembered pain round her eyes that spoke of a humanity altogether alien to the immortals.
A puzzle for another time.
Romany felt Mayot’s gaze on her, and she turned to face him. “Where were we, my Lord?”
There was the customary pause while the old man activated his brain. “You were explaining to me how the titan got away yesterday.”
“I was?”
Mayot brought his fist down on the armrest of his throne. “Enough games! The immortal was barely able to stand, let alone defend himself. Yet somehow he contrived to escape my undead.”
“Most distressing, I’m sure. So hard to find reliable servants these days.”
“You are as much to blame as the Vamilians.”
Romany tutted her irritation. Though she had come to expect no less from the mage, his lack of appreciation was still galling. “In case you had forgotten, my Lord, the titan was only at your mercy because I made it so.”
Mayot’s errant eyelid started fluttering. “I had not forgotten. Indeed, I could not help but notice that your … dealings … with the immortal ended fatally for another of Shroud’s servants. The second, I believe—”
“Third!” Romany interrupted. Did the old man think she had just been sitting on her hands since the Widowmaker’s defeat?
“Third, then. Forgive me, but I see a pattern emerging in your choice of targets.”
How perceptive of you. “You think I am pursuing some form of vendetta against Shroud? What of the titan, then? Or would you number the immortal among the Lord of the Dead’s followers?”
“The titan did not die.”
“Nevertheless, he was defeated.”
“And when his wounds heal?”
Romany sniffed. “I would have thought you had more immediate concerns, my Lord. Three of Shroud’s disciples are dead, yes, but many more wander freely through the forest.”
“My Vamilians will destroy them.”
“Their success thus far has been somewhat limited, even you must agree.”
Mayot continued as if he had not heard her. “And if they do not, I will unleash my champions.” He inclined his head toward the line of undead at the foot of the dais.
The gazes of the foreigners bored into Romany. “It will not be enough.”
The old man spoke through gritted teeth. “Oh, but it will. Every day my undead army grows stronger. And you seem to forget, if anyone should somehow reach this place they will still have me to deal with.”
Romany introduced a note of scorn to her voice. “And when Shroud himself enters the game, as surely he must? Are you ready, my Lord, to withstand the full weight of his fury?”
Mayot’s composure cracked for a heartbeat. “If you are so concerned for my well-being, why do you not surrender to me the remaining secrets of the Book?”
Romany smiled sweetly. So good of the old man to remind himself of her value to him, thus saving her the need to do so. “Perhaps I will, my Lord. Perhaps I will.”
With that, she spun round and started weaving her way through the undead toward the exit. As she walked, her smile faded. Enjoyable though it was to tweak the old man’s beard, her thoughts had already turned to masterminding the downfall of her next victim. So many pieces now on the game board, so much careful planning to do. Shroud had evidently banged some heads together, for his disciples were finally banding together in their struggle against the Vamilians. It had been a simple matter, though, for Romany to direct Mayot’s servants to any hotspots, thus preventing the enemy from uniting to form a sizable host. Yes, Mayot was losing scores, even hundreds, of Vamilians for every one of the Lord of the Dead’s minions that fell, but numbers were hardly a concern to an army that comprised an entire civilization. And thus far no one else in the enemy’s ranks had shown the Widowmaker’s ability to sever the undead’s threads through their presence alone.
Of course, there were still a few of Shroud’s disciples either powerful or arrogant enough to plough a lone furrow, and it was on these unfortunate souls that Romany was concentrating her own efforts. Whenever she moved to neutralize one opposing player, though, another would come to the fore. For the time being the Lord of the Dead’s threat remained a distant one, but, with the god’s followers steadily converging on the dome, the pressure on Mayot’s forces would soon become overwhelming. It would take keen judgment, Romany knew, to pinpoint the precise instant when the tide turned irretrievably against the old man. Quit the game too early and she might squander Shroud’s moment of weakness; too late and she risked sharing Mayot’s fate. If all went as expected—and how could it not?—her plans would reach fruition just as the mage began his inexorable slide into ruin.
When the end came, Mayot would face it alone.
* * *
Luker paused at the edge of the square. He drew both swords, transferred them to his left hand, then unsheathed a throwing knife with his right. Looking back the way he had come, he saw Jenna waiting beneath one of the stone house’s windows. Moments earlier she had found the place where the soulcaster’s snores were loudest and expertly prized the shutters open by sliding a razor-thin metal tool through the wooden bars to lift the crosspiece inside. Now she stood watching Luker, a loaded crossbow in one hand, Merin’s glass globe between thumb and forefinger of the other.
The Guardian nodded to signal he was ready. In response, Jenna grinned. The window above her was set high in the wall, forcing her to jump in order to throw the glass globe through.
She hit the ground running.
A heartbeat later the other shutters along the wall exploded outward with a roar. The ground bucked, and Luker was thrown across the alley, smashing into the wall of the mud-brick building opposite. Even as his world spun he saw the running figure of Jenna lifted from her feet and hurled through the air, her arms whirling.
Shroud’s mercy.
Roof tiles came crashing down into the alley. The wall of the stone house toppled toward Luker with a groan. He scrambled upright and launched himself into a roll that carried him into the marketplace. He came to his feet, ears ringing, amid a cloud of dust. Chunks of rock and wood rained down, and he fashioned his Will into a shield over his head as he surveyed the carnage. The roof of the stone house had collapsed inward, the four walls outward, spilling rock and earth into the square and the streets alongside it.
No way the soulcaster was walking away from that.
Movement to his left caught his eye. A woman emerged from the door of one of the mud-brick hovels next to the stone building. Luker’s thrown knife took her in the throat, and she stumbled backward into darkness, clutching at the weapon’s hilt. Transferring one of his swords to his right hand, the Guardian plunged after her.
Inside, all was confusion. Shadowy figures shouted and reached for weapons. Luker tore through them, his swords flashing, and three Kalanese went down. The final soldier, a potbellied man wearing only a loincloth, jabbed at him with a spear. Luker caught the point on his left sword and ran his assailant through with his right. The spearman fell with a gurgling cry.
Five down, six to go.
The Guardian padded back to the doorway before halting to listen.
Silence.
Some silences just don’t smell right, though. Luker launched himself into another roll, felt the air part above his head as he cleared the building. He regained his feet and spun to face the house. A Kalanese spearman stood to either side of the doorway, and there were three more gray-robed figures to his left, the rearmost holding a crossbow. Five in all, then, but he’d reckoned on six still alive. That left one enemy unaccounted for.
The Kalanese spread out to form a half circle, looking round all the while as if they expected attack from another quarter. The pause suited Luker just fine. More time for Jenna to get back on her feet, assuming she wasn’t buried under a mountain of rubble. The five here weren’t all dewy-eyed and half-dressed like the ones he’d cut down in the house. A couple even wore hide armor. Luker rolled his shoulders. The fools actually looked confident. A tough guy was mouthing off at the Guardian, but the effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact Luker didn’t know what he was saying.
They came at him in a rush. Luker parried a spear thrust for his chest even as he swayed ou
t of the way of a crossbow bolt. Continuing the motion, he blocked an attack from another assailant, turning as he did so to avoid a jab that passed within inches of his face.
He launched himself at the Kalanese soldier farthest to his left—a heavily muscled woman carrying a spear and a wicker shield. Luker blocked her first stab and counterattacked with a backhand cut. She brought her shield up to block, but he used his Will to add force to his blow. The shield splintered under the impact, and Luker heard the snap of bones, a cry of pain. He was already spinning beyond the wounded soldier, pushing her into the path of a lunge from one of her male companions. The man’s spear point sunk into his kinswoman’s stomach and she fell, snaring the weapon.
The three remaining Kalanese warriors—two shaven-headed men and a woman whose features were hidden by a headscarf—hesitated, each waiting for the others to make the first move. Not so confident now. Behind them the soldier holding the crossbow was struggling to reload his weapon.
Luker attacked. A flick of his Will sent the man in the center—the now-weaponless spearman—staggering backward. A sidestep took the Guardian out of range of a thrust from the attacker on his left and toward the woman on the right. She raised her shield to intercept a head cut, but it was only a feint, Luker dropping to one knee to swing beneath her block. His sword bit into the woman’s hip, snagging there. He stepped past her, surrendering his trapped blade even as his remaining sword sent her head tumbling to the dust.
The weaponless soldier had retrieved his spear from the body of Luker’s first victim and now advanced. To the Guardian’s right the other Kalanese dropped into a fighting crouch. A burning tree was emblazoned on the man’s robe, above the heart. An officer, then. A strangled cry brought both spearmen up short. Behind them, the crossbowman slumped to the ground, a quarrel sprouting from his left temple.