by Tom Deitz
“Eight go with me,” he murmured and stepped from the tunnel into what lay beyond.
A cavern, so it proved—or an immense low-ceilinged chamber that had been hewn from the stone so long ago it was indistinguishable from a natural hollowing. Steam filled the farther reaches so thickly it was like the densest winter fog, but in spite of that, it was possible to see pillars rising from the floor where drippings from the ceiling teased them into stubby stumps. The ceiling was prickly with stone spikes, some thinner than his smallest finger, some thicker than his body. Here and there spikes met pillars and made columns. Sheets of water glistened in low places, some puddles smaller than a footprint, some sheets the limits of which he couldn't see.
How was he seeing, anyway? But then he noticed that more glow-globes nested like clutches of eggs among those pillars: added proof he was near habitation.
But how did he go up? Anything worth the risk he was taking would be learned in the hold proper, not here.
Yet he lingered. He was getting sleepy, he realized, which surprised him, given that he'd drunk most of a pot of cauf during that last council session, never mind that fear—or anticipation—alone should sustain alertness.
Still, it wouldn't hurt to rest a moment, and with that in mind he slumped down on a convenient shelf thrust out from a particularly thick pillar. A yawn ambushed him, then another. He fought them off and stood again. Blinking, he saw something he'd missed before: a particularly large cluster of globes beside a pool three spans ahead and to the right. Curiosity got the better of him, and he remembered what Rrath had “said” about this being the Cavern of the Well. And since he was King, and part of his duty as King was to drink from the Wells on the Isle of The Eight, was it not therefore his duty to investigate other Wells when he came upon them?
Five breaths later, he stood beside it, looking down. Though no efforts had been made to change its shape, the area around this gleaming span of water had been smoothed flat, then strewn with soft white sand into which symbols had been incised, probably with a finger. Footprints showed there as well, most bare, but one set booted, and there was also a single handprint. Finally, there was a kind of chair, carved from one of the drip-stone pillars. A chalice sat beside it. Good work, by a smith who'd flourished two centuries back, if Avall wasn't mistaken. Impulsively, he sat down there. Perhaps that would give him some insight into the motivations of the masters of this place. Who were they, anyway, this Ninth Face? When had they splintered away from their master clan? How large were they? They seemed an elite brotherhood, rather like the Night Guard, save that there were more of them. And what were their motivations? Altruism or selfishness? Priest-Clan, though increasingly political, still did far more good than evil. Maybe he was wrong to confront them. Maybe he really should try to parley.
He just didn't know. He had no idea how they thought, these men—and women, he presumed. But if there was a Ninth Face, then that Face had to have a Well, and this was the logical place for that Well to be. And if there was a Well here, it stood to reason the Chief of this place drank from it for the same reason other Priests drank from theirs. As did Avall, when he was Avatar of The Eight. The presence of the goblet beside this Well all but confirmed that supposition. And the best way Avall could imagine to understand the Ninth Face was to drink what the Chief of the Ninth Face drank.
Steeling himself, and aware at some level that what he was about to undertake was foolish in the extreme, he filled the goblet and—after studying it a moment—raised it to where his lips were framed by openings in the helm.
The water—if that's what it was—tasted like cold metal, and it froze his throat, so that he had to fight to swallow— even to breathe, almost. It was unlike any previous sampling he'd experienced, yet exactly like them. It also invoked a euphoria not unlike that produced by working with the gems, as though time simultaneously slowed and expanded.
He was expanding, too; he could see everything in the cavern at once, from all angles—and that was more than his mind could encompass. Desperate, he clamped his eyelids shut, slapping a hand across them while the other dropped the goblet. He heard it hit the sand after an eternity of falling, and the sound was like a thousand tiny gongs being struck as one. Their ringing was at once immense enough to be deafening and too minute to be heard.
But he could still see, dammit! The only difference was that he now saw the landscape behind his eyes. And it was a landscape, too, for the thready lines of vessels had twisted into rivers, and the places where they met had become lakes, the tiny folds of his irises hills and mountain ranges. He was falling toward one of those lakes, he realized, falling faster and faster …
Then floating, as though he were a bird locked in a steady glide over some place his waking body had never seen.
He saw water—a lake, almost perfectly round, with an island in the center raising an equally perfect cone to heavens less blue than that water. And he saw cliffs around it—of a height so even that they resembled the top of a tower. Those walls were pocked and fissured with caves, and ringed with concentric terraces, but little vegetation grew there. Beyond, if he banked higher, he could just make out what he assumed was the sea.
Yet what truly impressed him—what made him want to stop where he was and circle there forever—was the feeling of warmth and peace that emanated from that place. A warmth that was a balm to one born to rule a frigid land, a peace such as he had never known.
Maybe he'd found it. Maybe he could stay there forever, circling, looking down on another series of circles: land around water around land.
Like an eye in the earth. The World's Eye, he would call it, if he ever found that place. For he had no doubt whatever that somewhere in Eron it existed.
And then that eye blinked—and reality exploded.
The rattle of a lock somewhere behind him was like the endless rattle of summer storms in the highest mountains: a threat that demanded man and beast alike take shelter. The scraping of the door against the jamb was like an earthquake. He could feel the seat tremble beneath him, even where he sat.
The air that found him when it opened was like the gales of winter, and the voices that rode with it were like bells and lightning blasts amid a windstorm's thunder.
Yet somehow those words made sense.
“There … he … is …”
“I … told … you … there … was … an … invader.”
Invader …
That word rang loudest in Avall's ears. And that part of him that was not still seeking vainly after his vision of peace reminded him that the invader in question was probably him, which meant he'd been discovered, and that what one normally did in such situations was run.
Slowly, as it seemed. As it seemed to take years to snare his shield and sword from beside the chair, where he didn't recall discarding them.
Somehow, he found his feet, and with every thunderous footfall he seemed to run more slowly, while every clap of thunder his boots produced made his head hurt worse, though with each pulse of pain, his vision—and mind—clarified.
Whether he had, in fact, been sought out and located, or had simply been chanced upon, he had no idea. All he knew was that he was in the enemy's citadel, being pursued by that same enemy.
They seemed to be holding back, however.
Probably because, among the many words he could hear his pursuers shouting, was the phrase “wearing the magic armor”— and, more troubling in its implications—“summon the others” and “can't let him escape.”
So they thought he was wearing the magic armor? Good, that was his intent; perhaps he could turn it to his advantage. He had a head start already, had indeed reached the entrance to the tunnel by which he'd first come there. Which was the last place he could easily wield his sword. And so he stopped in front of the arch, drew his blade, whirled around in place, and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Stay where you are or face the lightning!”
And in that pause he got his first glimpse of his pursuers. Though th
eir shapes were obscured by the pervasive steam, he could still make out that there were more of them than he'd thought, all in blue surcoats, but also with mail glittering here and there, some in helms, some without, as though they'd donned them quickly.
They were also slowing down, faces tense with uncertainty.
Which was all the excuse he needed. “You are wise!” he shouted, then turned and fled into the tunnel. Only when he'd gone twenty strides did he realize that his eyes weren't adjusting well to the relative lack of light, and that darkness was, in fact, closing in. Yet still he ran, though he slipped and slid far too often and banged his shoulders painfully against the wall.
At first he heard no pursuit, but then ears still keen from the remnants of the Well's enhancement caught the sound of booted feet on stone, and another voice in the forefront yelling, “If he calls the lightning here, he will doom himself with us. Catch him before he reaches the shaft.”
That was enough for Avall. Clutching his sword to his side, he ran as fast as he ever had in his life.
On and on and on, and finally he saw the clutter of objects that marked the place of his arrival. Which probably meant that the actual exit lay beyond. So did he stop here, defend Rrath, and risk everything he'd learned and planned? Or did he cut his losses and abandon Rrath to those who might be able to help him more than Avall could, and who would learn nothing more from him than they knew already?
Reflex decided, as much as intellect. He half scrambled, half leapt across Rrath, and continued on, even as his conscience nagged at him for twice abandoning Rrath to possible doom.
But maybe Rrath would slow those who pursued him enough to permit escape. If that was even possible.
In any case, the corridor continued on, and so did Avall, maintaining a steady trot past stonework that didn't change. And then he saw a different light ahead—the light of two moons filtering down what looked to be a shaft leading upward. Hope made him redouble his pace, and he sheathed his sword while he ran. Briefly, he considered abandoning the shield entirely, but his foes would have it then, and the entire masquerade would dissolve if they determined it wasn't magic. For they'd realize that there was no way he'd discard it if it was.
Which meant he'd have to wear it on his back, like a turtle's shell. He was already shrugging out of it when he reached the bottom of what proved to be a stone-walled well, with spikes driven into the walls at exactly the right intervals to serve as hand- and footholds. And while his pursuit had not ceased, neither had it grown closer. Desperate for haste, he fumbled with a shield strap that had caught on the wrist guard of a gauntlet. But then it was free and sliding off, and he slung it onto his back one-handed, praying that the catches would hold as he began to climb.
It was hard going, yet the spikes were spaced so that his legs did most of the work while his hands merely served for balance. In spite of his haste, his foes had reached the bottom before he reached the surface. A chill hit him abruptly—hard. Maybe they had bows! Lethal little crossbows, probably. Maybe any moment he'd feel a bolt lodge in his back, hips, or thighs. Or worse, given their angle of attack.
He pushed harder, breath loud within his helm, while sweat threatened to blind him.
But the opening above was growing larger, only to be obscured by two faces looking down. “He's coming,” someone yelled. “And not alone.”
Rann, he realized. Rann.
In spite of his situation, anger flared through him. Rann (and probably Lykkon) had somehow found him—and by so doing, placed themselves at risk. But hard on the heels of that emotion came a mix of relief and panic that almost made him physically ill.
Hands grabbed him as soon as he came in range, hauling him upward so quickly he nearly lost his grip and fell. A spike jabbed his thigh. Another raked his belly, ripping his surcoat and snagging on the mail beneath. He kicked outward, found surer purchase with his boots and half climbed, half dived the rest of the way over what proved to be the rim of one of the fumeroles that pocked the landscape thereabouts.
Abruptly, he was face-to-face with Rann and Lykkon—in full armor—with another twenty Royal Guardsmen—hastily assembled, to judge by their disheveled appearance, but likewise armed and armored—standing close at hand. Avall had never been so glad to see soldiers in his life.
For a moment he stood there swaying, then found his balance. “Pursued,” he gasped. And was relieved to see a dozen swords and almost as many crossbows flash into the moonlight from the surrounding cover. It would be easy now; they could pick off his pursuers as they emerged.
But they did not emerge. More than enough time had elapsed, and Avall was on the verge of easing forward to look down the shaft again when disaster struck.
A crossbow quarrel took the man beside Lykkon in the belly, even as he started forward. Another swished past Avall's chin so close he felt the fletching against his flesh. “Attack!” someone yelled. “Behind us!”
“All around us!” someone else cried.
Avall had just time to unsheathe his sword and to note that their foes numbered twice their own number before the attack began in earnest. “Out of other holes,” Rann spat beside him. “We should've looked. We should've known.”
And then there was no more time for analysis. Someone in a blue surcoat was running straight toward him—no, two someones—rushing in from either side, past his confused Guard. They were unarmed, so he thought—until, too late, he realized that the dark mass they clutched before them was a net. The first cast merely tangled his sword arm; the next enclosed him neatly.
Avall struggled frantically, even as those men bore him back toward the shaft from which he'd just emerged. His helm slipped enough to block vision from one eye, but with the other he could see his Guard, one by one, cut down. “Rann!” he yelled desperately. “Lykkon!”
Maybe they heard. He didn't know. All he knew was that reality was spinning, his balance was out of kilter, and very large men were trying with all their strength to wrestle him down. More bolts swished. Men cried out and swore. Arrows thudded. Metal belled against metal, and at least one fullfledged sword duel was in progress, to judge by the sounds of combat.
He'd been a fool. He'd tried something stupid, and now he was caught and there was nothing he could do to alleviate the situation. And he desperately wanted out, away. And if he bloodied the gem, he might well manage that. Desperately, he fumbled at the chain around his throat. If he could crush the glass with the gauntlets, maybe he still had a chance. Maybe.
It was no use. His efforts only entangled him worse, and one of his captors saw—or suspected—what he was about and dragged his arm back with such force he feared it was dislocated. He gasped but did not cry out. He was still who he was, after all. King of all Eron. And more to the point, Avall syn Argen-a.
They'd ringed him now: a circle of tall men in blue surcoats— maybe fifteen, if he guessed correctly. More than enough right there to give his Guard a hard time. His only hope was that Rann and Lykkon had escaped. And that Riff, Myx, and Veen had not been involved.
And then it didn't matter, because someone clamped a cloth soaked in some kind of fluid over his face. It smelled like imphor, only a thousand times stronger. He fought it, but there was no way to pinch his nostrils closed, so he tried to take shallow breaths—until someone punched him smartly in the stomach, and he exhaled. The ensuing gasps were more than enough to take him away from himself into a place where there was neither dark nor light.
When reality returned, Avall found himself on horseback. Someone had bound him, blindhooded, into a saddle, with his feet firmly trussed into the stirrups and his hands tied around the saddle horn. As best he could tell through muddled senses and an aching head, he still wore mail—but the helm, shield, and sword were gone. Horses pounded along to either side at close to full gallop, which said a lot for their riders' horsemanship—and for whoever had trained the mount he rode, which seemed to match their moves precisely.
They were traversing woods—by the sound of
hooves on leafy ground. But they seemed also to be on a path, else they'd not be able to make so much haste. Others rode around him, moving steadily onward. To where, he had no idea. He only hoped his army was intact enough to follow.
From what little he'd heard from his new companions, he wasn't certain. The force that had captured him had not been the only one; another had attacked the camp. Beyond that, he knew nothing. Nor wanted to know, just now. And so, tied there in the saddle, he slept. Or passed out. For him, at that moment, it didn't matter.
“I'll raze that place to the ground!” Rann raged, flinging his helm on the table in the royal strategy tent. He would, too, as soon as—well, as soon as he could get a counteroffensive mounted. He should be out there now, leading a force to take that pile of rock apart—grain by grain, if he had to.
“Maybe so,” Lykkon murmured, laying an arm across Rann's shoulders and drawing him to his usual seat at the council table—the one to the right of Avall's empty one. “But not now,” he continued. “Not until we can take stock—”
Rann flung the arm away. “Stock of what? My bond-brother's taken captive. Half his Guard are dead or wounded. I shouldn't be alive and neither should you. And”—he sniffed the air for emphasis—“the camp's on fire.”
Only then did he pause in his rant to take true stock of who else joined him there. They seemed to have assembled of their own will, having seen to their various duties. Tryffon, Preedor, and Vorinn of War; Veen, Riff and Myx, himself, Lykkon and Bingg, and one or two others.
Veen shook her head. “The fires in camp have been put out. It wasn't much of a raid, actually. In fact, as best I can tell, it was mostly a feint to draw our attention from what I can only assume was a calculated attempt to capture Avall.”
“Effort, my ass!” Rann spat. “They did capture him—and threw him on a horse and rode away with him before any of us managed so much as a shot.”
“It was very well orchestrated,” Tryffon agreed. “They have to have had us under close observation.”