by Barb Hendee
As she reached the study again, Wynn and Tilswith scurried in from the side hallway to the kitchen. Leesil and Chap entered behind Magiere, and the hound circled the room with a continuous rumble as he sniffed about. He let out a growl as he passed by Wynn's table, and then turned and trotted back into the main hallway.
Magiere hesitated before going after him. The two sages hung back.
"Who was just here?" she asked.
"Our friend, Chane," Wynn replied, out of breath and her voice unsteady.
"Good scholar, but…" The domin paused, gripping Wynn's arm, his voice touched with sadness. "He is tall, noble look… red-brown hair behind ears."
"Oh, merciless saints!" Leesil snapped, and he bolted after Chap. "Come on. They've been inviting an undead for tea and studies."
Magiere followed. As she rounded the corner to the front door, she saw it already ajar. Leesil ran into the night ahead of her, and Chap's wail echoed from the street outside.
Sgaile tied the corners of his cloak about his waist to keep it out of his way and hold his cloth bundle of equipment snug against his back. With the shortbow hung over his shoulder, he slipped into a space between buildings close to the inner ring wall and searched for a way to the rooftops.
It had been a long day's wait, and his brethren in Hovel Row had informed him of the strange, well-dressed human who had come with questions. The city was being locked down at night because of a string of unexplained deaths, and movement would be difficult. He stepped out before dusk to give himself time to enter the city's wealthy inner districts before the gatehouses were closed for the night.
Ascending the rough buildings was easy for Sgaile, and he soon perched at the apex of a three-story structure. Leaping to the next rooftop, he landed silently and worked his way along. Out ahead and above, he could see a white speck atop the wall and settled still as a shadow next to a clay chimney. A guard in white surcoat and feather-crested helm strolled along above. When the guard passed down the other way, Sgaile continued along the roofs.
It would be difficult to locate his target with little to guide him but the secondhand description given by his brethren. He reconciled himself to a long night of silent searching. Then a wail carried through the air.
Sgaile froze again, dropping low.
There had been mention of a dog.
The wail sounded again, long and savage, and Sgaile sprang to his feet, leaping across the rooftops.
Chane ducked through a doorway, out of sight, as he heard shouting in the hall. He did not stop to listen and slipped out the front door once the footfalls passed by toward the study.
When the explosive wail burst from behind him, it startled him. He had heard that sound twice now-once from a distance and once close by-and knew the dhampir's dog was inside the barracks.
What could the dhampir possibly be doing among the sages?
As he ran through the street, the wail shifted to a high-pitched tone that cut through the night air, and Chane knew the hound was outside. Looking back, he saw far behind two gleaming pinpricks like diamonds in the dark. Its silhouette loped oddly. Chane's own legs were long, and he ran swiftly, but he heard the hound gaining ground.
He searched about for refuge, someplace to make a stand, and spotted the shabby frame of a large storage shed between two buildings against the ring wall. The door was broken but three walls were intact, so he dodged inside, stepped to the back, and began chanting softly.
In his mind, he drew lines of light, slowly crafting symbols in his thoughts. First the circle, then around it a triangle, and into the spaces of its corners outside the circle, he scrawled glyphs and sigils, stroke by stroke. The mesh of lines in his mind overlay his sight of the room wherever he looked, and he aimed through its center at the ground before the door.
Still wailing, the hound slammed into the broken door, smashing it open, and its voice shifted to an elongated snarl.
In the shack's darkness, the animal's blue-gray fur stood on end around its neck and along its back, its sharp teeth exposed beneath wrinkled jowls. It was so tall that its back would reach Chane's thigh. And the dhampir could not be far behind.
Chane focused upon the floor before the hound. A shifting warp twisted his vision of the room.
Spirals of flame shot up in front of the hound.
Without looking back, Chane dashed through the shed's broken side, scanning the street for the nearest sewer grate.
* * *
Leesil ran at full stride out the guild's front door. Chap wasn't far ahead, but for running on only three legs, the dog covered ground at a rapid pace.
His slender legs pumped wildly to catch up. The hound had sustained too many injuries on this exploit from throwing himself into every battle. More than once, he'd been outnumbered or flanked before Leesil could get to his side. They knew little of this undead that Chap pursued, other than that he was a swordsman and perhaps a mage as well. This was more than Chap had faced before.
Hound… Fay… or both. Anger flared inside Leesil, a mix of resentment toward Chap and ire at the undead who'd walked right through the building when they weren't paying attention. He pushed harder to catch up, knowing Magiere wouldn't be far behind. Out ahead, he caught sight of Chap's loping form. He peered farther down the gradual arc of the road.
There was the dim outline of a fleeing form. Then it was gone.
Chap turned, heading toward a large but shabby three-sided shed at the far end of the barracks grounds. Why would the undead run there? It offered no protection.
As Leesil followed, he saw Chap standing just inside the shed's doorway, snarling loudly. A breath later, fire erupted like a fountain inside the shed, and the doorway quickly ignited into flames behind the dog.
A shadow flickered away out of the shed's broken side.
Leesil wanted to scream. He ran headlong through the door, leaning forward to grab Chap by the chest, and threw himself forward.
He felt heat like the pressure of water closing around him, as if he'd leaped from a height into a boiling sea. Rolling across the ground with Chap clenched tight to his chest, he smashed them both against the shed's back wall. Leesil scrambled up and shoved Chap ahead of him out of the shed's broken side.
Once in the street again, he grabbed the hound, running his hands over the gray-blue fur, checking for burns. His heart thrummed against his ribs. To his relief, the fire had mainly scorched Chap's tail and singed a few patches of fur on his haunches, but that was all. A moment more among the flames, and the result would have been more than Leesil cared to imagine.
Chap tried to lunge away down the street again, but Leesil held tight.
"No," he said. "You wait."
"Leesil!"
Magiere's shout came from the front of the burning shack.
"Here," he called back. "We're over here."
She ran toward him, falchion in hand. "Where's the undead?"
"I don't know." Leesil shook his head and looked to the burning shack. "Should we sound an alarm? This one enjoys his little fires."
Magiere looked to the shed as well and shook her head. "This shack isn't connected to anything." She dropped next to Chap. "Did that bastard burn him?"
"No, not really." Leesil allowed relief to flood him.
Chap turned and licked his face once before growling, struggling to be released. But Leesil hesitated.
"You ready?" Leesil asked Magiere.
"Let him go," she answered.
Chap lunged down the street, slowing now and again to sniff for a trail. Leesil had no idea how the limping dog kept his pace, but they ran after him along the open street.
Anger mounted again, and Leesil felt the sweat in his hand gripping the blade as he pictured this undead's head rolling on the cobblestones. He shifted the blade to his other side and wiped his palm dry on his breeches. Street lanterns partially lit the way, but there was no one in sight.
The guard patrolled near the city walls in greater numbers, but he hoped this undead
wouldn't run into them. They would likely get themselves killed.
Chap pulled up short at a sewer grate and circled it, nose to the ground, and then looked at them. He clawed at the grate with his good front paw. An anxious rumble issued from his throat, but Leesil saw the slight shake of his legs. The dog panted in exhaustion.
Magiere kicked at the grate. "He went down."
The light glow of her topaz dimmed to nothing as Leesil watched. He knelt down next to Chap, and Magiere crouched as well. She looked at the grate and then at Chap.
"We've no lantern or torch, and Chap's done in," she said.
Leesil peered down through the grate. She was right, but the image of Chap circled in flame still burned in his mind. He put his hand on the dog's back and felt the tremble of fatigue beneath the rumbling vibration of his growl. He reached down to grab the grate.
Magiere put a hand on his shoulder.
"Not like this," she said. "We stick to the plan. Find the lair and go in during the day when we're all well prepared and at our best."
"He can't have gotten far," Leesil argued.
"We'll find them," she insisted. "It may take a bit of time, but we will. They can't get out of the city, at least I hope not, now that Chetnik has all the gates locked down after dark."
Breathing slowly, Leesil nodded, but Chap continued to growl, looking downward through the tight mesh of iron bars.
"And I know you can understand me," Magiere said to him. "So don't pretend otherwise."
Chap quieted but glowered at her.
At another time, when he'd been just a dog, Leesil might have found Chap's expression humorous. Now it gave him shivers. Movement in the street pulled his attention, and Leesil rose and turned in one movement, blade at the ready.
Vatz stepped up behind them, crossbow loaded and a determined look on his face.
"We going down?" he asked.
Magiere's jaw dropped. "I told you to stay inside with the sages!"
"I ain't hiding behind that bunch of gray skirts."
She was about to grab for the boy with a vicious glint in her eye, when Leesil pushed Vatz back down the street the way they'd all come.
"Let's get inside," he said. "We can talk about this later."
"What!" Vatz growled. "I thought you two were-"
"Move," Leesil ordered.
The boy reluctantly obeyed, with Magiere following him, and Leesil turned to call for Chap.
The dog was gone.
Fire in the night. A wail in the air.
Sgaile focused upon the glow ahead rising up between the night silhouettes of the rooftops. He barely caught the sound of running feet and indistinguishable voices. When he landed upon a shaked roof with twin chimneys, front and rear, he saw the flames across the way against the city wall. Scanning the barrier's top into the distance, he saw the far-off guards in white making their circuit around the wall's top. None appeared to have spotted the waning blaze. Perhaps it was tucked too close to the wall to be seen from such a distance.
What burned was little more than a lone abandoned shed, and it already collapsed upon itself, the fire dimming. Scattered sparks wafted upward and extinguished before they crested the wall's top. Firelight impaired his night sight, and the wail, footfalls, and voices had all faded. He crept closer to the roof's edge over the street and looked along the line of buildings.
Walking away to the far right was a small boy, crossbow hefted over his shoulder. Behind him was a tall female, back turned, with long black hair and loose-hanging shirt. He could not make out much of this person, except for the heavy-bladed sword in her hand. A flicker of white in the dark pulled his attention left and up the street.
Standing near a street grate was a figure with long white-blond hair, a ragged white sleeveless vest or shirt lashed sloppily around his waist. The only other feature Sgaile could make out was a strange blade gripped in his hand.
The figure turned slowly about, looking all around with seeming concentration, and Sgaile saw his face. He focused his vision.
It was man of tanned skin like his own, but the face was not quite right. The eyes were not as wide or large as his own, and the feathered brows not quite as arched and high. His chin was more the squarish end common to humans.
Half-blood.
Sgaile glanced quickly at the woman and boy farther down the street's gradual arc. His target stood still and in plain view, and he could not let such a chance pass by.
He slipped an arrow from the back of his belt and fitted it to the shortbow. Taking aim, he drew the string back.
Leesil looked up and down the street and between the nearest buildings, trying to spot where Chap had gone. He was about to call out when an odd tingle scurried across his back. Wariness overtook him, and he peered about the dark as if there were something else nearby that he couldn't see.
Had the undead come out through another grate and doubled back? He listened carefully as he peered into the shadows of the buildings.
One shadow moved, low to the ground, and he tensed.
Chap ambled out from between two silent shops, nose to the ground as he followed the line of buildings. Leesil relaxed in annoyance.
"Get over here," he called. "It's gone already."
Chap looked up and paused again to the scan the street. With reluctance, he hobbled toward Leesil.
Sgaile fixed his gaze upon the half-blood's chest just right of center and at the man's heart. He took a slow, deep breath and released half of it.
A gray flicker bobbed from a building to the left and along the cobblestones toward his target. Sgaile paused, releasing the rest of his inhale.
It was a dog or hound approaching the half-blood at a slow, limping gait. Sgaile settled again with another breath, in and halfway out. The dog circled the target as the two moved slowly down the street, and Sgaile pulled tighter on the bowstring.
The angle was no longer what he needed, and he raised his focus to the half-blood's temple.
The sheen of the dog's coat caught the glimmer of a street lantern.
Sgaile paused again, and this time his breath caught in his chest.
The hound limped along next to the half-blood, and Sgaile looked carefully at it.
The dog was blue-gray in color and taller than the forest wolves, its head narrower and muzzle longer than those wild beasts. Even from a distance, Sgaile caught the glitter of its crystal-blue eyes as it intently looked about. He lowered his bow, slowly releasing tension on the string, and sat in silence, watching the two figures recede down the street.
"Majay-hi" he whispered in disbelief.
Chapter 16
Toret sat alone in the parlor, waiting for Chane to return with a mortal for him to feed on. His ruptured eye socket had closed up. He'd shut out any pain from his chest wound but loss of fluid had drained him, and he felt empty in more ways than simple hunger. In each passing moment he found the illusion of "Toret" more and more a ridiculous joke, and the reality of "Ratboy" welled up inside him.
The previous night's fight played out in Toret's mind, again and again, as disquiet crept into his thoughts. He was stronger than the half-blood, yet for all Chane's sword training, the mongrel had still outclassed him.
Tibor walked into the parlor, his appearance severing Toret's thoughts.
"Pardon, master, but there's a man here to see you."
The sailor's throat wound had closed, but the flesh around the hole was still seared. His undead existence made his gaunt, hawklike features stand out. His skin looked weathered and tight but was losing its dark, ruddy tan in his undead state. His brown eyes seemed distant and sad.
"Sestmir was your friend for a long time?" Toret asked.
"My brother." Tibor paused. "I suppose he was my friend too."
A brother? Toret should have realized. The two looked so much alike.
"Who is at the door?" he asked. He wasn't in the proper condition to conduct any type of business.
"Fancy gentleman," Tibor answered.
/> Toret tensed slightly. "Dark hair with white patches at his temples?"
"Yes, master, that's the one."
The last person Toret wanted to see now was this stranger who kept appearing from nowhere with warnings about the dhampir.
"Tell him I'm not here."
Tibor turned to go back to the door, and a cold voice rose audibly from the foyer.
"I think you should see me."
The stranger entered, impeccably dressed in a long black cloak and well-fitting gloves. Toret felt a small flare of righteous resentment.
"This is my home," he said. "I'm not well and wish to be alone."
"Yes," the stranger responded in the same cold tone. "From what I understand, you were wounded by the half-elf. That is hardly befitting someone of your station."
His station? A sickly, humorous comment. Toret looked at Tibor.
"Wait in the dining room. This won't take long."
Tibor nodded and left, and Toret stood up.
"Where are the dhampir and her half-elf now?" the stranger asked. "Even with my resources, I cannot locate them."
Toret wondered about the man's age, though he looked to be in his mid-forties. He also appeared a bit haggard and tired, perhaps from a lack of sleep-quite different from his last visit. Why was he so interested in the dhampir, and why did he expend all this effort with warnings? Suddenly the answers didn't matter.
"I've no idea, and I don't care. I am taking my family away from here tomorrow."
"Away?" The stranger appeared stunned. "Where? Destroying her is the only way to ensure your survival."
Toret almost smiled, but not quite. "I once knew someone who thought like that. His bones are dust under the dhampir’s tavern. Vengeance is expensive."
Open anger slipped into the stranger's voice. "The guards now lock up the city at dusk. No one gets in or out. Even the sewer gates into the bay are sealed both day and night. And scaling all the city's walls would be difficult at best."
Toret turned away, and the hollow hunger of his existence became acidic.
"If you think I can't find my way around a few mortal guards, you have no idea what I am. Get out. You're no longer welcome here."