by Mel Odom
“Perhaps we could save the family reunion for later,” Wick said. “We’re still trapped on this mountain with Captain Gujhar, Ryman Bey, and the Razor’s Kiss thieves.”
Quickly, they gathered their things and prepared to leave.
“We could use the passage to the sea.” Quarrel pointed to the opening beside the frieze.
“You’ve been that way?” Alysta asked.
“Yes.”
“Is there a boat?”
“No.”
“Dawdal’s still back at camp,” Wick reminded them.
The cat sighed. “He could probably make his way back to Wharf Rat’s Warren on his own. Then again, Dawdal doesn’t have a true sense of direction. He could get lost out here. Or goblinkin or a bear could eat him.” She shook her head. “We’ll have to go back for him.”
Quarrel took the lead once more.
16
Pursued
Long minutes later, after all the surviving traps had once more been navigated, Wick and his two companions stood at the entrance to the excavation site. The snowfall had increased, filling the air with thick flakes that obscured vision.
The snowfall helped, Wick knew, but they would still stand out against it if someone saw them. Staying there till the dawn was out of the question and would be tantamount to suicide. They had to press on.
The thieves’ camp was still in turmoil. Gujhar and Ryman Bey were convinced that the interlopers hadn’t escaped over the wall. The thieves were searching the campsite and the inner courtyard, brandishing torches to drive back the darkness and cursing their luck.
“Quietly,” Quarrel whispered, “and stay close to me.” She went, hunkering low to the ground. She carried her sheathed sword in her left hand, her right hand resting on Seaspray’s hilt to draw it quickly.
Fear hammered inside Wick. Even though he’d been through several horrific struggles over the last few years, he didn’t believe he would ever get over the fear of dying suddenly in some violent manner.
They slipped through the night without incident and crouched in the shadows at the base of the wall. After a moment, when it seemed none of the torches carried by the thieves was near, they scaled the narrow steps leading up the wall.
At the top, the clouds parted and silver moonslight streamed down, raking the wall with incandescence, blunted somewhat by the swirling snow. Wick was reaching for the crenellation on the other side when Alysta hissed, “Look out!”
Ducking instinctively, Wick put both hands over his head and hoped nothing bad would happen to him. Something with leathery wings skated just above him and raked claws through his hair. An eerie, ululating, screaming whistle ripped through the still of the night.
“Up on the wall!” someone shouted down in the inner courtyard. “There they are!”
“Get up, Wick,” Quarrel called. “We’ve been spotted.”
Wick lifted his head, holding his arms up to protect himself. He got warily to his feet and looked up into the night. The ululating whistle continued, circling low overhead. Scrabbling for the crenellation, he spotted the winged zarnk diving at him again.
The creature was a flying scavenger with a five-foot wingspread. Three horns, two over its fierce eyes and one at the end of its cruelly curved beak, made the zarnk’s face look like a knotted fist. Copper-colored scales covered the elongated body, leading down to a darker shade along the whiplike tail with the barbed end. Opening its razor beaked jaws, it screamed again.
Three others joined it.
Terror raced through Wick. Although he’d never seen the creatures outside of an ecology book, he knew what they were. According to the information he’d read, a dozen zarnks could strip a cow down to a mass of bones in minutes. He didn’t want to find out if that was true.
Alysta moved, bunching then unbunching, hurling herself at the attacking zarnk and landing on its back. Knocked aside by the cat’s weight and fury, the zarnk screech-whistled again as it tumbled to the top of the wall in a flurry of wings. The feline struck with clean, white teeth. Even though the zarnk was bigger than Alysta was, she weighed easily three times as much. The zarnk flailed helplessly as it tried to get up.
Another zarnk veered toward the cat, reaching for her with razor claws. Wick reacted almost immediately, unable to face the thought of Alysta ripped to shreds in front of him. He threw himself at the predator, and that was what saved him from the third’s attack as it glided in at him.
Wick grabbed the zarnk’s wing and neck, riding it to the ground. Don’t let it bite me! Please don’t let it bite one of my fingers off or permanently damage one of them! Nightmare images of the creature doing exactly that plagued him as he held on. He was surprised at how light the zarnk was, but it also possessed a wiry strength.
“Break its neck,” Quarrel said.
Wick tried to find leverage but couldn’t. In truth, he didn’t know if he could actually kill the zarnk. He didn’t like killing. He wasn’t a warrior; he just didn’t want to watch Alysta get hurt. The zarnk flailed and dug its claws into the wall, crawling up despite Wick’s efforts. Lying on his back, suddenly trying to keep the zarnk from his throat, Wick saw Quarrel smoothly nock an arrow and track one of the other two flying zarnks.
The bowstring thrummed. The arrow pierced the heart of its target. Like a broken kite, the zarnk tumbled from the night sky and disappeared over the edge of the wall. Then Quarrel nocked another arrow, drew, and fired. The shot didn’t hit the second flying creature’s body, but it shattered a wing and dropped it into the inner courtyard.
Wick fought to keep the zarnk’s curved beak from his eyes, yanking his fingers back each time he turned his attacker’s efforts. Without hesitation, Quarrel flicked out her foot and slammed the zarnk’s head up against the wall. Bone crumpled. The zarnk suddenly became dead weight in Wick’s arms. He shoved the dead thing from him and scrambled to his feet.
Only a short distance away, Alysta jumped away from the dead zarnk she’d fought. Her muzzle was bloody. The winged predator lay curled up in a ball, its throat torn out.
“Is that all of them?” the cat asked more calmly than Wick felt she had any right to.
“For the moment,” Quarrel answered just as calmly.
Then the first arrow from the thieves splintered against the wall. Sparks leaped from the razor-sharp iron blade.
Below, the thieves raced toward the wall. Two of them stopped long enough to nock arrows and draw back. They released too early, though, and both deadly missiles went wide of the mark. By an uncomfortable few feet.
“Go!” Quarrel ordered, drawing back another arrow. She centered herself, calmly and dispassionately despite the crossbow bolt that skidded from the stone only inches below her boots.
For a moment, Wick watched her, drawn by the sight of the elegance of intent that the young woman evidenced. She reminded him of an elven archer, every line of her centered exactly so behind the bow. Her fingers opened like the petals of a flower, releasing the shaft. The missile sped true, catching a man just above the breastbone where a chain mail shirt would have ended, then pierced him and knocked him back.
By then Wick was scrambling over the crenellation, realizing too late that the side they’d gone over on faced the sea. He was also more than twenty feet above the ground.
“Hurry!” Alysta growled as she leaped to the top of the crenellation.
“It’s too far,” Wick protested. “I could break my leg. Or my neck.”
“You say that like staying here is an option.”
Wick turned to face the cat, figuring to appeal to Alysta’s good sense. If we’re not killed outright, and we shouldn’t be—maybe—Craugh and Cap’n Farok will be after us soon enough. Only before he could say anything, the cat launched herself at him, striking him heavily in the chest.
Off balance, Wick went over the wall backward. Alysta hooked her claws into his traveling cloak. He yelled in surprise and fear as he fell. The cat yowled. For a moment, her furry face was nose to nose with hi
s. He flung his arms around her and held on.
When he hit the ground, the snow cushioned his fall. The impact still drove the breath from his lungs, but nothing felt broken. He plunged down into a drift that was taller than he was, disappearing at once inside the snow.
“Get up!” Alysta commanded, detaching herself from Wick and squirming from his panicked grip. “They’ll be on top of us in seconds.”
Wick nodded, still struggling to suck air into his deflated lungs. Grabbing fistfuls of snow, he heaved himself from the drift till he stood on his feet. He caught half a breath, then another, and finally—thank the Old Ones!—he could breathe again.
Then Quarrel plummeted into the snowbank beside the little Librarian. She came up out of the snow like a dervish, throwing snow in all directions. It suddenly looked like it was snowing up as much as it was down.
“Run!” Quarrel ordered.
“Which way?” Wick asked frantically.
Neither the cat nor the young warrior answered him. Both of them ran straight for the tree line nearly forty yards away.
“Dawdal isn’t that way,” Wick cried after them. He had to struggle through the snow because it was up to his chest in most places.
Alysta scampered across the snow and Quarrel ran in quick strides that seemed to defy gravity.
Wick took another breath, ready to protest the direction again, then an arrow hissed into the snow ahead of him, probably only missing him by inches. He reconsidered the value of protesting the direction and decided that any escape would be a good thing at the moment. He spared a fleeting glimpse at the thieves and saw a half dozen men scrambling over the keep wall and dropping to the snow. When he turned back around, he stubbed his toe and pitched headlong into the snow.
Quarrel stopped and came back for Wick, grabbing him by an arm and jerking him to his feet. Together, with the cat urging them on, they ran for the trees while arrows rained down around them.
Later, Wick was never able to completely remember the struggle they had as they dodged through the forest. Several times they tripped over fallen trees or had to fight their way through drifts and brush. Pines and firs tore at their faces and eyes. Snow dropped down on them from the limbs by the bushel.
The land remained roughly level for a time, then quickly fell away toward the sea. In a short distance, they were falling down the treacherous landscape at nearly the same speed they were running.
Wick bounced and thudded against the mountainside. The wild cries of the thieves, excited now because their prey was almost at hand, filled the little Librarian’s ears. Terror raked at him.
Before he knew it, they were all out of running room. They burst free of the forest unexpectedly and found themselves out on a pointed shard of rock covered in snow that hung above the sea a hundred feet below.
“No!” Wick gasped. It wasn’t fair. They’d risked everything to claim Seaspray, solved the puzzle of the boat room when the Razor’s Kiss thieves hadn’t been able to do that. They couldn’t end up without a place to run.
Quarrel turned, bow in her hand and an arrow already nocked. Her breath exploded out of her in ragged gasps that stranded gray clouds in the cold air. Even Alysta seemed winded.
Wick gazed around, spotting an incline that went down the side of the mountain that offered him a fleeting hope. With luck, it went all the way to the bottom of the mountain. And with greater luck they would never lose their footing on the narrow trail.
“This way,” Wick said.
“Too late,” Quarrel said in a low voice.
Turning, Wick spotted the predatory shadows gathering in the tree line. Moonslight glittered on swords and knives. Involuntarily, he took a step back and nearly stepped over the ledge. Quarrel reached for him without taking her eyes from their enemies and steadied him.
“Careful,” she said.
Wick almost tittered at the idea of being careful. We’re one word away from being dead. Careful doesn’t even figure into this. Or maybe they were two words. If Gujhar decided to say, “Kill them,” instead of, “Kill.”
“Who are you?” a man’s voice rang out.
“Someone who will kill you if you give me half a chance,” Quarrel replied.
“Then I shouldn’t give you a chance.” The voice mocked her.
“Are you a coward then?” she demanded.
“Actually,” Wick whispered, “now wouldn’t exactly be the time to antagonize him. Orlag Sonder, in a very excellent work called A Sharp-Tongued Diplomat Stays Only One Step Ahead of Impending Retribution, suggests that when overpowered and outnumbered, remaining pacifistic is the best way—”
“I am Ryman Bey,” the man declared as he stepped from the tree line. His eye patch caught the moonslight, marking him instantly. “I lead the men that will kill you if you don’t surrender what you took from the keep.”
Showing no apparent strain, Quarrel kept her bow bent. “I could kill you where you stand. And I will if you don’t call off your dogs.”
Ryman Bey laughed, confident in his ability. “Even if you succeeded, these men would cut you to doll rags.”
Quarrel smiled, but Wick could see that the effort was forced. “You won’t live to see that happen.”
“Oh, but I might,” Ryman Bey taunted. “I just might. You’d be surprised to know what I’ve lived through.”
Wick talked from the corner of his mouth. “We don’t have to do this. Not yet.”
“They’re going to kill us,” Alysta said. “They don’t want to try to take us alive.”
“They do at the moment,” Wick said quietly.
“That’s because they’re afraid Quarrel will fall into the sea with the sword after they’ve killed her.” The cat’s voice was quiet and didn’t go far.
“C’mon, girl,” Ryman Bey said. “Make it easy on yourself.”
With no indication of what she was about to do, Quarrel released the arrow. Wick’s senses were spinning so rapidly he heard the shaft passing on the polished wood, then the deep, basso thwang of the string. He started to demand why Quarrel had fired the arrow when they were at the mercy of their enemies, then realized that her arm must have been growing tired holding the powerful bow ready. Knowing she’d never have the chance to draw back again, she’d obviously chosen to loose.
The arrow flew straight and true for the center of Ryman Bey’s face. Incredibly, the thief leader whirled to one side and took a step back. The arrow sliced through his hair and several strands were sheared.
“No!” Ryman Bey shouted, throwing his hand up to still his men. “I don’t want to lose that sword!”
By that time, Quarrel had thrown the bow down and slid Seaspray free of the sheath. The blue-etched blade caught and reflected the slight moonslight. Snowflakes whirled around her.
“Before I allow you to take this sword,” Quarrel promised, “I’ll throw it into the sea.”
“Throw it!” Ryman Bey showed his teeth in a wolf’s grin. “If I can’t stop you, I’ll recover the sword from the sea. I’d rather not if we could come to an arrangement.”
Wick stood frozen, not knowing what to do. It was plain to see that Quarrel felt the same way. The little Librarian looked out to sea, hoping against hope that One-Eyed Peggie’s sails were visible. Only a pale, ghostly fog drifted in atop the waves crashing against the jagged rocks below.
“The only arrangement we can come to,” Quarrel said, “doesn’t involve me giving up this sword.”
“Perhaps I could take you with us,” Ryman Bey said. “We only need the sword for a short time, so I’m told.”
For what? Wick wondered, curious again at Gujhar’s purpose and who had sent the man on his mission.
“No,” Quarrel replied. “I don’t trust you. I’ll never trust you.”
A voice from the ranks of the thieves spoke in a cant known only to them. Wick was familiar with the language from his studies, though he wasn’t as fluent as he would have wished to be.
“I’m ready,” the voice said.
Wick turned to Quarrel. “Look out. They’re planning—”
Before he could finish speaking, an arrow sped from the darkness pooled at the tree line. A thin cord trailed after the missile.
Quarrel saw the speeding arrow, or perhaps guessed from the sound of the bowstring that she had been fired on, and tried to spin away. Wick believed that the hidden archer had aimed at Quarrel’s chest, but the young woman managed to avoid the arrow for the most part. Instead, it transfixed her left shoulder with a thunk.
Staggered by the blow, Quarrel barely remained standing. She looked down at the arrow in disbelief. She thought fast, though, recognizing the cord attached to the arrow and what it represented. Bringing the sword up, she tried to cut the cord, but whoever had hold of the other end pulled on it and yanked her from her feet.
17
Escape
Screaming in pain as the arrow twisted in her flesh, Quarrel tried to fight, but she was dragged through the snow like a sled, plowing a furrow. Ryman Bey waited with his drawn sword.
Turning over on her back, Quarrel threw Seaspray toward the cliff.
“No!” Ryman Bey shouted as he watched the enchanted weapon spin through the air.
But Quarrel wasn’t able to get enough strength behind her effort. Seaspray fell short of the ledge and lay on the snow, naked and vulnerable.
“Wick!” Quarrel yelled, drawing a knife from her boot and grabbing the cord in her free hand. “Throw the sword over!”
Alysta lunged across the snow and nuzzled the sword, trying to move it with her head. Unfortunately, she wasn’t strong enough. She turned to Wick and yowled, “Hurry!”
Ryman Bey raced forward, grabbing Quarrel’s knife hand in one of his and staying her blade. He plucked her easily from the snow and grinned at her. She tried to fight him, but he was too strong and too quick with his hands and feet, and she was wounded. He grabbed the arrow with his other hand and twisted it savagely.