Falconfar 03-Falconfar

by Ed Greenwood

  There was a sudden pounding fury behind Tethtyn's eyes, a rising flame and pain that shattered all thought in a flare of unfolding agony and left him staggering, dimly aware of Mori staring at him in concern, and of something else rising out of the pain, something bright and soothing and wonderful, something better than translocation, something he had to have...

  He could see it looming, see it but not yet know it for what it was... an idea, a power magic could give him, something a spell could do...

  "Bloodsteel," he whispered, as it unfolded in his mind at last. "Armor against any blade..."

  Mori was grinning at him, eyes alight, seeing the same thing Tethtyn was seeing.

  Swords slashing through their innards, slicing deep into their bellies in ways that should have slain them both, killing wounds that should be making Mori and Tethtyn shriek in utter agony as steel sliced through their guts, spilling everything out into a steaming mess around their legs as they began the descent into oblivion.

  Swords that were instead bringing no pain at all, and no spurting blood, but only a thrilling sort of chill... and blue glowing smoke in their wakes rather than gore, the blades slicing through them and on, leaving no trace behind.

  They were both unwounded, the swords of their unseen foes cutting right through their midriffs but doing them no harm save sliced clothing. Steel could not shed their blood or cut their innards, so they could stride through any number of blades unscathed, as if those swords and thrusting spears weren't there at all.

  "Falcon above!" Tethtyn swore delightedly, as he and Mori grinned at each other in disbelief—and then with one accord peered down at their spellbooks and started turning pages, peering hard and knowing that they'd recognize the bloodsteel spell when their eyes met with it.

  It was in Tethtyn's book this time, and Mori leaned on his shoulder as they both murmured the words and lifted their hands to trace in the air with their fingers, leaving two identical glowing blue symbols floating in the air for a long breath before fading away.

  It was Tethtyn who got out the little quill-trimming knife from his belt, and Mori who extended his hand. The steel plunged in with such ease that it was hilt-deep against Mori's palm before he could even gasp.

  And shiver with the cold as Tethtyn apprehensively snatched the knife back out, and they both bent close to stare at the blue smoke curling up from the glowing, swiftly closing wound.

  "Son of a Stormar!" Mori hissed delightedly. "This is... too splendid for words! What will we cast next?"

  "Handfire," Tethtyn said firmly, without thinking. The word had just thrust itself into his mind and come out of his mouth, like that.

  He smiled wryly. Lorontar, of course.

  Mori wasn't asking what "handfire" was. They were both picturing it at the same time: cold flame that burned nothing, but provided light around the caster's hand, some of which could be left behind on anything non-living that was touched—a table, the pull-ring of a door—or hurled through the air, as one throws a fruit, until it struck something it would stick to, or stopping to hover when the caster speaks its word of mastery.

  They shared a grin, and started flipping pages again. And there it was, this time in both books, the very same spell. A radiance, nothing more, never strong enough to blind but quite bright enough to read by, or sew or do exacting work with quill or lockpick or—

  Mori's hand flared into silent flames, rising soundlessly to nowhere.

  Tethtyn smiled, nodded, held up his own hand, and filled it with the handfire from his own spellbook—a steady glow that had no heart nor flame-like raging. They brought them side by side to compare, thrilling at the thought that they could—could—

  "Falcon shit! Get them!"

  The roar was as loud as it was sudden, a hoarse voice exploding in fury. Tethtyn and Mori barely had time to look up before a wave of strong-smelling attackers was upon them.

  They saw swords, and hard-faced men wearing helms and well- worn leather armor, with hairy hands and pounding boots.

  Blades plunged into them, leaking cold and blue smoke, then were pulled out to stab and thrust and stab again, the men wielding them snarling in rage and fear.

  "Wizards! Falcon-damned wizards skulking to bring doom to the Spire! Die, you lorn-spawned vaugren-rutters!"

  Swords met in them with wild clangs, thrust through them wildly and repeatedly enough to stir a breeze, as all-too-solid fists gathered two lots of clothing chokingly under their wearers' chins, and ungentle hands snatched away glowing metal books.

  A sword slashed at one tome—and its wielder shrieked out his life and toppled slowly, lightning crawling along his limbs, the unblemished book falling from blackened and smoking fingers.

  There were fresh shouts of fear, and swords came ripping up and out through the faces of Mori and Tethtyn, up through their bodies from beneath, to leave them blinking and gasping from the surging, thrilling chill, blue smoke billowing from their mouths.

  Then came the fists, swinging hard.

  These did hurt, the world rocking and darkening, Mori spitting out blood and teeth as Tethtyn tried to watch him through welling tears, head ringing, fists looming again...

  A will that was hard, clear, and swift was suddenly there in Tethtyn's mind. He saw Mori's eyes go dark and glint like drawn steel in the same moment, and knew Lorontar had arisen in the tomekeeper, too.

  Then they were both spitting out words they had never heard before, and flinging up their hands to claw the air with spread fingers—and the men with the swords and fists were bursting apart, heads exploding off shoulders in dark red, wet clouds, hands bursting off wrists in spurts of blood that left grotesquely twitching, staggering bodies behind.

  They were saying more words, harsh declamations that carried Lorontar's dark smile... and more men died.

  Then it was all over, as swiftly as it had begun, and Tethtyn was standing with the fingers of his left hand knuckle-deep in the streaming eyesockets of a whimpering, dying man, searing ruthlessly into the fading welter of terror that had been the forester's mind, seeking... seeking...

  They were the Guard of Indrulspire, such as it was, one of two patrols who walked the forest verges of the Spire seeking wolves and thieves and unwanted travelers, men of the Spire who'd fought in wars before and wanted nothing at all to do with wizards or lorn or knights and their war-making lords, and... and...

  It all went dark, and Tethtyn found himself staring at Mori, feeling empty and sick, Lorontar sinking back down into his mind satisfied. They had slain all of the Guard, whom no one would come looking for all the rest of the day, if not longer, and the bloodsteel was still cloaking them until moonrise.

  Mori was snarling something, his eyes dancing flames, and suddenly the sprawled bodies erupted in hungry flames of yellow and green that raged in brief silence until there were no minds left for another wizard to read anything from...

  With mounting disgust, Tethtyn watched Lorontar's firm control recede from Mori, leaving the tomekeeper as weak and empty as he felt.

  They stared at each other then, across all the smoking, shattered bodies, dismay on their faces... and hunger, too.

  They saw that hunger in each other's eyes. Then, with one accord, they were both retching. Bent over, before they could stagger one step more, almost knocking their heads together as they convulsed and groaned, spewing everything in their stomachs all over the corpses.

  AS THE ROLLING echoes of the great crash faded, the dark-cloaked noble storming toward its source—and towards the men who'd come running to the accident and now stood before him, aghast and shaking—came to a stop and glowered at them, hand clenched white on the ornate hilt of his sword.

  "If Galathgard isn't finished—or at least the great rooms and guesting-chambers, and the stables—by Falconfall, when the King rides in yon front gate to hold his first Great Court, heads will roll," Klarl Annusk Dunshar said icily. "By my hand, not his. And using the bluntest of my old blades, so I have to saw, Falard. Or mat one of the
necks won't be yours, unless you have a very good excuse to proffer. And Falcon damn me if I can think of one, just now."

  Shaking his head, Dunshar stepped around the stone block that had crashed to the floor of the throne hall, sparing not a glance for the tangle of hoist-ropes bound it—or the fresh blood running out from under it, along a web of fresh cracks in the flagstones. An unfortunate prentice-mason had just made the last discovery of his life, regarding the difficulty of catching a stone block the size of a horse in one's bare hands.

  The senior hoist-jack, Falard, stood trembling with fear beside the block, staring down at it—if the truth be known, seeing not the spreading blood, but the broken flagstones beneath them, and wondering where in the ruined east wing he could best glean replacement flagstones, when the klarl's back was turned.

  Without looking back, Dunshar stalked off to the robing room he was using as an office, cursing all stupid prentices and hoist- jacks as he went.

  He needed a drink, and he needed it now—and hargraul it if the Falcon-be-damned nightwine wasn't running low, too! All the way from Yandaltur that had come, and there'd not be any more to be had for coin nor firstborn this season, in all the Stormar ports, or any other market he could think of.

  Lost in a momentary idle fancy of executing some of the klarls and marquels he particularly hated and raiding their cellars for the nightwine that might well lie therein, Dunshar never noticed the two smiling strangers watching him.

  Belard Tesmer looked at his sister with a question in his eyes, and she nodded her answer.

  Yes, this one would do.

  Klarls weren't the lowest of the Galathan nobility, but the rank was base enough that ambitious men chafed under it. Being as House Tesmer had heard of his doings in distant Ironthorn, there probably wasn't a noble alive in Galath who didn't know Annusk Dunshar was an ambitious man.

  Ambitions that had in the past made him loyal to King Devaer and to the wizard Arlaghaun behind Devaer. Which meant Dunshar could also be made their puppet, if he saw a way higher under their banner.

  "He disgusts me," Talyss purred. "Arrogant, unpleasant, full of empty and unearned pride, expendable, predictable... in short, he's an untidy bundle of all the qualities that make Galathan nobles hated far and wide."

  Her brother nodded. He, too, had heard all about Annusk Dunshar. The klarl was a cruel, aggressive, unlovely man, unable to resist bullying his lessers and finding fault with his betters. He was widely disliked, even among fellow nobles.

  A drink or two still bought an outlander in a Galathan tavern the gleeful retelling of how the burly klarl had won himself the ridged sword-scar across his high, bare forehead. Arduke Halath Lionhelm had given him that, in the battles among Galathan nobles below the walls of besieged Bowrock, after word had spread of the death of King Devaer Rothryn—and Lionhelm had only been prevented from beheading the blubbering klarl on the spot by the need to slay Dunshar's mountainous pair of bodyguards; Dunshar had fled headlong as he did so, and so managed to salvage his life.

  Below the scar, Dunshar sported bushy eyebrows, side-whiskers, and a jutting jaw that Belard Tesmer would heartily enjoy slicing right off the man's face, when the time came. "So, d'you think you can seduce him without spewing in his face?"

  "Brother," Talyss murmured, "I can do anything, if I must." She winked. "If I've judged him rightly, he'll be slaking his thirst right now. Let us go and learn with what. Remember, I'm nobility from our distant, downtrodden Raurklor hold, and you're my servant. Let's not give old Bulljaws any impediments on his path to enjoying my fair form."

  Belard rolled his eyes. "And if he fancies men?"

  "Then I'll make him stand taller in the eyes of his fellow nobles— as I let him enjoy my servant. He'll be my lapthing, or yours, soon enough, once the braethear starts its work."

  She pushed off from the wall and strode through the arch, every inch the imperious noble, and had already slapped a hurrying mason out of her way before Belard could catch up with her, keeping carefully head down and a pace behind.

  Catching the eye of the guard who advanced on them then, hand on sword hilt, Belard shook his head warningly, keeping his face stern. The guard froze, nodding uncertainly.

  Belard nodded in reply, as if he was the man's commander, and turned to follow Talyss to Klarl Dunshar's office. He restrained himself from rolling his eyes once his back was to the guard.

  Although it looked as though he would be doing that a lot in the days ahead.

  "I DON'T MUCH like the look of this," Roreld muttered, as Taeauna waved everyone down into the grass, to regain their breaths and ready their swords.

  They had sprinted across the open land, down from the ridge and then up the broad, exposed slope to the riven wall of Malragard, as if the Falcon itself had been chasing them. Roreld had caught sight of fearful faces peering at them from windows in Harlhoh, but seen no reaction at all from Malraun's shattered tower.

  Aside from five greatfangs suddenly bursting up out of the ruins in terror, of course.

  That had sent them plowing their faces into the dirt right swiftly, and left them hugging the grass in cods-wetting fear for a good long time, though the wyrms had taken themselves off with no sign of returning, and they'd never seen a hint of what might have set them to flight. Perhaps they'd escaped some spell-cage.

  "Old one," Eskeln panted from beside Roreld, "ye never much like the look of anything. Now, this before us is an infamous wizard's tower that's been torn apart—in spell-battle, I doubt not—with greatfangs roosting in it until something scares them away, and twice our count of warriors from Darswords blundering about inside it, to say nothing of whatever twisted, crawling things Malraun may secretly have magicked into life down the years, so, aye, I'll grant ye it bids fair to be perilous. Yet the Lady Taeauna—"

  "—Would appreciate it greatly, Eskeln, if you'd belt up, right now," Taeauna hissed at him. "Just this once. We can't count on the Darsworders being deaf, you know."

  She glanced around at them all, huddled in the grass around her. "It seems we can now stride right in, through any number of gaps in the walls, and we know that the Darsworders, at least, are in there ahead of us. So, any suggestions on where we could best enter, and head for?"

  They stared back at her thoughtfully; old Roreld, who knew even less about Malragard than she did, and the nine from Malraun's bodyguard. Eskeln stirred, but it was Gorongor who spoke first. "Yonder, as far as we can get. The kitchens, the pantries—as far from the entrance hall and all the traps as we can get."

  Tarlund and Glorn both shook their heads vigorously.

  "No, no," Glorn hissed, "that's foolishness! Go in by the garden door, and straight across, to where the Master liked to work on his enchantments! If any magic still protects the place at all, that's where it'll be, or was when whatever did this struck or—"

  "Which means that's just where we don't want to be," Roreld growled. "Give me beasts I can put a blade through any day, not crawling spells I can only gawp at—before I start screaming. Why. I—"

  Taeauna rolled her eyes, stood up, hefted her sword in her hand, and snapped, "Come!"

  Then she turned, without a backward glance, and strode through a gap where a stretch of wall had fallen, into the nearest smoldering chamber of Malragard.

  "A JACK OF ale, o'course," Garfist growled, digging in his pouch for coin. "Something dark and rich, from a keg that doesn't kill dogs that drink from it."

  The tavernmaster gave him a dark look. "You're not in Tauren now, trader. Nor the Stormar ports, neither." A battered, patched wooden tankard thumped down beside Garfist's row of coins, a thin thread of foam spilling down its side, and the man selected one coin with a finger and drew it across the smooth-worn bar. "We brew good ale in Galath."

  "Oh?" someone called, from the far end of the dark, low-beamed room. "Where'd this come from, then?"

  The tavernmaster turned with a good-natured snarl, forgetting Garfist, who swept up his coins and took his tankard to a b
ack table where Iskarra was waiting.

  She thrust a finger into it, lapped at her nail like a kitten, then nodded—whereupon Garfist drained it with a satisfied sigh, turned, and belched his way back to the bar in search of more.

  "Food," she reminded his back firmly, knowing he wasn't listening. Well, at least the ale was good—and free of any of the poisons she knew the taste of, too.

  Gar was turning back to her with his second tankard when a nasal voice said sharply out of the cluster of tables in the center of the room, "I know that man. Garfist! Garfist Gulkoun!"

  Garfist shot a look toward the voice, and it promptly added, "So it is you! Gulkoun, you owe me a new ship—and a new wife, too, damn you!"

  In the wake of those words a stool came hurtling across the room, which Garfist batted aside with a scornful sweep of his arm. Iskarra snatched up the crumb-strewn platter the last diner had eft on their table, and flung it hard and fast to catch the dagger thrown in the stool's wake—and sent it singing and clanging across the bar. The tavernmaster ducked, roaring out an oath, and the feasting room of the Stag's Head was suddenly full of men jumping to their feet, shouting, toppling stools, and throwing dishes and cutlery.

  "Outside!" the tavernmaster roared, over the tumult. "Outside!"

  Swords were hissing out of scabbards now, and knives were being snatched from belts. Iskarra caught up the candle-lamp from the table in front of her and plucked a tiny cloth bag from a clip at her throat.

  There was a scream, a crash as someone was shoved aside and lost his footing amid the tables, and five traders were plunging across the room, swords out, heading for Garfist.

  Gar took a swig from his tankard and watched them come.

  "Three seasons I searched the Stormar ports for you—three seasons!—you morlraw's backside!" the foremost man snarled, his nasal voice rising higher with rage at each word. "And all the while you were here, hiding like some scuttling rat! Getting fatter and richer on what you stole from me, rutting with my woman like—like—"