Now the reality of Churn being fired upon, all those arrows piercing his back, falling, the big man falling to the greensward below and being left for those Malakasian monsters to rip apart – rutting whores, those things probably ate him – was more than Hoyt could bear. And he wept for his friend.
Hannah Sorenson, oblivious to Hoyt’s suffering, stripped to her underwear and washed using the basin of tepid water in the corner of the room. While Hoyt still slept she planned to dress and find breakfast for both of them. Alen and Milla were in a smaller room across the hall, the little girl sleeping on the mattress while Alen curled up in a nest of blankets on the wooden floor. All through their flight from Welstar Palace, their journey using the small boat they ‘borrowed’ and subsequent passage north on a civilian barge they encountered, Alen had not left Milla’s side. There was no sound from their chamber now, and Hannah assumed they were both still asleep.
She would find breakfast: tecan, warm bread, cheese, fruit, maybe even some meat. Hoyt needed nourishment. He hadn’t been well since they had arrived in the capital city and Hannah was worried. The young thief was as taut as a piece of piano wire, tightening a bit each day. He looked drawn and haggard, worn to the nub, stretched near to breaking-point, Hannah thought. She hoped sleep and a good breakfast might help him find some peace.
Hoyt watched Hannah in the half-light, stifling his tears. She didn’t know he was awake, hadn’t heard him crying. For the past two Twinmoons they had spent many nights together, elbowing one another playfully out of the way as they shared rooms, blankets, wine and food and firelight. They had been on a mission, working their way north: Hoyt working for the Resistance, Hannah seeking a way home. For all he liked the foreign girl, Hoyt hadn’t really noticed her before now. She certainly hadn’t noticed him.
Hannah was striking, standing in her underclothes, those little pants she refused to discard for the bigger, more comfortable Eldarni underclothes. Her firm, rounded breasts were rosy, even in the dim light. The hard buttons of her nipples were like twin copper Mareks. The skin of her back, disappearing beneath that thin band of clinging material, was smooth, perfect. Her stomach was flat, too flat, for she was so thin now after long days walking, riding and eating whatever they could forage along the trail…
Hoyt had seen her strip to those little shorts countless times before, but it hadn’t meant anything – they’d lived, travelled and worked together for two Twinmoons, and trapped in one another’s company, it was unavoidable.
This morning, it was different. Hoyt wanted her. This morning he needed her.
He felt his stomach knot itself up and he came out in a cold sweat. He feared he might be sick right there in the bed as the candlelight shone on the firmly delineated muscles of Hannah’s legs that shifted when she bent to wash her feet. Gods take me, Hoyt thought, just take me now. He coughed, and stifled it, and closed his eyes. Then, sliding one hand below the waist of his own underclothes, Hoyt let grief take him, and as he gave in to his need, he wept as he stroked himself, slowly at first, and then quicker. He watched Hannah wash herself, an intimate act he would have turned away from a Moon ago. She thinks you’re asleep, you rutting horsecock, he thought. Turn your back; this isn’t your private show.
But he didn’t; he couldn’t. Like a voyeur, he was unable to tear his gaze away from the supple perfection of her candlelit body.
Now Hannah heard something and whirled around, grabbing up her tunic and clutching it close about her body. She strained to see him through the gloom. ‘Hoyt? Are you all right?’ she asked, trying to decipher the strange noises.
He didn’t answer as he sobbed in despair, embarrassment and lust. He couldn’t stop watching her and wishing that she might somehow forgive him; he couldn’t stop weeping for Churn, for leaving his friend there at the mercy of those diseased creatures, and he couldn’t stop himself as he brought himself to fever pitch, pulling faster and faster beneath the blankets.
Hannah crossed to the bed, becoming indistinct as her body blocked out the grey streaks of dawn slipping between the drapes. He couldn’t make out the look on her face. It had been surprise when she caught him watching; was it anger now? Probably.
‘Hey.’ Her voice was soft, an unnecessary whisper. She reached for his shoulder, felt it moving, saw him crying in the darkness. ‘Oh, Hoyt, I’m so sorry.’
‘Please,’ Hoyt said, burying his face in the pillow.
Hannah dropped her tunic and stepped out of her underwear. ‘Hoyt,’ she whispered, drawing back his blankets.
‘No,’ he wept, ‘please, don’t.’
‘Yes,’ Hannah said quietly, ‘it’s all right.’
He pushed his fingertips through her hair and down the ridges of her back. She tugged down his underclothes as his hands stroked her back. He felt the smooth, muscular curve of her backside and gripped her, guiding her onto him. He held his breath …
Hannah took him in one hand, firm but gentle, and drew him into her, engulfing him in her moist, warm embrace.
Hoyt thrust his hips up in desperation as, still sobbing, he came with a shriek, a cry that was lost somewhere in the gulf between despair and joy. Hannah ground her hips down into him, over him, thrusting for him until Hoyt was through.
Later, their arms and legs entwined beneath the blankets, Hoyt finally whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Hannah. I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ she said. ‘We’ve been to Hell and back, Hoyt. If we can take comfort from strangers, we ought to be able to take it from friends.’
‘I hate thinking about what those creatures might have done to him.’
Hannah felt her own tears well behind her eyes. ‘Then let’s not think about it.’
‘Can we … stay here a bit longer?’ He swallowed dryly. He was embarrassed to ask but he would have been happy to have the world come to an end at that moment.
‘Hold me now,’ Hannah whispered in his ear. ‘Go back to sleep. Later, we’ll eat too much and try to forget where we are.’
‘I don’t want to forget.’
‘Hush now. Go to sleep.’
To his surprise, Hoyt did, drifting off into peaceful slumber for the first time since Churn fell.
Hannah held him, lying awake as morning crept into their chamber and the candle burned itself out on the bedside table.
THE RIVER SNARE
It was difficult for Steven to overcome his natural buoyancy to maintain his position in the current. He’d been trapped down here once before, and he didn’t relish the idea of another wrestling match with Nerak’s watchdog spell. To make their excavation even more difficult, Steven found that he couldn’t stop himself from continually checking over his shoulder in case one of the bone-collecting creatures might be coming upriver to tear him and Gilmour to bloody tatters. He appreciated what Gilmour had done for his underwater vision. Being able to see clearly, despite the turbid clouds of silt they were kicking up, helped him feel slightly more confident: at least if one of the cthulhoid monsters did materialise, he or Gilmour would spot it coming.
Steven circled the rock formation until he found the jagged cavelike opening he and Garec had nearly been dragged into the previous autumn. He waved at Gilmour to get his attention, then indicated this was the place.
He felt an ominous sense of foreboding as he hovered before the inky-black crevice. With a thought he increased the water temperature around them, but even that did little to mitigate the cold emptiness of the cave. There were no fish swimming past, not even the ungainly, crippled creatures that had been lurking about last time. A glance across the riverbed confirmed that there were no plants either; nothing grew within eyeshot of the crooked pile of rocks and fallen trees. The moraine was powerful, so compelling that Steven had once knelt before it, awed by its perfectly random majesty. He realised now that it was something more than just a glorious piece of sculpture. There was evil here, and the closer the two magicians swam to the obsidian breach in the rocky wall, the more Steven understood that they needed to
be extremely careful or they would die.
Then Gilmour swam about twenty yards out from the cave and plunged one of his hands into the riverbed, startling Steven so badly that he nearly lost control of the spells protecting them. In a moment the old sorcerer was trapped.
Steven nearly inhaled a lungful of water as he shouted, ‘Gilmour!’ What came out was a garbled mouthful of bubbles and vowels.
Gilmour was gesturing. Steven watched him tug fruitlessly against the riverbed a time or two, then he grinned, a sinister smile, as if everything was working out according to some maniacal plan.
Steven shrugged as if to say, I have no idea what you’re doing.
Gilmour pointed to himself, made a twirling motion in front of his face and then pointed at Steven, who looked blank. He repeated the gesture: pointed to himself, twirled two fingers near his mouth and then pointed to Steven.
You’re telling me. You’re telling me what? You’re telling … you’re teaching me! You’re teaching me? What are you teaching me? How can this be teaching me anything other than how to commit suicide? Christ, what timing …
Reading his mind, Gilmour gestured again: motioning downwards with his free palm – calm down – and pointing to his head – and think.
Okay. Okay. All right. I must know what to do. He wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t know how to get him out of here. I must know … I must have done this already. Okay, I get it; I’ve done this before. When? Where?
And then Steven remembered: Sandcliff Palace, with the almor. The magic hadn’t come to him until he needed it. He had been nervous and frightened – I’m nervous now! – and the magic he needed to find and kill the demon hadn’t emerged until he had placed himself in a position of need. He had been so worried, so confused as to which magic to use, his own fledgling power or that of the hickory staff, that he had not been focused on what was most important: finding and killing the creature. He’s right, Steven thought. The lunatic sonofabitch is right again. The magic had come to him when he cleared his mind and stepped into the snow; it would work again.
You’re focusing on the wrong things, he told himself. You’re worried about the bone-collectors, you’re frightened of the cave; it’s the almor all over again. Get into the snow, Steven. The magic will come when you step off the landing and into the snow.
Steven managed a shaky grin and plunged his own hand into the silty mud. Before he could think about retrieving it, he was trapped as well.
Mimicking Steven’s earlier gesture, Gilmour smiled and gave a thumbs-up.
Steven shot him an incredulous smirk. Oh, yeah, sure. This makes perfect sense, you crazy old bastard. I’ll call you from Hell and let you know how things worked out.
But despite his troubling lack of confidence, Steven’s own magic swelled in a gust of protective power. There was no need for them to be concerned with air or warmth; Steven’s initial spells went on without interruption. Now there was only the riverbed and the moraine, the burial ground for the Larion Senate’s most powerful tool. Steven watched as the thin strip of mud separating the rocky cave and the underwater altar came into crisp focus.
He felt Nerak’s old spell.
It was there in the mud, running back and forth between his wrist and the cave. A connection had been established, a linking of two powers, the magic to hold them fast and …
They started to move.
… the magic to drag them beneath the rocks.
Holy Christ, Steven thought, gotta work quick, gotta figure this out—
Just as it had when he had been trapped here with Garec, the underwater moraine began reeling the two sorcerers in, dragging them immutably towards the narrow breach in its foundation. They would soon become a permanent addition; Steven wondered in horror how many others they might find buried inside.
He fought to keep his head.
This is no different than finding and killing that almor. The magic is here; it knows we’re in deep shit. I just have to get the right variables together to dismantle Nerak’s old spells. Right? That sounded easier this morning, while I was still wrapped in my blankets by the fire.
There are two. What connects them? He thought it strange that both times the moraine hadn’t begun to haul him inside immediately; it had been several seconds, maybe even a minute, after he had been trapped by the mud. They’re working in tandem? he asked himself. It doesn’t matter where I put my hand or my foot, the riverbed has to find me first, before the rocks drag me in to die? The communication between them takes some time – why?
They continued their languid journey across the river bottom.
That’s it! Steven looked over at Gilmour, who was engrossed in his own deductions. It’s a web, a net, there is no spot on which to land; one could step anywhere near the thing, and it would eventually suck you in. That’s it. That right hand doesn’t know what the left hand …
A brilliant light flashed, blinding Steven and derailing his analysis. Gilmour had summoned a ball of fire so hot that it burned despite being twenty feet below the surface of the water. It was spherical and pulsing with fury, almost breathing; Steven recoiled from it as far as his imprisoned wrist would allow. With a gesture, Gilmour sent the fireball slamming into the cave. For a moment, the inside of the moraine was illuminated, but the fire was so incandescent that all Steven could make out was that the great stone edifice was hollow where it met the riverbed. An instant later the ball exploded. The concussion reverberated in a nauseating shockwave that pushed Steven downstream, nearly dislocating his shoulder as his full weight bore down against the bones and muscles of his wrist.
Goddamnit, Gilmour! he shouted, you’re going to break my arm!
He grimaced, a nonverbal apology: it was worth a try.
Steven shut his eyes until the clouds of silt cleared, then went back to feeling the connection between the moraine and the riverbed. He sent tendrils of his own magic into the mud, not waves of rage and fury, as he had with the hickory staff, but silent scouts searching for the place where the spells crossed. He was concentrating so hard on his work that he failed to see that he and Gilmour were moving more quickly towards the rock formation. The attack had triggered a response, a retaliatory measure that promised to bury both of them in a few seconds.
Look harder, Steven urged himself, there’s no time. He sent more seekers along the path of the mystical bands holding him down. It has to be there, or maybe just outside the cave?
There was nothing but the same taut, fibrous web; the spider was hiding. Hiding, but where? There’s no place to hide down here. Where would the origin of this thing be?
He pressed his thoughts through the mud, beyond the cave entrance, into the void between the rocky proscenia. It has to be here. There has to be a change; the wiry bands, the manacles, the web: something has to shift. It wouldn’t just hold us for ever, it would have to—
There it was. Buried inside the cave, a few inches, perhaps a foot deep in the mud, the spell changed. Reflexively, Steven jerked his own magic back, for the slightest touch of that place was like pressing a sore, an open wound on Eldarn itself. It was circular and deep, neither liquid nor solid, but some home-grown combination of both: a fatty membrane, coated in Larion mucus, thin enough to slip through into unimaginable horrors below. That’s where the spell table would be. It wasn’t just buried under some rocks; Lessek’s greatest invention had been secreted inside a makeshift, homicidal gullet.
To retrieve the spell table, he and Gilmour would have to be swallowed.
Steven’s mind reeled from the contact and he began to panic. His thoughts started tumbling and he lost precious moments thinking what the vortex of black mysticism might do to him if he failed to free himself in the next few seconds. It was valuable time wasted; he braced his bare feet against the outer edges of the cave.
Do it the old-fashioned way: tug like hell and scream.
A hand took his waist. It was Gilmour, holding on. The old man sent another fireball careening into the cave entrance, a de
sperate attempt to fracture Nerak’s posthumous magic. Gilmour knew it wouldn’t work, but he had been counting on Steven’s power to save them, and it hadn’t.
The force of the blast knocked Steven’s feet free and he slid wrist-first inside the rock formation. Darkness swept over him. He closed his eyes, ignoring it. The darkness didn’t matter; what mattered was breaking the connection between the power sources. Break it! he ordered himself. You can do it; just cut the thread.
He imagined chainsaws, circular saws, butchers’ knives and great laser-sharpened meat cleavers, but nothing worked. It won’t break. I can’t do it, the web won’t break; the spider’s too strong. The web is too … The web! It’s a web, that’s why it took time to find us. You knew that three minutes ago, dumb fuck! Tangle it, don’t break it! With what could only be seconds to spare, Steven cast his magic into the mud inside and around the moraine. He imagined hundreds of hands and feet pressing themselves into the riverbed, slapping it, digging holes in it, walking back and forth, even dancing across it. Through the skin on his wrist, he felt the impact of a veritable brigade of heavy-booted soldiers marching up the river, stomping their feet, digging their hands wrist-deep into the silt, as if some priceless treasure had been buried there and was free for the taking a fistful at a time.
Their progress slowed, then stopped. It’s working.
Steven, calmer now, looked down at his own hand and thought of an illusion he and Mark had seen at a carnival. A third-rate magician in a hand-me-down tuxedo and his flat-chested hippy assistant had performed a traditional set, nothing spectacular or novel, and halfway through the show Steven was thinking of bailing out when the magician reached suddenly for a cleaver and, chopping down dramatically, severed his own hand. It was masterful: a spray of arterial blood, an unnerving scream and a hand with a gold wedding ring lying palm-up in a crimson puddle of blood on a wooden stage. Mark had yelped and spilled his bucket of popcorn. Before anyone could move, the lights went out and the curtain came down, protecting the integrity of the illusion for all time.
The Larion Senators Page 5