As the Crow Flies: An Epic Fantasy Adventure

by Robin Lythgoe

  Gripping the rock tightly in my hand, I got to my feet. “You are insane.” My voice held a peculiarly hysterical note I found dismaying.

  “No, my thieving feathered friend, I am completely sound of mind.” His voice was mild and tender, but his terrible smile sent shivers up my back. “What have you done with it?”

  I wondered for a moment if the Ancestors had deserted me and why they would do such a thing right then, but no, I could feel their uneasiness. They roiled silently, warily all around me. And then I wondered if maybe, gods willing, they had some plan of action to which I was not privy. When this ended, we were really going to have to work on communication skills.

  “Done with what?” I backed carefully, slowly away as Duzayan continued to stalk toward me. Warm blood trickled down my scalp. Thank the gods, none ran down my face to blind me.

  “Please don’t play the fool with me. I know you better than that.”

  “You know me!” I echoed, and laughed mirthlessly. “Forgive me if I have missed the part of our lives where we spent time talking and sharing and working together, getting to know each other! How utterly careless of me to have failed to notice! Either that, or you have somehow managed to accomplish an inherently cooperative project completely on your own.”

  “Sarcasm does not become you.”

  I spun about, leaping nimbly atop a wall-sized slab of rock. Thankfully my brief tussle and tumble had not robbed me of my agility. I turned to give him an extravagant bow. “Sarcasm is my middle name.”

  “Where is the egg? Do you want me to hurt you, little bird?”

  “Want you to?” Pursing my lips and folding my arms, I looked about in search of an answer to the question. In reality, I was looking for Tarsha, and found her lying on the topmost edge of the crater, one hand just visible and her torn gown—a strange pink hue in the light of the Gate—fluttering gently over the edge. There was no sign of the other demon, but she was not moving. Unfortunate, I supposed, but I could not really find it in me to care. At least she was out of easy reach and Duzayan wouldn’t hurt her in order to try to make me behave. And if he did, they were both in for a surprise. “No, I don’t want you to hurt me, but that hasn’t stopped you from doing just that—without my consent at all, I might point out—every single time we’ve met. No, you deal out pain as if you have some sort of divine right, which definitely counts against your alleged sanity.”

  His expression changed, but I could not decipher it. He made a gesture with blackened fingers, and I was struck with an overwhelming impulse to go to him. I took one surprised and unwilling step forward. Then another. Little green lights began to sparkle all over me and I braced myself, resisting the compulsion. The Ancestors helped me, their cool touch pressing me back, reassuring me.

  “Come to me,” Duzayan crooned, and if he noticed the play of contradictory magic, he did not show it. “Tell me what I wish to hear.”

  I regained the steps I’d lost with an effort and sneered, though it was not likely to win me any favor. The Ancestors brushed my face and ears. With a vague crackling noise the spell fell away from me. “You wish to hear where I’ve concealed the egg. You wish me to aid you in your rise to power. You wish me to bow down to you and dedicate my life to you. Well, let me tell you something: I will never bow down to you, Duzayan, and if you use your vile magic to force my body to bend to your will, then the obeisance will be a meaningless lie worth less than nothing. As for the egg—” I made a motion with one hand. “There is none.”

  Do not tease it! the feathery Voices pleaded. Do not tempt it!

  Strange they should refer to Duzayan as an “it.”

  It—er, he—hissed, the pretense of patience evaporating. “Do not insult me, and do not lie to me!” He made fists of his hands and pulled. Magic tugged at me. I stumbled forward, then resisted. Disbelieving, he pulled harder but the spell frayed and fizzled. Like a great bloody vulture, he stalked across the space separating us.

  I lifted my chin. Took several steps back. “I’ve no need to lie. You sent me too late. All those charts, all those calculations, all the meticulous planning—” I snapped my fingers. “Wrong! Stupendously, embarrassingly wrong!” He had certainly been wrong about the dragon, and I could do worse than to convince him that his calculations involving the opening of the Wycked Gate were in error.

  No no no!

  “Impossible.”

  “Do you honestly believe you never make mistakes?” I inquired in astonishment, crooking a brow.

  “Impossible,” he repeated, the gross interpretation of a snarl contorting his features.

  “You chose me,” I pointed out, pressing a hand to my chest. I took the opportunity to palm the little jar Brother Ozan had given me, working the stopper loose with my thumb. “Specifically. I would like to say that was your first mistake, but the papers and letters I took from your study and your—what do you call that dreadful little hole where you kept all the books and magical odds and ends? It’s right here, isn’t it?” I asked, waving at the walls of the crater. “Those things tell a different tale.”

  “You are impertinent and ignorant,” he growled, “and you have no idea what you have done. None!”

  I wanted to argue that I did indeed, but his charred hand tightened into a fist and he moved as if to throw something at me. Invisible, the spell punched me like a fist, knocking me head over heels off my perch and sending me skidding carelessly across the uneven ground. I lost my rock-turned-weapon. I lost the jar of Adamanta Dust. Stones and broken bits of masonry dug at me, tearing my clothing and skin. The edges of my vision flickered with bright green flashes of light. I had expected something like that from him before, and he’d only sent the demon, but still I lay gasping for air like a beached fish. As a means to distract Duzayan while I thought of a good—or even marginally successful—plan for stopping him, the situation left much to be desired. He was distracted, all right, but my own thought processes wholly focused on two priorities: breathing and not getting clobbered again. Once he finished toying with me, he’d get right back to the business of opening the Gate. I had to move, had to get out of his reach. It is said that being forewarned is being forearmed, and this might have been true, but an uncooperative and overwhelming part of me decided breathing was of tantamount importance and the escaping part could wait a second or two.

  Not so!

  If I had hastened to escape immediately, I might have had a moment in which to draw a breath or ten. Duzayan made another fist, little black threads of energy like some strange sort of reverse lightning gathering around his hand. I only had an instant to note it before he let loose and pummeled me again, sending me spinning willy-nilly across the ground. I would have to worry about the scraping and bruising later. What he did reminded me of how Melly and his colleague had attacked me, but without the twisting agony of my innards, for which I was profoundly grateful and not about to argue the difference. At the same time, I devoutly wished I had a handy chasm down which I might drop the loathsome creature.

  “Do you—” I gasped and wheezed as I tried to sit up. I had no idea lungs could hurt, but mine certainly did. When he knocked the breath out of a body, he meant business. “Do you see? You’re doing it again. I—I tell you a truth you—dislike and you—you start in with the hurting.” I waved one hand and coughed. Licking my lips, I tasted copper.

  Damaged! Wounded! the Ancestors cried, kicking up little whirlwinds.

  Duzayan’s approach heavily favored one side, but determination filled every hobbling step.

  “You’re not going to be reasonable about this, are you?” No doubt hoping for reason from a madman, particularly at this point of the game, was a waste of time. I looked about for some means of distraction or, better yet, defense. Struggling to my feet, I grabbed up the end of an extinguished torch buried under a bit of debris, spun about, and lobbed it at him.

  My aim is good, but his hand came up to block it and it flew away into the darkness without ever touching him. Against all the l
aws of physics, it reversed in midair and whipped at the back of his head. He screamed in pain and rage as it knocked him to his knees, then the thing flew straight at me. Should I duck or grab? It dipped down and I opted for the latter lest it knock me over as well. It was a good weapon, after all, and with it in my hand I launched myself at Duzayan, fully intending to beat him senseless.

  He was having none of that, of course, and another burst of black energy bowled me over. I nearly beaned myself with the torch, and then Duzayan leaped upon me. How someone in his condition could move so quickly escaped me, but he poised over me with both hands extended and gleaming horribly. The Ancestors protested with shrieking wails and a sudden furious gust of wind. Dust and gravel pummeled us and pulled violently at our garments, for all the good that did.

  “Where is my dragon egg?” Duzayan thundered, and introduced me to the full force of his anger, this time complete with the gut-twisting pain his sidekicks at Hasiq had used on me. I screamed. The Ancestors screamed.

  “It hatched!” I cried, convulsing in agony.

  “LIAR!” He jabbed me so enthusiastically I was convinced that my insides would soon be my outsides.

  — 36 —

  Turn About

  Through the flying debris came a dark shape to wrap itself around Duzayan’s head. I don’t know which of us was the more surprised, but his shock led to the suspension of his debilitating spell, and I scrambled for the dropped torch, wheezing and moaning and crying. I could hardly see. On my knees, I spun about, aiming my makeshift weapon for his legs while he screamed and cursed and tried to pull the flying thing off his face. I thought at first it was a demon with a powerful streak of vengeance, but then I heard it creaking and hissing. Not-An-Egg!

  His timing couldn’t have been better, but horror filled me. How had he found me? He was supposed to be safely locked away in my apartment! “Get away!” I cried at him, certain Duzayan would rip him to shreds. The dragon did a fine job doing some ripping of his own, talons and beak slashing savagely at Duzayan’s head and face while I beat at the wizard’s legs frantically. Jagged black energy crackled. Not-An-Egg made a terrible noise and fell away. My heart, had it not been beating wildly, might have plummeted to my belly in sheer, terrified dismay.

  “Gods curse you!” I screamed, and with the dragon out of the way I had no qualms about thunking Duzayan about his ugly, evil head. He had hurt my—I do not even know what the dragon meant to me, but he had become dear, and he was just a baby besides. I cannot be certain, but it seemed to me that the Ancestors themselves lent me strength.

  Duzayan refused to surrender. Black sorcerer that he was, he raised his arms protectively over his head and from beneath them made strange, guttural noises that swiftly became hurts. Each one lanced through my very brain, shocking me and causing my limbs to spasm painfully. Reeling, sobbing, I fell away. My body continued to jerk and twitch as the wizard got slowly to his feet. Not-An-Egg’s attack had wreaked havoc on his terrible countenance. Blood streamed down his torn and ragged face, but he was laughing. It was a terrible sound.

  Picking up the torch I had dropped, he examined it, then turned his ghastly smile on me. All around us the wind roared. I wanted to close my eyes against the dirt and grit lashing my face, but I dare not. Duzayan staggered and swayed as he came to stand over me and I, unable to find any kind of control over my convulsing muscles, could only watch helplessly.

  “I am going to kill you,” he said, just in case I’d missed out on the obvious. “Slowly.”

  I gritted my teeth against waves of pain and helplessness.

  “The dragon was supposed to be mine, Crow. I have waited decades for him. I have planned and I have sacrificed. And you—you my talented little thief, even managed to get past Ammeluanakar and the others. Tell me how you did it.”

  I didn’t want to tell him anything. “K-killed them,” I said anyway.

  He glared at me for a long time, the wind of the Ancestors whipping at his hair and his torn clothing. Torchlight played havoc with the shadows, casting him in the shape of some grim creature from tales meant to frighten the faint of heart. It worked.

  “You?” he asked at last.

  He had not loosed the spell torturing my body, each paroxysm prefaced with bouts of helpless shuddering. My jaw clenched too tightly to allow words, but it didn’t keep horrible, betraying noises from escaping my throat.

  Duzayan’s features moved in a hideous grimace. “Excellent. I wanted the library and the treasures at Hasiq for my own, but Ammeluanakar and his allies have proven stronger than I expected. Who could have guessed that a noisy little bird would be their undoing?”

  What?

  Duzayan prodded me none too gently in the chest with the end of the burnt-out torch. “He was the guardian, you know. It should have been me. He was a wizard of mediocre talent and an extremely spineless man. Think of what could have been done with all that knowledge, all that power he kept hidden in the vaults beneath the mountain. He would never agree that we should use it. Instead of being relegated to the status of swine by people who do not appreciate our skills, we would have been lords and rulers.” The noise he made might have been laughter. “Will be. Tonight I become emperor, Crow, no little thanks to you. You deserve some sort of reward for the part you’ve played.”

  His words turned my brain to a solid block of ice around which a few little frantic thoughts oozed. I had killed a Guardian? I was not an assassin, I had only been defending myself! What had I done?

  Leaning on the torch still supported by my chest, he mused for a little while, which was no small agony. “I’ll tell you what. I will let you live to witness it—and it will be glorious, I promise you—and then I’m afraid I’ll have to kill you. While I admire your thieving and assassination skills when they’re put to good use, I can’t have you stealing from me or trying to kill me, and I’m not sure we’d be able to work out our differences amicably.”

  A small scraping and creaking noise came from a pile of rubble nearby, and Duzayan turned his head to look. The movement bathed his face entirely in shadow, which was a reprieve for my eyes, at least.

  “The dragon…” He heaved a long, rasping sigh. “Have you any idea how important it is?”

  I could only imagine how having a dragon at one’s side might influence one’s power, particularly for a wizard. An emperor wizard, even. Mute, I shivered and jerked and glared useless daggers at him.

  “I was meant to bond with it, and I should have been the one to call on its strength.”

  Bonded? I knew nothing about any bonding, unless one counted the way Not-An-Egg liked to curl up near me to sleep, or the way he expected me to feed him. He liked Girl nearly as much, though he generally tended to avoid Tanris. As if any of that mattered now. All the little habits and quirks marking our days since we’d fled Hasiq seemed far away and dreamlike.

  “I very much doubt I can change that now, Crow. Such a terrible waste.” He thumped the end of the torch against my breastbone, provoking a gasp and another racking convulsion. “I’ll likely have to kill it, too.”

  “N-n-no!” The word came out in a ludicrous, stuttering protest. The prospect of my own death terrified me, but it was worse to contemplate Not-An-Egg’s. Panic galvanized me. “Help me!” I screamed at the Ancestors, and struck out at the length of torch as hard as I could. Duzayan tottered. I knotted my hands in his garments and pulled. The Ancestors shrieked and pushed and tore—and Duzayan fell across me, provoking agony beyond words. I grunted under the impact, which came with the revolting stench of burned flesh. I could reach neither my knife nor the charred torch that clattered away as Duzayan lost his hold on it, but I could punch and tear—and I put everything I had into it.

  The pair of us rolled back and forth across the destroyed chamber, bashing and ripping at each other in a wild struggle for survival. Finding a rough fragment of stone beneath one hand, I seized it and struck at him. The blow glanced off his shoulder. His opposite fist slammed against my cheek.
Bright light exploded across my vision, but I didn’t need to see my opponent. I reached out, closed my fist, and pulled. He screamed as my hand came away full of hair and skin—an event I would find disgusting if I happened to survive the moment.

  Duzayan threw me away from him bodily and came to his knees, black energy snapping and crackling around his hands and from the top of his head, making what remained of his hair stand on end. A violent wind tore between us and Duzayan fell over sideways. I wanted nothing more than to lie still, but I could not. Forcing my tortured muscles into motion, I hurled myself at him. If he used his magic against me again, I was done for. My shoulder struck his chest as he rose and we went tumbling again. What we did to each other was visceral and utterly barbaric, but I could not let him kill me and thus kill the little dragon. Somehow he managed to gain the upper hand, coming astride my chest and pinning me down. I can only surmise that his awful magic gave him strength; my own reaction to it had the air sparking wildly, eerily green, and every instance of contact hurt not only my body, but my very soul.

  Black-sheathed hands rose and fierce triumph shot through him. I really was going to die this time, but I had every intention of taking him with me. I had no other choice. I clawed at him and found, more by accident and by pain than by intent, the knife at his waist. I pulled it free and shoved it into his side. Even as I drew back for another blow, I felt an odd thump and a shock of confusion that did not belong to me. A crossbow bolt protruded from the very center of Duzayan’s chest, solid and wonderfully potent. Duzayan looked down at it, then at me. As he did, an arc of glittering silver touched his neck, and sent his ruined head rolling.

  It was the most terrible, most marvelous thing I had ever seen—and I screamed in a bizarre, guttural mixture of shock and victory. Tanris shoved Duzayan’s body over sideways and stood there, his upraised sword stained crimson.