A patch of heavy vapor wafted near her knee and Achmed appeared at her side, his hands outstretched.
"Come on; leave the horse. We have to get into the cave before the fire sings us and the smoke cuts off our exit."
He pulled Rhapsody down and seized her hand. Together they ran through the melee, dodging the blows and bodies that were falling all around. A moment later Grunthor appeared, his nostrils flaring in fury, tossing soldiers of the Fist-and-Fire out of his way, slicing a path with Sal, his beloved poleax. He came alongside his companions and stopped, his weapon shielding Rhapsody from the blows falling around her.
"We goin' in now?" he panted.
Achmed pointed to a hole past the billowing inferno. "Over there. That's the entrance," he said.
* * *
Saltar's eyes were closed, but his hands twitched nervously.
"They're coming," he said.
The hall of the dark cave echoed his words, and then there was silence.
His red-rimmed eyes broke open in alarm.
"Did you hear me? I said they're coming."
A cold mist dampened his face, though he wasn't sure if it was from the Spirit or from his own sweat, now pouring from him.
He is not with them.
Fire-Eye grabbed the Willum sword that was his second greatest treasure. He had not expected to need it.
"What do you mean? Of course he is! They're here, they're coming."
I do not see him. He I seek is not with them.
A string of curses, foul even by Bolg standards, roared forth from Saltar's mouth.
"You must help me," he said, his breath coming out rapidly. "You must fight."
Only the echo answered him.
* * *
Achmed stopped at the fire's edge. Just past the conflagration a jagged line of Fist Bolg leered back at them, the vanguard left to protect the entrance. He pulled Rhapsody up to the boundary of flame.
Rhapsody took a deep breath and drew her sword. Daystar Clarion swept forth from its scabbard, a ringing call blasting across the tumult. She held the blade in front of her face. The last image she saw before she closed her eyes was the shocked panic that had replaced the cocky expressions the Fist had worn a moment earlier.
"Slypka, "she said. Extinguish.
In a twinkling the wall of flame before them disappeared. With a bellow Grunthor charged through, swinging Sal in broad, slashing blows in front of him. He made contact with a few of the unfortunates too slow to dash out of the way, screaming at the top of his lungs. The path to the entrance cleared immediately. Grunthor stopped long enough to extricate Sal's spearhead from the Bolg he had skewered on its point, then ran into the passageway, Achmed and Rhapsody close behind him.
Rhapsody slowed long enough to sheathe her sword. Behind her she could hear the echoing of feet pounding, soldiers following them into the cavern. She had no time to determine whether they were Bolg loyal to Achmed or not.
Before them was a cadre of guards, Fist Bolg armed with ancient swords and spears with antique heads. Achmed drew the long thin sword she had seen him use in the House of Remembrance. Rhapsody glanced behind her.
The tunnel was erupting now in hand-to-hand combat, Bolg against Bolg, their blood indistinguishable as it splattered the floor. When she looked back, the cadre of guards was on the floor, efficiently dispatched.
"Come on," Achmed said, grabbing her hand again. They ran, Grunthor in the lead, deeper into the cavern, a place that had once been a city for the Cymrian earth dwellers. The pounding of their feet matched the pounding of her heart. Her breath was coming in short gasps from the smoke she had inhaled and the pace they were setting.
Her arm stung suddenly as Achmed jolted to a halt. Standing before them was a Bolg of unimpressive size, about as tall as Achmed, a Cymrian sword in one long gangly arm.
He was swathed in tattered robes, with hair as wild as if he had been standing in a high wind. From beneath his wrinkled brow, eyes rimmed in red stared at them. Rhapsody was convinced that in them she saw stark fear.
Achmed was standing directly in front of him. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth slightly. Rhapsody put her hand on the hilt of Daystar Clarion, while Grunthor dropped Sal and pulled out Lopper. Achmed was beginning the Thrall ritual.
From deep within Achmed's throat came four separate notes, held in a monotone; a fifth was channeled through his sinuses and nose. It sounded as if five different singers had simultaneously begun a chant. Then his tongue began to click rhythmically.
Fire-Eye blinked in amazement.
Achmed raised his right hand, palm open and rigid, a signal of halting. His left hand moved slowly out to his side and up, his fingers pulsing gently, seeking the strands of the F'dor's vibration, the ancient practice of the Dhracians. Then his eyes snapped open.
He felt nothing. There was nothing within the air. Not even a hint of F'dor.
Saltar's eyes cleared and his face contorted in fury. With a murderous snarl he leapt forward and swung the sword, a blow aimed directly at Achmed's unprotected neck. As the blow fell, Grunthor loosed a howl that sent waves of shock rippling over Rhapsody's skin. He shoved his king and dearest friend out of the way, the impact throwing Achmed to the ground, then interposed himself, catching Saltar's blow in the chest. Rhapsody gasped and drew her sword.
Saltar sliced again, then spun out of the way of Grunthor's return blow. The Sergeant's mouth dropped open. Fire-Eye had anticipated his move, one that should have been totally unexpected.
"Hold still, ya lit'le shit," he muttered, and swung again.
Saltar dodged and glanced another blow off the giant Bolg. Sweat poured from his face, mixing with bloody tears of exertion that were trickling from his eyes. He leapt back, foreseeing Grunthor's double-fisted pummel.
Grunthor snorted in rage. "The bastard knows what Oi'm gonna do before Oi do," he growled. He lifted his sword, knowing that Saltar would parry, then summoned all of his strength, bringing Lopper down on Saltar's blade. The weapon snapped under the impact. Saltar's red-rimmed eyes widened as the blade cleaved his head from his neck, sending it spinning onto the floor of the cavern.
Rhapsody stepped back, aghast. Saltar's body pitched forward, hitting the floor with a strange clanging sound. The head rolled a few times, then came to a stop. Its lifeless eyes, now absent their red tinge, stared blindly at the ceiling of the cavern, the light from Daystar Clarion flickering in their glassy lenses.
Achmed bent over the head. "Strange; the red is gone from his eyes."
Rhapsody was trembling. "The demon-spirit; where is it? Did you hold it in thrall?"
"There was nothing there, nothing I could grasp," Achmed said, studying the corpse's eyes.
Rhapsody looked down at her feet. From beneath the headless body's robes had fallen a gold talisman on a heavy-linked chain. She stooped to pick it up.
"Don't touch that!" Achmed shouted, his voice coming out in a shriek.
Grunthor gingerly slid the tip of Lopper under the talisman and flipped it over. The gold circle was licked by metal tongues of fire, wrought an Age ago to look like the Earth in flames. In the center of the circle a spiral of red stones traced down, ending in the center with one solitary eye. It glittered in the reflected flames from the sword.
Grunthor recoiled in horror. "That's it, sir! It's the one!"
Achmed took a further step away. Rhapsody looked quickly around, but saw nothing in the cavernous darkness. The Bolg in the entranceway still fought on, oblivious of the death of the shaman. Within the vast cave a cold mist descended, chilling the skin of their faces.
Suddenly Grunthor screamed, sending a bolt of terror through Rhapsody. It was not his war scream, the sound he made to frighten horses and men, or the uproarious laugh that issued forth when he was enjoying the mayhem he was wreaking.
It was a scream of agony.
He spun away from where he had been standing, a brutal, smoking slash across his eyes, delivered as if from the air itself. Rhapsody le
apt to his aid and was hurled backward, as if by the force of the wind. "Grunthor!"
The Sergeant lurched blindly backward, blood pouring from his eyes, his chest and shoulder bearing two more deep slashes. His cloak ignited, ripping into flame.
Achmed seized his friend's shoulders and pushed him to the ground, rolling him to snuff the flames as once Grunthor had done at the Earth's core for him. The Dhracian's neck snapped back with the force of the invisible blow that slashed across his chin, as the fire began to consume Grunthor.
Rhapsody struggled to her knees and held the sword before her, panting. She took in a deep breath and cleared her mind, then concentrated on making the fire vanish.
"Slypka," she whispered.
The flames disappeared. Grunthor's charred body, face down on the cavern floor, jerked again. A cruel wound ripped his back open from his waist to his neck. Rhapsody, staring in horror, gasped aloud.
"Achmed, look!"
In the light of the sword they could make out the shadow of something bending over Grunthor. All but invisible, it hovered above him, vaporous hooded robes hanging on skeletal arms with fiery claws at the ends. The silhouette glimmered in the darkness, barely there, whispering between the world of living men one moment and the spirit world the next. Within its hood was total darkness, glinting momentarily when it caught the light of the sword. Then it was gone.
Grunthor's body pulsed once more, then lay still. The flames from Daystar Clarion caught a shadow moving away, turning toward them.
"Shing," Achmed whispered, his voice choked. "Gods."
"Shing? What's that?" Rhapsody asked, her voice barely audible.
"An eye of the F'dor. And it's coming this way. Parry if you can. Back up slowly, then run. I'll hold it off as long as I can."
Still crouched, Rhapsody backed up. "The F'dor? You said there was nothing there."
"I couldn't find the vibration on him," Achmed muttered furiously, his eyes glancing around in panic. "But it's here. It's Tsoltan's servant. Saltar must have been the host; it must have been him."
It's not what he is, it's what he wears.
Rhapsody's back straightened. She could hear the words in her mind as clearly as if her mother had been standing beside her. She repeated them again.
"It's not what he is, it's what he wears." Achmed's head snapped back, his shoulder slashed open, on fire. Grunthor moaned as his friend stumbled backward and fell, his huge hand flexing in agitation. It was the only movement he made.
It's not what he is, it's what he wears.
Her eyes went instantly to the amulet. Rhapsody reached out a trembling hand and grabbed the talisman.
"No," Achmed gasped, clutching his shoulder. "Don't touch it!"
Grunthor's body was flipped onto its back. "Stop!" Rhapsody commanded, holding the amulet aloft. From across the room, she heard the word in her mind. It was muffled, muted. Tsoltan?
Rhapsody shook her head, trying to break free from the feeling that her mind was being prodded, violated. Achmed raised himself up as much as he could. "Rhapsody, run," he choked. "It will kill Grunthor, then start on me; it won't be diverted until it's sure its victim is dead. Get out of here." His face went slack with horror. "Gods, Rhapsody, your eyes!"
In the reflection of the amulet eye she could see her own green ones, now rimmed in the color of blood. It's not what he is, it's what he wears.
"It's the amulet," she said softly. She turned and held it up again, looking in Grunthor's direction. "The Shing is not bound to the shaman. It's bound to the amulet."
She turned back to the hovering shadow, flitting from moment to moment in the darkness. "Get away from him," she ordered. A faint glimmer appeared above Grunthor's body. "What do you want?" I seek the Brother.
"Did you hear that?" Rhapsody turned to Achmed, still propped on his elbow on the floor. He shook his head. "It seeks the Brother."
Shakily Achmed rose to a stand and picked up his sword. "Tell it," he said softly in Bolgish.
"No. It can't see you. You're Achmed the Snake now."
"Tell it," he repeated. "It'll return to Grunthor if you don't. It will kill you. Tell it."
"No."
Achmed clutched his shoulder and stumbled forward.
"I'm the Brother!" he screamed. "Me! I'm who you seek! Take me!"
"Achmed, no!"
Achmed's back straightened, his arms tight against his sides. Rhapsody watched in horror as he jolted, writhing in the grip of a glimmering shadow with flaming claws. The specter clutched him, pulling him off the ground. His body was lifted, then dragged, twitching, over to her, where it fell at her feet. Achmed lay there, not moving.
The Shing hovered in the air before her. Deep in her brain she could hear it speak again.
I have found the Brother. I have delivered him as commanded. Release me now.
Rhapsody clutched the chain of the amulet, the sweat from her hands making it slippery.
"Where are the other eyes? The rest of the Thousand?"
Gone, long dissipated on the wind in the heat of the Sleeping Child. I alone remained, having crossed the wide ocean in search of him. I alone succeeded. Release me now.
Achmed stirred, but didn't sit up. "Ask it about its Master."
"And he who called you forth? Where is he now?"
He is dead, man and spirit, his name all but forgotten. I was the last of his essence, of his fire. He is dead. Release me now. The voice was growing fainter.
Rhapsody looked down at Achmed. "It demands release." Achmed nodded. She looked back to where she had seen it last.
"Show yourself fully, and I will release you."
A faint glimmer appeared. Rhapsody could see the outline of the hood and robes, its frail clawlike hands glowing feebly, no longer burning. The frame on which the robes hung was skeletal, brittle. No light at all was visible within the hood.
"Are there any other demon-spirits? Any other F'dor?"
The Shing grew fainter, its voice silent.
"Slypka,"she said. Extinguish. The shimmering apparition vanished.
She bent and summarily checked Achmed, who waved her away, then ran to Grunthor. Tears poured down her cheeks, unnoticed, as she saw the hideous wounds that had mutilated his face and body. He was breathing shallowly, his tattered eyes glassy, staring at the ceiling above. The pallor of death was in his cheeks.
In a faltering voice she began to sing the difficult Bolgish name, with its whistling snarls and glottal stop. Child of sand and open sky, son of the caves and lands of darkness, she sang. Grunthor didn't move.
Bengard, Firbolg. The Sergeant Major. My trainer, my protector. The Lord of Deadly Weapons. She was starting to weep uncontrollably. The Ultimate Authority, to Be Obeyed at All Costs. Grunthor, strong and reliable as the Earth itself. My friend; my dear, dear friend.
Outside the cave, the sun was setting.
* * *
"Yer Ladyship?"
Throbbing pain across her eyes, a familiar voice in her ears. Swimming white circles in the blackness.
Rhapsody struggled to waken, but slipped instead back into the dream, a place where she could believe Grunthor was not dead. He smiled down at her, jostling her into awareness after a nightmare on the Root, comforting her as he had so many times.
"Take your time, darlin'." The gray-green face in her memory, grinning down at her. How many times had he said that to her, wanting her to be sure of her footing, not to fall? He had been so patient.
The voices seemed distant, hovering over her head.
"'Ow long she been down?"
"Since dawn. She sang through the night until the sun came up; then she collapsed." Achmed's sandy voice was more brittle than last she had heard.
Her throat was full of pain. Grunthor, she whispered. The word was spoken in another's voice, the voice of an ancient man, a withered crone, a Firbolg.
"Oi'm 'ere, miss. Good as new."
Rhapsody fought to open her eyes, and succeeded with one. Swimming above her was the
gray-green face, and it was grinning. She tried to speak, but only managed to move her lips soundlessly.
"Don't talk, Duchess. You fixed me up right nice, you did. Oi look a lot better than you do, you can be sure."
She swiveled her head to see what the pressure was beside her. Achmed sat next to her, bandaged and patched, but whole. From what little she could see, there was not a scratch on Grunthor.
From across the room she could hear Jo exhale in relief.
"She's awake? She's all right? Let me see her."
A moment later the teenager's tearstained face appeared, hovering above her, her expression giddy and furious at the same time.
"Listen, you little runt—next time you go off on a fun expedition and leave me behind with your little brat grandchildren, I can guarantee you a severe thrashing when you get back. The little bastards tied me up and stole my stuff. If you hadn't come back when you did, I would have been the first human to practice cannibalism on a Bolg."
Rhapsody loosed a deep sigh, feeling the painful tightness in her chest ease a little.
"You're really—all right—Grun—"
"Stop," the Bolg commanded in a tone charged with ringing authority. "Don't speak, miss. Oi told you, Oi'm just ducky. Oi am most assuredly grateful, Oi 'ope you know. Oi guess you must know me pretty well, bringin' me back with a song, and me in such bad shape." A smile cracked his otherwise solemn expression.
"Well, I should hope I do, we been sleeping together and all," she rasped, then fell back into sleep to the sound of their laughter.
* * *
The wind whistled over the Blasted Heath, snapping their cloaks and hoods like sails on the high seas. Achmed and Grunthor were standing vigil in the wide field, waiting for Rhapsody to finish her study of the amulet. She had burned off an area of highgrass in a sheltered place, a rocky dell in which no wind was noticeable. The golden symbol lay on a slab of shale, its eye staring toward the dark sky.
The music she was humming had a high-pitched, fluctuating melody, a sound that set Achmed's teeth on edge.
"Grunthor, I've found a new method of torture," he said through gritted teeth. "No one could withstand that noise without cracking under the pressure. They'd tell even their deepest secret just to make her stop."
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