I saw no point in upsetting her by revealing that Bryony was probably already dead. She would find out soon enough.
I led the way down the stone steps. Before me, I held out the saber and a short blade; behind me, my tail stood up, quivering as it searched ahead for the slightest threat.
I seized garments for the two girls from a room used to store the clothes of the tower’s slaves: warm hempen trousers, thick woolen upper garments, and a waterproof cape and hood such as were worn by purrai when they attended to their duties in the inner courtyard. Carrying these, I continued the descent.
I hadn’t bothered to collect any clothes for little Bryony—there were none small enough anyway—but Nessa accepted the big bundle I thrust into her arms without suspecting anything.
At last we came to the three rooms. The keys were back in the locks, but all the doors were wide open. I paused as, with a cry, Nessa rushed into all three rooms, one after the other, in search of her sister. Finally, her eyes wild with grief, she stormed up to me.
“Where is she? Where’ve they taken her?”
“Best to forget her, little Nessa. She’ll be at peace now.”
“She’s just a child!” Nessa cried, her face very close to mine. “You promised that she’d be safe!”
“Forget her. We have to leave now. We must leave or we’ll all die. If you still want to live, follow me. Soon it will be too late.”
“I won’t go without her.”
She was testing my patience. “Then you’ll die here, little Nessa. You’ll change your mind when you feel the blades cut your flesh. They’ll kill you very slowly. . . .”
“I saved your life,” Nessa said, her voice almost a whisper. Then she reached forward and wrapped her fingers in my hair, pulling me down toward her until our foreheads were actually touching. “You owe me a life. I saved you so you could save my sisters.”
I felt very strange. Her words shouldn’t have been disturbing, but they were. They spoke a truth that I couldn’t deny, but they shouldn’t have had even the slightest power over me. It was odd, too, to have her so close, to feel her fingers twisting in my hair.
In a strange way I liked it. I also liked the way her forehead was touching mine. No human had ever come so close to me before. No human had ever dared. Most would have put as much distance as possible between themselves and me. Yet here was this girl holding my head against hers and staring deep into my eyes.
With a sudden jerk, Nessa released me and stepped back, burying her face in her hands.
For a moment I could not think clearly. Then I heard myself speaking, and my voice seemed to come from a great distance; it was as though it belonged to another.
“Go and get our horses from the stables. Saddle them but leave the cart—the snow will be too deep by now. If your sister lives, I’ll bring her to the outer gate. If I don’t appear by the time you’ve finished readying the horses, ride off without me and head south. The weather will change within two days or less, and I will catch you up.”
Then I led the sisters to the door that gave access to the large inner courtyard. When I opened it, snow was still whirling downward. In the distance I saw the stables, the yellow lantern light from within reflecting on the wet flags. I turned and thrust the short blade into Nessa’s hand.
“If any purrai try to stop you, threaten them with this. They fear the blade more than anything—they grow up familiar with its bite. It is the chief means by which they are trained.”
Nessa nodded, determined, and went out into the snow with her sister following. She looked back once, and I saw her eyes glitter in the darkness like two distant stars. Once again I was astonished by what I was doing, astonished by my response to this purra.
From my previous visit here I knew the layout of the tower. The large cellar was used for feasts, and I went down the steps until I came to the stout oak door. It was not locked. Those within did not fear intruders. I only needed to turn the huge iron ring at its center and push it open.
I gripped the saber firmly in my right hand and thrust my tail high up my back, searching beyond the door. First I found the child. To my surprise, she still lived, but in moments that would change. They were preparing to cut her throat.
I began to assess the level of opposition. Some of those within were cooks; others were armorers or general laborers. Yet that still left thirty-nine hardy, well-trained warriors. I would be facing powerful odds.
Although I never doubted for a moment that I would be victorious, my chances of getting the child out in one piece were not good. In the heat of battle, all things are uncertain.
With my left hand, I slowly turned the ring to the right. Then, equally slowly, I gave the door a little push so that it opened gradually, creaking on its ancient hinges as it did so.
A large open fireplace was the focal point of the huge room; it was set within the far wall so that almost all the occupants—Kobalos warriors and servants—were facing toward it with their backs to me. The room hummed with animated conversation. Several long tables stood between door and fireplace; they were heaped with dishes and tankards, but although there was some food on the plates, the main activity so far had clearly involved drinking a good deal of strong ale. Alcohol dulls the senses; a haizda mage would never defile his body in such a way. Their foolishness pleased me, lowering the odds against me.
The main course was yet to be served. Indeed, it had yet to be cooked. The spit did not currently hold meat, but it would not have long to wait, for Bryony had been forced to her knees close to the fire; a wooden bucket had been placed directly under her head to catch the blood. They had blindfolded the sobbing purra so she couldn’t see what was about to happen to her—more out of expediency than mercy; even as I watched, a blade was being sharpened, ready to slit her throat. And then I saw her executioner and noted the three long, black, braided pigtails that marked him as a particularly dangerous adversary. Those three distinctive plaits showed that he was one of the Shaiksa, a brotherhood of elite assassins that answered only to the triumvirate of high mages who ruled Valkarky.
This made saving the child a much more difficult task.
The creak of the door was lost amid the hubbub of many voices, but I quickly amplified it so that it filled the room with thunder, and all without exception turned to gaze at the source of that strange noise.
I stepped boldly forward into the room and called out in a loud challenging voice so that none could fail to hear my words or understand what it was that I said.
“Give the child to me!” I demanded. “She is my lawful property and has been taken from me against my wishes and against all customs of hospitality and rights of ownership.”
CHAPTER VII
THE BITE OF A BLADE
I led my sister, shivering with cold and fear, toward the stables. The wind was driving snowflakes into our faces, but the flags were wet and steaming.
“How could you touch him, Nessa?” Susan asked. “How could you bear to be so close to him?”
“I did what was necessary to save Bryony,” I replied.
In truth, I couldn’t believe what I had just done—gripping him by the hair like that and dragging him close so that our foreheads were touching. . . . He might have slain me on the spot. I had done it on the spur of the moment, driven to such recklessness by my fear for my little sister. Somehow it had worked, and I had survived the encounter.
Since Mother had died giving birth to her, Bryony had been like my own child. I had to save her.
There were two doors giving access to the stables, and as we reached the nearer one, Susan started to whimper with fear. I turned angrily and shushed her. I immediately felt guilty at doing so. I had behaved exactly as the beast would have done. But if any of the Kobalos heard us, we would die here. I thought of poor Bryony and hoped against hope that Slither would be in time to save her. Cautiously I moved into the area of yellow light cast by the lanterns and peered into the stables. The air was much warmer here and smelled of hay
and horse dung.
There were thirty or more stalls, all of them occupied. I began to walk slowly forward, peering into each one, looking for our own animals. I wasn’t sure if I’d entered by the door we’d used before. Perhaps they were at the other end of the block? I strode purposefully forward.
Then two things happened that brought me to a halt. I heard harsh, guttural voices from the far end of the stables. There was nobody in sight, and I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but they sounded like Kobalos. Next I became aware of something else: the first five or six horses were already saddled, each draped with two small bags of what looked like provisions. Why not take these and avoid the delay and risk of finding and saddling our own horses? I said to myself.
Quickly I pulled back the door of the stall and, seizing the bridle, led the first of the horses out. “Take this one!” I said, passing it over to Susan.
“What about the cart and our trunks?” she complained. “All my best clothes are inside.”
“We haven’t time to get them, Susan. Our lives are at risk,” I snapped, turning my back on her.
It was the work of just a few moments to lead out two more horses—piebald like the first—from their stalls. I was just about to get a fourth mount when I heard someone crossing the wet flags and approaching the stable door behind us.
My heart began to pound in my chest. I was terrified. What if it was another of the fierce Kobalos like the beast that had attacked Susan? What chance would I have against something like that? For a moment I panicked completely and was ready to run and save myself. Then, with a sense of shame, I thought of Susan and Bryony. How could I leave them?
So I took a deep breath to steady myself, turned, and gripped the knife in my belt more tightly.
To my surprise, coming toward me was one of the fierce women who had taken me up to the bathhouse where I’d found Slither. She was carrying a club, and I saw anger and purpose in her eyes. With a trembling hand I tugged the knife from my belt and pointed it at her. The sight of it brought her to a stop about five paces short of me.
I feared the club she wielded, but I could see that my blade scared her more. I took a step toward her as if I meant to attack; she took a step as well—backward, away from me.
“Susan, take the horses outside!” I shouted, keeping myself between the slave woman and my sister.
Twice Susan fumbled with the reins, but she managed to lead the three piebald mares out into the yard. I followed, backing slowly and warily, never taking my eyes off the woman who held the cudgel. Now she was matching me step for step, and I thought I saw a new determination in her eyes.
Her face was crisscrossed with scars, as were her arms. A slave’s rearing and training were effected with the bite of a blade—so Slither had told me. No doubt I would face the same when I became a slave myself.
I tried a new tactic. “Why don’t you come with us?” I suggested, forcing a smile onto my face. “You don’t have to stay here and be mistreated. Escape with us!”
She did not reply, answering my words with a scowl. Suddenly I understood. If she allowed me to escape with the horses, she would be punished—perhaps even killed. She feared her masters more than she did me. But now I was out in the yard, and I had to protect my family.
“The gate! Lead them to the gate!” I shouted at Susan, pointing toward it.
The slave was still matching me step for step but had not yet attacked. Then I heard more female voices. Other slaves were running toward us—including their leader, the woman with the whip.
“I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die here!” Susan screamed. “What did we do to deserve this? I wish I were back at the farm!”
I knew that it was all over now. Susan was correct—we would probably die here. But I had no intention of betraying my own terror and despair. Why give them the satisfaction?
I raised the blade to show that I would not go down without a fight.
The woman with the club held it aloft and ran straight toward me. I was scared but desperate, and as she brought down the club, intending to brain me, I slashed at her arm with the dagger.
The blade cut into her forearm. She screamed, and the club dropped from her hand. Now she was looking at me with pain-filled eyes while blood dripped from her arm onto the flags. For a moment it halted the others in their tracks. But then they began to move forward again.
Where was Slither? I wondered. Had he managed to rescue poor Bryony?
CHAPTER VIII
ONLY ONE CHANCE
THIRTY-NINE Kobalos warriors faced me in the cellar. Thirty-nine warriors between me and the human child I had come to claim. They wore armor but were without helmets, as was customary on such occasions. The hair on their faces was long and obscured their mouths.
Then there was that most dangerous opponent, the pigtailed Shaiksa assassin who now held a blade to Bryony’s throat.
For a moment the room became almost totally silent; all that could be heard was the crackling of the logs in the fireplace. Then, with a roar of anger, a warrior charged toward me, lifting a huge double-edged sword, ready for the kill.
I gave no ground, moving only at the very last second. I stepped to the right, ducked under the descending blade, and struck out sideways with my saber. My blade bit into his neck and severed the spinal column so that my would-be killer fell stone dead at my feet.
Then I slowly flexed the fingers of my left hand so that the knuckles cracked, and with a wide, cruel smile, reached into my coat and withdrew my second blade, a dagger, so that now I faced my enemies with a sharp weapon in each hand.
“Give me what is rightfully mine. Give me what I demand. Do it quickly and I may let some of you live!” I shouted, amplifying my voice so that the dishes rattled and the knives and forks danced on the tabletops.
I had used those words as a distraction—because immediately, without waiting for a reply, I leaped up onto the nearest table. Then I was racing across the tabletops toward the fireplace, scattering silver dishes and golden goblets with my feet, all my will directed toward one end: to prevent the assassin crouching over the child from slaying her.
To control the assassin while dashing through my enemies was not easy. Shaiksa assassins are trained in a multitude of mind disciplines and can sometimes resist even the will of a mage.
Thus, even as I jumped down from the final table, he began to slice the blade up toward the child’s throat. She shrieked as it approached her. But I struck out with the hilt of my own blade, driving it hard into the temple of my opponent so that he fell backward, stunned, the weapon falling from his hand.
It did not pay to kill such a being wantonly. The Shaiksa never forget, and even as one lay close to death, his dying mind could reach out over a great distance to tell his brothers the name and location of his slayer. So it was pragmatism, not mercy, that had guided my hand.
I snatched up the child. She screamed as I lifted her, but I used the mage skill called boska: adjusting the chemical composition of the air in my lungs, I breathed quickly into her face, and she fell instantly into a deep coma.
Then I turned back to face my enemies, who were approaching me with weapons drawn, faces filled with fury. I began to increase my size, simultaneously using my will to hurl into their faces a twitching pulse of naked fear so that, as I grew, their eyes rolled in their sockets and their mouths opened in dismay.
Then, with one final effort of will, I reached out with my mind and extinguished the thirteen torches that lit that subterranean banquet hall. It was instantly plunged into darkness, but through my mage eyes I could still see: for me, the room was lit by a silver spectral light. Thus I was able to escape the melée, passing safely through my enemies.
I had almost reached the door when I sensed a threat behind me. It was the Shaiksa assassin. He had recovered quickly and, unlike the warriors, was resisting my magic. Now he was racing toward me, twirling a blade in his left hand and a war axe in his right. Every fiber of his being was focused u
pon slaying me.
Had it been possible, I would have stopped him using minimal force. In combat, one usually has options to choose from in order to counter an attack. But such was the ferocity of his assault and his determination to end my life that I had only one chance and was forced to employ it to save myself.
I ducked below his first blade, but I knew that I could not escape the second; this was arcing downward toward my head, threatening to sever it from my neck. So I pierced the assassin’s heart with my own blade. The effect was instantaneous—the axe dropped from his nerveless fingers, reaching the ground fractionally before his dead body.
With this victory I had saved my life, but I had changed it forever. In killing the high mage, I had made myself an outlaw in the eyes of the triumvirate; but in killing the assassin I had directed the wrath of his brotherhood onto my head. They would seek vengeance and hunt me to the ends of the earth until I too was dead.
I ran into the yard not a moment too soon. Nessa and Susan had brought three horses out of the stables. Nessa was holding a knife uncertainly, trying to ward off four purrai who were converging on her. Susan was screaming hysterically.
But then I noted a fifth slave. She was cradling her arm, which was bleeding profusely. So Nessa had shown some courage and gotten at least one blow in! Another few moments, however, and it would all have been over. I ran toward them, and the other purrai shrieked and fled back toward the stables.
I glanced quickly at the three piebald mares—none were the mounts we had brought with us to the tower. In one respect that was good, because these were shod in the Kobalos way, with wide shoes that afforded a better grip and prevented them from sinking into all but the very softest fresh snow. The rest was bad—very bad. All were saddled, but they lacked saddlebags and provisions. There was no grain for the horses. All they carried was the customary two small sacks of oscher, which could be used as emergency food for them. It was made of oats with special chemical additives that could sustain a beast of burden for the duration of a long journey. Of course, afterward the horse would die, and oscher was therefore only used as a last expedient. But what choice had Nessa given me?
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