“There is no time for debate now,” Keeva said grimly. “I shall come with you to stop the magicker. Just in case—for any reason—you are unable to do so.”
“Then let it be so,” he said. “And now we must go. We have some hard riding to do.”
“There is no need to ride,” said Ustarte. “Come, stand with me and I shall take you where you wish to go.”
Waylander and Keeva moved alongside her.
Niall called out. “For what it is worth, Gray Man, I do forgive you. And I thank you for all you have done for me.”
Ustarte raised her hands. The air shimmered before her. Then she stepped from sight, Waylander and Keeva disappearing with her.
16
THE MASSIVE NAVE of the temple was thronged with people: mothers holding fast to their children, husbands staying close to their loved ones. Hundreds of the citizens of Carlis had taken refuge there, with workers, merchants, tanners, and clerics all huddled together. A few soldiers were with them, men who had been ordered to watch for the renegade priest Chardyn.
Priests moved among the crowds, offering blessings and leading prayers.
The corpse of an elderly man lay by one of the walls, the face covered by a cloak. His heart had failed. The body was a reminder of the perils that awaited them outside. Fear was palpable everywhere, and conversations were held in hushed whispers. The topic was the same everywhere. Would the hallowed walls keep out the demons? Were they safe within this holy place?
A white-robed figure moved into sight, climbing the steps to the high altar. A cry went up from the crowd as they recognized Chardyn. People began to cheer. Relief swept through the crowd.
Chardyn stood in full sight of them all and spread his arms. “My children!” he bellowed. Several of the soldiers moved forward. Chardyn looked down at them. His voice thundered out. “Stand where you are!” he ordered.
Such was the power in his voice that the soldiers stopped and glanced at one another. The crowd would tear to pieces any who tried to bring harm to the priest. The soldiers relaxed.
“The duke is dead,” said Chardyn, transferring his gaze to the crowd. “He was slain by sorcery. And now demons stalk the land. You know this. You know that a magicker summoned hell hounds to kill and maim. That is why you are here. But let me ask you this: Do you think these walls might protect you? These walls were built by men.” He fell silent, his eyes scanning the silent congregation. Then he pointed at a large man standing at the center of the throng. “I see you, Benae Tarlin! You and your team constructed the south wall. What power do you possess that will hold back demons? What magic did you invest in these stones? What ward spells did you cast?” He waited for an answer. The crowd swung to stare at the hulking man, who reddened and said nothing. “The answer is none!” roared Chardyn. “They are merely walls of stone. Cold, lifeless stone. And so, you might ask, where is the sanctuary against the evil that is outside? Where can we hide to be safe?” He paused and allowed the silence to grow.
“Where is anyone safe from evil?” he said at last. “The answer is nowhere. You cannot run from evil. It will find you. You cannot hide from evil. It will burrow down to the deepest place in your heart and discover you.”
“And what of the Source?” shouted a man. “Why does he not protect us?”
“Aye, what of the Source?” thundered Chardyn. “Where is he in our hour of need? Well, he is here, my friends. He is ready. He waits with a shield of thunder and a spear of lightning. He waits.”
“What is he waiting for?” came another shout, this time from the stonemason Chardyn had picked out earlier.
“He is waiting for you, Benae Tarlin,” answered Chardyn. “He is waiting for you, and he is waiting for me. At the palace of the Gray Man there is a magicker, a man who summons demons. He bewitched the lords Aric and Panagyn and arranged the massacre of many of our leading citizens. He now rules Carlis and soon, perhaps, all of Kydor. One man. One vile and evil man. One man who believes that the murder of a group of nobles will cow and terrorize an entire population. Is he right? Of course he is. Here we are, cowering behind walls of stone. And the Source waits. He waits to see if we have the courage to believe, if we have the faith to act. Every week we assemble here and sing songs of the Source, of his greatness and his power. Do we believe them? We do when times are good. You listen to sermons about the heroes of the Source, of the Abbot Dardalion and the Thirty warrior priests. My, but they make great listening, do they not? A few men who, with courage and faith, set themselves against a terrible enemy. Did they cower behind walls and ask the Source to fight for them? No, for the Source was within them. The Source fed their courage, their spirit, their strength. That same Source is within us, my friends.”
“Well, I don’t feel it!” called out Benae Tarlin.
“Nor can you while you hide,” Chardyn told him. “Your son slipped down that cliff last year, and you climbed down to the ledge to rescue him. He clung to your back, and you felt you did not have the strength to carry him clear. We have talked of this, Benae. You prayed for the strength to bring your son to safety. And you did so. Did you sit on that cliff and call out for the Source to raise your boy on a magical cloud? No. You set off in faith, and your faith was rewarded.
“I tell you now that the Source waits. He waits with power greater than that of any magicker. You want to see that power, then walk with me to the palace of the Gray Man. We will find the magicker. And we will destroy him.”
“If we march with you,” asked another man, “do you promise the Source will be with us?”
“With us and within us,” said Chardyn. “I pledge it upon my life!”
Three-swords was standing by the window, looking out over the bay, when he caught what seemed to be a flash of light on one of the lower terraces. He stepped out onto the balcony and peered at the area below. Two human guards were walking down the steps. They were heading in the direction from which the light came. Three-swords relaxed and went back into the library.
Iron-arm was stretched out on a long bench. Stone-four and Long-stride were sitting at the base of the stairs. There had been no screams from the upper chamber for some time. Three-swords did not like the sound of screams, especially from young females. He had little stomach for cruelty. In battle one fought an enemy and killed it. One did not set out to make it suffer. Iron-arm strolled across to join him.
“The magicker is on his way back,” said Iron-arm. Three-swords nodded. He had not yet scented the man, but Iron-arm was never wrong.
A few moments later Three-swords caught the scent. It was faintly acrid, the scent of fear.
The black-bearded magicker came up the stairs and stopped. For a moment he stared at the circular steps leading to the upper chamber. Then he moved to a seat and slumped down, rubbing his eyes. “All is quiet out there,” he said to Three-swords. The warrior knew he was merely making conversation in a bid to delay his return to Deresh Karany.
“So far,” said Three-swords.
Iron-arm suddenly rose and strode to the window. “Blood,” he said, opening his mouth and drawing in a hiss of air over his tongue. “Human blood.” Three-swords and Long-stride joined him instantly.
Three-swords closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Yes. He could just taste it on the air.
He turned to Eldicar Manushan. “At least one man is bleeding heavily.”
“Two,” said Iron-arm. “And there is something else.” Craning his neck, he leaned his head back. His broad nostrils flared. “It is very faint. But yes … big cat. Lion, maybe. No. Not a lion—a meld.”
“Ustarte!” whispered Eldicar Manushan. He backed away from the window, then swung to Stone-four and Long-stride. “Get out there. Find her. Kill anyone with her.”
“It might be better to stay together,” said Three-swords.
“This Waylander must not reach the tower,” said Eldicar Manushan. “Do as I say.”
“Move warily,” Three-swords told Long-stride and Stone-four. “This human is a hu
nter and a canny fighter. He uses a crossbow that shoots two bolts.”
The two warriors descended the staircase. Eldicar Manushan sat down. The smell of fear was strong on him now, and Three-swords joined Iron-arm at the window.
“The cat woman is sick,” said Iron-arm, “or weak. I cannot tell which. She is out of sight, just below those gardens. She has not moved.”
“Can you scent any humans?”
“No. Only the wounded or dead. I would think they are dead, for there is no movement or sound from them.”
From where they stood they saw Long-stride and Stone-four emerge into the gardens. Stone-four was moving swiftly, but Long-stride tapped him on the shoulder, ordering him to slow down.
“They won’t surprise Long-stride,” said Iron-arm. “He’s careful.”
Three-swords did not answer. He glanced back at Eldicar Manushan. Why was the man so terrified?
He strolled across to where the magicker sat. “What is it that I do not know?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“What is happening here, Eldicar? Why were so many women killed? Why are you so frightened?”
Eldicar licked his lips, then rose and moved in close to Three-swords. “If the human gets through,” he whispered, “Deresh Karany will perform the summoning.”
“So he will use a demon to kill him. He has done this before.”
“Not any demon,” said Eldicar. “He plans to summon Anharat himself.”
Three-swords said nothing. What was there to say? The arrogance of these humans was beyond his understanding. He saw Iron-arm looking at him quizzically, and he knew why.
He is scenting my fear now, thought Three-swords.
As the air shimmered around her, Keeva felt an icy wind swirl over her body. Bright colors exploded before her eyes. Then, as if a curtain had opened, she saw the moonlit apartments of the Gray Man appear before her. The ground shifted under her feet, and she half staggered. Ustarte gave out a low moan and sank to the ground. Instantly Waylander knelt by her.
“What is wrong?”
“I am … exhausted. It … takes great energy. I will be fine.” Ustarte stretched herself out. “So … little power left,” she whispered. She closed her eyes.
Waylander moved toward the door of his apartments. At that moment two guards appeared on the pathway to the right. One was holding a hunting bow, an arrow notched to the string. The second carried a spear. Both men froze as they took in the scene. Keeva raised her crossbow.
“Put down your weapons,” she said.
For a moment it seemed they would obey her, but then the bowman suddenly drew back on the string. A bolt from Waylander’s weapon slammed into his chest. The bowman grunted and fell back, his arrow slashing through the air, missing Keeva by inches. The spearman charged at Keeva. Instinctively she pressed both trigger studs on her crossbow. One bolt struck the spearman in the mouth, smashing his teeth, and the second entered his skull between the eyes. His charge faltered, and he dropped the spear. His hand went to his mouth. Then, as if his bones had turned to water, his body crumbled and he fell at Keeva’s feet.
She looked around for the Gray Man, but he had entered the apartments. She transferred her gaze to the dead man and felt sick. The other guard gave out a groan. Rolling to his stomach, the man tried to crawl away. Keeva crossed the ground and stood over him.
“Lie still,” she told him. “No one is going to harm you further.”
Kneeling by his side, she put a hand to his shoulder to help him turn to his back. He relaxed at her touch, and she looked into his eyes. He was young and beardless with large brown eyes. Keeva smiled at him. He seemed about to say something. Then a bolt smashed into the side of his head, crunching through the temple.
Fury swept through Keeva, and she swung on the Gray Man. “Why?” she hissed.
“Look at his hand,” said Waylander. Keeva glanced down. Moonlight shone on the dagger blade.
“You do not know that he was going to use it,” she said.
“I did not know that he wasn’t,” Waylander told her. Moving past her, he wrenched the bolt clear of the soldier’s head, cleaned it on the man’s tunic, and slipped it back into his quiver. “We do not have time for lessons, Keeva Taliana,” he said. “We are surrounded by enemies who will seek to take our lives. To hesitate is to die. Learn fast or you will not survive the night.”
Behind them Ustarte called out weakly. Waylander knelt by her. “There are Kriaz-nor within the tower. The wind is off the sea, and they will scent the blood.”
“How many can you sense?” he asked.
“Four. There is something else. I cannot quite fasten onto it. There has been murder done, and there is a tremor in the air. Magic is being cast, but for what purpose I cannot tell.” Waylander took her hand. “How soon before you can walk?”
“A few moments more. My limbs are trembling. I have no strength yet.”
“Then rest,” said Waylander, rising and moving to Keeva. “I have something for you that will give you an edge,” he said.
Ustarte called out again. “Two Kriaz-nor are moving down the terrace steps.”
Long-stride moved warily. He had not yet drawn his sword. There would be time for that. For now he was using all his senses. He could smell the blood now and the sour odor of urine. The bladders of the dead had emptied. The scent of the meld woman was also strong, and Long-stride could detect within it an unhealthy aroma. The woman was sick. Stone-four was moving too fast and was some paces ahead now. Irritated, Long-stride caught up with him. “Wait!” he ordered.
Stone-four obeyed him, and they moved stealthily around the corner. Some fifteen paces ahead of them, sitting on a rock, was a dark-garbed human. In his left hand he held a double-winged crossbow. Beyond him lay the cat woman.
“Let me kill him,” said Stone-four. “I want to win a name!”
Long-stride nodded and continued to sniff at the air.
Stone-four stepped toward the human. “Your weapon looks formidable,” he said. “Why don’t you show me how formidable.”
“Come a little closer,” said the human, his voice calm.
“Surely this range is adequate,” replied Stone-four.
“Aye, it is adequate. Did you wish to draw your sword?”
“I will not need it, human. I shall remove your heart with my hands.”
The human rose. “I am told that you are very fast and that bows are useless against you. Is this true?”
“It is true.”
“Let us find out,” said the man, his voice suddenly cold.
Long-stride felt the beginning of apprehension as he heard the man’s tone, but Stone-four was tensed and ready. The bow came up. Stone-four’s right hand swept up, snatching the bolt from midair. Instantly a second bolt followed the first. Stone-four moved with lightning speed, catching it with his left hand. He grinned widely and glanced at Long-stride. “Easy!” he said. Before Long-stride could warn his comrade, the human’s right hand flashed out. The throwing knife sped through the air, slamming into Stone-four’s throat. The Kriaz-nor, his windpipe severed, took two faltering steps toward the human, then toppled facefirst to the ground.
Long-stride drew his sword. “You have any more tricks to play, human?” he asked.
“Only one,” said the man, drawing a short sword.
“And what might that be?”
Long-stride heard a whisper of movement behind him. Spinning on his heel, he scanned the area. There was nothing there except low bushes and rocks that could not hide a human. Then he saw something so weird that he did not at first register what it was. A crossbow suddenly extended from low to the ground. Long-stride blinked. He could not focus properly on the area around it. The weapon tilted, and in that fraction of a heartbeat Long-stride saw a slim hand on the weapon. Two bolts slashed toward him. His sword swept up, blocking the first. The second slammed into his chest, burying itself deep into his lungs. A sword blade plunged into his back. Long-stride arch
ed and then swung, his sword slicing the air. But the human had not crept up behind him as he had thought. The man was still standing some fifteen paces away. He had hurled the sword! Long-stride felt all strength seeping away. Letting fall his blade, he walked stiffly to a rock and sat down heavily.
“You are very skillful, human,” he said. “How did you make the crossbow shoot?”
“He didn’t,” said a female voice.
Long-stride looked toward his left and saw a woman’s head suddenly appear, floating in the air. Then an arm came into sight, sweeping upward, as if pushing a cloak aside.
Then it came to him. “A Bezha cloak,” he said, slipping from the rock.
Pain roared through him as he fell, and he realized his weight had come down on the sword jutting from his back, driving it deeper.
He struggled to rise, but there was no power left in his limbs. His face was resting against a cold flagstone.
It felt surprisingly pleasant.
Waylander and Keeva helped Ustarte inside the apartments.
“I just need to rest for an hour or so,” said the priestess. “Leave me here. Do what you have to do.”
Keeva reloaded her crossbow and walked to the doorway. “Do you have a plan?” she asked Waylander.
He smiled at her. “Always.”
“How are you feeling?”
The smile faded. “I’ve felt better.”
She looked into his face. Dark rings showed under his eyes, and his skin was pallid, the cheeks sunken. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t know what else to say.”
“No one lives forever, Keeva. Are you ready?”
“I am.”
Waylander moved out into the darkness and ran along the path, cutting left toward the waterfall. Keeva followed him. He clambered up the rocks and entered a dark opening. He waited for her there and took her hand.
“These steps lead up into the palace,” he said. “Once we are there I want you to make your way to the stairs underneath the library. Cover yourself with the cloak and then climb the stairs until you can see into the library. Do nothing more until I make my move. You understand this?”