chapter 21
Captain Borric strode into the cobbled street, while behind him his men hacked at the last of another pack of the black creatures. When it had ceased to move, the men wearily reformed their protective ring around him.
Borric raised a forearm to wipe the sweat from his brow, winced at the sharp flare of pain in his shoulder, and used the other arm instead with a rueful shake of his head. Every corner they rounded brought a new skirmish with the infernal creatures, and in this last encounter one of them had seized his arm in a grip like iron and nearly wrenched it from its socket in a frenzied attempt to drag him to the ground. Thankfully it had not been his sword arm injured; from the screams echoing up and down the streets of Keldrin’s Landing, he had not seen the end of his need to swing a blade this night.
He glanced around, using the pretext of scanning the area to take the measure of the fifteen men surrounding him. Their faces were drawn, haggard, frightened. They had cause to be. When the fighting began, there had been three times as many in Borric’s contingent. The men who remained had seen their comrades overwhelmed and carried away with appalling speed and ferocity. There was not a weak spine in the lot, he knew; every one of these men would face a mortal foe without hesitation. These strange, unliving black creatures that could ignore all but the most crippling of wounds, however, had unnerved them to the core.
They had learned at last that one had to take the heads of these creatures, had to be certain to cleave it or sever it from the body entirely, to put one down. Otherwise the damned things were nigh unstoppable. The Captain’s fist tightened around his sword hilt. That knowledge had been won at a very dear cost indeed.
“What now, Captain?” asked one of the men, a narrow-faced fellow the others had taken to calling Mouse for some reason he could no longer remember. Mouse’s dark eyes darted toward Borric and then back to the still forms of the black creatures they had just fought, lying headless and bloodless mere yards away. The lean man’s nose wrinkled in a sudden twitch, curling his lip slightly. It looked like nothing so much as a rodent with upturned nose questing into the wind, and Borric smiled to himself in sudden recollection.
The smile was a fleeting thing, however, fading like a spark in the darkness.
What now, indeed?
Somehow a large enemy force had infiltrated the city––his city––without any warning from the wall or gate guards. Had his men all been slain, wherever the breach had occurred? Were more of these creatures streaming into Keldrin’s Landing even now, hopelessly outnumbering the defenders? It was difficult to know. Borric and his men had been exiting the central barracks to investigate the uproar when they were set upon by a small pack of the creatures, and there had been several clashes since then. They had been fortunate, however, for he had seen much larger hordes running past the far mouth of the street. Facing such overwhelming odds, he and his band would have been swept away before the advancing tide in mere moments. As it was, they could not take many more skirmishes with the smaller groups either, for with each one their own numbers dwindled dangerously.
His jaw clenched as he recalled the fury of the fighting, their silent and implacable foes hurling themselves upon the guards, raining bone-crushing blows down upon the men and bearing many to the ground through sheer weight of numbers. The guards who lost consciousness had then been quickly hoisted into the air and carried off at that same uncanny run, their bearers appearing no more troubled by the weight than if they were carrying a sack of feed rather than a full-grown, fully armored man. He shuddered. He hoped that a sack of feed was not too apt a comparison. It was only because the attackers had thinned their own numbers by carrying off the fallen men that Borric and his remaining soldiers had managed to overcome the last few creatures.
He realized Mouse and the others were staring at him. He owed them an answer.
“We make for the eastern gate,” he said. “We have the most men there at the gate and the eastern barracks. If we start there, gathering forces as we go, we can organize the defense of the city.”
He said the words with more confidence than he felt, infusing his firm tone with a ring of command that brought immediate comfort to the men. He could see the tension ease from them ever so slightly, and he caught a few quick nods. What he left unsaid was that they were no longer defending the city at all, but instead resisting an enemy who was already within its walls in great numbers. If the cause proved hopeless, they would be forced to head for the docks and try to save as many people as they could with the ships that were available there. If they survived that long.
Borric set off at a rapid march down the street, and his men followed. He resisted the urge to run; he knew that every moment counted, but at the same time they could not afford to be winded when the next skirmish came. The black fiends were as quick as lightning, and had so far shown no indication of fatigue or pain. He and his men would need everything they could muster to face them again.
They passed between the squat shadows of empty buildings, tensed against a sudden attack from any direction. A high-pitched scream from the cross street ahead brought them up short.
A woman and two children rounded the corner ahead, running and stumbling as they cast fearful glances over their shoulders. A few paces behind came a portly, red-faced man in a smudged canvas apron, carrying a small wood axe in one hand and some type of square mallet in the other. Borric squinted; a baker of some kind, unless he missed his guess, though where the man had found a wood axe in the city was something of a mystery. What was no mystery, however, was how ineffective the pitiful tools he was carrying would prove against the dozen black creatures bounding eagerly after him and his family. The mob was forty paces or better behind them, but the creatures were intent on their prey. Given their unnatural speed, it would be over soon enough.
Borric raised his sword to give the order to charge, but one of the men stepped in front of him with one hand held out to forestall him. It was Mouse, and he stepped close to speak in a hurried whisper.
“They are as good as lost, Captain,” Mouse said with a grimace. “We cannot take another brush with a pack that size if we are to get through this night ourselves. You saw how many of those things are in the city already. We might be better off lying low in one of these darkened buildings until the creatures claim what they will out here, and then make for the docks and use every able ship there to flee this cursed land.”
Borric hesitated, meeting the man’s eyes. There was a cold pragmatism in Mouse’s words, and the mention of a seaward escape rang uncomfortably close to his own thoughts from moments before. Several of the men tore their attention from the fleeing family, and turned wide eyes upon him. They may not have caught every word spoken by Mouse in hushed tones, but they knew all too well the decision the Captain now had to make.
The captain had always considered himself a practical soldier. He was no longer afflicted with the kind of irrational idealism that had long ago been honed from his character in the forge of duty. So it surprised him nearly as much as Mouse when his hand shot out and seized the top of the fellow’s breastplate to drag him face to face.
“You do not need that blade in your hand to hide in some hole and hope this all passes you over,” he said through clenched teeth. “For that, you need only be willing to live with yourself afterward, pretending you no longer hear the cries of those you abandoned to their fates. In my estimation, that is too high a price by far.”
With a shove, he released his grip on Mouse’s breastplate and swept his gaze over the others.
“We did not accept the city’s coin only to flee at the first sign of real trouble,” he said. “That coin, regardless of how many velvet pockets it has passed through since, came from the likes of those people right there. Tonight we earn it, or give our lives trying.”
Borric set off at a run, sword clenched in one fist and a chill settling deep into his stomach at the prospect of another clash with the foul black creatures. He did not look back; nothing he saw there would change his own course. Even so, he was immensely gratified to hear a throaty roar behind him and the staccato drum of boots on the cobbled streets as his men joined the charge.
Amric stood, alone once again in a swirling cocoon of sand.
He closed his eyes, calming his breathing as he opened his senses to the vastness of the clouded chamber. Sight, hearing, touch, smell; he could rely on none of them here as he usually did in battle. The Nar’ath queen had ripped them all away from him with ruthless efficiency, using her sorcerous storm to bombard or mask each of his physical senses until they were all but useless. And yet, as he stood amid the howling, biting winds, it seemed as if the clamor fell away and the chamber itself whispered its secrets to him.
He felt, rather than saw, the Sil’ath warriors lying in wait. He sensed the massive Nar’ath queen sliding through the center of the chamber, and he noted as well the smaller masses of her brutish minions as they groped blindly in the murk, seeking him. He frowned. No, that wasn’t quite true. It was more accurate to say that the Nar’ath were each voids in his perception, rather than felt directly. They were roving holes in what should have been.
A distant part of him was bewildered at the clarity with which he knew all this. The positions of the Nar’ath were all so obvious to him suddenly that he could throw a rock and strike any one of them. Another part of him insisted that there could be nothing more natural, that this and more was at his fingertips, and he had only to embrace it…
A burning sensation fought its way up through his chest and all of a sudden his head felt like it would split asunder. He gasped, staggering to the side before he caught himself. The strange clarity faded along with the pain, but not before he sensed the sinuous form of the queen hesitate at the sound and spin in his direction.
Perfect, he thought. Let us give her another whiff of the bait she has been anticipating.
Amric coughed.
He pitched it low, made it muffled as if he meant to conceal it. At the same time, he lightly dragged the tip of one sword along the coarse stone of the floor at his feet to make a gentle rasping sound. With luck, it would sound to her as if he had stumbled for the briefest of moments, grown careless or distracted.
She came at him like a lightning bolt, hurtling across the intervening ground with a speed that was stunning. Amric had a few seconds to crouch and brace himself, and then the Nar’ath queen burst through the churning wall of sand and was upon him.
He waited until the last moment, holding his ground with his blades crossed before him, and then he threw himself to the side. He had been hoping that she, in her eagerness to reach him, would be unable to slow her great bulk before colliding with the sheer wall of the chamber a pace and a half behind him. In this he was disappointed, however, as she evidently knew the bounds of the chamber she had created too well to fall for the simple trick. The countless small, clawed appendages that fringed her serpentine body dug into the ground, slowing her with a high-pitched grinding noise. She slid to a stop, almost brushing the wall.
Quick on the heels of that disappointment came another: he had waited an instant too long to evade her charge.
Her black talons lashed out at him. One set scored the sandstone, leaving angry furrows behind him as he rolled away, while the other raked across his mail shirt and caught. The force of the blow lifted him from the ground and slung him against the wall, wringing all the air from his lungs in one explosive grunt. Amric slid to the ground and struggled to draw a breath. Huge hands seized him immediately, wrapping around his torso and constricting until he thought his ribs would surely crack. Darkness washed over him and was peeled back just as quickly, and he knew that he had lost consciousness for a fleeting instant. His hands closed on empty air, and his stomach plummeted as he realized that his swords had fallen away from nerveless fingers. He began prying at the claws that held him tight, even as he felt himself being lifted through the air.
Amric gasped, trying desperately to fill his burning lungs. His entire body felt as if it was on fire, and the world spun around him in a dizzying cyclone. He craned his neck to see the triumphant visage of the Nar’ath queen drawing closer and closer. As he watched, the huge outer jaws began to flare open and separate.
In unison, Innikar and Sariel attacked from either side of the queen. Appearing out of the swirling sand, they each lunged forward to ram a single blade into her body, all the way to the hilt. The queen’s expression twisted from gloating to furious in a single spasm. With a shriek to freeze the blood, she swept her lower set of forelimbs at them without relinquishing her grasp on Amric with the upper arms. The warriors darted back from her attacks, withdrawing their swords from the bloodless wounds. Such minor injuries could not have greatly troubled a creature of her size, and yet she issued a roar of raw hatred as she whirled first one way and then the other, indecisive as to which of the troublesome pests to pursue.
A shadow appeared overhead, indistinct amid the churning clouds of sand, and plummeted down to land astride the thick, curved neck of the Nar’ath queen. It was Valkarr, leaping from the stairway above them in a strike afforded by the distraction of the others. The Sil’ath warrior landed with a grunt and grasped at the overlapping armored scales that ran up the queen’s spine with one hand while the other brandished bare steel. He aimed a tremendous cut at her exposed throat, looking to put a decisive end to the battle, but as quick as he was, the Nar’ath queen was quicker. She twisted about like a dervish, coiling her torso forward and then surging upward in place as her long, serpentine form thrashed behind her. Valkarr’s blow struck a shower of sparks from the plates of armor but failed to bite into the more vulnerable flesh in front. He was nearly dislodged, forced to scrabble wildly at her scales with his free hand in an effort to keep his perch. One of her lower arms shot across her torso to seize his exposed lower leg. She tore him loose with a single sharp jerk and then flung her arm wide to hurl him away. Spinning out of control, he vanished into the murk like a stone from a sling.
Innikar and Sariel appeared at her sides again, charging in with swords raised, but the queen was ready this time. Her serpentine form lashed back and forth, and the fringe of claws raked at Innikar, trying to pull him down under a crushing coil. He was forced to backpedal, swatting away the hooked appendages. Sariel darted in, and then threw herself flat as the tail end whipped past her, missing by less than a hand’s breadth. She was on her feet again in an instant, spinning with an almost weightless grace away from the return stroke of the tail that hammered down upon the place she had been.
Sariel danced back, bracing to attack again, when black tentacles snaked out of the murk behind her and sought to draw her in. Drawn by the rage of their queen, the lumbering forms of several Nar’ath minions emerged from the swirling sand, and Sariel’s blades licked out to deflect grasping limbs as she was forced to retreat further or be surrounded.
On the other side, the queen sent her tail lunging around Innikar, encircling him. The coils spun, tightening like some huge fist in an effort to crush him, but Innikar was no longer there. Vaulting high in the air, he leapt for the queen’s scaly back. Once more the monstrosity moved with astonishing speed, lashing out with her tail to strike him from midair. The Sil’ath warrior was propelled to the ground, tumbling end over end as he disappeared from sight. The dark, hulking shapes of more minions converged there and vanished after him in pursuit.
Amric struggled to retain consciousness in the crushing grip of the Nar’ath queen. He pried weakly at the talons that dug into his flesh even through his oiled mail shirt, trying in vain to loosen them enough that he might draw a full breath.
“Now, Adept,” she said with obvious relish. “Where were we?”
The thick, protruding structures of her outer jaws flared wide, exposing the cold and eerily feminine countenance beneath. A blood-red mouth parted to reveal rows of glistening fangs, grinning in wicked triumph. Amric bared his own teeth and glared his hatred back at her. He fixed upon the slanted, glowing green eyes, and resolved to cling to awareness long enough to strike out at those orbs when she brought him close. Perhaps he could blind the fiend before she destroyed him. His vision darkened dangerously, a descending blackness threaded through with veins of white fire, and he blinked it back with a groan.
Fighting for consciousness, he cursed himself for underestimating the sheer power and ferocity of the Nar’ath queen. Sometimes the most difficult part of a trap was not in the catching, but in dealing with what one caught.
“Well?” Morland demanded. “Tell me what you see, farseer.”
“A moment more, my lord,” Lorenth murmured. He was a young man with a thin brown beard that matched the hue of his unassuming robes. He peered out the tower window into the night with unfocused eyes. “It is dark outside and the grounds of your estate are quite extensive. I am still finding my range.”
“Be quick about it then,” Morland snapped. “It is imperative that I know what transpires in the city tonight, and I am not a patient man.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Lorenth. “You have made your point.”
“Have I? I wonder. I can usually tell when I have succeeded in making my point, as I either achieve the results I desire, or the person who has failed me provides a highly motivating example for others. Which will be the case with you, farseer?”
The young man shivered without blinking. Even without the merchant’s ruthless reputation, there was the ice in his tone and the ominous leather creak and metal rasp of his guards to lend credence to his words. Lorenth kept his breathing even and clung to his focus with an effort. Whatever else might be said of the man, he paid well for results, and Lorenth desperately needed the coin.
“I will not fail you, my lord.”
“See that you do not, farseer.”
“I must remind my lord that my farsight cannot penetrate solid barriers––” Lorenth began.
“I am well aware of your limitations, farseer,” Morland interrupted. “And I would not have hired you if they would be an issue for this task. Now, we are in the tallest tower of my mansion to provide you the least obstructed view over the bluff’s edge and into the heart of the city. I suggest you make use of it, before my patience wears any thinner.”
Lorenth bit back his frustration, all too aware that ill-chosen words with this man could prove fatal. A severed hand collected no coins, after all. “Perhaps if my lord would indicate what he seeks to find––”
“And have you merely echo whatever I wish to hear?” Morland snorted. “I think not. I am paying a sum greater than you would see in half a year or more, and I am paying it for the talents of a true farseer, not some charlatan fortune teller who would twist the gleanings from my own words into false pearls of wisdom. I would be most disappointed to find that you had misrepresented your skills.”
Lorenth’s mouth went dry. The room had gone a deadly kind of quiet, but he resisted the urge to retract his sight from the far-flung darkness in order to glance about him. It was a nervous reflex, difficult to suppress under the circumstances, but he steeled himself with the knowledge that it would not help him anyway. He was no warrior; he could not evade the blades of the scowling guards and win his way to freedom even if he could see his immediate surroundings. Also, the additional delay might in fact prove his undoing. No, his welfare depended solely upon his abilities now, and he had best start providing results.
Perhaps if he provided a few meaningful details, Morland would trust him enough to reveal the true requirements for Lorenth’s work this evening.
His eyes focused on a distant point, thousands of yards away. He almost slumped with relief to find the outer wall of Morland’s estate, bathed in amber pools of light cast by wall-set torches. Finally, some light to work with! He focused over the wall and onto the manicured lane beyond, and from there over the bluff’s edge. He could not follow the slope from that point, as the angle from his current vantage point did not allow it. He would be forced to make another leap in focus, but at least this time he had his general bearings.
There was at least one element of truth to the merchant’s words, Lorenth reflected as he extended his sight again. The man had offered a considerable amount for what seemed a simple enough job, even if the details were lacking in advance. But then, that was not unusual in itself. Lorenth expected that a portion of the fee was to buy his silence afterward about whatever he would see tonight. He was probably meant to confirm a lover’s indiscretions, or perhaps spy on the clandestine dealings of some business competitor. Lorenth sighed to himself. It was usually something terribly tedious like that, some trivial personal or civic matter that was well beneath the scope of his talents, and a far cry from the valorous uses to which he had planned to put them when he first came to Keldrin’s Landing.
The darkened top of a building swam into focus, interrupting his roaming thoughts. Somewhere in the trade district, it appeared.
“I have reached the trade district, my lord,” Lorenth said. “Where am I to look?”
“Look to the streets,” Morland replied, eagerness seeping into his tone. “Anywhere should suffice.”
“Certainly, my lord, but if I know not where to look or what to––”
“Just look, you fool!”
Anywhere? It made no sense. Was the merchant not looking for something specific after all? Perhaps this was an extended interview of sorts, to verify his abilities in advance of a more important job that would come later. Lorenth felt a chill. How would he prove the veracity of what he saw if Morland was looking for nothing in particular? He had to find some convincing detail, something that would allay the suspicions of a powerful and vengeful man.
He shifted his gaze ever so slightly. This required a finer degree of control than most people realized, to move his sight only a few feet over such a distance. It was all too easy to jump wildly around and be forced to reestablish his frame of reference entirely. He had managed it over much greater lengths before, however, and the merchant did not seem the type to be impressed with the control Lorenth had practiced so hard to earn, so he swallowed the boastful words he was tempted to utter and resumed his efforts.
A street scene materialized before him. Dark, deserted. Lorenth bit his lip.
“What is it? What do you see?” the merchant’s tone was oddly neutral for all its urgency.
“Nothing yet, my lord,” the young man responded. “The streets nearby are empty.”
“Empty?” Morland exclaimed. He sounded disappointed, disbelieving. “Keep searching.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The scene was just fading out of focus as Lorenth began to move his farsight again, when a flicker of movement in the distance caught his attention.
“One moment, lord,” Lorenth said. “I may have something for you after all. There is something moving further up the lane.”
“Tell me.”
The young farseer pushed his sight up the cobbled street. A large group of shadowy figures sharpened into detail, running with long, bounding strides. Something about the way they moved struck him as wrong, unnatural, as if they were somehow lighter upon the earth than the size of their forms suggested. The foremost among them leapt high and hurled themselves upon another group, this one of wide-eyed men––soldiers, by the look of them––brandishing swords and spears. Even with the glow of rocking firelamps held high in the clenched fists of the men, the dark attackers were barely visible against the night. The feeble light cast by the lamps formed a faint golden frost upon the creatures, as if their black flesh greedily drank in all illumination.
Steel flashed and bodies collided, and Lorenth gasped at the ferocity of the clash. Then the breath caught in his throat with a dry rattle. He saw a spear ram through the abdomen of one of the black figures, but the creature did not falter; instead it grabbed the haft with both hands and wrenched it from the grasp of its shocked owner. The transfixed creature then hurled itself upon the man and bore him to the ground. Another man stepped toward his fallen comrade with sword upraised, but naked black hands wrapped around the blade, heedless of its cutting edge, holding it fast. Two more attackers leapt at the hapless fellow, binding his limbs. It was the same elsewhere, and the battle, if it could even be called such, was over in seconds. Every one of the men was down, and their unflinching foes bent over them with sinister intent.
Lorenth shifted his farsight in a panic, flinching away from whatever grisly end was to come. Another scene swam into focus, and the young man watched in horror as a different horde of the black creatures smashed in a shop door and poured into the building. The light pressing against the windows from the inside guttered, masked by twisting shadows within for a moment, and then went dark.
The farseer flinched, casting his sight elsewhere in the city, and found a large, embattled knot of the city guard. They were fighting in a protective ring around several huddled families while the black creatures came at them from all sides, constricting around the ring of soldiers in dark waves. With the startling clarity of his magical vision, Lorenth took in the drawn but resolute faces of the guards as they fought, the tear-streaked faces of the children clinging to their parents, and the depthless eyes and gaping maws of the attackers. There was no sound, of course, but all the mouths stretched taut in silent screams was almost worse, somehow; the unheard screams seemed to batter impossibly at his senses, clawing at him for supplication.
Lorenth convulsed, jerking his sight away again and again, only to land on scenes of similar mayhem all over the city. At last he dropped his farsight and fell back with a moaning cry, staggering for a moment as he returned to himself. The lavish interior of the chamber at Morland’s estate drew in close about him, cradling him with its warmth. He felt a rush of relief mingled with guilt that he was here in the tower and not down below in the city streets. He sucked in a shuddering breath.
“M-My lord!” he gasped. “The city is besieged, overrun by some strange force!”
Morland stood a short distance away, regarding him with a hooded gaze. The man made no immediate reply, but instead turned away from the farseer and strode to a tall chair, where he sank into its red velvet cushions. Morland placed his hands in his lap and laced his fingers loosely together. “Go on,” he said.
“There are thousands upon thousands of these strange creatures within the city walls, like black statues of twisted men come to life!” The young man gesticulated wildly at the tower window, as if the others could somehow bear witness to the same things that his farsight had allowed him to see.
Morland studied him with dark, deep-set eyes. “And how fare the city’s defenders against these invaders?” he asked quietly.
“The creatures show no pain and shrug off what should be mortal blows,” Lorenth said. “They are overwhelming soldier and citizen alike!”
The merchant nodded, pursing his lips. “The outcome is decided, then?”
Lorenth blinked, darting a glance to the tower window and then back again. Did the man not hear what he was saying? Did he not comprehend the danger that faced them all? “I-I do not know, my lord,” he said. “The battle rages on, and though I am no military expert, I do not see how the defenders can––”
The words froze on his tongue as he watched a cruel smile spread across the hard, aquiline planes of Morland’s face. Lorenth’s eyes widened. The man knew! He had somehow anticipated this evening’s events, and had brought the farseer here tonight to confirm them from the remote safety of his estate. He stared at the merchant in shock. Morland, for his part, simply watched the young man for a long moment as he sifted through the implications that came with the awareness.
“Do we continue to have an understanding, farseer?” the merchant asked with the cold smile still twisting at his lips. “I would hate to think that you had reached the end of your value to me.”
Lorenth opened his mouth to reply, but no sound came out. His eyes flicked to the powerfully built guards standing in the shadows on either side of the chamber’s only door. Their hands did not stray near the sword hilts at their hips, but they regarded him with pitiless, clinical stares. Lorenth snapped his mouth shut and looked back to the merchant. At last, he gave a tight nod.
“Excellent,” Morland said. “You will monitor the events in the city tonight, and you will inform me immediately of any occurrences that might change the outcome.”
With that, the man laid his head back on the high-backed, blood-red velvet chair and closed his eyes. His slender hands remained clasped comfortably before him in his lap. Lorenth swallowed a lump in his throat. Numb inside, he turned back to the tower window and stared out into the night, his eyes going unfocused.
Captain Borric shook his head to clear the sweat from his eyes. His vision remained blurry, however; a glancing blow from an ebon fist had left his head ringing and his left eye nearly swollen shut. How long ago had that been? It seemed like hours, but he knew how the chaos of battle could wreak havoc on a man’s sense of time; it had probably been only minutes.
He looked around at his remaining men. Brave men all, they fought like tigers against their implacable foe, but one by one they were disappearing. Even as he watched, one stout soldier raised his shield against a rain of blows and clove the skull of an attacker. A score of strong black fingers snaked around the edge of his shield, however, ripping it away and staggering him off balance. In the blink of an eye, the man was pulled from his feet and dragged on his back across the cobblestones and into the dark wave of creatures. The man to his left, exposed by his comrade’s sudden absence, gave a muffled cry as dark limbs wrapped about his head and shoulders. His neck broke with a sharp crack as he was jerked from his feet, and his struggling form sagged in their grasp. A pair of creatures pulled him several more feet before slowing, evidently noticing his condition. They released their hold, and he slid to the ground in a limp pile. They stepped upon him as they returned to the fray, taking no more notice of his discarded corpse than they would a loose stone in the roadway.
These blasted things want to take us alive, Borric thought. He shouted orders, and two more guards closed the gap immediately with blades flashing, but their protective ring was thinning by the moment.
Borric shot a glance inward at the huddled citizens. It was mostly children now. The able-bodied men and women had already taken up the weapons of the fallen and thrown themselves into aiding the defense. They were not soldiers, however, and had been even quicker to fall before their tireless foes than the members of the city guard. To Borric’s blurred vision, the children were one big indistinct mass of shape and color, clinging tightly together. He felt a traitorous flash of gratitude that he could no longer see their frightened expressions.
He had a sudden irrational thought for his own son, the boy he had not seen in the years since Borric had taken this job, the boy who would be a tall young man by now. He remembered wiping away the boy’s tears at his departure, his assurances that it would not be as long as it seemed. He remembered his confident promises that he would return one day, laden with his earnings. He had only to accept this important position in a remote outpost for a few years, where the pay was many times what he could earn at home, in a land of untold riches beyond the frayed edges of known civilization…
Someone was shouting at him. Borric blinked, breaking from his reverie and straining to hear the words over the persistent ringing in his ears. He looked around. The ring of guards had thinned to the point of breaking.
“Tighten the ring!” he shouted. “Fall back three steps and tighten the ring!”
The men were quick to obey, their boots stomping and scraping as they backed into a tighter defensive circle. If the ring shrinks much further, Borric thought with a rueful grimace, the men will be tripping over that cluster of children.
A hole opened in the ranks before him as several of the fiends tried to force their way through in a wedge. Dead eyes stared at him above soundless, gaping mouths, and his men struggled to hold them back. With a roar of defiance, the captain of the guard raised his sword and plunged back into the fray.
Someone was shouting at him. A strident voice, somehow both distant and yet uncomfortably near, was gibbering at him to wake up, to fight back and, in a seeming contradiction, to give in and let go. Release me, the voice urged. Join me, so that we may fight together as we were meant to!
Amric’s eyes flared open, and he realized with a chill that he had lost consciousness for a fleeting instant.
The huge visage of the Nar’ath queen loomed before him, and the stench of putrefaction washed over him with her hot breath. Her outer jaws were flared wide, reaching toward him with the hooked prongs that would keep his head frozen in place for the killing kiss. Her ruby lips peeled back to reveal row upon row of tiny glistening fangs that were eager to receive him.
Something slammed into the queen from the side, eliciting a shriek of pain from the monster. Amric gasped as the claws encircling his torso convulsed from the blow and nearly crushed him. She whirled in the direction from which the attack had come, but all Amric could see were the swirling sands obscuring all. Seconds later came another blow from the other side, and she shuddered, spinning in that direction and sweeping her claws in a blind, furious arc.
A phantom laughed echoed back to them, seeming to come from all directions at once. It was a rich, smooth voice, mocking as it slid through the murk and circled them.
Bellimar! Amric realized. The vampire was taking a direct hand in affairs once more, as he had in Stronghold.
A third blow shook the Nar’ath queen with a sound like muted thunder. She lunged in a new direction, roaring in rage and frustration. Shaking Amric like a child’s doll, she slithered into a wide, rapid turn back toward the center of the vast chamber, prowling after this troublesome new prey.
Borric recognized his mistake the instant he made the attack that undid him.
The guard to his right stumbled and went to his knees, and half a dozen black hands seized him in an instant and pulled him headfirst from view. One of the fiends stepped into the gap and lunged at Borric, and the battle-forged reflexes of countless hard-fought campaigns took over. The captain of the guard stepped into a smooth lunge and drove the point of his sword into the throat of the attacker. It was perfectly executed, a lethal blow to any mortal assailant, but Borric knew in an instant that he was undone.
Before he could withdraw, the gaping fiend seized his wrist in a vise-like grip. It drew itself forward, surging along his blade until the hilt rested against its throat and the full length of shining steel projected from the back of its neck. With a wrench, the creature snapped the bones of his forearm, and his sword tumbled from useless fingers. He was jerked forward, the sheer force of it causing his feet to leave the ground. Something slammed into the back of his skull like an iron sledge, and all was darkness.
Black hands caught him before he hit the ground.
Morland cracked an eye and watched the farseer at work. The young man shuddered and flinched from time to time, but his eyes remained wide open and twitched between distant targets that only he could see. Tears ran openly across his face and into his beard.
What a fool, thought Morland with a curl of his lip. It was not as if this show of weakness would have any effect on the outcome down there. The city was lost. His Nar’ath allies were doing just as they had promised by demonstrating the inevitability of their conquest. Morland felt a surge of pride. The Nar’ath had skulked about for centuries, hiding and evading notice, building their strength slowly; the time for such subterfuge was at an end.
Not for the first time, he congratulated himself for turning a minor setback into the promise of success. He had been furious when the Nar’ath attacked his trade caravan so many months ago; even though they had left the goods untouched, it had cost him no small amount of time and trouble to replace the men that had disappeared. It had cost him many more after that to track down the culprits, to gauge their strength, and to make careful advances to establish contact with their leader.
It was all worth it in the end, however. The Nar’ath forces would continue to grow, fueled by this victory, and he would be remembered for his part in accelerating their eventual triumph. He swelled with pride. And of course, once they had taken what they needed, they would establish him as the undisputed ruler over the survivors, just as they had promised. He would at last achieve the power that had long been his goal, but on a scale to which even he had not dared aspire.
He frowned. Something nagged at the fringes of his thoughts, a tattered edge to an otherwise perfect picture. How many survivors would be left when the Nar’ath were sated? What proof had they offered of their assertion that they had no long-term interest in this world? Where were they going? These seemed like questions he would have asked, being a shrewd negotiator and a calculating businessman. In fact, he recalled going to his initial meetings with the Nar’ath queen with every intention of learning the answers to these questions and more. Now, however, when he looked back, his memories of that meeting were a fog, and he could not produce the answers to any of these queries. He tried to call forth the details––any details––from those fateful encounters, but they slid away like raindrops down a slate roof.
He forced himself to concentrate harder. The towering image of the Nar’ath queen appeared before his mind’s eye, and he found his thoughts dulling, laced with a strange sense of loyalty that bordered on complacency. He frowned again. These thoughts fit him poorly, as if he was awakening to find himself wearing another man’s clothing.
He sat forward. He had no qualms about what was transpiring in Keldrin’s Landing; after all, conquest on the scale he required was never accomplished without some amount of bloodshed. It was unlike him, however, to enter into such a crucial arrangement without an ironclad set of safeguards in place. How had he––
“My lord?” Lorenth interrupted his thoughts in a quavering tone.
“What is it?” Morland snapped.
“Y-you are certain that the creatures will pass over your estate?”
The merchant opened his mouth to snarl an affirmative, and then paused. He had been given that assurance, at least. Indeed, the Nar’ath had demonstrated their commitment to their arrangement by ensuring that his trade caravans were no longer molested, while those of his rivals suffered the fate with alarming frequency. Even with that promise, however, he found himself facing sudden gnawing doubts. “Why do you ask, farseer?”
“The creatures have torn your gates asunder, and a great many of them have just entered your grounds.”
Morland shot to his feet. “Are they coming here?” he demanded.
The farseer turned toward him, and Morland gave a start. The man’s eyes had no pupils! Then, as if bobbing to the surface of a calm lake, Lorenth’s pupils reappeared within his pale blue eyes. Of course, the merchant admonished himself; it was just some effect of his strange abilities. Lorenth blinked several times, and the semblance of calm was broken. The blue eyes focused upon Morland.
“I cannot say for certain, my lord,” the young man said in a voice barely above a whisper. “They appeared to be headed this way, but once past the braziers at the gate, they passed into darkness and I could no longer see them.”
Morland stared at him for a long moment, frozen. Then he cursed and spun on his heel, making a curt motion to the guards. The soldiers snapped to attention and pulled the doors open as he approached.
Lulled and betrayed! He ground his teeth in fury as his mind raced over his options. However he had been ensorcelled by the Nar’ath, he was comforted by the fact that he had at least demonstrated some semblance of his customary caution in establishing certain contingent plans. He had a ship at anchor well away from the docks that was waiting for him to signal it in. He could be away from this gods-forsaken land for good. This, however, was not the time to attempt to reach the sea. No, the Nar’ath were too strong and too many; he would have to weather the night in a safe place and make his escape when the opportunity presented itself, after the chaos had subsided. He had a fortified armory at the center of his massive keep, well stocked with provisions. It would serve his needs nicely. A man with means and foresight such as he possessed always had a backup plan.
“M-my lord?”
The thin, tremulous voice of the farseer brought Morland sharply about. He had all but forgotten the meek fellow. His eyes narrowed as he regarded Lorenth.
“What of me, my lord?”
Morland gave him an icy smile. “It seems our business is concluded, farseer. Guards, please see him out the main doors. I believe he can find his way from there.”
Lorenth paled. “My lord, please––!” he stammered as the soldiers took heavy steps toward him.
The merchant turned to go. Lorenth’s voice, rising several octaves and into the shrill range, followed him through the doorway.
“My lord, wait! Wait! I can still be of use to you!”
Morland paused, half turning. “Make it quick and compelling, or you will exit by means of that window instead.”
Lorenth stumbled forward, wringing his hands. “You will need a safe route from the city, my lord,” he said in a rush. “I can help, especially if you wait until daylight. I can use my farsight to reveal which roads lead to safety, and which to certain death.”
Morland regarded him for a long moment, and then a slow, vulpine smile spread across his features. “How very enterprising of you, farseer. I may just make a savvy businessman of you yet.”
Another thunderous blow shook the Nar’ath queen. From the corner of his eye, Amric caught a blur of motion passing by him with inhuman speed before disappearing once more into the swirling sand. An instant later it came again, accompanied by a sharp, cracking report and a keening cry of agony from the queen. One of the claws gripping Amric loosened and fell away from him, and the limb dangled at a broken, useless angle at her side.
Amric took the opportunity to fill his lungs as the crushing grip on his chest slackened enough to allow unrestricted breath. He was rewarded with a mouthful of choking sand, but his tenuous hold on consciousness firmed and new energy flooded his body. As the queen spat her outrage at her unseen assailant, he expanded his chest and flexed his arms outward, straining against the remaining talons. Then, in a sudden movement, he let all his air out in a whoosh and brought his arms together tightly over his head, making himself as narrow as possible. He fell through and plunged to the ground.
He struck the ground and rolled, pushing himself to his feet. He began to run on shaky legs away from the towering shape behind him. Trying to clear his head, he wondered if he could find one or both of his swords in this damnable sandstorm.
With an incoherent scream, the Nar’ath queen swept her remaining limbs wide in a cutting gesture, and the unnatural storm responded to her fury. A concussive blast rippled outward from her, scything throughout the chamber. The sheer force of it slammed into Amric’s back, lifting him from his feet and catapulting him through the air. He landed with jarring force, tumbling end over end before settling into a long skid. A sickly green glow beckoned ahead, and he gritted his teeth as he realized he was sliding toward the edge of one of the pools. The howling wind washed over him, pulling at his flesh and clothing with a savage hand, dragging him toward the toxic fluids. He dug in to slow his approach, using the edges of his boot soles and the naked flesh of his clawing hands. At last the force of the blast gave out, the wind subsided, and he came to rest within inches of the pool’s edge. The viscous green liquid wicked at the stone rim that contained it, as if hungry to reach his flesh. Amric let out the breath he had been holding captive, and spun to look back toward the Nar’ath queen.
The monster stood near the center of the vast chamber. The eerie storm she had raised was gone, its remnants still crawling away from her across the stone floor in wisps and tendrils. Several shapes were revealed as the last of the sand washed over them, emerging like water-worn rocks through receding floodwaters. Some were the hulking Nar’ath minions, thrown to the ground by the blast. One was the figure of a man in gray robes, kneeling low with his cloak flung over his head in a shielding gesture. Bellimar!
The Nar’ath queen was upon him in an instant, even before the raking wind had subsided. Massive claws swept the old man from his feet, drawing him into a crushing embrace. Bellimar thrashed about, prying at her talons, and a frenzied struggle ensued. He writhed and struck over and over, loosening her hold as she fought to tighten it. At last she used all three of her remaining claws to clamp his flailing limbs in place. Her head darted forward, and her outer jaws flared and snapped shut upon his head, locking him into place. She began to inhale––and then she recoiled with a shrill cry.
“What is this?” she hissed in disgust. “Your life force is powerful indeed, but it is tainted and unusable. You are a troublesome, worthless creature!”
Rising to her full height, she hunched forward and drove the vampire into the ground with such force that the very floor of the chamber shook. A ragged cry echoed through the cavernous hive, and Amric realized it was his own. He began to run at the Nar’ath queen.
She reared back, still holding Bellimar. His gray form was limp in her claws. Even as he sprinted toward her, Amric hoped that it was but a ruse on Bellimar’s part. The Nar’ath queen might have had the same suspicion, however, as she uncoiled in a sudden whipping motion to send him hurtling away through the air. Bellimar’s body flew like a stone from a sling to strike the wall of the chamber with a sharp crack, and then it slid to the ground to lie in a crumpled heap.
The Nar’ath queen was still facing in that direction, eyeing Bellimar’s motionless form as if expecting him to rise and attack her again, when Amric reached her. Leaping high, he vaulted onto her back. Catching at the coarse edges of the armored plates along her spine, he clambered up toward her head. She whirled with a startled shriek, but he clung fast. A youth spent among the Sil’ath climbing ancient trees and rocky crags had prepared him well for this task; he was at the nape of her neck even as she started to reach around and claw at him. Her outraged visage swung toward him. He leapt, drawing the knife at his belt, all his attention focused upon plunging the weapon into one of her glowing green eyes.
He never made it.
Moving with impossible speed, she struck him from the air. The world exploded into colors as Amric slammed into the ground: encroaching blackness, scarlet pain, and an eruption of white fire that threatened to engulf him. Something inside him was screaming to be let out. Confusing images pounded at his dazed mind. He saw Bellimar’s face, frozen in final death; he saw Valkarr’s features melt from worry to horror and revulsion; he saw his own face, flickering between rage, fear and scorn. These images shattered into slivers of glass as a new countenance pushed through them all. It was hate-filled and exulting, with slitted green eyes burning at him above a many-fanged mouth. It was the Nar’ath queen, and she would have him at last.
He was dimly aware, as if it was happening to someone else entirely, of being held in a crushing grip, of his ribs threatening to crack and his lungs burning once more for precious breath. The queen’s expression was avid, incensed as she drew him to her. She was speaking to him, but he could not make out the words.
His eyes rolled skyward, drawn by some unknown instinct. Cold, gray clouds churned overhead, showing their disdain for the trivial affairs of the mortals below. A figure rose to stand at the stone rim high above, silhouetted against that steel sky. His vision was fading, but he felt he should recognize that figure. All he could discern was a flash of her auburn hair, the polished gleam of a bent bow, and the murderous glint thrown by the dark missile she had nocked. Then the glint was gone, and the bow was being lowered. A fleeting whistle greeted his ears, rising sharply at the end like an unanswered question.
The queen’s glowing eyes were still fixed upon him when everything erupted into heat and thunder. His vision went fiery white, and he had the strangest sensation that he was pushing the heat away from him with his bare hands. He realized he was tumbling through the air, no longer in the iron grip of the Nar’ath queen. He struck the ground hard. As the darkness rose to claim him, it felt as if a portal of white fire opened beneath him instead, and he continued to fall.