The man was big and carried a large sword in two hands. He ran at Tomas shouting an inarticulate battle cry, but Tomas continued to advance at his normal pace. The man struck a powerful blow downward and Tomas moved his shield slightly, causing the blade to skid off the surface. The man saw sparks explode from the contact, but no mark sullied the surface of the shield. Tomas swung lightly, as if flicking a fly from his shoulder, and the man died before he hit the ground.
Two men behind him hesitated. One then shouted and charged while the other showed fear, and turned and ran. The one who charged died like the man before, and Tomas again looked as if he were disposing of annoying pests, not battle-hardened warriors.
Tomas reached the building, a thing of black stones and wooden facades. It squatted, a terrible black sore on the landscape; there was nothing about it pleasing to the eye or harmonious in any fashion. It reeked of evil.
Tomas walked to the large black wooden doors and paused. He drew back his right fist and struck the rightmost door. The door exploded inward, as if there had been no hinges.
As they walked in, Nakor looked at the shattered iron hinges and said, “Impressive.”
Miranda said, “Remind me never to get him mad.”
“He’s not mad,” said Nakor. “Just determined. If he was mad, he’d pull the walls down.”
The building was a giant square, with two rows of seats set hard against the walls. There were two doors: the one through which they had entered and another opposite.
In the center of the room a square pit yawned at them, and from deep within a red glow could be seen. Above it hung a metal platform.
“Gods!” said Miranda. “What a stench.”
“Look,” said Nakor, indicating the floor.
Before each seat, on the floor, lay a body. They were warriors, men with scars upon their cheeks, and each was openmouthed, their eyes wide, as if they had died screaming in horror.
Nakor hurried over to the pit and looked in. He stepped back. “Something is down there.”
Pug looked up at the platform and said, “That appears to be a way down.”
Indicating the dried blood and gore on it, Miranda said, “And now the way up.”
Tomas said, “Whatever caused that necromancy last night is down there.”
Nakor said, “No, it is a tool, like all those dead fools.”
“Where is Fadawah?” asked Miranda.
“In the city, I think,” said Nakor. “Probably in the Baron’s citadel.”
A strange keening sound echoed from deep within the pit. The hairs on Pug’s neck stood up. “We can’t leave this here.”
Nakor said, “We can always come back.”
Miranda said, “Good. Let’s leave this place.”
She walked to the closed door, opposite the one through which they had entered, and threw it wide.
As soon as she did, they saw the soldiers arrayed on the other side, their shields in a wall, their bows poised, and cavalry behind them.
In the moment it took for the scene to register, they heard the order given and the bowmen fired.
Dash swore. “We’ve got twelve, eighteen hours to ferret out the rest of the infiltrators or risk a breach.”
Thomas Calhern, a squire in Duke Rufio’s court, had recovered enough from the poison to serve; Dash had named him an acting Captain. “What matter?” he asked. “Gods, man, you saw the army outside the gate.”
Dash said, “Never been in a battle before?”
“No,” said the young man, about the same age as Dash.
“If the walls are intact, those outside must bring ten men against the wall for every one we have on top of it. We should be able to hold them for a few days, perhaps a week, and if my brother is as clever as I know him to be, a force from Port Vykor should arrive within days.
“But if some band of Keshian thugs gets a portal opened, and the Keshians get inside the walls, this battle is over before it starts.”
They were sitting in the Prince’s conference room, and Dash turned to Mackey. “Send a message to the lads at New Market Jail: I want the constables sniffing around the streets.”
“That takes care of the streets,” said Mackey. “But what about below them?”
Dash said, “I’ll take care of that part.”
Dash slipped through a door and a dagger was suddenly at his throat. “Put that away,” he hissed.
“Sheriff Puppy,” said a happy-sounding Trina. “I would have been very upset had I killed you.”
“Not as much as I,” said Dash. “How is he?”
She nodded toward the corner. A score of thieves were huddled in a far corner of the cellar. Dash smelled coffee and food. “Raided the kitchen, have we?”
Trina said, “It’s a coffeehouse. We were hungry. There was food up there. What did you think?”
Dash shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m thinking these days.”
Trina walked with him over to where the old man lay upon a low bed, one that had been used as a stretcher to bear him to Barret’s. She whispered, “He’s not doing well.”
Dash knelt beside the old man, who looked at him but didn’t say anything. The old man held up his hand and Dash took it. “Uncle,” he said softly.
The old man gently squeezed, then let go. His one eye closed.
She leaned over, and after a moment said, “He’s sleeping again. Sometimes he speaks, other times he can’t.”