The stranger stood beside the well and stared. “By my king’s beard!” he muttered.
Imraldera, still stroking the Dog’s head, looked up at him, shook her head, and made a silencing motion with one hand. She continued petting the Dog, which rolled upright and laid its ugly head in her lap. The tail flapped once, twice, three times on the stone. It did not look as though it had often wagged before. Imraldera continued stroking, pouring every feeling of love she could into her touch . . . though she was so spent, she had little enough to offer.
At last she rose and staggered back to the well. The Dog, its shoulders rising higher than her waist, followed at her heels, ignoring the man, its eyes fixed only on her. Exhausted, she leaned against the well wall.
The stranger uncertainly bowed. It was an awkward movement, as unlike Eanrin’s flashy manner as it could be. “Glomar, Captain of King Iubdan Tynan’s guard, servant of Rudiobus,” he said. “I am in your debt, m’lady witch.”
“I am no witch,” she signed, though of course he did not understand. She pointed to the bucket lying near his feet.
Glomar obediently picked it up and handed it to her. Moving slowly from fatigue, Imraldera attached the handle to the cut rope and began lowering it the long way down, praying that water waited at the well’s bottom. She heard the splash, and it was better than the clink of gold in her ears. But she was too weak just then to crank the bucket up herself. Glomar, frowning, stepped forward and assisted her. “Not sure you want to drink, m’lady,” he said. “Not all wells in the Far World are safe. You might fall into an enchanted sleep.”
She gave him a cold look. At that moment, she would have gladly slept for a thousand years. If only that flea-ridden poet of a cat had never woken her to begin with! As soon as the bucket emerged from the well, she plunged both hands in and drank deeply. The water was stale and flat, but she did not care. Neither did she fall enchanted.
“May I know to whom I owe my life?” the captain asked in his gruff, earthy accent. He did not sound the bright immortal he was, though his skin remained luminous even in the heavy Midnight shadows.
Imraldera shrugged. She had no desire to go through that routine again. The Dog, sensing her distress, pressed up against her side and growled at Glomar. She put a hand on its head.
“AYYYYYEEEEEEERRRRRRREEEEEEOWWWWL!”
The three of them—maid, captain, and Dog—startled and turned to look across the square. A bright orange tomcat flew across the stones, tail low, eyes wide, fur bristling.
At his heels charged the other Black Dog.
16
IMRALDERA HAD JUST TIME to draw breath before she found herself clutching an armload of trembling fur. Paws wrapped about her neck, claws digging into her shoulder, and she gasped with pain and surprise.
The other Black Dog bore down upon her, fire falling from yellow eyes, black coat like the shadow of Death. Unconsciously she clung to the cat, frozen in place. She saw the great red mouth open, gazed into teeth-lined doom.
The next moment, the monster crashed to the ground under the assault of its sibling. The two Black Dogs snarled and tore at each other, flames and sparks burning the stone around them, their horrible voices echoing through the city so violently it seemed the towers must crumble.
Somewhere just beyond the din, a voice shouted, “Run!”
Imraldera felt her arm taken in a powerful grasp; then she was running, dragged behind the captain, still clutching the cat. In a vague, distant way, she heard the captain swearing with each step he took. He moved with a limp, but he ran anyway, his face grim and gasping.
It did not matter which street they took. All were buried in Midnight. The only thing that mattered was putting distance between themselves and the battle being waged in the square. In that rush of terror, all Imraldera’s weariness vanished. Her whole existence was taken up with flight.
Flight through a dark tunnel.
The Pathway of Death.
No escape . . .
The cat leapt from her arms. She staggered, nearly unbalanced, but suddenly Eanrin was beside her, his steadying hand on her arm. On they ran. And the howls of the Black Dogs pursued them.
Her legs gave out before her will. Imraldera would have sprawled headlong had not the poet still gripped her arm. As it was, he caught her and just prevented her from hitting her head. She could not move. She lay gasping, conscious but inert.
Glomar, who had continued many more paces before realizing he wasn’t followed, stopped. His face was drawn with pain, his ankle swollen double. He barked, “What’s wrong with the witch?”
“She’s not a witch; she’s a princess,” Eanrin replied. “I think she’s broken.”
“Broken? What do you mean?”
“She’s a mortal! I don’t know how these creatures work. Her body just seems to have . . . stopped.”
Glomar hastened back to them as fast as he could move. The noise of the Black Dogs was all too near. “She is not mortal,” he said, kneeling down.