He hugged himself against the chill. Neither of the sorceresses appeared to notice the wintry bite to the night air. Offshore, a vessel had dropped anchor in a nearby cove, perhaps putting in against the strange blow.
Agayla had assured him that this battle, or duel, would merely lash its way across the island and continue onward unmindful of its course. Yet none of this had happened. The quarry of the chase appeared to have gone to ground somewhere in the city itself. He was anxious about this, but at least the feud didn’t appear to be spilling over into any actual physical damage to the city. If all went well, it would end soon enough, and the inhabitants of Malaz would open their shutters to tomorrow’s dawn and marvel at the wrack left behind by the strange storm that had battered the island overnight.
And that would be that.
He rubbed his hands together and blew upon them. A fire would be a fine idea; he supposed it would be up to him to collect the firewood.
And why did he think of fire just now? He peered round, frowning, because he could’ve sworn he’d smelled smoke. But not just any smoke – a rare and strange scent. Like burned exotic herbs and woods. Like … incense?
*
Two fists yanked on Tayschrenn’s shirt front and he peered up, blinking. It was the Dal Hon mage here with him in the narrow alleyway.
‘Keep moving,’ the mage of Meanas said.
‘This is suicide, you realize,’ Tayshcrenn told him. Nevertheless, he struggled to rise to his feet once more. Distantly, he marvelled at the survival imperative of mortal flesh.
Once he was on his feet the diminutive mage took part of his weight and guided him forward, saying, ‘Good, good. Just walk. Ignore everything you might see.’
Tayschrenn arched a brow, rather curious about that command despite his bleariness.
A storm of shadows enmeshed them. They churned and flowed, almost like a constant coursing waterfall, on and on. Within them Tayschrenn glimpsed an almost infinite regression of himself and his guide all limping along – all in differing locales: following various streets, crossing various squares, and even tracing waterfront wharves.
He turned an eye on his rescuer. ‘Impressive…’
‘Shh. That’s just the opening.’
Their next steps yanked them into a narrow canyon of dry dusty slopes and he pressed a hand to his head, groaning at the searing pain grating there from the workings of this man’s Warren, or altered aspect. As if peering through a kaleidoscope of possibilities he glimpsed himself cowering at the feet of a D’rek priest who laughed his victory; himself stepping through a Warren portal into a cityscape he did not know; himself fleeing onward across a broad savanna of windswept grasses; himself on board a small skiff sailing westward; himself dead in more ways than he would rather have seen or cared to consider.
And it all seemed so very real to him. The headache of it all was almost more than he could bear – he even began to worry for his sanity. The next moment he became almost certain of his insanity when their path among the canyons brought them right before the muzzles of two gigantic hounds who perked up as if startled, heads tilting in disbelief. He glanced back to see them now padding along behind, ears low, eyes narrowed, on the hunt.
‘There’s—’
‘Shh,’ came a tense warning from the mage. ‘Almost there.’
All this time, the flurry and rush of D’rek probing had not relented. If anything, it seemed to be intensifying. ‘They’re coming,’ he panted.
‘You’re too damned potent to disguise,’ his guide complained.
A roar like that of a lion sounded then, followed by a scream and the crunch of bones and rending of flesh. Fearful, he tried to turn to look but the mage of Meanas urged him onward. He was, at that moment, experiencing a kind of sliding simultaneity of multiple selves that threatened to split his head in its impossibility. He felt as if his consciousness was being fragmented into pieces and was astounded that this odd little fellow could so easily endure such a storm of manipulation, let alone generate it.
Among these multiple concurrent possibilities was one strengthening version where they pushed through a tiny iron gate and up a narrow path of paving stones to tumble on to a broad slate landing before an iron-bound door.
The mage was yanking on his sweaty, dirt-smeared robes. ‘Hurry!’
But he had to hold his head just to be sure that it was still whole. And he wondered, Am I really here?
‘Run down at last!’ a voice called, and Tayschrenn peered over see a coterie of D’rek priests and priestesses at the gate and low wall of the property.
The mage of Meanas was struggling with the door. ‘Come on!’
He shook his head. ‘It’s no use…’
The D’rek adherents swung over the wall and came on across the wild unkempt garden.
The door swung open, almost brushing Tayschrenn aside. At that moment he became further certain of his insanity as the ground itself became alive with writhing vines and roots all lashing themselves about the priests and priestesses, who screamed their mortal terror. They cut and pulled and blasted at the bonds but to no benefit he could discern as each now began sinking, flailing and writhing in utter blind panic.
The few who won through – mostly on the narrow walkway, and each of them a Fang of D’rek – now drew daggers. Yet at that instant a towering presence brushed past Tayschrenn to take these in huge armoured fists and throw them aside on to the steaming ground, where the vines and roots quickly enmeshed them.
All this Tayschrenn took in almost as if dream-walking, or in a daze. He turned to the house and what he now saw there, and what he understood of it, froze him completely.
The spindly mage was pulling at him. ‘Now! Come!’
He shook his head in mute denial. No, he mouthed, barely able to speak. ‘Do you know what this is?’
‘Yes, yes. Now move! More are coming!’
He gaped up at the armoured colossus as it thumped past, ignoring him completely, to re-enter the house. ‘You would choose to be entombed for ever?’
The fellow waved his hands, a touch frantic. ‘Not a bit of it! Now come!’
He shook his head. Better any fate than this mad desperate throw.
Strangely, instead of becoming angry or impatient, the little Dal Hon mage just shrugged and clasped his hands behind his back. ‘Well, all right,’ he said. ‘But too bad for them.’ And he rocked back and forth on his heels.
Tayschrenn eyed him narrowly. ‘Who?’
The mage nodded to the street where Tayschrenn sensed a further mass of priests and priestesses rushing in upon them. ‘Damn you…’ he hissed.
The fellow shrugged innocently. ‘Perhaps you ought to get rid of them.’
Tayschrenn shook his heavy head. ‘I can’t kill them. They’re just being used.’