Stalking Darkness n-2 Read online

  The Plenimaran marines pursuing them had been offered the same welcome.

  Looking back as they neared the cave, he saw that the enemy had reached the village and was now turning toward the pass.

  You bastards! he thought bitterly.

  You'd carve these people like sheep for whatever lies hidden at the end of that tunnel. You slaughtered Vara's village. But you were sloppy my friends, and that makes all the difference!

  Up ahead Retak conferred briefly with Shradin, then motioned for a halt. Seregil climbed up to join them.

  "Do those men know how to read the snow?" he whispered..

  "Let's hope not. Retak, tell the others to move a bit and higher and watch for your signal. Are the young men in place?"

  "They're ready. But what if this plan of yours doesn't work?"

  "Then we'll need another plan." Feeling much less confident than he sounded, Seregil went to take his own position.

  The villagers nervously watched the Plenimarans. The sun was higher now, and glinted back from spears and helmets below. What first appeared only as a long, dark movement against the snow soon resolved into individual men toiling toward them.

  Whatever the Plenimarans think they're after here, they not taking any chances, Seregil thought, counting over a hundred men. He glanced briefly up the slope, trying to make mouth of the spirit chamber tunnel and wondering again what could be worth all this..

  The Plenimarans were close enough for Seregil to make out the insignia on their breastplates before Shradin and Retak. The headman raised his staff overhead with both arms and let out a bloodcurdling yell. Every villager joined in

  screaming at the top of their lungs. At the same time Seregil, Shradin, and the young men of the village shoved piles of loosened rock and ice chunks, sending them ca down the steep slope.

  For an instant nothing happened.

  Then the first rumblings sounded along the western face as tons of snow and ice sloughed off, plunging down on the column.

  Seregil could see the pale ovals of upturned faces. The soldiers realized too late the trap they'd been drawn into. The neat column wavered and broke. Men foundered in the snow, throwing aside their arms as they sought some direction of escape it implacable wave bearing down on them.

  The avalanche overtook them in seconds, carrying men like dead leaves in a flood, blotting them from sight.

  A great cheer went up from the Dravnians and the sound brought down a second deafening avalanche from the east wall. It crashed down the valley to lap over the first with a roar of finality that echoed for minutes between the stark, sun-gilded peaks.

  Shradin pounded Seregil joyfully on the back. "Didn't I say it would fall just so?" he shouted. "No one could have survived that!"

  Seregil took a last wondering look down at the massive slide, then waved for Turik. "It's time I completed my work. This evil must be removed from your valley so no others will come seeking it."

  Amazingly, the tunnel opening was still clear, though drifts were piled thickly around the spot. With the women singing victory songs behind him, Seregil once again made his way down the slick, cramped passage. The noises in his head and the tingling in his skin were as bad as before, but this time he ignored them, knowing what he had to do.

  "Here we are again," he whispered, reaching the chamber.

  Refusing to consider the various ramifications of being wrong about the nature of the magic, he hugged the box against his side and said loudly, "Argucth chthon hrig.»

  An eerie silence fell over the chamber. Then he heard a soft tinkling sound that reminded him of embers cooling on a hearth. Tiny flashes like miniature lightning flickered across the rock face at the far end of the chamber.

  Seregil took a step back, then dove for the mouth of the tunnel as the stone exploded.

  Jagged shards flew up the tunnel, hissing like arrows as they scored the back of his thick coat and trousers. Others ricocheted and spattered in a brief, deadly storm around the tiny chamber.

  It was over in an instant. Seregil lay with his arms over his head a moment longer, then cautiously held up the lightstone and looked back.

  An opening had been blasted in the far wall, revealing a dark space beyond.

  Drawing his sword, Seregil approached and looked into the second chamber. It was roughly the size of his sitting room at the Cockerel, and at the back of it a glistening slab of ice caught the glow of his lightstone, reflecting it across a tangle of withered corpses that covered the floor.

  The constant cold beneath the glacial ice had drawn the moisture from the bodies over uncounted years, leaving them dark and shrunken, lips withered into grimaces, eyes dried away like raisins, hands gnarled to talons.

  Seregil sank to his knees, cold sweat running down his chest beneath his coat. Even in their mummified state, he could see that their chests had been split open, the ribs pulled wide. Only a few months earlier his friend and partner, Micum Cavish, had come upon a similar scene nearly a thousand miles away, in the Fens below Blackwater Lake. But there some of the bodies had been newly killed. These had been here for decades, perhaps centuries. Putting this together with Nysander's veiled threats and secrecy, Seregil felt a twinge of genuine fear.

  The singing whine in his ears was much worse here. Kneeling there at the mouth of the chamber, Seregil suddenly envisioned what the victims' last moments must have been.

  Waiting to be dragged into the killing chamber.

  Listening to the screams.

  The steam rising from torn bodies—

  He could almost catch the sound of those tortured voices echoing back faintly over the years.

  Shaking such fancies off uneasily, he climbed in to examine the mysterious slab.

  The rough-hewn block of ice was half as long as he was tall, and nearly four feet thick. The aura of the place was worse here; a nasty prickling sensation played over his skin, like ants beneath his clothes. His head pounded. The ringing in his ears swelled like a chorus of voices wailing an octave beyond the scope of pain.

  More disturbing still was the sudden flair of pain around the scar on his chest. It burned like a fresh wound, driving a deep spike of pain at his heart.

  Working swiftly, Seregil took the two flasks from the box, unwrapped them, and poured out the dark contents of the first in a circle on top of the ice. With his dagger, he scratched the symbols of the Four inside the circle: a lemniscate for Dalna; Illior's simple crescent; the stylized ripple of a wave for Astellus; the flame triangle of Sakor. They formed the four points of a square when he had finished.

  Unnatural flames licked up as the liquid ate into the ice and a soft, answering glow sprang up in the center of the slab, revealing the outline of a circular object embedded there.

  A fresh blast of pain tightened Seregil's breath in his throat. He reached into his coat and felt wetness there. Tearing open the neck of his coat and shirt with bloodied fingers, he found that his skin had opened around the edges of the scar.

  There were voices all around him now, whispering, sighing, keening. His hands shook as he quickly emptied the second vial onto the ice. More flames licked up, guttering in the faint, unnatural breeze rising around him. Invisible fingers brushed his face, plucked at his clothing, stroked his hair.

  A first translucent point of crystal protruded from the shrinking ice, quickly followed by seven more in a slanting ring.

  The singing, at once tortured and exultant, rose to fill the cramped chamber. Seregil pressed his hands to his ears as he crouched, waiting.

  The magical liquid burned and boiled away until eight blade-like crystal spikes were revealed, set in a circlet of some sort.

  Seregil bent to pull it free and a drop of blood fell from his chest onto the ice within the circlet.

  He paused, strangely fascinated, as another followed, and another. A stone shard had grazed the back of his hand and this, too, was oozing blood. A rivulet of it ran down between his fingers onto the point he was grasping, streaking it like ruby as
it trickled to the little pool gathering in the center of the crown.

  The singing was clearer now, suddenly sweet and soothing and somehow familiar. Seregil's throat strained to capture the impossible notes as the blood dripped down from his chest.

  Not yet, the voices crooned. Unseen hands stroked him, supporting him as he stooped over the crown.

  Watch! See the loveliness being wrought.

  The gathering blood sank into the ice as an answering rubescent blush spread slowly up through each crystal point.

  Oh, yes! he thought.

  How beautiful!

  Their sides were sharp. They cut into his palms as he gripped them. More blood trickled down and the crystal blushed a darker red.

  But a new voice was intruding from a distance, rough and discordant.

  Nothing, sang the voices.

  It is nothing. There is only our music here.

  Join us, lovely one, join our song, the only song. For the Beautiful One, the Eater of Death.

  It was distracting, this ugly new tone. But as he bowed his head, straining against this raw new voice he found that it, too, was familiar.

  He'd almost succeeded in blocking it out when all at once he recognized it-the sound of his own hoarse screams.

  The beautiful illusions shattered as searing bolts of pain slammed up his arms, seeking his heart.

  "Aura!" he cried out, wrenching the crown free with the last of his strength.

  "Aura Elustri malrei!"

  Staggering through a haze of agony, he thrust the crown into the silver-lined box and drove the latch into place.

  Silence fell like a blow. Collapsing among the corpses, he pressed his bloody hands to the front of his coat.

  "Maros Aura Elustri chyptir," he murmured thankfully as he slipped into a half faint. "Chyptir maros!"

  The Beautiful One, the voices had said. The Eater of Death.

  Gradually he became aware of another presence in the chamber, and with it a pervasive sense of peace mingled with sadness.

  This, he realized, must be the true spirit, the one that had created this place and inhabited it until the crown was hidden here. With an ironic grin, he recalled the tale of warring spirits he'd concocted for Turik and Shradin the first time he'd come out of the cave. It seemed he'd spoken the truth in spite of himself.

  "Peace to you, spirit of this place," he rasped in Dravnian. "Your sanctuary will be properly cleansed."

  The presence gathered around him for a moment, soothing away his pain and weariness. Then it was gone.

  Shouldering the box, Seregil crawled slowly back up the tunnel. Turik and Timan were keeping watch at the opening when he stumbled out into the sunlight.

  The old man clutched Seregil's arm wordlessly, tears of gratitude glittering in his rheumy eyes.

  "He lives! The Aurenfaie's alive! Bring bandages," Turik called to the others, examining Seregil's hands with concern.

  The cry passed from mouth to mouth and soon the whole village had gathered solemnly around them.

  "Terrible sounds came out of the ground, then all was still," Retak told Seregil. "Timan said you had driven out the bad spirit, but he didn't know if you'd survived the ordeal. Tell us of your battle with the evil spirit!"

  Seregil groaned inwardly.

  Bilairy's Balls, they want another story!

  Climbing to his feet, he held up the box.

  "I've captured the evil spirit that troubled you. It's imprisoned here."

  Round-eyed, the Dravnians regarded the battered wooden chest. Even the children did not venture to approach it. Filthy and exhausted, Seregil did his best to look like a victorious wizard as he mixed fact and fiction to best effect.

  "In the time of Timan's ancestor, this evil thing came to your valley and invaded the spirit home, holding the true spirit prisoner and troubling those who entered the chamber. I found its secret lair and battled it there. It was a strong spirit and it fought mightily, as you can see."

  The villagers' eyes grew rounder as they pressed around him to see what sort of marks a spirit left on a man.

  "By my magic, and by the powers of sacred Aura and the true spirit of this place, I vanquished and captured it. Your spirit came to me, easing my wounds and asking that the sanctuary be cleansed so that your people may once again come to it in peace. There are bodies there now, victims of the evil one. You must not fear them. Take them away and burn them as is proper, so that their spirits can rest. This is no longer a place of evil."

  The Dravnians cheered wildly as he paused to catch up with his own invention. By the time they'd settled down again, he was ready.

  "If any man comes seeking the evil one, bring them to this place and tell them how Meringil, son of Solun and Nycanthi, mage of Aurenen, captured the evil spirit and took it away forever. Remember this day and tell the story to your children so that they will remember. Let no person among your clans forget that evil was cast out from here. And now I must go."

  The villagers surged forward, imploring him to stay.

  Unvisited maidens wept with disappointment and one of Ekrid's daughters threw herself into his arms sobbing. Putting her gently aside, he gathered his gear and palmed the last of Nysander's painted wands from the pouch at his belt. He snapped it behind his back and the Dravnians shrank back in fear as the translocation vortex opened behind him. Waving a last farewell, he forced a smile as he stepped backward into emptiness.

  Thero was on his way upstairs when a muffled crash halted him in his tracks. There was no doubt where the sound had come from; every door along the curved corridor—the bedchambers, the guest room—stood open except one.

  The sitting-room door, with its magical wards and protections, was always kept shut unless Nysander was inside. Nonetheless, putting his ear to the door, Thero heard a low groan inside.

  "Nysander!" he called, but his master was already hurrying down the tower stairs, robes flapping beneath his leather apron.

  "There's someone in there," Thero exclaimed, gaunt face flushed with excitement.

  Nysander opened the door and snapped his fingers at the nearest lamp. The wick flared up and by its light they saw Seregil sprawled in the middle of the room, his back arched awkwardly over the pack he wore, the strap of the battered wooden chest tangled around one leg. His eyes were closed, his face colorless beneath streaks of grime and blood.

  "Get water, a basin, and linen. Hurry!" said

  Nysander, going to Seregil and pulling at the front of his coat.

  Thero hurried off to fetch the required articles.

  When he returned a few moments later,

  Nysander was examining a raw wound on Seregil's chest. "How bad is it?" he asked.

  "Not so bad as it looks," said Nysander, covering the wound with a cloth. "Give me a hand with these filthy clothes."

  "What happened to him this time?" Thero asked, gingerly pulling off the unconscious man's boots.

  "He's got the same sort of preternatural stench he had when he came back—"

  "Very similar. Fetch the things for a minor purification. And, Thero?"

  Halfway out the door already, Thero paused, expecting some explanation.

  "We shall not speak of this again."

  "As you wish," Thero replied quietly.

  Focused on Seregil, Nysander did not see the hot color that leapt into Thero's sallow cheeks beneath his thin beard, or the sudden angry set of his jaw.

  Later, with Seregil asleep under Thero's watchful eye, Nysander paid his nightly visit to the lowest vault beneath the Oreska House. He was not the only one who wandered here late at night. Many of the older wizards preferred to pursue their research when the scholars and apprentices were out of the way. Proceeding on through the long passages and down stairways, he nodded to those he met, stopping now and then to chat. He'd never made any secret of his evening constitutionals. Had anyone over the years ever noticed that he seldom followed the same route twice? That there was always one point, one stretch of blank, innocent wall, whi
ch he never failed to pass?

  And how many of these others, Nysander wondered as he went on, kept watch as he did over some secret charge?

  Reaching the lowest level, he wended his way with more than even his usual caution through the maze of corridors to the place, though his carefully woven magicks kept all from perceiving the box he carried.

  Satisfied that he was unobserved, he lowered his head, summoned a surge of power, and silently invoked the Spell of Passage. A sensation like a mountain wind passed through him, chilling him to the bone.

  Hugging the grimy box to his chest, he walked through the thick stonework of the wall and into the tiny chamber beyond.

  5

  Alec squinted as sunlight flashed off the polished festival gong under his arm. Shifting his grip, he struggled the rest of the way up the ladder braced against the front of the villa.

  "Really, Sir Alec, this is not necessary. The servants always take care of these details!"

  Runcer dithered from the curb, clearly embarrassed by this display of labor but powerless to countermand it.

  "I like to keep busy," Alec replied, undeterred.

  He'd reluctantly resumed his public role at Wheel Street the day before. The Festival of Sakor began tonight and—Seregil or no Seregil—Sir Alec had to make an appearance.

  Runcer was stubbornly determined to defer to him as master of the house in Seregil's absence, a role he was acutely uncomfortable with. He detested being waited on, but every servant in the house seemed to take it as a personal affront every time he so much as fetched his own wash water or saddled a horse.

  Grasping the wooden brace set into the wall, Alec slid the gong's leather hanging straps over it. They held and it swung gently in the morning breeze, a rectangular battle shield displaying the elaborate sunburst design of Sakor.

  Runcer handed up a swath of black cloth and Alec draped it carefully over the shield face.