Hero in the Shadows (51 page)

“You are very skillful, human,” he said. “How did you make the crossbow shoot?”

“He didn’t,” said a female voice.

Long-stride looked toward his left and saw a woman’s head suddenly appear, floating in the air. Then an arm came into sight, sweeping upward, as if pushing a cloak aside.

Then it came to him. “A
Bezha
cloak,” he said, slipping from the rock.

Pain roared through him as he fell, and he realized his weight had come down on the sword jutting from his back, driving it deeper.

He struggled to rise, but there was no power left in his limbs. His face was resting against a cold flagstone.

It felt surprisingly pleasant.

Waylander and Keeva helped Ustarte inside the apartments.

“I just need to rest for an hour or so,” said the priestess. “Leave me here. Do what you have to do.”

Keeva reloaded her crossbow and walked to the doorway. “Do you have a plan?” she asked Waylander.

He smiled at her. “Always.”

“How are you feeling?”

The smile faded. “I’ve felt better.”

She looked into his face. Dark rings showed under his eyes, and his skin was pallid, the cheeks sunken. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“No one lives forever, Keeva. Are you ready?”

“I am.”

Waylander moved out into the darkness and ran along the path, cutting left toward the waterfall. Keeva followed him. He clambered up the rocks and entered a dark opening. He waited for her there and took her hand.

“These steps lead up into the palace,” he said. “Once we are there I want you to make your way to the stairs underneath the library. Cover yourself with the cloak and then climb the
stairs until you can see into the library. Do nothing more until I make my move. You understand this?”

“I understand.”

Still holding onto her hand, he climbed the stairs. The darkness was total. At the top he paused, listening. There was no sound from beyond, and he slid open the panel leading to the corridor outside the Great Hall. Lanterns had been lit here, but there was no sign of people. Waylander released her hand. “Be lucky, Keeva,” he said, then moved away swiftly.

Keeva stood for a few moments, suddenly fearful. All the time he had been with her she had felt somehow protected. Now, alone, she found her hands trembling.

Be strong, she told herself, then ran along the corridor toward the library stairs.

“I cannot see them,” said Eldicar Manushan, staring out over the terraced gardens.

Three-swords did not answer. He exchanged glances with Iron-arm. The huge warrior nodded. Three-swords turned away. He had always liked Long-stride. The warrior was reliable and cool under pressure. He would be hard to replace.

“What can be taking them so long?” asked Eldicar Manushan. “Are they eating his heart, do you think?”

“They are not eating anything,” said Three-swords. “They are dead.”

“Dead?” responded the magicker, his voice rising. “They are
Kriaz-nor
. How can they be dead?”

“We die, too, magicker. We are not invulnerable. This assassin is obviously everything you feared. Are you sure he is human and not meld?”

Eldicar Manushan wiped sweat from his face. “I don’t know what he is, but he killed a
Bezha
. I was there. A little while ago he entered a house surrounded by guards and killer dogs. He killed the merchant who lived there and then left. No one saw him.”

“Perhaps he knows magic,” said Iron-arm.

“I would have sensed it,” said Eldicar. “No, he is just a man.”

“Well,” continued Iron-arm, “
just a man
has killed two
Kriaz-nor
. And now he is coming to kill you.”

“Be quiet!” stormed Eldicar, swinging around and staring out over the balcony. He gazed down at the ground some fifty feet below and watched for any sign of movement on the steps. Dark clouds obscured the moon, and lightning flashed over the bay, followed some seconds later by a rolling boom of thunder. Rain began to lash down, hissing against the white walls of the palace. Eldicar could see little now and moved to the shelter of the balcony doorway.

Back in the library, Three-swords was just about to pour a goblet of water, when he paused, nostrils flaring. Iron-arm had also caught the scent. Three-swords carefully replaced the goblet on the table and turned, his golden gaze raking the room and the wrought-iron stairs leading up to it. He could see nothing but knew someone was close. Iron-arm moved stealthily along the wall.

Three-swords strolled casually toward the stairs, then darted forward. As he did so, a crossbow appeared from thin air and loosed a bolt. Three-swords swayed to one side. The bolt flashed by him. A second followed the first. Three-swords’ arm swept up. The point of the bolt gashed the back of his hand before careering across the library and clattering against the shelves. Three-swords leapt down the stairs, grabbing the outstretched arm. With one heave he threw the assassin back over his shoulder and into the room. The archer landed heavily. Three-swords spun and ran up the stairs. The assassin had come to his knees, although that was not what Three-swords saw. He saw a head and one arm and a disembodied foot. Reaching out, he tore away the
Bezha
cloak with one hand while dragging the assassin to his feet with the other. He was about to rip out the man’s throat when he saw that he held a
slim young woman. She kicked him, but he ignored it and turned toward Eldicar Manushan.

“This is not your Waylander,” he said. “It is a female.”

“Well, kill her,” shouted Eldicar.

The woman drew a dagger from its sheath. Three-swords absently batted it from her hand. “Stop struggling,” he said. “It is beginning to annoy me.”

“What are you waiting for?” said Eldicar. “Kill her.”

“I have already killed one woman for you, magicker. I did not relish that task, but I did it. It still sits badly with me. I am a warrior, not a woman killer.”

“Then you do it,” Eldicar ordered Iron-arm.

“That’s my captain,” said Iron-arm. “Where he goes I follow.”

“You insolent dogs! I’ll kill her myself!” Eldicar pulled his dagger from his belt and took one step away from the balcony door. At that moment something dark moved into sight behind him. A hand hooked into the collar of his robe, dragging him back. His hips hit the balcony rail, and his body cartwheeled over the edge. Iron-arm sprang toward the balcony. There was no one there. He glanced up.

Through the lashing rain he saw a dark figure scaling the wall, heading toward the upper balcony of the library tower.

Iron-arm looked down. Fifty feet below, the magicker lay spread-eagled on the stones. Moving back into the room, Iron-arm headed for the upper stairs.

Three-swords stopped him. “Trust me, my friend, you do not want to go up there.” He looked down at the woman in his grasp, then released her. She half fell. Three-swords saw a swelling on the side of her face, and her left eye was closing fast. “Sit down for a moment,” he said, “and drink some water. What is your name?”

“Keeva Taliana.”

“Well, Keeva Taliana, have your drink and gather your strength. Then, were I you, I would leave this tower.”

Eldicar Manushan lay very still. Pain threatened to engulf him, but he concentrated his powers, blocking the agony. Fighting for calm, he sent his spirit flowing through his broken body. He had landed heavily on his back, but thankfully, the spine was not severed. His right hip was smashed, and his left leg broken in three places, his left wrist fractured. His head had missed the stone of the path, striking the soft earth of a flower bed beside it. Otherwise his neck might have been broken. There were some internal injuries, but Eldicar quietly and carefully healed them. Occasionally the pain would burst through his defenses, but he held it back and continued to direct power to his injuries, accelerating the healing. He could do little about the broken bones in such a short time, but he swelled and stiffened the muscles around them, forcing them back into position.

The rain pounded down on him as he lay there. Lightning speared across the sky. By its light he saw Waylander scaling the wall. He had almost reached the upper balcony. Despite his broken bones, Eldicar felt a wave of relief sweep over him. He would not now have to be in the room when Anharat was summoned. Even better, the Demon Lord could not be summoned through
him
.

Carefully Eldicar rolled to his stomach and pushed himself to his knees. Sharp pain flared in his ruined hip, but the muscles around it held firm. Rising to his feet, he let out a groan as his broken leg twisted, a jagged shard biting into the cramped muscles of his calf. Bending down, he forced the bone back into place with his thumbs, then tightened the muscles once more.

Taking a deep breath, he put weight on the injured limb. It held. Almost all of his talent had been used up, and Eldicar knew he had to find a place of safety where he could rest and recoup his power. Slowly he inched his way toward the palace, entering a corridor opposite the Oak Room. It came to him then that he did not want to remain in this place. He wanted to
go home. If he could just make it to the stables and saddle a horse, he could ride for the gateway and never again be forced to serve monsters like Deresh Karany. Eldicar thought of the family house beside the lake, the cool breezes flowing over the snowcapped mountains.

He paused as pain swamped him.

I should never have come, he thought. This venture has ruined me. He saw again the contempt in the
Kriaz-nor
’s eyes as he called for the death of the girl, and remembered the night of horror when the
Kraloth
had ripped into the nobles of Kydor.

“I am not an evil man,” he whispered. “The cause was just.”

He tried to hold to the teachings of his youth about the greatness of Kuan Hador and its divine purpose to bring peace and civilization to all peoples. Peace and civilization? Desiccated corpses were strewn around Deresh Karany, who was at this moment summoning the Lord of Demons.

“I am going home,” said Eldicar Manushan.

He limped toward the main doors and dragged them open, stepping out into the storm-swept night.

And came face to face with an angry crowd led by the priest Chardyn.

There were many conflicting thoughts and emotions within the Source priest Chardyn as he led the townspeople up the hill toward the White Palace. First and foremost was a terrible fear. Righteous anger had led him to make his speech at the temple, allied to an underlying belief that an army of common folk would prove a match for a few score soldiers and a magicker.

But when the march began, many of the townspeople had drifted away. And when the storm came, even more hung back. And so it was that Chardyn finally arrived at the White Palace leading a bedraggled group of around a hundred people, many of them women.

He had promised them that the Source would show his power. He had pledged a shield of thunder and a spear of lightning. Well, he had the thunder and the lightning—and with it the sheeting rain that had drenched his followers, cooling their ardor.

Very few of the people with him had weapons of any kind. They had not come to fight. They had come to witness the miracle. The stonemason Benae Tarlin was carrying an iron spear, and to his right Lalitia was holding her dagger.

Benae had asked Chardyn to bless the spear, and the priest had solemnly laid his hands on it and in a loud voice had intoned: “This is a weapon of righteousness. May it blaze with the light of the Source!” That had been back in Carlis, and the crowd had cheered mightily. What Chardyn had noticed was that the spear was old and dull, the point pitted with rust.

The small crowd crested the hill and saw the palace. “When will we see the magic?” asked Benae Tarlin.

Chardyn did not answer. His white robes were soaked, and he felt a great weariness upon him. His own anger had long since been replaced by a feeling of impending doom. All he knew was that he would enter the palace and do his best to wring the throat of Eldicar Manushan. He marched on, Lalitia beside him.

“I hope you are right about the Source,” she said.

As they came closer, the doors of the palace opened, and Eldicar Manushan stepped out to meet them.

Chardyn saw him and hesitated. Thunder rumbled above them, and Chardyn could feel the fear in the crowd swelling.

Eldicar Manushan looked at him. “What do you want here?” he called out.

“I am here, in the name of the Source, to put an end to your evil,” replied Chardyn, aware that his normally powerful voice lacked conviction.

Eldicar moved out from the doorway. The crowd fell back.
“Leave here now,” boomed the magicker, “or I shall summon demons to destroy you all!”

Benae Tarlin backed away from Chardyn. Lalitia swore and stepped in. “Give me that!” she hissed, snatching the iron spear from the stonemason’s hand. Spinning on her heel, Lalitia took two running steps toward Eldicar Manushan and launched the weapon. The surprised magicker threw up his arm, but the spear plunged into his belly. He staggered and almost fell. Then he grabbed the iron haft with both hands, dragging it clear.