Icefalcon's Quest (Darwath) (44 page)

A child crying as her bedclothes caught fire.

They had left because he had begun, slowly, to go mad.

The Icefalcon suddenly understood why.

Smoke and mist funneled down on Ingold again, a black whirlwind like a dust devil through whose ragged fringes lightning flared blue and deadly. Wind and lightning drove him to the edge of the pit, wind and lightning and concentrated malice, blinding and tearing and cold. Now was the time—Zay’s mind centered on destroying the rival mage—Noon or any other of the people of the Real World would have told him to flee. But instead the Icefalcon stood up and shouted, “Zay!” at the top of his soft voice.

The howl of fire and darkness, smoke and nightmare, drowned his words.

“Zay,” he cried again, pitching his throat to the cutting edge of flint, “Zay, she tried to come! Lé-Ciabbeth tried to come to you!”

He hoped to his Ancestors—not that they were ever very helpful—that he had the name right.

The smoke and lightning died. The whirlwind grew still. A leaf skittered, came to rest among the dead snake-skins of the vines. Ingold, driven to his knees on the pit’s edge, looked up in considerable surprise but had the good sense to say nothing.

Stillness filled the room, stillness and darkness broken only by the flickerings of the fires in the corners, the malign whisper of lightning deep in the pit.

Anger.

He felt as he felt in the summer hunting on the plains, when the sky turned green and hail slashed sideways over the grass and the long yellow-brown funnels of the cyclones began to finger silently from the clouds.

Anger black and aching and filled with loneliness.

Not one of them remembered. Not one of them remained
.

She did not come
.

The Icefalcon tried to assemble in his mind what Gil-Shalos would have made of the story, how she would have threaded together the half-guessed clues of Tir’s dreams, of the apports, of Vair’s and Bektis’ words and things Hethya had told him or Loses His Way.

“Lé-Ciabbeth tried to come to you, Zay,” he said slowly, as before him the shape grew into being again, solidifying with a horrible gradualness from shadow and darkness and the choking smolder of the fires in the room.

“When the transporter, the Far-Walker, would not work, she tried to come overland. She died in the badlands, far to the south of here.”

The weight of the anger focused, mad but calm. Conscious as he had never been in his life of his naked helplessness, the Icefalcon reflected that the problem about
keeping a wizard talking to you was that you called yourself to his attention, and there was very little use in being a perfect warrior if one was going to be so stupid as to do what he was doing now.

The whispering was within his mind, but he knew it came from the sick-gleaming silver speck of a moist eye, peering at him out of shadow.
How did she die, barbarian? How do you know this?

Gil would ask,
Was she a mage or not a mage?
It was important to the telling of the tale.

Also, the Icefalcon reflected, to his continued survival. After this he would stick to the truth. It was easier.

He thought about tracks and trails long left cold. “I do not know this, Ancestor of wizards,” he said. “My people found her bones in a stream cut on the hill that lies three days’ walk west of the great pass of Renweth; her bones, and her jewels, green as spring leaves with hearts black as summer night, jewels such as none of us had ever seen. These we buried with her bones …”

Did the Ancestors of the Times Before bury their dead? Why hadn’t he ever asked Gil that?

He didn’t know why, but something made him add, “At the far end of a box canyon, near a stream, where the wild roses first show themselves in spring.” And he saw the place again in his heart.

Long stillness, slowly deepening—
they can find rest in some image
, Hethya had said,
until they can think clearer and find a way through
. There was a sort of whisper in the darkness, a little sound,
Ah
 …

The stillness spread like the ripples of a pond, to all the corners of the Keep.

The Icefalcon said—for himself, for the Dove, and for that vanished lady—“Forgive her that she failed.”

She never came. She never came
.

But now there was only deep sadness in the thought, and that deepening calm, as if the whole Keep might slide over into sleep and dreaming. The Icefalcon saw again those years in the Keep of the Shadow, the knockings in
the darkness growing louder and more angry, the unexplained little fires, the things falling down, disappearing, moving. The madness that was Zay’s only refuge from regret.

“You waited a long time for her, Zay,” came Ingold’s voice, gentle out of the darkness, like the voices heard in one’s mind in dreams. “No one could blame you for your anger. But now it is she who waits for you.”

Black rage swelled again, suffocating; the air lambent with fire. The chain where it hung down the side of the pit jerked and rattled, and for an instant the smoke collecting ever thicker above their heads bellied and dipped, whirlwinds reaching down.

Then that silence again, and stillness, as Zay let his anger go.

I don’t know the way out
.

“I do.” The mage’s deep, flawed voice was genuinely sad. “And I will show you.”

The Icefalcon wasn’t sure then what he saw—but then one wasn’t, dealing with the Wise. He thought Ingold made a gesture with one hand, sketching lines of light that stretched out from his fingers, past where the wall had to be, into zones of the air that glittered as if jeweled. He thought he saw stars, but they were deep in the earth and that was impossible.

The lines were already fading when a voice said, far away,
Thank you
. Darkness streamed back, darkness heavy and breathless, darkness without relief—darkness dead, at rest after three thousand years of madness and pain. From the last flicker of light the voice whispered,
Repay?

Ingold started to shake his head and to lift his hand in benediction, when the Icefalcon spoke up again.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “there is one last thing you can do for us.”

“I have never in my life,” whispered Ingold, as he and the Icefalcon, with Tir scurrying between them, strode up
the dark stairs to the Keep of the Shadow above, “heard such a farrago …”

“Don’t give me that, old man. I’ve heard worse from you in drinking games with the Guards.” He wiped a trickle of blood off his forehead.

“And you’re making a lot of assumptions about what everyone is able to do in that scheme of yours.” Ingold was digging around in his various satchels and pockets for something to bandage his hands. “Particularly me.”

The Icefalcon raised his eyebrows. “Are you not the greatest wizard and swordsman in the West of the world?”

“What, out of twenty-five survivors? There’s an honor for you. And given the fact that …”

Ingold stopped short on the stairs, looking upward, and the Icefalcon, following his gaze, felt a sinking dread.

Red light smote their faces as they rounded the curve of the stair, a crimson glare that illuminated from below the billows of smoke that drifted in the dead black air. Heat condensed in the narrow space—heat and the soft far-off roaring, like the beat of the sea.

The Icefalcon whispered, “Damn.”

Ingold nodded. “Damn indeed.” There was no need for further words between them: they both knew what had happened.

The fires started by Zay in his battle with Ingold had spread.

The Keep of the Shadow was burning.

“You have to hold them.” Ingold stopped, leaning on his staff, which had appeared as an apport at the bottom of the first flight of steps. He was gasping for breath in the heat, and even here, at the far back of the third level, the orange glare of the Icefalcon’s torch illuminated ropes of smoke twisting overhead. “The blaze will reach the Aisle soon. Vair must know already that he has to leave by the transporter or die.”

“How much time will you need?” Though he would have died rather than admit it, the Icefalcon was grateful for the halt. He was shaking with fatigue, the sweat that poured down his face stinging in the cuts. They had been forced repeatedly to turn aside, to seek ways past corridors or stairways that were already infernos. Twice Ingold had put forth the power of his spells to get them through red holocausts of flame, but after hours in the pit his own strength was half spent and there was more to accomplish.

The wizard shook his head. “If Zay’s instructions were accurate, not long.” He coughed, pressing a hand to his side, sweat-mixed blood and soot a glistening mask on his face. “But Bektis will almost certainly be in the control chamber. Do what you can.” He slapped the Icefalcon’s arm, as if the request concerned the polishing of boots before suppertime. “Altir? I think it’s best if you come with me.”

Tir nodded. He had been silent through the battle in the subcrypt, the race up flight after flight of steps, clinging to Ingold’s hand. His blue eyes, nearly black in the torchlight,
streamed tears from the smoke, and the breath sawed audibly in his lungs, but his face was expressionless, filled with a stoic resignation.

“You’ll keep Vair from getting to the Keep?”

“I will, my Lord.” The Icefalcon laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “That I promise you.”

Watching them hurry down the corridor, wizard and child together in the faint glow of blue witchlight that Ingold summoned before their feet, the Icefalcon reflected that the past month of Tir’s life would have been considered rough even for a child of the Talking Stars People, and the boy had acquitted himself well.

He couldn’t track as well as a child of the Real World, of course.

The Icefalcon turned and headed for the transporter at a run.

At the next crossing of the corridors he stopped again, flattened into the shadows. Men filled the passageway before him, coughing in the smoke. Torch-glare caught bald heads, naked faces, eyes staring glazedly at the bent sweaty necks of the men in front of them. Someone yelled an oath in the ha’al tongue and the men stopped, jostling, and began to mill—fire ahead?

The Icefalcon doubled back, sought yet another way around.

Fire was spreading. Grown by the stubborn, angry magic of the Keep of the Shadow, the gourds and bean plants, the groundnuts and potatoes, had penetrated every crypt, every level, even ventilation shafts and water pipes. Some still lived, knotted in spongy symbiosis with fungus, lichen, moss, and toadstools, and slowed the fire’s spread while emitting suffocating billows of smoke; in other places wizened vines made fuses along which the flames raced faster than a man could run. Twice and thrice the Icefalcon was stopped by walls of flame, hearing behind him all the while the panicked shouting, the bellowed orders of Vair’s army as it, too, sought a way to the transport chambers that now were their only hope of egress and life.
The Icefalcon wondered if Ingold would make it through the blaze to the round chamber where the spells of the transporter could be worked—wondered if Zay had spoken the truth to the old man in the end or had decided to play one last devil’s trick on them all.

Which, he reflected, would be just like the old bastard.

A corridor lay open before him, walled both sides in fire as the vines along each wall burst into flame—roofed with fire as the fungal mat overhead ignited. Flakes of flame snowed on the Icefalcon as he wrapped his scarf over his mouth and nose and ran, praying the passageway wouldn’t end in another incendiary wall.

Behind him he heard someone yell.
Of course
, he thought.
They think I know the way
.

Let’s hope they’re right
.

“Man, we’d given you over for dead!” Hethya sprang to her feet. “We were giving you another few minutes …”

The Icefalcon pitched gasping through the vestibule door and whipped sword from sheath—“They’re behind me!”—and turned even as he cried the words to slice the first man through the door behind him. More yelling, more milling in the vestibule—weapons thrusting through the narrow opening; seize, slash, block. Blood gouting out in streams and a severed hand flying against the wall like a swatted bug.

“Mother of Tears!” cried Hethya, and Loses His Way demanded, “Where’s the boy?”

“With Ingold” was all the Icefalcon had time to rasp as a halberd opened his leather sleeve.

“He’s safe?”

“God, no,” panted the Icefalcon. “Don’t be a fool.”

“Oh,” she said, evidently realizing the absurdity of the word in the circumstances. “Sorry. If you’ve got any brilliant strategies at this point, boy-o,” she added a moment later, “how about trottin’ ’em out?”

Smoke poured from the vestibule, thicker and rank with the smell of new burning. The air was like an oven, the floor underfoot hot through his boot-soles.

“A curtain wall would help,” panted the Icefalcon. “Machiolations. Boiling oil.” It was impossible to breathe.

“We’d have that if we hadn’t eaten all the pemmican.”

The Icefalcon sliced hard at the next head to appear through the doorway, had his blade intercepted on a two-pronged halberd. The inexperience of the clone that wielded it was the only thing that saved the Icefalcon from having the weapon wrenched out of his hand; he was able to slip in under the shaft and slash the man’s arm with his dagger, then pull free. Instinct made him keep low—Hethya’s sword-swipe at the next enemy would have taken his ear off.

“Waste of good food,” he said.

The ventilation shafts gushed nothing but smoke now; the Icefalcon felt his skin blister in the scorching air.

“Can we ourselves use the Far-Walker?” asked Loses His Way. Blood streamed from his chest and arm where a lance had pierced. “Get out of this place and warn the people of the Keep?”

“We can’t activate it.” The Icefalcon hacked again with his sword, his arms like lead. “It takes a Wise One to do that.” Blood spouted over him from the man whose throat he opened; someone in the rear rank pulled the dying clone aside.