Krondor the Assassins (33 page)

‘‘Very well,’’ said the old priest. ‘‘Let him feel every exquisite moment of pain as his life runs from him and his soul feeds our master. But hold him tightly, lest he disrupt the ceremony.

Our master does not suffer error.’’

He turned and led the way, with the other priests following.

James was taken then by the two men who held him, with two other guards following behind.

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Every fiber of his body hurt, and the likelihood of his survival seemed close to non-existent, but James found he felt no fear. Somehow he had always avoided imagining his own de-mise. He knew, abstractly, that some day he would die, just as every mortal being eventually succumbed at the end of their days, but at no time had James dwelled on that simple fact. As his old friend Amos Trask had once said, ‘‘No one gets out of life alive.’’

But despite the high probability of it, James could not accept the reality of his own death. Part of his mind was astonished at this; he knew he should be mewling like a baby, pleading for his life.

Then he realized that, to the core of his being, he
knew
it was not his time to die. Instead of fear, his mind turned to how he was going to get out of this mess.

They moved into the armory, where James could see the ceremony was already underway. The hundred-odd assassins knelt as the old priest entered. They were chanting and already the place felt fey with dark magic.

Torches flickered around the room, and James used every skill of observation he possessed to notice details he had missed the last time he had witnessed the sacrifice. The ancient bellows over the forge was still intact, though they had not been used in over a hundred years; the chains used to lift and move the cauldrons once used to pour molten metal for fashioning armor and weapons were rusty, but looked serviceable. His mind’s eyes measured the distances between the dais and two large stone repair tables, and the forges, and how close to those tables the chains hung. James realized that it was unlikely he was going to run through this throng, so every other possible means of escape had to be evaluated, and quickly.

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The assassins faced the dais upon which he was to be killed, gazing upon the visage of the demon painted upon the wall.

The two who flanked James continued to hold him, while the two who had followed joined the others on the floor of the makeshift temple.

As he was marched up the steps to the base of the stone over which he would be stretched, James looked down to see an intricate design chalked upon the floor, a five-pointed star with a large wax candle burning at each point. He observed that the priests took great care to avoid those points or stepping over the lines of the pentagram. He racked his memory; something about the marks on the floor was disturbingly familiar.

As they moved him toward the stone altar, James felt his pulse increase. He still felt no fear, but instead a strange sense of urgency. Whatever he was going to do, he needed to do it in the next few moments and he still didn’t have any idea what it was.

Suddenly, he went limp, crying out, ‘‘No! No! Anything but this!’’

The high priest turned for a brief instant to see what the commotion was, but the sight of a victim begging for his life was nothing new, and he went back to the spell casting.

One priest opened a large book and held it aloft before the high priest so he could read from it. The old man read in silence for a moment, then cried out in a language harsh and alien to James’s ear. The room seemed to darken, as if something was absorbing the torchlight, and a vague shape formed in the center of the pentagram.

James knew that as soon as blood was spilled, the creature would solidify and enter this realm. He felt the two assassins lift him, dragging him the last few steps to the stone.

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James took a deep breath, for he knew this must be the moment. If he was bent back over that stone, held hand and foot, he would die.

He feigned a convulsion, sobbing and screaming as he collapsed to his knees, pulling the two men over slightly. Then suddenly he planted his feet and stood up, throwing the two assassins off balance. Ignoring every ache and protesting joint, he pressed upward with his hands, causing the two men to instinctively change their grip on his wrists. At that instant, he pulled free.

With his right hand, he pulled a dagger from the belt of the man to his right, and threw his shoulder into him, knocking him back into the sacrifice stone. Then he kicked out with his left leg, knocking the man on that side backwards.

The man on the right reached for his belt and found his scabbard empty. James said, ‘‘Looking for this?’’ He lashed out with the blade, catching the assassin across the neck, opening his artery so it sprayed blood across the stone and onto the floor. ‘‘If you’re so anxious to make this horror appear, use your own blood to do it!’’

The high priest shouted, ‘‘No! It is not time!’’

As soon as blood hit the altar, the figure in the pentagram coalesced, even more horrible than James remembered. It was nearly nine feet in height. The face was as he remembered it, vulpine, with flaming eyes, and curving goat’s horns. And now the lower half of the body was visible; the demon stood on goat’s legs.

‘‘No!’’ cried the high priest, again.

The creature glanced at him. In a deep and terrifying voice it asked him something in the same language the assassins used.

The priest seemed at a loss for a reply, and instead grabbed 300

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the ancient tome that had fallen to the floor and attempted to read something.

James kept moving. The man with the slashed throat twitched atop the stone, while the other guard tried to regain his balance. James helped him out, by reaching out and grabbing the front of his tunic, pulling him forward. He moved out of the way and swung him around in the direction of the high priest.

Then James lifted his right leg and planted his foot against the chest of the uninjured assassin and pushed. The man fell backwards with a startled expression and crashed into the high priest and the one hurrying to get the bowl into which James’s blood was to have flowed.

The ancient book flew from the high priest’s old hands, and instinctively he reached after it, howling, ‘‘No!’’

Those near the dais were starting to rise, unsure of what was happening in those furious moments, but those at the back were still upon their knees.

Trying to retrieve the book, the high priest reached across the lines of the pentagram. The demon shrieked in rage. It reached down with two powerful, clawed hands and seized the old man.

Realizing his blunder, the high priest screamed in terror; then babbled incoherently as he witnessed his approaching death. The demon’s great maw opened, revealing jagged teeth as long as a man’s finger, dripping saliva that smoked faintly.

With a sudden snap of its jaws, it ripped the face from the skull of the priest, splattering those nearby with gore.

For a brief instant, all eyes in the room were upon the grisly sight, and James again took advantage. He grabbed the remaining priest by the shoulder and belt and gave him a 301

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shove—what he had heard tavern-keepers call ‘‘the bum’s rush’’—toward the pentagram.

The wounded man and the priest with the bowl both stumbled into the pentagram. The priest knocked over one of the candles, and chaos erupted.

The creature bellowed. It snatched the head off the second priest, then ripped the arm off the wounded assassin. Pieces of bodies were torn and devoured and blood ran down the monster’s chin.

The other candles went out and cries of fear filled the chamber.

Some members of the assembled band of assassins chanted, rocking back and forth, while others rose, looking for an escape route. Two drew scimitars, to defend themselves against the demon, but others simply sat in mute amazement.

James judged it the perfect moment for his escape. He leaped on top of the sacrificial stone and glanced at the demon.

The demon looked back at him, and with terrifying certainty he realized the creature was no longer confined.

James leapt toward one of the chains hanging overhead, just as the demon reached for him. James pulled up his legs, then shot them forward, swinging clear of the black talons. He arched away from the slaughter, and let go of the chains. He landed upon an old work table, next to kneeling assassins, who regarded him in amazement.

Then all attention was returned to the demon who was stepping down from the dais and starting to feed in earnest.

James jumped a few feet to another table, and from there to the floor between two fleeing assassins. They ignored him, for whatever religious fervor they might feel at the sight of 302

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another dying, it was clear they were less devout when their own lives were in the balance.

Most of the fleeing assassins were heading toward the stables, and James did not wish to risk going that way. He ducked into a side corridor and ran back towards the break in the ceiling where he had found the ambush room. He was astonished at how fast he reached it when running, compared to creeping around in the dark.

He glanced up and cursed. There was no way he could reach the crack overhead by himself. Hurrying to the closest room, he found a weapons trunk. This he emptied, then dragged it to the spot below the crack.

If he had been able to ignore his wounds before, they were now clearly evident to him. Sweat dripped from his hair and off the end of his nose, and the salt of it stung every abrasion and cut. His bruised muscles threatened to cramp as he dragged the heavy trunk along.

He shoved the trunk upright and for a brief moment his vision swam and he felt light-headed. Breathing slowly, he calmed himself then climbed up on the truck. He reached the opening in the ceiling and with great difficulty pulled himself through, despite almost losing his grip and falling. He held on by force of will, for he knew he could not muster the strength to try again. Then he climbed up over the flagstone floor of the ambush room and saw the ramp opening to the night sky.

From below came screams and an inhuman roar, and James knew that eventually whoever was still down there would be dead. And then the demon would start looking for a way out.

Half-walking, half-staggering, James made his way toward the ramp. He took three steps before he fell face-first into the dirt, unconscious.

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*

*

He blinked and saw William holding his head upright, while someone else held the waterskin to his mouth. He drank greedily.

When the skin was withdrawn, he saw that the other man was a soldier from Krondor. The sound of footfalls echoed in the room and James sat up and saw men moving toward the hole in the floor. He said, ‘‘Wait!’’ His voice was a dry croak.

‘‘What?’’ asked William.

‘‘Demon. It’s loose down there.’’

William grabbed the tunic of the nearest soldier and said,

‘‘Urgent message for His Highness. Squire James reports there’s a demon loose down in the fortress.’’

To the soldiers in the room William said, ‘‘You lot stay here, but I don’t want anyone going into that hole until you get orders.’’ To James, he said, ‘‘You come with me. The Prince will want to hear this from you.’’

He put his arm around James’s waist and helped him to his feet, then half-carried him up the ramp. As they neared the top, William said, ‘‘Is there a good story attached to why you were face-down in the dust wearing only your smalls?’’

James winced from the movement. ‘‘Not really.’’

William got them to the top of the ramp and asked, ‘‘Can you ride?’’

‘‘Do I have a choice?’’

‘‘You’ll double with me,’’ said William. He signaled for a horse. A soldier responsible for the mounts led one to them, and held its head while William got James up into the saddle.

William swung up behind James and took the reins. He set off, shouting, ‘‘Hang on!’’

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James groaned but held on. They cantered down the wadi as the sun rose in the eastern sky. Cradled against William’s chest, James asked, ‘‘Where’s Arutha?’’

‘‘Before the eastern gate!’’ said William. ‘‘Edwin got to the Prince and he ordered a forced march. Treggar and I found them fighting a band of assassins, and led them here.’’

‘‘I hope to the gods he hasn’t led a charge into that stable,’’

said James.

They rode hard to the base of the wadi, and turned east.

After one of the most painful rides in James’s life, they reached Arutha’s position.

No camp was set up; rather the Prince and his officers had gathered atop a nearby outcropping of stone, watching as the soldiers were deployed before the open gates. Arutha looked over as William rode up and reined in. Captain Treggar sat next to the Prince and two other officers, around a camp table upon which a map lay.

‘‘You going to live?’’ the Prince asked James.

James half-slid, half-fell to the ground, staying upright by hanging on to the stirrup of William’s horse. ‘‘Not if I can help it,’’ he replied.

Arutha indicated that someone should put a cloak around the near-naked squire. A soldier quickly complied. To James, Arutha said, ‘‘What is going on in there? We chased a bunch of assassins inside after thrashing them five miles from here, and most of them came running right back out again, glad enough for a fight. We were forced back for a bit.’’

‘‘Demon,’’ said James. ‘‘Those fools conjured one up.’’

Arutha nodded. ‘‘Orders,’’ he said to a runner nearby. ‘‘Tell Lieutenant Gordon to hold his position.’’ Looking back to James, he said, ‘‘Well, squire, what can you tell me?’’

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James winced and motioned to William for the waterskin.

‘‘Not much, Highness. I’m not an expert, but I suspect that creature won’t come out until nightfall. Once he does, I don’t know how you’re going to keep him here.’’