Mistress of the Catacombs (36 page)

"They closed the gates," Alecto said, her voice sharpened by the undertone of condescension she'd heard in Ilna's words. "We won't be able to walk straight out like we did last night."

"We'll manage," Ilna said. Her fingers were plaiting cords as she walked along. She wished she had some long straws snatched from the stable instead, because for this purpose she was working in a larger scale than she usually did. Her cords were short, no more than two finger's lengths apiece, so she had to weave several to manage the effect she wanted.

She smiled harshly again. As she'd said to the wild girl: they'd manage.

A family—father, mother, three children, and at the end of the line a servant—passed them going in the opposite direction. At their head was a minor temple official whose lantern lighted his own way, not that of those he was guiding. He looked irritated; they were nervous and uncertain.

Ilna glared at the guide, then found her gaze softening as she met the eyes of the woman carrying her youngest in a sling of coarse cloth. They didn't know anyone in Donelle but one another, so they'd been roused from sleep and led off to a collection center for strangers from their district with no idea of when they'd be released. The children, already tired and whining, would be a shrieking burden long before then.

The Mistress and her Children didn't care. Ilna supposed she needn't care either, since these people were part of the reason the Pack was loose to hunt in Carus' dreams.

She and Alecto came around a bend in the street which brought them into sight of the wall. The city gate had been closed, apparently with some difficulty. A freshly-attached length of hawser ran diagonally from the upper hinge of one of the leaves, lifting the opposite corner so that it didn't sag into the ground and lock the panel open.

A dozen armed men stood in a morose circle in front of the gateway. They were militia, probably members of the night watch called out for this special duty. Close by were a trio of mercenaries, bulky fair-skinned armsmen from Blaise. There was a watchtower, but if its floors were in the same condition as the gate Ilna understood why the guards weren't in it.

Both groups watched the women approach. The civilians looked worried; the attitude of the soldiers was more generally speculative, though Ilna noticed the senior man lifted his broad-bladed sword a finger's breadth in the sheath to make sure wouldn't bind if he needed to draw it suddenly.

One of the civilians held a lantern hanging from the crossbar of a pole. The lamp had at least two wicks, but the dirty parchment lenses passed only a yellowish glow. Ilna frowned as she walked closer, wondering if there'd be as much light as she needed.

Alecto walked a half step behind. She didn't touch the horned hilt of her dagger, but Ilna could smell murderous tension in the wild girl's sweat. Alecto might fly into berserk slaughter at any moment, driven mostly by fear. Against so many armed men, the result was a foregone conclusion.

"What are you doing here?" said a militiaman in a bronze cuirass, his voice rising a note on every syllable. His full white moustache flared into his sideburns. "You haven't been marked!"

Each of the militiamen had the spider stamping in the middle of his forehead, though the helmets of several of the men partly covered the symbol. The speaker wore real body armor and a number of the others had cowhide vests which they obviously hoped would turn an edge. They looked more threatened than threatening.

"No, we haven't," Ilna said in a clear voice. The knotted pattern was a ball in her left palm. "Hold that lantern up and I'll show you why."

The guards were all staring at her. The three professionals moved around to the side so that they had a clear view without being blocked by the militia.

Ilna nodded, gesturing them closer. When she thought everyone could see what she was doing, she reached down with her right hand and pulled the pattern open in the light.

The guards went down like lightning-struck sheep in a clatter of equipment and dropped weapons. They were stunned, not dead, but it would be hours before they regained their senses. The lantern broke on the pavement, spilling oil that blazed into soft flame.

The old man in the cuirass had fallen only to his knees. He pawed his eyes with his left hand and made choking noises. Bad vision had saved him from the pattern's full impact.

Alecto knelt over him, her dagger out. Ilna dropped her cords and caught Alecto's shoulder; she couldn't reach the knife wrist. Alecto twisted and slit the old man's throat to the spine. Blood gouted onto the cobblestones, black in the light of burning oil.

Ilna picked up the pattern and began to unknot it as a way of occupying her fingers. She was afraid of what she might do to her companion if she let her control slip.

"There's a wicket gate in the main panel," Ilna said coldly. "Help me get it open."

She put the cords in her sleeve and stepped to the city gate. A door small enough that she'd have to hunch to pass through it was set in the center of the right leaf. Ilna slid the drawbolt open, but the sagging frame kept her from pushing the wicket open.

Alecto slammed the butt of a watchman's spear into the panel. It sprang ajar. Alecto stuck the shaft into the crack and levered the door fully open.

She smiled at Ilna. "Are we going out or aren't we?" she said.

"Yes," said Ilna. Her mind was white with fury, but she'd spent most of her life angry, so she knew how to control the emotion. She slipped through the doorway, out of Donelle.

On the pavement behind lay the ring of guards, their eyes open. They were breathing as heavily as sleeping seals; all but the man in the bronze cuirass, whose feet had just ceased to drum the cobblestones.

* * *

Garric swung to the top of the wall and found Lord Thalemos squatting there. "Where's the ladder down?" Thalemos cried.

A watchman with a cudgel and a whirling rattle stood calling over his shoulder to people Garric couldn't see around the curve of the wall. Probably it was a detachment of Protectors, summoned from the guardhouse at the front of the enclosure. More Protectors were coming down the street from the other direction, their spears raised to strike.

"Jump, you fool!" Garric snarled. Thalemos goggled at him, then leaped down without looking. He'd have belly-flopped on the pavement if Toster hadn't been there to catch him.

Garric jumped also, angry at the world and particularly at himself. He'd let his fury out at Thalemos, who was guilty of nothing worse than having lived a normal life which hadn't fitted him for slaughter and prison breaks. Between Garric's tone and the bloody sword in his hand, the rescued prisoner had almost broken his neck in fright.

And if that had happened, what would Tint's death have been worth?

A javelin flickered in the air. The leading Protector, still twenty yards down the street, threw up his hands and fell backward. Prada stood on the roof of the building where the gang was hiding. He cocked another missile. The surviving Protectors ducked for shelter in doorways.

Garric followed his group across the street and into the shop. Toster half-helped, half-carried Thalemos. Garric tried to sheathe his sword, but the curved blade and memory of Tint's cracking bones kept him from finding the mouth of the scabbard.

Metron was jabbering demands in his squeaky mental voice. It was with an effort of will that Garric managed not to smash the crystal between his heel and the cobblestones.

Halophus and Mersrig slammed, then barred the shop door behind Garric, the last to enter. The panel wouldn't withstand a determined burglar, let alone a military assault.

Vascay stood at the door of the inner room, gesturing Garric through tight-faced. The wizard lay on the littered floor, his head pillowed on a rolled-up cloak. Yellow lamplight helped turn Metron's his complexion sallow, but Garric had seen corpses laid out for burial with more apparent life in them.

"Put the amulet on my chest!" Metron's voice said. "Quickly, now!"

Garric slipped off the silver chain and set it with the crystal on Metron's chest. He was surprised at how much lighter he felt; the amulet's psychic weight was greater than he'd realized.

The tiny figure of light within the crystal vanished. The wizard's lungs swelled. He lurched upright, snorting like a man saved from drowning. Looking around wildly he shouted, "Lord Thalemos! Is Lord Thalemos all right?"

Heavy objects hammered the shop door. Wood splintered, followed by a scream.

"Who's next?" Hame cried in a high voice. "Who else wants to die for the Intercessor?"

"He's all right," Vascay snarled, "but he won't be long if we don't get out of here. Come on! You swore you could get us free!"

"Yes, but bring him here," Metron said, crossing his legs shakily. He'd drawn a circle of power on the grimy floor before going into the trance. Now he moved the oil lamp into the center of the figure and took the athame from under his sash.

Garric started for the main room. Vascay waved him back. "Stay with this one," he said. "I'll send the boy in."

Over his shoulder he muttered, "I've seen enough wizardry for the night—and for a lifetime!"

Metron ignored him. He held the sapphire ring between his left thumb and forefinger, then dipped the athame in his other hand over the words written about the circle.

"Rexi," he chanted. "Thorexi hipporexi..."

The candle guttered—but not, as Garric first thought, because the wizard's movements were fanning it. The flame pinched in and expanded the way ale spurts from a full barrel, sucking the bunghole closed and reopening rhythmically. The light grew brighter but took on the chill red tinge of wizardry.

"Maskelo," said Metron. "Maskelon maskelouphron."

Thalemos came into the room, wearing a more settled expression than Garric had previously seen on his face. The boy had been snatched from his cell and carried through a chaos that would've disconcerted anybody facing it cold; no wonder he'd seemed dazed most of the time. Now that Garric looked back on the events of the night, he marveled at the thought he'd really been involved in that.

"You wanted me, sir?" Thalemos asked Garric.

Garric hooked his thumb at Metron. "He did," he said. "I think he just wanted to be sure you were safe."

"Besro, uphro, bolbeoch!" Metron said. He held out the ring in his left hand so that the jewel glittered in the wizardlight.

There'd been a pause in the noise from the front room. Now there was a crash that must have been the main shutter giving way, followed instantly by the shriek of steel on steel. A man cried out on a rising note.

Garric turned and started forward. His sword was still in his hand.

"Bring them here!" Metron shouted hoarsely. "I've opened the way, but we've got to leave quickly.

Garric looked over his shoulder. The wizard was trying to get to his feet, still holding up the ring so the candleflame fell on it. The sapphire's facets scattered light in an oval of bright points against the plaster wall. For a moment Garric thought he was looking at the starry sky; then the pattern blurred into an outrushing void.

"I'll get them!" he said. He stepped into the main room.

The bandits hunched, facing the front wall of the shop. Echeon's men had battered through the center of the shutter, and the dovetailed vertical slats to either side slanted loose. Lanternlight from the street silhouetted the bandits and the men trying to fight their way in.

The Protectors were in half-armor, but the shop's lintel had tripped several of them. Their bodies lay in the opening, a fresh barrier for their fellows, and Mersrig had snatched up one of the fallen shields.

"Metron's got the way open!" Garric shouted.

A Protector shouted and rushed the opening, his shield held before him at arm's length. Toster met the charge, swinging his axe sideways to clear the low ceiling. The edge split the round of laminated wood with a crash, staggering the Protector. Two spearpoints and Hame's sword bit the man's knee and lower legs, bringing him down in screaming agony. His helmet rolled off; Ademos stabbed him through the back of his neck. None of his fellows had followed.

"The way's open!" Garric repeated. "Head for the back room! I'll hold them off!"

He didn't know why he'd said that, not consciously at any rate; it just didn't cross his mind that he wouldn't be the rear guard in this situation. The bandits were all familiar with weapons, but these tight quarters were sword territory. Garric was the only trained swordsmen among the Brethren... and besides, he was Prince Garric of Haft, descendant of Carus, the greatest ruler and man-of-war in the Old Kingdom.

A dozen Brethren looked at Garric, then scrambled toward Metron in the other chamber. They were the men on the fringes of the fight. There hadn't been room enough for the whole band in the opening. The Brethren had sorted themselves into those who wanted to face the first rush of Echeon's minions, and those who preferred someone else take that duty.

The others didn't retreat. Their blood was up, and they knew well that turning their backs now was likely to signal their own slaughter. The Protectors were massing in the street, in great numbers and under the control of officers who'd had time to assess the situation. Overhead, swords hacked at the roofing. Prada had barred the trap door when he came back down, but the tiles wouldn't last long under determined assault.

One-handed Garric tugged the shield from a dead Protector's grip, tossed it up and caught it by the paired handles in the center. It was a buckler, not a target that would've been strapped to the man's arm.

"Get into the back room!" Garric shouted. "Quickly, for the Lady's sake!"

"Stand clear!" said Vascay. "I'm going to throw out the last of the cave dust! That'll kill everybody in the street and we can get away!"

"What!" shrieked Halophus. "Are you crazy?"

Vascay flung a bag overarm. The Brethren who faced the opening now scrambled back in panic. They knew how indiscriminately dangerous the spores were.

The Protectors stood in a double rank, their small shields held forward. As an officer shouted an order, the bag caught the upper edge of a shield and burst in a spray of dust. The men pushed away, screaming in fearful agony. Their serried order disintegrated as though a volcano had just erupted in their midst.

"Go, boy!" Vascay said, clapping Garric on the shoulder. "They'll figure out it was plaster fallen from the ceiling soon enough, and I don't want to be around when they do!"

Only three of the Brethren remained in the side chamber with Thalemos and Metron when Garric followed Vascay through the doorway. Toster stood beside the roiling blur where the wall had been, his face screwed up in terror. He started toward the vortex, then flinched back. His axe trembled; the head and upper helve were slick with Protectors' brains.

"Get through or get out of the way!" Metron screamed. "How long do you think I can hold this?"

Garric tossed down the shield he'd appropriated and sheathed his sword without difficulty. He stepped in front of Toster and backed the big man away, keeping his own body between Toster and the wizard-door.

With a hand behind his back, Garric gestured the other bandits to go. To Toster he said, "You saved my life when I came back over the wall, Toster. I was done up from what happened inside. Without you to take care of Thalemos for me, they'd have had me there in the street."

Prada and Mersrig passed through the vortex, each pausing for a moment before jumping in. The void flashed with rose, then azure, wizardlight as the men vanished.

"Lord Thalemos!" Vascay said. "You're next! Except for you we could've stayed where we belonged."

"I'm afraid," Toster whimpered. "I won't do it! I won't do it!"

Thalemos shot Garric a look of uncertainty. Garric waved him fiercely on, afraid to turn away from Toster. Vascay grasped Thalemos by the waistband and the nape of the neck. He half-walked, half-threw the youth into the vortex ahead of his own entry.

Metron stood and stumbled toward the wall. When the sapphire no longer winked in the candlelight, the portal began to shrink. The wizard disappeared into it with the usual double flash. It continued shrinking.

Toster wore a short cape. Garric twisted the garment, then raised its cowl to blind the big man the way he'd have concealed fire from a terrified horse.

"Come on, Toster!" he shouted, holding the man by the left wrist and shoulder. "Run! With me!"

They lumbered forward, Toster sobbing like a child behind the thick wool. There was still a chance....

"Now duck!" Garric cried, forcing down the big man's head at the same time he lowered his own. "And jump!"

It was like diving through a skin of ice over the millpond, hard and cutting and colder than life could bear. Garric tried to scream, but his flesh was a mist of atoms exploding across time and space. He had no being—

With a shuddering haste Garric was back in his body: gasping, lying on soft dirt in a forest like none he'd ever seen. He still held Toster. Around them were the other members of the band. Some—those who'd passed through early in the process—stood and looked nervously to their weapons.

Metron lay on his back. His expression was agonized, his eyes screwed shut. The ring was on his left middle finger. Without opening his eyes, he raised his hand so that the sapphire lay against the middle of his forehead. His right hand groped on his chest, then closed on the crystal amulet.

Vascay untangled himself from Lord Thalemos. Both men appeared to be all right; at least as much so as Garric himself was.

Sighing, Garric shoved himself onto his knees, then hunched upright. He could feel every part of himself; not just a finger, say, but every atom of skin and flesh and bone that formed each finger.

The pieces had been separate. Now they were joined again, were him again; but in the future Garric would never be able to forget their individual existences.

He looked around. The ground was mostly bare, but arching upward around him were clumps of flat-trunked green vegetation that hid most of the sky.

Something croaked. It sounded like a frog the size of an ox.

"You all right, Gar?" Vascay said. He still had one of his javelins. He used it butt-down as a cane as he got to his feet.

"Yeah," Garric said. He gestured at the forest. "Vascay, these aren't trees. It's grass. We're in a field of grass."

Vascay nodded agreeably, eyeing the landscape as he wiped loam from his javelin's butt-spike. "Could be," he said. "Could be. What I'm happiest to see now is that it's not grass full of Protectors, eh?"

Thalemos walked toward Garric and stopped a polite double-pace away with his hands crossed behind him, waiting to be acknowledged. Vascay had turned his attention to the long cut along Hame's side.

"Lord Thalemos?" Garric said. "You want something of me?"

All the bandits were up, apparently unharmed by their passage to this place. Toster was using the edge of a giant grassblade to clean his axe. He saw Garric and gave him a shamefaced grin.