The Shattered Mask (34 page)

She tried her best to scowl her trepidation away. Mortal or wraith, judging from the way he always held back from the thick of the fighting, Marance was wary of his enemies’ swords, and that ought to mean that she and Thamalon could cut him down and send him back to the netherworld.

Hooves thundering on the cobblestones, the stolen war-horses plunged out onto the broad thoroughfare that was Galorgar’s Ride. From here, the Uskevren had a straight course north to the High Bridge, and Shamur prayed they would now make better time. She squinted against the icy wind now gusting directly in her face, straining for a first glimpse of the Klaroun Gate. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the ornately carved arch emerged from the darkness ahead. A line of men, weapons in hand, stood across the opening.

Shamur knew the Talendar warriors wouldn’t close up their end of the killing box prematurely, for then the children couldn’t enter. Their present state of readiness could only mean that Tamlin, Thazienne, and Talbot were on the bridge, and that the other would-be assassins were closing in on them, if they hadn’t done so already.

Though the guards were facing north, it would have been absurd even to hope that they wouldn’t discern Thamalon and Shamur’s approach, because, of course, the destriers’ drumming hoof beats gave them away. The warriors turned and eyed the riders with an air of uncertainty. Shamur could virtually read their minds. They’d been ordered to hold the Old Owl’s fledglings on the bridge, not to keep anyone off it. Still, the newcomers’ frantic pace alarmed them, or else the guards reckoned they shouldn’t allow anyone onto the

span to witness their comrades committing murder. In any case, one of them waved a sword over his head, signaling the strangers to halt.

Thamalon had happened upon a rack of lances on the way to the Talendar stables and appropriated one for himself. He couched the weapon now. Meanwhile, Shamur drew her broadsword, and, recognizing the riders as a genuine threat, the warriors hastily readied themselves to receive a charge.

With his longer weapon and his steed a length ahead of Shamur’s, Thamalon drew first blood. The lance punched through the torso of the warrior in the middle of the line. Thamalon dropped the now-immobilized spear and rode on. Other warriors lunged from either side, and he caught a sword cut on his battered buckler.

Shamur lost track of him after that, because her mount crashed into the line, and she had her own fighting to think about. She split the skull of the foe on her right, then cut at the man on her left. But across the body was the more difficult stroke for a rider, and the warrior managed to skip back out of range.

Shamur tried to push clear of the guardsmen. Had she succeeded, she could either have sped on up the bridge or turned and attacked anew with the momentum of a full charge to her advantage, but her horse suddenly balked. Something had evidently hurt or spooked the animal, but she had no time to wonder what, for now the surviving warriors were driving in from all sides.

Pivoting back and forth, Shamur slashed madly about with the broadsword. The destrier bit and kicked. One by one, the Talendar warriors dropped or reeled back with bloody wounds, until Thamalon, long sword in hand, rode back into the fray and dispatched the last pair of footmen from behind.

The Uskevren wheeled their mounts and galloped on up the High Bridge, past homes, shops, and a guardhouse where, according to Nuldrevyn, the sentries lay magically slain or at any rate incapacitated. Shamur peered into the

gloom until she caught sight of the next contingent of men-at-arms, and then she felt a pang of relief, because the enemy warriors had not yet skulked all the way up to the tavern called the Drum and Mirror. The actual attack had yet to begin, and therefore, the children must still be alive.

Some of the warriors had evidently heard the hoof beats, cries, and clangor of blades arising behind them, because they were looking back in the couple’s direction. Not giving them time to organize a defense, the riders charged them. A javelin streaked past Shamur and clattered down on the cobblestones behind her. Then she was in the midst of the foe, and, leaning out of the saddle, whipped her blade in a cut that tore open a warrior’s throat.

She galloped on, dealing with any enemy who lunged or blundered into her path, but seeking one particular target. Assuming that Nuldrevyn had accurately described the trap, there should be a spellcaster here on the south side of the tavern, either Master Moon himself or a Talendar retainer, and said wizard posed a greater threat than any one of the men-at-arms. She wanted to eliminate him before he could do any damage.

Finally she spotted the mage. To her disappointment, it wasn’t Marance but a tubby little man with a bald pate and luxuriant side-whiskers, clad in a checkered mantle. It was, in fact, Dumas Vandell, a jolly, down-to-earth fellow with 3 limitless supply of jokes, riddles, and humorous poems and ditties. Over the years, Shamur had chatted with him at many a social function, and rather liked him. Now, in the heat of battle, she couldn’t afford to regard him as anything but an enemy, and judging by the alacrity with which, upon catching sight of her, he began to weave a spell, he was indeed resolved to kill her if he could.

She wrenched her destrier’s head around and charged, hoping to reach the wizard before he completed his incantation. She didn’t make it. A shadowy bolt of force, so indistinct against the night that she would never have noticed if not for the sparkling motes and whining sound, leaped from Master Vandell’s fingertips. She swayed to the

side, and the magic crackled harmlessly past her.

An instant later, she closed with the wizard. He threw up his plump white hands to fend off her sword, but her cut smashed through his defense and gashed his hairless scalp. He collapsed, and, perched on her stamping, chuffing war-horse, she watched him until she was convinced he was unconscious, then rode on. For a second, she rather hoped she hadn’t killed him, and then, when another guardsman tossed a javelin at her, she forgot all about him.

She had to cut down two more warriors before she reached the entrance to the Drum and Mirror, and by that time her children were wandering out the door to see what all the commotion was about. Tamlin, exquisitely dressed as Cver, although for some reason, he had an ordinary axe, a tool, not a proper weapon, slung across his back, as well as a pewter goblet of wine in his hand. Talbot looked unkempt as usual. Thazienne, eyes bright with curiosity and excitement was clad in a suit of dark, close-fitting leather.

Shamur had rarely been so glad to see anyone, and judging from the way the children’s faces lit up when she careened out of the gloom, they felt much the same. Now, however, was scarcely the time for sentiment.

As Thamalon galloped up behind her, she shouted, “Mount up! Hurry! You’re in a trap!”

Feeling eager and slightly melancholy at the same time, Marance strode through the fish market, an open space equipped with tables and stalls. With him marched a band of Talendar men-at-arms and Bileworm, cloaked in the flesh of Ossian. In another minute or so, Thamalon’s get would be dead, and then, the wizard supposed, his soul could at last enjoy a measure of peace. But what a shame that he’d had to kill his own nephew to accomplish his purpose, and in so doing, forfeit his brother’s good opinion.

Perhaps one day, after the Uskevren were extinct and

in consequence, the House of Talendar had grown more wealthy than ever before, Nuldrevyn would understand and forgive. In any case, Marance resolved that he wouldn’t dwell on the matter, lest he cheat himself of his enjoyment of the slaughter to come.

Shouts, hoof-beats, and the ringing of blades sounded from the darkness ahead, jarring him from his reverie. He and his companions faltered in their advance.

“Those idiots attacked before us,” Bileworm said.

“No,” Marance replied. He pointed to a three-story cedar building still some distance ahead on the east side of the bridge. “That’s the Drum and Mirror, and no one’s fighting there yet. Someone has attacked our men.”

“Should we run and help our lads?” asked one of Nuldrevyn’s sergeants.

The warrior had actually been addressing Bileworm, or, as he imagined, Ossian, but it was Marance who answered. “Not yet.”

After positioning his men and disposing of the Scepters in their guardhouses, Marance had elected to wait at the north end of the bridge, where it was absolutely impossible that the Uskevren would catch sight of him. Then, as midnight approached, he had created a magical implement that would enable him to see when his prey rode onto the span, and subsequently to survey the battlefield at need.

Though no one could see it, that small, spherical tool tyas floating above him now, following him about like a faithful dog. He focused his thoughts on it, and, abruptly, he was gazing down at his henchmen and himself, peering through the invisible orb instead of the eyes in his skull.

He sent the magical eye speeding along the bridge until he caught sight of the riders who had engaged his men. So far, it appeared there were only two attackers, but, mounted on destriers and fighting superbly, they were wreaking havoc even so.

As one of the newcomers cut down Master Vandell, Marance sent the eye winging closer, then twitched in amazement. Though the riders had made some small effort

to disguise themselves, he recognized them, but how was it possible?

Bileworm sensed his master’s stupefaction. “What is it?” he asked. “What do you see?”

“Thamalon and Shamur,” Marance replied. He heard the quaver in his voice, felt himself shaking, and struggled to calm himself. “They evidently survived the demolition of the ruined fortress.”

“How?” the spirit asked.

“I don’t know,” Marance replied, transferring his power of sight back into the eyes he had been born with, “anymore than I comprehend how they knew to come here to rescue their offspring. But it scarcely matters, does it? What does is killing the lot of them together.” He gestured to one of the warriors, a burly fellow with a black mustache and a red scarf knotted around his brow. “Run to the north end of the bridge and bring up the rest of the men. Everyone else, attack.”

The guards trotted forward. Marance turned to Bileworm. “You, too.”

The familiar arched an eyebrow. “Me?”

“Yes. The soldiers may fight better with one of their patrons in the thick of the fray.”

“Master, I’d really rather not.”

“Don’t be such a coward. Even wearing a corporeal body, you’re all but invulnerable to any real harm.” “Still…”

Rage flared up inside Marance, and his body clenched with the effort to contain it, though he knew it wasn’t truly his impudent servant who had so roused his ire, but rather these maddening Uskevren who had somehow frustrated his attempts to slay them time after time after time.

“You’re my slave, and you will obey me,” he snapped. “Go.”

Bileworm sighed, drew Ossian’s golden-hilted long sword, and scurried forward. He glanced back once or twice in the hope that his master would relent, but by that time Marance was already weaving magic, a candle held

high in one hand and his staff in the other. Magenta sparks danced on the black, polished wood, and the cold air reeked of myrrh.

***

As Tamlin, Talbot, and Thazienne swung themselves onto their horses—destriers, Shamur noted approvingly, not palfreys, her children hadn’t ridden out into the night completely unprepared for trouble—warriors in mufti came trotting down from the north. More of Marance’s henchmen, joining the battle as expected.

Drawing her long sword, Tazi grinned at the approaching force. “Let’s charge them,” she said.

The wild, reckless part of Shamur’s nature cried out in assent, but the portion that had loved and protected these children since their births demurred. “Not a wise idea,” she said. “The guards will be receiving conjured reinforcements any second.”

“All the more reason to punch through them now,” Tazi said, “get within sword range of the masked wizard, and—”

“Your mother’s right,” Thamalon rapped. “We’re getting the three of you out of here. Ride for home.” Thazienne sneered, but when he turned his mount south, she, like her brothers and Shamur, did the same.

For a moment, as Shamur urged her war-horse into motion, she dared to hope they might escape without further difficulty, for the warriors behind them wouldn’t be able to keep up with their mounts, and except for one or two survivors of the skirmish just concluded, the southern half of the bridge lay open before them. Then patches of soft violet light shimmered and swelled on the cobblestones ahead, and she realized that she and her family had run out of time.

“I suppose now we have to charge,” Tamlin drawled. Even with enemies hurrying to engage him, he’d clung to his wine cup as he climbed into the saddle, and now he took a final sip, tossed the goblet away to clink on the pavement, and readied his sword.

“Insightful as usual,” mocked Talbot. “No wonder you’re the heir.” Ahead, the purple lights died, leaving in their place a number of long, low, crouching shapes.

“Enough chatter!” Thamalon said. “Concentrate on the task at hand. Charge on my word, and … go!”

The Uskevren hurtled forward. One of the conjured creatures, ophidian but for the several short legs on either side of its scaly body, pointed its snout at Shamur.

She judged that she was still out of the beast’s striking distance, but instinct warned her that it was about to attack her somehow, and she yanked on the reins and swerved her destrier to the side. A dazzling, crackling thunderbolt leapt from the reptile’s head.

Shamur would have sworn that the flare of power missed her cleanly, but for an instant, her muscles clenched in agony. Evidently similarly afflicted, the war-horse stumbled, then balked. She kicked the steed, forcing it on at the behir, whose species she had belatedly recognized once the creature employed its extraordinary means of offense.

White radiance flickered and rattled on either side as other behirs assailed the rest of Shamur’s family. The air reeked of ozone. The noblewoman’s mount carried her into striking distance, and, unable to discharge a second lightning bolt just yet, the reptile that had attacked her reared up, its neck craning to place its head on a level with her own. Its crocodilian jaws gaped wide enough to snatch her from the saddle and swallow her whole. She thrust the point of her broadsword into the behir’s neck, and, blood spurting from the wound, it fell.