Twilight Falling (17 page)

Riven sneered, “I won’t need any help, Cale.”

Cale didn’t expect to need help either, but he believed in being prudent.

“At least one needs to live,” Cale reminded them both.

Jak nodded. Riven did not.

They headed for the alley. As they walked, they spaced themselves out a bit—Jak, then Cale, then Riven. Cale saw that Jak, in anticipation of casting, already held his holy symbol pendant in his hand. Cale reached into a belt pouch and palmed his potion. With his other hand he clutched his own holy symbol and whispered a prayer that would give them Mask’s blessing in the combat.

Jak reached the alley first. He turned down it as though that was what he had intended all along. He was already invisible by the time Cale, only several paces behind him, turned into the alley.

“I’m on the right, just inside the alley, against the wall,” said Jak’s voice.

Cale nodded and walked past.

“Stinks,” Jak said, and he giggled.

Cale imagined Jak pinching his nose while waiting in ambush and smiled despite himself. The halfling had spoken the truth, though. The alley reeked of manure and rotting garbage. Perhaps three or four strides in width, it extended the length of the block, bounded on both sides by tall, crumbling brick walls. Shapeless piles of trash lay piled on the ground at intervals. Near the alley’s far end, two stray mongrels pawed at one such pile. They seemed disinterested in Cale’s arrival.

A few doors backed to the alley. The rear exits of shops, probably, but none were open.

With his thumb, Cale popped the wax seal on his potion vial and gulped it down. Immediately, his body began to tingle. He held out his hand and watched as it, along with the rest of him and his gear, faded from sight. Invisible, he backed against the wall on the side opposite that of Jak, maybe five paces into the alley. He drew his blade.

Riven turned into the alley.

“Here,” Jak said, to let Riven know where he was.

“Here,” said Cale.

Riven nodded as he passed each of them. Ten paces in, he turned, drew both blades, and waited. Down the alley the stray dogs gave a growl, startled, and ran away.

Several moments later—they must have taken time to pair up—the two pursuers entered the alley. Cale quickly appraised them. The smaller, swarthy-skinned man in leather looked to be an easterner. His precise movements, compact frame, and narrow face reminded Cale of Riven. A falchion hung from his belt. The other stood nearly as tall as Cale but was much heavier. He wore hand axes on his belt and a mammoth battle-axe across his back. With his thick nose and heavy-lidded eyes, he looked a bit like a stunted Ogre. Both stopped a stride into the alley when they saw Riven waiting for them. Cale figured Jak could probably reach out and touch both of them.

“Let’s dance, prigs,” challenged Riven.

The big man grinned and said, “Dance indeed.”

His ring mail jangled as he unslung his axe.

The smaller frowned, looking around the alley as though for Cale and Jak, while he absently whipped free his falchion.

“Just us,” said Riven, and he whirled his sabers. “Come on.”

Riven beckoned them forward. The two spread out as much as the alley allowed and advanced on the assassin.

“Mind that axe, Dolgan,” said the smaller.

Dolgan. When Cale heard the name, a red rush of anger flooded him. The man must have paid for healing. He showed no signs of the wounds Cale had given him.

Cale eyed the man’s ribs and picked his spot—through the left lung and into the heart. Dolgan would not walk out of that alley.

As they closed on Riven, they unknowingly closed on Cale.

Cale tensed, waiting for the moment, but before he could act, the small easterner exploded into motion. He sped past Cale and lunged at Riven, blade low. Riven, though obviously surprised by the easterner’s speed, managed a parry with one of his sabers, slid to his left, and loosed an overhand slash at the easterner’s head. Sidestepping neatly, the easterner spun three hundred sixty degrees and slashed at Riven’s thigh. Riven managed to jump backward, slamming himself into the wall.

Dolgan, still a few paces back, must have thought to take that opportunity to rush in. He bellowed and charged, axe held high for an overhand slash, the only swing possible for that axe in the narrow alley. Before he had taken two steps, Cale stepped in front of him, dropped to one knee and impaled him through the chest. He became visible the moment his long sword penetrated flesh.

Dolgan’s bellow gave way to a scream of pain. His would-be charge served only to impale him on Cale’s sword, nearly to the hilt. The blade slid between ribs and grated against bone before bursting from Dolgan’s back.

The big man glared surprised rage at Cale. He opened a mouth flooding with crimson. He roared with pain and anger, soaking his beard in blood and spit, and tried as he began to die to bring his cumbersome axe to bear. Not possible. Cale was too close in, and Dolgan already too weak. When the big man attempted to shorten up on the haft, the weapon fell from his grasp.

Cale stared coldly into Dolgan’s dull eyes and twisted his blade half a turn before jerking it free.

That’s for the guards, whoreson, he thought and hoped that Dolgan too could read his mind.

Dolgan’s eyes rolled. He staggered, fell to his knees, bleeding, coughing, and … grinning? Cale controlled the disgust that rushed up his throat and smashed the hilt of his sword into Dolgan’s temple. He groaned and crashed to the street. Cale turned around to help Riven with the easterner.

“That one lives, Riven,” he said, because Dolgan certainly would not.

The little easterner responded quickly to Cale’s sudden appearance. He maneuvered himself against the alley wall so that he could face both Riven and Cale without exposing his back.

Not waiting for Cale, Riven lunged forward and unleashed a flurry of slashes. Preternaturally quick, the little easterner danced left, ducked below a cross slash, and stabbed low with his falchion. The blow nicked Riven’s forearm near the elbow. The assassin grunted, slashed high, and managed to open a slit in the easterner’s shoulder.

Cale started to rush in on the easterner’s blade side, his own sword gripped in both hands, when a voice from behind cut through the melee like a razor.

“Cease now or the halfling dies!”

Cale stopped in mid-stride, blade held before him. Riven and the easterner, not more than a pace and a half apart, stopped too but kept blades at the ready. All eyes turned to the speaker.

The half-drow and Vraggen stood at the mouth of the alley. The half-drow, smiling and dressed in a flamboyant green silk shirt and cloak, held Jak by a handful of his red hair. With his other hand, he held a long sword at the halfling’s throat.

“I don’t know how they saw me, Cale,” said the halfling.

“There are many things you don’t know,” Azriim said, and he gave a hard smile. “Now, speak again and you die.”

Jak bit his lip and said nothing.

Beside the half-drow, dressed in a gray cloak and skullcap, stood the dark-eyed wizard. He held an iron wand in his left hand.

For a moment, everyone simply stared at everyone else. The only sound in the alley was that of the combatants’ respiration and Dolgan’s gurgling. Cale glanced down at Dolgan in contempt. He was surprised the man was still alive.

Vraggen broke the silence. “The globe,” he said, his voice a low hiss.

Cale made eye contact with Jak. With his eyes, the halfling indicated his hand, then signaled in handcant, I’m ready.

Cale understood.

“The globe,” Vraggen repeated. “Or your friend dies right now. Followed by your other friend …”

Riven scoffed at that.

“… followed by you.”

“It’s gone,” Cale said. “I destroyed it.”

He could think of no better lie on short notice.

The wizard sighed with impatience and said, “A lie. Azriim.”

The half-drow jerked Jak’s head back to expose his throat. The halfling grunted. His fists clenched. The half-drow’s—Azriim’s—forearm tensed.

Decide quickly, Cale, said Azriim’s voice in his head.

“It’s in my pack,” said Cale, low and dangerous.

Azriim stayed his hand and looked to Vraggen.

“Of course it is,” said the wizard with a smug smile. He tapped his wand in his palm.

“Here,” said Cale as he slowly unslung his bag, catching Jak’s eye as he did, and he fished out the burlap sack containing the half-sphere.

The wizard’s eyes blazed as Cale peeled back the cloth to unveil the half-globe. The half-drow gave a satisfied smile. For a moment, Azriim’s sword arm relaxed. Cale saw the tendons slacken.

Jak burst into action.

In a single motion, the halfling grabbed the half-drow’s blade with his left hand—grimacing as it sliced open his palm—and held it at bay while he lifted his foot slightly, drew a small punch dagger from a boot sheath with his right hand, and used a reverse strike to stab the half-drow in the thigh. Azriim howled and clutched at the wound with his free hand. Jak ducked under the half-drow’s attempt to muscle his sword into the halfling’s jugular and tumbled away, leaving Azriim holding nothing more than a clump of his hair. Jak regained his feet in an instant and brandished the dagger.

Pressing his bleeding hand against his thigh, he said, “C’mon, you drow bastard!”

Azriim’s mismatched eyes burned. Ignoring the bleeding thigh wound, he brandished his blade and advanced on Jak. The halfling, hugging the opposite wall of the alley, backed off toward Cale.

Cale started to step to Jak’s aid but stopped. He didn’t want leave the sphere unguarded.

Just behind Cale, the easterner unleashed slash after slash at Riven. Riven parried his blows and answered with his own sabre cuts. Their exchange brought them both within arm’s reach of Cale, who stood over the sphere, looking this way and that. In the meantime, the wizard leveled his wand.

Things were going bad fast. Cale stopped the combat the only way he could. Gripping his blade in both hands, he held it over the half-sphere. Shadows danced in the air between the half-sphere and the steel.

“Stop, or I’ll destroy it right now!”

He raised the blade, and for a heartbeat, all motion in the alley stopped. Vraggen’s eyes went wide. He continued to point his wand at Cale but held up his other hand, palm outward.

“Do not,” he said, as though he was in a position to give orders. “Do not, Cale.”

Jak took advantage of the pause in the combat to back farther away from the half-drow and nearer to Cale. Azriim eyed him throughout.

“This is the blade that split it in half, mage,” Cale said. “I’ll turn it to shards this time.”

“I’ll kill you slowly if you do,” Vraggen said.

Cale heard the worry behind the mage’s bravado. Vraggen wanted the half-sphere badly.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I’ll split you groin to gullet. Either way, you’ll not have what you want.”

Vraggen’s jaw tightened. His fingers whitened around the wand. A halo of shadows swirled around his head. Cale could fairly see his mind churning.

“Destroy the globe and the guard from Stormweather Towers will die. Painfully, I promise you. Will you be able to live with the knowledge that you caused him so much pain?”

The mage spoke in such a matter-of-fact tone that Cale knew the threat to be no bluff. Azriim looked to Cale and chuckled.

Cale would have torn out his tongue if he could have. From behind, Riven, breathing heavily, said, “Bugger these whoresons, Cale. Do it.”

He lunged at the easterner—a bluff designed to elicit a start. The easterner didn’t move a muscle, merely eyed him coolly.

“Quiet your dog, Cale,” said Vraggen, his eyes still on Cale’s sword.

Riven said nothing but Cale could imagine the hateful sneer he shot the mage.

Cale reached a decision quickly. The mage was right. He would not be able to live with himself if he brought harm to Ren. That left only one course: he would arrange for the trade he had anticipated all along. But he wanted to know what the sphere was before he turned it over—if he turned it over.

“This,” Cale said, and lightly tapped the half-sphere with his sword, an act that elicited a wince from Vraggen, “for the guard. Two days from now, at the eighth hour, at the Twisted Elm north of the High Bridge.”

A common location for meetings, the Twisted Elm was a well known landmark along the north road, not far out of Selgaunt and surrounded by an expanse of flat plain. It would be easy to avoid an ambush there. Rumors said the Elm’s roots craved blood; Cale suspected the rumors had their origin in meetings gone bad. A lot of blood had been spilled under the Elm’s eaves.

Vraggen’s brow furrowed. He fiddled with the wand, as though trying to decide if he could use it on Cale before Cale could strike the half-sphere.

“You are not in a position to be requesting terms, Erevis Cale,” he said at last.

Cale knew he had the advantage then. He almost smiled … almost.

“I’m not requesting anything, mage. I’m telling you how this is going to unfold. You want this half of the sphere much more than I want the guard safely returned.”

That was a lie, but Vraggen wouldn’t know it.

“If that was true, you’d have destroyed it already. Do you take me for a fool, Cale?”

“Try me then,” Cale challenged and again raised his blade.

For a moment, Vraggen said nothing, but Cale could see his mind racing behind his emotionless eyes, could almost hear him grinding his teeth.

“Two days hence, then,” Vraggen managed to say without anger.

Cale allowed himself to exhale.

Indicating Azriim and the easterner, he said, “And if I catch sight of these errand boys in the meantime, I destroy my half on the spot. Then I come for you.”

At that, Vraggen gave a tight smile. Azriim too grinned broadly, and Cale saw that he had perfect teeth. From behind and just to Cale’s right, the easterner spat a glob onto Cale’s boot.

Cale looked at it, looked at the easterner …

Quick as an adder, Cale lashed out with his right hand, grabbed the easterner by the cloak, and jerked him in close before he could bring his falchion to bear.