In their conversations with Stephen Navarne the companions had gleaned that they had exited from the Root more or less immediately after the onset of real winter.
In western Roland traditionally the snow came almost immediately at the turning of the season, accompanied by a startling drop in temperature, then began an irritating dance of thawing and storming over its first two months, returning with a vengeance during its second half. By their calculations they were nearing the end of the thaw. There were signs that winter would take back its dominion soon.
Those signs were not in evidence as they set forth from Haguefort and followed the precise directions Stephen had given them to intersect with the House of Remembrance. The day was cold and clear, with a bright sun stinging their eyes and the occasional fall of melting snow from the bare tree branches as they passed beneath.
At first the Firbolg had little interest in going to the House, but had changed their minds when told that it had been the first military outpost of the First Wave. Achmed was certain he could analyze the construction and installation of the fort to determine some of the conditions that had been in place at the time right after the Cymrians landed.
"What's the need in that?" Rhapsody asked sullenly. She was feeling the emptiness of her palm where a small hand had clung all morning.
"It might give us a better idea of what, if anything, followed them," Achmed said.
The Singer stopped abruptly in her tracks and grabbed him by the elbow. "Are you saying you think something did?"
Achmed turned to face her. The expression on his face was even, measured.
"Sounds like a possibility, especially after the story of Stephen's dead friend."
Rhapsody looked around her. The silent wood, which just a moment before had seemed utterly peaceful, now held a threat, a feeling of dread. She looked back to find two sets of piercing eyes watching her from the faces of her friends.
"What is it, Duchess? What's the matter?"
She took a deep breath. "Is it possible that Lord Stephen's friend isn't dead?"
Both of the Firbolg blinked. "Anything's possible, but it sounds rather unlikely," Achmed said. "Why? Did you hear something I missed?"
"No," she admitted. "It's just a feeling, and not a clear one, as if perhaps only part of him is alive. I can't really explain it."
"Well, I'm unlikely to discount your feeling out of hand, as you have exhibited some signs of prescience, but I would think that both Stephen and Khaddyr are familiar enough with death to be able to diagnose it properly."
"I suppose," she said, and returned to walking. Sometimes it seemed as if she was to spend her life traveling endlessly, reaching each destination, only to be told that it was time to move on. In a way, this new land, the deep, silent forest, was just the Root in disguise.
The stars above her seemed so close she could almost touch them. Gladly reaching her hands skyward.
The brightest star trembling, shivering in the wind as if cold. Then, one by one, each star falling, not streaking blindly through the sky, but gently, wafting down on the warm night wind like shiny snowflakes.
Catch them! Hold them fast.
The wind whispering across her open hands. The electric thrill of the tiny stars touching her fingers, her palms. Her fingers closing.
I've got them. I've got them!
Radiant light pulsing from between her fingers. Her skin, translucent in the glow. The ecstasy.
Then the burning in her palms, the sudden darkness between her fingers.
Opening her hands. The scorching holes in the palms, the smell of withering flesh.
No. No, gods, no. Please.
A glimmer of light below. The undulating surface of the water. The stars shining up at her in a circle around a long, dark crevasse. The sizzle of the embers burning out in the meadow stream. Then darkness again.
Rhapsody woke in the night, sobbing. It was an old dream, from the sad time; she had almost forgotten it. Why now ? she thought miserably, hiccoughing as quietly as she could in an attempt not to disturb the men. She rolled onto her stomach, burying her face in her bedroll.
A moment later she felt thick fingers brushing back her hair, surprisingly gentle for their size.
"Duchess? Ya 'wake?"
She nodded, still facedown. Once Grunthor had ascertained that she was all right, perhaps he would leave her alone and go back to sleep.
"Oi got somethin' for you. Sit up, now."
Rhapsody let loose a weary sigh and turned her tearstained face to see the Sergeant smiling down at her in the dark. The grin was infectious and irresistible now, though it had taken some getting used to. She smiled wanly in return.
"Sorry, Grunthor."
He snorted. "No need to be, miss; Oi thought you knew that by now. Give me your 'and."
Reluctantly she obeyed, wishing as he pulled her up that she could just go back to sleep. She ran her fingers through the hair that hung in front of her face and pulled it back absently as Grunthor put something in her lap.
It was oddly shaped and hard, but smooth as silk. She lifted it up to look at it; it was a seashell.
"They say them things sing, but Oi don't 'ear it. Just sounds 'ollow to me. Put it to your ear."
"Where ever did you get this?" Rhapsody asked, wonder in her voice as she turned it over repeatedly, examining it from every side.
The giant Bolg settled back again. "By the sea. 'Twas jammed in the sand between them shipwrecks we told you about. Thought o' you and that you might like it, 'specially when the dreams are too strong."
Tears glinted in her eyes again. "You are the most wonderful Bolg that ever lived, did you know that?"
You are the most wonderful girl in the world.
"Damn right," said Grunthor smugly. Rhapsody laughed, blinking away the tears. "Now, put your 'ead back down and cover your up-ear with it. Maybe it'll sing you to sleep."
"Thank you; I'll do that. Good night."
"Good night, miss. Oi'd wish you pleasant dreams, but—"
Rhapsody laughed again, then settled back to sleep, listening to the shell's roar. Her dreams were filled with the sound of the waves crashing over the shore, the crying of seagulls, and the distant image of a long, dark crevasse, the serpentine pupil of one solitary eye.
After three days they began to come across more of the landmarks that Stephen had mentioned, confirming that they were indeed heading in the direction of the House of Remembrance. The woods themselves seemed somehow different, the trees cleared along old pathways which gave no sign of recent travel.
Gradually the ancient forest began to give way to younger trees. Poplars, pines, and birches sprang up, choking out the older oaks, ashes, and maples. The patches of white snow seemed to match the patterns of peeling bark on the white birches, adding a hollow, haunted feel to the air.
The melted snow had frozen in the night, forming a glossy layer of ice on the top. With each step Rhapsody and Grunthor broke through the thin crust of the snow, their footsteps crunching in marked contrast to Achmed's all-but-silent passage. The air grew colder the farther they traveled along the path, and soon Rhapsody could see the mist of her breath forming before her. It was as if the thaw that blanketed the rest of the land had yet to come to the deep forest around the House.
Rhapsody whistled softly as they walked, the rhythm of her tune matching the pace they set. Dawn had come up on the wings of a brisk wind, and she matched her melody to it, trying to dispel the gloom of the overcast sky.
The striking contrast of the white snow and the dark trees gave her the feeling of stark but ominous beauty, one that held something hidden within itself. She cursed herself for asking her friends about Gwydion; their obsessive caution was spoiling an otherwise peaceful walk.
Every now and then Grunthor slowed his pace and looked around, tilting his head as if hearing distant noises. He nodded to Achmed, who listened as well, then shrugged. The giant sighed, then quickened his pace again. Each time they stopped Rhapsody ceased her whistling. And each time she resumed it, the tune lost a little more of its sprightly tone, settling into a slower, more haunting melody.
Finally Grunthor came to a dead stop. He looked around the woods, and then glared directly ahead.
"Somethin's wrong 'ere."
"What do you mean?" Rhapsody asked. Achmed's cwellan was already in his hands.
The giant squinted in the sun. "Oi don't know, miss, but somethin's wrong. It feels tainted, and it's worse up there." He nodded down the path they were following. All three looked in that direction.
"What is it—men? Animals?" Achmed looked over his shoulder.
"Oi don't know," Grunthor replied. "It's like the ground is sick."
"Bend down here a minute." Rhapsody ran her hand over the giant's brow. It was hot and moist with fever. "It's not the earth that's sick, Grunthor, it's you."
"Perhaps it's both," Achmed said, swiveling around and listening again. Nothing but the silence of the forest answered him. "Grunthor is tied to the earth; we've seen it, remember? And if there's something here that's poisoning the ground, it's not surprising that it's affecting him. Get that steel torch of yours ready."
Rhapsody nodded and loosed the tie to the scabbard, but did not draw the sword. Grunthor shifted his grip on the poleax he was carrying.
Achmed closed his eyes and concentrated, focusing his thoughts on the road as once he had focused on human targets.
In his mind's eye he could see the three of them, as if from above, and the world around them, tipping at an odd angle.
The path stretched before them, choked with branches and brambles hanging amid the shadows cast by the forest light. Then, as he had on the Root, he loosed the lore he had gained in the Earth's belly. His vision raced along with the speed of one of his cwellan's projectiles, the trees becoming a blur of motion as the image passed them.
His course zigzagged with dizzying speed as his second sight raced along every turn of the road, under one fallen tree, and over another. Suddenly the picture turned to a clearing where a large house with a tower in one corner stood. On either side of its doors was a heavily armed and well-armored man. The vision stopped, but the image did not fade. Instead as he watched the picture it became awash in red light, and the guards that he had seen seemed to wither into nothing more than shadows.
Achmed felt his pulse increase as his own heart began to match the beating of another. In his ears he could feel the pressure of his blood rise, hearing the rhythm of this alien pulse. For most of his life he had known this feeling, and long before his name had been taken he made his trade by it. He was sensing his bond to blood, the bond he had lost when passing through the fires of their rebirth along the Root. It was not quite the same as it had been, but similar; the bond was coming alive again. As the vision drowned in the dark red that filled his mind, his head began to ache and his stomach to knot in fear.
Grunthor was right; whatever lay beyond the door was twisted, evil. With some effort he drove the image from his mind and ripped his senses back into his own body. Suddenly disoriented, he stumbled, feeling the bile rise in his throat. He fell to the earth, retching.
At once Rhapsody was by his side, her hands on his shoulders. She gasped as the first splattering stained the pristine snow blood-red. Achmed coughed, then breathed heavily, shaking the last vestiges of the vision from his head. He looked up into the Singer's worried face. "Are you all right?"
"I think I'll live," he said, swallowing hard "What happened? What did you see?" "Well, the House is indeed in that direction, and Grunthor is right, something's fundamentally wrong there." Grunthor offered his hand to Achmed, pulling him to his feet. The Dhracian bent over from the waist and took several deep breaths, then stood up again. "Everything along the path seemed normal, but when I saw the House, my vision was clouded with blood, and a pulse. Almost like what I used to sense back on the Island."
"But I thought you said you had lost your contact with blood," Rhapsody said.
"I did. I had. This wasn't the same."
"Maybe this is the way you sense things through blood in the new world," Grunthor suggested.
"Because it's the new world, I shouldn't be able to sense anything through blood. Do you ever remember me vomiting before?" The Sergeant shook his head.
A cold wind whipped a spray of ice crystals into Rhapsody's eyes. There was something deeply frightening about seeing the two Bolg, who had seemed indestructible for so long, trembling and sick. She took a few measured breaths in the hope that the thunderous pounding of her heart would slow at least a little. Still, deep within her she knew they had to go forward, to discover what lay within the ancient house.
"Perhaps once we get closer we'll be able to tell what's going on," she said.
Grunthor wiped the sweat from his forehead and fixed his gaze on her. "Excuse me, Yer Ladyship, but why would we want to? Oi mean, after all, Oi don't mind a bit o' trouble, but Oi don't see no reason to go lookin' for it."
"No, she's right," Achmed said. He ran a thin, trembling hand through his unkempt hair.
"I never expected to hear you say that," Rhapsody admitted.
"Don't let it go to your head," Achmed said. "We need to know why I suddenly was drawn back into my blood lore, and what made you sick, Grunthor. We need to be certain that it isn't an old problem, come back to haunt us in a new place. The only way to find out is to investigate."
Rhapsody was rummaging through her pack. "I have some wintergreen leaves; they might settle your stomachs. And if you'll wait a moment, I'll give you each a wet handkerchief to sponge off with." She dipped two linen squares into the snow, then held them in her hands, concentrating on the fire within herself. An instant later the snow had melted, soaking the cloths, which she then handed to the two Bolg.
Even in the grip of nausea, Achmed forced a smile. "I see you're getting a little more comfortable with the idea of your new lore," he said. "I knew you'd see it eventually."
Rhapsody smiled back at him and handed him a wintergreen leaf. "Suck on this. You were right. Don't let it go to your head."
"Right then, let's get goin'," Grunthor said, wiping his forehead and cheeks.
"There are two guards at the gate who will need to be dealt with," Achmed added.
"Wait; what does that mean?" Rhapsody asked nervously. Grunthor and Achmed looked at her incredulously. "What if they're not responsible for the taint, haven't done anything wrong?" The two continued to stare at her. "We can't go killing innocent people just because they're in the way."
"Well, miss, that never sto—" Grunthor started, but stopped with a quick look from Achmed.
"Listen," Achmed said impatiently, "you seemed to like Stephen. He didn't mention any guards at this memorial, did he?"
"No." The hand that rested on the hilt of her sword began to tremble.
"What does that tell you?"
"Nothing conclusive," she said quickly. "They could be investigating the place, just like we are. What if they serve someone important? Do you really want to have gone through everything we have just to end up being hunted again?"
Achmed sighed in annoyance. "What do you suggest, then, O Wise One?"
"We could try talking to them."
Grunthor opened his mouth to object, but Achmed forestalled him.
He studied her face for a moment, the green eyes matching the boughs of the evergreen trees, glistening like the branches heavy with ice crystals. The rose-petal upper lip was set bravely, but the flawless forehead gave away the anxiety within her in each of its furrows. Normally it was an enchanting countenance, but with the added attraction of worry bubbling below the smooth surface, it was absolutely hypnotic. This would be a good test of its power.
"Are you willing to be the one doing the talking?" he asked at last. "Grunthor and I don't generally get the best of receptions when we knock on doors."
"Yes."
The Dhracian looked back at Grunthor once more. The Sergeant wore a decided look of disapproval, but said nothing.
"Very well, we'll try it your way," Achmed finally muttered. "We'll stand in the brush and cover you."
Rhapsody smiled unconvincingly.
"Fair enough," she said.
The gray day began to give way to a dim twilight. The forest had gone deathly silent long before the light had left the sky. No winterbird song could be heard, nor the rustling of any living thing. Even the wind was quiet. The only noise to break the stillness was the creaking of the white branches under the weight of the snow, the occasional crash of a limb giving way under the icy burden that bent it.
Finally they came to a clearing, the edge of which was choked by thick, thorny underbrush. Rhapsody noted absently that the brambles were blackberries, though they bore no sign of fruit on their sharp branches, and from the look of them, she doubted they ever would. Beyond the scrub they could see a shape, a house, it seemed, though at first it was difficult to tell through the brush.
They moved forward slowly, creeping along the edge of the road, until at last they could see beyond the brush. There they saw a large house in the clearing, too large to be mistaken for anything but the place they sought. In one corner was a tower, built of ancient stone and overlooking a square courtyard. It was protected on all four sides with walls guarded by sentries.
In this courtyard was a leafless tree, which from a distance looked dead rather than dormant to Rhapsody. Her time at Llauron's had given her ample schooling and opportunity to gauge tree health, and this one to her seemed choked with disease.
The walls of the courtyard were whitewashed, with many years' growth of moss and lichen clinging to them. The roof was made of slate, and a large front door was left partially ajar, almost as if someone was expecting visitors.
Achmed and Grunthor split to either side and began circling the house through the forest cover. It never ceased to amaze Rhapsody how silent they were in heavy brush, and how hard to discern, especially given Grunthor's gargantuan proportions. She looked around, praying desperately that they would not be seen while on their maneuvers out of her sight. She looked back at the house.
The door was guarded on either side by men holding long spears, clad in leather-backed ring mail. No candles could be seen in the open-paned windows in the growing dusk. The only sound came from the scratching of the long white limbs of the birch trees reaching out from the forest edge to tap gently on the windows, walls, and roof of the House of Remembrance. Rhapsody thought she heard a muffled wail, but decided after a moment's pause that it was the wind.
"Are you ready? Try to stay where we can see you." Achmed's whispered voice seemed to be next to her ear, though he stood a few feet behind her, obviously having returned from his circumspection of the outpost. She nodded, and he slipped into the shadows again, moving to the far side of the road. Grunthor readied the poleax for a charge. Rhapsody took a deep breath, then stepped out of the underbrush and walked toward the front door.
Instantly the guards leveled their spears. Rhapsody felt almost giddy as nervousness swept through her. She smiled at them and a disengaged calm came over her. She thought, distantly, that she smelled the odor of rotting meat.
"Hello," she said pleasantly. The effect on the guards was immediately obvious: their grip on their spears loosened, and Rhapsody thought she could see one of them tremble visibly, seeming entranced. "Could you tell me, is this the House of Remembrance?"
One guard nodded dumbly. She noted that the second man was not so quick to drop his guard. In him she sensed a stronger, almost consuming desire that set her ill at ease.
"Well, that was easy," she said, smiling brightly. The second guard's hands were now trembling, too. Whatever transformation I underwent in the Great Fire must have left me frightening to behold, she thought in amazement. Surely these guards were not intimidated by her small stature.
"I'm supposed to meet some friends here. Have you seen them?" Rhapsody chose her words carefully, thinking she might be able to tell if Grunthor and Achmed had been spotted during their scouting a few moments before.
"Will—will you marry me?" the first guard stammered.
Rhapsody blinked, then laughed. She thought about what Grunthor's reaction might have been to the comment if he had been close enough to hear it.
"You know," she said, leaning forward confidentially, "I don't think my friend would particularly like you joking with me about that. He's rather protective and can be quite ferocious if he thinks I'm being insulted."
Panic seized the guard's face. "No, miss, I—"
"Anyway, have you seen him? I'm sure you would know him if you had, he's rather—well, frightening."
The two guards looked at each other, and Rhapsody saw a look of fear pass between them. Her words had some meaning to these men that she had not intended.
The second guard summoned the courage to speak. "You're here to see him, then? No, he's not here, miss, but he's expected later today. Please come in and wait in the warmth; my friend didn't mean no insult."
The first guard stumbled backward, pushing the door open, and then held it for her. Rhapsody looked behind her, but saw nothing where Grunthor and Achmed had been.
A shouted warning went up from the sentries which appeared to have been directed to the others about her. She could almost hear the curses Achmed was undoubtedly directing her way under his breath.
Placing her hand casually on the hilt of the sword, she followed the first guard across the threshold. They entered a darkened foyer with heavy doors to either side and an open portal in front of them that led into a large garden. Rhapsody stopped and gasped in horror.
The first thing that hit her was the stench of decay. An almost visible cloud of overwhelmingly thick and sickly-sweet air tainted with the sour stench of fouled meat assaulted her nose. Rhapsody choked on the odor as the color drained from her face. She forced down the bile that rose from her stomach. The smell was nothing compared with what she saw.
The garden in the central courtyard was large, the dead tree in its center. The snow had been stained red, making it look like a rosy-hued blanket. Set in the center of the courtyard were two large wooden frames, the kind Rhapsody was accustomed to seeing used to slaughter swine.
Between them stood a large, dark-stained stone altar. A channel had been carved into the foot of the altar leading to an intricately designed trough that joined with two other troughs, each one coming from beneath the slaughter frames, where large vats had been built.
Together the three canals made an interweaving pattern leading in and out until at last they fed into a large brass brazier charred black from fire. Each of these canals was encrusted with dark stains, and in each of the basins were thick pools of a black, viscous liquid.
The source and nature of this liquid was not left for Rhapsody to guess. On the altar, and hanging upside down above each of the basins, was the body of a child. The children that hung from the frames had had their throats and wrists sliced open, and had been left to drain of their blood. The world swam suddenly before her eyes as she was overcome with nausea.
Her reaction was apparently not what the guards expected. The first turned to her with a questioning look. Behind her she could hear the other soldier shift position quickly, as if readying to attack. Then she heard the soft hiss of projectiles from Achmed's weapon, and the instant collapse of the guard behind her.
She drew Daystar Clarion at once, and the sound of the longsword as it emerged from its scabbard was like the winding of a melodic horn. The blade flamed to life, burning brighter than she had seen it before.
As she drew the sword the remaining guard tried a desperate and ill-balanced attack. The flames of Daystar Clarion swelled and billowed in her hand.
"Drop your spear!" she ordered, her voice harsh with fear and anger.
The guard charged. Rhapsody sidestepped the poorly aimed spear thrust and lunged, just as Grunthor has taught her to. Daystar Clarion slipped neatly into his chest, encountering only the slightest resistance as it sliced through his ribcage. The sickly-sweet smell of burning flesh filled the rancid air.
The man's eyes widened in surprise. He opened his mouth as if to scream, but all that escaped was a whimpering gasp as his lungs instantly blistered and seared in the white-hot fires of the elemental sword.
Rhapsody grabbed him and eased his fall to the floor as his face contorted in agony and confusion. His eyes, already looking beyond this world, fearfully searched her face, and in her mind she could read the question that filled his last thoughts: What's happening?
The same question was wrenching its way through her own mind. By the time he touched the ground his body had gone limp, and his wound was smoldering. She suddenly became aware of a slight sizzling noise as her blade cooked the meat of his body, and with a growing horror she quickly withdrew the blade and dropped it, even though the hilt was still cool to the touch. She stared at the body on the ground before her as the world began to spin.
"What's the matter?" Achmed whispered from behind her. She had not heard him approach. She turned to see him looking around the garden, Grunthor by his side.
"He's dead," Rhapsody answered, her voice shaking.
"Yes. Your sword skills are getting better."
"I've never killed a man before."
"Now you have," Achmed replied. "Let's get on with this."
Rhapsody drew a breath and nodded. It had to be done; keep going, she thought as her gaze returned to the macabre scene in the garden. Achmed motioned for her to pick up the sword.
"Any sign of anyone else?"
"No, but there are others here, at least one, and more people are expected," she said. She touched the cool steel of the blade, which showed no blood, and sheathed the weapon in its rock-scabbard with a shudder.
"Well, we can put a stop ta that," Grunthor said. He closed the front door behind him and barred it with the large bracing beam that stood next to it. "Well, sir, Oi guess we know why your blood sense came alive."
"Let's find out who else is here," Achmed said as he looked around the scene of the slaughter. He turned to the side door and gestured for them to enter.
Rhapsody stood on one side of the door, Grunthor on the other. At Achmed's signal, Grunthor slammed the door with his hand. The sound of splintering wood and the crash of the door as it was torn off its hinges filled the air. Achmed held his fire. They looked into an empty room.
It was a long hall, with smoothly polished wooden furniture that seemed almost organic in its design. A large woven rug covered the center of the floor, one corner and the wood about it marred by a dark stain. A long series of windows looked out onto the central courtyard, where they could see melting snow touched with pink.
Achmed crossed the room to the dark stain on the rug and bent to touch it. It was long dried, perhaps years so, but he knew at once it was blood. A person had been killed here, the blood draining freely from the body before it had been moved.
Grunthor stood by the door, wishing that there was room enough to use his poleax, but knowing it was safer to keep his snickersnee in hand as long as they were indoors. In the pit of his stomach he felt a knot that tightened to a deep nausea on looking out the window, even though he was used to ignoring such feelings.
Rhapsody moved to the next door, listening, guarding it. After a moment she shook her head.
"Nothing. What next?"
"Come on," Achmed said after a moment, and stood before the next door. The others took their positions as before and they repeated their procedure. The door opened toward a blank wall, and they had to enter the room to see it clearly.
They had come upon the Great Hall of the House, a room that stretched back to the main tower of the structure. Along one wall was a series of large windows which opened into the courtyard, on the other tapestries whose intricate patterns had faded and been defiled by excrement.
The far end of the hall was part of the tower, and a grand staircase led up to what had probably once been part of the defenses, but now was just an open doorway. The other wall was a series of glass-paned doors that were open into the courtyard.
Along the base of the tapestried wall stood a throne made from bones. Femurs, ribcages, long bones, and vertebrae had been crossed, stitched, and nailed together to form a gruesome chair browed by seven skulls, and a soft red velvet cushion had been placed on its seat.
In the center of the room sat, crouched, and lay a group of children, staring in fear at the trio who had just broken their way into the room. Like a pack of starving, beaten wolves, their eyes glittered in the half-light.
They were a mixture of humans and Lirin of varying ages and clad in clothes in successive states of disrepair. Iron manacles were bound to their ankles, and each child was linked to the others by heavy chains.
Their faces and bodies were covered with bruises and cuts, their eyes dulled with the look of those who had seen horror that no mortal should. They shivered with the cold of the winter air as it blew in through the wide curtains and open doors. None of them spoke or even cried as their eyes darted between Rhapsody and the two who flanked her. The children of Navarne.
Sorrow filled Rhapsody's eyes at the sight of the small faces frozen in an expression between horror and hope. To a one, the little captives had begun to tremble when the three companions broke into the room where they were imprisoned, a forest of human leaves in a high wind.
Aside from their involuntary shivering, the children remained motionless with the exception of one slightly older girl, perhaps sixteen years of age, bound hand and foot in the middle of the group. She struggled for a moment, glaring furiously at the door, then blinked as shock descended.
"Don't worry, we're here to help you." Rhapsody gave them her gentlest smile as Grunthor and Achmed moved quickly through the room toward the far door. "We're going to get you out of here and take you back to your homes." The children stared at her blankly.
Rhapsody turned to Achmed. "Were there keys on either of the guards?"
"No time for that now. Let's find whoever is running this little house of fun."
"There are at least nine of them." The comment came from one of the captives in the center of the room. It was the girl whose hands were bound. She looked uneasy as she spoke.
"Do you know where they are?" Rhapsody asked.
"No," the girl answered. "But they come through that door." She nodded toward the end of the hall the trio had not yet examined. Grunthor put down his poleax and drew his massive snickersnee. The two Bolg made ready to open the door.
"Thank you, and don't worry," Rhapsody said. "We'll release you when we get back." She gave the whole group another encouraging smile.
"Just don't tell them who talked if you get captured," the girl said acidly.
Rhapsody nodded in the direction of the two Bolg. "I wouldn't worry about that too much. What's your name, dear?"
"We're ready," Achmed called from the door.
"Well, it's not dear," the girl said with a glint of defiance in her eye.
"It's Jo!" said a pretty girl of no more than six. "She told them when they started twisting her toes. I'm Lizette."
Jo looked disapprovingly at the child, but the little girl did not notice. She seemed enraptured with Rhapsody, unable to take her eyes off the Lirin Singer.
"Are you finished?" Achmed asked.
"We'll be back," Rhapsody said to the children. She was using the Naming technique of speaking truly. After a moment she saw belief creep back into their eyes somewhat. She blew them a kiss and went to join her companions. The older girl muttered something under her breath, but Rhapsody could not hear it.
Her attention was now drawn to the sounds of shouting and the pounding of footsteps coming from the next room. She quickly took her place by the door, and within seconds it burst open. Two men armed with spears raced into the room to find themselves faced with Achmed and the cwellan.
Rhapsody heard the now-familiar hiss of the weapon firing, and out of the corner of her eye she saw the silver streak of tiny disks as they flew past the men in the doorway and beyond.
He's shooting at people in the next room, she thought in distracted admiration; the speed and sureness of Achmed's hands as he reloaded never ceased to amaze her. What had once been a blur was now slightly more visible to her.
She lunged as the guard on her side swung at Achmed, driving the burning blade of Daystar Clarion through the man's back. He fell, writhing, pulling himself free of Rhapsody's blade as he did. Grunthor's great two-handed swing was but a moment behind her own, and his five-foot blade cleanly cut off the other man's head. Rhapsody struggled to stay focused; the nightmare of what was happening had caused reality to recede into the distance, making her feel like a spectator in the fight.
Achmed ripped open the door. "Go," he ordered. There was a moment where she and Grunthor nearly collided while both trying to enter the room, but she managed to dodge out of the giant Bolg's way just ahead of being trampled.
Inside was another scene of carnage, but this time it was of their own making. Six bodies were strewn across the floor.
In the center of the room stood a woman, dressed in white, desperately shouting orders to a handful of men who were running down a great stone staircase, the only other entrance in the room. The room was massive and built completely of stone, its walls lined with book– and scroll-filled shelves. Armchairs and a few large desks were placed with care about the room.
Rhapsody and Grunthor rushed into the room, making certain to keep clear of the line of fire from the door. It took five strides for Grunthor to reach the center, bellowing at the top of his lungs. At the sight and sound of the screaming giant, the soldiers within the library froze in terror.
Rhapsody ran at the woman in white. The woman's eyes were quickly torn from Grunthor and sighted onto her, glaring with a furious hatred.
The woman drew the only weapon she seemed to carry, a long, cruel-looking obsidian dagger, and took up a fighting stance. Rhapsody recognized the weapon as an implement of sacrifice, a tool used in the rituals of evil. Her own eyes took on a similar hateful fury as she realized this woman must have been the one who had mutilated the children in the courtyard.
Rhapsody swung her sword with all the rage that had built up within her, a strong swift swing that Grunthor would have been proud of. The woman sidestepped it and lunged with her own dagger.
Pulled off balance by the wildness of her own blow, Rhapsody could not dodge, and felt a sharp pain as the dagger pierced her left shoulder. She winced, and drew a painful breath, then struck with the flaming sword again. The woman did not have time to scream before Rhapsody drove the blade through her heart. Once more the air was filled with the acrid smell of burning flesh, but no blood fell to the floor. The wounds were instantly cauterized even before the woman's life had fled her body.
Rhapsody followed in Grunthor's wake and moved sharply to the side as more disks slid through the air, too close for comfort. She did not spare the woman a glance, instead looking up to see how her companions fared. They were fine; none of their opponents were left alive.
The human debris scattered about the bottom of that stair showed that Grunthor had killed at least two more of the guards. Other bodies bore the cleaner wounds of the cwellan. With a quick glance she counted fifteen and wondered if any others remained.
Grunthor stood at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes fixed at the top, waiting with grim determination for more to appear there. He had drawn a hand ax, almost the size of a battle-ax for most men, a weapon that Rhapsody had seen him hurl at vermin with deadly force before.
"I guess we won't be questioning her," Achmed said, looking down at the body of the woman.
Shame suddenly flushed Rhapsody's face. "I'm sorry," she said.
"What are you sorry about?" Achmed said, annoyed. "Who knows who or what she was; she had to be taken down. You did it. It would have been handy to torture a few answers out of her, but sometimes you just have to address the situation as it happens. Is it serious?"
"What?" Rhapsody asked, confused by the question.
"Your shoulder—is the wound serious?"
"Hmm? Oh. No, it's not deep." Rhapsody looked down at the gash. "It can wait."
"Poison?" Achmed moved close enough to smell the wound.
"I don't think so."
"All right, let's see if there's any more company," Achmed said. He lifted the crossbeam that leaned against the wall and barred the door to the room before heading to the stairs. "Just to be sure any unexpected guests have to knock first."
They searched the rest of the tower, climbing the stairs quickly and quietly, but found no sign of any other occupants. The higher rooms were where the soldiers they had fought had quartered themselves, and on the top floor was a large suite which had undoubtedly been the home to the woman in white, though there were signs that a man also had been there.
In that room they found a small chest, securely bound, which they took downstairs to examine when they were certain the rest of the House of Remembrance was clear. A quick search of the rest of the structure revealed a series of cloisterlike rooms that had not been occupied, and a kitchen that had been used recently.
Rhapsody started looking for a key with which to open the children's manacles, finally discovering one on a chain around the dead woman's neck. She hurried back to the hall where they were imprisoned and quickly began unlocking them, speaking to them in low, comforting tones.
In the absence of the two Bolg the children seemed to warm to her quickly, except for the girl named Jo, who continued to eye her with suspicion. Rhapsody went from child to child, speaking quietly to them and humming, comforting them as best she could for the moment. It seemed to work, and eventually even Jo seemed to relax a bit.
Meanwhile, Achmed deftly picked the locks on the small chest they had found in the rooms above. In it he found a few baubles, which he passed to Grunthor, who kept their supply of tender and coinage; a small notebook; a sealed scroll; and a large brass key with four blades and strange teeth.
Carefully he opened the scroll and saw that it was written in an ancient script which he could not read, but its form and format was clear and familiar to him. It was a contract. He called to Rhapsody.
She entered the room with a long trail of children behind her. There were fifteen in all, mostly under the age of twelve. The youngest of them clung to her, and on entering the tower library hid behind her from the two large monsters that had been their rescuers.
"It's all right, Feldin," Jo said to a Lirin boy of about seven. "They may be ugly as shit, but they set us free. They can't possibly do anything worse to us than was planned." Grunthor snickered.
"We won't do anything to you except return you home," Rhapsody said with a smile. Looking into her radiant face, the quivering children believed her.
"Look at this," Achmed said, walking over to Rhapsody. The children cleared out of his way quickly.
Rhapsody took the scroll and studied it for a moment. A frown came over her face, but it passed quickly.
"This is in Ancient Serenne," she said. "Isn't that odd? This is the tongue Llauron wanted me to learn; I didn't bother to tell him I already knew a little of it. It's a dead language. I mean, it was a dead language even when we left the Island. It was the tongue of the Firstborn, the Ancient Seren, the original inhabitants of the Island. But look at this scroll, the vellum is not really very old."
"Can you read it?" Achmed asked.
"I think so," Rhapsody said. "It's a musical language, and my mentor taught me most of the fundamentals—wait. I was wrong. The letters are the old script, but it's written in the language of men—I mean the common tongue of the people of these lands. Just give me a minute and I'll read it through." Rhapsody walked over to one of the desks, sat down, and positioned two books to hold open the scroll. She took off her own pack, pulled out a piece of poorly tanned hide, and began jotting down notes on it.
As she did, the children swarmed around her, except for Jo, who moved over to the pile of bodies that Grunthor was quickly stacking in one corner of the room. Noticing this, Rhapsody considered moving the children into a different room, but quickly realized that, at least from this room, the bodies of the slaughtered children were not as visible as they were from some of the other rooms.
Only a day before, the greatest sorrow she had tried to assuage in a small child was the loss of the mother of Lord Stephen's children. Now she had in her care children who had suffered unimaginable trauma. She swallowed the lump in her throat, hoping she would be up to the task of helping them heal once they were free of this place.
Achmed leafed quickly through the small notebook. Unlike the other, it seemed to be written in the common tongue of this land. The letters were similar to those he knew, and so with some difficulty he began to skim through it.
It appeared to be a journal, like the kind scholars and scribes used while jotting down notes. Its text was about a lost city, though he was uncertain he was reading it correctly. He was more interested in the map that had been sketched in the book, and the reference to the brass key.
A smile crawled across his face when he recognized the name Gwylliam, and saw a marker on the map in an area distinctly denoted as Firbolg lands. Canrif. They had a map.
"Achmed, Grunthor, I've got it," Rhapsody said, holding up the sheepskin translation. "It's a contact. It was signed in the first hour of the Equinox, in the one-thousand-three-hundred-and-ninety-sixth year since the arrival of the fleet; I'm not sure which one that means, probably the First Wave, I would guess."
"The parties involved are Cifiona—I guess that would be the woman with the big dagger—and someone called the Rakshas, and through him his master. That's strange; his master is not referred to by name."
"She is apparently to receive, for services rendered, 'life unending.' I wonder if this really means immortality." She looked up at her friends, and the expression in her eyes matched theirs; the nature of the contract and its participants was becoming clearer. "Apparently she also agrees to be bound to the master; maybe this is a sort of marriage contract."
"I doubt it," said Achmed. He had been the unwilling party of a contract like this once.
Rhapsody's face was twisted in disgust. Grunthor was growing impatient.
"Well, miss? What else does it say?"
"'Among those services shall be counted the commitment of the blood sacrifice of thirty-three persons of innocent heart and untouched body of human descent, and an equal number of Lirin or half-Lirin origins,'" Rhapsody read. She looked at Achmed. "I saw three in the courtyard. Do you think there were others?"
"No, I don't think so," he replied. "The amount of dried blood indicates the equipment is fairly new; I'd say this was the first round." He watched her sigh in relief and go back to reading, ignoring Grunthor's look of doubt.
"It has some nonsense about a particular undertaking, but doesn't explain what that is, except that it's what the blood is to be used for. I think this word is 'sustenance.' Then it sets the date of completion of service as the time of the Patriarch Rite of the following year, and the venue to be the House of Remembrance, of which this 'the Rakshas' person is apparently now considered Master. That's nice; I wonder what those First Generation Cymrians would think of that."
"Well, speakin' as one myself, Oi can't say Oi'm too please about it."
"And here below it is signed: Cifiona—something—I can't tell, and then simply 'Rakshas,' with these symbols next to it."
Rhapsody showed them the two signs, the first of which appeared to be a character in an unknown language, which neither Achmed or Grunthor recognized.
"I think I've seen this one before," Rhapsody said, pointing to the second symbol, a circle formed from a spiraling line.
"Where?" demanded Achmed. The sudden fury in his voice made her jump.
"It's a hex sign on Llauron's front door, or something like it."
The sight of the second symbol had clearly unnerved the assassin. He took the document and placed it back in the small chest. Rhapsody tossed her translation in as well.
"Let's get out of here," Achmed said.
"Wait, there's something I have to do," Rhapsody said, pulling out her higen and a small bag that Llauron had given her.
"What, you're going to compose a song about the beautiful things we've seen today?"
"No," Rhapsody said with a touch of impatience. "I'm going to see if I can heal that tree."
"Why?" Achmed's tone was tinged with irritation.
"Because it is a Sagian Oak, or hadn't you noticed? To me it's sacred. Lord Stephen said it was planted from a sapling brought by the Cymrians from Serendair. That means it is a sapling of Sagia. Even though I have regrets about leaving the Island, I am grateful to the Tree that let us escape the death that came after. The least I can do is try to heal its child."
"Not to be disrespectful, miss, but it's not a child, it's just a tree."
"No," Achmed said, looking in the direction of the garden. "Go ahead."
"Thank you," Rhapsody said, surprised at his willingness. "Just look after the children for a moment and I'll be right back."
"Excuse me?"
"Well, I can't very well take them into the garden, can I?" Rhapsody whispered. "I don't even want to go there myself; there are dead children in there."
"That's all right, miss; we'll look after them."
Achmed glared at Grunthor, but he did not disagree. As Rhapsody left the room, he sat on the edge of one of the desks and returned to reading the small black notebook. Grunthor continued to rifle the bodies for valuables and stack them in a pile in the corner. All the children, aside from the oldest girl, stayed together, anxiously watching the door through which the Singer had left.
Rhapsody had to fight down her rising gorge as she rapidly made her way across the garden to the diseased tree at its center. Even in its withered state, the silvery-white bark was unmistakable. She blinked back tears at the memory of the one and only time she had ever seen Sagia, this tree's mother, whose story she had learned from her own.
When she reached the large oak she looked over its bark and the tips of its branches. Using the lore taught to her by Llauron as well as the knowledge from her own life, she quickly realized the tree was not dead, and began humming a tuneless song, its melody matching the whispers of a song that still reverberated from its ailing heart. It was the same familiar tune that had run through her soul all the while she had traveled along the Root. She opened the bag she had been given in Gwynwood and pulled out a tiny tube of ointment, then began to care for the dying oak.
Running her hands over the tree, Rhapsody uncovered three of the larger root trunks, and followed them down to smaller branchings, looking for the ends. Steeling her nerve, she crossed much of the garden, trying to avoid looking at the grisly sights, until she found some of the tiniest filamental roots. She coated the hair-thin strands with ointment, soaking the soil around them.
By the time she had anointed the first root, her song had gained a rhythm and a tune; when she had finished the third, her voice was strong and she was singing in a mixture of Old Cymrian, the language of her father, and the tongue of the men she had faced this day.
Rhapsody had never written an original song of healing before, and inwardly she cringed at the poor verse. She had used for the main lyric adages from the old world, words of wisdom spoken by the people who had come here, part of their folklore, and somehow the music spoke to the tree. The song seemed to flow through its roots, moving up through the trunk and branches until it touched the leafless twigs.
Still humming the tune, she picked up the higen and ran her fingers along its curved wood frame. The higen was her greatest treasure; it was the first instrument she mastered, and it had helped her learn the science of Naming. It was fashioned from wood from the old world, like the tree itself.
Rhapsody began to play an accompaniment to her song on the higen. The tune remained simple and clear as the notes leapt from her fingers, and slowly the tree began to respond. She could almost feel the sap move through its branches, restoring life where death had been lurking. The vibration of the song reached the smallest twigs, causing them to bring forth tiny green buds, the precursor of leaves that would come in the spring.
Rhapsody took the higen and set it in the highest crotch she could reach, right above the first hollow of the trunk. It continued to play, fueled by the tree itself singing the song in response. She smiled as the tree returned to life, then turned and headed back to her friends and the children.
On her way back through the garden Rhapsody passed a long, flat table, largely hidden beneath a blanket of snow. When she had hurried past it on the way to the tree she had presumed it was a garden bench of some kind, but now she felt compelled to stop and look at it again. As she did, an image formed, unbidden, in her head.
Her body began to shake as the snow melted away in her mind's eye, leaving the stone table black and gleaming in the ominous light of a full moon. On the table was the body of a man, lying still as death, looking as if it were formed from the ice left behind in the melting snow's wake. She could discern no particular features; in the moonlight, the body barely seemed human.
Within the darkness above the lifeless form she could discern movement, and concentrated as best she could to see it in her trance. Disembodied hands, their owner obscured from her view, gestured within the air, seemingly in the performance of a religious ceremony. They folded together, as if in prayer, then opened as if in blessing. Blood poured from between them into the lifeless form, staining it red as it filled.
Words, spoken as if in her ear, sounded in the darkness, absent of any voice.
Child of my blood.
Rhapsody watched, feeling nothing in the detachment of the trance, as a small glowing object appeared in the hands, pulsing with a light that twinkled almost like a star. It burned so intensely that she blinked, trying to shield her eyes from the pain.
With great care the hands placed the shining object gently into the blood-form that lay on the table. The body gleamed for a moment, then began to glow brightly, light surrounding it, swallowing the hands that had hovered above it.
Now shall the prophecy be broken. From this child will come forth my children.
The light began to fade, and as it diminished, the figure began to become solid, distinct.
The thunderous sound of horses' hooves shattered the trance. Rhapsody's legs gave out and she fell to her knees in the pink-stained snow, shuddering from the sudden loss of the vision. Her heart pounding in revulsion, she leapt from the ground, ran to the garden wall, and looked down into the courtyard below.
Achmed looked up from the notebook as the music began to resound from the garden. He returned almost immediately to his reading; the book was proving quite useful.
According to the carefully graphed script, Canrif, the city of Gwylliam, capital of the Third Cymrian Fleet, had been abandoned after the death of the Lord Cymrian due to the alarming increase in Firbolg raids and the havoc that the war had played with the Cymrians' resources and ability to organize.
They had been unable to hold the city as the barbarian assaults intensified, and so with much regret they had sealed those parts they could and left it in hopes that they might one day return. Apparently they never had, and now this city, with its treasures and library locked away, was deep within the heart of the Bolglands.
What was more, the key to Gwylliam's vault had been left in the House of Remembrance by Anborn, the general who had evacuated the mountain. A few notes seemed to indicate that regents of Roland, the ancestors of Lord Stephen and his fellow dukes, were Cymrian generals from the First and Third Waves, but Achmed was uncertain he was reading the fragmented annotations correctly. He would have to have Rhapsody read these parts.
His attention was drawn from the book when he noticed the older girl captive in the process of secreting away a dagger from one of the dead guards. She was nimble, good enough that Grunthor, who was watching the children, had not noticed. Achmed made a soft clicking noise, drawing Grunthor's immediate eye. A quick nod in the direction of the girl sent Grunthor ambling over to her.
"'Ey, what you got there, lit'le miss?" the giant asked.
"Nothin'," the girl responded, looking away and shuffling her feet.
Achmed smiled. Her movements, intended to look like a coy, frightened or bashful reaction, had in fact been a ruse to hide the weapon within her clothing. It was well done enough that the assassin wondered if she had succeeded in fooling Grunthor. She hadn't.
"Well, what's this, then?" the Sergeant asked.
His enormous hand reached behind her back and plucked out the small dagger. The girl was surprised by the giant's speed, her expression quickly melting into one of fear. She had been caught, not just stealing a weapon, but lying about it. Her eyes quickly darted toward the door, looking, Achmed assumed, for the potential protection of Rhapsody.
"Um—it looks a lot like a knife," the girl answered.
"Now, what would a girl like you want with somethin' like this?" Grunthor asked, disdain on his face. He quickly drew a longer, nastier-looking blade from his own hoard of weapons, and smiled. "If you're gonna use a blade, make sure it's a good one. 'Ere, now this is a dirk worth carryin'." He handed his blade over to the girl, who took it with a questioning stare.
"Now, see, this knife 'as a real good edge to it, and see that bronze ridge along the top? It's perfect for parryin' the other guy's slashes. Once you do that, you can slice 'is wrist with the recurved bit on the front, see?"
"Yeah," the girl said. A wary smile appeared.
"Now, you practice that—a block and a twist, got it?" Grunthor said, demonstrating the movement with the small dagger he had taken from her. The girl nodded. Grunthor backed up two steps and watched her appreciatively before turning to go back to looting the dead. As he did, he noticed Achmed's look of disbelief.
"What?" Grunthor held his hands out in bewilderment. The Dhracian nodded at the girl, and the giant shrugged. "Oh. What's the 'arm, eh?"
Achmed merely shook his head and returned to the book. He read two sentences more before Rhapsody returned to the room, panting from running. Her eyes were dark with concern.
"There's a troop of men approaching," she said.
"They're moving quickly; they are almost to the door."
"What?" Achmed's unpleasant face went blank with surprise. He ran to the door of the library and through the glass windows of the connecting hall. From that vantage point he could see ten men entering the garden, walking gingerly through the bloody snow.
Leading them was a man in a heavy gray hooded mantle, flanked on either side by white wolves. When he reached the tree in the garden's center he stopped and looked up at it, then walked around it with interest.
Upon seeing the leader, a faint buzzing filled Achmed's inner ears; he was unsure if he heard it, or merely felt it. He ducked back through the door and, with an agile shrug, swung the cwellan from his back and into his hands.
Even back inside the tower, behind the solid wall, he could feel the vibration rattling in his skull, emanating from where the man in the gray cloak stood. He felt the pounding of blood in his ears, and the buzzing noise grew louder. Achmed quickly closed the door.
"Did they see you?" he asked Rhapsody.
"No," Rhapsody said, "at least I don't think so. I just caught a glimpse of them coming before I came to warn you. What do you think they want? Are they in league with Cifiona, or are they here to find the children?"
"If they're here for the children, it's not to help them," Achmed said. "I got the same sick feeling when I saw their leader that I had when I saw the House back on the trail."
"Oh, lovely," Grunthor said. He held his snickersnee at the ready. Suddenly a look of concern swept over face. "Oh, son of a whore—Oi left my poleax out there."
"I don't think there's enough room for you to use it in here, anyway," Rhapsody said.
"It's not that, miss. When the bastards see it they'll know we're still around."
"Marvelous," Achmed sighed. "Rhapsody, take the brats upstairs. Grunthor, get your bow out and barricade this door as soon as I'm through it."
"You're not going out there alone, are you?" Rhapsody put her arm around a small boy who was beginning to sob in fright.
"I'm at my best when I'm alone. Now get them upstairs."
Achmed cracked open the door. The guards had not yet entered the hall where the children had been kept. Quickly he slipped through the door and Grunthor closed it behind him. The giant slid the crossbar in place before going to the library desks and quietly stacking them on their sides to form a barricade near the stairs.
Rhapsody gently ushered the children up the steps. Despite her best efforts, she could not hide the concern in her voice.
Blinking through the shadows like a cat, Achmed traversed the long hall unseen, even though some of the brigands entered the room before he had finished. The men carried themselves with the gait of the well-trained and were well armed. All but their leader wore ring mail, and several carried crossbows.
Crouching in the corner, all but invisible, Achmed closed his eyes and listened. He counted fifteen soldiers, not including the nine who had been left outside the main door, and their leader. He cursed himself for letting Rhapsody and the children get caught in the tower, but it had been the preferable option. At least while they were there Grunthor could hold their attackers at bay for a long time while he picked them off slowly from outside.
Achmed decided to get a start on that. He crept through the door Grunthor had smashed from its hinges, into the long, bloodstained hall, and through the outer windows that lined it. The nine men outside the House died before their leader had left the garden.
Inside, Grunthor waited patiently behind his makeshift fortress of desks. He kept an arrow nocked to his long recurved bow, and had stuck the tip of his snickersnee in the floorboards near him. After a moment, he heard a slight rattling of the door, then a series of thuds, like a man trying to shoulder his way in.
Grunthor smiled. This door was thick, and even he would have had serious trouble smashing it in without the aid of a log. Then they heard a light noise, as if someone was knocking.
"Hello? Is anyone home?" It was a man's voice, warm and pleasant, tinged with humor. "It isn't very nice of you to lock me out of my house, you know. Let's be reasonable, shall we?—let me in. I know you're in there."
"BUGGER OFF!" Grunthor roared.
Suddenly the door burst apart in an explosion of dark fire. Burning splinters flew across the room, flames burned in black hues, and smoke filled the air.
Six or seven soldiers ran into the room. Grunthor began loosing his yard-long arrows. He heard the distinctive thud of crossbow bolts embedding in the heavy oak desks, and returned fire. One crossbowman was down; his other shots had missed the two who had leapt for cover.
Of more immediate concern were the three swordsmen who charged across the room toward his makeshift barricade. He managed to down one of them with an arrow in the thigh before the other two jumped the desks. More followed from the door. The first met with an arrow driven by Grunthor's hand into his chest; the second managed to get to his feet before the huge fist of the Bolg smashed into his face, crushing the front of his skull.
Grunthor grabbed his snickersnee as four ran around the sides of the barricade. The giant had to stay on his knees to avoid the crossbow bolts that were slamming into the staircase and the desks in front of him. With a quick lunge and a thrust, he dispatched the first, but he knew he would momentarily be flanked and outnumbered.
The Sergeant parried the blow of the next and turned to defend against the third, only to find the man spinning to the ground with a smoldering wound in his forehead.
A lithe form sped across his field of vision as Rhapsody left her victim and engaged the other man who had made it past the barricade. Grunthor smiled as he turned his own attentions on the soldier who was attacking him. He was surprised when the man was able to parry his blow without losing his grip on his sword. Grunthor lunged, thrust, and slashed, with little effect, receiving a deep cut to his forearm before dispatching the well-trained guard.
"Nice form, soldier," he said to the corpse in admiration.
He turned to assist Rhapsody just in time to see her knocked down by a kick to her knees. He cleaved her opponent in two and Rhapsody quickly regained her feet.
"Oi'm quite glad to see you, miss."
Rhapsody smiled. "The feeling's mutual," she said.
They turned to face any new adversaries about to rush them when they were knocked off their feet by another sudden explosion of dark fire that set the countless bookshelves aflame.
As Achmed slipped behind the altar in the garden, he saw the man with the wolves raise his hand. A blast of black fire sprang forth from his palm, blowing the heavy tower door into pieces. At once a number of his troops rushed the door.
Achmed flexed his hand, then raised his cwellan to his eyes to sight his targets with care. The first to fall were the two guards who stood by the doors to the garden. The next shot was aimed at the man in the gray hooded cloak.
The leader turned as the silver disks approached his head, but the missiles never hit their mark. Instead, the shining projectiles flared suddenly and burned away within inches of the man's eyes. He smiled as he raised his hand.
At once a ball of ebony flame sailed through the air and exploded at the base of the stone altar. The ground shook slightly, the frames that held the dead children collapsed to the ground, and the stone altar cracked, but Achmed backed away, uninjured.
As he heard the footfalls of soldiers rush into the garden, Achmed sprang once more into action, loosing a deadly hail of disks into the eyes and throats of the brigands, but their commander was out of his line of fire. At the entrance to the hall, a wall of dark flames had risen to block his way. Achmed swore, and moved swiftly to the main door, the only other route he knew to the tower. Silently he cursed the fact that the fires were black; obviously the lore of such dark power had not been lost with the Island.
Grunthor and Rhapsody rolled quickly to their feet as the fire spread and the smoke choked the air. In the doorway they could see the silhouette of a man. Grunthor grabbed one of the hand axes from his weapons belt and hurled it at the figure. The twirling hatchet never reached its mark, vanishing in a dark flash.
"Come now," the voice said, "you're trapped here—throw down your weapons and I will let the fires fall. Refuse, and I shall be forced to let you burn to death."
The voice in the shadow of the flames was sweet and rich, like honey on a warm day. Something in the words made her think back to their time after exiting the Root.
And then there's the fire.
What about the fire?
Come here. Take off your scabbard and leave it there.
There. So what?
Now have a look at the fire.
I see it.
Good; now walk slowly toward it.
Gods, what's happening?
It's you, miss. See? But if you don't stop it, you're gonna burn up my lit'le den 'ere, maybe set the whole forest ablaze.
Rhapsody closed her eyes, and calmed her spirit. She concentrated on the fire.
"Be at peace," she said.
At once the flames responded, the bonfire fed by the books and scrolls died down to flickering embers.
From the door she heard cursing and within her heart she felt a tug at the edge of her perceptions. At once the fires began to rise back to life.
Panic shot through her, and in response the flames burst forth even higher. She realized her mistake and quelled the flames once more, but she felt effort in the act, as if another will was struggling with hers. She gripped the sword tightly and tried to channel her thoughts and feelings through the blade. The effect was immediate. The fires were snuffed out, and a howl of frustration and pain came from the doorway.
Rhapsody moved in front of the barricade to face the enemy who had brought forth the black fire. Through the billowing smoke all she could see was an indistinct outline. It paused for a moment and then was gone. She doubted he could have gotten any clearer view of her than she had of him, though her hood had fallen back, revealing her face and hair, shining in the light of the diminished fire. She expected that the sight of the sword had something to do with his hasty exit. She and Grunthor raced to the door, but the shadowy figure was nowhere in sight. Upstairs she heard the children wailing.
Achmed had gotten as far as the long hall before he saw the gray-cloaked man racing toward him. The approaching figure's left hand held a black longsword, with a single distinctive white stripe down its blade. He felt a tingle of power from the sword, and a wave of nausea from the figure.
The man stopped long enough to look the Dhracian over quickly. Achmed could not make out much of the man's features beneath the war helm and cloak, but he could clearly see startling blue eyes and an insolent smile.
With a single motion Achmed shouldered his cwellan and drew the long, thin blade that he carried. He seldom used it, seldom had the need, but the complete failure of the cwellan to strike its target made him decide not to risk wasting time with another missile attack. The commander of the now-dead troop smiled more broadly, nodded, and jumped through the outer window.
Dropping his sword, Achmed shrugged, bringing his cwellan back into his hands, and ran at once to the shattered pane. The man was rolling to his feet. Achmed took aim, but the sudden appearance of the white wolves in the hall turned his attention to his own defense. The great beasts ran at him, but neither had a chance to leap to the attack before Achmed downed them with the weapon of his own invention.
When he turned back to the windows, the man with the great gray mantle was gone.