Masques s-1 Page 28

  “I need you to call the dragon to take me back to the ae’Magi’s castle. I can’t get there fast enough by myself.” She noticed with detached surprise that her voice was steady.

  Myr nodded, gestured for her to wait for him, and ducked back into the caves. He returned carrying his sword in one hand, the belt dangling from its sheath, and led the way through a thicket of brambleberry to a smallish clearing.

  Carefully, he unsheathed his sword and gave a rueful look to the blade that years of his grandfather’s warring had left unmarred. Then he drove it into the sandy soil, trying not to wince at the grating sound. Another time, Aralorn would have smiled.

  When he was done calling the dragon, he stood quietly beside her, not asking her what had happened. It was Aralorn who finally broke the silence.

  “We made it into the ae’Magi’s castle. He was waiting for us in the dungeons. I think that Wolf’s spell would have worked anyplace else. There was too much old magic, and the spell wasn’t strong enough and backlashed. I was on the floor already so it didn’t hit me very hard. The ae’Magi was knocked out momentarily. Wolf . . .” Her voice cracked and she stopped, swallowed, and tried again. “Wolf’s back is broken, he tricked me into touching his staff and sent me back here. I don’t know how fast a dragon can fly. Even if it consents to take me to the castle, it will probably be too late.”

  She laughed then, though it could have been a sob, and clasped the staff tighter. “He may have been right, and it was too late when he sent me back.”

  Myr didn’t say anything, but he put a comforting hand on her shoulder. A cold wind swept down the mountainside, and Aralorn shivered with impatience as much as chill. Even though she was watching intently, she didn’t see the dragon until it was overhead. Silver and green and as graceful as a hummingbird, the great reptile landed and eyed them with interest—or perhaps hunger.

  “I need you to get me to the ae’Magi’s castle as fast as possible.” Aralorn knew she was being too abrupt, but she was desperate and couldn’t find courtesy when she needed it. The dragon tilted its head back in offense.

  Myr’s grip tightened warningly on Aralorn’s shoulder, as he said, “Dragon, the only one of us who stands a chance of facing down the ae’Magi is hurt and fighting alone at the castle. We need to get there to help him, or the ae’Magi has won. You are our only chance of doing so in time.”

  Aralorn started at the “we,” but decided not to protest as it was likely to offend the dragon even more.

  The dragon hesitated a minute, then asked, “Speed is important?”

  “Very, sir,” Aralorn said carefully, keeping a respectful tone.

  It nodded, once. “I can travel much faster than flying, but it means that because of your safeguards against magic, I cannot take you, King Myr. The shapeshifter half-breed I can take.”

  Myr looked unhappy, but he nodded his acceptance. When the dragon lowered its belly to the ground and folded its wings, Myr helped Aralorn up as she was hampered by the necessity of keeping the sharp claws at the end of Wolf’s staff away from the dragon.

  The scales on the dragon’s back were slick, but otherwise it was no worse than riding a horse bareback—until he began moving. The wings beat steadily until they caught an updraft, then flattened and spread wide—letting the wind pull them south.

  Abruptly, the dragon lurched forward, and Aralorn felt a familiar dizziness seize her and clutched the fist-sized scales reflexively. He’d transported them the same way Wolf had sent her back to his library. When she was able to focus her eyes again, the castle of the ae’Magi lay just below.

  Shouting, so that the dragon could hear her past the sound of the wind, Aralorn said, “Land wherever you can find a safe place, Lord. I can find my way in.” She still had that little follow-me spell on Wolf’s boot. He’d changed his clothes preparing to face his father, but not his boots.

  In acknowledgment of her words, the dragon changed its angle of flight until it was losing altitude fast. Aralorn’s ears popped painfully, and she tightened her grip on the dragon’s scales until they cut into her hand. When the dragon landed, the jolt loosened Aralorn’s grip, and she landed with a thud next to an impressively armed forepaw.

  She rolled to her feet with more speed than grace. She turned to face the dragon and bowed respectfully. “My thanks, sir, and apologies for my clumsiness.” Without waiting for a reply, she shifted quickly into a goose and flew as fast as she could to the castle.

  The moat didn’t smell any better than it had before, and it took her some time to find an intact pipe that was not plugged with grime. Once she found one, maybe the same one she’d used before, she balanced precariously on it until she could turn into a mouse. Even in mouse form, she had trouble negotiating the tricky business of crawling into the pipe from the top, but she managed. All the while, part of her wailed that she was being too slow.

  The corridor she entered was only dimly lit by wall sconces, and from what she could see, it was not one that she’d been in before. She considered staying a mouse but decided that she would have a better chance of recognizing something familiar if she were in human form since she’d been in human form while she was following Wolf.

  When she took her own shape again, the staff appeared beside her (she hadn’t been sure that it would). She wondered if it had changed with her, like the sword and her clothes, or if it was following her on its own. She remembered how Wolf would just reach out and it would be there, under his hand. She’d thought it was something Wolf had done. The idea that it had been the staff all along caused her to pick it up gingerly as she started down the hallway.

  There were still Uriah posted in the halls. As before, they allowed her to pass without bothering her though they followed her progress with their eyes. She kept a steady, rapid pace, hoping that she would find a clue to where she was soon enough to be of some help to Wolf. The spell on Wolf’s boot was harder to follow in the ae’Magi’s castle than it had been in the caves. She could feel it, but it was a faint whisper instead of a call.

  The castle was eerily silent, so that when she heard sounds coming from inside a room, she stopped impulsively and opened the door. Kisrah looked up, startled, from where he’d been eating breakfast in bed with a giggling young beauty.

  “Lord Kisrah, you wouldn’t be interested in showing me the way to the dungeons, I suppose?” asked Aralorn. She wondered if she should draw her sword or knife. She didn’t have a chance to act. Something flashed at her out of Lord Kisrah’s hands. Instinctively, because it was already in her grip, she moved to block it with the staff. When the flash hit the dark, oiled wood, the crystals on one end of the staff, which up to this point had been dull and lifeless, flared brightly, and Lord Kisrah’s magic dissipated without a sound.

  Unwilling to let him get another spell off, Aralorn attacked with the staff. Lord Kisrah, unarmed, not to mention unclothed, didn’t have much of a chance against Aralorn, who was wielding her favorite type of weapon. Her first blow broke his arm and her second knocked him unconscious on the floor next to the bed.

  Aralorn turned to his bedmate with apologies on her lips, but something about the girl made her tighten her grip on the staff instead. Focused intently on the unconscious man, the red-haired woman slithered out of the bedclothes, knocking the bed table with their food onto the floor.

  Remembering the harpy that she and Wolf had met earlier, Aralorn tapped the girl’s shoulder gingerly with the clawed end of the staff. She hadn’t realized how sharp the claws were until they drew blood. She felt bad about it until the girl turned and Aralorn got a good look at her.

  The girl snarled, and Aralorn jumped back and seriously considered leaving Lord Kisrah to his fate. As the girl moved, her shape altered rapidly into something vaguely reptilian, with a large spiked tail and impressive fangs, not the same as the silk-merchant girl, though maybe they were at different stages.

  The thing, whatever it was, was fast and strong: When its tail hit the post of the bed, the wood
cracked. It was also, thankfully, stupid—very stupid. It jumped at Aralorn with a shrill cry and impaled itself on the claws of Wolf’s staff.

  Dying, it changed back into its former beauty and the woman blinked her green eyes—shapeshifter eyes—and said softly, “Please . . .” before she was unable to say anything.

  “Plague it,” said Aralorn in an unsteady voice as she retrieved the staff in shaky hands. She backed into the corridor and had started down it when she noticed the hungry gaze of one of the Uriah focused on the bloody end of the staff. She thought of Lord Kisrah lying like an appetizer beside his bedmate’s corpse; she went back and shut the door to the bedroom and locked it with a simple spell that Lord Kisrah would have little trouble breaking when he woke up.

  Just as she was about to give up hope, Aralorn rounded a corner and found herself in the great hall. From there it was a simple matter to find her way to the dungeon, and the closer she came, the stronger her follow-me spell summoned her. She was concentrating so hard on doing so that the whisper took her by surprise.

  “Aralorn,” said the Uriah from the shadows near the stairway that led down to the dungeons.

  She came to an abrupt halt and spun to face Talor. “What do you want?”

  It laughed, sounding for a minute as carefree as he always had, then said in a harsh voice, “You know what I am. What do you think that I want, Aralorn?” It took a step closer to her. “I hunger, just as your companion will shortly. Leave, Aralorn, you can do no good here.”

  Aralorn shifted her grip on Wolf’s staff from her right hand, which was getting stiff and sweaty, to her left. “Talor, where is your brother? I haven’t seen him here.”

  “He didn’t make the transition to Uriah,” it said softly, and smiled. “Lucky Kai.”

  Aralorn nodded and turned as if to go down the stairs; instead she continued her turn, drawing the sword as she moved. Smith’s weapon or not, the blade cut cleanly through the Uriah’s neck, beheading it. The body fell motionless to the stone floor.

  “Sweet dreams, Talor,” she said soberly. “If I find Wolf in your condition, I will strive to do the same for him.”

  With the sword in her right hand and the staff in her left, she started down the stairs. The lower levels were darker, but Wolf’s staff was emitting a faint glow that allowed her to see where she put her feet. As she started down the third set of steps, it occurred to her that she didn’t really know what she planned to do. Alone against the ae’Magi, she had no chance. Not only was he a better magician (by several orders of magnitude), but, if he was Wolf’s equal with a sword, he was a much better fighter than Aralorn.

  The smells of the dungeon had become strong, and the stench didn’t help her stomach, which was already clinched with nerves. In the guardroom, she abandoned the staff because she didn’t know how to stop the crystals from glowing.

  She sheathed the sword and dropped to her belly, ignoring the filth on the cold stone floor. Slowly, she slid into the dungeon, keeping to one side. The voices that had been indistinct were now intelligible. She heard Wolf speaking, and the huge weight of grief lifted off her shoulders.

  “. . . why should I make this easier for you than I already have? This is a very easy shield to break through, most third-year magicians could do it. Would you like me to show you how?” Wolf’s voice was weaker than she’d ever heard it, but there was no more emotion in it than it ever had. “It does have the unfortunate effect of incinerating whatever the shield is guarding.”

  “Ah, but I have another method of removing your protection.” The ae’Magi’s voice was a smooth contrast to his son’s. “I have been informed that the girl that you so impetuously sent away has returned all alone. She should be here momentarily if she isn’t already.”

  For an instant, Aralorn plastered herself motionless to the floor before her common sense reasserted itself. It really didn’t matter if the ae’Magi knew she was coming, the element of surprise wasn’t going to help her much anyway. What did matter was that somehow Wolf had managed to hold the ae’Magi at bay, and no matter how much Wolf cared for her, he knew that it was more important that the ae’Magi not be able to control Wolf’s powers. He wouldn’t give himself to the ae’Magi just to save her skin . . . she hoped.

  She inched forward a few steps more until she could see Wolf revealed by the light of the ae’Magi’s staff. He sat in almost the same position that he had been in when she left him. He had drawn a single orange line of power around himself, and there was something different about his position. She looked carefully and saw that he was cautiously moving his toes. She smiled; he had bought enough time with his barrier to heal himself.

  Aralorn drew the sword and stepped into the light in front of Wolf. She expected an immediate reaction, but the ae’Magi was pacing back and forth with his back to her.

  “. . . you should not have crossed me. With your power and my knowledge, you could have become a god with me. That’s all that the gods were, did you know it? Mages who had discovered the secret to eternal life, and I have it now. I will be a god, the only god, and you will help me do it.”

  All of the dictates of honor demanded that she call attention to herself before she attacked. Aralorn, however, was a spy and a rotten swordswoman besides, so she struck him in the back.

  Unfortunately the same spell that had rendered her knife useless previously was also effective against the sword, which slid harmlessly through him and knocked Aralorn off-balance. She turned her fall into a roll and kept going until she hit a wall. Although the sword hadn’t done the magician any harm, the metal grip had heated enough that she was forced to drop it on the ground.

  It had something to do with hitting a magician with metal, she supposed.

  “Ah,” said the ae’Magi with a smile, “who would think that the son of my flesh would fall for a silly girl who is stupid enough to try the same trick twice.”

  He turned to Wolf and started to say something else, but Aralorn quit listening. She couldn’t believe that the Archmage was just dismissing her. She decided not to question her luck and began to shapechange, trusting that Wolf would see her and keep the ae’Magi’s attention long enough that she could complete the transition to icelynx.

  “Don’t discount Aralorn so lightly, you may be surprised,” commented Wolf, stretching the stiff muscles of his neck. “Certainly I never thought that she could get back from the Northlands so quickly. Perhaps the Old Man of the Mountain sent her back.”

  The ae’Magi snorted in disbelief. “You could not have sent her so far; the Northlands would have blocked such transportation. I do not care where she was. As for the Old Man of the Mountain myth, there is no such person, or I would have run into him long since.”

  Wolf curved his lips in the dim light of the ae’Magi’s staff. “If you are so sure that the old gods are real, why not a folktale as well?”

  The keener senses of the icelynx made the smell of the dungeon worse, and she curled her lips in a silent snarl of disgust as she stalked slowly toward the ae’Magi. She crouched behind him and twitched her stub of a tail, waiting for just the right moment before she sprang.

  Her front claws dug into his shoulders for purchase while her hind legs raked his back, scoring him deeply. But that was all that she had time for before the ae’Magi’s staff caught her in the side of the head with enough force to toss her against a wall. As she lay dazed, her eyes focused on Wolf.

  On his knees, Wolf carefully retraced the circle of power. Reaching out almost casually, he snagged his staff where it apparently had been waiting for him in the darkness.

  “Father,” he said, getting to his feet.

  The ae’Magi turned and, seeing Wolf, brought his staff up and took up a fighting stance. It was quiet for a moment, then Wolf struck. Some of the fighting was physical, some of it was magical, most of it was both—accompanied by a very impressive light show.

  Aralorn watched from her corner and got slowly to her feet. Anything that she could do as an icely
nx was likely to do as much harm as good with so much magic flying around. She took back her human shape, from habit as much as anything else. She had started to lean against the wall to watch when she caught a glimpse of the sword, half-buried in the filthy rushes on the floor. On impulse she picked it up; the heat that had made her drop it was gone.

  Atryx Iblis the Old Man had called it in an archaic dialect. Atryx was easy, it meant “devourer.” Iblis took her a while longer, but when she understood it, she smiled and held it at ready, waiting for a chance to use it again.

  Healing himself had weakened Wolf, and he was showing it. His blocks were less sure, and he lashed out in fewer and fewer attacks. The ae’Magi was also tiring; the blood he was losing to the deep slashes that Aralorn had made on his back was bothering him, but it was Wolf who slipped in the muck on the floor and fell to one knee, losing his staff in the process.

  For a second time Aralorn attacked the ae’Magi’s back with the sword, but this time she stabbed him with it instead of cutting him, and released the grip. The sword Ambris hung grotesquely from his chest, though it was doing no apparent harm. Without taking his eyes off Wolf, the ae’Magi swung the tip of his staff at Aralorn and said a quiet phrase.

  Nothing happened, but the Smith’s sword was glowing brighter than either of the staves, bathing the dungeon with pink. Wolf got to his feet and retrieved his staff, but made no move to attack. Frantically, the ae’Magi grabbed the blade and pushed the sword out, cutting his fingers in the process, although the blade slid out easily enough and fell, shimmering, to the floor.

  Aralorn grabbed it, heedless of the heat, and sheathed it, as she said conversationally, “The Old Man says that it’s one of the Smith’s weapons. Atryx Iblis, he calls it—Magic Eater.”