face. “That’s another thing my wife always said, I talk too much. I’d be grateful if you’d take the cloak.” He held out the cloak — perhaps smelly, perhaps sweaty, but above all warm — bashfully.
“Thank you, Renir. If the gods be kind to us, we’ll both be warm before this day is out.”
“Don’t see how, Tiri, but I’ll drink to that. Warm, in a nice comfy bed. I can’t remember the last time I was warm, or slept in a bed. I think I might smell of Teryithyrian, too. They don’t make the most comfortable of sleeping partners. Not that I’ve slept with one, if you know what I…ah, never mind me.”
They had caught up the others, and for some reason Tirielle found that the strange warrior had made her smile. His countenance was terrible, but under the grime and the beard she realised he did not have the look of a slayer, but of an ordinary man, with kinder eyes than usually.
Behind her, a massive slab of ice cracked and fell loose, crashing to pieces down the side of the shifting mountain. Shivers racked her body, then, and she hugged herself. The cloak was comfortingly warm, with the warrior’s body heat. It cut out the piercing wind, too.
She was not one to overlook the little mercies. She was thankful for what she could get.
“Perhaps we should wait for your friend,” said Roth to Cenphalph, where they were paused before a great, smooth round boulder, incongruous amongst the ragged rock and fragile shale.
Tirielle looked round and saw an old man walking up the side of the mountain. He wasn’t sticking to the path, but leaping nimbly over rock and crag with the ease of a mountain goat. His beard reached his waist, and his hair was even longer.
Drun Sard, her mind supplied. He was everything she had imagined and more. No man could climb the rock as swiftly without the aid of magic. Not at his age. He must be ancient for his white hair to grow as long. She smiled at the sight of him.
“He’ll catch up,” said Shorn. Tirielle noticed his voice lisped slightly, no doubt a result of the blow he had taken to his face. She took pains not to stare.
She felt she should make some form of introduction, but she was too short of breath join in the conversation.
“How are we to move it?” said Quintal, eyeing the rock baring their way. It was as the map had described it. Worn thin with age and the inhospitable weather, Tirielle could see the markings described in the scroll. It was the entrance to the depths of the mountain. She could think of many places she would rather go. A small, snide part of her piped up…and what if it never moves? How long till the soldiers catch up? How long will we last against an army?
She shook herself and looked at the old man climbing steadily toward them. He would be there soon.
“I think this is why I came,” said Roth. It seemed sad, and spared a glance at Tirielle. She wondered what it was she saw there on Roth’s face. It was something she had not seen before. It looked, to her, like acceptance. Always before it had fought, never giving in. Now it seemed as though the mighty beasts will had crumbled.
“Look at the marking. It is a hand.”
“But it’s massive…” said Quintal, and tailed off. “I see.”
Roth merely nodded, and placed its right hand on the rock. Its hand fitted the carving perfectly.
A beautiful humming accompanied the giant’s actions, and Tirielle looked around for the source of the resonating song…it was coming from Shorn’s sword, clenched in his good hand — he had obviously damaged the other, for it was encased in a silvery brace, with a sharp, flared blade along his forearm.
His sword was singing!
Magic was not dead on this continent, either.
The song rose, and the stone moved aside with a grating rumble, even though Roth was not pushing. Warm air escaped the growing gap. Steam rose, buffeted by the wind. It was hot in there. Hot enough for steam. She did not think she would need the cloak for much longer.
“Greetings,” called a pleasant voice from behind her. “You are the First, and I am the Watcher.” She started at the sudden voice, her concentration fully on the shifting boulder, and turned to see Drun Sard beaming at her. His eyes were beautifully golden, just like his warrior brothers, but bore none of the haunted look that the paladins wore so well.
“I don’t intend to Sacrifice myself. Drun Sard, I presume. I can’t say it’s a pleasure. Under different circumstances, perhaps…”
“Entirely understandable, lady. It is my pleasure. Shall we?” he said, and held out his arm. To her surprise she found herself taking it. He led her toward the darkness behind the rock.
She entered.
Another blasted tunnel, she thought. Why is it my battles cannot be fought on the open plain, instead of in the darkness?
But she was not given the chance to baulk at her fate, as she might have done, staring at the gaping hole, so like a beast’s cavernous maw. Drun Sard held her arm firmly, and led her, once more, into darkness.
Chapter Eighty-Six
Klan rebounded and landed with a crash at Jek’s feet.
“You weren’t gone long,” said Jek as if Klan’s unexpected return was of little consequence.
Klan rose and dusted himself off. He winced as he tried to put his weight on his left foot. It seemed he had broken it again.
“Something is holding me back. I tried to travel to base camp, but it is like it does not exist. I will have to go further afield.”
“Well, don’t let me stop you. It’s not like we have pressing matters to attend to. Perhaps I should take charge…”
“I will do my duty, Speculate!” shouted Klan with venom.
“Then do it! I will tolerate no failure.”
Jek’s eyes blazed with fury. Klan turned his aside. Now was not the time to test himself against Jek. Instead, he turned his power to the travel, to building the tunnel…and without another word, stepped inside.
He could not make the tunnel go near the base camp. It seemed it was now a blasted land, the places that were anathema to mages. He could not emerge there. From the other world, he sent out wisps of his consciousness, searching for a safe place to alight…he searched the ground and saw the reason he could not land at base camp — it had been annihilated. The portal had destroyed a vast swathe of land…around it his forces still battled with the Teryithyr. Magic crackled through the aether…he could feel it prickle his skin even in the strange world of voices that his body currently inhabited.
Magic was growing. He snarled in frustration. The expenditure of magical energy and the catastrophic explosion of the portal were preventing him from joining the battle. But, he saw, his quarry were no longer in the midst of the battle. He searched for them everywhere, and found footsteps, finally, leading up the side of the mountain spewing ash…he followed them, his soul floating behind the film that was reality…followed them to a gaping hole in the side of the mountain.
It was far enough away from the battle and the swirling magic to transport his body to. With a feat of concentration, he coalesced his body together as a whole, stepped from a hole torn in from the under world where souls travelled, and onto the ash covered mountainside.
The voices seemed to cry with relief when he left that strange world.
One day he would have Fernip read about travelling. For now, he had his duty…his obsession. He would have the three, or the wizard, it mattered not. The end was near. They had eluded his grasp for so long, but in the end, they had shown him the way. At last, he knew where they were, and this time, there would be no escape.
As he stepped into the cave, the mountain began to shake itself apart.
A sudden crash came from behind him, the grating rumble of rock falling, and the entrance caved in. It did not matter. He could always travel out again. He would never be trapped, anywhere. The day’s light fled, but he was never in darkness. His eyes lit the way before him.
He followed the path downward, ever down, with a grim smile on his face and his blood red eyes glowing, burning, with anticipation.
