impression of more tunnels leading off from this one, the entrance to an endless maze. In front of the Barbarian stood a tall, slim figure robed in purple, a silver mask reflecting the light from beneath a cowl. One claw-like hand clutched a staff; the other was stretched out in an odd gesture. As that hand moved, the Barbarian began to bend forward. Rik was shocked to see that despite his apparent attempts to resist, the Northman was about to fall on his own sword. The elder sign at his throat blazed but was not potent enough to resist the mage’s power.
Rik leapt forward, the truesilver blade light in his hand. The magician sprang backwards with unnatural agility. Laughing, the mage raised his hand and made a curious gesture, speaking words in one of the old tongues. Rik felt nothing although the runes on the blade of the sword suddenly blazed to life, and he felt a slight warmth, even through the hilt. He guessed that at least one of the things they said about truesilver was correct then. It did provide protection against evil magic.
He saw the mage’s eyes go wide, and leaned forward into a long thrust that drove the blade right through his opponent’s body. The mage screamed. His staff clattered from his hands. Rik found himself almost breast to breast with the wizard as he tumbled forward. He twisted the blade as he pulled it free. The mage whimpered as he clutched at the ropes of steaming, streaming intestine that tumbled forth.
Rik struck a blow to his head with the sword’s pommel. He felt the skull crack beneath the blow, and saw shards of blood-drenched bone fly forth, but still the wizard would not die. He was merely forced to his knees. Cursing, Rik hewed his head off with the blade.
The Barbarian came up beside Rik and began to hack the body to bits with his sword. “Bastard thought he had me there, Halfbreed, but I was just lulling him into my trap.”
“Whatever you say,” said Rik looking off into the distance where the Ultari had vanished. He supposed that they could follow it by the trail of slimy blood it had left behind, but he had no intention of doing so unless forced. Footsteps behind him made him turn and he saw Weasel approach holding a torch. He immediately gestured for the Barbarian to stop chopping and bent over the wizard. Rik put his hand on the poacher’s shoulder.
“He’s mine,” he said. “I killed him.”
Weasel looked miffed but the Barbarian nodded. “He killed him.”
“Fair enough,” said Weasel.
“What about the others?” Rik asked.
“Lieutenant’s down but still breathing. So is Gunther. Pigeon caught it. Leon’s unconscious. Severin is dead. The rest of them legged it.”
Rik wondered yet again how so much could have happened without him noticing it. It took some getting used to, even though he had enough experience to know that combat was chaos.
Weasel moved off down the corridor to see what he could find, the torch making his shadow dance behind him. Rik found an amulet on the wizard’s neck, and a number of pouches, some containing powder, inside the remains of his robe. Many of these had been spilled by the Barbarian’s blade. Rik was careful to avoid touching the ripped containers and their contents, while shoving the rest of them into his own pouch.
“Might be jewels there,” said the Barbarian as if regretting his earlier support. “If there is, just remember I did my part.”
“Fair enough,” said Rik. “Let’s see what we can do for the others.”
“I’m no good at stitching. I’ll help Weasel.” Rik shrugged and returned to his unconscious comrades. It looked like Weasel had actually bothered to perform basic first aid on them, which somewhat surprised Rik.
He checked Leon’s wounds first, and saw that the boy had just taken a hard knock to the head, maybe when the Ultari had started flailing about. Astonishingly, his clay pipe lay nearby unbroken. Rik stuck it in Leon’s tunic pocket along with the lucky feather from his hat then inspected the rest of his comrades.
Gunther looked pale and shocked and his breathing was shallow. Severin was dead. Pigeon’s head had been covered with his own tunic, and when he removed it Rik saw why. His skull had been split like a melon and brains had poured out onto the floor. Rik fought down the urge to be sick, made the Elder Sign of Passage over him, and gave his attention to the Lieutenant.
He looked around. There was nobody else present at the moment. Like a bolt sent straight from Shadow it struck him that he could simply put his hand over Sardec’s mouth and suffocate him. The Terrarch was paler even than Gunther and his breathing was shallow already. For a moment, his hand hovered over the Lieutenant’s face. He could take his own personal revenge on the Terrarch race right here, right now, if he wished and there was nothing anyone could do to stop him.
Nothing, he thought, except that he could not bring himself to kill someone so helpless; nothing except that his soul would go straight to the Shadow; nothing except the fact that somebody might return at any minute. He shook his head and tried to ignore his aches and pains. What was he thinking? He wiped the truesilver blade and returned it to its scabbard, then hunted around for his own weapons. Carefully he bit open a cartridge and loaded and primed the pistol, then set himself down to wait until his companions returned and could help him to move the wounded.
It was not long before Weasel and the Barbarian appeared. “We found something,” said the poacher.
Chapter Eight
“What have you found?” Rik asked Weasel.
“Books, Halfbreed.”
“I said we’d best burn them,” said the Barbarian. “They are wizard’s books. No good can come of them. No good ever came of any book.”
“But?” said Rik. He allowed his tiredness and impatience to show in his voice. He knew this pair. If they had wanted to, they would simply have burned the books. They would not have come to consult with him. Therefore they must think there was something to be gained from this.
“Weasel said they might be treasure. He said that the right people pay well for such books.”
Rik knew in his gut that he had come to one of the cross-roads of his life. These books had belonged to a dark wizard, one who had been up to no good whatsoever down here. If they were what he suspected, they contained forbidden lore, the kind that a man could get burned at the stake for possessing. The mage they had just fought had been no saint. Quite possibly his own knowledge had driven him mad. The best thing to do with the books was to burn them. And yet…
And yet, those books and that knowledge in them represented the gateway to a world he had always wanted to be part of, the world of the sorcerer. Perhaps they contained something that would let him forge a different destiny, that could steer him away from the early death or the poorhouse, or the life of an itinerant limbless beggar that waited many ex-soldiers.
Perhaps there was something in them that could let him better himself, or at least seize some control of his life. A flash of rebelliousness passed through him. He felt the lure of the forbidden.
What if the knowledge in those books was dark, frowned on by society? What had society ever done for him? And more than anything else, he was curious.
He saw the others staring at him. Weasel licked his lips, and fumbled at the hilt of his knife. Rik realised that they were nervous too but for different reasons. They were making an offer which if reported to the wrong people could get them burned at the stake.
He could almost read Weasel’s mind. His life was on the line here in more ways than one. If this pair thought he might report them to the Inquisition, he would not leave this place alive. They were waiting for an answer, one on which his life could well depend.
“He’s right,” said Rik. He paused for a moment, to weigh his next few words, but the Barbarian leapt in eagerly.
“You mean you think we found treasure?”
“I mean we may have found it, if those books are grimoires. There are people who pay well for spell books and such. At least there were in Sorrow.”
Weasel shot the Barbarian an I-told-you-so look.
“How much?” the big man asked. Rik looked around meaningfully, concentrating his gaze on the Lieutenant. This was not the sort of conversation you wanted overheard. The others had known it already. They were
