Spectyr

The opening to the main pipe was right behind them, but Merrick’s Center could travel no farther than the doorway. They were now a very, very long way from the tunnel beneath the palace—certainly more than a few strides.

Dael licked his lips before he dared use his voice. “Honored Deacon, what just happened?”

Merrick closed his eyes for a second, orienting himself in the world again, feeling his place in it. What he found made no sense; they had not only moved hundreds of miles, they had moved hours—well into the belly of night. It was something that might have been achieved by cantrips and weirstones, but he had seen none at the entrance to this tunnel.

Letting his guardsmen know how this surprised him would do them no good. “We are no longer in Chioma— we have moved.” The men shifted, but in a testament to their character and training, did not break for the doorway, which did seem only inches off. “This means nothing—we are still going after the Lady Japhne.”

“Yes, sir!” Dael spoke up, and the Deacon was so grateful he could have shaken the man’s hand right then.

Instead, Merrick merely nodded and took the lead into the darkness. What had felt like warm air when they’d been in Chioma was now freezing. The change had to be a result of the power used to create the gateway.

What was more disturbing was how little his Center was bringing him. Merrick did not mention it, but the darkness was just as deepound his senses as it was around the guards.

Merrick was as shocked as the guards when the void suddenly came alive, but he had no way of telling with what, because the first men to go down were those three carrying the lanterns. Around him he heard something moving; to his confused ears it sounded like wet laundry flapping on the line. The guards screamed only a few feet away; the sound echoed in the pipe before it was cut off with a choked gurgle. His first thought was to draw his sword, but he dared not strike without knowing where their attacker was. In the confusion they could all kill one another.

Apparently the guards had not considered that. They raised their rifles and fired about, punctuating the darkness with bright flares that burned Merrick’s eyes, now used to semidarkness. He strained his ears to hear past the sound of angry, frightened men and the reports of gunfire. Merrick spun around, aware that other guards had their steel drawn and were laying about them in the pitch black. The ice-cold tunnel now smelled of blood, gunpowder and panic.

He had to drop to the rock-strewn ground several times or be cut to pieces by his own terrified companions. Rolling to the side out of their way, Merrick drew his own weapon and came to his feet. In his mind he also drew something far more useful, the Fourth Rune of Sight, Kebenar, so that he might see the truth of what was happening around him.

It did no good. Another guard went down howling, his blood pumping from a torn throat, while his colleagues lashed about them hoping to hit something—anything! But whatever moved in the dark was either too fast or had no physical body.

Merrick called out to them. “Dael, the rest of you, come here! By the Bones, keep calm!”

Yet he was asking them to go against the most primitive human fears: the thing in the dark that had a taste for blood. One of the final two guards struck his compatriot in the neck by complete accident, and he went down like a felled tree. Then the monster in the dark took the last of the men.

Now there was only the Deacon, the darkness and whatever fell creature inhabited it. He stood there in a crouch, holding his sword before him, and waited for death to come.

Sorcha and the Prince of Chioma reached the Imperial Dirigible Station with little incident in the darkest part of the night—mainly because there was no one left to challenge them. Those few unbelievers of Hatipai had made themselves scarce, while the rest of the town happily marched out into the desert. She wondered if the call of the false goddess allowed the poor wretches to gather water before they did so; if not, there would be terrible casualties—especially among the children and the elderly. Sorcha doubted it would trouble the “goddess” much.

The Prince was staring at the two dirigibles outlined by the blue glow of weirstone torches with undisguised awe.

“Have you never seen the Emperor’s creations?” Sorcha asked, a tiny note of smugness creeping into her voice.

“Never,” Onika replied, as his contingent of half a dozen guards clustered closer.

“Well, if any of you smoke—I would suggest not to,” the Deacon went on, even though her fingers were twitching to be holding a cigar. “There is a reason they only use weirstones to propel the ship.”

When they looked at her questioningly, she mimed an explosion that made them blanch.

Luckily, Captain Revele appeared from out of the tion buildings and trotted over to Sorcha. Though she cast a curious glance at the strangely masked figure at the Deacon’s side, she saluted Sorcha. “Deacon Faris . . .” The slight slumping her shoulders was only perceptible to a trained Deacon. Sorcha knew full well it was because there was no Merrick at her side.

“Captain Revele”—Sorcha turned and looked toward the two moored dirigibles—“have you had any trouble here?” The last thing she wanted to get onto was a damaged vessel.

“There were a few locals who took exception to our presence”—Vyra’s lips jerked at the corners—“but we fired a few volleys over their heads, and they quickly decided there were softer targets.”

“The pull of the goddess is powerful,” Onika muttered under his breath, but he did not introduce himself.

Sorcha decided that it was the best policy to keep things that way. “Who is the captain of the other vessel?”

“Captain Poetion.” She turned, gestured to the rank of seamen standing watch over the guide ropes, and a tall, thin man strode over to meet them.

He snapped a salute to Sorcha. “Captain Poetion of the Winter Falcon, at your service, Honored Deacon.”

“Good, because service is what we need.” Sorcha pointed to his vessel, which looked to be the sister of the Summer Hawk. “We must make all haste into the desert after the citizens of Orinthal.”

Poetion’s face flickered with a moment of indecision that she really didn’t need to deal with right now.

“Speak up, man,” she snapped.

He cleared his throat. “The Falcon is currently at the service of the Grand Duchess Zofiya.”

Sorcha pressed her lips together; in the confusion she had completely forgotten about the Emperor’s sister. So there were only two options: she was either hiding, or she was lying in a pool of blood in the backstreets of Orinthal. If she said either of those things to Poetion, he would demand they start searching, and by then Hatipai would have the kingdom of Chioma in the palm of her hand.

So Sorcha did the only thing she could do at this vital moment; she lied. “The Grand Duchess is who we are following—I don’t see any conflict in your orders there, Captain.”

Immediately Poetion’s face relaxed. He was happy to have someone else taking responsibility. He stepped back and saluted. “Then the Winter Falcon is at your service. Please come aboard.”

“Deacon Faris,” Captain Revele broke in. “What are your orders for me and the Summer Hawk?” What she really meant was: “What about Deacon Chambers?”

Sorcha smiled slightly. “My partner will follow us as soon as he has concluded his business. I want you to bring him as fast as that contraption of yours can go to the Temple in the desert. It’s in the east, and apparently you can’t miss the damned thing.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She grinned broadly.

Sorcha found herself strangely satisfied that at least someone was happy in this crazy situation. “Just take care of him,” she said over her shoulder, and the words felt curiously final.

Onika and his handful of guards climbed aboard the Winter Falcon with the kind of trepidation that reminded Sorcha of Raed. The slight swaying and creaking of the dirigible had also alarmed him, but his anxiety had disappeared when they had lain together in the swinging bed. This trip would be considerably shorter and nowhere as enjoyable.

The crew leapt to their positions quickly, and Captain Poetion strode past his newest guests to take control of