“Even without you they will move,” Zusa said. “They mean to kill Lord Gemcroft as an end to their problems.”
“Then what am I to do?” she asked.
“There is a ferry a mile south,” Zusa said as she started covering her body with her wrappings. When she reached her neck she stopped, and a playful smile came over her. She tossed the rest, leaving her face and hair exposed.
“We will talk along the way,” Zusa said. “We tread a dangerous line, and you will find no help in either Kull or Gemcroft. You are trapped between vipers and a pit.”
Her eyes twinkled.
“Still, even vipers may serve their purpose.”
24
H aern awoke on a simple bed stuffed with straw. A blanket covered him. Bandages wrapped the cuts across his body, every one of them stinging like freshly opened wounds. The room was dark and without windows, but light from the hallway crept in through the crack of the door, allowing him to see.
Tears filled his eyes. Haern fought down a wild laugh. He’d lived. He’d come face to face with the Lion and lived. His father would be furious…if he ever found out. Haern had no intention of letting him. His days as Thren’s heir were done. He’d tear himself free or die trying. No matter what his fate, he’d make sure Delysia’s death meant something.
“Please,” he prayed. “I am in the den of lions. Keep me safe.”
He slid off the bed. His gray clothes were shredded, but the cuts were thin and the cloth mostly intact. He wished he had his mask, though. Without it, he still had the face of Aaron. His smile grew as he realized he wore the face of a dead man. How many would truly know that was the case?
His pillow had a covering, so he removed it and then quickly searched the room. His footsteps made no sound, and his fingers were like feather-strokes upon his surroundings. He found no weapon in the lone drawer, nor stashed under his bed or beside the door. Disappointed, he tied the covering across his mouth as if he were a low- rate bandit. It’d have to do for now.
Haern crept to the door and lay flat upon the floor. From what he could see through the crack, the hallway was empty. A lone torch flickered opposite, the source of his light. Now the real test. He stood and gently tested the door. It wasn’t locked.
“Thank you,” he whispered to the answerer of his prayer. “Now keep it up, alright?”
He heard no sound, not the fall of footsteps, the bored shuffling of a guard, or the soft breathing of a slumbering man. Knowing it was all a matter of luck, or faith, Haern pushed the door open a crack and slid out into the hallway.
It was empty. Haern gently shut the door behind him just in case. The carpet was thick and soft. He couldn’t have asked for better. Small torches lit every twenty feet, hanging from iron loops embedded in the walls. Bits of purple flickered in their centers. They released no smoke.
Faced with yet another choice, Haern glanced left, then right. The hallway ended with sharp turns at either way. He didn’t have the slightest clue where he was within the temple complex. One way might lead out. The other might lead further in. He decided to go right, and if it didn’t look promising, he’d hurry the other way.
It turned out the way was correct, but it still was far from promising. Looming before him was the great open chamber of worship. The statue of Karak towered before him, still intimidating even in profile. The purple fires burned at his feet, the only light visible. Shadows danced across the pews. Two men knelt in prayer before their altar. A third slowly circled the room, softly singing something more akin to a funeral dirge than a worship hymn. His hands were lifted to the ceiling and his eyes half-closed.
The two praying he might sneak past, but the circling priest was another matter. Haern leaned back into the hallway, knowing his time to escape was fleeting. He couldn’t let three men stop him. He was the former son of Thren Felhorn. He wouldn’t let three-thousand men stop him.
“Keep circling,” Haern whispered. When the priest was on the opposite side of the room, Haern ran as fast as he could, his upper body crouched down. The motion made his legs ache and his back twinge, but he recited a mental litany against pain taught him by one of his tutors. When he was halfway to the first row of pews, one of the praying men leaned back and shouted in a twisted cry of pain and triumph.
Haern’s instinct was to freeze but he didn’t obey it. That was something else he’d long ago been trained to ignore. He rolled behind the first row then spun about to look. One priest stood before the statue, a knife in hand. Blood spilled from his other arm, his severed hand lying on the smooth obsidian altar. Haern’s eyes locked upon the knife. It was a bit ornate, no doubt intended for sacrifice instead of battle, but it would do.
The other praying priest stood and wrapped his arms around the bleeding man. The third continued his circling and singing as if nothing unusual were happening.
“Do not fight the pain,” the unwounded one said. “In darkness we bleed to prevent the darkness spreading to others. We must give all to defy the chaos of this world. Your pain is nothing compared to the suffering of thousands.”
Haern crawled along the right side of the pews. Time was running out. The hallway leading to the center aisle of the pews clearly looked like a way out, but if he didn’t reach it before the circling priest came up behind him, he’d be spotted.
“Karak be praised!” shouted the first priest. Haern felt his stomach tighten at another cry of pain. He didn’t dare look, but it sounded like one of them was sobbing. The dire hymn continued in its low, maniacal consistency.
At last Haern was at the final row. He lowered himself to the ground, looking for the feet of the circling priest. Once he was on the opposite yet again, Haern ran toward the center.
He immediately fled when he saw what awaited him: two priests leaning against the door, their heads bowed and their arms crossed. He couldn’t see their eyes in the split-second before he rolled to the other row of pews. Their hoods were pulled low. They might be asleep…or they might have spotted his roll.
No shouts of warning came from the doors. He had gone unnoticed.
“Thanks, Ashhur,” he whispered under his breath. There was no way he could sneak past the two of them, nor could he subdue them with his bare hands. Only one option remained.
He made his way back toward the front. The bleeding priest had stopped crying, instead sucking in loud, labored breaths. The other had begun reciting a series of scriptures that cooled Haern’s blood.
“Only in death is life reborn. Only in blood is sin denied. Only in darkness is the world saved. Only in absolute emptiness is there order. Praise be to Karak.”
“Praise be,” the other priest stammered.
The priest circling had switched hymns, his voice deepening and the words slowing. Haern couldn’t understand them, but the song gave him the shivers. The two priests up front weren’t helping, either. Judging by the song, the man was near the door. Time was short.
Haern looked around the pew to the statue. The first priest had placed the dagger upon the altar, its hilt and blade covered with blood. Beside it was a severed hand. The other was clutching the wounded priest, repeating his scriptures while blood seeped into the bandages wrapped around the stump.
“Forgive me my theft,” the wounded priest murmured, his skin pale and his eyes rolled back into his head. His words mingled with the scriptures, blending in perfect harmony. “Forgive me of my theft, Lord. Wounded I enter, but enter I will.”
“Only in blood is sin denied.”
“Forgive me my theft, Lord. Whole I sinned, but wounded I enter.”
“Only in darkness is this world saved.”
“Forgive me my theft, Lord. I deny myself the chaos.”
“Only in absolute emptiness is there order,” the two repeated as one.
Haern chose that moment to strike. He kicked the first behind the knee, his head smacking the altar on the way down. Planting his feet firm, Haern rammed his body against the other, elbowing the bloody stump. The priest
