these crazed Galathans fight their battles over our heads.'
Her brisk stride turned into a trot to keep up with Garfist, before she asked, 'Carve me a slice of cold, raw boar to chew as we walk, hey?'
'That's my Viper,' Garfist grunted. 'Any chance to sink yer teeth into raw meat.'
He set to work with his dagger, and then grunted, 'Come to think: ye can claim this crawlskin back any time right soon, mind. There's raw meat, if yer jaws need some work.'
'Gar,' Iskarra said coldly, 'that's not amusing. Not at all.'
Garfist shrugged. 'Killing folk, I'm good at. Making them laugh, less than good.'
He strode on for a bit, and then asked, around a mouthful of boar, 'These Dark Helms; think ye they were sent here by 'our' wizard, since he vanished from inside the wagon?'
The woman trotting beside him stopped abruptly and put a hand on his arm, her face going pale.
'Oh, steaming dragon shit,' Iskarra cursed slowly, staring up into his eyes. 'Yes. He came here to open a gate, to bring them through. And he's managed it. This keep could be doomed from within, even before the siege begins!'
Korryk's feeble screams stopped not long after his struggles. He hung limply from the spheres he was now bonded to, too weak and helpless to do anything else.
The youngest of Arlaghaun's apprentices stood calmly watching the captive warrior shrivel and wither away. From time to time, Yardryk stroked his curly, dirty gold beard, his dark purple eyes thoughtful.
It would not be long now before the insatiable gate took the last of his life-force, and when it was drained, the gate would flicker violently with bloody consequences for creatures caught in it, and then fade out.
And the flow of running Dark Helms and swooping lorn would end, long before the Master desired it to. Which would have grave consequences for Yardryk, even 'fresh waiting grave' consequences, one might say.
It was time to find Korryk's replacement.
Turning his back on the gate, the unkempt apprentice stalked away, murmuring a spell over the glass eye cupped in his palm. The glass started to sear his flesh as it liquified, and then, just before the pain would have made him sob and fling it away, shaking his hand to be rid of the agony but not the blisters and later scars, it vanished, and he could scry.
It was as if a curtain was drawn back in his mind, enabling him to see rooms and passages around him at will, spread out in his mind while his eyes saw only darkness and solid stone walls all around.
Yardryk first saw the Master's forces; not so many lorn, now, but Dark Helms beyond counting, streaming forth from the gate, rushing along the largest passages and ascending every stair or ramp they saw. They were like a river, all rushing together, so he looked elsewhere. Were there other folk down in these cellars? Guards on patrol, coming closer, perhaps?
No, nothing like that. A few stray bands of Dark Helms, chasing and slaughtering Bowrock folk, a few cellarers, far away from the sound and the rushing Dark Helms, shifting some kegs and oblivious to the fighting… hold! What were these, much nearer?
A pair, standing alone, conferring in the darkness. A tryst? One of them small, a boy or a slender woman, the other, huge! Yes, huge and hairy, but breasted like a woman, both of them standing eating something in the darkness.
Never mind what or who they were; that large one should have life-force enough in her or him to feed the gate for a good long time. More than enough time as would be needed to bring through all of the Master's forces, anyway.
Yardryk smiled and stepped forward to hail and command the next few lorn to appear Out of the gate. Five or six Dark Helms, too: force enough to fetch back this new gate-fuel alive.
And more or less unharmed.
Rod Everlar fetched up against yet another wall, this time bouncing off it more than bruisingly slamming into it. Swallowing a sigh, he ran on.
If this was one of his own fantasy novels, he should-would-now do something bold and heroic, something Falconfar-shattering. Turning his modern real-world knowledge of eclipses or electricity or the tactics of Talleyrand into some dramatic, decisive, witnessed-by-all act that would make Falconaar stop and gasp in awe and then kneel before him.
To live happily ever after, ha ha bloody ha.
In a book, it was all so easy. With a few sentences he could be a god, or a superhero, or the Lord Ha Ha of Falconfar.
Here, all he could think of doing was staying close to Taeauna, keeping his mouth shut, and doing whatever seemed best as this world threw one danger or crisis after another at him.
He hadn't run so much in years as he had these last few days. Or been as frightened. Just staying alive was probably going to be his lone awesome act, if he could manage even that. Not that anybody beyond Rod Everlar would even notice, let alone be awed.
Crazy world.
He found himself fighting for breath again, as Taeauna's shapely behind started to draw farther and farther away from right in front of him.
Crazier writer.
What am I doing here?
'So,' Garfist rumbled, 'Dark Helms and lorn are all over these cellars. Do we dare try for the kitchens again, with most of the cooks dead and gone, mind, and see if we can get something cooked, and some wine to wash it down with, and a lantern to call our own? Or are we as likely to meet with Bowrock blades, rushing down here to sword everyone they don't recognize as one of their own?'
'Meeting with Bowrock blades is the more likely,' Iskarra murmured. 'Yet something cooked sounds good about now, and the wine, and I can see that look in your eye, Gar.'
'I don't doubt it,' the onetime procurer replied. 'The kitchens it is, then. Which means we turn-'
Something large and dark came hurtling out of the darkness, flying along the ceiling with its claws outstretched, and smashed into Garfist hard enough to knock him back on his well-padded behind with a startled 'Woof!'
Whatever it was struck the passage floor a good way beyond Garfist, and rolled a good way farther before coming to a stop. By which time two more flying things had pounced on Garfist, pinioning his arms.
'Lorn!' Iskarra screamed, drawing her hairpin again and her dagger and knowing they were useless as she did it. The first lorn was loping back to join the two Garfist was now struggling against, and three more were swooping at her.
'Get gone, gel!' Garfist snarled. 'Run, Viper! Run!'
Iskarra dodged against the passage wall, hoping to keep the swooping lorn from striking her. And failing.
As the nearest lorn smashed into her and flung her along the wall, winded and draped over its arm, Iskarra fought against its clutching claws and her own gaspings to drive her hairpin repeatedly into one of its eyes. It squalled, splashing her with dark, sticky wetness as it died, and Iskarra fell free of it, bruising her bony elbows and wondering how long it would take the other two lorn to rend her.
Then she groaned. The passage was full of Dark Helms, running toward them.
'Flee, Viper!' Garfist roared, his bellow muffled under several struggling lorn bodies. Iskarra stared at him, or the heap of writhing lorn that he was under, and then could see it no more, as the foremost Dark Helms reached it and surrounded it in a ring.
And the rest of the Dark Helms came running for her.
Weeping, Iskarra turned and ran straight into the only lorn that had been behind her. It staggered, but she fell. Out of sheer backalley habit she kicked her legs as she did so, tripping it, and got her hairpin and dagger up into position while it was still falling. The knife skittered across lorn hide harmlessly, but her well-used hairpin sank up to her knuckles in a lorn eyeball, drenching her again and causing the dying lorn to shriek and spasm right up into the air off her.
Iskarra twisted, rolled, and came up running. Sobbing, she put her head down and ran as she'd never run before, seeking the Galathan border or the far end of the passage ahead, she cared not which.
As long as she could get there before any lorn or Dark Helm caught up to her.
