He was almost there, now… almost…
Rings flared unbidden on his fingers as he reached the blank wall that their magic would make yield, and fell thankfully through it. Ravaged flesh screamed agony anew as he staggered helplessly sideways, into yet another wall, and tried to curse but could not. The nauseating worm-like squirming in his chest was rising again, choking Arlaghaun with nausea; it meant Ult was fighting him again.
Falcon
To name Ult, and goad Ult into rising again, after all these years! Years!
And where was Amalrys, to aid him? Where was she?
The Doom of Galath started running again, sliding his shoulder along the wall, too weak and dizzy to thrust himself away from the stone and not quite daring to, anyway, in case he fell and bared joints failed him. He was close, now, deep in the heart of the tower… Just a few more doors, just a few more…
Two more, now, as his rings flared again and seemingly solid stone melted away before him. Arlaghaun dared to let himself hope again, dared to let out his rage. How by the glorking Falcon could one stranger with two questions-no spells, not even a dagger in his hand;
Arlaghaun tugged open a door that no magic he knew of would make open or shift into shadows, raised a hand that flared warningly as a trap-rune blazed up and then faded away again before one of his rings, tore open the last door, flung it shut behind him, rocked in the resulting slam, that must have shaken all Ult Tower-and fell thankfully over the stone lip into waiting relief.
The waters of the pool were warm and heavy, as always, like oil. As he surfaced, already soothed and numbed, Arlaghaun saw the weird lights converging on him, as the pool awakened to his need.
From the dark and distant corners they came, rushing to him, and he groaned in relief as the pain left him, holding his fingers clear of the water so his enchanted rings would do nothing to harm or twist awry the healings of the pool. What was left of his clothes were dissolving; he dragged the wandwing in its harness off his back and slung it over the low rampart, onto the tiles around the pool, and then started plucking off rings and gently tossing them after it.
The pool was sliding into him with a warmth that brought an almost sexual rapture, healing and soothing and banishing taints and aging and poisons… If it wasn't for the memories this most precious of Galathan magics stole, every time, he'd bathe here every night.
Come to think of it, this time there was something he wanted to forget: Ult. Let the pool go on sinking through him. He, Arlaghaun, was going to sink down into himself, too, and rout and shatter all that had once been Ult, once and for all.
He felt the lurking node of thoughts not his own, thoughts racing with renewed hope, with schemes against him. Taking care not to focus on it, and so alert it to his approach, Arlaghaun grinned a savage grin.
Ducking down, he surged closer in his mind, sharpening his will to a sword-keen edge…
Then he burst into the heart of Ult's buzzing thoughts with a savage roar, slashing, burning, rending: pouncing on the shrieking, fleeing light that was Ult.
Claw, slice, sear; ruthlessly lessening Ult here and then there, vanquishing his foe as he should have done years ago, tearing free memory after memory and thrusting them apart in his own mind, so that nothing of the lurking sentience of Ult could cling to them.
It took a long time, but every moment was worth it.
When at last Arlaghaun knew peace of mind and body, he floated in the gentle, shifting glows, immersed and warm, staring at the ceiling overhead. Not for the first time, the thought occurred to him that this most hidden of rooms was of bare, rough stone, as unfinished as a tomb. Now why was that?
Well, he'd just slain the last remnants of the only being who could have given him an answer. He shrugged. Let not curiosity ever become obsession.
'So who is that man?' he whispered to the dark and silent stone. 'I'd never seen him before I first glimpsed him at the Aumrarr's side, I know I haven't, yet he looks so familiar.'
“So that's just how it was, lord,' Iskarra said warmly, concluding a long and fanciful tale as to why she and Garfist Gulkoon were in the cellars of Deldragon's keep in the heart of Bowrock.
As they all strode together down yet another long and many-doored passage in this seemingly endless tower, Deldragon regarded her thoughtfully, something impish or merry dancing in the depths of his ice-blue eyes. 'I don't believe a word of it,' he said, firmly but politely, as he stroked his flaxen mustache. 'So tell me something else, instead: what are your intentions now?'
'To take every last bit of magic we can carry from these rooms all around us,' Garfist growled, 'and get ourselves far away from here. Somewhere in Falconfar, I care not where, that the mage whose tower we're standing in can't find us.'
'There is no such place,' Taeauna snapped. 'Nor can you escape his scrutiny for longer than it takes him to mumble a rather simple spell, if you carry off even one of his things of magic. Your schemes doom you.'
Iskarra sighed. 'They always have.'
'Yet we're still here!' Garfist rumbled triumphantly. 'So I think we'll just keep right on scheming, and not listening to folk who have their own reasons for saying us nay for this and that.'
Taeauna didn't bother to shrug; she was too busy pointing ahead. 'Gates! A row of them!'
As if her words had been some sort of cue, the air brightened into a bright silver-gold shimmer and the passage around them rocked. From out of that shimmering, something small, strange, glowing and golden fell into Rod Everlar's hand. It resembled a miniature coach-horn, only with valves like a trumpet, and three misshapen eyes that winked and glowed with moving, vary-hued radiances.
It was soft, rather than as hard as any other metal object he'd ever touched, and warm, too, and…
That was all the staring at it he was able to manage, as something more sinister caught his eye. Down the passage ahead of him, just this side of the row of distant glows that Taeauna had just pointed out as the way out they were seeking, a warrior's helm-close-faced and menacing, for all that it was empty-was floating slowly down out of the ceiling.
Literally out of the ceiling. Rod saw it emerge from apparently solid stone, sliding down to hang in the air. As if it were watching him, and worn by a man whose stomach was on a level with the tousled top of Rod's head.
Shit. It certainly didn't look friendly; Taeauna and Deldragon were already stepping forward, swords rising.
At least it was just a helm, without arms and shoulders to swing some great big sword.
Something else was emerging out of the solid stone walls on either side of the passage, drifting forth in eerie silence. Arms, or rather hollow assemblies of armor plate to cloak the arms of an absent body, from flaring shoulder-plates to elaborate gauntleted fingertips. A giant's body, by the size of them. They were converging below the helm, where they would probably mate with…
A breastplate and chain-linked assembly of overlapping back plates, now rising in stately silence up out of the floor, to-
'Falcon!' Iskarra spat. 'Are we just going to stand and watch it? Hack it to ribbons, or let's run!'
'Now,' Taeauna said calmly to the velduke a moment later, as the drifting pieces came to smooth halts, and the air between them seemed to brighten. 'Right where they're meeting.'
Deldragon didn't bother to nod. Sword-fire streaking from the point of his blade was already lashing the armor where it was drawing together, snarling and clawing at the plates, curling around and between them.
And seeming to harm them not at all.
Leg armor was rising up out of the floor, and a sword as long as a lance was sliding out of the wall, wisps of smoke curling along its deadly-looking blade. Deldragon aimed his sword to blast its hilt with his sword-fire, trying to halt it and prevent it from joining the assembling armor.
He might have been shining a flashlight on the sword, for all the effect it had, and Rod and Taeauna gasped in unison as the sword-fire darkened, faded, seemed to cough and fade… snarled and spat, faded away completely… spat again, and then faded…
'That sounds not good,' Garfist growled. Is it…?'
He fell silent. The sword-fire was gone again, and the blade of the velduke's sword was crumbling to rust-
