He whispered the brief incantation as if it was a prayer, swept his hand up, and let go of the knife.
Then he stepped smoothly back along the wall, retreating from the corner. He'd managed two steps when the first guard sprang around the corner, sword up-and the little silver fang of his knife, that had been hanging motionless in the air just where he'd released it, sprang forward every bit as energetically as the guard, leaping at the man's face in a gleaming blur.
The guards all wore open-faced helms, with gorget-plates dangling from the outthrust chinguards of those helms rather than strapped to the throats they were intended to guard. That fashion choice would earn them swift doom.
The first guard was gargling out his life already, staggering and clutching a throat sliced too deeply for him to utter any warning cry. The knife had flown on, darting around the corner.
Silver no longer, but dark with wet blood, it sought more.
Alander drew his second knife, uttered the same incantation, reached around the corner, and let go of the weapon. It almost bruised his fingertips in its eagerness to leap away.
Which meant the guards he couldn't see must be rushing toward him right now, as soundlessly as a hurrying mouse, and almost-Around the corner lurched a struggling, gargling warrior, clutching his slit throat and choking on his own blood as if he was racing to find death before the first guard could. Alander watched him trip over the first guard's feebly-thrashing body, stumble, and fall headlong to the stones, arms flying wide as he bounced, in a great spray of gushing blood.
Alander swallowed, shaking his head to try to avoid seeing and hearing more. There were sounds of dying from around the corner, too, and he'd tarried long enough-sooner or later, this much death would be noticed, and someone would cry the alarm.
Drawing in a deep breath, Alander Thaetult threw his arms wide to make his shadowcloaks billow up in front of him, ducked his head as if running into coldly lashing rain, and sprinted around the corner.
Two guards were staggering around swinging swords frantically, like men trying to beat away wasps, tripping and stumbling over six-no, seven-fallen comrades, armored bodies sprawled amid dark and spreading pools of blood. The throbbing, waiting darkness he sought was straight across the room, short-lived rents of gold beckoning to Alander.
Who ran as fast as he pantingly could, knowing many warriors believed killing a wizard would end his spell in an instant.
He was more than halfway to the spell-gate when one of the guards saw him, roared out a wordless stream of fury, and stumbled to intercept him. Alander saw the flying dagger swoop, spiral around the man's frantic parry, and dart home. Metal clanged, the warrior slapped the knife aside and twisted in the other direction, lost his balance, and-
Alander was past, even before a despairing cry behind him ended in an ugly wet gurgling. Past and not slowing in the slightest, boots pounding on the crypt flagstones, running right into-Sudden golden radiance, all around, and a deep thudding like a heartbeat, that came from everywhere. His racing feet came down on soundless nothing, there was nothing around him but swirling and streaming golden light, banishing his shadowcloaks in a sighing instant.
He breathed in golden air, and his vision blurred. The sounds of his own panting suddenly boomed in his ears, and a horrible
Golden nothingness gave way to wan sunlight, and trees. He stumbled, his legs seeming heavier and somehow
'There!' the outlaw chief barked, pointing. 'It comes! Let it not live to reach us!'
His men were hastening forward, all around, just enough to let their quarrels fly free. Crossbows cracked, one after another-and the running, wild-eyed thing that was half-monster and half-man staggered as it grew a thick new hide of quivering crossbow bolts. Then fell on its face, shuddered, and died.
That face had two large but mismatched eyes, and a shapeless, flaccid snout that flopped aside and left bare gums and teeth, above hands that had slumped into tentacles, fingers grown impossibly long and grotesque. Its head was the shape of a bird's head, and its legs…
Men cried out in disgust and fear as they beheld it.
'Well done!' their leader cried. 'We've kept this horror from our midst! No one would've been safe with such as
He smiled, then, the same soft and satisfied smile that was on the face of the blue-skinned Doom who was looking out at Burnt Bones through his eyes.
Narmarkoun was well pleased.
'So the gate twists those-wizards, at least-who step through it, forcibly changing them,' he murmured aloud, walking the outlaw leader away from those near enough to hear his dupe echo his words. 'And my bowmen can handle all others. Malraun won't get in this way.'
In another castle, another Doom sat up naked in a great bed and smiled a sleek, darkly handsome smile of his own.
'So,' Malraun purred aloud, 'the ruse works, and the lurker reveals himself. Narmarkoun
'Soon,' Taeauna echoed, beside him. Her long-fingered hands never stopped hungrily caressing all she could reach of his bare body.
'Intruders!' the Aumrarr spat as she stalked toward them, hefting her sword and dagger. Blood welled out and down her left side in a quickening stream, spattering the floor in her wake, but her eyes burned with more rage than pain. 'How
'There's only one of me, Lady of the Aumrarr,' Garfist told her dryly, retreating toward the door. A quick glance told him that Iskarra was down off her table and backing away down the far wall of the room. 'None have complained of that, mind ye, thus far in my life, but I've heard ye winged women have strange tastes, an'-'
With a snarl the Aumrarr charged him, swinging her sword viciously but holding her dagger warily ready behind it. No recklessness nor clumsy fumblings with steel here; she knew how to wield a blade.
So did Garfist, and he ducked easily away from her slash, keeping his balance with casual ease as he retreated another two swift steps, correctly anticipating her follow-up lunge and backslash.
Without a word Iskarra plucked up one of the chairs at the next table she came to, and hurled it, high and hard.
Rod reached the trees, and more or less level ground, at the same time. Darting three swift strides into the shade, he spun around.
The two guards were trudging patiently after him, keeping well apart, and holding their swords up in front of them. The looks they were giving him were a lot worse than unfriendly.
Rod swallowed. 'Sir,' he said to the older and closer guard, 'please do not misunderstand me. I do not want to fight you, nor am I any threat to Ironthorn. I have given my warning, and wish to pass on my way in peace, to see Lord Hammerhand. Ground your sword, and let us talk.'
The warrior gave him a look that was half-glare and half-sneer, said not a word, and kept on coming. Both of the guards had now reached the trees, and more or less level ground.
Rod retreated a few steps more, backing away until he fetched up against the unyielding trunk of a large tree. He looked at the younger guard. 'Urlaun? How does anyone get to see Lord Hammerhand, if you kill anyone you see coming out of the forest? Or are you two just robbers and murderers, and don't serve him at all?'
'We serve Lord Hammerhand,' Urlaun snapped. Yet said not a word more, as the older guard shot him a darkly furious look.
Rod looked quickly behind himself, in search of a really large tree he could stand against like a wall. He hadn't remembered any such, but-
