He'd anchored the dream-gate in Rod Everlar's words and descriptions. The man couldn't have been lying- no one could lie with that much urlivvin in them-but he could be insane.
Narmarkoun shrugged. Yet if the man of 'Earth' was, what was lost? Six Dark Helms and a lorn, and he had nigh-countless to spare of both.
He'd given those six their orders and sent them on their way jovially, letting nothing into his voice, face, or manner that could give them any hint he might be sending them to their doom.
Not that he thought he was. This Earth should be just as the weak-minded man who hailed from it said it was; the man hadn't the wits to knowingly deceive anyone, even without the urlivvin.
Yet now it was time for someone bright enough to become a Doom of Falconfar to add his little touch. A lorn, sent after the unwitting Dark Helms to spy on them and see what really befell, rather than what they'd choose to report back to him.
Smiling, Narmarkoun strode to greet his lorn. It clicked its eerily birdlike way to join him, talons clacking on the stone floor of Yintaerghast, batlike wings folded tightly about itself, barbed tail arched up its back. Respectful-in as much as a horned, mouthless skull-face could show respect. Its eyes were downcast and submissive, its slate- gray head bent, apprehensive as to why the Doom it obeyed was now approaching a second time to go over orders given earlier.
Good. Let it ponder and worry. Narmarkoun let his smile broaden.
This time, his orders would be delivered in the friendliest of manners. As affable as he could be, to leave the lorn wanting to obey him-and also to leave it no doubt at all that disobeying him would mean swift and painful death.
Yes, send a wolf to watch the foxes-after sending the foxes to spy and plunder.
'D'ye think this is really it? The way out?' Garfist's growled whisper was dark with disbelief, and Iskarra didn't blame him. They'd descended more than a dozen-she'd lost count, several stairs back-floors, without seeing or hearing anyone moving about. Anyone. And even wizards need servants.
'I hope so,' she murmured in his ear. 'Now be
They both could, which was why they were hesitating on an empty landing, restlessly pacing back and forth, so heart-singingly nervous.
From where they stood, a broad flight of wide, splendid steps curved down into what looked like a grand entrance hall. A lofty-ceilinged, crimson-walled room dominated by two rows of massive, polished mottled-stone pillars that marched down its heart.
Beyond the last pair of pillars, the chamber ended in a pair of narrow but very tall matched doors, opening in the direction of Harlhoh-and, Iskarra was willing to wager her very last coin, onto some sort of terrace and a commanding view out over the hold. Malragard, she was certain, would rise like the gauntleted fist of a conqueror above the roofs of Harlhoh, in a constant, daunting reminder of who watched over everyone and ruled their very lives with every whim.
There were six pillars in each row, each one perhaps three good strides from the next, forming a promenade or passage between the two rows about five paces wide. The spaces between the pillars at each end of the rows and the next pillars inwards along the rows were empty, but the three innermost pillar-gaps in each row framed silent, motionless statues.
Or perhaps more than statues. Neither Gar nor Isk doubted that a wizard's magic could hold a living beast as motionless as any statue, and yet keep it alive-and the six immobile shapes between the pillars looked very much alive.
They faced inwards, toward each other, and weren't breathing or moving in the slightest.
Which was a good thing, because they looked to be the most fearsome monsters either Gar or Isk had ever seen, bar a great-fangs.
The nearest was a dark purple-black hulk that seemed to rear up on the ends of its many reaching tentacles, its back an ominous hump pierced by several large, sunken, weeping black pits of eyes.
Next to the many-tentacled thing was a creature that floated in midair well off the hall floor. Its body was a wrinkled carrot-like mass that could probably balloon out to hold whatever it ate, for the blunt front end of it was split by a huge, fang-studded maw. That fearsome biting mouth was fringed about with many small and staring yellow eyes, and flanked by gigantic pincer-arms shaped like those of a hot sands scorpion.
Beside the floating maw was a creature the likes of which Garfist had fought before, long ago, only this one was easily seven times the size of the one that had nearly killed him. It was a slithering, flat-bodied snake that reared up to support a bulbous head large enough for three such serpentine bodies. That head sported a forest of needle-like, overlapping biting fangs and many, many eyes. Gar happened to know that the two large 'main eyes' were falsenesses: gaps in the thing's tough black hide where its bony skull showed through, in socket-shaped plates stronger than his favorite sword had been.
Across the central promenade, facing that trio of monsters, was a second: a sleek but flaring-shouldered giant cat frozen in mid-prowl, that had a hairless, bone-armored snouted head, its jaws surrounded by large, thrust-forward mandibles like those of a gigantic beetle; a three-necked and three-headed wolf; and a spindly- legged spider that sprouted four long, thin, snake-like necks from its central body, all of them ending in nasty- looking, stabbing poison-stingers.
'That last one probably drinks blood through those four stingers,' Iskarra murmured, 'and I just
'Dooms of Falconfar are right bastards, ye know?' Garfist agreed, peering down at the six monsters with narrowed eyes. 'Is there a door hereabouts we can get behind, and hold closed, if those things awaken and come after us?'
Iskarra gave him a forlorn look. 'Do I
She waved one bony arm at the walls around them. 'I've sought with these eyes, yet not found. I suspect there are quite a few doors in that far wall, across the entry hall, but I can't see them. Can you? Moreover, Old Ox, I find myself strangely unwilling to go strolling down past yon beasts to get a better look.'
'Right,' Garfist growled. '
Rage still afire in him, Malraun aimed his wands at the shop that offended him-its roof was heavy-laden with Hammerhand's archers, albeit cowering flat on their faces, hiding from him-and unleashed their fires.
The shop exploded in flames, its roof torn to tatters and hurled back up the hill to Hammerhold, shedding broken or shrieking bodies all the way. The thuddings and spatterings of their landings made a brief, dull rain as he turned to glare at the next refuge where warriors were hiding from him: a large but ramshackle old barn that… ceased to exist as his wands howled once more.
There wasn't much left of the heart of Irontarl, now, and his rage was dying down. Almost as fast as the flames his wandfire had spawned, that now danced here and there, licking through blackened beams and ruined ashes beneath.
Malraun turned away from his carnage with a snarl, suddenly weary of it all. He'd blasted almost everyone he'd seen, and what had it achieved?
Well, Hammerhand would no longer lord it over Lyrose-if there was anything of Lyrose left, to stand anywhere in Ironthorn.
As he glared at Lyraunt Castle, he saw a woman turn on its highest balcony and flee inside. Mrythra Lyrose.
Malraun the Matchless sighed. Would he be reduced to enthroning a spiteful lass? Or marrying her off to Tesmer and getting caught up in endless skirmishes with Narmarkoun the Cowardly Lurker, and all his walking corpses?
Pah; fancies to entertain later. Right now, he must see for himself what little was left of his Lyrose tools.
He took off his wand-belt and held it high as he waded the river, then rebuckled it around his naked,
