suddenly thrust up out of a door as they'd passed it had been a dull olive green.
The color of no one's eyes that Syregorn and Thalden had ever known except Sir Jelgar Thusk of Hammerhold.
A little farther on down the passage they'd heard a loud, grisly gnawing sound coming from under the floor, but-not feeling foolish enough to want to open one of the doors waiting so temptingly on the floor they were walking along-had no way of knowing if they were hearing the devouring of Jelgar, Onthras, or someone else.
A few hasty paces beyond where the sound of gnawing faded behind them, they'd traded glances that told each other, as loudly and as firmly as if they'd shouted it until the walls rang: 'I hate this place.'
Syregorn had worn a bitter half-smile for quite a few careful steps after that. He strongly suspected that where Malragard was concerned, the feeling was mutual.
They reached the bottom of the steps, and stopped facing the door. Thalden looked at Syregorn, who nodded; his usual silent order to proceed.
Slowly the oldest knight of Hammerhold reached out, laid a reluctant hand on the door-ring, and pulled.
The door opened, as easily and silently as if its stone pivots had been polished mirror-smooth and oiled-and two metal war-quarrels, as long and as heavy as horse-lances, raced out of the darkness beyond the door amid the crash of a giant double-bow going off.
One of them chipped the stone stair as Syregorn hurled himself against the wall, but the other tore right through Thalden's armor and ribs, pinning the old knight against the steps.
'Greet the Falcon, old friend,' the warcaptain said sadly. Spewing out a great gush of blood, Thalden sagged over sideways and did not reply.
He had to get out of here, right now!
The gate and the creatures he'd sent through it must be abandoned! To the Falcon with all the rest of his schemes, too, until he was far from here!
Anything else he did in Yintaerghast-the slightest little thing-might awaken Lorontar, or the Great Doom might be already awake and watching him right now, lurking and silently laughing-
Narmarkoun whirled around. Had that been a chuckle? A distant footfall? Coming to Yintaerghast had seemed clever enough, so long as he didn't tarry so long that Malraun got tired of conquering forest holds and grew bold enough to come looking for Lorontar's magic, but now…
Clutching the scroll, he ran back to the room where he'd left his staff of power and the few wands he'd brought along, his cloak, food, and water, his spell-tome and book of notes he was compiling, all guarded by a silent ring of his undead lasses. He had to-
Everything was gone. Even his playpretties. The stone slab that had served him as a table was bare.
At first he thought he'd mistaken the room, stepped through the wrong archway in his haste and, yes, rising panic, but-no, when he stepped back out into the passage and looked at the arch again, it was the right one. Could only be the right one…
He strode into the room again, almost running, to peer all around and make sure his things hadn't somehow fallen to where he couldn't see them, or been dragged away and left some trail.
Nothing.
He turned, wildly. Well, let them be lost, then. Crafting a new staff of like powers would cost him a year or more of work, but the rest could be replaced easily enough-if he kept his life, of course!
He found himself running, shedding scales as his deep blue arms went pale-something that happened only when he was wracked by sickness, or truly terrified.
Well, he was, fear like a cold flame rising in his chest as he pounded along the empty stone passages as fast as he could run, his rising gasps of breath loud in his ears, a feeling of being gloatingly watched strengthening around him now-
There! The door out, an archway opening into blank nothingness thanks to Lorontar's mighty shielding, but something he'd easily penetrated and mastered before, that was nothing but a moment of cold mist to him.
Narmarkoun ran faster, clutching the precious scroll like a baton. He had to get out of here, had to get away from Lorontar's long shadow, to where he could calm himself and-
He plunged through the archway and ran on, shivering at a sudden chill that had lanced deep into his bones, that clawed at his heart and his groin and his brain, now, freezing, making him stagger…
He skidded and stumbled to a halt, panting, not believing his eyes. He was in Yintaerghast, and had been running hard down the passage he'd come in by, the same hall he'd just run along to-
He whirled around. There, behind him, was the archway he'd just run through. Silently mocking him, as he stood winded and shuddering, shivering in the bone-biting cold.
Somehow, he'd run through the archway and its magic had spun him around and sent him running on, right back into the castle he'd been fleeing.
Drawing in a deep, shuddering breath, Narmarkoun fought to calm himself.
'I am a Doom of Falconfar,' he said aloud, pleased at how calm his voice sounded. The word 'Doom' seemed to roll away through the castle to vast and echoing distances, a very long way, ere it sank into whisperings. Whisperings that sounded like cruel mirth.
Narmarkoun walked to the archway this time, slowly and carefully, gathering his will about himself like the cloak that had been stolen from him as he stepped into its icy mists.
He would win through the shielding, just as he'd done before. He'd mastered it, and could break it again. He was Narmarkoun, a Doom of Falconfar, the
He was blinking at the dark walls and ceilings of Yintaerghast again, standing alone in its emptiness.
Turned around again. Imprisoned.
He took two steps away from the archway, turned to face it, and worked the strongest magic he knew, raising his arms when the great wall of spark-studded power was at its height, and hurled it at the shielding spell. He might well shatter this wall of the castle, but so be it.
If that was what it took to win the free of Yintaerghast and its not-so-dead master, that was what he would-
Like a great ocean wave, his own spark-studded spell came back at him, crashing down over him and burying him under hammerblows that struck as hard inside his head as out, dashing and numbing and breaking him, hurling him over and over and… out.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Rod Everlar swallowed, and retreated another step. In grinning silence the skeleton advanced, still beckoning to him in a friendly, even coquettish manner.
The grinning skull stared at him as if its dark, empty eye-sockets could somehow see him clearly, and trailed-or rather, shed, at every eerie step-tresses of what once must have been a spectacular head of long, trailing hair. From the skeleton's bony shoulders hung the crumbling gray wisps and tatters of what Rod now saw had once been an elaborate and probably very beautiful gown, with flared shoulders and an upthrust collar, gathered down into a tight-laced, corset-like middle portion that descended to a be-gemmed triangular pelvic panel from which in turn blossomed out a broad, full sweep of skirts. That were crumbling, ever so slowly and sighingly gently, into dust.
Rod swallowed again, his mouth suddenly very dry.
… what? What would happen?
Yes, this was a walking skeleton, probably animated by, or controlled by, the wizard Malraun. And even if he hadn't seen far too many horror movies, there was something horrible, something grotesquely
The skeleton stopped, put both hands on its-her-hips, and struck a pose. Then it raised one hand languidly
