Arch Wizard

through without straying into the path of another war-quarrel.

Assuming there were no other little surprises waiting in, say, the doorframe.

Rod shrugged, swallowed, and carefully stepped through the door. He had to trust in his hunches, because they were all he had-and this looked to him like a mechanical trap, not manned and aimed. Unless Syregorn and the others had decided to make it so.

The moment he was in the darkness-a magical band or zone of utter pitch-black blindness, he decided-Rod stopped, lance in hand, and stood still to listen.

No breathing, no stealthy movements nearby that he could hear. Just deepening silence.

So he raised the crossbow quarrel in front of him, holding it in two hands like a quarterstaff, and stepped cautiously forward.

Here cometh the Lord Archwizard of Falconfar, with borrowed war-quarrel in hand. Tremble, all, and flee before him.

Two steps took him out of the darkness-it was a magical area, that ended in a wall as smooth as the black-tinted glass he'd seen in the foyers of various luxurious corporate headquarters-and on along a stone passage very similar to the one back beyond the stairs, except that it wasn't crowded with doors in its walls, floor, and ceiling.

A hall that stretched for only a short, straight run before turning into another flight of descending steps. The ceiling bent to descend on an angle with the steps, unmarked and unremarkable stone, and there were two small, closed doors on either side of the passage, just where the steps began.

Trap, Rod thought, eyeing them. But just how did it work, and what was the best way to pass those two doors?

Right beside one of them, he decided, choosing the right-hand one on a whim and walking to it as quietly and alertly as any cat-burglar, the war-quarrel held up and ready.

Use this borrowed spear of mine to bat aside anything that strikes at me out of the doors. Rush past, low and fast, with the quarrel held up like a shield.

He did that, and nothing happened. Save that he almost fell down the stairs beyond, skidding to a teetering halt on the lip of floor they descended from. Gingerly he tapped the topmost step with the quarrel, then shoved on it, hard.

Nothing happened. The stone was hard, solid, and not moving in the slightest.

Cautiously he rapped the wall beside the step, to make sure it didn't erupt with flames or a stabbing blade or anything else.

Nothing. Rod stepped down onto that step, and prodded the next one. Any corner he cut could cost him his life. As usual.

Rusty Carroll reached the door he wanted, flung it wide, and darted out onto the giant glass display case that was the ground floor front. It ended at a wall clad in black marble, right beside him, and he ran along it, down the back row of cubicles, gun in hand.

Where were th-oh.

Screams filled the air, a cubicle wall went over with a crash, and sparks sprayed from a dangling cable as a savagely-swung sword severed a johnny pole at one stroke. From somewhere he heard the unmistakable 'pop' and high-pitched singing of one of the older, larger glass computer monitors bursting.

'Women in silk blouses, short skirts, expensive metal spike heels, and elegantly-decorated pantyhose were rushing everywhere, hair wild and eyes wilder.

And there, behind them, came one of the Dark Helms, swinging his sword back and forth as he came, two- handed, like a teenager smashing store displays and not expecting anything to stand in his way. He was chuckling.

Rusty fired at the man's throat. The man staggered, but the bullet whined away, the screams rose even louder from all around, and the Dark Helm neither slowed nor stopped. Instead, he headed straight for Rusty.

Who felt the sudden need for a fire axe.

Rod walked cautiously along a new passage. He'd descended two levels from where he'd met the skeleton, and was wondering how much farther he could go before Malragard ran out of hillside and he found himself in an attic or bedchamber of some house in Harlhoh.

This passage looked like it ended just ahead, in another descending flight of stairs, but he was learning not to trust his eyes. The quarrel, or spear, had saved him from-

'Lord Archwizard,' Syregorn's voice greeted him pleasantly, from somewhere ahead. 'Left alone, you must trudge through life slowly indeed. I was beginning to wonder if your magic had failed you.'

Chapter Twenty-Six

Rod Everlar stopped, the war-quarrel feeling suddenly heavy and awkward in his hands. He was damned if he was going to flee like a scared child-and really, in this house of hidden traps, where did he dare flee to? — but the Hammerhand warcaptain was a veteran swordsman. It would be suicide to try to fight him directly.

So… what to do?

'Syregorn,' he asked calmly, 'have you been under orders to kill me, all along?'

'Yes,' the warcaptain replied gravely, stepping into view through what looked like the solid descending ceiling of the passage, sloping down with the stairs as they went down to the door. Obviously the passage-or some part of it-ran straight on, along the level Rod was standing on. 'You or the wizard whose tower we now stand in. Whichever of you survived your spell-battle, after we got the two of you together.'

'So why have you disobeyed those orders?'

'I've done no such thing, Lord Archwizard.' Syregorn made a sneering mockery of that title.

'Oh? So where,' Rod asked, 'is Malraun? If there was a spell-battle between us, I seem to have missed it.'

'The wizard is obviously elsewhere. Probably with his army. The wizard, I said; it's clear to me now that you're no mage. You can't spell-battle anyone. So there's no longer any need to wait to see who survives a battle that will never happen, before I strike you down.'

'Does Lord Hammerhand know you're disobeying his orders?'

Syregorn smiled, hefted his sword, and started to walk toward Rod. Slowly, almost strolling, his eyes alert and ruthless.

'I've not told you all the orders he gave me, and won't. You are, after all, an outlander, not a sworn man of Hammerhold. Yet take whatever comfort you can from knowing that killing you fulfills my orders, not breaks them. You cringing, good-for-naught coward.'

It was Rod's turn to smile. 'Was that meant to be an insult? It seems to me, I'm afraid, to be a fairly accurate description more than anything else.'

'So you admit it? Or is this just a ploy to delay me? Desperate words from a man who has no way of defending himself but to hope he can somehow talk someone to death?'

'Er, pretty much,' Rod admitted. 'You don't think disposing of me will throw away a weapon Lord Hammerhand could use to finally rule all Ironthorn?'

Syregorn's smile was very thin. 'No, I do not.'

He was closing in on Rod, slowly and carefully, long sharp sword raised to slay. 'Whatever paltry magics you may be able to work are tricks. Little ploys such as I or any man could work, if we ended up with a few treasures enchanted by others in our hands. It will take a lot more than little ploys to defeat Lyrose or Tesmer-just as it will take more than a little ploy to fool me. Outlander, you are a dead man.'

'Now who's trying to talk someone to death?' Rod replied, backing slowly away, keeping the quarrel up in front of him like a spear, and making his right elbow slide along the wall to keep himself close to it. He had to stay right against the wall, retracing the way he'd safely come already, in case walking down the middle of the passage landed him in any traps. After all, Malraun had to live in this place, and be able to stroll around it without facing death every few seconds; there must be some fairly simple