need to save my son.”
The wizard shook his head. “Your son is worth more than a bridge, believe me.”
“Would you still counsel me then to halt the attack?”
Sisel shook his head sadly. “No. I fear, milord, that the enemy is wiser than we would hope. They may already know about the lore of the forcibles, and who they now hold captive. And if they know, there will be no trade for your son, and no saving him. Go forward with your plan, and let us hope for the best.”
DARK WATERS
I find that the best way to endure ugliness and pain is to remember beauty. Always in my memory, it is the face of a woman that gives me strength. Her name was Yaleen.
Daylight came to the privy, the softest blush of light shining through the holes up above. With the dawn came an unwholesome rain as hundreds of soldiers relieved themselves of the waste from last night’s feast.
Daylan Hammer stood stoically, head bowed, mouth tightly shut, and endured.
He had been standing so long that once in the night, all of the blood had rushed to his feet, and he had staggered and fallen in the mire.
So he had learned, and now he raised his feet every now and then, stamping them in the filth, so that he made sure to keep blood pumping to his head.
It will end soon, he thought. The warriors will be leaving at dawn.
And after an hour, they seemed to be gone. No more foul rains hurtled down, no crude jests or harsh laughter assailed him.
He waded to the far end, then reached up and began trying to climb out of the privy.
There was little to hold onto. The walls were wet and slimy. Mold and unhealthy funguses grew upon them, making them slick. There was no brickwork or mortar here, with crevices that he might slip his fingers into, just solid rock worn smooth over the ages.
Still, he had to try.
He pressed his fingernails into a sheet of mold, hoping that it might give him some purchase.
He was wet, soggy, and that added extra pounds.
He pulled himself up slowly, and let the urine drip off of him a little, hoping to reduce his weight. But the sheet of mold broke free, and he slid back.
I would weigh less if I were naked, he decided.
He did not want to suffer that indignity. He didn’t want to risk having someone see him squirming as he struggled up out of the privy.
On the other hand, I doubt whether I ever want to wear these clothes again, he told himself.
With grim determination, he shucked off his pants, ripped off his tunic, and began the climb.
It took him nearly an hour to get ten feet up the wall. But from there, the slope suddenly got steeper. By then, his fingernails and toenails bled, and he was straining every muscle.
He dared not rest. He was too wet and slimy. Each time he laid against the wall, he merely slid back into the cesspool.
If I were dry, he thought, perhaps I could get more friction, perhaps I could make it.
And so he clung in one spot, sweat streaming down his forehead and from his armpits and chest, hoping to get dry enough so that he might find some purchase.
All of his endowments of strength and grace could not suffice to get him one foot farther up the wall. Only superhuman effort had gotten him this far at all.
Suddenly, he heard a soft thud, and a coil of rope came twisting down out of the darkness.
Who? he wondered. Daylan had seen the grief-stricken look on Alun’s face when he’d been arrested. He wondered, Is he trying to make amends?
But it wasn’t Alun who spoke. It was the High King himself, his mournful voice echoing in the small chamber.
“Daylan Hammer, the troops are assembled at the gate, and soon they will be gone. The guard will be light. There are those who would thwart you, if they knew of your purpose. But I wish you well. By the Powers that preserve us I beg you, save my son.”
TROPHIES OF THE HUNT
There is a special bond that develops between the hunter and the hunted. They share a similar thrill, a visceral excitement that is only aroused when a life is placed in jeopardy. It is Lady Despair’s will that everyone should learn the joy of the hunt. And in the proper time, everyone should share the thrill of being hunted.
As the shadows deepened and grew long upon the land, Fallion and his friends huddled in silence. Fear and anticipation were thick in the air, and none dared stir in the small loft. Every tiny noise, every little breath, every scuff of a foot as it was rearranged on the wooden floor, seemed amplified, as if striving to give them away.
The heartbeats of Fallion and his friends sounded as loud as drums.
There was little light. A handful of dying light-berries lay sprawled upon the floor.
This is not natural, Fallion thought, as his pounding heart drummed faster, filling the small room with its deep, echoing beat. He peered around the room at the others. This is a spell of some sort, perhaps cast by a sorcerer of the air.
He tried to still his breathing, remain quiet. He could not really see the others in the room. The light-berries had gone too dim. He could only sense their presence by virtue of sound, by body heat, by scent. Only the slightest bit of starlight shone through the hide window pane. Yet he could tell that they were struggling to remain silent, too.
“By the Powers,” Talon swore softly, “the hunters are on our trail.” She spoke in a whisper, but the sound seemed to echo through the room like a shout.
What kinds of hunters have such power, Fallion wondered, that they can magnify the heartbeats of their prey?
Almost, Fallion feared that his very thoughts would echo from the stone walls like a song.
Outside the room, down on the street, he heard marching feet, a hundred or more wyrmling troops. There was the usual clanking of armor, the swearing in some strange tongue, and the gruff shouts of a commander.
But there was something more. There was an itching across the bridge of Fallion’s nose, a crawling sensation that Fallion had learned to recognize long ago. Loci. There were loci in the soldiers outside, beings of pure evil.
They’re coming for us, he thought as sweat dribbled down his brow. He gripped his long sword firmly, wishing now that he had taken those endowments of brawn proffered by his friends among the Gwardeen.
No, I do not wish that, he told himself. They will need their own strength in the days to come. And his heart went out to them, there across the sea, as he silently wished them well.
He strained to hear if the marching feet would stop at the small shop, to hear if the soldiers would turn.
Perhaps, he thought, someone saw us enter the building. They could come right to us.
But no, after several long minutes, the soldiers marched down the road, heading back east, toward Castle Coorm.
Perhaps that is where they are going. Perhaps they have orders to hunt for me.
