Michael A. Stackpole (33 page)

That news clearly shocked Fialchar. “This is impossible! I would have known.”

“Unless his possession of the sceptre shields him from magicks you focus through the staff.”

Lord Disaster’s eyes grew distant, and I sensed an involved discussion of magick looming on the horizon. I turned away from them and looked at the chessboard again. “Which side were you playing?”

The tall lich stared down at me with contempt. “You have to ask? Chaos, of course, and in my realm we move first.”

“Oh.” I reached out and pushed the Empress forward two spaces. “Checkmate.”

“What have you
done?!”
Lord Disaster stalked across the floor at me, leaving the staff hovering in the air near the crystal ball. He grasped a pillar in each hand and gripped them so hard that the stone began to crumble. I saw flames shoot from his eyes in golden puffs as he looked down at the board. “Do you know what you have done?”

I nodded. “I won.”

He looked at me, eyes still blazing, then snorted. “Cardew’s son? Will you be as much of an impediment to me as he was?” He raised himself to his full height and folded his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe. The staff floated to him. “I have no fond memories of your father.”

“And I doubt he had any of you.” I rested my hands on my hips. “I have come for the Staff of Emeterio because I will oppose the Bh
arasfiadi.
I will destroy their Necroleum, and I will stop Vrasha Packkiiler from invading the Empire. Give the staff to me.”

The vehemence and commanding tone in my voice surprised me, and seemed to shock Lord Disaster. I braced against being sent back to my prison. His necrotic eyes narrowed, and the flesh around them screamed as it tightened. One clawed hand started from a sleeve toward my throat, but he restrained himself, and his expression eased.

“So brash, so young. So foolish.” His hands emerged slowly from his robe in a gesture of openness. “It is my free choice and desire to lend you this staff. You may, in return, rid me of the nuisance Vrasha has become.”

1 reached out, and the Staff of Emeterio came to me. Its cool ebon shaft warmed to my touch and felt as I might imagine Marija’s flesh would beneath a caress. I started to think of her as 1 had on the night of the ball, but that memory carried with it enough anger and disgust that it shocked me out of remembering. I looked up and caught Fialchar staring at me.

“Yes, Lachlan, this staff is full of dangers.” With an effort he smiled almost beneficently. “It really is not safe in your hands. It could corrupt you.”

“Whereas you are beyond corruption?”

“No, my dear child, i
am
corruption.”

Roarke grabbed my arm and tugged me toward the exit. “Then we shall not detain you, oh Duke of Decay. When we are finished with your toy, we will leave it where you may find it again.” He squeezed my arm. “Say good-bye to our host, Locke.”

“Good-bye.”

“So formal and final, Zephaniah. That is as you might wish it to be, but no, I think not.” Fialchar stood there and watched us back out of the Great Hall. “Let us say ‘Farewell, until we meet again,’ for we
shall
meet again. Know it. Fear it.”

25

_R

oarke all but hauled me bodily from Castel Payne. Once outside my mind began to clear, but before that I felt as if I had been there many times before. It felt akin to having seen some place in a dream, then seeing it again when awake. My confusion concerned me until I realized I had easily been a full day without sleep.

“Roarke, how did you find me?”

The Chaos Rider shrugged. “After I got out of the mansion’s south wing, 1 saw signs of the Emerald Horse’s passing. As I could not find you among the dead, and I knew we needed to get the staff from Fialchar, I decided to check Castel Payne. When I found the Emerald Horse here, I assumed you were here as well. As it turns out, Fialchar gave you the accommodations he had given me during my visit.”

I walked through the courtyard to the Emerald Horse. “You have been here before?”

“After Fialchar gave me Kothvir’s eye, he decided to keep me to see what the results of his experiment would be. 1 would be there still, 1 suspect, but Jhesti freed me soon after I had been captured.”

1 frowned. “Jhesti? He’s just a legend.” As I patted the Emerald Horse on the neck he went from being a statue to a mobile creature again.

“Just a legend, eh?” Roarke laughed lightly. “The Emerald Horse is just a legend.”

“Blooded on the first thrust.” I hauled myself up on the Emerald Horse’s back. “So he helped you back to the Empire?”

“All the way to the capital, me and Cruach both. I did not fare much better going through the wall last time than I did this time.”

“What did happen to you?”

The magicker shook his head. “1 am not certain, but I know Kothvir’s eye, because of the bargain the
Bharashadi
made with their god, is still linked to him. Kothvir is dead, but alive and here, in Chaos, 1 know what he knew, and 1 can see what he has seen. Aside from feeling like a white-hot poker had been driven into my eye as I crossed over, I think 1 went unconscious to give my mind time to sort out everything. You know how it is said you should walk a mile in another man’s boots before you judge him? Well, with this eye I’m walking around in two pairs of boots at the same time, and that is not easy to handle.”

I nodded. “I think I understand.” I looked toward the horizon and saw the sun slowly setting. “It is later than I thought.”

“Time is slightly accelerated here on Castel Payne.” Roarke squinted at the sun. “If we leave now we might be able to reach the mansion before the second wave of
Bharashadi
warriors hits it.”

I squeezed the Emerald Horse’s ribs. “Go back to the mansion. Go. Fly!”

The horse did nothing.

Roarke, rising up into the air on a semitransparent red disc he’d created with a spell, laughed at me. “Some horses don’t take their masters seriously.”

I dug my heels into the Emerald Horse’s ribs. “Go! Fly, damn you!”

The Emerald Horse leaped into the air and galloped along until he placed himself just slightly ahead of Roarke. During my captivity Castel Payne had moved a considerable distance from First Stop Mansion. Urging the Emerald Horse on, I knew we were not going to make it to the mansion before night had fallen.

I glanced over at Roarke and saw a blue glow covering his face like a featureless face mask. “What is that?”

“A spell. Through it I can see better. The
Bfiarasfiadi
are massing. The southern wing of the mansion is gone, but the doors leading to the interior are holding. It looks like the
Bfiarasfiadi
are trying to build a battering ram out of timbers taken from the north tower.”

“Any sign of our people?”

“No, but 1 would guess the
Bfiarasfiadi
have doubled their number from last night.”

I shivered, and it wasn’t because of the chill in the night air. “How can we stop them?”

Roarke drifted closer. “Let me have that wonderwand Fialchar gave you. I’ll have the Necroleum filled to overflowing in no time.”

I started to hand it to him, then hesitated. I had known Roarke for only a relatively short time. While it was true he had never let me down in all that time, he
had
lied to me. Fialchar had warned me about how powerful the staff could be. Could it corrupt Roarke? Did he lust after its power? Would he give it back so 1 could use it to destroy the Necroleum?

The blue glow evaporated from Roarke’s face. “I understand your confusion and hesitation, Locke, lust remember this: your father brought me along with him on what he knew would be the most dangerous mission he would ever undertake.”

“And now my father is dead.”

“Right, so let us make sure that doesn’t happen to your cousin and the others.”

I recalled the decision I’d made about him in Castel Payne and nodded. I held the staff out to him. “I trust you, Roarke. That’s not because my father trusted you, but because I do.”

“You’ll not regret it.”

Roarke’s hands closed around the staff, and he stiffened for a moment. Then a grin grew into a smile on his face. The disc became more gold than red, then shifted to a green color. That color bled up into the smoky quartz at the top of the staff. “This is better than warm blankets on a cold night.” He glanced down at the ground and started down in a slow spiral. “Can you whistle?”

“Whistle?” I puckered my lips and blew out a few notes. “Sure. Why?”

“Whistle me up some dancing music.” Roarke jerked his head back toward Castel Payne. “Lord Ugly is bound to be watching, and I want him to see how a dance among your enemies should properly be arranged.”

Roarke’s flying disc descended to the ground in the center of the outer courtyard. Bright sparks ignited the half dozen
Bharasfiadi
upon whom he had landed, scattering them in a flaming panic. Roarke brought the Staff of Emeterio’s heel down to touch the grounded disc. The disc shrank, intensifying the green tint in the quartz. It appeared as if the staff had sucked up the disc like a mosquito feeding on blood.

Roarke said something and hammered the staff’s butt against the paving stones. At once a tangle of glowing green tendrils shot out of the top, draining the crystal of color. Each tendril struck a different
Bharashadi
warrior in the forehead. Roarke hit the staff against the ground again, forcing all the
Bharasfiadi
to slowly stand and turn to face him.

In time with the song 1 whistled, Roarke started the
Bharasfiadi
dancing around. As the Emerald Horse flew closer to the earth, I heard Roarke begin to sing.

Golden eyes aglow Spirits cold and black as night, Please take out your swords For now you’re going to fight’.

At his command the
Bharashadi
bared their weapons. Cruel blades, hooked and barbed, somehow looked yet more sinister in the green light. The enchanted
Bharashadi
moved in a grand circle centered on Roarke. Many of them glared at him, furious at being trapped by his power, but impotent to do anything about it.

He sang on.

Find yourself a friend, Think not on your plight.

Slash and stab so bright blood flows,
To
this slaying song tonight.

The Emerald Horse set hoof to solid earth outside the killing circle. One by one, as
Bharashadi
warriors chopped each other down, the green lines winked away. The others, as victor moved at victor, wove together in a complex braid that slowly unraveled itself. Purple blood ran in torrents in the courtyard, raising a lavender fog that hid most of the hacked and cloven bodies.

Finally, only one B
harashadi
remained. Roarke looked at him, then twisted the staff so that the line of power snapped free of his brow. The Chademons head whipped around as if he had been punched. He shook his head to clear it, then looked at the carnage surrounding him.

Screaming in rage, he raised his bloody sword and charged at Roarke. The magicker held his right hand out, palm forward, fingers splayed, as if signaling the B
harashadi
to stop his charge. Red power surrounded Roarke’s hand, then the sorcerer clenched his hand down into a fist. The
Bharashadi
crumpled and fell, clutching at his chest. He died with violet blood bubbling up between his lips.

Roarke, picking his way between the bodies, held the staff out to me. “Very effective as a tool, but I do not want the burden of responsibility for what it allows me to do.”

I accepted it back from him and slid from the Emerald Horse’s back. The staff again warmed to my touch, but I ignored its message. “Let us see to our companions.”

We ran through the mansion corridor to the interior courtyard. I would have continued running up to the doors leading into the mountain, but Roarke held me back. Before I could ask why, he gestured, and I saw a nebulous blue glow in the area before the doors. “What is that?”

“A
triggerfield.
It’s like a
leechspell,
but bigger, and you don’t have to do anything to make it work. It will suck enough energy out of whatever blunders into it to trigger some sort of spell. 1 doubt Taci had anything pleasant in mind.” He pointed at the doors with his right index finger. 1 saw a blue nimbus surround his finger as he started moving his hand through the air.

From right to left on the door, blue flames ran in lines following the arcane symbols Roarke drew in the air. It took me a minute to figure out he was mirror-writing, which told me the burning letters had to extend all the way through the doors. His message, “All is well, Locke and 1 have entertained your guests,” spelled itself out in letters a foot tall. By the time the last word had been written, the first had begun to fade, leaving no burn marks to show it had ever been there.

“An intriguing trick, Roarke, but they do not know you as a sorcerer. How will they identify the T in your message?”

“Taci will know, if she does not, Nagrendra will.”

I shook my head. “Nagrendra’s dead.”

“What?”

“The
Bfiarasfiadi
sorcerers you slew first killed him. They crushed the tower.”

“What about Xoayya?”

My shoulders slumped. “Gone, too. They never stood a chance.”

“Yes, but from the carnage I saw, they sold their lives dearly. They went the way Riders are meant to die.” He smiled weakly, then looked at the doors. “The
triggerfield
is gone. They are coming out.”

I heard the sound of a bar being shifted behind the doors, then they cracked open. Streaking through them first came Cruach, who barked once happily, and headed straight for us. Roarke dropped to one knee to welcome the dog, but Cruach leaped over him at me. Unprepared for such an enthusiastic greeting, I fell over backwards and got a bar dexter splashed across my face with a big, wet tongue.

Roarke and I both laughed as Cruach jumped back and licked his face, too, but our laughter died as the survivors came out of the hole in the mountain. They all looked tired—Taci especially—and still wary about the possible presence of
Bharashadi.
Everyone had soot stains on their clothing and faces, and more than one bloody rag staunched nicks and cuts. They all carried their weapons in their hands, except Kit and Eirene. Between them they bore a makeshift litter.

1 scrambled to my feet and ran over to where they set Tyrchon down. In his right hand he clutched a dagger that looked much like those that hung on my wall in Herakopolis. It had the same hook cut in the back of the blade, and it looked to me as if a piece of it had broken off. The blade also had a line drawing on it, and the image I saw unmistakably represented Tyrchon.

Roarke knelt at Tyrchon’s side and gently lifted the wounded man’s left arm from the litter. He pulled open the leather jerkin and there, near the armpit, I saw a black hole in Tyrchon’s chest. I nearly gagged when I caught a whiff of the suppurating wound—and was immediately reminded of the sculpture in Castel Payne.

Dark pus bubbled and oozed out of the wound. “Roarke, what caused that?”

He tapped the knife.
“Vindictxvara.”
He looked up at Kit. “What happened, Lieutenant?”

Kit hung his head. “After the first night and the explosion we heard, we decided we needed to scout the area. We had lost five people, you two, Nagrendra, Xoayya, and Aleix—six if you count Cruach. We had to try to find you before Taci could set up some defenses here, but…”

I held a hand up. “You did the right thing, Kit. We were beyond helping.”

Kit gave me a thin-lipped smile. “Thanks. When we opened up again, Tyrchon and Hansen volunteered to go out and see what they could find. As nearly as we can determine, they ran into a group of B
harashadi
and had a fight. Tyrchon returned with Cruach and this hole in him. Hansen did not make it back.”

“We tried to find Nagrendra and Xoayya.” Eirene shook her head. “The
Bharashadi
did an excellent job on the north tower. There’s not a trace of them left.”

I squatted and took a good look at Tyrchon’s wound and the knife that caused it. “Roarke, that knife could have made a cut that would fit within that wound, but it couldn’t have done that much damage. This looks like a cut that’s been infected for weeks.”

“Have you ever had poison ivy?”

“Yes.”

“Windictxvara
does the same sort of thing. It is magically created to be antithetical to the person who is pictured on it. If the person who created it wounds the person for whom it is made, the attacker’s hatred becomes like a poison. The weapon gnaws away at both the body and spirit of it’s victim.” Roarke tapped the knife blade. “At least we have the
vindictxvara
that made the wound. I assume the wielder is dead?”