Stalking Darkness (61 page)

Nysander shook his head. “No, this is only a marker. Of that I am certain. Before the forest grew up it would have been visible from the sea. From the trail, too, if it existed whenever this was placed here.”

“Then the temple must be back up in these woods somewhere,” said Micum. “You rest here, Nysander. Seregil and I’ll take a look.”

The forest here was old virgin growth, Micum saw with a certain degree of relief. The huge, wind-twisted pines were widely spaced, with little undergrowth beneath them. Despite the good visibility, however, after an hour’s searching neither he nor Seregil had found anything remotely resembling a temple or any other structure.

Returning to the shore, they found Nysander down on the ledges. It was late afternoon by now, and the tide was nearing its lowest ebb.

“Nothing, eh? That is very puzzling.” Leaning on his staff, Nysander frowned out at the sea. “Then again, if we are not finding what we seek, then perhaps we are not looking for the right thing.”

Micum sank down on a rock with a discouraged groan. “Then what should we be looking for? We’ve only got three more days before this eclipse of yours.”

Seregil scanned the cove pensively, then set off toward the waterline. “All it means is that it isn’t a building.”

“I know that look,” Micum said, watching him cast back and forth along the ledges like a hound seeking a scent.

The wizard nodded in bemusement. “So do I.” “What are you looking for?” called Micum. “Don’t know yet,” Seregil replied absently, poking through the seaweed floating in one of the larger tide pools.

“See how the formation of the stone forms a natural amphitheater?” Nysander pointed out. “You try those higher ledges. I shall take the right.”

Micum scrambled diligently up and down the rocks, but found nothing but bleached shells and bird droppings. He was just wondering if Nysander ought to spare a bit of magic after all when Seregil let out a triumphant cackle below.

“What is it?” Micum demanded.

Seregil lay sprawled on his belly, his arms plunged nearly to the shoulder into one of the long, narrow fissures that ran down the lower ledges to the sea.

“Come see for yourself.” Climbing down, Micum and Nysander knelt and peered into the cleft in the stone.

“Look here,” said Seregil, pushing aside a clump of rock weed. Beneath it, they saw rows of crudely carved symbols cut into the rock six inches below the top of the crack. Moving along on hands and knees, they found that the symbols formed a continuous band spanning both sides of the fissure all the way down to the sea. A second crevice near the other side of the cove was filled with the same sort of carvings.

“What are they?” asked Micum.

Nysander’s pale face lit up with excitement as he studied the whorls, circles, and cross-hatching that formed the patterns. “Such carvings have been found all round the inner seas, but no one has ever deciphered them. Like that stone up there, they were placed here before our kind arrived.”

“Another sacred spot,” Seregil said, sitting up. “I found the crown in a cave the Dravnians called a spirit chamber. I felt their spirit after I’d gotten the crown. Micum, you remember that underground chamber you found in the Fens?”

“Of course.” Micum grimaced, recalling the scene of slaughter.

“You said there was an altar stone of some sort there,” Nysander said, exchanging an excited glance with Seregil. “That chamber could have been some sort of holy place, too, before the wooden disks were hidden there.” He waved a hand at the carvings they’d found.

“And now this place, this ancient temple site. All this suggests that the necromancers use the power of such places to enhance their own magic. Assuming that this is the case, then there must be some significance in Mardus’ choice of this rather obscure location.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Seregil said, sighting down the right-hand fissure. Waves surged up the cleft with the gentle heave of the tide, churning up white foam as they lifted the seaweed. After a moment he began pulling off his boots.

“Fetch a rope, would you, Micum?” he asked, stripping off his tunic and shirt as well. “What are you up to?” “I just want a look at where these cracks in the rock lead.” Seregil tied one end of the rope around his waist and handed the rest to Micum, then waded into the icy water.

He was thigh deep when the undertow knocked him off his feet. Micum tightened his grip on the rope, but Seregil surfaced and motioned for him to slack up again. Struggling against the waves, he swam farther out and dove beneath the surface.

“What is it he’s after?” Micum muttered nervously, paying out more line.

“I cannot imagine,” Nysander replied, shaking his head.

Seregil dove twice more before shouting for Micum to haul him in.

Pale and blue-lipped with cold, Seregil staggered up the rock and flattened himself against its sun-warmed surface. Nysander unfastened his cloak and laid it over him.

Micum squatted down beside him. “Find anything?” “Nothing. I had thought maybe, with the gift tide coming—“

Seregil broke off. Sitting up, he smacked a hand across his forehead. “Illior’s Fingers, I’ve had it all backward!”

“Ah, I think I see!” For the first time in days a little color stole into Nysander’s bleached cheeks. “How could I have overlooked such an obvious factor?”

“A gift tide?” Micum asked, wondering if he’d heard right.

Seregil’s teeth clattered like bakshi stones in a leather cup as he exclaimed, “It’s the last piece of the puzzle. Now the rest falls into place.”

“What in the hell are you—“

“Twice each month, the moon causes the tide to rise and fall to unusual extremes,” Nysander explained. “The fishermen call it a gift tide. On the day of the eclipse there will be such a tide.”

“It was the seaweed,” Seregil went on, as if that explained everything. “It grows thickest around the low tide line. Last night I noticed that an unusually thick band of it was laid bare at low tide.”

“But you just said there was nothing out there,” said Micum.

“That’s right.” Seregil jumped to his feet and headed up the ledges. “And I might have saved myself a swim just now. Leiteus said the eclipse would occur at midday, which is when the tide will be unusually high. That’s the other half of the cycle!” Water dripped from the tip of his nose as he scrutinized the fissure again, following it up toward the high ground.

Suddenly he stooped over a collection of stones jumbled together near one of the parallel fissures, then began tossing them aside.

“Look, a hole,” he said, showing them a round hole a hand’s span wide bored deep into the stone. Scrabbling along on his knees he soon found another, and then a third.

With the help of the others, he uncovered a total of fourteen of the holes, spaced evenly to form a half circle around a broad, shallow depression in the stone just above the high tide mark.

It was an unremarkable looking spot, littered with driftwood, shells, dried seaweed, and other debris, but both of the mysterious crevices in the rock ran through it.

“Here’s your temple,” Seregil announced. “I think you may be correct,” Nysander said, looking around in amazement.

“It’s above the normal tide line now, but from the looks of the debris, the highest tides reach it. It’s a sort of natural basin.”

“It must have been used by the people who left the writing we found carved there,” Nysander speculated. “I wonder what the holes represent?”

“So the eclipse and the high tide that fills this thing will happen at the same time,” observed Micum, helping Seregil cover the holes as they had found them.

“The highest point of the tide will lag some minutes behind the completion of the eclipse,” the wizard replied.

“Which means Mardus will have only a few moments in which to complete whatever ritual he plans before the sun returns. It is generally believed that the more rare the conjunction, the more powerful its effect. With the added factor of the comet, I should say this conjunction will be an extraordinarily potent and dangerous one. That it is so focused on a specific locale makes it all the more so.”

“By the Flame!” Micum muttered. “And the three of us are supposed to take on that, with however many Plenimarans thrown in?”

“Four,” Seregil amended darkly, shooting Nysander a pointed look. “When the time comes, there are supposed to be four of us.”

T
ime passed like a slow nightmare for Alec.

By day the cart bumped and jolted over the rough coastal track the column followed. His mounted escort ignored him for the most part, talking among themselves in their own language. With only Thero for company, Alec spent the daylight hours dozing and watching the mountainous countryside go by.

And dreading nightfall. At night the bear cart was stationed somewhat apart from the camp. Alec quickly learned to fear the moment when his guards faded away into the shadows; this was the signal for Vargul Ashnazai’s festival of nightmares to begin.

Later, when the final horror was over and Alec had been reduced to terrified fury, the guards would reappear and whatever was left of the night would pass in relative peace.

The second night Diomis and his mother materialized in the cage, heads clutched beneath their arms as they cursed and accused him. Alec knew they were only illusions, but their accusations stabbed at enough of his own doubts to bring real pain. Turning his back on them, he stuffed his fingers in his ears and tried to ignore the prodding and buffeting of their cold, ghostly hands. It was pointless to fight back—they had no more substance than air.

Curling tighter in his misery, he waited for Ashnazai to tire of the game. When it was over, Alec lay listening to the small sounds of the night—an owl’s hunting call, the distant nickering of horses, the low murmur of the guards, who’d come back as soon as Ashnazai had gone.

Where did they go? he wondered, letting his mind wander where it would. A better question: why do they go? His eyes widened as he stared up into the night sky.

Every time Ashnazai had tormented him, on the ship and now, he did it without witnesses. This seemed to verify something Alec already suspected. Vargul Ashnazai did not want anyone, especially Mardus, to know what he was up to.

The following night there was no sign of Ashnazai. Huddled close to Thero’s sleeping form, Alec stared out into the shadows, bracing for whatever new horror was to come.

The moon rose. The stars wheeled slowly past the branches, but nothing disturbed the surrounding stillness.

A sweet spring breeze swept through the boughs, carrying to him the scents of resin, damp mosses, and tender green herbs sprouting from the forest loam.

Closing his eyes, he imagined himself walking through those wooded hills with his bow as he had with his father. In spite of his fear, he drifted off and dreamed of hunting and forest trails and freedom.

He was awakened by someone whispering his name. A dark figure stood next to the cart, beckoning him to the bars.

Alec crouched warily. “What do you want?”

“Alec, it’s me,” the man replied softly. He pushed his hood back and the moonlight struck his face.

“Seregil!” Alec managed a choked whisper. Scrambling over, he thrust his hand out to his friend.

Seregil clasped it and pressed it to his lips.

He was real, solid, warm. Alec clung to him, heedless of the tears of relief rolling down his own cheeks. “I never thought—How did you find us?”

Reaching through the bars, Seregil cupped Alec’s face in his hands. “No time to explain, tali. I’ve got to get you out of there.” Releasing Alec reluctantly, he went to the back of the cart to examine the lock.

“Be careful. Vargul Ashnazai put some kind of magic on it.” Seregil glanced up. “Who?”

“The necromancer who was with Mardus in Wolde. And he’s not the only one around, either. They’ve got a dyrmagnos with them.”

“Bilairy’s Balls! But there’s got to be some way. I’m not leaving you here!”

Alec’s heart hammered in his chest as he watched Seregil inspect the lock. It was torture, being this close but still separated.

“Ah, here’s something—” Seregil began, but just then torchlight flared behind him. “Seregil, look out!” Turning, they found Vargul Ashnazai leering up at them, flanked by a half-dozen armed soldiers. “How clever of you to have found us,” the necromancer gloated. “I much appreciate your effort. And your boy played his part very convincingly, no?”

Seregil shot Alec a startled look. It was the cruelest blow yet, that accusing look. It froze Alec’s throat, so that he could only shake his head imploringly.

Seregil drew his sword and sprang from the wagon, away from Ashnazai’s men. But others were waiting for him in the shadows.

Flinging himself against the bars, Alec watched with horror as Seregil fought for his life. He ran a guard through and slashed another across the neck before the others leapt at him from behind, knocking him to the ground and pinning him.

The necromancer barked an order and they yanked Seregil to his feet. His face was bloody, but he held his head high and spat at the necromancer, eyes blazing with hate.