Stalking Darkness (66 page)

Nysander listened in silence until he reached the nightmarish dinner with Mardus. “Mardus himself told you that the Helm must be given lives to build its power? You are certain of this?”

Alec nodded grimly. “He said the younger the victim, the more power the death gives. It was Mardus’ idea of revenge to have Thero and me be the last sacrifices at the final ceremony.”

Seregil looked up sharply at this. “That’s the key! If we strike quickly, before they complete the sacrifices, maybe we have a chance against this thing.”

“Perhaps, but we must not underestimate its initial capabilities,” warned Nysander. “It may well have some degree of power from the moment of completion. Very well. Go on, Alec.”

Too tired to be anything but matter-of-fact about the nightly horrors Vargul Ashnazai had visited on them, Alec quickly outlined the details of the overland journey.

Seregil went pale as he described the visitation by Cilia and the invectives she’d hurled at him.

“Phantasms, nothing but illusions conjured up by this terrible man,” Nysander assured him. “Such spells turn your own fears and imaginings against you.”

“But what about when I saw Seregil?” Alec asked. “That was real. I touched him, felt him bleeding. There was blood on my hands the next day.”

“More illusion,” said Nysander. “He created Seregil’s image using some poor victim so that the death would be convincing. Someone certainly died in front of you that night. I imagine Ashnazai meant to break your spirit once and for all.”

Alec glanced guiltily in Micum’s direction. “I enjoyed killing him. I know that’s wrong, but I did.”

“Don’t fret over it,” Micum said with a grim smile. “I’d have felt the same in your place. There’s no dishonor in killing a mad creature like that.”

Seregil chuckled blackly. “I plan to enjoy killing Mardus just as much.”

“Vengeance is not our purpose,” Nysander reminded them firmly. “Never allow yourselves to forget that their god can use our own emotions and weakness against us. Now allow Alec to finish his account so he can rest.”

“There’s not much to tell. After we got away from the camp Thero used the same spell you showed me the day you turned us into animals. I didn’t know what he was doing until it was too late to stop him. Once he’d turned me into a stag, I ran. If he’d just given me a chance maybe I could have helped him, but something happened to my mind, just like the last time.”

“There was nothing you could have done against anything conjured up by the likes of Irtuk Beshar,” Nysander said. “Thero’s decision was wise and honorable.”

“As I see it, the real question is how to get at the Helm in the first place,” Micum interjected.

“Alec says Mardus has at least two score soldiers with him. They’re not just going to stand flatfooted while we waltz in.”

“We’ll have to see how they distribute themselves at the temple tomorrow,” Seregil said, going to his pack.

“Assuming Mardus wasn’t lying to Alec, then the prisoners will have to be close at hand during the ceremony. If we could get them loose, they could provide a diversion.” Turning, he handed Alec his bow case and sword.

“You brought them!” Alec exclaimed, pulling the limbs of the Radly from the case and fitting it together.

“And your quiver,” Seregil told him. “If Nysander’s right about this prophecy of his, then you’ll be needing these.”

“There’s plenty of high ground overlooking the temple site,” Micum noted. “Alec could pick off some of the guards around the prisoners, start a panic. If the prisoners have any spirit left in them at all, they’ll fight or run. Either way, it would give the rest of us a chance to make a dash for it in the confusion.”

“There are only a score of arrows here,” Alec said, opening the quiver to check his fletching. “Even if I made every shot, that still leaves a lot of armed men to deal with. These are Plenimaran marines we’re talking about.”

“We’ll have our hands full, all right, but I doubt we’ll have to take them all on at once,” said Micum. “My guess is Mardus will post sentries and leave some others on guard at their encampment. It’s the dyrmagnos I’m most worried about. Tell me more about her.”

“She’s pure evil,” Alec answered bitterly.

“What she did to me, and to Thero—I don’t even know how to tell you. By the time she was finished with me, I’d told her every damn thing she wanted to know. Nysander was right not to tell us very much. Once she started in on me, there was nothing I could do to stop her.”

“I feared as much,” murmured the wizard.

“When we finally did escape, she sent something after us. I didn’t see it, but just the sound of it was enough to freeze your blood!”

“This is all excellent news,” Nysander exclaimed, rubbing his white hands together in satisfaction. “The sacrifices, the spells she used on Alec and Thero, the creature. From the sound of things, she has allowed herself little respite since her attack against me at the Oreska House. No one, not even a dyrmagnos, can expend so much power over such a short period of time without it exacting a toll. Once she has finished with the Helm, she should be at least somewhat weakened. If we attack her then, perhaps we can disable her long enough to carry out our mission. And now, Alec, you should get what sleep you can. The greatest trial of all still lies before us.”

“That’s for certain,” Micum muttered. “Four against forty. I’m going back down the road to keep an eye out for Mardus.”

But Alec felt no dread as he stretched out under Seregil’s cloak. No matter what happened, it couldn’t be worse than what he’d already been through.

Micum found an outcropping that overlooked the coastal track and settled down to wait.

The weather had held fair; the sun felt warm against his back as he lay in his hiding place, listening to the sound of the birds in the woods around him. Looking out through the trees on the west side of the road, he could see the green waves rolling across the Inner Sea and the flocks of sea ducks that rode them.

What little he’d seen of Plenimar didn’t look all that different from Skala. In fact, it appeared to be a pretty fine place overall—except for the Plenimarans.

It was midafternoon before he heard the first horses approaching. A vanguard of riders passed at a gallop. Soon after he saw more riders coming on at a walk at the head of a column of marines.

Micum had seen enough of Mardus up in Wolde the previous autumn to recognize him now, riding at the head of it. He wore military dress and the way he sat his mount told Micum this man was accustomed to command.

A woman in rich riding apparel rode at his side, her presence puzzling until Micum caught sight of her face and realized what she was. Flattening lower, he lay scarcely breathing, until the dyrmagnos had ridden past.

Behind them came more riders and marines. Micum spotted a few familiar faces among them, Captain Tildus and several of the soldiers who’d been with him in Wolde. The dispassionate calm that had kept him alive through so many battles settled over Micum as he silently marked men for death.

A line of wagons followed, including the bear cart Alec had described. As it came abreast of Micum’s hiding spot, he saw a thin, half-naked man sprawled face down in the bottom of it. He couldn’t make out the face, but from the build he guessed it was Thero. Another wagon was loaded with small wooden cages, and a black bull was tethered to this one.

Next came a long procession of prisoners stumbling along in chains. Women, men, and children, some hardly older than Illia, marched in dispirited silence beneath the watchful eye of their mounted guards. Behind them came wagons, servants, and livestock.

Micum’s heart sank as he watched the last of the column pass. Alec had missed his guess; there were closer to a hundred soldiers.

By the Flame, he thought. We’ve got our work cut out for us this time.

While Micum was gone, Seregil spent some time spying on the Plenimaran camp, then went back to check on Alec.

He was still asleep, curled on his side beneath the cloak. A pained frown furrowed his brow, and his fingers twitched restlessly as he fought his way through whatever dreams still haunted him. Sitting down next to him, Seregil gently stroked Alec’s tangled hair until the shadow left his face.

Nysander sat with several arrows across his lap. He’d produced a small dish of paint from somewhere and was painting symbols on one of the shafts with a fine brush.

Watching Alec sleep, Seregil shook his head with concern. “Do you really think he’ll be up to fighting tomorrow?”

“He is young, and not badly hurt,” the wizard assured him, not looking up from his work. “All he needs is rest.”

Seregil rubbed absently at his chest. The last of the scab was peeling away and it itched. As his fingers brushed across the scar, he felt the tiny raised whorls of the disk’s imprint.

It felt different.

Reaching for Micum’s pack, he dug out the shaving mirror and held it out to see the scar. The round shape of the disk and the small square mark left by the hole at its center were still outlined in shiny new skin, but the imprint of the design had changed. What had originally been a cryptic pattern of lines and whorls had somehow transformed into a circular device of stylized knives, eyes, and necromantic runes.

“Nysander, look at this!” He pulled the neck of his tunic wider.

Nysander’s bushy white brows shot up in surprise. “Do you recall me telling you that the design on the wooden disk concealed another? This is one of the siglas of the Empty God.”

Seregil inspected it again. “I can read them. The runes, I mean. They’re right way around in the mirror. I hadn’t thought of it before, but since this is a brand, the whole design is backward.”

Nysander tugged thoughtfully at his beard. “If this sigla is intrinsically magical rather than merely symbolic, such a reversal would have a significant effect on its power. It may even have helped protect you from the effects of the crown.”

He smiled ruefully. “I should have guessed it sooner, I suppose, but I had been putting your survival down to your magical dysfunction. This may well have been an ameliorating factor.”

Seregil, hoping to get a little sleep stretched out beside Alec. “I’d call that left-handed luck, but I guess I’ll take it—I just hope it works for us tomorrow.”

Nysander took up his brush again. “As do I, dear boy.” I take any kind I can.

A
lec slept on through the night while Nysander and the others listened to the Plenimarans at work preparing the temple site. They also heard the chanting, and later the screams and moans that drifted to them on the wind from the encampment. Micum wanted to investigate, but the wizard forbade it.

“We know well enough what they are doing. The dyrmagnos is more dangerous than ever during such ceremonies. If not for the protective magic I have placed around us, she would have sensed us already. We are safe enough for now, but we must wait for morning before we move. You should rest while you can. I fear there will be little opportunity to do so tomorrow.”

Scratching a circle around the base of the pine, he seated himself against the opposite side of the trunk and closed his eyes.

Alec woke just before sunrise the next morning and was surprised at how rested he felt. He had a few scrapes and aches from the previous day’s journey, but he scarcely noticed them.

Seregil was asleep close beside him, one arm under his head, the other stretched out toward Alec. His face was wind-burned and there were pine needles tangled in his long dark hair, but that only seemed to enhance his strange beauty.

I kissed him! Alec thought in a sudden agony of embarrassment. In the midst of all the horror they had faced, and all they’d face today, he had kissed Seregil. His teacher. His friend. His—what? Worse yet, if Nysander hadn’t been sitting a few feet away, he might have been tempted to do it again.

I can’t think about that now, he groaned inwardly, cheeks flaming. It wasn’t that he regretted it. He just didn’t know yet what it meant, or what he wanted it to mean.

Sitting up, he saw that Micum had gone out already.

Nysander was sitting on the other side of the tree and didn’t stir or look around when Alec went over to the pile of packs. He found a spare set of breeches and some low boots in Seregil’s, then turned his attention to his bow.

Stringing it, he ran careful fingers up and down the braided string, looking for any frays or weak spots. After so many weeks of disuse, it needed waxing.

There was a tack pouch in his quiver, but he didn’t see it with the rest of the gear. Looking around, he spied it lying on the ground next to Nysander. In with his red-fletched arrows were four newly fletched with white swan feathers. Taking up the quiver, he touched one of the crisp white vanes and felt a sharp tingle of magic against his finger. He jerked his hand away, then gingerly pulled the arrow from the quiver for a closer look. The shaft was covered from point to nock with tiny, intricate symbols painted in blue ink.

“No spell can improve on the skill of your hand and eye,” Nysander murmured, eyes still closed, “but those four arrows carry magic that will pierce the skin of the dyrmagnos. She must be your first target once the Helm is complete. See no one else, aim for nothing else until one of these has struck her. Even my magic cannot kill her, but it will weaken her while we attack. Strike her in the heart if you can manage it.”