The Deed of Paksenarrion (71 page)

“I don’t think so. Just a cut on the head, and they always bleed—a mess.” Paks swiped at her face with her free hand, and found the cut itself, a shallow gash near the edge of her helmet.

“Here—” Macenion sheathed his sword and came over. “Let me clean that out.” Paks looked at the bodies on the floor as he wiped out the cut with something from a jar in his pack. It burned, but the bleeding stopped. The bodies did not move, this time. When Macenion finished, she pushed herself off the wall, grunting at the pain in her side, and wiped her sword clean on the dirty cloak of the nearest enemy. She wished they could stop and rest, but she distrusted the flavor of the air down here.

“I suppose we ought to keep going,” she said, half hoping that Macenion would insist on rest and food.

“Definitely. Whatever set these guards will know, soon enough, that we’ve passed them. If we’re to have any surprise at all, we’ll have to go on. Why? Are you hurt?”

“No.” Paks sighed. “Bruised, but no more. I wish we were out of here.”

“As do I.” Macenion gave a short laugh. “I begin to think that my elven relatives have more wit than I gave them credit for—they may have been right to tell me that I would find more trouble here than treasure.”

But along with her fear and loathing of the underground maze in which they were wandering, Paks felt a pull of excitement. In a corner of her mind, she saw herself telling this tale to Vik and Arñe in an inn somewhere. She checked her sword for damage, finding none, and turned to Macenion. He nodded his readiness, and she set off carefully, sword ready.

They passed an open door into an empty room on their right, and another like it a few feet down on the left. Ahead of them, the corridor turned again. Paks looked at Macenion and he shrugged. She flattened against the wall and edged forward to the turn. She could hear nothing. She widened her nostrils, hoping for a clue to what lay ahead. Her own smell, and Macenion’s, overwhelmed her nose. Finally, with a mental shrug, she peeked around the corner. An empty corridor, its dusty floor scuffed and disturbed. Four doorways that she could see in the one quick look she allowed herself. A crossing corridor a short run ahead.

“Do you have any of your feelings about any of this?” asked Macenion when she described what she’d seen.

“No. Not really. The whole things feels bad, but nothing in particular.”

“Nor can I detect anything. I wish our friend who wants our help would give us some guidance.”

Paks felt around in her mind to see if anything stirred. Nothing but a faint desire to get moving. She sighed. “Let’s go, then.”

The doors that opened off the corridor were all of wood; all bore the scars of some sort of fire. One gaped open, and they could see into a small room with stone shelves built into the walls. At the cross corridor, Paks took one corner, and Macenion the other. To the right, her way, the corridor ended in a blank stone wall perhaps fifty paces away. To the left, it opened after perhaps thirty paces into a chamber whose size they could not guess. Macenion cocked his head that way, and Paks began to edge along the wall of the cross corridor toward the chamber door. Macenion stayed where he was.

As she neared the opening, Paks felt a wave of confidence. Surely they were going the right direction. Macenion was being too cautious, as usual. She hesitated only a moment before putting her head around to see what the chamber was like.

Here, for the first time, she saw something not desolate and ruined. The floor, laid of pale green and gold stone blocks, had been swept clean of dust so that the pattern was clearly visible. At the far end of the chamber, a great ring of candles seemed to hover in midair. After a moment, Paks realized that they were attached to a metal framework suspended from a chain that ran to a ringbolt in the high ceiling. Candlelight warmed the cool white light of the corridors to a friendlier hue. In that warm glow, on a brilliantly colored carpet, stood a tall figure robed in midnight blue. Its face was subtly like Macenion’s, and yet different; Paks knew at once that she stood in the presence of an elf of high rank. Along the far wall of the chamber stood several motionless figures clad in rough garments of gray and brown like poor servants.

Paks looked at the elf’s face. Its bones showed clearly under the skin, yet with no sign of age or decay. The eyes were a clear pale green. She felt no fear, though she was fully aware of the elf’s power, so much greater than Macenion’s. The elf’s wide mouth curved in a smile.

“Welcome, fair warrior. Was your companion too frightened to come so far with you?”

Paks shook her head, uncertain how to answer. She had the vague thought that no elves should be here. But perhaps this was the person they had come to help? She could not seem to think clearly. The elf was not frightened of her, and did not seem angry—and elves were, if uncanny, at least not evil. As she thought this, she realized that she was walking forward, moving out into the chamber.

“Excellent,” the elf continued. “I shall be glad to receive you both into my service.” He gestured to the line of servants. “You see how few I have, and you have just killed some of my best fighters. It is only fair that you take their place.”

Paks found her voice at last. “But, sir, I have a deed to perform, before I can take service with another.” She tried to stand still; her feet crept forward despite her efforts. She knew she should be afraid but she could feel nothing.

“Oh?” The silvery elven voice was amused. “And what is that?”

Paks found it difficult to say, or even think. A confusion of images filled her mind: the Halveric’s face as he handed her a sealed packet, the Duke’s parting words, the images of victory and glory that had come in the dream of the night before. She had advanced to the edge of the carpet. This close to the elf, she noticed a distinct, slightly unpleasant odor. Even as her nose wrinkled in distaste, the odor changed, becoming spicy and attractive. She drew a deep breath.

“Now—” the elf began, but at that moment, Macenion cried out from the far end of the chamber.

“Paks! What are you—”

Only for a moment those green eyes shifted from Paks; then the elf chuckled. “Well, so your companion finally gathered his courage. Stand near me, fair warrior, and show him your allegiance.” And Paks stepped onto the soft carpet and stood silent beside the elf, unable to move or speak. She could just see Macenion from the corner of her eye. The elf went on. “You think yourself a mage, I understand—you have scarcely the powers to match me, crossbred runt.”

Macenion reddened. “You don’t know what I might have—” he began.

“If you had any abilities I need worry about, you’d not have walked into this trap. You sensed nothing, at the last turn—you said so.”

Macenion glared, and slid his hand stealthily under his cloak.

The elf nodded. “Go ahead—try your little spells if you wish. It won’t do any good. Nor will that wand. But try it, if you like—” He laughed. “Do you not even wish to know who it is that you face, little mage? Are you in the habit of loosing spells on chance-met strangers?”

“We are not chance-met, I fear,” said Macenion. He came forward a short distance, then stopped. “And if I cannot put a name to you, still I have a good idea what you are.”

“What and not who? What erudition! And what makes you think I cannot charm you to obedience, as I did your—delightful—companion, here?”

Macenion smiled in his turn. “Charm a mage? You well know what that would get you. If you would use me as a mage, you need my mind unclouded—”

“But not unbroken, little one. Remember that.”

Macenion bowed, as arrogantly as Paks had ever seen him. “Yet a pebble,” he said, “may be harder to break than a pine, though insignificant beside it.”

“Are you to quote dwarvish proverbs to me?” The elf sounded slightly less amused than before. Paks, listening to all this, could scarcely pay attention to it; her mind seemed to float at a slight distance.

Macenion bowed again, even more elaborately; as he rose, he made a complicated movement of his right hand, and said a few words Paks did not understand. But she heard the hiss of breath indrawn beside her as the elf gasped. Before he could move, she felt a wave of nausea and fear. She whirled, sword at ready, before she even knew she
could
move. Where she had seen elven beauty, she now saw the ruin of it, and the stench stung her nose.

“Paks!” shouted Macenion. He was cut off by a great shout from the elf. A blast of energy poured down the chamber. Paks thrust at the elf, but her sword met another in his hand.

“Cross blades with me, will you?” The green eyes blazed. Paks tore her gaze from them to watch the sword hand. “No human has skill to match an elf—and I am no common elf.” Indeed, the first ringing strokes revealed his ability. Paks fought on a rising wave of anger. Elves were never evil, ha! She avoided a quick trapping ploy, and thrust again. The tip of her blade seemed to hesitate an instant—an instant that let the enemy escape. She pressed on, furiously. Macenion had probably been killed by the blast, or disabled, but he had won her freedom from whatever spell had bound her. She would fight to the end, and show this creature what human skill could do.

Again and again she managed to slip aside from a deadly blow, and just as often her own attacks fell short. Sweat rolled down her ribs, and she heard herself grunting with every stroke. The elf did not seem to tire. The same smile curved his lips; the same arrogance arched his brows. Now her wrist began to ache, as he used every advantage of height and reach. She was usually taller that those she drilled with; she was not accustomed to adjusting to a longer reach. One of his blows fell true; the force of it drove her to one knee. She felt the links of mail sink into her flesh; she barely ducked the next blow and staggered back. She wanted to look for Macenion, but dared not. The elf’s smile widened.

“You are outclassed, human fighter,” he said lightly. “You are quite good, for a human, but not good enough. But look at my eyes, and acknowledge me your lord, and this can end.”

Paks shook her head, as much to clear it as to refuse. Was that a movement behind the elf? She lunged again; her blade struck, but she narrowly avoided his. He seemed not to notice her blow. Suddenly a bit of hot wax fell on her face. As quick as the thought that followed, almost before she knew what she meant to do, Paks leaped high, grabbing the framework the candles were set on with one hand, and jerking her legs away from the elf’s astonished stroke. The frame swung wildly, spattering them both with wax. With one arm over the ring, Paks swung at the elf from above. He grabbed at her leg and missed as she kicked out. She heard a squeal from above and glanced up to see the ringbolt slipping from the ceiling. She threw herself to one side, trying to clear the frame as it fell. The elf, pursuing, was struck. Before he could free himself from the ring, Paks attacked. Hampered by the framework and the candles, which caught his robe afire, he parried her blows weakly.

And then Macenion came up, panting and pale, and threw the whole of their oil supply on the elf. Paks jumped back as the candle flames flared on this fuel. A foul stench filled the chamber, and a black cloud swirled up from the fire, denser than smoke. Paks felt a wave of cold enmity that sent her staggering to her knees. The flames roared, now more blue than any fire of oil could be. Air rushed into the chamber, whistling round the corners. Paks realized that Macenion was tugging at her arms, pulling her away. She could hardly move. She managed to look around, and saw that the others in the room, the servants, were shuffling out a door in one corner as fast as they could.

When the flames died down, Paks still crouched helplessly where Macenion had dragged her. The elf’s body had not been consumed in the fire, though it was horribly blackened, and all the clothing was gone. Macenion stood by it, frowning.

Paks tried several times before she could speak. “What’s—wrong? He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“I wish I knew. That kind of power—it was some spirit of evil, Paks, that took over the body of an elf. Of an elf lord. And the body is here still. I wonder if he is dead—truly. I’ve heard tales of such—”

Paks didn’t want to move. Every muscle hurt. She managed to flex her hand, and found she still held her sword. She took a deep breath, which also hurt, and forced herself to her feet. She felt as if her legs and body were only loosely connected. Another deep breath. It was hard to believe that she and Macenion were still alive, and the elf was dead. Or dead in some way. She walked over to see.

“Your magic has done well so far, Macenion. We wouldn’t be here without it. Can’t you do something to make sure he stays dead?”

For once Macenion did not seem complacent. “No,” he said soberly. “That’s beyond my abilities. I wish my old master were here. We are fortunate that he chose a simple spell to bind you. Perhaps he wanted to have plenty left for me, or perhaps he had more in use than we know. But now—”

“Couldn’t we put a stake through his heart?”

“What do you think he is, a kuerin-witch? Are you thinking of dragging his corpse to a crossroads, too?”

Paks flushed. “I don’t know. I just remembered some old stories . . .”

“That won’t work for him. Whatever took him over won’t be withheld by any simple measures.”

“We could—” Paks swallowed hard, then went on. “We could cut—dismember him.”

“You? I? I know what you would think of such. As for me, I tell you, Paksenarrion, I don’t even wish to touch that corpse, if corpse it is. Nor should you. That power may still dwell in it, and could reach out to us. You see that the body was not consumed by the fire as it should have been; the skin is blackened but unblistered.”

“Well, then? Do we wait to see what comes of it, or what?”

Macenion shook his head. “I don’t know. I wish I knew a spell to free this body from whatever power holds it so.”

“But since elves are immortal, do their bodies burn or decay?”

“Elves do not die of age alone, but they can, as you saw, be killed. And yes, their bodies can burn or decay or return to earth in many ways.”

Paks shifted her shoulders, easing the stiffness. Suddenly she was hungry—and thirsty. She put up her sword and fumbled to unhook her water flask. After a couple of swallows, she felt much better. “It’s too bad,” she said, “that you don’t know what’s in that fancy scroll you’re so proud of.”