The Master (34 page)

They came into an amphitheater jammed with stalagmites and stalactites and precarious hanging cliffs that jutted out of walls that climbed upward beyond the fire light. It all looked to Nick like an avalanche waiting to happen.

As Farrar predicted, there was a barbecue in progress. A dozen goblins had been jammed into cracks in the walls and left to burn like torches. More were burning in a pyre in the center of the room.

“Thomas has told him and told him not to play with his food, but he never listens,” Farrar lamented. Nick cuddled the little girl a bit closer, shielding her eyes with his hand, though the children supposedly would not remember anything they saw.

There was no sign of the dragon, and so they went on quickly. The tunnels began to narrow again. There were dark niches cleft into the rocks, each filled with a barely discernible giant humanoid skeleton—which was still too discernible for Nick's taste. The air was growing thick and suffocating, and was heavy with the odor of old death. The smell was better than new goblin, but not by a lot.

“Here there be monsters
. . . . These are early-model trolls and hobgoblins,” Farrar explained, his voice floating on the miasmatic air.

“They look fierce,” Nick commented. And large—they were very, very large. And they're almost as big as the giants must have been to fit in that pair of shoes Thomas showed me.”

“Yup. They're like any predator—built to kill. Only, they were a little too good at it for the goblins' peace of mind. You're looking at the remains of one of the world's many unknown genocides.”

“Do you feel sorry for them?” Nick asked, surprised at the shade of sorrow that had seemed to color Farrar's voice. There had been no compassion in the centaur when he looked at the burning goblins, and no particular worry about the human children he was guiding.

“Oddly enough,” Farrar answered, “I do. Imagine being born with no purpose other than to be the goblins' slaves. Most of these poor devils never saw the sun or the moon. They never loved and barely lived. Can you imagine anything so horrible?”

“I can't imagine any of it. . . . But bad as that is, it doesn't excuse what Qasim is doing,” Nick said. He was praying Farrar agreed. Otherwise, he'd start being really nervous about being lost in the Underworld with the Piper instead of just uncomfortably wary.

“No, I don't suppose it does. But it explains a lot, don't you think?” Farrar asked reasonably. And if there had been any compassion in his voice, it was now gone.

They came to a stream, an icy affair of black water and patches of eerie mist, and Nick knew that they were on a new trail. They hadn't passed anything like this on the way down.

Farrar didn't hesitate to enter the stream— possibly because he didn't so much ford as float through it. The children followed, but obviously the stream's current affected them. Their footsteps stuttered and then slowed to a crawl. Nick waded in last, gasping at the cold that ate at his flesh down to his bones. This brought home how complete the Piper's control over the silent children was: The kids never flinched.

“Hurry,” the Piper urged Nick, speaking not with his voice now, but directly into Nick's mind.

Nick heard his ghost snort, and wondered if the Piper heard him, too. Fortunately, the ghost didn't say anything about the unneeded plea for haste.

For it was unneeded. Nick required no urging to get out of the cold stream. He understood the dangers of hypothermia to his small charges, and if that wasn't incentive enough, they had never completely escaped the angry howls of the following goblins, though those had grown steadily fainter.

One little girl of about three was having trouble with the deepest part of the stream, which reached above her waist. Nick, hands beginning to go as numb as the rest of his body, picked her up and flung her unresisting body over his shoulder.

At the end of the stream, Farrar was urging the children under a waterfall; Nick watched as they passed through and seemed to disappear completely. It would be cold as hell, but if it got the goblins off their trail, Nick was willing to take a cold shower of smelly cavern water.

It occurred to him, as he thrust his body under the brutal, black stream, that he would actually be happy to see the dragon and its endless supply of fire.

There they were, eyes upon him; Nyssa, Bysshe and the girl who looked like Wren. For Qasim knew her now—not her name, but that she was descended from Wren's family line. And that she had the blood of the late Seelie king in her as well. It called out to him as surely as his imprisoned brothers. Fate had brought her to him. The cruel bitch Goddess was finally answering his prayers for a Finvarra, but in her usual backward fashion: The child of Wren's line had arrived centuries too late.

Qasim studied the unlikely trio. The three women were trapped on a ledge across a chasm. Goblins and one vicious-looking troll were closing in on both sides as they clawed their way over the loose scree, and the way behind the women was blocked with a giant boulder they could never hope to move without help.

The fey cavalry was nowhere in sight. Where the hell were they? They always managed to turn up when things got interesting.

Qasim could help them himself—if he wanted to die. The leap across the chasm was just possible, even in his weakened state. And he could probably move the stone.

But he was even more vulnerable to the goblins' poisoned darts then they, especially now that the Black Queen's heart was damaged beyond repair, run through by a frenzied troll who had caught him unawares. That troll was sleeping in Hell now. But the lutins had been tinkering with their poison formula and had designed something special, a new drug against hobgoblins that paralyzed the muscles. Qasim had been hit by a dozen already, and if it weren't for the lingering strength of the magic in Mabigon's stolen heart, he would have fallen. If the drugs slowed him any further, all the goblins would need to do was pierce his body with a silver sword and he would die.

And if he fell, what would become of his people—those few who were left, locked in their forest prisons? Would they remain there for eternity, not dead, but not alive either? There was still time to complete his mission—if he left now. He could reach the ax and sacrifice enough children to raise his nearest brethren.

No, he couldn't risk a rescue of these women. Not even to save his daughter and the half-breed who looked like Wren.

Qasim turned his back and started to run for the cave where the children were sleeping. He took three steps forward and then stopped, confused by the soft voice and light that were suddenly filling his head. He was in a hurry—he had to get back to the children and begin the sacrifice while the moon was dark. They all had to die before sunrise, or there wouldn't be enough power to wake his brethren. He knew this, but still he listened carefully because he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

He couldn't disbelieve it, either.

And then Bastet appeared. Her body was changed—huge, larger than a panther's—and her eyes were unusually cold and determined as she faced first Qasim and then the goblin horde. She chuffed once, then, letting loose a high-pitched yowl, Bastet leapt across the chasm and charged the first enemy who was closing in on the women.

Praying the feys' bitch Goddess had not lied, Qasim spun about and ran for the ledge where the women were stranded. Reaching for the faraway stones, he threw his bleeding body forward and hurtled through space.

Something huge leapt out of a crack in the tunnel's ceiling, and Zee was knocked back against the wall with enough force to break a human spine. While she was still too stunned to react, a rough hand gripped her under the armpit, and another thrust itself between her legs, where it pinched cruelly. Zee felt herself hoisted into the air and then hurled at the ground.

The blow was stunning, but Zee managed to roll onto her back and bring her legs to her chest. The protective gesture hurt, making her think that she had cracked her ribs, but she still kicked out as hard as she could when the shape loomed over her. She knew that she probably wouldn't survive a third assault.

Her attacker was a troll. She hadn't seen one before, but her mother had spoken of them. The creatures were tough. Ridges of muscles filled places on their bodies where muscles shouldn't be, and this troll lived up to the reputation of his kind, barely grunting at the force of Zee's blow. He leaned down swiftly, toothy mouth gaping wide under the hideous piece of gristle that passed for its nose, and Zee recalled the goblin word for troll—it meant
chawer of bones
. The creature's rancid breath buffeted her face. The first whiff stopped her lungs, which refused to inhale any more stench.

Panicked, Zee lashed out with her hands, sinking nails into the creature's nose and twisting viciously. Half of it tore off in her fists, and the troll screamed in rage, spraying her with more noxious fumes, blood and saliva.

Then it gasped, its scream cut off abruptly. The creature jerked upright and its ribs exploded.

Something hot that burned like a mild acid geysered over Zee's face. She froze, watching in fascinated horror as an arm sprouted from the middle of the troll's chest, holding a beating heart. It withdrew at once, and a second later the evil-smelling body was cast aside, its head dashed against a sharp rock that cut through the bowl of the skull. That bony lid slipped upright with a clatter, part of the brain still clinging to it.

“Run, girl,” a deep voice said as the troll's stolen heart was thrust into a wound in her savior's chest. It was the creature from the mall, Qasim, the hobgoblin. He had somehow crossed the chasm that divided them and killed the troll that attacked her.

If the troll had been frightening, this creature was the distillation of nightmares. He was huge, with limbs that jointed in both directions. His pale, mottled skin had ruptured in several places, and ropes of red muscle showed through his tattered Santa coat. Zee thought he looked like the cats that humans called cheetahs—only he was much stronger and scarier. Oddly enough, a giant cat had also appeared, and was slashing at the goblins that had encircled Nyssa.

Insanely, Zee felt relief. She also did what the hobgoblin ordered. Arm clamped to her injured side, and gasping for air though every breath hurt her ribs, Zee ran toward the opening in the tunnel that had suddenly appeared. Bysshe and Nyssa beat her there. They were both bruised and shaken but unharmed. The giant cat looked like a monstrous Bastet upon closer inspection, and it had driven the goblins away long enough for them to escape.

“Run, you fools!” the hobgoblin called again angrily, turning swiftly and sweeping a half-dozen new goblins off the ledge. “They've been drugged with corpse powder and have frenzied. I can't hold them back forever.” It was only as he turned back that Zee understood the import of the hole in the middle of his body.

“Come with us to Cadalach,” Nyssa gasped, staring at the gaping wound in Qasim's chest. “I'll give you back your heart.” Zee found herself nodding stupidly.

The hobgoblin shook his head. “No, there's no time. We'd never make it. More—so many more— goblins are coming.” His voice was harsh, and perhaps a bit weaker than it had been only a moment before. “I want you all to leave, and I'm going to seal the tunnel after you. That will buy you time.”

“But—”

“Just go! You'll need that heart for something else—and soon.”

“What?” Nyssa demanded, flinching as the goblin reinforcements grew louder. The cat's answering howls were equally as fierce, though Zee could see that the beast was peppered with many darts and was bleeding from a cut in its shoulder. “Why would we need your heart?”

Zee stared in horror and hoped that the men had gotten the bespelled children safely away. The little ones would never be able to survive this onslaught, especially not if they were drugged with the goblin poison.

“One of the fey babes about to be born shall come into the world without a heart,” Qasim predicted. “It will need mine to survive.”

“What?” Zee asked, her attention caught. A sudden chill washed over her body. She glanced at the very pregnant Nyssa and then down at her own body. A funny dark stain covered half her shirt, and she finally realized that she was bleeding.

“Which one?” Nyssa demanded, a protective hand on her distended belly as she knelt on the floor, catching her breath. “
Which
baby? Do you mean mine?”

Qasim shook his head. “Too many questions and not enough time for explanations. Go now, daughter, or we'll all die here. They are sealing off the escape tunnels one by one, herding us toward a trap. The way behind you is the last route to safety.”

Then Qasim looked away from his daughter and to the woman he had once wronged two centuries ago. He said roughly to her, “Bysshe, take our daughter away. Now. You cannot help here.”

Bysshe's face was anguished at this command, but she took Nyssa's arm and helped her daughter to her feet.

Zee watched, feeling detached. Nyssa's pregnancy had slowed her considerably, but the woman was still strong and had good reflexes. Given enough time, she might get away. But watching the obviously failing hobgoblin and the wounded cat, she felt they couldn't do it alone. Zee went with her friends as far as the mouth of the tunnel and then, once Nyssa and Bysshe were safely inside, she turned, her shotgun raised, ready to fight beside the hobgoblin.

Qasim saw what she meant to do and reacted immediately. “No—save the child inside you. Your man will know how to give it my heart. And do not fear that your flesh will reject me, for I am of Finvarra's clan, too. Do it, and it shall set my people free. Do it, so I don't give my life in vain.”

Stunned, Zee stared into the creature's eyes. “The child inside me? You know of it?”

“Yes, and it's all true,” he rasped. “You carry the future of my race inside your womb.”