The Quest for the Trilogy: Boneslicer; Seaspray; Deathwhisper (42 page)

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Authors: Mel Odom

BOOK: The Quest for the Trilogy: Boneslicer; Seaspray; Deathwhisper
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Dulaun shook his head. “There's no other way for me, Quarrel. I chart my life by the same stars I always have. If I were to remove those stars from the heaven, what would be the reason for living?” He took a breath. “I'd rather die than surrender. But tell me one thing.”
Quarrel tried to speak and couldn't. Tears glimmered in her eyes and trailed down her cheeks.
Wick felt the heat of tears on his own face as well. Their presence surprised him. He looked at the young captain and his crew. He knew from his reading that Captain Dulaun and his men had always acquitted themselves bravely against pirates, enemy crews, goblinkin, and sea monsters. But they would soon be sailing to their deaths. Would it truly have been the same if they had known that? Looking at the man, Wick believed that it would have been.
“What?” Quarrel asked in a voice tight with pain. Wick knew the young woman wasn't just facing Dulaun's loss, but those of her parents as well.
“My death,” Dulaun said. “Did I die well? Was it for something I would have been proud to die for? And did my death make a difference, or was it all a waste?”
“You helped save a great many people,” Alysta said. “Lord Kharrion's goblinkin forces would have slain them all if they'd been able. Your sacrifice, and that of your companions, it made a difference.”
“Good.” Dulaun smiled again, nearly as cocky as he'd been when they'd arrived. “That's all I've ever asked.” He looked at Quarrel. “Be true to the spirit of the sword and it will never let you down.”
“I will,” Quarrel said.
“Now go, and may the Old Ones watch over you.” Dulaun placed his hand on the hilt of Seaspray sheathed at his side. Quarrel still held her own version of the sword. For the moment, with the power of the spell, the sword—past and present—existed in the same time and space.
The gray fog rose suddenly around Wick, Alysta, and Quarrel, obscuring the Silver Sea and the blue sky. The fog seeped into the little Librarian's lungs, bringing with it the biting cold of the buried keep.
He blinked, and they were once more standing in front of the frieze. Only Seaspray hanging at the end of Quarrel's arm testified that the incident had happened. The walkway had disappeared and the pieces containing images of the fish had returned to the frieze.
“We're back.” Quarrel examined the sword, which gleamed like it was newly minted in the lantern light. Blue fire ran along the edges and the runes.
“But not any safer than we were,” Alysta said.
Quarrel sheathed the sword and took up her bow. She looked at the cat. “It's true? You're my grandmother?”
Alysta padded over to Quarrel and placed a paw against the young woman's boot. “I am. But when I knew you, your name wasn't Quarrel.”
“No,” Quarrel agreed, kneeling down and touching the cat's head and scratching. “I was Nyssa.”
“Yes.”
“I chose my name after my parents were killed.” Sadness touched her pale blue wolf's eyes. “My father nicknamed me ‘Quarrel' because he thought I was argumentative. He always insisted that I came by my nature honestly, that I got it from my grandmother.”
Alysta preened. “That's true. You did.”
“He thought my querulousness was a bad thing.”
“Well,” the cat said warmly, her breath gray in the cold, still air of the chamber, “your father was a good man. You'll never hear me say anything else but that. However, he was a man after all, and not always capable of the best judgment when it came to the nature of young women.” Her eyes blinked at Quarrel. “Frankly, I like the way you are.”
“Perhaps we could save the family reunion for later,” Wick said. “We're still
trapped on this mountain with Captain Gujhar, Ryman Bey, and the Razor's Kiss thieves.”
Quickly, they gathered their things and prepared to leave.
“We could use the passage to the sea.” Quarrel pointed to the opening beside the frieze.
“You've been that way?” Alysta asked.
“Yes.”
“Is there a boat?”
“No.”
“Dawdal's still back at camp,” Wick reminded them.
The cat sighed. “He could probably make his way back to Wharf Rat's Warren on his own. Then again, Dawdal doesn't have a true sense of direction. He could get lost out here. Or goblinkin or a bear could eat him.” She shook her head. “We'll have to go back for him.”
Quarrel took the lead once more.
Pursued
L
ong minutes later, after all the surviving traps had once more been navigated, Wick and his two companions stood at the entrance to the excavation site. The snowfall had increased, filling the air with thick flakes that obscured vision.
The snowfall helped, Wick knew, but they would still stand out against it if someone saw them. Staying there till the dawn was out of the question and would be tantamount to suicide. They had to press on.
The thieves' camp was still in turmoil. Gujhar and Ryman Bey were convinced that the interlopers hadn't escaped over the wall. The thieves were searching the campsite and the inner courtyard, brandishing torches to drive back the darkness and cursing their luck.
“Quietly,” Quarrel whispered, “and stay close to me.” She went, hunkering low to the ground. She carried her sheathed sword in her left hand, her right hand resting on Seaspray's hilt to draw it quickly.
Fear hammered inside Wick. Even though he'd been through several horrific struggles over the last few years, he didn't believe he would ever get over the fear of dying suddenly in some violent manner.
They slipped through the night without incident and crouched in the shadows at the base of the wall. After a moment, when it seemed none of the torches carried by the thieves was near, they scaled the narrow steps leading up the wall.
At the top, the clouds parted and silver moonslight streamed down, raking the wall with incandescence, blunted somewhat
by the swirling snow. Wick was reaching for the crenellation on the other side when Alysta hissed,
“Look out!”
Ducking instinctively, Wick put both hands over his head and hoped nothing bad would happen to him. Something with leathery wings skated just above him and raked claws through his hair. An eerie, ululating, screaming whistle ripped through the still of the night.
“Up on the wall!” someone shouted down in the inner courtyard. “There they are!”
“Get up, Wick,” Quarrel called. “We've been spotted.”
Wick lifted his head, holding his arms up to protect himself. He got warily to his feet and looked up into the night. The ululating whistle continued, circling low overhead. Scrabbling for the crenellation, he spotted the winged zarnk diving at him again.
The creature was a flying scavenger with a five-foot wingspread. Three horns, two over its fierce eyes and one at the end of its cruelly curved beak, made the zarnk's face look like a knotted fist. Copper-colored scales covered the elongated body, leading down to a darker shade along the whiplike tail with the barbed end. Opening its razor beaked jaws, it screamed again.
Three others joined it.
Terror raced through Wick. Although he'd never seen the creatures outside of an ecology book, he knew what they were. According to the information he'd read, a dozen zarnks could strip a cow down to a mass of bones in minutes. He didn't want to find out if that was true.
Alysta moved, bunching then unbunching, hurling herself at the attacking zarnk and landing on its back. Knocked aside by the cat's weight and fury, the zarnk screech-whistled again as it tumbled to the top of the wall in a flurry of wings. The feline struck with clean, white teeth. Even though the zarnk was bigger than Alysta was, she weighed easily three times as much. The zarnk flailed helplessly as it tried to get up.
Another zarnk veered toward the cat, reaching for her with razor claws. Wick reacted almost immediately, unable to face the thought of Alysta ripped to shreds in front of him. He threw himself at the predator, and that was what saved him from the third's attack as it glided in at him.
Wick grabbed the zarnk's wing and neck, riding it to the ground.
Don't let it bite me! Please don't let it bite one of my fingers off or permanently damage one of them!
Nightmare images of the creature doing exactly that plagued him as he held on. He was surprised at how light the zarnk was, but it also possessed a wiry strength.
“Break its neck,” Quarrel said.
Wick tried to find leverage but couldn't. In truth, he didn't know if he could actually kill the zarnk. He didn't like killing. He wasn't a warrior; he just didn't want to watch Alysta get hurt. The zarnk flailed and dug its claws into the wall, crawling up despite Wick's efforts. Lying on his back, suddenly trying to keep the zarnk from his throat, Wick saw Quarrel smoothly nock an arrow and track one of the other two flying zarnks.
The bowstring thrummed. The arrow pierced the heart of its target. Like a
broken kite, the zarnk tumbled from the night sky and disappeared over the edge of the wall. Then Quarrel nocked another arrow, drew, and fired. The shot didn't hit the second flying creature's body, but it shattered a wing and dropped it into the inner courtyard.
Wick fought to keep the zarnk's curved beak from his eyes, yanking his fingers back each time he turned his attacker's efforts. Without hesitation, Quarrel flicked out her foot and slammed the zarnk's head up against the wall. Bone crumpled. The zarnk suddenly became dead weight in Wick's arms. He shoved the dead thing from him and scrambled to his feet.
Only a short distance away, Alysta jumped away from the dead zarnk she'd fought. Her muzzle was bloody. The winged predator lay curled up in a ball, its throat torn out.
“Is that all of them?” the cat asked more calmly than Wick felt she had any right to.
“For the moment,” Quarrel answered just as calmly.
Then the first arrow from the thieves splintered against the wall. Sparks leaped from the razor-sharp iron blade.
Below, the thieves raced toward the wall. Two of them stopped long enough to nock arrows and draw back. They released too early, though, and both deadly missiles went wide of the mark. By an uncomfortable few feet.
“Go!” Quarrel ordered, drawing back another arrow. She centered herself, calmly and dispassionately despite the crossbow bolt that skidded from the stone only inches below her boots.
For a moment, Wick watched her, drawn by the sight of the elegance of intent that the young woman evidenced. She reminded him of an elven archer, every line of her centered exactly so behind the bow. Her fingers opened like the petals of a flower, releasing the shaft. The missile sped true, catching a man just above the breastbone where a chain mail shirt would have ended, then pierced him and knocked him back.
By then Wick was scrambling over the crenellation, realizing too late that the side they'd gone over on faced the sea. He was also more than twenty feet above the ground.
“Hurry!” Alysta growled as she leaped to the top of the crenellation.
“It's too far,” Wick protested. “I could break my leg. Or my neck.”
“You say that like staying here is an option.”
Wick turned to face the cat, figuring to appeal to Alysta's good sense.
If we're not killed outright, and we shouldn't be
—
maybe
—
Craugh and Cap'n Farok will be after us soon enough
. Only before he could say anything, the cat launched herself at him, striking him heavily in the chest.
Off balance, Wick went over the wall backward. Alysta hooked her claws into his traveling cloak. He yelled in surprise and fear as he fell. The cat yowled. For a moment, her furry face was nose to nose with his. He flung his arms around her and held on.
When he hit the ground, the snow cushioned his fall. The impact still drove
the breath from his lungs, but nothing felt broken. He plunged down into a drift that was taller than he was, disappearing at once inside the snow.
“Get up!” Alysta commanded, detaching herself from Wick and squirming from his panicked grip. “They'll be on top of us in seconds.”
Wick nodded, still struggling to suck air into his deflated lungs. Grabbing fistfuls of snow, he heaved himself from the drift till he stood on his feet. He caught half a breath, then another, and finally—
thank the Old Ones
!—he could breathe again.
Then Quarrel plummeted into the snowbank beside the little Librarian. She came up out of the snow like a dervish, throwing snow in all directions. It suddenly looked like it was snowing
up
as much as it was down.
“Run!” Quarrel ordered.
“Which way?” Wick asked frantically.
Neither the cat nor the young warrior answered him. Both of them ran straight for the tree line nearly forty yards away.
“Dawdal isn't that way,” Wick cried after them. He had to struggle through the snow because it was up to his chest in most places.
Alysta scampered across the snow and Quarrel ran in quick strides that seemed to defy gravity.
Wick took another breath, ready to protest the direction again, then an arrow hissed into the snow ahead of him, probably only missing him by inches. He reconsidered the value of protesting the direction and decided that
any
escape would be a good thing at the moment. He spared a fleeting glimpse at the thieves and saw a half dozen men scrambling over the keep wall and dropping to the snow. When he turned back around, he stubbed his toe and pitched headlong into the snow.
Quarrel stopped and came back for Wick, grabbing him by an arm and jerking him to his feet. Together, with the cat urging them on, they ran for the trees while arrows rained down around them.
Later, Wick was never able to completely remember the struggle they had as they dodged through the forest. Several times they tripped over fallen trees or had to fight their way through drifts and brush. Pines and firs tore at their faces and eyes. Snow dropped down on them from the limbs by the bushel.
The land remained roughly level for a time, then quickly fell away toward the sea. In a short distance, they were falling down the treacherous landscape at nearly the same speed they were running.
Wick bounced and thudded against the mountainside. The wild cries of the thieves, excited now because their prey was almost at hand, filled the little Librarian's ears. Terror raked at him.
Before he knew it, they were all out of running room. They burst free of the forest unexpectedly and found themselves out on a pointed shard of rock covered in snow that hung above the sea a hundred feet below.
“No!”
Wick gasped. It wasn't fair. They'd risked everything to claim Seaspray, solved the puzzle of the boat room when the Razor's Kiss thieves hadn't been able to do that. They couldn't end up without a place to run.
Quarrel turned, bow in her hand and an arrow already nocked. Her breath
exploded out of her in ragged gasps that stranded gray clouds in the cold air. Even Alysta seemed winded.
Wick gazed around, spotting an incline that went down the side of the mountain that offered him a fleeting hope. With luck, it went all the way to the bottom of the mountain. And with greater luck they would never lose their footing on the narrow trail.
“This way,” Wick said.
“Too late,” Quarrel said in a low voice.
Turning, Wick spotted the predatory shadows gathering in the tree line. Moonslight glittered on swords and knives. Involuntarily, he took a step back and nearly stepped over the ledge. Quarrel reached for him without taking her eyes from their enemies and steadied him.
“Careful,” she said.
Wick almost tittered at the idea of being careful.
We're one word away from being dead. Careful doesn't even figure into this
. Or maybe they were two words. If Gujhar decided to say, “Kill them,” instead of, “Kill.”
“Who are you?” a man's voice rang out.
“Someone who will kill you if you give me half a chance,” Quarrel replied.
“Then I shouldn't give you a chance.” The voice mocked her.
“Are you a coward then?” she demanded.
“Actually,” Wick whispered, “now wouldn't exactly be the time to antagonize him. Orlag Sonder, in a very excellent work called
A Sharp-Tongued Diplomat Stays Only One Step Ahead of Impending Retribution
, suggests that when overpowered and outnumbered, remaining pacifistic is the best way—”
“I am Ryman Bey,” the man declared as he stepped from the tree line. His eye patch caught the moonslight, marking him instantly. “I lead the men that will kill you if you don't surrender what you took from the keep.”
Showing no apparent strain, Quarrel kept her bow bent. “I could kill you where you stand. And I will if you don't call off your dogs.”
Ryman Bey laughed, confident in his ability. “Even if you succeeded, these men would cut you to doll rags.”
Quarrel smiled, but Wick could see that the effort was forced. “You won't live to see that happen.”
“Oh, but I might,” Ryman Bey taunted. “I just might. You'd be surprised to know what I've lived through.”
Wick talked from the corner of his mouth. “We don't have to do this. Not yet.”

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