The Wizard Hunters (4 page)

The acrid odor in the air became thicker as the tunnel floor slanted even further down. “So say you’re Ixion—” Ilias began.

“I’d rather not, thanks, I have enough problems of my own.” Giliead lifted the torch to chase away the shadows overhead.

“—and you’re sitting around one day in your dark dank cave, watching the howlers and the grend hump and kill each other, and you think, ‘Hello, I’ll make something that jumps on people’s heads and bores through their skulls and eats out the insides.’ Why does that happen?”

“Because he’s a wizard and that’s what wizards do,” Giliead said patiently. “What else—” He stopped abruptly.

Ilias froze, a hand going to his sword. He heard it too, a muted click of claws against stone. He drew the weapon, shifting to stand back to back with Giliead, his eyes on the rock above their heads. There would be tunnels up there, the openings hidden in folds and shadows. “Back or forward?” he whispered. The passage was too narrow to fight in.

“Back—” Giliead began. Then from the direction of the bone chamber, two lean man-sized shapes appeared at the edge of the torchlight, the flame reflected in mad hungry eyes. “Forward!” they finished in unison.

Ilias let Giliead worry about what was ahead and kept his eyes on the passage behind them as he backed away. The firelight threw leaping red-tinged shadows on the howlers’ slick mottled green hides, which he knew were disconcertingly like human skin to the touch. The creatures had the elongated heads and long spidery hands of harmless rock lizards, but their jaws were heavy with vicious fangs and their claws were like razors.

These howlers warily kept their distance, as if they had been hunted before.
That’s all we need, for these things to get smart
, Ilias thought in exasperation. He shouted, darting forward. The one in the lead took the bait, springing at him, hands reaching. Ilias ducked under the sweep of its claws, thrusting his sword upward and skewering it in the belly.

It recoiled with a screech, lurching into the wall and clawing at the rock. He dodged back as it struck the ground; the others fell on it as prey, maddened by the scent of blood.

Warily watching the dark shapes tear at the frantic creature, Ilias heard Giliead curse and risked a look over his shoulder. The tunnel came to an abrupt end not far ahead. “Damn,” he breathed, turning back. The wounded howler writhed at the bottom of the snarling heap.

“Down here,” Giliead said sharply, sweeping the torch along the ground in a haze of sparks. At the base of the boulders blocking the passage were openings in the rock. He leaned down, thrusting the torch into the largest, then jumped.

Ilias scrambled down after him, sliding, then leaping down to level ground. Giliead had found a large, low-ceilinged tunnel, wide enough for them to make a stand. Giliead cast the torch behind them and drew his sword as the first of the howlers leapt down to the chamber floor.

Driven wild by the fresh blood, the howlers lost all ability to coordinate their attack and came at them in a confused rush. Ilias took the first one with a straight thrust into the chest. As he pulled his sword free it went down, still clawing for him. He blocked a blow as another ran at him, half severing its arm, then spinning close to slice its head off. Ducking under the next creature’s wild swing, he took its leg off at the knee and risked a look around as it fell.

Giliead freed his sword from a creature’s chest with a hard shove from his boot. He shifted to close the distance between them as Ilias eyed the howlers warily.

Seven of the creatures sprawled limp and bleeding on the ground as the others withdrew to the far side of the chamber, hissing and growling. Ilias frowned, watching as they stooped and weaved, their heads bobbing in what looked like a strange dance. “What the . . .” Giliead muttered. Ilias shrugged, baffled, as one by one the howlers crept back up the rocks into the upper tunnel.

Ilias pivoted, trying to see the rest of the chamber as Giliead grabbed up the torch again. “Are they trying to get above us?” he demanded. Howlers never gave up prey.

“They didn’t even take the dead ones, that’s—” Giliead cocked his head, lifting the torch higher. “You hear that?”

After a moment, Ilias nodded. It was faint, but he could hear a humming, like disturbed bees.

“We’ve found it,” Giliead said softly, absolute conviction in his voice. He stepped forward and thrust the torch against the wall, grinding it out.

As his eyes adjusted, Ilias could make out the shape of a tunnel in the far wall, gently limned with a pearly white light. He heard Giliead move toward it.
Right
, Ilias thought, taking a deep breath.
This is what we came for
. He would have rather fought howlers. He followed Giliead’s quiet footsteps.

The tunnel wound around, slanting downward, and the humming grew steadily louder. Ilias thought he could hear a faint metallic banging as well. The strange white light grew brighter until the last turn revealed it spilling from a jagged gap in the low ceiling. Ilias stared at it in dismay. That light, without the flicker and color of real flame, was something only wizards made.

Giliead stepped around it, moving forward. Ilias followed more cautiously. The ability the god had given Giliead to sense the presence of curses had kept them alive on more than one occasion and Ilias was trusting to it now.

Ilias stopped at the edge of the pool of light, craning his neck to look up. Far overhead he could see reflections on white crystalline stone clinging to an arching cavern roof like so many frozen water droplets. This had to be some other part of the central cavern. A shadow passed over the opening and Ilias ducked back hastily. From somewhere above two voices spoke a rapid spate of words in an unfamiliar tongue with a strange harsh sound to it. Cineth had trade from everywhere but Ilias didn’t think he had ever heard speech like that before. He edged away from the spot of light as Giliead motioned urgently for him to hurry.

Ahead there was another narrow opening in the side of the tunnel and Giliead climbed the rock to look through. He froze, the set of his shoulders telling Ilias he had seen something shocking. Ilias twitched, impatient to know the worst. Finally Giliead moved aside and Ilias swung up to push in beside him. What he saw made his eyes widen. A hysterical scream seemed the only appropriate response, but he settled for swearing softly under his breath. It was much, much worse than he had ever imagined.

The opening looked out on a large cavern, the floor only about twenty paces below this level. It was filled with people, dozens of them. They swarmed around a huge structure of bare metal ribs supported on a high scaffold. From the shape outlined by the metal bars it might be a giant ship, maybe a barge, except that the lines were subtly wrong and it was just stupid to build a ship out of metal. The worst part was that they were using curses to construct it; several men, if they were men, had some kind of small torch that emitted a fire so brilliant it was like a captured star. They were playing the torches over the metal, as if melting it into place.

Ilias shot a worried look at Giliead. His friend’s grim expression was just visible in the reflected light.
Yes, we‘re in trouble
, he thought. So many wizards.

But not like Ixion. He had looked and dressed just like a normal man and had even managed to fool everyone into thinking he was one for a time. The people below were anything but normal. Their clothes were drably colored, all dull browns, and they wore half masks of some kind of dark-colored glass over their eyes. Their hair, if they had any, was gathered up under baggy brown caps. Ilias was sweating in the warm damp air but the men below were covered up as if they expected to have to plow through a snowy mountain pass. Their sleeves came down to reach their gloved hands, the collars went up nearly to their chins, leaving only the pale skin around the mouth, nose, and throat exposed.

And their wizard lights were different from the ones Ixion had used. His had been small silent misty wisps of illumination that floated on the cave breezes; these were giant things a good two paces across, set in metal holders driven into the rock or on high metal stands. Looking at them was like trying to stare into the sun and they made a low hum, the source of the strange noise.

Then as Ilias watched, a group of howlers came out of another tunnel dragging a bundle of metal poles, watched over by a pair of wizards. The white light gleamed off their slick mottled skin and mad eyes. These wizards had tamed the howlers, then, just as Ixion had.

Then one suddenly dropped its burden, crouching and snarling. A wizard stood nearby, unrolling a coil of black rope; he shouted a warning and pointed at the creature. The noise and sudden movement attracted it; with snakelike quickness it darted at him.

Just as it leapt on him another wizard pulled something dark out of the sheath at his belt, pointing it at the howler. Ilias flinched back at a sudden sharp report.
That’s a new one
, he thought, glancing at Giliead, who was wincing at the echo that reverberated through the cavern. His ears still ringing, Ilias looked back in time to see the howler reel and fall, its legs kicking spasmodically. The other howlers didn’t go after it, but huddled in a group, hissing in alarm. Ilias wet his lips.
At least now we know what taught the howlers to be wary of people
.

Some wizards were herding the others back to work, as if it was a normal occurrence. One gestured for two of the others to haul the howler’s victim away. He was limp, though the creature had barely touched him and there was no blood trail on the stone; they dragged him by his arms with his head hanging back to bounce on the ground, as if they knew he was dead or didn’t care.
Or that curse, weapon, whatever it was killed him too
.

He looked up at Giliead. Ilias had seen wizards kill before, but curses always took time to work. If they didn’t, he and Gil would be dead several times over. He nudged the bigger man’s arm with an elbow and mouthed, “What was that thing?”

Giliead shook his head, equally baffled. He leaned down to say in a nearly voiceless whisper, “Some of them aren’t wizards. Some are slaves, see?”

After a moment of study Ilias nodded. The ones who were doing the herding all wore leather belts with the odd-shaped sheaths attached, often with other pouches and metal implements. The ones being herded didn’t have such accoutrements. They were also the ones doing all the actual labor, using the cursed tools, carrying pipes and poles and heavy cables. The others pointed and gave orders and watched, or scribbled things on small square boards they seemed to use as miniature portable writing desks. They also moved more confidently, shoulders stiff, jaws squared. Not so many wizards as it had looked at first, then.
Still too many
, Ihas thought.

A touch on his shoulder made Ilias jump and he realized he had been staring in horrified fascination for some time. His legs were stiff from crouching so long. He scrambled down the rock after Giliead and they retreated back up the tunnel, to just before the chamber where the howlers had fought them and fled. They sat back against the rock under an overhang, squeezing in shoulder to shoulder, more for comfort than any need for concealment. “Well?” Ilias said, keeping his voice low.

Giliead took a deep breath, then said softly, “I didn’t know there were that many wizards. Anywhere.” Ilias felt him shrug helplessly. “I didn’t know they could work together like that.”

Ilias swallowed in a dry throat. This wasn’t one lone wizard, come to take Ixion’s place and make use of his leavings, to prey on the shipping and the towns and villages along the coast as he had. A wizard like that could be killed if you were clever and careful. They had done it enough times before. This was an army of wizards. The scars on his back ached with the thought of it. “It’s war.”

Giliead nodded and rubbed his forehead. He was badly disturbed and trying to hide it. “We’ve got to get word back to Nicanor and Visolela. Not that we have much to tell them.” They could send messengers to the other city-states and all the holdings throughout the Syrnai. Giliead shook his head in frustration. “We’ve got to find out when the attack will start.”

“We’ve got three days to scout around.” The
Swift
would be picking them up at the next moonrise on the opposite end of the island. “And we’ve got the advantage now since they don’t know we’re here.” He sensed Giliead looking down at him and added, “We hope.”

F
  Chapter 3  
F

Vienne, Ile-Rien

A
fter Tremaine had dressed and they had experienced the usual difficulty with the starter handle of Gerard’s old sedan, they set out for the Institute. It was faster to skirt the edge of the city and as Gerard drove, Tremaine leaned back in the cracked leather seat and watched the dark streets go by. This quarter still looked relatively normal, if murky and oddly quiet. There had been no blackout sirens tonight, but only a few streetlamps were lit and they saw no one except for the civil defense and the army patrols.

As they drove a short distance up the end of Saints Procession Boulevard there were more cars, more people and even a few cafes open. The old casino, converted to a military canteen, was a spot of light and gaiety in a block of fashionable shops that had been closed for months as the owners and customers fled the city. Other than that, this end of the boulevard looked strangely undisturbed by the war, the old stone facades undamaged, as if they had been removed from the scene and preserved in a glass case. The few passersby walked under the potted trees in groups or couples and there was music and laughter from the canteen and the scents of coffee and chocolate in the cold damp air. But in the distance, over the roofs of the lower structures and the mists that hung above the streetlamps, she could see the ruin of the Grand Opera. Her eyes would never grow accustomed to the gaps in what should be a perfect dome; it was like seeing an old friend with an arm missing. Of course she had seen that too.

The Institute’s project lay outside Vienne, a long drive through dark twisty country lanes, past old estates, farms, vineyards and a couple of small villages. Patchy clouds occasionally obscured the moon and stars and a rainy wind tore at the treetops. The air had the heavy wild scent of the country, laced with smoke. It would be a wonderful thing if the Institute was successful, but Tremaine wasn’t an optimist by nature or nurture.