To live happily ever after, ha ha bloody ha.
In a book, it was all so easy. With a few sentences he could be a god, or a superhero, or the Lord Ha Ha of Falconfar.
Here, all he could think of doing was staying close to Taeauna, keeping his mouth shut, and doing whatever seemed best as this world threw one danger or crisis after another at him.
He hadn't run so much in years as he had these last few days. Or been as frightened. Just staying alive was probably going to be his lone awesome act, if he could manage even that. Not that anybody beyond Rod Everlar would even notice, let alone be awed.
Crazy world.
He found himself fighting for breath again, as Taeauna's shapely behind started to draw farther and farther away from right in front of him.
Crazier writer.
What am I doing here?
"So," Garfist rumbled, "Dark Helms and lorn are all over these cellars. Do we dare try for the kitchens again, with most of the cooks dead and gone, mind, and see if we can get something cooked, and some wine to wash it down with, and a lantern to call our own? Or are we as likely to meet with Bowrock blades, rushing down here to sword everyone they don't recognize as one of their own?"
"Meeting with Bowrock blades is the more likely," Iskarra murmured. "Yet something cooked sounds good about now, and the wine, and I can see that look in your eye, Gar."
"I don't doubt it," the onetime procurer replied. "The kitchens it is, then. Which means we turn-"
Something large and dark came hurtling out of the darkness, flying along the ceiling with its claws outstretched, and smashed into Garfist hard enough to knock him back on his well-padded behind with a startled "Woof!"
Whatever it was struck the passage floor a good way beyond Garfist, and rolled a good way farther before coming to a stop. By which time two more flying things had pounced on Garfist, pinioning his arms.
"Lorn!" Iskarra screamed, drawing her hairpin again and her dagger and knowing they were useless as she did it. The first lorn was loping back to join the two Garfist was now struggling against, and three more were swooping at her.
"Get gone, gel!" Garfist snarled. "Run, Viper! Run!"
Iskarra dodged against the passage wall, hoping to keep the swooping lorn from striking her. And failing.
As the nearest lorn smashed into her and flung her along the wall, winded and draped over its arm, Iskarra fought against its clutching claws and her own gaspings to drive her hairpin repeatedly into one of its eyes. It squalled, splashing her with dark, sticky wetness as it died, and Iskarra fell free of it, bruising her bony elbows and wondering how long it would take the other two lorn to rend her.
Then she groaned. The passage was full of Dark Helms, running toward them.
"Flee, Viper!" Garfist roared, his bellow muffled under several struggling lorn bodies. Iskarra stared at him, or the heap of writhing lorn that he was under, and then could see it no more, as the foremost Dark Helms reached it and surrounded it in a ring.
And the rest of the Dark Helms came running for her.
Weeping, Iskarra turned and ran straight into the only lorn that had been behind her. It staggered, but she fell. Out of sheer backalley habit she kicked her legs as she did so, tripping it, and got her hairpin and dagger up into position while it was still falling. The knife skittered across lorn hide harmlessly, but her well-used hairpin sank up to her knuckles in a lorn eyeball, drenching her again and causing the dying lorn to shriek and spasm right up into the air off her.
Iskarra twisted, rolled, and came up running. Sobbing, she put her head down and ran as she'd never run before, seeking the Galathan border or the far end of the passage ahead, she cared not which.
As long as she could get there before any lorn or Dark Helm caught up to her.
Just ahead of them, the velduke slowed sharply, and then started to curse.
"What is it, Darendarr?" Taeauna asked, hurrying to join him.
"We're too late," Deldragon snapped, his ice-blue eyes blazing. "Too glorming late."
Right in front of his boots, the blood and bodies began. Dark Helms, here and huddled in a heap far down the passage. Between them, unarmored men in aprons and homespun: cooks and scullions.
Rod peered down at them and winced, feeling more than a little queasy. "If they've found your kitchens…" he said warningly, feeling even more queasy at the thought of food.
"Exactly," the velduke said grimly, stroking his mustache. "Amandur! Belros! Turn you around and go get as many men as you can and lead them to the kitchens. We'll be heading for the well. Again. Once you hold the kitchens, send most of your blades on to the well to join us. We'll be there. Alive or dead."
"But, lord!" Amandur protested. "Leave you, now? Alone down here?"
"I'm not alone. I stand with an Aumrarr and a man of mysteries. I need both of you to go, in case you encounter invaders; one man, alone, as you have just hinted, stands less chance of making it."
"Lord," Belros rumbled. "We hear and obey. Keep yourself alive, and so will we, and you'll have your blades right soon. Soon, I said; if I were you, I'd dawdle on my way to the well."
"And have them poison it, and doom us all?"
"Oh. Glorming bloody shit. Uh, lord."
Iskarra's boots felt like rocks clamped around her ankles, and her bony chest burned. Live or die, she'd not be running much farther. The thunder of Dark Helm boots was like a cruel roaring of waves crashing on rocks behind her. Not far enough behind her.
They'd catch up to her, soon. Even sooner, if a lorn came winging out of the darkness again. She could barely hold her hairpin now, let alone stab anything with it. Not that it mattered.
Not that anything mattered, without her Gar.
Let a Falconfar without Garfist Gulkoon in it be also a Falconfar without old Iskarra. Not that it would remember either of them, a day and a night from now.
Except for one Arlsakran, glorm him. And his poor daughters, all fourteen of them, if he hadn't worn any of them out and into early graves yet. He'd remember them. Much comfort would it do him.
No, she didn't much care now…
Hold! What was that, there?
Iskarra peered, stumbled, slowed hastily to keep from falling, and peered again. A grating! The first she'd seen, along all these passages, and it was askew. She looked back. No, too dark for them to see her. She bent and tugged at it and it came up in her hand.
There was a shaft down there, more than big enough for her. Right. If all she had to worry about was dozens of Dark Helms pissing on her head, so be it. She dropped her dagger into it and heard it plink off stone immediately. Ten feet down, not more.
She followed it, feet first, holding the grating above her like a hat.
And landed hard; the shaft was five feet deep, if that, but at least she had room to gently place the grating back into place above her, without any clangs or clanks. She found her dagger, and thrust it point-first into the deep darkness around her, hoping to stab anything that was lurking there before it did worse to her.
Nothing came at her out of the darkness, and she was able to snatch her breath back at last.
She was in some sort of dusty, disused basin that had once gathered some sort of liquid from overhead. Hmm, might still gather rainwater, down pipes from above. It didn't smell like a privy-sluice. And it was large enough for her to get right in under the passage floor, out of view. So she did, lying down and keeping quiet.
Just in time.
"Glork! Glorm and bloody glork! There's a way-moot here! Anybody see which way she went?"
"No," a deeper voice said gloomily. "Why the lorn aren't flying ahead of us, I don't know."
The first voice chuckled nastily. "She killed two of 'em, in less time as it takes me to say it, that's why. All of a sudden like, they decided hunting that little lass wasn't in their orders. Well, I'm not wasting time on her, either. Our orders were to bring the fat one back alive, and we've got him. She'll never be fat."