A blasting howl of lustful frustration made him flinch, and then he hit the ground hard and rolled in dust.
He came up with weapons raised, circling, but they were alone. Kellanved sat hunched in the dust nearby; he appeared to be examining his feet. A forest’s edge rose some leagues distant – their destination, Dancer assumed.
‘Run,’ he said.
The mage gestured to the flapping leather remnants of his shoes. ‘I really do have a complaint for that cobbler.’
‘Ignore them – just run!’
‘I can’t!’
A hound’s deep rich baying sounded from the distance, closing.
Dancer yanked him to his feet and they ran, awkwardly, Kellanved hopping as he pulled at the tattered strips tied about his feet.
Dancer searched the edge for some path or route into the thick woods, but none was visible, so he headed straight for the nearest verge and ploughed in, pushing aside dry black branches, his feet sinking into a deep loose layer of rotting leaves and bracken. Only after pushing onward for some time, yanking Kellanved firmly along, did he pause, listening. He could hear the beast’s howling still, but it sounded strangely distant, muted somehow.
A rustling in the branches above caused him to snatch up his throwing daggers. It was the black bat-like thing, hopping among the higher boughs. ‘You see!’ it croaked, triumphant.
‘They are not following,’ Kellanved observed, and he frowned in distaste at his bare feet. ‘Why are they not following?’
The bat-thing cocked its head. Its black pebble eyes peered about. ‘Well, uh … they are forbidden! Yes! They are forbidden from entering the forest.’
‘Why?’
Koro hopped from foot to foot in frustration. ‘Because they are! Because of the House – yes! The House is near!’
Dancer peered into the tangled depths of the woods. ‘How near?’
‘Near!’ The creature flapped into the air, calling, ‘This way!’
Kellanved was gingerly testing his feet on the cluttered ground. ‘Perhaps you could—’
‘No, I couldn’t,’ Dancer cut in, heading off to follow the beast.
‘Just for a short while…’
‘No.’
‘Until we reach the House.’
‘No.’
‘You’re not being cooperative at all,’ the mage grumbled.
‘I did not buy cheap shoes.’
Kellanved harrumphed. ‘They were not cheap, I tell you that.’
‘All the more reason—’
‘Could you two possibly shut up!’ came a call from above. Both Dancer and Kellanved peered upwards, blinking. Koro was above, bobbing its sharp, knife-like head. ‘I’m trying to listen!’
Dancer stilled, listening as well.
‘For what?’ Kellanved asked, and Dancer shot him a glare.
Each of the creature’s wide membranous wings held a tiny clawed hand and the beast pressed one now to its edged beak, hissing, ‘Shh!’
Dancer listened, motionless. He heard only the creaking of the countless trees about them. Kellanved cleared his throat. ‘Ah, there’s something…’
‘Quiet.’
‘Something’s got my—’
Dancer turned on him. ‘Will you be quiet!’
The mage pointed to his feet, hidden in the deep loam. ‘Something’s grabbed my foot.’
Dancer cursed; he moved to draw a blade but found he couldn’t – a vine had tightened itself about his forearm. ‘What in the name of…’
Kellanved was suddenly yanked down into the loam up to his knees. Yet he did not appear panicked, only embarrassed. He observed, ‘Well, this is depressingly familiar.’
Dancer tried to reach a blade with his other hand but found it too bound by vines. They pulled, yanking him tight up against a nearby tree trunk.
Above, the creature cawed its harsh laugh. ‘Here they come – your panicked screams! Ha, ha, ha.’
‘Are you panicked?’ Dancer asked Kellanved.
The mage threw his walking stick at the beast, missing widely. ‘Not yet.’
The creature paced back and forth on its high branch. ‘Well, they’re coming! I assure you! Once you find yourself— gahhh!’
The bat-thing now hung upside down, swinging wildly, one foot caught up by a vine. ‘Help! It has me! Look what you’ve done! You fools!’
It flapped its wings furiously, pulling and pulling; then, with a parting snap, the vine broke and the beast ricocheted off, bouncing from tree to tree. ‘You will scream!’ it squawked as it flapped away. ‘You’ll see! Entombed for ever! Absorbed! Becoming one with Shadow! Ha, ha!’
Dancer watched it go, then settled his attention upon Kellanved. ‘So. What now?’
The mage was tapping a free hand to his chin, his eyes narrowed. ‘Could it really be that simple?’ he mused aloud.
Thick woody limbs now closed upon Dancer’s chest, tightening. ‘Whatever it is you’d better hurry.’
A vine yanked Kellanved’s hand away and he was pulled down to his waist. ‘An idea,’ he explained. ‘All this time I’ve been trying to force Shadow. But perhaps that’s wrong. Perhaps I should ease into it. Become one with it, as the creature said. Perhaps that’s the secret.’
Dancer did not answer as he was holding his breath in outward pressure against the crushing embrace of the branches. He simply jerked a nod and fumed that he could no longer even curse the pontificating fool.
The mage was nodding as he slipped to his chest among the rotting leaves. ‘Very well. I will give it a try – though it will be difficult and we are far from Malaz.’
Dancer smiled a rictus of encouragement, his lips clenched.
‘So … here goes,’ the mage said as his head disappeared down beneath the loamy steaming surface.
His vision darkening, Dancer looked to the pewter-grey sky through the closing branches. Well … so much for that. The limbs tightened, crushing his chest, and his breath burst from him. He fought to inhale again and again, until nothingness took him.
* * *
The day of his execution Tayschrenn wore the clean linen shirt and trousers provided for him. Stubble now roughened his skull and chin, and though he’d no polished bronze or silver mirror to see in he knew he’d lost weight and must appear rather haggard. As anyone who’d spent weeks contemplating one’s imminent execution would. Especially when a fresh cup of poison is provided alongside each day’s portion of water.
That day, two of the cult Fangs appeared at his cell as escort. When the thick wooden door was pulled open they’d seemed a touch surprised to find him within, and still alive. In the past, many so sentenced had preferred to take their own life rather than face the horror to come. Which was precisely why the priesthood had allowed him to sit so long in solitary reflection on that poison.
And which was precisely why he refused the option. No convenient hidden disappearance that could easily be swept aside and forgotten for him. No, he would go out in full public display and do his best to rub their faces in it.
And so he rose from his meditation, dressed in the clean new clothes, and exited calmly and quietly.
One factor did penetrate his calm, however. It was plain from his cell window that it was the dead of night. As he walked the empty halls, the uneasy suspicion came to him that perhaps they intended to throw him into the Pits unannounced, in the dark, without any witnesses.
The way one might dispose of an embarrassing piece of evidence.
High Priestess Salleen, after all, hadn’t announced the exact time of his execution. Just the sort of oily bureaucratic solution a career functionary might favour.
The suspicion wormed through the wall of calm he’d so carefully built between his fears and his reason, and caused him to check his pace. What then?
One of the Fangs urged him onward and he resumed pacing, thinking, Well, if they go that far then perhaps I need not co-operate after all …