Eventually he directed them to a spot where the third floor of a large stone structure impinged against the bare rock. In the light of a waxing moon, they followed the galah across the open slate roof past planters filled with sleeping blossoms of unknown type toward an arched doorway of peculiar design. As they hugged the shadows, Buncan saw that the portal was framed by numerous bas-reliefs. The subject matter set his hair on end.
A reassuring distance off to their right they could see the inside of the wall. Brawny forms dire of aspect were beginning to join the monks on the parapet. Buncan was inordinately glad he could not see their faces.
He glanced skyward. They had until first light to do what damage they could before Wurragarr’s people attacked. That assault would take place whether the infiltrating spellsinging trio succeeded or not. The country folk had come too far to turn back now.
We’d better do something, he thought grimly. They’ll never breach that wall without help. Not even with Snaugenhutt leading the charge. The question most profound was: Precisely what could they do?
Improvise, Jon-Tom had always told him. When in doubt, improvise. Almost as if in anticipation, the duar chafed and bumped against his back. He found himself wishing he had the knowledge to grasp the meaning behind the Dark Monks’ mysterious invocations.
“Softly now, groundbound friends.” Mowara settled gently on Duncan’s shoulder. “Around this first corner your first glimpse. You can decide if what is measures up to what I’ve said, you can.”
Buncan stepped through the open doorway and peered down the lamplit corridor. Mowara’s descriptions had prepared them, but words could only do so much.
Standing guard at the nearest intersection was a creature with the legs of a wallaby and the squat body of a wombat. Its profile revealed the face of a dingo in the last stages of some grisly degenerative affliction. Abortive dull green wings protruded like diseased eruptions from its shoulders. It carried a blade the size of an executioner’s sword.
‘• ‘Ow do we get past that freak?” Squill whispered.
“Leave it to me.” Neena edged to the forefront. “I’ll dazzle it with me charms an’ the rest o’ you can sneak up behind ‘it.”
“Hey, wait!” Buncan made a grab for her but was too late. She was already sauntering down the corridor as if she owned it, in full view of the wallabat and whatever else might happen to come along.
“Shit,” Squill muttered. “Get ready.”
Neena halted right in front of the guard, who gaped at her. “ ‘Ello, gorgeous. ‘Ow come you’re stuck in ‘ere when all the action’s out front?”
Yellow, bloodshot eyes narrowed as they focused on her. Its voice was tortured. “Kill,” it rumbled as it swung the oversize blade in a great descending arc.
It cracked the floor where Neena had been standing an instant earlier. “ ‘Ere now! Wot do you think I am, rough trade?”
“Kill,” snarled the abomination, lurching after her.
“So much for stunnin’ it with ‘er irresistible beauty.” Sword drawn, Squill was racing down the hallway. Buncan and Mowara had no choice but to follow.
It saw them coming and brought the blade around in a sweeping horizontal arc. Buncan stumbled to a halt, glad that the haphazard creature hadn’t been given the arms of a gibbon. Squill ducked lithely beneath the blow and drove his sword up into the ogre’s belly, while Neena struck it from behind. It let out a soft gurgle, choking on its own blood, and made a last desultory swipe at the hovering Mowara which the galah avoided easily. The blade tumbled to the floor as the guard clutched at its throat. It fell over, kicking spasmodically. The kicking slowed rapidly, and soon all was still.
The otters stood over the corpse, breathing hard. Mowara fluttered approvingly nearby. “Hope you’re as adept with your magic as you are with your swords.”
“There were only one of ‘em.” As he wiped his weapon clean on the fallen guard’s raiment, Squill grinned at his sister. “I ‘ope we don’t ‘ave to depend on your good looks to overcome anythin” else.”
“Oh, shut up,” she snapped. “It were worth a go. At least I distracted it.”
Controlling his revulsion, Buncan forced himself to examine the dead guard. “Gross. I wonder who it was originally.”
“This is but a tame example of the horrors perpetrated by the Dark Ones.” Mowara was keeping an eye on the corridor ahead. “There exists far worse.”
“Cor, now that’s encouragin’.” Squill sheathed his weapon.
In truth they were lucky. Once, a troop of unholy grotes-queries armed with huge battle-axes marched by ahead of mem and they were forced to wait in an alcove until the guards had passed to a lower level, but nothing actually impeded their progress.
“Where are you taking us?” Buncan inquired of Mowara as they cautiously started down yet anodier set of winding stone stairs.
“To me axis of all evil,” the galah replied. “So you can kill it at its source.”
Buncan found he was more eager than afraid. Whoever could deliberately pervert honest, wholesome sorcery in such an appalling fashion deserved whatever Fate bestowed on them.
Their advance continued unchallenged. Perhaps diose who would normally be patrolling these corridors were gathering on the wall to confront and intimidate Wurragarr’s people. Whatever the reason he was grateful, and remarked on their good fortune to Mowara.
“Won’t last, it won’t.” The galah was pessimistic. “The Dark Ones will realize Wurragarr ain’t going to attack right away. Then maybe they’ll think to check their backsides. Got to work fast, we do.” Abruptly he backed wind and landed on Duncan’s shoulder. “We’re close now, we are. Quiefly go.”
Buncan lowered his voice and tensed. “Close to what?”
“To the secret room. To the place where the Dark Ones plot their malignancies. The Lair of the Board.”
The galah turned into a narrow, low-ceilinged corridor. “Found diis by accident, I did. Hush now: I can hear them talking.”
“Planning their defense,” Neena opined.
“Cadet, I said,” Mowara hissed.
They slowed, and Buncan saw they were approaching a small hole in me corridor wall. Light and voices were visible on the other side. As he eased forward and caught a glimpse of what lay beyond, he sucked in his breath. It was a vision extracted whole and uncensored from the fevered imaginings of some seriously ill necromancer.
There were ten of them garnered in the chamber below. All wore the dark cowl of the Kilagurri monk, making it impossible to identify individuals. They sat around a long table of polished wood of a color and grain Buncan had never seen before. It had a sheen more suggestive of glass than honest lumber.
Strange carpeting widi a weave so tight and fine he couldn’t imagine how it had been loomed covered the floor. The cups the monks sipped from were filled with a dark, bubbling, odorless liquid. Several of diose present were scribbling on diick pads bound together at the left edge widi loops of thin metal wire.
lii the center of the table four boxes set widi glass windows faced the four points of the compass. Several dials protruded from the top of each. Wires connected mem to a much bigger box in the middle of the table, and also to small rectangular panels that rested in front of each monk. Several of the attendees were tapping hesitantly at their respective panels. Theurgically lit from within, the window boxes displayed shifting, moving images that appeared to respond to the seemingly random tappings of the monks. The master box in the middle whined softly, like a live thing.
As Buncan stared a beautiful female possum entered, tail elaborately wound widi green ribbon and held high. Squill whistled softly, inducing his sister to jab him in the ribs. From a ceramic carafe balanced on a tray the servant refilled the monks’ cups with more of the steaming dark liquid. They took no notice of her presence.
“Wot sort o’ sorceral potion is dial?” Neena murmured.