Seven or two. It doesn’t matter … it doesn’t matter … soon I’m not going to be able to feel this at all.
Wulfen, his black Theiwar eyes like bottomless pits in the shadows of night, leaned forward. “Where is the sword?”
Stanach did not have the heart or the strength to wonder why Wulfen’s tone was so coolly reasonable. The midnight wings of pain rustled around him. He swallowed back bile and vomit.
“I told you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and thin, “I don’t know. I didn’t … find it.”
The Herald nodded, smiling.
Stanach screamed and the sound almost drowned out the searing pain and another dry snap.
Four! Six, his mind panted, six or one … six or—
Five!
When his thumb was finally broken, Stanach’s scream almost sounded like triumphant laughter in his own ears. His right hand was a swollen, blue mass of flesh on the stony floor.
Those don’t look like fingers, his mind’s voice observed thinly, not at all. Now there’s a hand that won’t be lifting a hammer again. Behind him, the Herald made a sound like rumbling laughter. Another of the Theiwar drifted past the cave’s mouth as he walked his patrol, paced back again, and turned. Faint as old memories, Stanach smelled the smoke of the guards’ watch fire.
The red star winked and vanished and appeared again. Icy sweat trickled into Stanach’s eyes, slid down his cheeks and into his beard like cold tears. He closed his eyes, then opened them, only to find the cave faded a little around the edges.
Wulfen took a dagger from his belt. The only light in the cave was fading twilight reflected in the mirror of the blade’s steel. Creeping and tentative, smoke wafted into the cave, stinging Stanach’s eyes as it passed him, clutching at his throat.
Stanach looked to the side, saw the fingers of his left hand, whole and straight, and closed his eyes. In the darkness he saw the Kingsword, red-streaked steel, four sapphires the color of twilight, a fifth like a midnight star. He’d seen the steel born in fire, and he’d seen Isarn’s wonder, his dawning understanding when the reflection of the forge fire hadn’t faded. He’d watched in grief and pity as the old master became slowly mad when Stormblade had been stolen. Kingsword!
Kingsword, he thought. Kingsword, Realgar! By the god’s forge, you won’t have it!
Steel, like winter’s ice, touched the thumb of his left hand at the first joint in cold caress. Stanach drew a long breath and let it out in a tattered sigh.
He’ll crack that knuckle like a tightly closed nut, Stanach my lad, with a thrust and a snap …
Stanach opened his eyes and saw only his own fear reflected in the dagger’s blade.
“Where is the sword?”
Stanach thought he might be a little mad. He laughed, and the laughter kept perfect time to the beat and thunder of the fire consuming his right hand. “I—told you. I don’t have it.”
No! That was the wrong answer! Stanach saw it in the flicker of interest in Wulfen’s eyes.
The Theiwar’s voice was soft as the smoke now. “Who does?”
Stanach couldn’t see the star anymore. The guard stood between him and the sky. He closed his eyes again.
If Realgar’s men found Kelida with the sword they’d kill her before she’d have a chance to scream.
Lyt chwaer, he’d named her, little sister. She’d tried to ease his grief for Piper’s death with understanding and a kinswoman’s gentle silence. Lyt chwaer, who has a dead ranger to love.
I do what I have to do. I lie to friendless barmaids, and I watch my own friends die. How does it balance, how does it balance?
Wulfen’s breath was hot against Stanach’s face. His strange derro soul shone in the madness reflected in his eyes. He was close now, and his dagger’s steel lay at the base of Stanach’s jaw. “Who has the Kingsword?”
The Herald moved forward. Stanach heard his breathing, soft as a snake hissing.
Stanach looked at his right hand, twisted and swollen out of recognition. He’d never lift a hammer again. He’d never again know the magic of crafting. His own masterblade lay lifeless, stillborn amid the wreckage of his broken fingers. Wulfen had stolen that. In that way, he and his mad derro kin would rob all of Thorbardin, twisting and breaking everything beautiful under their trampling reign.
The dagger’s tip traced a thin, bleeding line up to just below Stanach’s right eye. The muscles tightened across the back of Wulfen’s hand.
“I’ll ask again, but this will be the last time. Who has Stormblade?”
Stanach spat, and prepared to lose his eye.
18
The low ceilings of the caves grew high before Lavim had gone several yards past the entrance. The river’s moisture glistened on the rock walls and plastered the dust to the smooth stony floor. Dim light filtering in from the rangers’ cache place did little to illuminate these interior caves and only served to cast confusing shadows. Behind him, Lavim heard Tyorl and Kelida stepping carefully in the darkness.
“Piper,” he whispered, as something that looked like a spider with too many legs scuttled across his boot. “I don’t suppose you can do a little magic from where you are and give me some light? That looked like a spider, but I’m not real sure and—”
No, I can’t. Don’t waste time stumbling around in the dark and getting lost. Go catch up with Tyorl.
“Oh, don’t worry. I never get lost. I just find new places to be. I—hmmm, I wonder what’s over here?”
Dirt. Lavim, Tyorl and Kelida are getting ahead of you now.
“Uh-huh. Thanks for telling me. I’ll catch up.”
The kender intended to—in a minute. Though he couldn’t see very well, Lavim still had his hands and his curiosity. He’d told Tyorl that these were bandit’s caves and, in the course of convincing the elf that this was so, he’d convinced himself as well.
He made his way around a pile of heaped rubble, felt around a small chamber, backed out of it when he found nothing of interest, and edged into another. With a sound like restless wind in the tree tops, the far wall began to rustle.
“Piper! Look! I think that wall way back there is moving!”
Bats, Piper warned, get out, Lavim!
“Bats? So? I’m not afraid of—”
They’re afraid of you and when they fly they’ll warn everyone in sight that you’re in here. Get out!
Lavim sighed. He supposed Piper was right. He backed out of the cave, moving as silently as only a kender can.
Tracking east, following the scent of the river, Lavim veered aside—only a little—to squeeze himself into a spider-webbed corner. Piper, who in life had thought himself the most patient of men, lost his patience for the fourth time in a quarter hour. Lavim! Get moving!
“But these are bandit caves, Piper, and I—”
They’re not bandit caves. Go catch up with Tyorl. And give him my flute!
Lavim poked at the rubble and dust in a natural alcove. Tyorl and Kelida had passed him by a few moments ago, but he was sure that he could catch up with them again. All he had to do was follow the scent of the river and the sound of their breathing.
“You said they were bandit caves.” Though he did think, even as he said it, that Piper might have been mistaken. The alcove held nothing but scatterings of rock. Not even a tumble of old bones.
What were you hoping for, a skeleton? And you said these were bandit caves, I didn’t.
Lavim sighed heavily. He wasn’t at all certain that he liked having someone right inside his head and reading his every thought. “No, Piper, I really do think it was you who said these were—”