As he walked on through the cobwebbed, cavemlike chambers stacked haphazardly with barrels, chests and sacks, Yazour inwardly mocked himself for being such an old granny. Look at Schiannath, he told himself. He isn’t scared of the dark! His attempt to buoy his faltering courage was singularly unsuccessful. Try as he would, he could not shake the crawling between his shoulder blades that told him he was the target of unseen eyes. But having followed his companion so far now, there was no way he could retreat without looking like a cowardly fool—and he would rather die than lose face before Schiannath—and, more importantly, before Schiannath’s sister, when she should come to hear the tale. The sooner they found the wretched ale, the sooner they could be gone—and so Yazour clenched his jaw, loosened his sword in his sheath, and continued to follow the Xandim.
Then out of nowhere came a puff of wind, and the torch went out. Darkness fell around them, so thick and heavy that it seemed as though some god had dropped a velvet cloak across the world.
“Plague take it!” Schiannath cursed, his words drowning his companion’s gasp of shock. Yazour, fighting panic, could hear the Xandim swearing softly as he groped for flint and striker—and then a tiny, metallic clatter as one or both implements fell to the floor.
“You clumsy fool,” Yazour hissed in a ferocious whisper, groping in his tunic for his own fire-making tools with hands that trembled. In the Reaper’s name, where had he stowed that blasted flint? He couldn’t stand the way this darkness pressed in on him—and without some form of light they stood little chance of finding their way out of the cellars at all.
Schiannath, it seemed, had been thinking along similar lines. “Well, at least we won’t starve down here,” he muttered.
The grim humor did much to restore Yazour’s courage. “If we could only find that accursed ale, it wouldn’t matter how long we had to stay. Which is just as well,” he added sheepishly, “since the idiot who called you a fool seems to have left his fire-making gear in his other tunic.”
Schiannath burst out laughing. Yazour felt a hand brush his sleeve in the darkness, and then his companion’s strong, warm fingers tightly clasped his own.
“It won’t do to get separated,” the Xandim said softly. “Now I’m going to move to my left, until we find a wall to guide us…” Using the wall to navigate, they turned themselves around and began the hopeless business of trying to backtrack their way through the cellars.
It was hard to keep track of time in the darkness. It seemed to Yazour that they had been groping their way blindly forward for hours—though he knew, from his lack of hunger and thirst and the reserves of strength he still possessed, that it could not be possible. Nonetheless, when he caught the first faint, faraway glimpses of torchlight bobbing enticingly ahead of him in the depths of the vaults, he could have fallen on his knees and wept with gratitude. A hoarse, glad cry from Schiannath proved that the Xandim had seen them, too. As one, still clasping each other’s hands, the two rushed forward together, yelling to attract attention. Yazour and Schiannath only discovered that they had drawn the wrong kind of attention to themselves when they ran headlong into a ring of bristling steel.
Anvar heard the thud of the bar dropping back into place behind him, and shivered. Suddenly he felt very exposed—and very much alone. “You and your bloody heroics,” he muttered to himself. Turning to his left, he sped off down the passage on flying feet. The sooner he got back behind the dubious security of that thick oak door, the better he’d feel.
With the help of Basileus, the Mage found his way through the snarl of torchlit corridors that branched like arteries within the heart of the fastness. The farther he went, the narrower, dustier, and less well lit the passages became, until he needed his night-vision and was forced to slow his pace because of the worn and cracked stone floor. In the same way that he had once guided Chiamh through his ventilation ducts, the Moldan sent a slip of glowing vapor ahead to mark the route at every intersection; but Anvar still found himself thinking ungratefully that the Earth-Elemental could have made his innards a great deal less complex. The Mage’s own innards churned with tension even as he ran. Though Basileus had promised to warn him of the proximity of any armed foes, he was half expecting to run into trouble around every bund corner. After what seemed an age, he had still not reached a turning that he recognized. “Are you sure this is the right way?” he demanded of Basileus.
“I am taking you through the old back corridors,” the Moldan replied testily. “Unless you would prefer the quicker route—which is swarming with Xandim warriors.”
“In that case, this route is fine—so long as we get there in time.”
“We are too late to prevent your companions from being captured, but as yet they are unharmed. They were followed to the vaults and ambushed there, for I had no way to warn them. I tried to conceal them by blowing out their torch, but, alas, it only made them walk right into the hands of their captors, believing they were being rescued.” The Moldan sighed. “The mistake was mine,” he confessed. “The ways of Mortals are still strange to me—though I believe that ultimately my interference has made little difference. Yazour and Schiannath are being held under guard in the stillrooms until the rest of you have been taken.”
“What? Why the blazes didn’t you warn me they had been captured?” Anvar protested.
“I am warning you.” Basileus sounded completely unruffled. “To worry you sooner would have served no purpose. Now, Wizard—stop and pay attention. The next two turnings will bring us to the stillrooms. You must prepare yourself to fight.”
In the stairwell of the turret, Aurian and her companions were also preparing themselves. She and Parric were guarding the door, listening with mounting dismay to the growing clamor of hostile voices on the other side. Already, their surrender had been demanded, and denied. Sangra and Iscalda waited with drawn swords farther up the staircase, while Bohan remained in the Mages’ chamber guarding Wolf. The Windeye was sitting slumped like a rag doll on the bottom step, his spirit gone from his body to ride on the slip of draft that blew around the edges of the oaken door, as he watched the enemy assemble on the other side.
“Lady, they are armed with swords, bows and axes.” His voice echoed hollowly in Aurian’s mind. “They carry torches, too. We cannot hold them off for long—especially not if they use fire. We must prepare to flee.”
Aurian gritted her teeth. “Curse you, Chiamh, I’m not fleeing anywhere. Not without Anvar.” Beside her she felt the cavalrymaster stiffen, and before he had a chance to open his mouth, she snarled: “Whatever it is, Parric, I don’t want to hear it.”
Chiamh’s eyes snapped open as he returned to his body. “I do not propose that we abandon Anvar. Nonetheless, we must prepare,” he told her firmly. “Our only possible exit from this trap is the way the animals take—across the plank and onto…”
Aurian’s blood ran cold at the thought of that fragile makeshift bridge, and the narrowness of the fingerhold ledges and crumbling goat trails beyond. Her curses drowned out the rest of Chiamh’s words—and were drowned in their turn by the crunch of an ax blade biting deep into the door. Before anyone had time to react, the panels juddered beneath another heavy blow.
“Come out, you traitorous freak, before I come in to get you and those skulking Outland scum that you’ve befriended.”
A third splintering crash sent a thin crack snaking down the wooden panel.
Chiamh’s mild brown eyes sparked bright with anger. “Galdrus! I might have guessed,” the Windeye muttered. “Come out, indeed! We’ll see about that.” His eyes flared silver as he twisted the whistling draft to form an illusion and strained to project it simultaneously to the other side of the door.