Following Azuri and Hazad, Kian backed up the steps, slashing back and forth against the tide of stalking horror. For him, killing the mahk’lar was not so difficult, at least when they came one at a time. But they did not come alone, rather they bound forward in surging waves.
Soon, ragged gasps were searing his lungs and throat. Sweat poured into his eyes, blurring his vision, and each step was precarious on stone coated in slime. But he could not stop fighting, no matter how terribly his arm and shoulder ached. To rest, even for a moment, would mean his death-an end like that which had come to the denizens of El’hadar, eaten alive and torn limb from limb at best, or at worst possessed by demons and remade into something inhuman. He could not imagine what happened to such a man’s soul, nor did he want to.
After a seemingly endless period of time, the light of the chamber’s torches faded, and the only visible target were dozens of pairs of silver eyes, and monstrous faces lighted by the flares of blue fire arcing from Kian’s defensive strokes.
Hazad and Azuri shouted their encouragement behind him, ineffectual spectators in a deadly game. Kian fought past the deadness in his limbs. Still, his powerful swings grew weaker, less effective. He drew his dagger and used both weapons to stab and slash at the closing demons.
Not long now, he thought with a black calm, and abruptly stumbled backward and sat down hard. Seemingly of its own will his sword came up. Fangs shattered against steel, and the blade rammed deep into the creature’s throat.
“We’re at the door,” Azuri called urgently.
Kian pulled his sword free, but there was no strength left in his legs. Strong hands jerked him to his feet and dragged him from the stairwell. When Hazad shoved him aside, Kian fell against the wall, gulping each breath. Between the two of them, Azuri and Hazad slammed and barred the door. On the far side, a terrible howling went up, and heavy thuds shook the door in its frame. The mahk’lar might have begun as beings of spirit, but they were now creatures of flesh, and could not simply pass through solid barriers.
“This door will not long hold,” Hazad said, his voice rumbling in the dark.
Kian let the two men help him along the shadowed ways. When they reached a crossing corridor lighted by scant daylight, the sounds of splintering wood echoed behind them, propelling them onward.
When they finally came to the doors leading into the courtyard, dusk was old and ready for the grave of night. And there waited the boy, off to one side of their horses. Not far back the way they had come, a tumult of howls went up. The boy, eyes glinting in the thin light, smiled broadly. Something pale and slender wriggled out from between his lips.
“We are leaving,” Azuri snarled. “Stand aside!”
The boy’s narrowed eye were black, through and through. “Noooooooo-”
Azuri’s dagger flipped through the air and slammed into the boy’s throat. The child floundered backward, gagging on a mouthful of black blood, then pitched over and started quivering, seemingly shaken from within, as if something were trying to flee the dying flesh.
“Gods good and wise,” Hazad rasped. “He was but a child!”
Azuri leapt into his saddle. “And I suppose where you grew up children bled black and had worms squirming out of their mouths? He was another demon, fool!”
Hazad looked back and forth in confusion, his wits seemingly fled.
Kian moved in close and grasped his elbow. With gentle pressure, he led Hazad to his horse, and helped him climb up. “That was no child, my friend,” Kian said. “It was as Azuri said-another of the mahk’lar.”
Hazad nodded absently, gaze flickering from shadow to shadow. Kian did not like to see such confused fear in his friend’s gaze.
“There can be no doubt any longer,” Azuri said, his voice low and ominous. “Varis somehow freed the Fallen from the Thousand Hells.”
“We make for Izutar,” Kian said. “These fool Aradaners can reap the troubles sown by one of their own sons.”
“The outpost of Oratz is but twenty miles south from here,” Azuri said. “Though it is the wrong way, we must refit. And while I agree with you about these Aradaners and their troubles, it would be the right thing to at least give them some kind of warning about what they will soon face.”
Kian climbed into the saddle and wheeled his mount. He wanted nothing more than to head straight for Izutar, but Azuri had the right of it, on all scores. “So be it. If we ride hard, we’ll be there before dawn.”
A deep, hellish baying pushed out from the Black Keep, turning all heads. Whatever had cried out, it was not one of the small demons. Kian recalled the thing trying to escape Bresado’s corpse, and was unable to contain a shiver of dread.
“It is time to leave,” Kian rasped, heeling his mount into a gallop that took him from the accursed grounds of Fortress El’hadar and toward Oratz. It was a place none of them would ever see.
Chapter 19
Ellonlef kept her head down. The speed of the galloping warhorse brought tears to her eyes that cut tracks in the dust coating her cheeks. Thoughts of actually escaping had begun to fire in her mind when an arrow hissed out of the night, striking her mount in the front shoulder. The horse trumpeted in pain, stumbled, then regained its stride, hooves thundering over the hard-packed roadway. Its muscles trembled from both pain and fatigue under the saddle, but she could not let it stop. She would run it to death before she halted, even if it only bought her a few moments to make ready to defend herself.
Far ahead, off to one side of the road and silhouetted against the smoky night sky, loomed a large heap of boulders. The frantic shouts of the trailing band of Bashye warriors spurred her on. If the lord marshal’s warhorse had not been weary from the long journey, and wounded besides, the Bashyes’ smaller desert horses would never have kept pace. Her ill-fortune was their blessing.
Knowing what she had to do, but not liking it in the least, she jammed her heels into the horse’s flanks. The mount surged ahead, its great lungs laboring for each new breath. As the rocks grew closer, the Bashye fell farther behind. She would have to trust in the darkness … and hope that the horse would not do what it was trained to do. With no time to fret over that, she kicked her feet free of the stirrups and cradled her short bow protectively to her breast. When the time was right, she rolled out of the saddle, tucking head and legs.
The shock of the hitting the hard ground was more than she had expected, and her breath gusted from her chest. Desperation made her hold tight to her bow, as would a mother protecting her infant. She was up and running before she had time to register any pain, or rejoice that the horse had continued on, instead of halting to defend its rider against the enemy.
Within a few steps, she knew there was something wrong with one of her knees, for her run quickly became a lurching stumble. The battle cries of the Bashye grew closer. She ducked behind a large boulder just as the band of warriors passed. In the darkness they were flashing shadows, but still she tried to count as they sped past.
Six! she thought with dismay. She had hoped there were only three or four. That there was nearly twice that meant she had not killed as many of the bloodthirsty renegades as she had believed. There was no point in fretting over numbers that would not change … unless she changed them with arrows from her bow.
After she caught her breath, she started climbing up through the boulders. She had to get to high ground before they discovered that she was no longer riding the horse they pursued. The agony in her knee became worse with every step, swollen stiffness setting in faster than expected. She almost laughed at that. Better had the pain not come at all, better if she had never left the Isle of Rida nine years gone. Knowing she could afford the luxury of feeling sorry for herself only if she survived the night, she pressed on.