“Where do we go now?” Par whispered, leaning against Coll for support! He was barely able to stand.
Coll shook his head wordlessly and pulled his brother toward the street, away from the lights. They had barely reached its cobblestones when a lithe figure materialized out of the shadows some fifty feet away and moved to intercept them. Damson, Par thought. He whispered her name to Coll, and they slowed expectantly as she hurried up.
“Keep moving,” she said quietly, boosting Par’s free arm about her shoulders to help Coll support him. “Where are the others?”
Par’s eyes lifted to meet hers. He shook his head slowly and saw the stricken look that crossed her face.
Behind them, deep within the park, there was a brilliant explosion of fire that rocketed skyward into the night. Gasps of dismay rose out of those gathered on the streets.
The silence that followed was deafening.
“Don’t look back,” Damson whispered, tight-lipped.
The Valemen didn’t need to.
Morgan Leah lay sprawled upon the scorched earth of the Pit, steam rising from his clothing, the acrid stench of smoke in his mouth and nostrils. Somehow he was still alive, he sensed—barely. Something was terribly wrong with him. He felt broken, as if everything had been smashed to bits within his skin, leaving him an empty, scoured shell. There was pain, but it wasn’t physical. It was worse somehow, a sort of emotional agony that wracked not only his body but his mind as well.
“Highlander!”
Padishar’s rough voice cut through the layers of hurt and brought his eyes open. Flames licked the ground inches away.
“Get up—quickly!” Padishar was pulling at him, hauling him forcibly to his feet, and he heard himself scream. A muddled sea of trees and stone blocks swam in the mist and darkness, slowly steadied and at last took shape.
Then he saw. He was still gripping the hilt of the Sword of Leah, but its blade was shattered. No more than a foot remained, a jagged, blackened shard.
Morgan began to shake. He could not stop himself. “What have I done?” he whispered.
“You saved our lives, my friend!” Padishar snapped, dragging him forward. That’s what you did!“ Light poured through a massive hole in the wall of the Gatehouse. The door that had been sealed against their return had disappeared. Padishar’s voice was labored. “Your weapon did that. Your magic. Shattered that door into smoke! Gives us the chance we need, if we’re quick enough. Hurry, now! Lean on me. Another minute or two...”
Padishar shoved him through the opening. He was dimly aware of the corridor they stumbled down, the stairs they climbed. The pain continued to rip through his body, leaving him incoherent when he tried to speak. He could not take his eyes from the broken sword. His sword—his magic—himself. He could not differentiate between them.
Shouts and a heavy thudding broke into his thoughts, causing him to flinch. “Easy, now,” Padishar cautioned, the outlaw’s voice a buzzing in his ears that seemed to come from very far away.
They reached the ward room with its weapons and debris. There was a frantic pounding on the entry doors. Their iron shielding was buckled and staved.
“Lie here,” Padishar ordered, leaning him back against the wall to one side. “Say nothing when they enter, just keep still. With luck, they’ll think us victims of what’s happened here and nothing more. Here, give me that.” He reached down and pried the broken Sword of Leah from Morgan’s nerveless fingers. “Back in its case with this, lad. We’ll see to its fixing later.”
He shoved the weapon into its shoulder scabbard, patted Morgan’s cheek, and moved to open the entry doors.
Black-garbed “Federation soldiers poured into the room, shouting and yelling and filling the chamber with a din that was suffocating. A disguised Padishar Creel shouted and yelled back, directing them down the stairwell, into the sleeping quarters, over this way and out that. There was mass confusion. Morgan watched it all without really understanding or even caring. The sense of indifference he felt was outweighed only by his sense of loss. It was is if his life no longer had a purpose, as if any reason for it had evaporated as suddenly and thoroughly as the blade of the Sword of Leah.
No more magic, he thought over and over. I have lost it. I have lost everything.
Then Padishar was back, hauling him to his feet again, steering him through the chaos of the Gatehouse to the entry doors and from there into the park. Bodies surged past, but no one challenged them. “It’s a fine madness we’ve let loose with this night’s work,” Padishar muttered darkly. “I just hope it doesn’t come back to haunt us.“
He took Morgan swiftly from the circle of the Gatehouse lights into the concealing shadows beyond.
Moments later, they were lost from sight.
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was just after dawn when Par Ohmsford came awake the first time. He lay motionless on his pallet of woven mats, collecting his scattered thoughts in the silence of his mind. It took him awhile to remember where he was. He was in a storage shed behind a gardening shop somewhere in the center of Tyrsis. Damson had brought them there last night to hide after...
The memory returned to him in an unpleasant rush, images that swept through his mind with horrific clarity. He forced his eyes open and the images disappeared. A faint wash of gray, hazy light seeped through cracks in the shuttered windows of the shed, lending vague definition to the scores of gardening tools stacked upright like soldiers at watch. The smell of dirt and sod filled the air, rich and pungent. It was silent beyond the walls of their concealment, the city still sleeping.
He lifted his head cautiously and glanced about. Coll was asleep beside him, his breathing deep and even. Damson was nowhere to be seen.
He lay back again for a time, listening to the silence, letting himself come fully awake. Then he rose, gingerly easing himself from beneath his blankets and onto his feet. He was stiff and cramped, and there was an aching in his joints that caused him to wince. But his strength was back; he could move about again unaided.
Coll stirred fitfully, turning over once before settling down again. Par watched his brother momentarily, studying the shadowed line of his blunt features, then stepped over to the nearest window. He was still wearing his clothing; only his boots had been removed. The chill of early morning seeped up from the plank flooring into his stockinged feet, but he ignored it. He put his eye to a crack in the shutters and looked out. It had stopped raining, but the skies were clouded and the world had a damp, empty look. Nothing moved within the range of his vision. A jumbled collection of walls, roofs, streets and shadowed niches stared back at him from out of the mist.
The door behind him opened, and Damson stepped noiselessly into the shed. Her clothing was beaded with moisture and her red hair hung limp.
“Here, what are you doing?” she whispered, her forehead creasing with annoyance. She crossed the room quickly and took hold of him as if he were about to topple over. “You’re not to be out of bed yet! You’re far too weak! Back you go at once!”
She steered him to his pallet and forced him to lie down again. He made a brief attempt to resist and discovered that he had less strength than he first believed.
“Damson, listen...” he began, but she quickly put a hand over his mouth.
“No, you listen, Elf-boy.” She paused, staring down at him as she might at a curious discovery. “What is the matter with you, Par Ohmsford? Haven’t you an ounce of common sense to call your own? You barely escaped with your life last night and already you are looking to risk it again. Haven’t you the least regard for yourself?”