Elfsorrow

The Unknown nodded and knelt by the creature. It stopped its squealing stream of abuse and fixed its gaze on the big shaven-headed warrior.

'Sol,' it hissed, dragging out the word.

'Yes, Sol,' confirmed The Unknown. 'And you are dying.'

'Soon,' said the Familiar, its voice like a rake over gravel. 'Let me up.'

'I don't think so,' said The Unknown. 'But maybe I will if you answer me truthfully.'

The Familiar's hairless head pulsated, veins throbbing. It spat into The Unknown's face. 'Traitor.'

The Unknown wiped the fetid spittle from his cheek. 'No. We did not start this.'

'We will finish it. Raven will die.'

'How did you find us?'

The Familiar chuckled. 'You know already. Your allegiance is your weakness.'

'Aeb,' he said, and the Familiar smiled, its fangs revealed, slicked in blood. Its tongue licked out. 'Why do you want to kill us?'

The Familiar coughed. It was fading quickly and its voice was weaker now. 'You would stop us. Take what we need… Not allowed.' It was struggling for words. 'There will be more.'

The Unknown watched the fury in its eyes dim as its heart failed. 'You will not beat us.'

'We hold the power.' Its head fell to the side and it breathed its last.

The Unknown stood and looked at The Raven, Darrick, Denser and Aeb all with wounds. Aeb's looked bad. Denser had blood ru

'Are you all right, Ilkar?'

He nodded through his concentration but didn't look round. 'I'm just tired. I don't like losing spells suddenly. It drags at the reserves. I'll be all right.'

'We've got to get on. We need to find secure rest and we have to get into Xetesk tomorrow night. Something tells me we've run out of time.'

From the corner of his eye, he saw Ilkar nod.

Chapter 42

Yron waited and waited. He threw the windows of his chambers wide to let in the fresh air, he paced the room, he ate from the fruit bowl on a side table, he plunged his head into the cold water of his wash bowl. He played word games in his mind, he fenced against the full-length mirror, polished his already gleaming axe and holster. Anything to focus his mind, sober up and stay awake.

He waited while the college quietened and the last of the revellers staggered to their chambers. He waited while the servants cleaned the banqueting chamber, cleaned the table and mopped the floors. He waited until the deepest depths of the night. And only then did he slip from his room, rough travel cloak covering his new clothes, cleaned leather and glittering axe holster, and into Erys's room.

The mage was lost to sleep, flat on his back and snoring gently. A smile played on his face and his arms were flung wide across the luxurious bed. Yron placed one hand over Erys's mouth and shook him hard awake. The mage's eyes flew open and his hands scrabbled at Yron's in sudden panic, only relaxing when he saw the captain's smile. Yron removed his hand.

'Don't worry. Just me,' he whispered. 'Get up.'

'What the hell is going on?' Erys hissed. 'It's the middle of the bloody night!'

'I'll explain while you dress. We've got to do something. Now.'

Erys frowned and passed a hand over his head, breathing out heavily. 'Is this your idea of a hilarious joke?'

'No,' said Yron sharply, dragging the covers from Erys. 'Now get up. And you'd better be able to cast.'

'I'll see what I can do. Never tried it after so much wine.' He sighed and heaved himself from the bed, heading for the wash bowl. He poured a jug of water over his head. 'So what's it all about, Captain?'

Yron told him, and by the time he had dressed Erys looked both awake and stone cold sober.

'You are with me, aren't you?' asked Yron as he walked to Erys's door.

'I can't be a party to genocide, unwitting or not,' said Erys.

'I thought not. Now, Dystran will have taken the thumb to his chambers.'

'You'd better hope not. Have you any idea how many Protectors guard him up there?' Erys jerked a thumb upwards.

'Don't worry about it,' said Yron.

'Don't worry about it? Are you crazy? It only takes one, unless you've got an even better axe arm than I think you have.'

'Just show me the way.'

Erys closed his eyes for a heartbeat and led the way from his chambers into the silence of the Tower. The two men walked back past the banqueting and audience chambers, down the darkened corridors that made up the wide base of the Tower and back towards the main doors.

Before they got there, Erys directed them down a left turn, through a curtained entrance and around another sharp bend and into a small oval chamber. The walls were lined with benches and hung with portraits of Lords of the Mount long dead. Directly ahead of them, in front of an intricately carved heavy wooden door, stood a pair of Protectors, silent and unmoving.

'You'd better be right about this,' said Erys.

'Have faith, boy,' said Yron.

He walked forward, feeling none of the confidence he hoped he was exuding, and stood before the Protectors. For one hideous moment he felt their hostile eyes sizing him up and thought he'd got it all horribly wrong.

'You will not harm him,' said one, and the pair turned away, their backs forming a passage to the now unguarded door.

Yron turned the handle and opened the door inwards, its travel silent on oiled hinges. He beckoned the open-mouthed Erys on and began to climb the spiral stair in front of him. It was carved from a pillar of marble and set on the western side of the Tower's central shaft. Above, six levels ending in Dystran's private chambers. Below, entrance to the catacombs and labs and the passages that criss-crossed under the college.

'How did you organise that?' said Erys.

'I didn't,' said Yron. 'I'll explain later.'

Taking every step gently, his boots ghosting the surface, Yron climbed, refusing to let himself think about where he was or what he was doing. His heart thudded in his chest, his palms were damp and his breathing was shallow and rushed. His limbs were shaking and his muscles felt weak. He forced himself to go on, one step at a time.

They passed level after level. At each one, a Protector stood on a tapestry-hung landing in front of a door to a set of offices, personal audience chambers or guest rooms. Each masked man stood silent, watching them pass and making no move to interfere.

'This is suicide,' whispered Erys.

'And if we don't, it's genocide,' said Yron, pleased at his clever response.

Finally, they stood at Dystran's door and it all came home to him. He, Captain Yron, was about to enter the most private chambers of the Lord of the Mount of Xetesk, Balaia's single most powerful man, and steal a prized treasure. He shuddered the length of his body as the pair of Protectors moved a pace aside to allow him entry.

'Just the thumb,' he whispered. 'Nothing else.'

Centre stage of the big open room was Dystran's curtained bed. To the left, a screened-off washing area, to the right, wardrobe and dressing areas, and at the foot of the bed, the prize. Yron saw it immediately and held out an arm.

'Stay there,' he said, voice barely audible. 'Keep the door open.'

Erys nodded and Yron stepped delicately into the room, his boots soundless on the thick rugs that covered the stone floor. On a table flanked by tall candle stands, on a silk-covered dish, rested the thumb of Yniss.

Sweat ran into Yron's eyes and he wiped it away, smearing his palm against his cloak. He leaned over the table and reached out a quivering hand. He swallowed hard and picked up the fragment, finding its touch cool and comfortable. He took in a grateful breath and slipped it into his pocket. He turned to smile at Erys but the look on the mage's face froze him where he stood.