Trail Of The Torean (Book 2) Read online

  “The slaves live in the upper levels so they can work on the surface when they need to,” Koric said as they descended farther. “The desert knights and others needed for basic operations inhabit the mid-caves, and our citizens live in the depths of the city below.”

  They came to a segment where a scintillating reflection came from the walls.

  “What is that?” Garrick asked.

  “Razor needles,” Koric said. “Keeps people from scaling their way down to the city.”

  They would serve the opposite purpose, too, Garrick decided. No one would easily climb in or out of Arderveer through this shaft.

  The lift came to a halt and the hollow sound of moving water echoed from below. The shaft probably led to a deep river that served as a well. Arderveer truly was a fully hidden city.

  Koric led them off the lift and into the barracks chamber of the desert knights, a cavern filled with cots and footlockers and men and women, some napping, some gaming, and others working on some personal regimen. One segment of the quarters was a common armory. Rows of swords, whips, and pikes rested there against the stone wall.

  Desert knights passed through the hall with no wasted movement. Their closeness was a force in itself—these were driven people, disciplined and energetic. Garrick’s hunger tracked the position of each, and knew their movements as they were made.

  His skin burned with invisible flames.

  He could taste them. Feel them. They were so close. So very close.

  “Your knights are busy,” Darien said.

  “The Lord has other visitors today.”

  “Do I want to know who?”

  The commander smirked.

  They came to a doorway that was spanned by a pane of translucent blue light.

  Koric laid his hand against a polished rock in the wall, and the light faded to reveal a stairwell. He escorted them farther downward until they came to an oval receiving room filled with a long conference table and many padded chairs. The floor here radiated warmth that Garrick found comforting.

  “I will inform the lord you have arrived,” Koric said. “There is water in the decanter.”

  Then he left.

  Darien went directly to the water.

  Garrick sat down heavily, suddenly very tired. Holding Braxidane’s magic in check was costing him most dearly.

  Darien brought him a cup.

  He drank and shivered as the liquid seeped into his body.

  The chamber was large, maybe fifty feet in its longest direction. Half the wall was natural rock, smooth and polished with a ferrous tint of red. The rest was a mural of images.

  Darien strolled around it, examining a glass case that displayed silver trinkets, and taking in the carved plaques that decorated one curved wall.

  It was a scene on that wall that caught Garrick’s eye.

  A unicorn being carried away by a blue dragon.

  The flavor of his nightmare came back—hard, and real, so real he had an image of the Lectodinian judge’s falling hand.

  The door squealed.

  Commander Koric stepped in.

  “Gentlemen, I give you Lord Takril of Arderveer.”

  Chapter 19

  Two great tents withstood the desert winds, each surrounded by camps of mages who wore either blood red or ocean blue. Yorl Maggore, the leader of the Koradictine contingent, entered the tent dyed the color of blood and threw himself onto a chair in one corner. He was sweating heavily under his hooded robe.

  “The sun is nearly unbearable,” he said to the boy assigned to attend to him.

  The boy gave a motion that was half nod and half cower.

  The Desert of Dust was scorpion territory, a dry wasteland marked by sunbaked stones as tall as buildings and with surfaces worn to a fine polish by the furnace of blistering winds. Coarse grasses and thorny brush clung to breaks in the ground. Sand rode the wind like razor blades, ripping into any swath of flesh left uncovered. It was a harsh and dangerous place, a land where nothing seemed to live—and yet a land where a thousand eyes were always following.

  He hated it.

  The other tent housed his Lectodinian counterpart, newly arrived from the wilderness surrounding Whitestone.

  Small shelters, lean-tos, and other constructs were spread across the parched land between them, filled with mercenary soldiers, and with two very different groups of mages—both of whom had been mustered rapidly and forced to endure double-time marches in order to come together in this land of hellish heat.

  Yorl’s own Koradictines had originated from the Badwall Canyons, farther north. It was the first time the orders had put so many mages together.

  Hell of a place to do it, Yorl thought.

  It was his job to make this group fight as one.

  It would not be easy.

  They had been together only long enough to put up the tents, but already he had administered to half a dozen scrapes between lesser mages and the mercenary swords. That’s what you get when you push people like this, he thought. And when you buy blades at the lowest wage.

  He adjusted his loose-fitting robe.

  The tent smelled of baked fabric.

  A wobbly nightstand in one corner held a cup of lukewarm tea. Like everything else in this pit, the tea tasted of sand.

  He had laid maps of the desert lands across a low table, though they would do him no good—Arderveer itself was underground and the sand above constantly shifted. Landmarks disappeared as soon as they were noted here in the desert. He had marked the maps with indicators that showed the locations of the Lectodinian mages and the mages of his own order. At least that much he could control.

  A soft knock came from the outside.

  “Enter,” he said.

  It was Cara, the lead mage of the Lectodinian contingent. She stepped through the open flap of his tent.

  As far as he could tell, she was only of middling power, so he assumed she had arrived at her position through the application of her obvious physical charms rather than through any rigorous study or other such achievement. He found this perfectly acceptable, of course. If she weren’t Lectodinian, Yorl would probably take her for himself. But, alas, Lectodinian she was.

  “The slaves have been offered to Takril,” Cara said. “And the offer has been taken.”

  “That is the best news of the day.”

  The first part of the plan was simple—give Takril the bait made of slaves collected up in earlier raids, then, when the city opened to receive that gift, the orders would drive a wedge deep into the bowels of Takril’s defenses. Cara’s news said Takril had taken the bait, so Yorl could now focus on the mission’s second objective.

  “Have you heard anything of the Torean?” he asked.

  “No,” Cara said. “I came to see if you had.”

  “We should make plans as if he is already inside the city, then. If we’re wrong, we take the city now and deal with him when he arrives.”

  “I agree.”

  He smiled as if her acceptance meant something to him.

  “Are your mages prepared?” he asked.

  “Lectodinians are always prepared.”

  His smile widened.

  “Come then,” he said, brushing his way past her and heading toward the tent’s exit. “We have a mission to execute.”

  Chapter 20

  Takril entered the chamber, walking with a hunched limp and wearing a black tunic that fell down over his thin waist and over baggy pants that were embroidered with golden thread. He stood no taller than Garrick’s chest. An array of gemstones glittered from his fingers, and a luminescent chain circled his waist. His sandals were clean and buffed.

  But the most distinctive part of Takril’s appearance was his face.

  His eyes were multi-toned, black and brown, with flashing elements of blue and gray that made it appear as if clouds were passing before them. A ruby stud was embedded in his left nostril, and his eyebrows were pierced with more rings than Garrick could count. A straight pin with a
n obsidian skull crossed one cheekbone, and his ears were matted with such a mix of jewelry as to make it impossible to determine detail.

  “Greetings,” Takril said in a nasally voice that made him sound old.

  Garrick stood.

  “Good day,” Darien said.

  “Have a seat,” Takril said, motioning them as he shuffled to the largest chair in the room. He carried a handful of dark pellets in one fist and, after sitting, popped one pellet into his mouth and chewed furiously.

  He spoke as quickly as he chewed.

  “You are here to carry Hersha Padiglio’s treasure back to him?”

  “That is correct,” Garrick replied. He removed the box from its pouch and pushed it across the table.

  Takril examined Garrick with birdlike precision, then turned to the box.

  “Ah, yes, wonderful,” he said in a distracted manner. “Do you have the rest of his payment?”

  “The viceroy said nothing of another payment,” Garrick said, glancing at Darien.

  But Darien’s face grew red with embarrassment, and he put a smaller box on the table. “Hersha asked that I keep it secret. I think he was worried that, being a mage, you might find it too tempting.”

  Garrick was too confused to be angry.

  Takril took the box from Darien, opened the lid, and pulled back the edge of a white cloth.

  It was a spider—a broach or clip of some sort.

  Takril smiled and held it up by a single leg.

  “Remarkable,” he muttered.

  He spoke a word of sorcery, and, with such abruptness that it nearly knocked Garrick cold, waved his hand over the broach. The spider was suddenly alive and wriggling. Takril popped it into his mouth and chewed once again. His face squeezed in rapturous ecstasy. His lips smacked with satisfaction.

  Then Takril’s gaze grew suddenly clear, and bore down on Garrick with an intensity that took him aback. His hunger surged forward in response to the gaze. He pictured the Koradictine mage he had killed in the woods. Could he do that here? Could he—

  Takril raised a hand and spoke another spell.

  The wizard was powerful and fast. Suddenly, Garrick could not move.

  He grunted, pushing against Takril’s constraints, but nothing happened. His hunger rose, but the lord’s wizardry was strong and the spell had already taken its effect. Garrick struggled, but to no avail.

  “Why are you here?” Takril said.

  “To gather the viceroy’s pet,” Garrick answered almost before the question registered on his mind. He was certain Takril could understand him even though his tongue felt frozen.

  Takril leaned into his ear, his odor a putrid mix of chemicals, body odor, and halitosis. And he whispered.

  “Who are you?”

  “Garrick,” he grunted. “Apprentice of Alistair.”

  “Well, Garrick, apprentice to Alistair, consider yourself lucky that I gained my hold on you when I did, otherwise I would be forced to kill you as you rampaged.” Takril breathed a raspy breath and poked his bony, gem-crusted finger at him. “Gather your wits or suffer.”

  Garrick’s breathing slowed, and his concentration returned.

  “Much better,” Takril said, stepping backward. He returned to his seat, but did not release his magic.

  “I see you’re touched.”

  “What?” Garrick replied.

  “Don’t toy with me, boy.”

  Garrick hesitated. He thought about denying the accusation again, but his head throbbed with such pain that it seemed ridiculous to argue.

  “Can you remove it?” he finally said.

  Takril seemed stunned. Three rubies flared along his brow. “Why would you want me to?”

  “It’s yours if you want it.”

  “Oh, sweet rapture, if only that were true.”

  “You can’t take it?”

  “No, Garrick. Nor can I remove it—though I wouldn’t even if I could. It is unwise to trifle with planewalkers without sufficient reason.”

  The mage’s response made his stomach fall.

  “I’m stuck with this forever?”

  “Forever is a very long time.”

  Garrick was silent, contemplating just how much he had hoped Takril—or someone—would actually be able to fix him.

  “About the viceroy’s pet,” Darien broke in.

  “I’ll have Commander Koric provide it to you,” Takril said. “But let me give you proper warning. The object is an egg that is due to hatch in short time. For your own safety, it is advisable to avoid breaking it.”

  “And why is that?” Darien replied.

  Takril blinked like an iguana. “Because the animal inside will be very angry if you do.”

  Darien nodded. “I see.”

  The wizard limped to the doorway, then looked straight at Garrick.

  “Do not come back to my city,” he said.

  The door swung shut behind him, and Garrick’s hunger gave a tremendous surge as Takril’s restraints fell away.

  He felt Darien’s heat, and he choked back on Braxidane’s magic.

  “Are you all right?” Darien asked, his eyes wide.

  As Garrick’s mouth opened to reply, a loud explosion reverberated from outside the room.

  Chapter 21

  The air smelled faintly of blood. Dust fell from the ceiling, and voices rose outside the door.

  “What’s going on?” Darien said as he instinctively crouched down.

  “I think,” Garrick replied, “that Takril has underestimated the orders.”

  Another explosion rattled the room, and a large crack ran across the floor.

  Commander Koric came through the doorway. His eyes blazed like green darts, and he clutched a small box in one hand.

  “Lord Takril asked me to deliver this,” he said. “Stay here. I’ll return to escort you again when this is over.”

  Then he was gone.

  The cries of men and women filled the hallway outside, and more dust fell from the ceiling. The hair on the back of Garrick’s neck stood on end. He felt the thick, savory essence of panic rising in the life forces that were running through Arderveer now. He inhaled the sensation, and the sweet aroma of energy scrubbed his lungs. He steeled himself. He had come too far to give in to Braxidane now.

  Garrick stuffed the box into his pouch.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  “I need my sword,” Darien replied.

  Another explosion rocked the area, and the stone cracked once more. Garrick tried to ignore the weight above them, but if this kept up, the citizens of Arderveer would soon be entombed in the ruins of their city. He did not want to be here when that happened.

  The smell of Koradictine sorcery grew stronger as they ran up the hallway. They came to the shimmering blue door. Garrick saw no obvious way to take the barrier down, so he gathered himself and leapt through it. The gate sizzled, but did nothing else, so Darien followed.

  The barracks were a chaotic mass of desert knights shouting orders to each other and grabbing weapons. The loose and uncontrolled essence of their muster was overwhelming.

  Just one, the beastly hunger inside Garrick seemed to say, just one to make it all go away.

  But Garrick was no fool.

  Commander Koric pushed through the throng, and leapt upon a table.

  “Desert knights!” he yelled, holding his hands high.

  To Garrick’s surprise, the chaos faded.

  The commander’s jaw took a firm set, and his eyes blazed green in the magelight. The curve of his sword gleamed at his side. He was a thin man, but gnarled, and with the battle-ready muscles and hawkish features that seemed so perfectly made for the desert he lived in.

  The calmness that grew among the desert knights was simple and pure, like the sun rising. Koric’s leadership was natural, clear, and perhaps, the most impressive thing Garrick had ever seen. It was like watching a horseman manage a belligerent stallion, or a summer rain come to replace a thunderstorm.

 
; “We are under attack,” Koric said. “But we are prepared. We have trained so often for this that even Lord Takril has grown bored of it.”

  Several of the desert knights actually laughed at this.

  Another explosion rumbled in the distance.

  Koric spoke of their plans and procedures, and he reminded them of their creed: remain calm, look out after your compatriots, and do your job.

  “Gather round your leaders! Do your duties!” he called to them, raising a clenched fist. “Let us prove ourselves to these wizards who have been foolish enough to attack our city! We are desert knights! It is time to defend our home!”

  The knights clattered their swords and roared their approval.

  “To your stations!”

  They split quickly into teams, some moving toward the shaft and others to stairwells that led upward. The floor shook harder than before, and a fresh wave of Koradictine sorcery filtered through the tunnel.

  Darien caught hold of Commander Koric’s bicep.

  “Where are our weapons?” he asked in a voice ragged with desperation.

  “Grab one of ours if you wish,” he replied.

  “I want my sword,” Darien said. “You gave me your word.”

  Koric nodded and removed himself from Darien’s grip.

  “You’ll find it in the storehouse upstairs. Now get out of my way before I have you locked up.”

  Darien picked a blade from the rack, weighed it in his hand, and examined its curve. Seemingly satisfied, he turned to Garrick.

  “Arm yourself?”

  Garrick picked another short weapon, and felt its balance. The movement itself seemed to fight the hunger that was now boiling inside him.

  “The shaft is certain death,” Darien said, gazing out the chamber.

  “The stairwell it is,” Garrick replied.

  The pair raced across the room, leaping over cots and footlockers before coming to a utility passage. It was half stairway, half trail—a tight gap hewn from raw rock that led upward. The lighting in it was so dim that Darien’s shadow made Garrick’s pathway pitch dark.

  They ran up it, though.

  Sweat broke on his brow, and his chest burned with exertion. He stumbled and struggled to keep up. The rattle of armor and swords filled the space above. An explosion roared, and sandstone chips fell from the ceiling. It was hard to concentrate. Hard to focus.