City of Sorcerers (31 page)

Just when they had decided he was not going to answer, the old sorcerer shook his head. "We used Bitorn against himself. That was the irony of our plan." His long fingers gestured toward the blue sky. "Magic is not the only ancient power in the mortal world. The gods have left traces of their divinity in many places that men do not yet understand. Bitorn was a brilliant man with an indefatigable desire to learn and an obsession to avoid death."

"Then why did he become a priest of Sorh?" questioned Savaron, surprised.

"Two reasons, I think. If he could serve Lord Sorh as a devoted servant, perhaps the god of death would look favorably on his service and allow him to live longer.

Then, he could learn all there was to know about death and find a way to avoid it entirely."

"Immortality?"
Kelene exclaimed. "Did he succeed?"

"Partially. He discovered that every mortal soul has a trace of the gods' ancient power. When a person dies, this power that chains the soul to the body leaks away, allowing the soul to escape its mortal shell. By learning how to steal that energy and absorb it into himself, Bitorn made his soul virtually invulnerable." The Korg's hands clenched into fists. "He also slaughtered dozens of people before we realized what he was doing."

"The Oathbreakers told us he was stealing our life-force. Is that what you mean?"

queried Rafnir.

"Yes," said the Korg. "His spirit became so strong, we could not kill him. The power of his soul preserved his body from fatal injury. All we could do was imprison him in a tomb and hope that he would eventually weaken and truly die." Savaron grunted. "But we got there first."

"Unfortunately." The Korg continued to walk beside the Hunnuli, his expression grim. "His body must have died shortly before you found him, but he had enough energy left in his soul to avoid Sorh's Harbingers and eventually escape the opened tomb. Is his body still intact?"

"We don't know," replied Rafnir. "We didn't open the coffin."

"If the coffin is undamaged, chances are his body is still complete," mused the old sorcerer.

"So?" prompted Kelene.

The Korg sighed. "That's why he wants the life-force so badly. If he can gain enough strength, he can rejuvenate his body and live again."

"Is that so bad? It might be easier to kill him if he is in a mortal body," Morad said, patting his sword hilt.

"You don't understand. Bitorn was right. It took
seven
of us to imprison him in the mound. His soul is so powerful he can manipulate the hidden centers of our thoughts, lend his force to dead bodies and animate them, and resist all but the most powerful spells. As a wraith, he is more vulnerable because he must use a great deal of energy to stay in the mortal realm. Once he is joined to his body, though, the strength of his soul will protect him from mortality. He will be virtually indestructible."

"I don't understand," complained Savaron. "This life-force and magic seem very similar. What's the difference? And why does Bitorn use this other power when he is so opposed to magic?"

"A few other magic-wielders and I wondered the same thing," the old Korg replied. "We never had a chance to understand Bitorn's work, because he destroyed all of his papers and manuscripts before we caught him. But we did learn that magic is a much older power, springing from creation itself. It is more complex and can only be used by mortals with Valorian's blood. But the life-force is not as ancient. It seems to originate from Lord Sorh. It is Amara who breathes life into our bodies, but it is Lord Sorh who claims the soul at death."

"So anyone could use this power?" Rafnir asked.

"Anyone with the knowledge and desire. It is not an easy energy to command."

"Is Bitorn serious about destroying all the magic-wielders?" Kelene asked quietly.

"Completely." The Korg was emphatic. "Even before we brought him to trial for murder, Bitorn's mind had become affected by the power he had already absorbed. He was completely obsessed by what he called his
holy duty
." They had reached their shelter in the crumbling building, and the Hunnuli came to a stop by Afer.

Rafnir turned his gaze to the shadowed interior where his father lay, and he said morosely, "Bitorn has already made a good start." He thought of his mother so slim and alive, of his friend Ritan, of laughing Coren, and so many others he would never see again. His voice went deadly cold. "How do we destroy the wraith?"

"I don't know. From what you tell me, there are not enough skilled magic-wielders left to stop him."

"There aren't going to be any," Kelene said sharply, "if we don't find the healers'

records."

The Korg's eyebrows rose. "What healers' records?"

"That's why we came here; to look for any records left behind by your healers that might help us fight this plague."

"Is it that bad?"

For an answer, Rafnir pulled the Korg into the shelter and pointed to Sayyed.

"See for yourself."

Kelene brushed past them both to kneel by the warrior's side. Cup in hand, she lifted his head and let a trickle of angelica tea flow into his mouth. "It begins like this: a high fever and these painful swellings in the neck." Her fingers gently touched the lumps under Sayyed's jaw. He moaned at her feather-light pressure, and the white cat growled protectively. "The pestilence kills within several days," she added, "and we have nothing to stop it."

The Korg stared, horrified, at Sayyed, understanding for the first time the calamity that had driven these clanspeople to his city. He stirred, and rubbed a hand over his chin. "I don't know if you will find what you need in this city. I don't remember anything like your plague striking our people. There was some pestilence in Pra Desh at that time. Maybe Bitorn found a way to store it and take it with him.

Maybe it is a disease of his own corruption."

"Well, we can look can't we?" Rafnir flared, his patience suddenly at an end.

"Bitorn must think there is something here we can use. Why else would he leave the gathering to follow a few magic-wielders all the way to Moy Tura? Did the healers have any kind of books or manuscripts or anything that described their healing spells?"

"I don't know." The sorcerer was trying to think, but Rafnir's outburst had flustered him.

"You don't know a lot, old man! Think! I've lost my mother and half my clan to this disease. I will not let it take any more." Wearing a scowl, Rafnir strode back outside before his anger and raised voice disturbed his father. The men followed, leaving Sayyed in the more peaceful company of his cat.

Kelene checked the warrior one more time. She sighed with pity at the handsome, powerful man lying helplessly in a sweat-soaked coma while an unseen foe ravaged his body. Her heart ached at the thought of losing his vibrant humor and charming smile.

Quietly she left him and dug through the packs to find some of Tomian's clothes that they had saved. The young Geldring had been bigger than the Korg, but his brown tunic, lightweight pants, and soft leather boots ought to fit the Korg well enough for now.

Outside, she found the men morosely studying the ruins around them and saying very little to each other. The tension was so thick she could almost see it. She handed the clothes to the Korg, who accepted them with a wan smile, and she waited while he dressed. As she feared, the pants were too wide and the boots too big. She was about to suggest the use of a dagger and a needle and thread when he spoke an easy spell and altered them to fit his smaller frame.

"I haven't had to do that in a while," he said to Kelene. His eyes shifted apologetically to the men standing about. "I'm sorry I'm not much help. I was not a healer, and they kept their secrets within their guild."

Kelene, arms crossed, regarded him steadily. "We knew it was a slim chance. Is there anything you can suggest? Some place we could just look?"

He pondered her question and finally suggested, "You could try their hall."

Rafnir snapped alert. "What hall?"

The Korg looked at the warehouse and down the streets. "It has been so long since I tried to remember what these ruined buildings used to be. The Healers' Hall was a big, two-floored building not far from here. . . with a garden courtyard, if I remember."

"Beside a temple to Amara?" Kelene asked excitedly. At the Korg's nod, she smiled. "We know where that is."

Rafnir's expression brightened with recognition, and the two of them led the others through the alleys and streets to the courtyard where they had found the eagle.

Kelene took a quick glance around and was relieved to see Demira was off somewhere, probably foraging for grass or strengthening her new wings. She winked at Rafnir, glad she did not have to explain her horse's radical new appearance at that particular moment.

The Korg was looking quizzically at the broken columns around the courtyard and at the heaps of weathered and crumbled masonry on the foundation of the building he had indicated. "This must be it," he muttered as if to himself.

The clanspeople needed no more encouragement than that. They fanned out and searched every crack, nook, hole, and cranny they could find in the ruined Healers'

Hall. They pulled down the remains of walls, tore apart piles of rubble, and dug through layers of packed ash and dirt.

Unfortunately there wasn't much left to examine. The attackers had been thorough when they ransacked and destroyed the building, and the years had taken anything perishable that was left. By the time the sun touched the horizon, the clanspeople had examined everything in the old foundations and found nothing. They were dispirited and unhappy when Savaron finally called a halt.

"Are you sure this is the only hall they kept?" Rafnir asked the Korg. "Didn't the healers have some other place they might have stored records?"

The sorcerer bowed his head. "None that I know of."

Morad made an aggravated grunt and threw up his hands. "Well, now what do we do? Go home?”

"We can't," Rafnir rapped out. "We'll have to keep looking."

"For what? More rocks? More lizards? Another dead end? Face it, Rafnir, this whole journey has been a waste of time. There isn't anything here but old stones."

Morad picked up one and threw it as hard as he could into the twilight. "At first light, I'm leaving. I'm going back to Geldring Treld."

"By yourself? Past the wraith?" Kelene exclaimed.

"I'll slip out the northern gate and find my own way. That stinking priest will be too busy keeping a watch for him." He jabbed a finger at the Korg.

"You won't go alone," Rafnir noted in a voice both quiet and forceful. "You'll take the plague with you. If you don't die alone somewhere on the plains, you'll make it to your treld and spread the disease to those who stayed behind."

Morad reddened, angry at himself for showing fear and angry at Rafnir for trapping him with the obvious. He was about to make a retort when an exclamation from Savaron startled everyone.

"Good gods!" he burst out. "What was that?"

The others whirled to see him staring toward the western sky. The landscape of Moy Tura was flat, so it was possible to see a long distance in areas of the ruins where the building walls were leveled. But when his companions followed Savaron's gaze, they saw nothing out of the ordinary.

"Did you see it?" Savaron said excitedly. "Over there by that far tower. It was either the biggest eagle I've ever seen or---" Frowning, he broke off and asked the Korg, "There aten't any other large beasts around here, are there?"

The old man looked anxious. "Of course not. This is my home."

"An eagle? Do you mean it was flying?" Kelene inquired in a very controlled and innocent voice. She avoided looking at anyone for fear they would see the sudden shining in her eyes. Demira, it must have been Demira!

Her brother squinted. "I think so. I only saw it briefly against the setting sun. It was
huge
!" At that, Morad shook his head in disgust. "Wonderful. Stone lions, dead priests, giant eagles. What next? I'm going to find something to eat. At least I know where the food is!" He stomped from the courtyard, his back hunched with anger.

Savaron took one last look toward the western sky, then shrugged and followed a little more slowly. The Korg trailed close behind. Kelene hesitated. She wanted to wait in the courtyard for Demira to return to find out if the filly had truly learned to fly, but the memory of Sayyed's worsening condition convinced her to return to the shelter. The warrior might need her during the night; she did not want to leave him unattended just to satisfy her own curiosity. Maybe Tibor could find out for her.

That night, while a cool wind muttered around the dingy walls, Kelene and Rafnir took turns sitting with Sayyed, keeping him as comfortable as they could while his fever climbed and the boils began to break out on his neck and arms. The little white cat never budged from his side. She lay by his head and purred frantically, as if she were trying to encourage him to fight the thing that was slowly burning up his body.

Savaron and Morad traded off guard duty again, this time just keeping a watch on the shelter. The Korg had accepted a proffered blanket and gone to sleep outdoors with the Hunnuli. Although he craved the company of people, so much of it so quickly was making him uneasy.

No one slept well. The darkness seemed interminable to them all, for it blanketed the world around them and offered nothing to distract their minds from the simple, terrible fact that they were almost out of time and no closer to a solution than they had been two days ago.

A pale pink light was painting the eastern sky when Kelene stepped from the shelter to stretch her aching back.

"Bad night," Savaron commented from his seat on a rock wall nearby. He climbed stiffly down and came to stand beside her. "Is he any better?"

She had to blink hard to stop the sudden tears. "No. I've tried everything I could think of to lower his fever; he just gets worse. If something doesn't help him soon, I don't think he'll live through another night."

The young warrior smacked his hand on his sword hilt. "There has to be something else we haven't tried. I can't believe we came all this way for nothing."