Scholar of Decay (19 page)

Aurek’s jaw dropped, but no sound emerged. He had nothing to fuel a scream; the sudden pain had forced all the air from his lungs. He struggled to fill them, injured hand cradled against his chest. Then he realized …

 … he’d lost the amulet!

That which had been lost was found. With it clutched in the more functional of his hands, he led the other two back toward the entrance to the catacombs. The living thing he’d retrieved it from was not their concern.

Handkerchief wrapped awkwardly around his bleeding finger, Aurek followed the power signature of the amulet just as he’d followed the power signatures of a dozen pieces of junk he’d found abandoned in Pont-a-Museau. He squinted through the storm’s sudden fury, saw three shadows rounding a distant corner, and pounded after them as fast as he was able.

Splashing through the gutter, he slipped on a cracked paving stone. Without thinking, he threw out a hand to catch himself and slammed his injured finger into the ground. This time, though he had breath enough to scream, he didn’t have the energy to waste.

He had to get the amulet back; without it he’d never find the shielded workshop.

Lunging around the corner, he could barely make out his quarry crossing a flooded street.

There was something about the way they were moving.… The more analytical part of his brain worried at it while the rest concerned itself solely with recovering Natalia’s best chance.

He caught up to them as they passed under a narrow portico. Out of the obscuring storm, there could be no mistaking what they were.

Undead.

Zombies.

His studies having made him familiar with the theory of necromancy, it never occurred to Aurek that he should be afraid. He could, if he so desired, create similar creatures. Better creatures, he observed disdainfully, noting how every step seemed likely to shake the trio apart. Under tattered clothing, gray skin had cracked in a number of places like badly tanned leather. He could see the amulet swinging from a rotting hand, but two of the zombies were between him and the artifact. Rage propelling him over the last few feet, he grabbed the closest arm and threw the zombie out of his way …

 … intended to throw the zombie out of his way. The arm ripped right off the shoulder, ball and socket separating with a brittle cracking sound. Beetles that had been living in the joint scurried away from the sudden wet. Aurek stared down at what he held, noted how his fingers made no impression on the woodlike flesh and, with a grimace of disgust, flung the arm away.

The remaining arm caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head. Ears ringing, Aurek staggered back, tripped, and fell under a second swing that would have opened his throat had it connected.

I haven’t time for this!

He kicked out and, off-balance, the one-armed zombie stumbled back against its companions. The staggering dance that resulted as the three tried to keep their footing would have been funny under other circumstances. As it was, Aurek used the time to collect his scattered thoughts.

Unlike Dmitri, who’d wasted countless hours practicing with an ugly assortment of weapons, he was no fighter. It was obvious that in order to get to the zombie with the amulet, he’d have to fight the other two. Their apparently fragile condition aside, Aurek doubted he’d win and, even if by some wild chance he did, during the time it would take him to destroy the first two, piece by piece, the third zombie could easily disappear with the amulet. Once the amulet was in the workshop, he’d never find it through the protective shielding. If he couldn’t find the amulet, he couldn’t find the workshop.

He couldn’t risk it. He had to settle things definitively before that could happen.

As a scholar, he’d had little use for the more aggressive spells, but he was glad now that he’d taken the time to study them—both in Borca and early this morning when he’d prepared weapons for the day’s search through the Narrows. Rolling the tiny ball of sulfur and bat guano against the palm of his right hand, he found his focus, pointed, and shouted out the range.

He hadn’t expected them to burn with such violence.

Perhaps the blood, inadvertently added to the spell by his damaged finger, gave it extra power. Perhaps the three had been undead
for so long the years had sucked all moisture from their bodies, leaving them tinder-dry. When the fireball exploded, all three zombies were instantly consumed. The rain hissed as it hit but had no effect on the roaring ball of flame.

On his knees, Aurek shielded his face with his arm. The wet cloth steamed. He could feel his forehead tightening from the heat.

One heartbeat. Two. Then it was over.

Aurek staggered to his feet, coughing and choking. His throat burned from the heated air he’d inhaled; his head pounded from the unanticipated power surge; tears poured down his cheeks as his body attempted to clear the acrid smoke from his eyes.

The heat had been so intense that the stones in front of him—pavement, building, and portico—were white, not black. All three bodies had been so completely consumed not even ash remained.

But where was the amulet?

Barely noticing that the rain had once again become a constant, soaking drizzle, he circled the parameter of the fireball, desperately looking for a glint of gold. It took all his strength to wait, but the stones were still too hot to walk on. Not until the rain began to make a darker pattern against the blasted white did he step forward. He could feel the results of the fireball through the soles of his boots, but he couldn’t hold back any longer.

Where was the amulet? Had the zombie carrying it thrown it aside at the last minute?

Palms clapped to his throbbing temples, Aurek reached out and searched, power to power.

Down?

How could it …

His gaze dropped to the crack between the pavement and the building. A howl began to build in the back of his throat as he threw himself to his knees, ignoring the pain as the stone scorched
his seeking hand. A faint residue of gold remained on the crumbling marble edge of the crack. He picked at it, unable to make the hole any larger, unwilling to acknowledge the horrendous result of his attack. Unable to ignore it.

The heat of the fireball had melted the soft metal, and the molten gold had poured through a crack in the stone sheath that enclosed the city. In a thousand places a strong kick would’ve opened up a way to retrieve it. In a thousand places … but not this one. Aurek flung himself against it, but blood and bone lost the battle to stone. He could sense where the gold had gone, knew it still held power enough to lead him to the workshop, but try as he might, he couldn’t reach it.

The pain in his hand became nothing to the pain in his heart as a howl of despair clawed its way free.

The blood-scent had drawn the hunters from their dens. The sound of despair quickened their pace.

Louise listened, head cocked, as the goblin she’d been hunting scurried down a narrow side passage it obviously believed too small for her to negotiate. Idiot, she thought. They never seemed to learn that size could be misleading, and the family could maneuver through areas too small for goblins. Of course goblins, she added silently, are notoriously thickheaded.

As she was hunting for fun, she allowed her prey to gain a little distance while she groomed a flank and wondered what was taking Aurek Nuikin so long. Although she’d slept earlier, she didn’t enjoy being up in the day, nor did she enjoy being kept waiting; both made her irritable.

If the delay was a result of something as simple as an inability to find the entrance to the catacombs, Aurek obviously wasn’t powerful enough to be of any use to her. If the delay meant that he’d run into an inhabitant in the Narrows he couldn’t handle, the same conclusion applied. If he was just taking his time, he was extremely fortunate that she needed to test him or, when he finally appeared, the guardian in the workshop would be the least of his worries.

She’d wait for him until she finished with the goblin. If he hadn’t appeared by then, he’d better be dead in the Narrows—or he was going to wish he were.

Mangy fur plastered to near-skeletal bodies, the pack of feral dogs followed the blood-scent to the edge of the portico. In the Narrows they were as often prey as predator and so approached with caution. Although the rain had washed away the smoke, hackles rose at the lingering scent of power.

Had it not been for the blood drawing them forward …