Sentinelspire (16 page)

“I can handle them if you’ll—”

The Vaasan threw. Berun twisted to the side and his left hand shot out to grab the spear as it passed where his chest had been only an instant before. He regained his posture and brought the spear around in guard position. The Vaasan drew his knife and backed away to make room for the other spearmen.

Sauk swiped his hand across his face to clear away the mud. “Damn it, Kheil, stop this! I don’t want to hurt you.”

“My name is Berun.” He feinted with the spear, causing Merzan to back up a step.

The others were closing in. In moments, Berun and Lewan would be encircled. The other Vaasan, still holding a spear, was only a half-dozen paces from Lewan.

“Val?” called Sauk, though he never took his eyes off Berun. “You got your spell ready?”

Val reached into his pouch and grinned. “Ready and waiting, boss.”

“Then do—”

Berun stepped forward and thrust as if to throw at Valmir. It was a feint, but the assassin fell for it. He tried to sidestep but slipped in the mud and went down cursing. Berun followed through with the feint, and brought the spear round in a throw. This one he let fly. It took the second Vaasan just below the ribs. The man screamed and fell back, but he kept hold of his spear.

The assassins charged, Sauk leading them, but Berun was already on the move, running for Lewan. He grabbed his disciple by the clasp of his cloak and pulled him along, running downhill and away from the assassins.

Lewan felt a spear catch in his cloak, but in three strides it pulled loose. He and Berun didn’t slow. They ducked around the grove of aspens that formed their shelter. Lewan’s foot slipped in a pile of rain-slicked leaves and he started to go down, but Berun hauled him up and pushed Lewan onward with a whispered, “Go!” Berun hugged the edge of the aspens with his knife held low.

Lewan stopped, holding his own knife ready. He saw a look of anger cross his master’s face at the disobedience, but there was no time to argue. Gerrell, the man whom Sauk had used to bait Berun into the ravine, came round the aspens. He had a spear in one hand and a knife in the other. He caught sight of Lewan, his eyes lit with success, then Berun brought his own knife up. The strength of the strike combined with Gerrell’s own momentum doomed him. Four inches or more of sharp steel passed through his throat. Blood sprayed across Berun and the white aspen bark, and a great fountain of it drenched Lewan as the man crashed to the ground. Gerrell punched and kicked, splashing mud and red-tinged water as his lungs filled with his own blood.

Berun jumped over the man and grabbed the clasp of Lewan’s cloak. He ripped it off and turned to face Dren. Sauk and the others were right behind him. Berun held his knife in guard position and whipped the heavy wet cloak before him. It wouldn’t stop a spear, but it might tangle and deflect it.

A shadow moving at the edge of his vision was the only warning Lewan had. He turned in time to see one of the assassins—he must have come round the other side of the aspens—a malicious grin on his face and the spear coming forward.

Lewan tried to fall away, but it was too late. The poison-coated spike plunged into the muscle between his left shoulder and chest. Through skin and flesh, he felt it scrape along the bone then plunge deep. He screamed, more in shock than pain, for his left side around the wound went suddenly numb.
Without thinking, his other hand with the knife lashed out. His blade opened a deep gash up the left side of his attacker’s face. The man shrieked and backed away, but the spear remained lodged in place.

Screams came from behind him, but he couldn’t make out their meaning. The numbness was spreading up his neck and into his face, and a loud hum was growing in his ears.

“Masss …” he called out, but it faded into a groan as his knees buckled.

His master came into his field of vision. Lewan’s cloak was gone, and Berun’s right hand was a mass of wet redness from his elbow down to the tip of his knife. He yanked the spear out of Lewan, tossed it in the direction of their attackers, and pulled Lewan after him down the hill.

Something hit him. Lewan didn’t see it coming, but he felt a massive weight smash into them, and even as his master’s grip broke and he went down, the thick scent of the tiger hit him. The world spun round Lewan, but he managed to push himself to his hands and knees and look up. Only a few paces away, his master held the tiger at bay with his knife. Sauk and his assassins were just beyond the great cat.

The tiger snarled and swiped at the knife with one paw. Berun avoided the blow and stepped back.

Lewan could see Sauk shouting something, but he couldn’t hear the words. The roaring in his ears had drowned out all other sound. He could no longer feel his left arm. His jaw hung open, and try as he might, he could not close it.

The tiger backed away a step and crouched, flexing her muscles to pounce. Her lips curled back over her teeth, her haunches lifted in preparation to launch her massive body at Berun—

And a small missile hit her on the head. Perch, biting and clawing. The tiger roared—Lewan could feel it in his chest and the ground beneath him even though he could not hear it—and shook her head back and forth. But the little lizard
held tight. The tiger only managed to shake him down onto her face.

The tiger ceased shaking and swiped her right paw, claws extended, at the lizard. Perch leaped at the last possible instant, and the tiger’s claws raked through her own eyelid and gouged the eye beneath. She screamed, and Lewan saw Sauk’s eyes go wide, first in shock, then in fury.

Maddened by pain, the tiger barreled away, plowing right into Valmir and sending him crashing into a thorn bush.

Sauk descended on Berun. Lewan saw that all mercy and all remembrance of their friendship was gone, replaced by complete rage. The half-orc brought his sword around in a backhand sweep that would have beheaded his master had Berun not thrown himself back. But the move cost him. On the slope in the slick mud, Berun slipped and fell. He hit a carpet of leaves made slick by the rain and seasons of rot. He slid several paces down the hill and might have gone all the way to the bottom had a large brake of holly not caught him.

Color was fading from the world, and shadows were closing in round the edges of Lewan’s vision. Still the roaring filled his ears, but in those last moments he thought he heard a voice behind the roaring—a raspy, smoky voice chanting a rough sing-song. An incantation, almost.

Lewan’s left arm collapsed under him and he rolled to one side. But he kept his eyes open, fixed on his master, who was rising from the holly, covered in mud, leaves, ages-old pine needles, and blood. Sauk was still coming down the hill, right for him.

A huge patch of ground erupted before Berun, scattering leaves, branches, and the rotted remains of an old tree. The ground rose up, almost three times taller than Sauk. Shaped almost like a man it was—or a half-formed shape of a man, like the beginning of a sculptor’s statue. It dripped mud and leaves, and branches protruded from its torso and head.

Stunned, mouth agape, Sauk slid to a stop only a couple of paces from the shambling mound of man-shaped earth. But the thing fell upon Berun. In the final instant before it struck, Lewan could have sworn he saw a mouth open at the crown of the man-shaped earth. It grew and grew until the mouth took up most of its torso. It closed over Berun, and the mound lost all shape, becoming nothing more than a wave of undulating earth and detritus.

The earth settled again, but Berun was gone. Blackness closed over Lewan, and he didn’t feel his face strike the wet ground.

A
wareness returned little by little. First the sensation of warmth. Not like fire, nor even sunshine. A soft warmness. Then sound, though it was no more than a breeze sighing over stone. Then scent. Many subtle aromas—fire, both wood smoke and the spicy aroma of candles, clean water, the particular thin scent air takes at high altitudes, and the sweet smell of spring blossoms—all blending in a pleasant whole. Last of all came true awareness.

Lewan opened his eyes. He lay in a soft bed wide enough for five people, his head nestled on goose down pillows, his body wrapped in silk sheets over which had been laid a soft coverlet sewn of rabbit skins.

The room around him was … luxurious. Lewan knew the word, though he had only been able to ascribe meaning to it from bard’s tales. Never had he seen such opulence. A massive stone fireplace centered the wall opposite his bed. A fire was burning to embers in it. The bed itself lay under a canopy around which a netting of sheer red fabric had been pulled up. Tiles the color of rich cream lined the floor, over which lay thick rugs. A door of some wood the hue of burnt cinnamon centered the wall to the right of his bed. Scented
candles burned throughout the room. The wall to the left of his bed opened onto a balcony, beyond which Lewan could see blue sky interspersed with high, thin clouds, fine as gossamer strands. Even through the scent of wood smoke and candle wax, he could tell that the air was thinner, crisper, yet a scent of many growing things pervaded all. Mountain air—but
lush
mountain air.

Lewan sat up, and a tiny spark of pain ran through his left shoulder. He looked down and realized two things. First, he was naked and completely clean. Even his hair had been washed and trimmed, his face freshly shaved. Second, the wound near his shoulder was no more than a pale blotch of skin with the slick-smooth sheen of magical healing. His last memory was the morning on the hillside in the Khopet-Dag. The assassin had sneaked up on him and plunged the poisoned spear into his shoulder. Obviously the poison had been meant to subdue him, not kill him. The earth had risen up and swallowed his master. Or had it? Lewan had been unable to hear anything, save for a strange chanting, and his vision had not been clear. Had that been a dream?

The door opened, and in walked a girl. She seemed close to Lewan’s age, perhaps a bit older. The slight cant to her eyes, the long hair the color of a raven’s eye, and skin the color of honeyed wax gave her the look of one of the Shou. She carried a bundle of folded cloth before her.

Her eyes widened at the sight of Lewan sitting up in bed. She nudged the door closed with one foot, then bowed. “I am Ulaan, your servant. I have brought you clean clothes.”

“My … servant?” She was dressed like no servant he had ever seen. Her dress, the color of sunset on the clouds and of a simple cut, was made from silk that would have befitted the daughter of the wealthiest merchant trading along the Golden Way.

“I serve the Old Man,” she said, “Lord of Sentinelspire. You are his honored guest. I am to see to your every need. Should I displease, another servant will be provided for you.”

Lewan swallowed. His eyes stayed on the girl, but his attention focused inward. Servant? Honored guest? None of this made any sense.

“You wish for me to send for another?” Ulaan still had not risen from her bow. Her gaze was fixed on the fine rug before her, and as Lewan’s attention returned to her, he noticed that her posture offered a generous gaze down the front of her dress.

Lewan blushed and averted his gaze. “Uh, no. That … that’s won’t be necessary, thank you.”

“Thank me for what?” Ulaan rose and looked at Lewan. Her expression was one of complete deference, but there was a coy spark in her eye.

“Where am I?” asked Lewan. “How did I get here?”

“You are the guest of the Old Man of the Mountain,” said Ulaan. “Others will tell you the tale in full, I am sure. It is my task to see that your needs are met.” She lifted the folded bundles of cloth. “I have brought you clean clothes. Yours could not be saved. Shall I dress you?”

Lewan’s blush deepened. “No! That, uh … that won’t be necessary, thank you.”

“Young master, my sister Bataar and I bathed and shaved you, and I have tended you since your arrival. You have nothing that I have not seen and touched.”