The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe (41 page)

She grinned and he saw in her eyes both fear—not inspired by the hound’s howl, but by what he might do if he wasn’t stopped. And he saw a wild recklessness. That, above anything else, scared him.

“Keros and Ellyn aren’t going to get here in time to help,” she said softly, turning her back on the Maida and scanning the nearby buildings, searching for signs of the hound. “If they even survived.”

Her words sent a shiver down his spine and he knew exactly what she planned to do. She was going to face down the hound alone. But from her description, that was suicide, even for someone with her skills. Her next actions confirmed his thoughts.

“Got an extra one of those?” Margaret asked, turning back to Red. She pointed to his lance.

The delat had gained some color back in his face and no longer clung desperately to his weapon to hold him up. He looked at Margaret narrowly. “These are sacred weapons of Chayos and only for her delats.”

“That’s all very nice, but right now, that beast is driving you all to your knees and I don’t think this barrier is going to protect you when he gets here. I’m going to be the one standing between you and that thing and I’m fairly certain that you’d rather I wasn’t just waving my hands at him.”

Just then another howl came. It was close. Too close. Nicholas’s heart spasmed and he felt his bladder and bowels starting to loosen. He held himself on a tight rein. Still the fear drove him to his knees. He clamped his hands over his ears, but the sound seemed to burrow through his flesh and bones to the deepest part of him. He fought it with all his strength, hardly aware of anything else.

Once again it faded slowly. He found himself curled up on the ground, his heart beating like a woodpecker’s pounding beak. Margaret squatted down beside him, but she wasn’t looking at him. Red had dropped to the ground, his face twisted in a mask of horror and fear.

“So can I borrow that?” Margaret asked. There was a slight shake to her voice. “I’ll give it back when I’m done. If Chayos doesn’t like it, I’m sure she’ll be the first to let me know.”

With a jerky movement, Red pushed to his feet and thrust his lance toward her. “Careful,” he rasped. “The blade is of the goddess herself. Do not touch it.”

Margaret took it and stood up. Nicholas rolled onto his stomach and clambered to his feet. His stomach lurched and he turned and splattered its contents on the ground. He faced back to her, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Better get me one of those too,” he said, his voice scratchy and thin. “I’m not letting you do this alone.”

Her brows rose in silent question, but she said nothing. She turned back to Red. “What about another?”

He looked at his other delats. Many had fallen to their knees. But whether from deeply ingrained habit or something else, each had kept their blades pointed upright, even the sword-bearers. Red went and took the lance from a young woman who remained on her feet, her face gray, her eyes squeezed shut. As soon as he took it, she crumpled to the ground. He looked at her a moment, then handed the weapon to Nicholas.

“Chayos bless you both,” he said. “What we can do to help, we will.”

“Thank you,” Margaret said.

Then they all heard the harsh rasp of hot panting and the crunch of stone and wood as if something large padded across a pile of rubble. The sound was loud, despite the rain.

“It’s here,” Margaret said in a brittle voice.

They both swiveled around to watch the monster approach. With him came a wave of fear that was almost tangible.

The beast was larger than Nicholas’s bay gelding by three feet and it was four times as heavy at least. It padded along with heavy steps. Its coat was smooth and short and colored in a mix of grays and purples. Margaret had described him as being the color of twilight and she was right. Sunset-colored brindles ran down his bull-like shoulders over his back and haunches. His head was massive—broad and heavy with short ears and heavy jaws. His mouth hung open as he panted. His muzzle was long and bony, with long curving teeth. Between them lolled a long black tongue. His eyes were disks of old gold in his black face. They shone through the gray drizzle.

He emerged from between two half-demolished buildings. He stopped and raised his head, sweeping it from side to side as he sniffed the air. Margaret nudged Nicholas’s arm, and jogged across the open plaza beside the Maida. It gave them both more room to swing their lances and fight the beast.

Her touch broke the spell of fear that had rolled ahead of the god hound and buried Nicholas beneath a smothering tide of terror. He shuddered and then took a hard hold of himself, tightening his grip on the spear as if it were his lifeline in a turbulent sea. Behind him he heard moans and whimpers, but kept his attention fixed on Forcan.

New fear ripped through him when he saw the creature’s gaze hone in on Margaret as if he’d been searching for her. The hound’s head dropped and his eyes narrowed to slits. Its black tongue swiped around its muzzle as if in hungry anticipation and it began to stalk forward. Suddenly Nicholas realized that the mother-dibbling bastard hadn’t come to attack the Maida at all.

It had come for Margaret.

Margaret held the lance steady in front of her as she trotted across the plaza. She felt it the moment the hound’s gaze locked on her. She’d expected to freeze when she saw it again, but instead fury roared up inside her like a forest fire. As it turned to follow her, her lips peeled back in a vicious grin and violent energy streamed through her muscles. The beast wanted her, did it? Good. Let the bastard come.

She turned to face it, holding the lance out before her. It was well balanced and weighed less than she expected. She swung it from side to side, getting a feel for its heft. It was no heavier than a quarterstaff, though it was a good eleven feet in length. She raised it, holding it ready.

The hound advanced on her with slow, deliberate steps. She watched it, rolling forward on the balls of her feet, waiting for it to charge.

“Nicholas?” she asked in a low voice, not daring to look away. She half expected him not to answer. The waves of fear radiating from the beast were tangible. They buffeted against her, though she did not succumb. But then, after what Atreya and Saradapul had done to her, she didn’t think she would fear anything ever again.

Except her nightmares.

“Twenty feet on your left,” Nicholas answered, his voice rock steady.

Margaret felt a rush of something akin to relief, except that it was far more rich and wonderful than that. She’d never in her life had a partner of any kind. She’d always worked alone. Her father had meant for her to never need to depend on anyone else. If she got into trouble, she’d always known that no one was going to come to her rescue. But twice Nicholas had come when she needed someone most. To hear him answer, to know that she was not alone in this fight—it gave her strength.

“It’s come for
you
,” he said. “It’s not paying any attention to me. I’ll come at it from the side.”

Margaret sidestepped to the right, pulling Forcan’s attention farther from Nicholas. But she wondered if it could be killed.

It drew closer. It was now no more than fifty paces away. Its claws clicked on the cobblestones. Each one was as long as her forearm and wickedly hooked. It was the only sound the beast made. It no longer even panted; its muzzle was closed as it honed in on Margaret.

She firmed her grip on the lance, her muscles tightening as she prepared for its pounce.

It was fast. Faster than she imagined it could be. It bounded forward. Margaret leaped aside, swiping at its front leg. She missed. The long blade swiped through the air, wrenching her off balance. She heard the snap of teeth and Forcan’s shoulder slammed against her. She hit the ground and rolled, never letting go of her weapon.

She came to her feet and spun to face the hound again, and stared in shock. A stripe of brilliant gold creased its front left leg. She’d cut it. Her blade had passed right through it and she’d not felt a thing. Another crease of gold ran down its right ribs where Nicholas had struck it with his spear. Forcan lifted its head and let out a long keening sound. It knifed through the bones of Margaret’s head, sending streaks of fire down every nerve of her body. Her hands spasmed and her grip on the lance loosened as her legs trembled and sagged.

Fiercely she clamped her hands tighter and firmed her legs. The pain she pushed aside easily—she’d borne worse. A mad idea struck her. It could work. Forcan was distracted and not paying attention to her. She didn’t take time to consider. She began running, holding her lance at an upward angle. She thought she heard Nicholas shout her name but Forcan’s keening made it impossible to tell.

She felt like she was moving terribly slowly. The hound did not notice her. She could see now that Nicholas had not merely cut Forcan, but he’d driven his lance deep into the beast’s side. The wood shaft protruded at an angle. There was no blood, but the wound gaped, the gold light of the hound’s insides swirling and bubbling like molten glass.

Did she drive her spear into the same spot? But no. She had no idea if the creature had a heart. And its pained howling had given her a better target—and a far more dangerous one.

She slid her forward hand back along the shaft so she held only the last foot of it in her hands. If Forcan snapped at her, she’d be in no position to defend herself. She lifted the point of the lance, aiming for the beast’s unprotected throat. If she was lucky—if she was tall enough and had enough strength—she could drive the point all the way up into its skull.

Chayos help me
, she whispered, then vaulted up onto Forcan’s heavy paw, thrusting the lance up through its throat and shoving it as hard as she could.

For a single grain there was still silence. Then came a sound that shattered the world. The paw she stood on flung itself upward. She felt herself flying through the air. Grains later she smashed against the ground and she knew nothing more.

 

It surprised her when she woke. She blinked her eyes. Above her she saw a beamed ceiling, the knotty wood interspersed with strips of whitewashed plaster. The grooved white was streaked with gray from woodsmoke. Somewhere close she heard the unintelligible murmur of voices and other noises. She tried to turn her head to look, but she couldn’t. Then she became aware that she couldn’t feel anything below her neck.

Horror swept her. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the clawing panic that rose up inside her. She could be healed. Keros could do it. Or Ellyn.
If they were alive
. She swallowed hard and opened her eyes. Her head throbbed like someone was pounding on it. Her mouth was dry as sawdust. “Is there anyone there?”

She heard sudden movement. “Margaret?”

It was Nicholas. His fingers brushed her brow and he leaned over into her line of sight. Both of his eyes were black and swollen nearly shut. His nose was pulpy and crooked. It was broken in at least two spots.

“You look like your horse kicked you in the face. What happened to you?”

His mouth twitched in a poor effort at a smile. “I stabbed the hound and the lance shaft caught me in the face.”

“Improved your looks by far. Makes you almost handsome.” She paused. She didn’t want to ask what had happened to her. “Where are we?”

“The Gold Anchor Inn. Half of it was destroyed, but there are a few rooms left and the kitchen and dining room still stand.” He pushed his hand along the side of her head. She winced and he pulled away. “Sorry.”

“No. It just feels like the horse that kicked you is now stomping around in my head.” She started to cough and panic swept her again when she couldn’t feel anything below her throat. She started to breathe fast and tears leaked down the sides of her face as she struggled to move, to twitch even her little toe.

“Shh . . . shhh,” Nicholas said, bending close and pressing her face between his hands. “It’s going to be all right. The delats sent some of their own to watch for Ellyn and Keros. As soon as they get here, they’ll help you. You’ll be all right.
You’ll be all right
. Just calm down now. Breathe slow. Easy now. It’s going to be all right.”

He bent close so that their breath mingled. For a moment Margaret remembered their kiss in the rain. It had felt so—

She squeezed her eyes shut again, pushing the memory away. It wouldn’t go. She remembered his arms wrapping hard around her, his mouth hungry on hers. The feeling was so real that her eyes popped open. She stared up at him, just inches away.

She couldn’t help herself. “Why? What do you want?”

He knew instantly what she was asking. “You. I want you.”

She couldn’t look away. “Weverton and Rampling? That’s fire and oil.”

“So we’ll burn up. We’ll do it together.” He gently pressed his thumbs over her lips. “Don’t say no.”

She bit the tip of her tongue, wanting nothing more than to jump up and run away. Or pull his mouth down to hers and wrap herself around him. She could do neither. Even if her body would let her, there were secrets between them, and too much history. “Forcan?” she asked, switching the subject to safer waters.

“Gone. You drove your lance clear up into its brain-pan. It made a godsawful noise and tossed you aside like an empty flour sack. When you landed—”

He broke off, his jaw clenching, his mouth rimmed with white. “There was a bright flash—like the sun— then the hound vanished. I don’t know if it’s dead or if it just ran back to where it came from. But it’s gone for now.”

“The wizard priests had to summon it. If it’s gone back to its own realm, then it will probably take another summoning to bring it back.” Something itched at the back of her mind. Something about . . . She tried to focus on it and it slipped away. She reached after it and . . . nothing. She frowned.

“What is it?”