The Jewel of Turmish (12 page)

“You leave,” Two-Fingers said. “FU be glad to take your share.”

With his heart thundering in his chest and feeling as though it was going to explode at any instant, Cerril stepped through the darkened doorway. Two steps later, the candlelight revealed an elaborate coffin that occupied the center of the room.

“Rats!” Hekkel exclaimed.

“They ain’t going to hurt you,” Two-Fingers said. “They’re … they’re all dead.”

Cerril gazed down at the floor in front of the mysteri—

ous coffin. Dozens of rats, most of them reaching from the tips of his fingers to his elbow in length, lay stretched out on the floor. Only a few of the creatures had come to their deaths in recent times. Most of them were skeletons. Spiders, once industrious enough to make elaborate webs, hung dead in the center of their creations or on the floor. One of the arachnids struggled in its web. The legs twitched, but the spider gave no indication that it would ever get free.

Tymora’s blessing,” someone breathed into the stillness of the room. “Goddess look over us.”

“Cerril,” Two-Fingers called. “We shouldn’t be here. Whatever killed them rats and spiders is like to do for us as well.”

“No.” Cerril took a step forward, drawn toward the coffin in spite of the overwhelming fear that filled him. “I can’t leave.”

“Well, I can,” someone said.

“If you leave,” another said, “you don’t share in what we find down here.”

“What we find?” Hekkel repeated. “We’re gonna find whatever killed them rats and spiders. That’s all. Me, I don’t want none of that.”

“Cerril,” Two-Fingers called. “Is that what we’re gonna find here? Just death?”

Cerril took another step forward. His fear made his legs weak. He hoped they’d collapse beneath him, thinking that way he’d never have to take those final few steps to the roffin, but bis knees held. Only three short strides later he stood at the coffin’s side.

Candlelight danced along the icy surface. Dozens of facets caught the gleaming reflections of the burning candle. A wet sheen clung to the coffin, but Cerril knew the coffin wasn’t melting.

Two-Fingers called for him again, but Cerril couldn’t answer. All of his attention was riveted on the strange coffin.

Despite the muggy heat trapped inside the small room, a preternatural chill ate into Cerril’s bones, chewing

through his flesh without pause. Over the last few minutes, the candle had burned down to little more than a stub that leaked melted tallow over the thief s fingers and hand. Earlier the heat from the tallow had been almost hot enough to burn and had caused some discomfort. Now the melted tallow hardened almost at once, adding layers of thickness that created a shell over his hand.

“Cerril,” Two-Fingers whispered. “C’mon. We shouldn’t be here.”

Cerril gazed at the diamond-bright coffin and saw the reflection of the boys behind him. All of them had moved back and filled the small passageway that led into the crypt.

The coffin had been crafted from chunks of ice. All the pieces had been shaved so the fit was precise despite the angles that were required to encase whatever lay within.

“Cerril,” Two-Fingers pleaded.

Hypnotized by the icy beauty of the coffin, Cerril knelt. Malar’s coin pulsed heat in his hand. His breath fogged the coffin’s gleaming exterior for a moment then cleared away as he took his next breath. Hesitant, fear strong within him now, he touched the coffin with his free hand.

Cold fire burned into Cerril’s fingers. When he tried to move them, he found they’d frozen to the coffin. Panicked, he yanked his fingers back. Imprints of his fingers—and a few bits of skin—showed against the icy surface, then they froze over and returned to smooth blue ice.

Cerril wasn’t certain if the imprints and skin had sloughed away or been absorbed into the coffin. He tried to draw back from the coffin but found he couldn’t. Before he knew it, his hand bearing the Stalker’s coin rose. Despite his best efforts, he followed his possessed hand up.

“What are you doing?” Hekkel asked.

Cerril tried to speak but couldn’t. Even if he’d been able, he knew he’d only scream in terror. His gaze locked on a design that had been etched into the icy surface of the

coffin, scored deep, but almost covered up by the gleaming layers of frost. The design showed a flowing stream, the mark of Eldath.

The frost retreated from Malar’s coin in Cerril’s shaking fist. Eldath’s mark grew brighter and turned red with heat. Steam poured from the mark.

Trembling, Cerril placed Malar’s coin on top of Eldath’s mark. Even before Cerril could withdraw his hand, the coin turned blistering hot, scorching his fingertips. He drew his fingers back, sticking them in his mouth to cool them, not wanting to use the icy surface of the coffin for any kind of relief. He didn’t trust it.

Steam poured from the coffin around Malar’s coin. The gold glowed red as it sank into the ice and obliterated Eldath’s device.

Cerril stared at the sinking coin then staggered back as the ice shattered and exploded outward. Dozens of flying ice chips struck his face and arms. Several of them drew blood as a great steam cloud obscured the coffin.

Some of the boys behind Cerril screamed in fear. Feet slapped against the stone floor.

The candle dropped from Cerril’s nerveless fingers. His breath caught in the back of his throat as he spotted the crimson threads covering his arms. Even as he realized he was looking at his own blood, the falling candle flame died.

Darkness filled the crypt area.

Screams and curses filled the room behind Cerril. He made himself start breathing again even though he felt like his lungs had frozen fast inside his chest. A lambent blue haze dawned inside the room.

A figure rose from the shattered remnants of the coffin. It was man-shaped, dressed in dark funeral clothing. Ivory colored bone showed at the figure’s breast. Horrified, Cerril couldn’t help looking at the figure’s hands. Skeletal fingers flexed slowly. The hooded figure’s head turned toward his hands, surveying the fleshless bones with casual interest. The hood turned toward Cerril, shadows masking the face within.

“Who are you, boy?” a cold, harsh voice demanded. Steam roiled around the figure. “N-no-nobody” Cerril replied.

He managed to get his legs working under him again. Bracing himself, he took two quick steps backward.

The figure surveyed him in silence for a moment, then said, “Are you one of Eldath’s followers?”

Cerril shook his head. “No.” His voice cracked and echoed within the crypt.

“Why?” the hooded figure asked.

“I was forced,” Cerril responded.

“By whom?”

“I don’t know. The coin brought me here.” The hooded figure cocked bis head. “What coin?” “Malar’s coin,” Cerril answered. He tried another step back but his legs felt weak and he didn’t trust them.

The figure nodded. “Malar.”

“Yes,” Cerril replied, cursing the god beneath his breath.

“I had thought Malar had forsaken me.”

“Malar—Malar,” Cerril said, stumbling over the words, “told me there would be a reward.”

Even though the hood shrouded the figure’s face, Cerril could tell that the figure within grew more interested at his declaration.

“A reward?” the figure asked.

Cerril tried to speak but couldn’t. He nodded instead.

Insane laughter pealed through the crypt. The noise sounded as if it came from the bottom of a well, growing stronger as it caromed off the walls.

“Cerril!” Two-Fingers yelled from the other room. “Cerriir

Despite the terror in Two-Fingers’s voice, Cerril couldn’t tear his eyes from the figure as it approached him.

The figure glided across the stone floor. Shattered pieces of the ice coffin darted away from the hem of its funeral garb. Whatever spell had bound the coffin together no longer had any power over the figure.

“CerrilF Two-Fingers yelled. “The damn stone has replaced itself at the top of the stairs. We’re locked in!”

The fact didn’t surprise Cerril. Whatever he had helped free was powerful. The young thief had no doubt about that.

“Do you know who I am, boy?” the figure asked in its thundering voice.

Cerril shook his head.

“Answer me!” the figure roared.

“No,” Cerril said. “No, I don’t know who you are.”

“You should, boy,” the figure said. “You should have known. No one should ever forget me.”

It reached up, skeletal hands closing on the hood’s sides. It tugged the hood back as a gust of swirling fog obscured it for a moment, then in the next heartbeat a corpse’s face showed through.

Patches of blue-black skin clung to the dingy ivory skull. Wisps of beard as thick and as unkempt as a horse’s tail jutted along the jawbone. Dull red, the color of fresh-spilled blood under bright moonlight, glowed at the back of the cavernous eye sockets. High cheekbones stood out above the crooked-toothed rictus.

“No one will be allowed to forget me, boy,” the figure rasped.

Breath tight in the back of his throat, Cerril watched as the figure’s jaws unhinged. Somehow it had spoken to him without opening its mouth. He saw the abnormal sharpness of the teeth, knowing they’d been filed to points.

“Borran Kiosk has returned,” the figure declared, “and all of the Vilhon Reach will tremble to learn that.”

Numb with fear, Cerril stumbled backward. Two-Fingers and Hekkel yelled in the other room at the end of the long passageway. Cerril turned to flee and smashed his face into the side of a wall. The pain put an edge on his wits again, allowing him to get control of his body. He ran, fleeing back up the passageway. He pushed his hands against the walls to control his flight. Fast as he was though, he was certain he could hear the figure’s clothing flap as it pursued him. There was no escape. Cerril knew that, but he had to run.

Only a little farther on, he caught sight of Two-Fingers standing at the top of the spiral staircase. The bigger boy was slamming his hands against the stone that had covered the opening and locked them in. The hollow thumps of his efforts echoed throughout the chamber. Several of the other boys shrieked and cried out.

Cerril opened his mouth to yell a warning, but incredible pain filled his head. He lost control over his legs and fell to the ground, landing on his knees. Something moved, twisted with horrible pain inside his head, then his vision blurred and went out of focus. The pain felt like a rat eating through his head.

Paralysis held Cerril. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream out in pain. A terrifying sucking sound echoed within his head. He gazed at the fear-filled faces of the boys on the other side of the room. All efforts he made to cry out to them to help him failed.

Pain wracked through his head again. Something broke with a liquid crunch. There was a brief moment of relief as the pressure inside his skull faded. Then cold horror filled him as he spotted the snake-like thing that lashed the air two feet in front of his face.

The snake-like thing was as thick as a broom handle and dark purple. Blood clung to it but was absorbed almost at once. Somehow the figure had thrown the snake-thing through bis head. Coiling on itself, the snake-like thing came back at Cerril’s face. Three hooked claws clacked together at the thing’s end.

Still paralyzed, unable to defend himself, Cerril watched in terror as the clawed appendage bit into his face. Unable to fight back, he felt himself pulled around, falling into a helpless pile of loose limbs on his side. He stared up in revulsion, realizing that the purple snake-thing was the dead man’s tongue, expelled over those sharp, bright teeth.

The thick purple tongue lashed out again, leeching onto Cerril’s face. Despite the lethargic numbness overlying his need to escape, the boy felt the tongue suckling at his cheek, feeding on the blood that welled into the wounds it

had caused. Cerril couldn’t move to defend himself, couldn’t even scream.

The tongue pulled free after a moment and slid under his chin, the dark purple flesh hard and cold against his skin. Then the tongue bit deep, sinking into the fevered blood that hammered against his throat. Even as the renewed assault of pain hit him, darkness quick and feathery as a raven’s wing swooped down and blotted out Cerril’s senses.

The wind howled along the mountainside, coming in from the east in great swirling gusts that hammered Haarn and whipped his hair. A chill hung in the air, but warm layers mixed in with it, letting the druid know the storm wasn’t going to be an easy one, and that it was almost upon them now.

He climbed with steady grace, managing the thinnest of grips with practiced fingers and toes. Straining, he forced his body up the sheer side of the mountain. Pausing to regain his breath for a moment, he gazed down at Druz Talimsir.

The woman climbed the rope he’d set for her, but he still moved upward with more alacrity than she did. Her hair hung in sweaty clumps around her shoulders.

Stubborn, Haarn told himself as he watched her, and proud.

Both of those were good traits, if exercised with proper restraint. His mother would have been pleased with her spirit, but Haarn knew his father would have faulted Druz for her self-aggrandizement.

Druz gazed up at him in defiance.

“You’re not waiting on me.”

Haarn nodded and turned back to his attack on the mountainside, knowing the wolf pack waited for them. He could smell the stink of them, and he’d heard them growling among

themselves, stoking up their courage to attack him and the woman. They were hungry, and a storm was blowing in. Wherever they holed up to wait out the storm, the wolves wanted to do it on full stomachs.

He reached up and caught another hold, shifting his head a little to avoid the mud that slapped under his left eye.

“Are they still there?” Druz asked. “Yes.”

Haarn estimated that less than three feet remained to the top.

“What makes you so sure?” “I can hear them.”

She was silent for a moment then said, “Then they can hear us.” “Yes.”

They’ll be waiting.” They already are,” he said.

The rope slid against the rough stone fronting the mountainside as Druz pushed up.