Voice Of The Demon (Book 2) (27 page)

Nash dried the water from a stone rampart and sat down to think. Finnlay Douglas would not give in. His powers might not be as strong as Nash had expected, but his will was. Much stronger, in fact. Stronger even than the old woman. Nash hadn’t pushed her anywhere near as hard and he’d almost killed her in the process.

So the Enemy would tell him nothing. Well, at least Nash would have his blood – and the satisfaction of knowing there was now no one to stop him. He would have to find the Key by the only means left to him: Vaughn’s secret library.

He’d as much as admitted its existence to Selar – the first time Nash had heard of it. Vaughn had said he had ways of finding and knowing sorcerers. There was only one way he
could know such things. He must have records going back centuries: books that had been written by sorcerers, for sorcerers. Somewhere in those volumes would be some word, some link that Nash could use. Somewhere in there he would discover where the Key was hidden. It wouldn’t be easy to find, that clue. It would be cryptic, hard to decipher. It might even take him years.

Nash stood up and frowned in the direction of the village. Rain had flattened the grass beside the road where a dozen soldiers cantered towards his tower. They wore no blaze, no marking at all, but the man in front had the whitest hair Nash had ever seen.

Instantly he turned, ran down the stairs and arrived in the small courtyard as the first riders came through the gate.

Yes, it was him. Forb’ez, Selar’s most trusted servant. The coldest killer Nash had ever known. The man brought his horse to a halt, but didn’t dismount.

‘Good afternoon, Alderman.’ Forb’ez bowed from the saddle, his colourless eyes hard and flinty.

Nash surveyed the others as they lined up behind their leader. Then he turned back to Forb’ez. ‘Well? Is it good news or bad?’

‘You are to come with us, Alderman.’

‘Oh? Where to?’

‘The King has sent us. He commands your return.’

Commands? By the blood of Broleoch!

Nash almost burst out laughing. So, Selar did need him after all. He’d been right. Well, Valena would have to eat her words now, wouldn’t she?

‘We have little time, Alderman,’ Forb’ez added. ‘There have been . . . developments. The King requires your presence immediately. You’re to come with us under armed guard.’

Nash nodded, keeping his face tightly schooled. It wouldn’t do for this grim man to discover how delighted Nash was. ‘Is the King in Marsay?’

‘No. If we start out now, we will gain him by tomorrow night.’

Nash turned to go back inside, preparing to pack – but
what about Douglas? He paused. The Enemy wasn’t going anywhere. The orb was already set up. Stinzali would be able to keep watch on him until that Douglas strength ebbed away. It was just a pity Nash couldn’t be there to see him die. But Selar was too important. If there was something wrong, then he needed Nash – and Nash might finally have the opportunity he’d been waiting for for fourteen years.

‘I’ll be back down in a minute. Have one of your men saddle my horse.’

*

Finnlay couldn’t tell what was different about the place. He was still surrounded by candlelight; the curtains were still pulled across the windows. It was day rather than night. Some cracks of sunshine bled through on to the walls and the vast collection crowding the room.

He must be feeling faint from the loss of blood. The cut was made an hour, two hours ago? His fingers already felt numb; his toes were cold. His heart raced so fast he could hardly keep track of it. Sweat trickled down his forehead. How much longer would it take before his vision went?

How long would it take him to die?

For the first time, Finnlay allowed his mind to approach that thought. Death; his death. Here, on this pallet, leagues from everyone he cared about. They would never know his fate, never know the evil that had killed him.

He was afraid.

‘By the gods, Robert, I’m so sorry,’ Finnlay breathed to the empty room. ‘I should have helped you more. If I had, none of this would have happened. You would have stayed in Lusara and been around to notice this evil as it was growing. I’m sorry, Robert. I wish . . . I wish I’d never called you a traitor.’

His feet were cold now. Cold and numb. Would Carlan come back and laugh at him as he died?

Finnlay sucked in a breath and held it. Carlan wasn’t coming back because he was no longer in the tower.

That’s what was different! That shadow of evil for ever hovering in the background of his awareness was gone.

No. Don’t wonder why or how or anything. Think fast. Now, before it’s too late.

Finnlay focused hard. He could operate without an
ayarn;
all sorcerers could. But there was always a danger of backlash, of draining energy so quickly the body couldn’t recover.

Well, if he didn’t try something, then he was dead anyway. He could worry about the old man later, once he managed to get himself off this damned pallet.

Finnlay gathered together all the power he had in his whole body. He pulled it in, focused entirely on one thing. Then, as though he was using his
ayarn
, he let the power go, aimed at the rope binding his left arm. He couldn’t even tell if it was working at first. Then . . . the smell of burning hessian assailed him. He began to strain against the rope, willing it to break. Suddenly it snapped free. He’d done it!

He flexed his numb fingers, forcing the blood back into them. Once done, he reached up and pulled back the rope holding his head. He lurched up – and almost blacked out.

Slow down, Finn. Do it slowly. You’ve lost too much blood to hurry.

With his head still on the pallet, he undid the rope binding his right arm. He grabbed the loose sheet the old man had covered him with and bound it around his elbow to stop the flow of blood. He could fix up a proper bandage later.

Again, very slowly now, he gripped the sides of the pallet and hauled himself up. His vision swam, going black and white. He stayed there until it steadied, gasping as a throbbing pain beat against his temples. It took a long time, but eventually he could sit up enough to reach down and untie his legs. He pushed them over the edge of the cot and prepared himself for the worst part: standing up.

He waited a bit longer, until his feet had warmed enough for him to have some control over them. Then, gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up until he stood.

With a shudder, his legs folded beneath him and he fell with a thud. His chin hit the floor and he bit his tongue until it bled. Great! More blood!

He tried again. Bit by bit he regained his feet. He felt so weak he could hardly move, but he was running out of time.
There was no telling when the monster would come back, when the old man might come in to check on him.

Holding on to every support to hand, assailed by waves of dizziness, Finnlay shuffled to the doorway as quietly as he could manage. Hidden by the frame, he put his head around the corner and found the old man sitting with his back to the door.

Finnlay picked up an earthenware water bottle from the table. Creeping forward, he held his breath, lifted the makeshift weapon and brought it down with every ounce of force he could muster. Stinzali collapsed at his feet without uttering a sound.

For a second, Finnlay stood there, then he lurched back into the other room and cast around for his
ayarn.
He found it on the desk by the window, untouched. As he made for the door, something else caught his eye.

The orb.

He stumbled his way back to the pallet and raised the bottle high over his head. Then he dropped it on to the evil contraption, which cracked down one side. He lifted the bottle again and split it in two. Dark blood flowed out on to the carpet: his blood – and in that orb it had nearly killed him.

Now all he had to do was get out of this place.

*

The castle stood separate from the village. It was little more than a round tower with a small courtyard in front, guarding the door. It seemed only the old man lived there – he and the Angel of Darkness he served. There were no animals in the yard, no plants in the tiny garden. The storeroom had food, but it was almost empty of anything Finnlay could eat. Worse still, there was no horse for him to ride. Carlan must have left Finnlay’s mount back by the river. He would have to continue on foot.

Stumbling with every step, Finnlay passed through the gate and headed away from the village. He wavered – but it was too dangerous. Someone might see him, someone who served Carlan. He was on his own.

Still feeling light-headed and very dizzy, Finnlay wandered
on, soon losing track of the direction he wanted to keep. The land before him kept swaying, lifting up and down and every time he tried to focus, nausea swept over him. Evening drew in and cold seeped through his shirt, making him shiver. Then the rain came, pounding down as though it would drive him into the ground. He fell into mud, struggled to rise and fell again. He looked up at the sky and for a moment revelled in the triumph. Carlan had said he would die. Well, he still might – but at least he would die free, and that monster would not be able to use his blood.

He must have slept because he woke up with water running over his mouth. He coughed and sat up. It was pitch black and the rain fell still. His bed had become a tiny river as the water flowed down from the hilltop. This was it: the end of his strength. If he lasted the night, he might live. If not?

He closed his eyes.

‘Finnlay!’

A voice from his dreams. Calling him again and again. Always far away. Yes, it had to be Fiona’s voice, plaguing him to the last. That lovely voice, so rich and full, the voice she used to carve pieces out of him at will.

‘Finnlay!’

No closer. But then, she would never get any closer to him. She would always keep him at a distance, even if he could somehow find the courage to tell her how he felt. By the gods, that would only make it worse! If she hated him already, that would finish him completely. The greatest insult possible: the love of the brother she despised while the one she loved rejected her.

‘Finnlay!’

Something was shaking his shoulder. Must be more water – or a mudslide. He should move. Should get up and find somewhere safe and dry to rest.

‘Finnlay! Answer me, damn you! Open your eyes and look at me! Don’t you dare lie there playing dead!’

The shaking got worse and he finally summoned up the strength to move, to open his eyes. He saw a vision to match his dream: fiery eyes, hazel and green. A frown, yes, but
concerned, worried. She was holding his face, peering into it. What a wonderful dream.

‘Where have you been?’ she demanded. Of course she would demand. Had she ever spoken differently to him? ‘I’ve been looking for you for days. I thought you’d been captured. For pity’s sake, Finnlay! Talk to me.’

She shook him again, rattling his bones. ‘Hey, stop it,’ he murmured, his speech slurring. ‘S’no need for that. I was with the Angel of Darkness.’

The vision frowned in either disbelief or horror – he couldn’t tell which. Then she took his hands, pulled on his arms and forced him to stand. ‘Come on, there’s shelter down this way.’

Half-carrying, half-dragging him, this sweet image of Fiona forced him to walk. It wasn’t far. Just to the end of the gully where a rock ledge overhung a small dry space surrounded by bushes. She dropped him there in the shelter, grabbed some wood and tossed it together. With barely a flick of her hand, a fire roared up, almost searing him with its heat.

This was no dream.

Finnlay blinked at the light, tried to sit up. Fiona turned to him, her hands reaching up again to tend the cuts and bruises on his face. There and in that moment, she’d never looked more beautiful to him.

‘What happened to you?’ she whispered, an edge of fear in her voice.

He said nothing. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed her. He took her by surprise and so it was a moment before she reacted. She pushed him away and stared at him in shock and . . . something else. Now, what was that?

‘Finnlay Douglas, if you weren’t already at death’s door I would slap you for that!’ She turned back to the fire, but it was too late. Finnlay put back his head and started to laugh. Weak and exhausted, he reached out for her hand. This time she didn’t struggle. She let him pull her close, let him wrap his arms around her. With her head against his shoulder, Finnlay closed his eyes and waited for sleep to conquer him.

‘No, don’t lean forward in your stirrups, you fool!’ Robert laughed. ‘Sit back. Only go forward when the horse is climbing a hill.’

Patric bounced back on to the hard leather saddle and tried to gather up the loose reins. These riding lessons were bad enough as it was, without Robert having given him this bad-tempered, ill-mannered stallion for a mount. Sure, it was a beautiful horse – from a distance. Trying to control the grey from on top of its back was a nightmare.

‘I never had these problems at the Enclave,’ Patric grumbled, getting a better grip on the reins. ‘And I rode from there almost to your door. You make me sound like I don’t know what I’m doing.’

Robert laughed again and brought his horse alongside. Walking now, they entered a quiet glade only just beginning to turn a golden brown with autumn’s first touch. ‘If you’re sitting on a quiet little animal who is required to go in no more than a straight line then, yes, you can ride. But as Collie there is teaching you, not all horses are the same. Who knows when you’ll have to jump on the first one to hand and ride for your life? It has happened, you know. If you intend to make any more trips away from the Enclave, you’d best be sure you do know what you’re doing.’

‘That’s easy for you to say.’ Patric pulled again as the horse tossed its head. ‘You’ve years of physical training behind you. Your muscles are like rocks. Me, I’m just not strong enough for a horse this size.’

‘Strength is not the issue. It’s your will alone which controls the horse. As soon as he realizes that you’re the smarter one, he’ll be like butter in your hands. Don’t keep pulling on the reins like that. He’s a big animal, he needs his space. Let him have it. He knows what he’s doing. Only instruct him when you want to change something. Work together with him. But when you do want a change, make
sure he knows that you’re the one making the decisions. It’s that simple.’