The Children of Urdis (Grimwold and Lethos Book 2) (42 page)

Once Lethos was alone, he faced the southwest to where he sensed Grimwold. He put as much strength into his thoughts as he could muster, begging for his attention. Yet he was talking to the closed doors of Grimwold's mind. Lethos sensed no urgent threat, nothing but just a desire to be left alone.

"Well, you may be alone for the rest of time," Lethos mumbled as he sat back down at the table. "After tomorrow, I may never trouble you again."

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Lethos had hiked to the center of the tiny island and settled himself on the patches of dead grass. All pretense of autumn had fled, and the island was in the brace of early winter. The stand of scraggly poplar trees had lost all their leaves, and a sharp wind blew through them to set the branches waving and clacking. They were like skeletal hands beckoning Lethos toward death. He looked away to the rocky tumble of land that shaded down to the ocean. The sky was gray, as it had been since the Tsal arrived, and the sea was rough. The wind sliced through him with its cold talons and birds called overhead as if protesting his squatting on their secret island.

Syrus and Blund's crew had set him ashore hours ago, but the intensity of the waiting made it feel as if days had passed. He was glad to be off the ship. The barbarians sang rowdy songs of murder and chaos to raise their spirits, but all Lethos experienced was loud voices shouting in his ear. They seemed pleased to be rowing toward certain death, since it was going to be a glorious battle. That was all that seemed important to them. Wasn't life worth more than a glorious end? Lethos might never understand the barbarian mind.

He spent his hours courting the bull spirit deep in his heart. It was like prodding a bull in real life to rile it into violence. He had finally brought the beast under his mastery. He had never believed it possible, particularly when the beast had felt so solidly in control whenever it emerged. After a year of wishing to find a way to rid himself of it, he now appreciated the usefulness of the so-called curse. He teased the bull with images of the carnage. He promised gore and destruction. The answer was an ever-strengthening burn of hatred and bloodlust. Had anyone else been with him, they might have found him terrible company. Alone, he festered in anger and felt the beast bubble and ripple beneath his skin.

At last the clouds began to darken and the wind scoured the rocky islet. In the distance, the fog shrouding Norddalr was like a wall across the horizon. It certainly did not limit the Tsal's movement around the islands, but it did seem to mark the reach of the wild stone. He felt nothing but the slightest pinch of it on his flesh. The birds above fled, flying for safer shores and surrendering their islet to the strange forces gathering there.

Avulash was coming. Lethos had no doubt of it.

He reached out with his mind to Grimwold, a final test. Of course he was still barred. It was a sad way to end their strange relationship. He had endured so much to save him, too, and it was all for nothing.

Five tails of whirling clouds cut across the sea, driving it mad with white spray as they carved through the waves. The howl of the wind filled his ears, and as the storm clouds approached, the debris of the island blasted into the air. Lethos stood amid the howling chaos of the wind, his clothes flattened against his body. He merely shielded his eyes out of habit. The stinging sand and bits of dead branches were no more than irritants.

Each whirlwind touched down halfway across the island from Lethos, depositing a single Tsal onto the rocky ground. Avulash was easiest to distinguish, for he bore his sword that danced with violet runes. It was a counterpoint to Eldegris's sword. If Eldegris's sword was made to oppose the Tsal, he wondered what Tsal blades were forged to oppose. He put that thought out of mind as the five Tsal picked their way across the jagged incline to where Lethos stood.

Their plate armor gleamed in the flat light of the day and their shell-shaped shields were held ready at their arms. Avulash stood before his four followers. Lethos guessed this was all that remained of his crew. Only a handful of these creatures had wrought so much destruction. Knowing this strengthened his resolve to ensure no more ever arrived.

"You did not honor my request," Avulash said, his voice calm and steady. His pale eyes flicked up and down Lethos's body as if appraising a piece of meat.

"What of Syrus and the others?"

Avulash carried no shield and raised his left hand to show beads of blood jiggling on his palm. His smile curled like a snake across his face. Lethos closed his eyes to the sight of it. He had experienced that blood drain himself, and at least it was not as painful as some ways Syrus and the others could have died.

He let their deaths stoke the anger already churning in his guts. He knew the answer to his next question would engulf him in the fires of rage.

"And what of Valda? You did not bring her as promised."

"I never made that promise," Avulash said. Lethos noticed how the Tsal's feet slid wider, adopting a fighting stance. It was subtle, and he tried to hold Lethos's eyes away from it, but his intentions were clear. "Yet the sow you call Valda lives."

"What?" Lethos's heart thudded in his chest. "You have not killed her?"

"I wanted to see what you would bring me. That much of my bargain I upheld. Yet it is a pity that you did not bring your other half. I could have summoned her to my side to complete the bargain, but you chose to treat with messengers and force me to hunt your partner. Now you will learn what it means to cross me. Luck has intervened on your behalf too often for it to continue now. Today you will learn that you are not so special. Your powers have limits, and I know all of them. I will bleed you like the cattle you are."

Lethos transformed in a flash of heat and red haze in the same instant Avulash and his companions raised their bloodied palms. He did not need his powers of intuition to know when to summon the Minotaur. His anger shoved him over that point.

Now he was staring down at them as they attempted to draw his blood into their palms. Avulash stood calmly with his violet sword lowered and left hand out. His followers pointed their palms at him, as if aiding his power.

Something struck his chest like a weighted club. He reached down with his muscled arms covered in glossy black fur as if to grab the weapon but snatched at nothing. It was Avulash's power. It ground into his chest and made him bellow with pain. Yet no blood came from where it struck.

He gave himself over to the bull spirit, feeling its berserk rage fill his heart with a lust for killing.

Lowering his horns, he charged straight at Avulash.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Syrus dared open his eyes only after the winds had died and debris settled over his body. The scent of blood and dirt clung to his nose as he raised his head to peek over his arm. He had hidden his face from the Tsal, hoping they would not realize he had been unaffected by their spells. He lay in the ruined courtyard where he had surrendered to Avulash and where he had returned with his message. The Tsal captain had merely laughed at Lethos's challenge and with a casual sweep of his hand, he drained the blood from all the men who had accompanied Syrus.

Poor Girrolf lay in a twisted heap of gray flesh right next to him. The remaining score of his warriors were likewise piles of bloodless flesh on the ground. Syrus alone had survived, and he felt tremendous shame for it. He knew how to avoid at least one of the Tsal's blood sorceries, but he had not shared it with anyone else. Girrolf and his crew had to be sacrificed for the greater good. If all of them resisted, then all would have been slain by the sword, and Syrus would have died with them. He knew of no proof against blades.

On his chest, beneath his clothing, was a pattern daubed in his own blood. He had first encountered it in the books retrieved from Tsaldalr, and then saw this same basic shape in Eldegris's book under a heading for charms and proofs against Tsal sorcery. From what he had pieced together, certain patterns could stop blood magic, and one seemed to prevent them from draining blood. He had taken a chance on this, and knew it was a flimsy defense if the Tsal recognized it. But true to Lethos's predictions, these Tsal did not think humans knew more than superstitions. The Tsal expected them to come to the slaughter as defenseless as lambs. If any noticed Syrus had resisted their magic, no one gave any sign of it. He fell with all the others as expected, and they left him for dead.

Now he saw the first hesitant steps of the strange slaves the Tsal employed. He glimpsed three approaching him, but knew from the small, squeaking voices that many others approached from all sides. He put his head back down to the ground.

Here was the end of his planning and the start of what he hoped would be Fieyar's favor. If the gods had turned away from the world as so many believed, then he could expect nothing but failure. Certainly these slaves could tell the difference between a live and dead body. Yet if there was any god still watching that valued honor and bravery, then perhaps that god would grant him the measure of luck he needed.

Inside Norddalr was both Eldegris's book and his daughter. He intended to get both away from here.

He listened as bodies were dragged away, their mail shirts clinking along the hard ground. A body had fallen across the back of his legs and he felt it lift away. The slaves smelled terrible, like bad meat, and worked in silence. The squeaks and grumbles they gave were more like talking to themselves than speaking to one another.

A cold, rough hand grabbed him by his right ankle. It paused for what felt like hours, but in reality could have only been a single moment. Syrus's heart beat so fiercely he wondered how the whole world could not hear it.

Yet in the next instant he was soaring through the air. It took all his effort not to scream or otherwise react. He slammed painfully atop the mail-clad bodies, and lay face up. He did not dare open his eyes, but he swore he was thrown only by one slave. How powerful were these creatures? He shuddered to think what a hundred of them could do if sent into battle against normal men. At least they did not appear to be intelligent. Syrus had thought the warmth of his skin and his pulse would reveal him.

Another body landed on him, knocking the wind from his lungs. That should have alerted the slaves, but they continued with their work. Syrus felt more and more bodies thud atop his until he could hardly breathe and his nose was filled with the odor of the dead men.

The cart rocked into motion. Now confident that he was buried enough to chance opening his eyes, Syrus peeked at his surroundings. He was covered with bodies, and hair from one of the men hung down over his own face. He gently tried to blow it away but to no avail. He saw enough to realize the cart was moving into Norddalr. As he had hoped, the greedy Tsal wanted their flesh for later use.

The whining voices echoed along with the rolling cart as they progressed down passages of stone. At last the cart could travel no farther and the slaves halted with quiet resignation. Syrus guessed that again three of them were still with the cart, the others being unnecessary for the work. These three formed a line, where one dragged bodies off the top of the cart to toss to the slave at the bottom, who tossed the corpses beyond Syrus's sight. He assumed they were passing the bodies through to storage.

When it came to Syrus's turn, he felt a moment of relief as the body atop him came away and cool air flushed over him. Then a strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him up. The fingers were like iron nails driving into his flesh. Another hand grabbed him by the leg and then he went flying down to where the next slave caught him.

This slave hardly touched him, but shoved him along with his momentum toward the next slave. This one missed him and Syrus crashed face-first into gritty, cold stone. Asters of pain bloomed, and he hoped he had not been cut. Though now he wondered if the slaves had the ability to recognize he was unlike the other bodies. He remained limp on the floor as the last slave carelessly kicked him toward a pile. He rolled to the edge of it, the slave's foot having squarely hit him in the gut. Again he stifled his moans and lay motionless as his body throbbed.

Eventually Syrus heard the slaves withdraw, and after a long moment of silence he opened his eyes. Nothing remained but darkness and the low blue glow like the lights he had seen in Tsaldalr. He did not want to move for fear of someone standing behind him out of his sight. Yet he also had little time to act.

When he did sit up, he was dizzy on his feet. In the blue lighting of the room, the gray flesh of the dead seemed especially cold. He had been kicked to the edge of a pile of corpses that stared with glassy, fear-widened eyes. The room was not large, and its original purpose was a mystery. It was now a charnel house.

He wished he had spent more time in Norddalr, but all of his time had been in Fieyar's shrine. He had known enough that they had gone down below the main floor, but otherwise he was lost. A blue globe had been set into a sconce on the wall, and Syrus lifted it out carefully. This was glass, which was precious as gold in the north, and filled with glowing blue liquid that gave little heat. It was a marvel he would otherwise love to explore, but now he simply held it ahead of himself as he exited the room.

He found Valda in one of the many rooms lining the hall. Not only her but dozens of other bodies lay in other rooms. All were gray in death.

She was naked and lay on a table with nothing restraining her. She could have got up and walked away. Syrus felt his heart sink.

"No, my queen, do not be dead," he whispered.

He held the light over her, the blue only enhancing the pallor of death. Her eyes were closed and there was color in her cheeks. A small incision had been made at the base of her throat and was now only a small scab. Syrus noticed her clothing had been carefully set aside, including the strange dagger she had used to open the library compartment. He scanned her body, but her flesh was smooth and unblemished as only a young woman's could be.