The High King's Tomb
Page 187
Good, Karigan thought. Now she had only herself to worry about.
As ready as the man was for her, he looked confused, and when their swords clashed, Karigan realized she’d not dropped her fading. She did so now so it would no longer drain her strength. After all, he could see her in the light, translucent though she was, and once they engaged, it was clear she was a solid living person and not a ghost at all.
She danced away and put Queen Aldesta between herself and them, but Gare jumped up on the sarcophagus lid, straddling the figure of the queen, his sword hurtling down on Karigan. She blocked it, but it felt like a hammer blow. Somehow she held onto the sword and swept it like a scythe into Gare’s leg. His scream was horrid and he tumbled off the tomb, crimson splattering white marble.
The last man came after her and their exchange of blows was deafening. Sweat burned Karigan’s eyes. If only she could keep this up. If only she could get past his defenses.
But as he pressed her around the king’s sarcophagus, she stumbled over the unconscious Thursgad. She managed to keep her footing, but could not properly block the man’s next blow. It sliced down her forearm, elbow to wrist, the leather guard protecting only a portion of her wrist before the blade slashed down the back of her hand.
Karigan’s sword clanged to the floor and she cried out, but the man did not pause. He came for the kill. She ducked just in time feeling his sword hum over her head.
The only thing left to her was to call on her fading and run. This she did and she had enough presence of mind to grab the book as she went.
The man was on her heels. She sought the dark places, but there weren’t enough to hide her. She pushed a statue in his path and threw an urn at him. This slowed him little. She felt like she ran in mud.
When she came to the domed chamber with the statue, she ran blindly down another gallery. She must hide, and hide quick. Someplace dark.
THE SILVER SPHERE
Thursgad awoke to silence. Dead silence.
He sat up recalling where he was and shuddered. The last thing he remembered was a crazed spirit charging him and his cohorts with sword raised. He peered around the corner of King Smidhe’s sarcophagus to see what was what and recoiled with a gasp. Gare lay there in a pool of blood, unmoving. Had the vengeful apparition killed him?
Thursgad scrubbed his face. Gare was dead and Rol was nowhere to be seen; had abandoned him in this miserable place. Or maybe because the dead were displeased by the desecration of their tombs, Rol hadn’t left willingly but was spirited away to some cursed shadow world to be tormented for an eternity.
Thursgad pushed himself to his feet, gazing warily at his surroundings, but nothing so much as moved. He did not know what he’d do if he saw another ghost. He made the sign of the crescent moon hoping to placate angry spirits and calm himself.
A throbbing against his hip reminded him he carried Grandmother’s mysterious sphere. He’d obeyed her instructions so far, not handling it or telling anyone about it, but now it seemed to want out of its purse. Was it time to release the sphere? Grandmother told him to smash it when he was ready to leave the tombs. He was certainly more than ready, having no wish to disturb the dead further and share in Gare’s fate, or Rol’s—whatever that was.
Thursgad tentatively loosened the drawstrings of the purse, removed the sphere and rested it on his palm. It was heavier than it looked, and it almost felt like it sucked on his flesh like a leech. He shuddered again.
He could not see his reflection in its silvery surface, but there was underlying movement, like shadows or black smoke. Grandmother had not explained what the spell did, but he knew it couldn’t be anything good. Maybe he shouldn’t release it at all, but if he didn’t, one way or another Grandmother would find him and punish him, and he’d seen what she could do to those who displeased her. She scared him more than any ghost.
He’d obey her wishes, but not until he was nearly out of the tombs. He rolled the sphere around his palm, searching its gleaming surface for any indication his was the proper course. Aye, he’d find his way out of the tombs, release the spell as he left, and flee the castle, the city, and the country. He’d escape to Rhovanny to become a prosperous wine farmer. That’s just what he’d do.
Fingers closed around his ankle.
Thursgad screamed. He should have made sure Gare was really dead, but he had not, and with his nerves already on edge, he lost hold of the sphere. It flew through the air in a graceful arc. He fumbled after it, but it was slippery as if oiled, and escaped his grasp. He watched in horror as it plummeted to the floor.
When the sphere hit stone, it did not bounce or roll, but cracked like an egg. No yolk oozed from it, but it expelled a wisp of smoke.
“Help me,” Gare whispered.
Thursgad kicked his ankle free of the man’s grasp and backed out of reach. He watched the smoke spiral up from the sphere, wondering why nothing else happened. He expected the ceiling to cave in, a maelstrom to sweep through the catacombs, doom to descend, but all was still. Too still, now that he thought of it. Aye, much too still…He tensed, ready to bolt.
Until he heard scratching from beneath the lid of King Smidhe’s sarcophagus.
Thursgad promptly fainted once again.
Karigan hid a short distance down one of the passages that led off the main chamber where the statue of King Smidhe sat astride his marble horse. She stood in the shadow of a column trying to catch her breath, and held her wounded arm to her, fingers clamped over slashed flesh. The book was tucked beneath her elbow.
As ready as the man was for her, he looked confused, and when their swords clashed, Karigan realized she’d not dropped her fading. She did so now so it would no longer drain her strength. After all, he could see her in the light, translucent though she was, and once they engaged, it was clear she was a solid living person and not a ghost at all.
She danced away and put Queen Aldesta between herself and them, but Gare jumped up on the sarcophagus lid, straddling the figure of the queen, his sword hurtling down on Karigan. She blocked it, but it felt like a hammer blow. Somehow she held onto the sword and swept it like a scythe into Gare’s leg. His scream was horrid and he tumbled off the tomb, crimson splattering white marble.
The last man came after her and their exchange of blows was deafening. Sweat burned Karigan’s eyes. If only she could keep this up. If only she could get past his defenses.
But as he pressed her around the king’s sarcophagus, she stumbled over the unconscious Thursgad. She managed to keep her footing, but could not properly block the man’s next blow. It sliced down her forearm, elbow to wrist, the leather guard protecting only a portion of her wrist before the blade slashed down the back of her hand.
Karigan’s sword clanged to the floor and she cried out, but the man did not pause. He came for the kill. She ducked just in time feeling his sword hum over her head.
The only thing left to her was to call on her fading and run. This she did and she had enough presence of mind to grab the book as she went.
The man was on her heels. She sought the dark places, but there weren’t enough to hide her. She pushed a statue in his path and threw an urn at him. This slowed him little. She felt like she ran in mud.
When she came to the domed chamber with the statue, she ran blindly down another gallery. She must hide, and hide quick. Someplace dark.
THE SILVER SPHERE
Thursgad awoke to silence. Dead silence.
He sat up recalling where he was and shuddered. The last thing he remembered was a crazed spirit charging him and his cohorts with sword raised. He peered around the corner of King Smidhe’s sarcophagus to see what was what and recoiled with a gasp. Gare lay there in a pool of blood, unmoving. Had the vengeful apparition killed him?
Thursgad scrubbed his face. Gare was dead and Rol was nowhere to be seen; had abandoned him in this miserable place. Or maybe because the dead were displeased by the desecration of their tombs, Rol hadn’t left willingly but was spirited away to some cursed shadow world to be tormented for an eternity.
Thursgad pushed himself to his feet, gazing warily at his surroundings, but nothing so much as moved. He did not know what he’d do if he saw another ghost. He made the sign of the crescent moon hoping to placate angry spirits and calm himself.
A throbbing against his hip reminded him he carried Grandmother’s mysterious sphere. He’d obeyed her instructions so far, not handling it or telling anyone about it, but now it seemed to want out of its purse. Was it time to release the sphere? Grandmother told him to smash it when he was ready to leave the tombs. He was certainly more than ready, having no wish to disturb the dead further and share in Gare’s fate, or Rol’s—whatever that was.
Thursgad tentatively loosened the drawstrings of the purse, removed the sphere and rested it on his palm. It was heavier than it looked, and it almost felt like it sucked on his flesh like a leech. He shuddered again.
He could not see his reflection in its silvery surface, but there was underlying movement, like shadows or black smoke. Grandmother had not explained what the spell did, but he knew it couldn’t be anything good. Maybe he shouldn’t release it at all, but if he didn’t, one way or another Grandmother would find him and punish him, and he’d seen what she could do to those who displeased her. She scared him more than any ghost.
He’d obey her wishes, but not until he was nearly out of the tombs. He rolled the sphere around his palm, searching its gleaming surface for any indication his was the proper course. Aye, he’d find his way out of the tombs, release the spell as he left, and flee the castle, the city, and the country. He’d escape to Rhovanny to become a prosperous wine farmer. That’s just what he’d do.
Fingers closed around his ankle.
Thursgad screamed. He should have made sure Gare was really dead, but he had not, and with his nerves already on edge, he lost hold of the sphere. It flew through the air in a graceful arc. He fumbled after it, but it was slippery as if oiled, and escaped his grasp. He watched in horror as it plummeted to the floor.
When the sphere hit stone, it did not bounce or roll, but cracked like an egg. No yolk oozed from it, but it expelled a wisp of smoke.
“Help me,” Gare whispered.
Thursgad kicked his ankle free of the man’s grasp and backed out of reach. He watched the smoke spiral up from the sphere, wondering why nothing else happened. He expected the ceiling to cave in, a maelstrom to sweep through the catacombs, doom to descend, but all was still. Too still, now that he thought of it. Aye, much too still…He tensed, ready to bolt.
Until he heard scratching from beneath the lid of King Smidhe’s sarcophagus.
Thursgad promptly fainted once again.
Karigan hid a short distance down one of the passages that led off the main chamber where the statue of King Smidhe sat astride his marble horse. She stood in the shadow of a column trying to catch her breath, and held her wounded arm to her, fingers clamped over slashed flesh. The book was tucked beneath her elbow.
