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  The second Dark Helm stepped out of the flames and lunged at the running knight, who struck aside the blade reaching for him, reeling and hopping to try to keep his balance. Taerith's daggers caught up with him as he regained it, parried the Helm's sword, and slashed his foe's head so hard that the helm went flying.

  Those daggers sank home, and the Deldragon knight groaned, staggered, and went down, but when Taerith willed his flying weapons up and out of the dying man, their blades were dwindling and wreathed in swirling smoke; the magic of the spell was fading.

  Another Helm was materializing above his fire already. Taerith hurried forward to nudge the logs closer into the flames and heard more shouts in the distance. They sounded like names; someone was calling for the missing knights, wanting to know what they'd found.

  Well, strolling through the cellars to give them the answer "death" hardly seemed practical now, when they could be shown it firsthand.

  Taerith grinned at his own gallows humour, daring to start enjoying this foray at last. The third Dark Helm stepped out of his fire, gave him a nod, and headed for the door, even as the shadow-shape of the fourth began to form above the flames.

  A horn sounded, echoing from far off in the cellars, and Taerith lost his smile.

  The tantlar wasn't bringing through his master's warriors fast enough to defeat a lot of knights. Oh, shit.

  He had another teleport spell to take him home, but certain death at his master's hands awaited him if he used it now, with the task not done. The well to poison, all the other lesser apprentices to bring through, the entire keep to be scoured of magic items…

  He had another manydaggers spell, too, and conjure armor that would slow swords striking at him, but not much else. If it came to fighting knights, he was doomed.

  "No," Taerith hissed, fear starting to rise in his throat.

  "Oh, yes," the fourth Dark Helm disagreed gleefully, shouldering past him into the passage beyond.

  Taerith watched the fifth one slowly form with a growing sense of dismay. Too slow, much too slow…

  The room was thick with smoke, now. Should he dump out the rest of the wood around the fire in a ring and move to another room?

  Perhaps he could hide, and let the Dark Helms battle all the knights he could hear hurrying this way. Perhaps…

  The passage lit up with the light of many lanterns, laced with racing shadows. Taerith cursed in earnest and hurried to the back of the room. He dare not teleport without putting up a proper fight. He discovered his hands were shaking just about the time the fifth Dark Helm charged at the door, the sixth appearing wraith-like above the freshening flames, and the doorway erupted in Deldragon knights, a dozen or more-yes, definitely more!

  Taerith frantically cast his manydaggers spell and tried to destroy the faces of the foremost knights with his racing blades, as they swiftly and ruthlessly hacked down the fifth Dark Helm and swarmed forward, kicking the sack aside.

  They were going to destroy the fire, they were going to-

  There was a shrill, high, but oddly faint scream from those flames, as four or five Deldragon blades met in the still-forming sixth Dark Helm, who toppled sideways and faded from view. Taerith saw some of his racing daggers struck to the floor with swords, and stamped on to keep them there, as unsmiling men in armor closed in on him.

  With trembling hands he ended the manydaggers magic and tried to cast his teleport spell, twisting desperately aside from the first sword thrusts.

  "Farewell, Taerith," Arlaghaun's voice said quietly from his belt buckle.

  Those dreaded words were the last thing the apprentice ever heard, as Falconfar exploded into bright crimson around him.

  The explosion in the cellars rocked the keep with a deep shuddering, blasting three Dark Helms at the other end of the tantlar to dust. In the cellars of Bowrock, what little was left of the ceiling cracked and fell into the whirling dust, spilling the contents of the storeroom above down into the deep pit that the cellar room had become. A few hands, fingers, and twisted fragments of sword blades bounced and rolled far down the passage from the riven room; in the room itself, nothing was left but roiling dust, busily adhering to cracked walls that were now covered with a red mist of blood.

  Taerith Saeredarr had always wanted to make a splash in Falconfar, and he'd certainly achieved his fondest wish.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Swordguard Markoun Darfest's head was ringing as if all the war-horns in Bowrock were blowing at once, close around him, and some how he kept staggering bruisingly into the wall. His sword-arm felt like it was on fire, just above his elbow, but when he stared at it he could see only blood and torn armor, no flames at all.

  So he must be dazed, then, as well as wounded, and no wonder. He'd been far down the passage from the room where the firelight and all the fighting was taking place, at the back of a long line of Deldragon guards, but what a blast!

  He'd been hurled back and around a corner, smashing into the roof of the passage, with his fellow guards all around him in a meaty tangle that had shielded him even as their bones and helmed heads shattered and crunched around him. They had died, all of them, leaving only him to stagger out of the slaughter.

  Nothing could have survived that blast, nothing. Yet his orders were clear: "Find out what lurking foe is down there, slay or capture, and report back." There was no one left to find out anything but him, now.

  Markoun rebounded off the wall one more time, shook his head ruefully, and devoted all of his effort to walking down the rubble-strewn passage without kissing its walls every fifth or sixth step.

  He managed it, and was quite proud of himself as he left the shattered rooms behind, certain that no foe was still alive to do anything to anyone. A few more limping strides brought him to the passage-moot where a left turn would take him to stairs up, when something sharp and sudden and cold as ice slid across his throat, leaving him breathing only blood.

  As his choking started and his slayer dragged his head ruthlessly around, Markoun Darfest found himself staring helplessly at the helmed and visored head of a Dark Helm, thrust forward almost nose-to-nose with him.

  There was a malicious grin behind that gleaming black metal; Markoun could feel it. As the darkness rushed in, the last thing he saw was a fire in a cellar room behind the Dark Helm's shoulder, and Dark Helm after Dark Helm striding out of it.

  Rod Everlar was lying on a vast and very comfortable bed, dozing in the largest, fluffiest bathrobe or "warming-robe," if he'd caught Tay's murmurings properly, he'd ever encountered. Dozing, but hoping he'd not fall really asleep. '

  He was waiting for Taeauna to finish in the big round pool of smooth stone that served guests housed in these chambers as a bathtub. He sorely needed a bath of his own.

  Earlier, she'd been splashing and murmuring in contentment, and Rod had half-hoped she'd call him in to help her scrub or wash her hair, but she'd settled down to mere occasional sighs of contentment. He suspected she was dozing, too.

  Ah, well, at least they weren't-

  From behind the wall just to Rod's left, there came a short, choked-off cry, followed by some heavy thuds and bumps.

  A man being murdered, inside the wall? That's certainly what it sounded like.

  The bathroom erupted in a sudden crash of sheeting water, and Taeauna burst out into the bedchamber, bare and dripping.

  "Get dressed and armed, now!" she snapped, snatching up her sword from where she'd laid it ready on the bed. "Throw me your robe; I'll dry myself with that!"

  Heart pounding, Rod scrambled to obey.

  No banners fluttered from the turret-tops of Galathguard, and no horns rang out in greeting. The gates stood open with no sign of guards or any living person within, at all.

  Birds darted, perched, and flew as if there were no humans near, and a lone, statue-like perched vaugril was the only living thing visible on the battlements.

  As Baron Margral Nyghtshield and his bodyguard of knights rode in through the grand gate and
looked around at dark doorways, the hooves of their horses echoed back emptiness. Weeds and saplings sprouted amid the stones, and no servants came running, no one stood watching; there was not one stick of furniture or a lantern in sight.

  "Looks like a ruin," Nyghtshield muttered to his shield-knight, peering about with the one eye he had left; the battle that had robbed him of the other was so long ago that he'd almost forgotten it. He hadn't, however, forgotten the shambles that the once-grand Galathgard had become. "Even worse than before."

  The knight pointed to a distant gaping archway. "We're not the first here, lord."

  "Oh? How so?"

  "Horse dung. Fresh. There, just inside the arch."

  "Hmmph. Eve seen better stables." The baron urged his horse forward at a careful walk; the shield-knight turned, waved a swift signal, and watched knights dismount and trot ahead, one of them stepping away from the horses to ready and light a lantern.

  Galathgard certainly wasn't the most welcoming of royal palaces.

  Taeauna didn't take much time drying herself. She was dressed before Rod was, had retrieved their laedlen from a side-chamber, and was tugging at the bed-furs while he was still sitting on one corner of them, dragging on his boots.

  By then, sounds of battle-clanging swords, shouts and screams-were rising all around them.

  "Well, that didn't last long," Rod muttered. "Who do you think's attacking us this time?"

  "Whomever Arlaghaun could send or compel to swing swords here," the Aumrarr told him bleakly, tossing him a fur. "They're searching for you."

  Rod shook his head. "Have they nothing else to do with their lives?"

  "To master more than a few of the lesser spells, one must hunger for ever more magic; ever more power," Taeauna replied. "They see you as the most power to ever come within reach, so they grab for you."

  Rod rolled his eyes. The din of battle was growing almost steady, now, coming faintly but steadily through the walls. No one came to their doors, and no servants or anyone else came rushing out of hidden back ways. Yet.

  "What's this for?" he asked, holding out the fur. It was so heavy that he needed both hands.

  "Put it over your shoulders like a cloak," Taeauna replied, settling a fur around herself and whirling a second atop it.

  Rod shrugged his fur on. It was very heavy.

  "Tay, how am I supposed to fight, with this-"

  "Just shrug it off, lord, right away, if you have to use your sword," Taeauna replied, her tone also telling him to stop playing the idiot.

  "Yes, but what am I wearing it for?"

  "To keep warm. The cellars will be cold, too cold to sleep comfortably without it."

  "The cellars?"

  The Aumrarr whirled impatiently to glare at Rod, their noses almost touching, and thrust both laedlen into his hands. Collectively, they were heavy, too.

  "Lord Archwizard," she said flatly, "as much as I'd love to debate each and every breath we both take with you, as the days pass around us, we'd best get out of these rooms where many folk may know we were housed, and get into hiding. If the keep is full of warring men, the cellars will be the best place to hide. So come with me, try to stop asking questions, and start looking for lanterns or torches as we go."

  Rod nodded. "Yes, Tay."

  "And stop calling me… Oh, never mind."

  "Yes, Tay."

  Sword drawn, she ducked gracefully past him, their hips brushing for the briefest of instants, heading for gloomy side-chambers many of the servants had come out of, upon their arrival.

  "What're you looking for?"

  "Back ways in and out of here," Taeauna said curtly. "Stay close behind me, keep your sword sheathed until I tell you otherwise, and try to shut up. Lord."

  Rod obeyed, quelling a sudden urge to chuckle at her last word. Ah, such respect he was now getting. Just keep quiet and carry the sacks, dolt.

  Taeauna found three back ways, all of them concealed by sliding panels behind tapestries. She opened each one a trifle and listened intently to the darkness beyond, closed two of them, and then beckoned Rod through the remaining opening behind her.

  The man who'd thought he'd created Falconfar followed her, and found himself in pitch darkness, with cold stone walls close by on either side of him. Taeauna was just ahead and was moving away from him; he hurried to follow.

  The second time he ran into her, the Aumrarr captured his hand with her own in the darkness, guided it to her belt, and murmured, "Feel your way along to where the belt crosses my spine… there! Now hold on, right there. If I stop, kindly have the basic wits to stop, too."

  The sounds of hard-raging battle were growing louder, everywhere around them, but they seemed to be alone in the narrow passage, and the only sounds they could hear ahead seemed to be the pounding of many boots, of men rushing past them from left to right. The Aumrarr seemed in no hurry to get to that cross-passage, wherever it was; she kept stopping and feeling around, with Rod feeling increasingly like a small boy playing at being a train, as she towed him this way and that in the darkness.

  "How can you-?"

  "I can't," she hissed. "So I must feel. Whenever we come to where another passage joins ours. Now hush."

  They went on, Taeauna trailing her fingertips along one wall, until the sounds of running men seemed very close. Then the Aumrarr stopped, and Rod could feel her reaching, this way and that, tracing the panel at the end of their passage with her fingertips. She seemed to find something, and went still until the running men seemed fewer. When the sound of boots died away altogether, Taeauna thrust gently at the panel, sliding it an inch or so open. Then she stopped, leaning on her sword as if it were a walking stick, head drawn back from the door at an angle, and went still, obviously watching and listening.

  Rod carefully moved over to the darkness in the lee of the rest of the panel so he wouldn't be seen; the cross-passage was only dimly lit, but seemed very bright compared to what they'd been groping in. He also let the laedlen gently down to rest on the floor but kept hold of them; carried together in one hand, they were heavy and feeling steadily heavier.

  Soon the sounds of more hurrying, approaching boots could be heard, and two armored warriors rushed past. Then another, and a trio.

  Taeauna turned, reached for Rod's chin, took hold of it and turned his head so she could whisper in his ear, "Dark Helms, all of them. Coming up from the cellars. Our duty is clear." He felt like a small boy being firmly handled by a disapproving teacher.

  "It is?" Rod's mutter was lost in the sounds of more boots; the Aumrarr sighed.

  "Yes. We must get down to the keep's well and guard it. They'll try to poison it, to doom all Bowrock, but not yet. Not when there's a chance they can vanquish all, and seize Deldragon's seat. When all of Bowrock rises to arms against them, and they are forced back, and know they must lose, then we must be ready, and cleave to our duty."

  "And defend the well, the two of us, against most of an army?" Rod's incredulity made his whisper much louder than he'd intended it to be. "Christ! Is my time here going to be one long series of fights, chases, and running and hiding?"

  "Welcome to Falconfar," was her dry rejoinder.

  Lantern light glimmered in the distance. "Who's that?" a deep voice challenged out of the darkness.

  "Nyghtshield," the one-eyed baron called back. "Who are you?"

  "Lionhelm. Duthcrown, Snowlance, and Pethmur are with me. Welcome to Galathgard."

  That last sentence had been decidedly sarcastic, which was a long stride in daring beyond what any noble of Galath had made so loudly at court before. Whether His Majesty was englamored or just sinking into madness, levity had long since ceased to be safe in Galathgard.

  So had tarrying there a breath too long, after royal dismissal. Wherefore Galathgard's great halls were now deserted. Not to mention cold, dark, and echoing. They stank of mold and animal leavings. Two gigantic open archways beyond where Baron Nyghtshield stood now was the throne hall, the largest and grandest chamber
in all Galath, and if there had been a single lamp lit in it, or fires in its hearths, he would have been able to see and feel it long since.

  He strode toward the lantern, and the circle of faces around it. Great lords of the realm, all.

  "Huh," he said aloud, as he approached them. "It feels more like we're visiting a tomb than the Court of Galath. Where are all the courtiers? The servants? The bustle, the waiting feast, the errand-riders hastening in and out?"

  He knew the answers, of course. They all knew the answers.

  The courtiers were all dead, or long since fled. Hungry beasts prowled the halls, Dark Helms dwelt in armed camps in the outlying wings and towers, and the king walked alone.

  Mad as a drool-wits.

  "Speak not so freely," Arduke Halath Lionhelm replied warningly, his handsome, hawk-eyed face stern. "Galathgard is not so deserted as it seems in these few halls. You'll find fresh blood in many corners; the Helms were probably set to slaying or driving out the monsters, to empty the main rooms for our arrival."

  "Grand and grander," Nyghtshield muttered, finding himself suddenly more than impatient with the ordering of Galath by the Mad King. He looked around the ring of noble faces with his surviving eye, and nodded politely to everyone, seeing mistrust and weariness to match his own in every gaze, and outright dislike in some.

  There were nine faces in all; while he'd been walking to Lionhelm's lantern from one direction, it seemed other lords had been arriving from other rooms. Lionhelm was the only arduke, but there were three marquels: Blackraven, who was humming to himself as usual, Duthcrown, and gleaming-monocled Mountblade; two klarls, Dunshar and Snowlance; and three barons, loud and fat Chainamund, yellow-eyed Murlstag, and stone-faced Pethmur.

  Dunshar, a cruel, burly man Nyghtshield had never liked, was glaring at him, as were the barons. Young but white-haired Duthcrown was looking sourly at everyone.