Part 17 (1/2)

Relief warred with unease. Blaine stepped forward, offering his hand. ”Well met. I had not hoped to find allies of the Octagon so deep into the steppes.”

The fox-faced leader barked a harsh laugh. ”What allies? There's only a common enemy...or so we thought.”

Warnings p.r.i.c.ked the back of Blaine's neck. ”What are you saying?”

”Tige, see to the wounded. I want to be gone before the dawn. And don't leave any of their belongings.”

The fox-faced leader turned away, but Blaine grabbed his arm. ”I want an answer.”

”An answer!” The leader whirled, the tip of the blue steel sword poised at Blaine's throat. ”Why are you here, knight? What brings you so deep into the steppes? Are you a deserter seeking the Mordant's service? Are you a spy? Or just a coward?”

”A deserter!” Outrage flamed through Blaine. He clenched his fists, fighting to swallow his rage. ”We came to slay the Mordant.”

”Hah! With two girls and an old man!” The leader's voice filled with scorn. ”The Mordant must be trembling.”

Rage erupted within Blaine, they had no idea what his companions were capable of. ”You must have seen the battlefield just south of here?”

The fox-faced man gave a terse nod.

”That victory was ours.”

Murmurs rippled through the Painted Warriors.

The leader's face twisted to a sneer. ”Liar!”

Blaine ducked past the raised sword and lunged, but another man stepped between them. ”Stop this!”

Blaine hissed, ”I do not lie.”

Tattooed with a bear's face, the big man seemed unnaturally strong. ”You asked for our help, do you still want it?”

Need dampened Blaine's anger. ”Yes.”

The fox-faced leader growled, ”Let him go, Bearant. I'll spit this liar with his own sword.”

The big man shook his head. ”No. A bargain was made. The price was paid.” He turned towards the leader, his voice dropping to a hushed whisper. ”There is some riddle here, Anton. This is a matter for the Old One.”

The leader snarled. ”So be it.” He glared at Blaine. ”But if you prove false,” he raised the blue sword in threat, ”then your life and all of your possessions will be forfeit.” He spat onto the ground as if sealing a bargain and then stalked away.

Blaine tightened his fists, staring at the leader's back, fighting his anger.

The bear-faced man leaned close, his voice a whisper. ”Do not give him a reason to kill you.”

Blaine struggled to sheath his rage, watching as two of the Painted Warriors wrapped Kath into a type of carryall. ”Can you heal them?”

”Our healers are skilled but we must reach the den to give them succor.”

”Your den?”

”Our home.”

The words held a world of pride. ”Where is this den?”

”Do not get curious, knight. You'll be blindfolded long before we reach the den.”

Blaine stiffened.

The man's voice held a placating tone. ”It is not an insult but a matter of survival. The Mordant's forces far outnumber us. No outsider can know our secret paths.” He gestured toward the northeast. ”Come, we must be away. The dawn is our enemy.”

The Painted Warriors gathered up his companions, including the wolf, and set off at a ground-eating pace. Silent and sure, they ran like a hunting pack, slipping through the tall gra.s.ses.

Weary and worried, Blaine struggled to keep pace. Feeling like an ox herded by wolves, he felt their dark stares tracking him, watching him, judging him, predators a.s.sessing prey. Cursing his lot, he longed for his sword, for the feel of blue steel in his hands. A knight without a sword, he gripped the crystal dagger at his belt. At least he'd kept that weapon safe...so far, but all would be for naught if the others died. Poison and h.e.l.lhounds and tattooed warriors, the north was plagued with unexpected traps, worse than any nightmare. Cursing his ill fate and the indifference of the G.o.ds, Blaine ran through the tall gra.s.s, wondering if he'd bargained with friends or foes.

21.

The Mordant Darkness beckoned, a pulsing power in the dead of night. The Mordant snapped awake. Throwing off the silken sheets, he freed his arm from the concubine's embrace, ignoring her soft murmur. Drawing on a loose robe of black silk, he reached for the Staff of Pain, never far from his hand. Pulled by the summons, the Mordant strode through the palace, his bare feet silent on the cold marble floor, answering the call of his G.o.d.

The hallways were empty; the palace slumbered, but never the Dark Lord. He reached the marbled entranceway, surprising a pair of guards leaning on their spears. Snapping a salute, they scrambled to throw open the outer doors. A cold wind blew in, threatening the torchlight. He paused in the doorway, surveying the outer courtyard. Glinting with moonlight, the granite pavement s.h.i.+mmered like an arcane sea. Runes spiraled around the yard, black marble inlaid in granite, a ripple of spells circling the ancient boulder. Thrust up like a dark island in a sea of runes, the top of the great monolith pierced the courtyard, the bedrock of the citadel. The ancient stone throbbed with power, the summons emanating from a boulder's shadowy cleft. Drawn to Darkness, the Mordant crossed the runes till the monolith loomed overhead, a primordial darkness blotting out the stars.

Old and full of secrets, the cleft gaped with shadows, a deep gash in the side of the stone. He slipped inside; his footfalls smothered by a cold silence, as if he'd entered a tomb. Stairs spiraled down, worn with age, leading to a secret buried in the heart of the great rock. Shadows gave way to torchlight, the smell of soot hanging in the cold, damp air. Descending into the depths, the Mordant summoned the monk. *Attend me, for tonight you shall meet a G.o.d.*

Inside his mind, the monk gibbered in fear, hiding behind a litany of prayers.

*You feel it, don't you monk, the call of the Dark Lord.*

*I walk in the Light. I walk in the Light.*

Amused by the feeble defense, the Mordant laughed. His laughter echoed in the well of stone. Twisted by the depths, it became an eerie chortle, like a ghost leading him downward, a deep delving into the earth. Carved from solid rock, the steps were old and treacherous, footprints worn deep into the ancient stone. Six hundred and sixteen steps, the number of steps to power, the number of steps to h.e.l.l.

The Dark summons tugged at his soul, offering promise of power. The same song had lured him to the heart of the monolith...twelve lifetimes and over a thousand years ago. So many victories, so much dark glory, but this lifetime would exceed them all. His footsteps quickened. Infused with the vigor of youth, he returned to the source of his power.

The long descent ended in an antechamber of dancing torchlight. Two guards in black and gold armor stood at attention before the great copper Door. He stared at the guards. ”Do you know your Lord, the Mordant re-born?”

They fell to the floor in prostration, a clatter of armor on stone.

The Mordant strode toward the great Door, ancient runes inscribed in the gleaming copper. He made his voice a command. ”Sion rasmathus!”

As if drawn by invisible hands, the great Door slowly swung open. Cold air laden with the stench of sulfur flowed out, a breath of Darkness calling him forward.

The Mordant crossed the threshold, his bare feet silent on the cold floor. Ancient beyond telling, the cavernous chamber brimmed with Darkness. Red stalact.i.tes dripped from the ceiling as if the stones wept blood, a testament to so many sacrifices. Beneath the vaulted ceiling, a golden pentacle stretched across the marble floor. Five braziers glowed at the points, flames fueled by the fires of h.e.l.l, an eternal glow quenched only by the Dark G.o.d's will.

Power pulsed in the shadows, a promise and a threat. The Mordant breathed deep, reveling in the Darkness.

Bowing low, he began the ritual of opening. Slowly circling the Dark Lord's symbol, his body swayed to the arcane dance, his bare feet beating a rhythm of runes into the cold stone floor. Words of power whispered from his lips. Round and round, the tempo increased to an exultant frenzy. Infused with youth and vigor, the chant roared out of him, a herald of Darkness. His black robes rippled behind like a windblown wraith, yet there was no wind. Power crackled along his skin, aching to be unleashed. Dark magic hummed through him, an ecstasy and an agony, too much to contain. Br.i.m.m.i.n.g with power, the Mordant threw back his head and screamed, ”Alamat anak an!” The braziers flared bright. Flames roared to the ceiling, releasing plumes of red sparks that fell like glowing embers. A thunderclap shook the chamber, a burnt smell hanging in the air.