Part 62 (1/2)
”Forgive-”
”Having another of your attacks? Don't try to talk, Neeper. Better save your strength,” the king counseled.
”Neeper? Nevenskoi, surely,” the grandlandsman suggested with amus.e.m.e.nt. He addressed himself to the stricken man. ”This green fire about us is subject to your will?”
”It-” Neeper's response gave way to coughing.
The grandlandsman waited.
”Masterfire-consume nothing-EatEatEat-” More coughs, concluding in a moan.
Torvid's brows contracted. ”Come, enough of this. I lose patience.”
”Mine went long ago. Leave him alone,” Girays advised. ”This is pointless, Stornzof. You are finished. I know about Karsler, and if we survive this fire, the world will know. You've nowhere to hide. Even your imperior won't be willing or able to protect you.”
”What about Karsler?” Despite the intense heat of the atmosphere, Luzelle went cold inside.
”Ah, were you hiding behind a chair, M. v'Alisante? Or perhaps crouching like a little mouse outside the door? No matter. It is just as well to proceed openly, subterfuge annoys me.” Torvid turned, advancing his arm slightly to bring the pistol into view.
”And what do you intend to do with that?” Girays arched a contemptuous eyebrow. ”Shoot everyone in sight? What happens when you run out of ammunition?”
”By that time, be certain that you and the Hetzian king and this Vonahrish trollop here will all be dead. But in fact I prefer to avoid wholesale slaughter. Rather will I remove the adept, merely.” Turning to Neeper, he declared, ”You will now accompany me to the nearest exit. When we reach it, you will displace the barrier of fire, only long enough to permit the two of us clear pa.s.sage.”
”I-Eat-losing control-” Neeper tottered.
”Do you understand me?”
Neeper groaned and sank to his knees.
”I said, do you understand me? Answer.” No reply, and the grandlandsman's overtaxed patience failed. Lifting the hand that held the gun, he struck the adept twice, back and forth across the face.
The blows sent Neeper sprawling. He hit the floor and lay still. A shocked exclamation escaped Miltzin IX. Girays took a purposeful step forward and halted when Torvid turned the gun on him. At the same time something between a rumble and a deep growl shook the room.
Luzelle's breath caught. She could not identify the sound, she had never heard its like before, but it filled her with elemental fear. She looked up. The fire that lined the walls and ceiling was expanding, flinging forth new and longer tongues of flame, their green edged with a furious tinge of red. The roar of the conflagration deepened in pitch, rose in volume, vibrated along her nerves, and she sensed a sudden killing rage, vast and insatiable. Her limbs shook. She was not fully conscious of running to Girays, but his arms were around her and he was holding her tightly.
The fire was plentifully blood streaked now, the red tints almost equaling the green, and the sea of flame overhead was starting to change, its substance s.h.i.+fting and flowing like water stirred by arcane currents. Up above a whirlpool of fire spun into existence, its center directly over the head of Torvid Stornzof. The grandlandsman noticed nothing. He was shouting at the man on the floor, who stirred feebly and opened his eyes.
Neeper looked up; not at his tormentor, but at the ceiling. His glazed eyes widened, and he said something. Luzelle could not hear a word, but she saw his lips form the syllables: No. Sweet one. No. No. Sweet one. No. Torvid followed the adept's gaze. He studied the fiery vortex with clinical interest. Torvid followed the adept's gaze. He studied the fiery vortex with clinical interest.
The revolutions overhead accelerated, and a funnel of fire whirled down from the ceiling. There was a crackle like a laugh of savage satisfaction as Masterfire seized upon his prey.
Torvid Stornzof screamed. His arms flailed, and he jigged like a crazed marionette. His beautifully tailored evening wear ignited, the fabric burning away in seconds to expose his nakedness to the flames. His silvery hair and dark brows frizzled away in an instant. His flesh began to char, and the aroma of cooking meat drifted through the Long Gallery.
Flinging himself headlong to the floor, Torvid rolled, but the great funnel of flame that enclosed him was not to be smothered. The violence of his contortions loosed showers of sparks, many flying to nearby silken skirts and petticoats, where small new fires blossomed. Fresh cries of terror rose, but none equaled the power of the grandlandsman's unremitting shrieks.
Through the wavering curtain of green and red, Luzelle could see his skin blackening and peeling like the surface of a charred pepper. His hairless scalp was distended with vaporous blisters that nearly doubled the size of his head. His facial features were distorted beyond recognition, eyes lost amid bubbles of ashy tissue, if they were still there at all. Of his genitals nothing remained but a blackened stump. But his voice was intact. Surely by now he must have inhaled fire, he must have scorched his lungs and throat, but his screams never slackened.
It seemed to last for years. Eternity revolved while the blind black mannequin at the heart of the blaze dragged himself upright to lurch through the crowd whose members gave way, stumbling over one another in their efforts to clear the path of the human torch.
Eventually he fell, but his agony was not ended, for he continued to jerk and pule as he burned, and the scrabbling motion of his hands suggested attempts to crawl. At last all movement and outcry ceased. Even then Masterfire did not relinquish his first kill, but lingered fiercely there until the body was reduced to greasy ash and bone.
”Master Neeper.” Girays stooped to lay a hand on the adept's shoulder. ”Can you hear me?” There was no response, and raising his voice to make himself heard above the surrounding tumult, he repeated the question.
Neeper's eyes opened. ”Big,” ”Big,” he whispered. ”I am BigBigBig.” he whispered. ”I am BigBigBig.”
”Master Neeper, can you quench or at least diminish this blaze?”
”Big. Big.” Neeper blinked, and his eyes focused. ”Dizzy. Pain. Can't think.”
”Can you clear an exit?”
”Don't know.” The adept rubbed his eyes. ”I will try. Help me.”
Each taking one of his arms, Girays and Miltzin hauled Neeper to his feet and steered him to the nearest doorway, where they released him. Neeper staggered, and Luzelle thought he would fall again, but he managed to stay on his feet. For several seconds he stood motionless, head bowed. Then he lifted his eyes to gaze into the fire, and his face was still, but she caught the intimation of intense mental activity. Long moments pa.s.sed before the crimson streaks began to fade from the guardian flames. When they had resumed a uniform green hue, Neeper spoke, his words audible to his creation alone. The flames drew themselves lithely aside.
King Miltzin was first to exit the Long Gallery. Luzelle and Girays, supporting Neeper, followed close behind. They emerged into a corridor where a bucket brigade of palace servants toiled. Flying droplets of cold water spattered Luzelle's face. They felt marvelous. Neither she nor anyone else in sight was about to burn alive, and that felt marvelous too, but she could hardly summon undivided joy. She had bungled her audience with the king beyond recovery, and Girays had dropped a hint so dreadful that she could barely bring herself to consider it; something about Karsler.
But she did not have to think about it yet, for the liberated prisoners streaming from the Long Gallery were jostling, shoving, all but trampling her in their haste to escape the blazing palace. No room for thought at the moment, and perhaps just as well. Down the corridor they fled in a terrified stampede, down the great central stairway, through a foyer the size of a marble meadow, and out the front door onto the palace grounds, where a crowd of resident retainers already stood watching.
The Long Gallery emptied swiftly. When the last of the guests had pa.s.sed through the fire-wreathed doorway, Neeper wobbled, faltered, and muttered incoherently. The gap in the flames closed itself. Masterfire cavorted and roared in mad green glory.
”Nevenskoi-my Waterwitch!” King Miltzin appealed. ”Do something, my dear fellow!”
”Sire, I-” The adept's eyes turned up. He collapsed in a dead faint. Girays and Luzelle caught him as he fell.
Gouts of flame lashed out into the corridor. Hopelessly overmatched, the bucket brigade turned tail and ran, ignoring their monarch's frantic commands. Twisting fiery tentacles snaked inquisitively along the hall. A set of brocade window draperies ignited, and then another. The carpeting underfoot began to smolder.
There was no opposing the blaze, at least for now.
”Sire, let us a.s.sist you from the building,” Luzelle begged.
Miltzin looked at her and nodded. Together they exited, carrying the unconscious Neeper. They bore him as far as the white stone wall girdling the palace, and there in that safe place set him down on the ground. Already the adept was stirring.
They were far from isolated. Hundreds of guests, palace guards, and household servants waited and watched at the foot of the wall. A kind of sighing murmur from the spectators dragged Luzelle's unwilling eyes back to the Waterwitch, where green flame was flaring from the second-story windows. As she watched, the fire expanded, mounting toward the roof and beyond. A mighty roar of triumph reached her as Masterfire arose, reaching for the starry skies.
MUCH LATER THAT NIGHT, when the Waterwitch stood in smoking ruins and the green conflagration was finally subsiding, Miltzin IX spoke up for the first time in hours.
”We'll need to do some sort of a head count to make certain there were no casualties other than that Grewzian swine.”
”A search through the debris will reveal the remains of at least one other body, Sire.” Girays, illumined by the diminis.h.i.+ng green glare of Masterfire, bowed his head. ”Karsler Stornzof was murdered by his uncle for seeking to defend Your Majesty.”
The tears blurred Luzelle's eyes, but her grief contained no element of surprise. She had known for hours, without letting herself know. Karsler pointlessly dead. Her mission botched, her country doomed. A night of disaster.
”Well. I am sorry about the younger Stornzof.” Miltzin frowned. ”Not every Grewzian is a criminal, it seems. But my cousin Ogron is, and I can a.s.sure you I've had more than enough of him. He's had the bit between his teeth far too long, and it must end. Tonight was absolutely the last straw. I'll teach him to sic his ruffians on me. Miss Devaire, what was that Vonahrish offer you were peddling a few hours ago? Fifty million, was it?”
”Forty, Sire,” she murmured, astonished.