His vision was momentarily obscured as the heavy tread of the second intruder-his killer-passed over his inert form. He cursed inwardly at being screened thus from the action. The man was so big that he was blocking the very light and casting the room into shadow. No, he realized as a slow chill spread throughout his limbs, that was not the case. Rather, it was his own vision growing dimmer by the second, and this time it was not his aging eyes to blame.
He hoped the lad was giving them hell. By then, his sight had narrowed into a hazy tunnel such that all he could discern was the blurred shuffle of booted feet back and forth across the floor, punctuated by the clash of steel and pants of effort. A sudden sharp cry brought silence in its wake, and another form tumbled heavily to the floor. Wide, clear blue eyes stared back at him, unblinking amid their youthful countenance, and beads of blood trailed across Sivrin’s unwhiskered cheek.
The action came to you at last, lad, Horek thought sadly. Was it all that you wished?
His vision darkened even more, at once both cruel and merciful in that he could no longer see Sivrin’s face. So much like children, the new recruits. So much…
The scar-faced man spat an oath as he ran his fingers across his bleeding brow.
“Burn my soul, but the pup had fangs after all,” he muttered, examining his wet fingertips. “Damn near took my head off, and even so I think I’ll have another scar to show for it.”
He glanced up to find his brooding, heavyset companion watching him with veiled eyes.
“What are you staring at, you ugly oaf?” he snarled. “Get on with the job and foul those gears while the others and I see to the gate doors. We must return to the estate. This is no night to linger in the open.”
The lumbering fellow’s nostrils flared, and his lip curled in a loud sniff. He sheathed the red-stained sword and reached behind his back to produce the heavy iron mallet he had tethered there. Clutching it in one huge ham fist, he started toward the winding gear, casting a lingering look at the plate of food upon the table. With a wicked grin, the scar-faced man drew his dagger and impaled the last remaining piece of meat on the tin plate, raising it quickly to his mouth. He chewed with exaggerated motions, meeting the larger man’s narrowed gaze. Then his face twisted in disgust.
“Ugh,” he said, spitting it noisily back onto the table. “If you ever need confirmation you made the right choice in employment, there it is. Morland would not give food that bad to his livestock, let alone to his men.”
He stabbed a finger at the winding mechanism. “Make certain that gear will not turn before you join us below,” he commanded. He stalked from the room, and the thunderous peal of striking iron followed him down the steep stairwell.
He returned to the chamber below and strode through without stopping. A pair of lean, wolfish men rose to their feet and fell into step behind him. They wore the attire of the city guard as well, but not one of them spared a glance for the two guards slumped over their table with a crimson pool slowly surrounding the tumbled dice in the center.
The trio left the guard house, turning sharply in the street to pass under the towering archway leading to the southern gate doors. The scar-faced man glanced back, scanning the empty courtyard. The citizenry tended to shun the vicinity of the gates as evening approached, and this night was no exception. Good; fewer bodies, fewer delays. Tonight’s task was best done quickly.
Eight more of his men stood before the doors. They each gave him a tight nod, and he nodded back without comment. It took him a moment to find the pair of real gate guards, hidden behind several barrels of oil against the wall. He smiled to himself with grim satisfaction. It was good work. He likely would not have even spotted the faint crimson drag marks on the cobblestones had he not been specifically searching for them. Not that it would matter for long, if their timing was right.
He looked up, regarding the great ironbound doors for a long moment. They were solid and imposing. Comforting. He took a deep breath and gave the signal.
The men sprang into action, moving with ruthless efficiency. The enormous bar was lifted from the door and set aside, the doors pushed open wide. Two of the men lifted stout pails of the noxious foaming substance they had brought, and they drew forth long brushes to quickly paint the lower hinges of the doors, careful to let none of it touch their flesh. The metal began to hiss and bubble upon contact with the slimy fluid, and the men soon tossed the pails aside.
The scar-faced man looked on, expressionless. The heavens alone knew where Morland had procured the foul stuff, but if it worked as he said, it would fuse the metal of the hinges together, forcing the doors to remain open.
The men stood there in the shadow of the southern gate, darting nervous glances between the gathering darkness outside and the torch-lit courtyard behind them. The scar-faced man looked out upon the dark, shimmering sea of grass broken only by the departing ribbon of the city road, and he rolled his shoulders to ease the tension there. This was the part of the evening’s plan that he had dreaded the most. He and his men were to defend the gate until Morland’s new allies came, and if the city guard discovered their duplicity before the arrival of those forces, it would not go well for any of them.
Those fears proved groundless, however, as they had not long to wait at all.
The doors had been open mere seconds when a vast black shadow appeared upon the rolling hills, darker even than the encroaching night. No, not a single shadow, the scar-faced man realized, but rather many thousands of black shapes, rising in unison from their positions concealed in the tall grasses. As one they surged forward, silent and swift, sweeping toward the city like an ebon tide.
The scar-faced man swallowed hard. He tore his gaze from the onrushing Nar’ath and studied the thick doors yawning open, offering the soft underbelly of Keldrin’s Landing to the approaching predator. A splinter of panic lanced through him, and against his will his eyes sought the heavy beam he and his men had cast aside, then darted back to the ruined hinges, and once more out at the advancing horde. The Nar’ath were all moving at the same tireless, flat-out sprint, and they were drawing near with such speed that he could already begin to make out the tattered strips of cloth flapping behind their forms as they ran. An icy weight settled in his stomach. He had thought he feared displeasing Morland more than any alternative, but his conviction seemed to have taken flight all of a sudden.
Just as we should be doing, he thought fiercely to himself. What’s done is done. There’s nothing for it now but to let the merchant’s plan play out, and pray it brings us all the wealth and power he has promised.
“Time to be elsewhere, men,” he hissed. “There is only one safe place in the city tonight, and I mean to be there before the screaming begins.”
He looked around to see a ring of pale, wide-eyed faces staring back at him. At any other time he would have laughed to see this group of cutthroats looking so shaken, but somehow the humor palled at the moment.
“Unless, of course, you’d rather remain behind to greet our new allies when they arrive,” he said, forcing a grim smile. He wheeled and ran back into the city, and the men wasted no time in following him.
The cloud of dust and sand washed over Amric, and behind it came the Nar’ath queen.
The blast of grit blinded him momentarily, and he threw himself to the side on pure instinct. The huge serpentine form hurtled past with an explosive hiss of rage, the black claws scraping the ground. The force of the creature’s passage was a hot breath across his skin as he rolled to his feet and drew his second sword. Blinking the sand from his eyes, he whirled and crouched in time to meet the next charge.