Gar watched the other Aumrarr gather Iskarra in her arms so they were flying face to face. They were obviously chattering busily, but he couldn't hear more than the occasional murmur of their voices.
"Plans for us, hey? I'm not sure I like the sounds of that!"
"Well," Juskra said calmly, "we could abandon them-and just drop you, instead."
Garfist spat out several very filthy expressions before he grunted, "Ye win. Again, by the Falcon. How do ye Aumrarr do it?"
"Unlike many overclever thieves and vagabonds who end up having to flee the Stormar ports in a frantic rush just to cling to their lives, we Aumrarr tend to think about what we should do before we rush about doing foolish deeds. Most of the time," came the tart reply.
Garfist Gulkoun could think of several very cutting replies to that, but the air was cool and the ground looked very far away, now. Silence seemed wiser.
Cold, smooth, and very hard. Yes, undoubtedly. His cheek had never lied to him before.
About then the wizard Narmarkoun realized that he'd been feeling the floor against his face, and vaguely noticing the chill rigidity of its surface, for quite some time.
He'd been drifting slowly back to wakefulness, he supposed. Narmarkoun worked his mouth open and shut-his tongue felt dry and dusty-blinked a few times, then found where his hands were, spread them out on that same floor, and cautiously heaved himself up. A little.
Yes. As before, he was alone, lying on the floor of a vast chamber in Yintaerghast, fortress of the dead archmage Lorontar.
Reassured-and yet not-he let himself sag down to the floor again, and examined how he felt.
Beyond "terrible," that was. He was still weak, and sleepy… well, no, not really sleepy so much as mind-weary.
Yes. That was it. He was too weak and mind-weary to cast the mind-controlling spell again anytime soon.
He was also hungry-his stomach promptly growled in loud confirmation, like a competent courtier smoothly anticipating his lord's signal-and appallingly thirsty.
The foremost Doom of Falconfar made a sour face, heaved himself to his feet, and stumbled a little dazedly out of the room, to wander once more through cold and empty Yintaerghast.
He couldn't stay here forever. He'd starve, if thirst didn't kill him first. Nor was the location of Lorontar's great castle a particular secret. Only lack of daring-all right, tell truth and call it "fear"-kept wizards and many a home-poor warrior away from its halls; he might not be alone here forever. If Malraun learned of his whereabouts, that sly little Doom would be inside Yintaerghast just as swiftly as he dared, to see what Narmarkoun was up to-and stop it.
Narmarkoun passed through an archway he'd stepped through twoscore times before, and came to a sudden stop. What was happening to him?
He stared down at his blue flesh, at the scales that began at his wrists and grew heavier as his gaze moved up his arms. When he sat in Closecandle or any of his other citadels and hideholds, surrounded by his playpretties and their cold caresses, he felt so strong, so confident.
Here, though, among the still and bare bones of the might of the greatest mage Falconfar had ever known, he felt… weak. Soft, vulnerable, foolish; unaware of approaching doom, watched closely yet unable to feel that scrutiny, somehow… as unwitting as a coddled child.
He had reached out to Earth, had done more than Arlaghaun or Malraun had ever managed, and was a step ahead of the latter with the former fallen and gone-and still he felt this way!
It was this place, it must be. The cold weight of dead Lorontar's enchantments, riding him…
He had to get out.
Yet he'd failed to break through the shielding-spells before. Not so very long ago. When he'd been much less tired, and had still had some magic left.
Which meant he had to search this place once more. Old tales told of Lorontar's fabulous wealth, hidden everywhere behind the stones of Yintaerghast. The walls of the black castle, the legends insisted, hid chambers of luxury, magical doorways to far places, and tunnels that led far out into the forest around the castle.
So far, he'd seen none of these things. The tales were old, and most of them were rooted in things said by wizards who'd worked with Lorontar. They almost certainly held embellishments, yes, but they couldn't all be lies.
There was one tale he'd deliberately been ignoring all along, pushing to the back of his mind since he'd arrived here. The old, old story that insisted once you were inside Yintaerghast, you never got out. Unless you happened to find some of Lorontar's magic, and used it to win free of Yintaerghast.
So it was time to go looking. Seeking however the cleverest wizard in all Falconfar would hide things from his apprentices, enemy wizards, and intruding thickskulls who came marauding with swords in their hands and theft and butchery in their hearts.
Wall-sconces that turned, as levers-if there'd been any wall-sconces. Steps in stairs that could be lifted up or pushed down or slid side-wise. Stones in the side-walls of archways, that moved to let someone into a passage hidden in the thickness of the wall…
Narmarkoun looked around him, swallowed a groan, and started tapping, tugging, and prodding.
Falcon defecate, but Yintaerghast held a lot of archways.
As Rusty sprinted up the stairs, more than a few frightened Holdoncorp managerial secretaries at his heels, the security loudspeakers spaced up along the wall above crackled into life.
"Just… just what do you want?" Executive Vice President Quillroque's voice was so distorted by gurgling terror that it was almost unrecognizable.
"We serve a master who seeks sole control over the Great Transforming Magics some of you here have been wielding over Falconfar," came the flat reply, echoing coldly out of a colder metal helm.
"You what?"
"Those in this fortress who bind things in Falconfar, making matters befall by their commands, must be eliminated."
"Killed?"
"Ah, that word at least you grasp! Deliver them to us!"
"Them?"
"Those who control Falconfar. You are a lordling here, are you not? They serve you?"
"Uh, ah, they serve Holdoncorp, and I–I can give them orders, yes, but-"
"Then order them to assemble here before us. Or die."
"But-but-you'll kill them!"
"You comprehend at last. My words have been clear enough, so your wits must be weak indeed, lordling. Go give your orders, or we'll demonstrate our impatience. The smallest fingers on both your hands, first. Then your nose. Then ears and more fingers."
"You're mad! And if I refuse?"
"We kill everyone."
It only took twelve archways before Narmarkoun found it. His hunch had been right: try down low. No passage in the thickness of the wall, only a loose stone that could be slid out to reveal a massive metal lever, mottled black with age despite the enchantments he could feel around it. It was upright.
He pulled it down without hesitation. A grinding sound ensued, as the floor in the next archway, across the room, dropped down out of sight. He looked cautiously in all directions before walking to the hole to look down, expecting hurled missiles, unleashed guardians, or something.
Nothing but heavy silence. With a shrug he stopped a good two paces away and peered at the hole. Stone walls, and a faint, flickering glow from below.
He took a step closer, and peered again. A small stone chamber, under the floor of the one he'd been walking in, the glow coming from something small and round floating in midair at the center of it. No other doors, no way in but a crawl-hole in one side of the shaft, revealed when the floor had dropped. Wedge something between the dropped stone and top edge of that hole to keep it all open, so he couldn't get entombed in that little room if it rose again?