“I might just take a look into the corridors,” said Paks casually. “In case someone is coming—”
“Good idea. Then you’ll be out of range if something does happen.” Paks had not realized that Macenion would find her motive so obvious. She said nothing, but looked into the corridor diagonally opposite that from which she’d entered the chamber. This was the way the “servants” had left. She could see no one before the corridor turned, some twenty paces away. She looked back at Macenion. He was still examining the scroll, but he looked up at her and nodded. “Go on—not too far. I think I’ll try one of these; for what I paid for them, they should be fairly powerful.” Paks went on as far as the turn.
It seemed a long time before he called, a high excited yell. Paks swept out her sword and ran back to the chamber. She was just in time to see a blue flare lance to the ceiling from the elf’s body. A dry clatter brought her eyes back to the floor; bones lay scattered there, and as she watched, they crumbled to dust. A draft scattered the dust. She looked up to meet Macenion’s eyes. He was pale and trembling.
“It worked,” she said unnecessarily.
“Yes. It—by Orphin, I’m tired. That—even reading it—that was beyond my powers—” He reeled, and Paks moved quickly to catch him before he fell. He lay some time unmoving. She could feel a pulse beating in his neck, so she folded her cloak under his head and let him rest. Some time later he opened his eyes and blinked. “What—? Oh yes. That.” Silently Paks offered him water and food. He took a long drink, and shook his head at the food. After another swallow, he rolled up to a sitting position and shook his head sharply.
“Do you think, Macenion, that that creature was what we came here to fight?” Paks had been worrying about this; if it were the servant of some greater evil, she had little hope of escape.
“I think so. That—was a considerable power. If it had chosen a better spell for you, or been more practiced at sword play—we wouldn’t be here.
“Then what were we to free? The elf’s body? That couldn’t have called us. What else is there?”
Macenion rubbed his face with both hands. “No. You’re right. We haven’t been greeted with cries of joy and armfuls of reward, have we? Something still to be done—by Orphin, I don’t know if I can manage any more spells today.”
“Maybe you won’t need to. If whatever it was is trapped somewhere, all we need to do now is find it.”
“I hope it’s that easy.” Macenion stood up, swaying slightly at first. “I just had a thought. I hope whatever it is wasn’t trapped in a jewel or something worn by the elf. Some magicians do that sort of thing. If so, we’re out of luck.”
“If only we get out of this,” said Paks, “we’ll be in luck.”
“True. Did you see anything down that corridor?”
“No. Nothing.”
Paks was never afterwards sure what had guided their choice, with so many ways to go, and no knowledge. At first, as they walked the bare stone corridor, Macenion continued to eat, reaching out now and again to touch the walls as if for balance. Then the corridor sloped down, and he paused.
“Wait—” Macenion’s face, when Paks turned, was grim. He pulled out his own sword, and tested the balance. “I sense something—”
“Not that thing in the Winter Hall!”
Macenion shook his head. “No. Not so dire as that. But it’s as if my blood tingled—some enemy is below, and coming nearer.”
Paks looked around for a good place to fight. The corridor was slightly too wide for two to hold. “We’d better go on, then, and hope for something we can use.”
Macenion nodded, and came up beside her as they started off again.
“Don’t you want to stay back and prepare your spells?”
“I told you—I can’t do that again today. I’d never be able to cast a simple fire spell, let alone anything useful.”
The corridor turned right, and continued downward. Paks felt edgy; she was increasingly aware of the weight of stone and earth above her. She found herself whispering words from a Phelani marching song. Macenion looked at her curiously, and she blushed and fell silent.
Suddenly Paks caught a foul whiff that stopped her short. “What’s that?”
Macenion looked eager. “Ah. I might have known. Orcs, that’s what. They would move in when the elves were driven away.”
“Orcs?” Paks had heard of orcs; they had raided Three Firs in her greatgrandfather’s day, but she had not expected to meet any.
“Ugly but cowardly,” said Macenion briskly. “If that was their master, they’ll want nothing better than escape. They won’t be looking for experienced fighters like us—”
“If they want to escape, we can let them,” suggested Paks.
“Let orcs loose? Are you crazy? They’re disgusting. Vermin, killers, filthy—”
“How many are likely to be in a group?” Paks didn’t care how disgusting they were; enough orcs could kill them.
“Oh—not more than seven or eight. We can handle that many. I killed three by myself one time.”
“But, Macenion—”
“Paksenarrion, I’ve seen you fight, remember? We have nothing to worry about. If we can handle that thing up there—” he jerked his head back where they’d been, “—we can handle a few orcs. Trust me. Haven’t I been right on this so far?”
“I still think we should wait until we know how many there are. What if there’s twenty? Let’s find a hiding place, and—”
“Where?”
Paks looked around. Ahead, the corridor turned again twenty paces away, still going down. They had passed no doors for the last two hundred paces. She shrugged, and went on.
Around that corner the stench was stronger. Trash littered the floor. Paks looked for someplace to hide. Halfway to the next turn a doorway shadowed one wall. They had nearly reached it when they heard a harsh voice from somewhere ahead. Paks darted forward. The doorway was an empty gap opening into a tiny bare room. She grabbed Macenion’s arm and pulled him in.
He glared at her, but said nothing as the voice came nearer in the corridor.
The first orcs were uglier than Paks had imagined. Greasy leather armor covered their hunched torsos; long arms banded with spiked leather hung nearly to the floor. The first carried a curved blade, badly nicked along the inner curve, and the second dragged a spear short enough to use in the corridor. Paks noted the spare knives in sheaths on both hips, and helmets that came low over the nose. Behind the first pair came another, whose voice they had heard. It wore a filthy fur cloak over its armor, and carried a spiked whip as well as a sword. Whatever it was saying to the others must have been unpleasant, for the spear carrier turned suddenly and growled back at it. Paks flattened herself into the angle of wall away from the door, and hoped the orcs would quit arguing and go on. Macenion, however, leaned toward the door. She realized suddenly that he was about to go out and attack. He looked back at her and cocked his head at the door.
If he attacked them and was killed, they’d be sure to look in the room. Paks cursed the stupidity of all magicians, and moved to the other side of the door, sword ready.
“It’s only three,” hissed Macenion. “We can take them easily.”
Paks hoped so. The argument outside grew even louder. At least they could surprise the orcs. She took a deep breath and crouched. Now!
Her first blow caught the third orc low, in the thigh. His leg was harder than she’d expected, but she got her sword back, and he went down, bellowing. Macenion had gone for the spear carrier, and missed; the other sword bearer took one wild swipe at Macenion’s head, then turned to Paks. The orc she had wounded flung its whip at her sword, and she dropped the tip just in time. The orcs moved faster than she’d expected. She parried the curved blade on one side, and danced back from the wounded orc’s whip. Macenion was trying to get past the guard of the spear carrier. She didn’t envy him.