The ancient mage seemed little moved. He kept his focus on the warden. “And with such a ward against black Grace in our hands, who knows what other black acts might be reversed?”
Argent met the other’s gaze. Tylar knew the Ghazalian master had been summoned in an attempt to break the dark spell that had frozen Argent’s swordsworn brother to stone. Here the master offered one more argument for securing the skull, one with a more personal stake for the warden.
Tylar knew the matter was settled before the warden turned back to him.
“You believe you can get below and back again with the skull?” Argent asked.
“If we are delayed no longer.”
Argent’s eye narrowed. “I’ll send you with enough knights to guard the door below, to keep a fire blazing. You’ll have a single bell. Longer than that, we’ll know you’re corrupted. The way will be sealed.”
It was as much of a concession as Tylar could hope for from the warden. He stared at Argent in his one eye and nodded.
Kathryn turned from the table. Tylar was the only one to note her relieved sigh. She followed him back to the door and out.
Behind them, Argent barked orders, staging his end of the assault.
They would have only a moment of privacy.
Kathryn stopped him halfway toward the stair. “Be careful. I don’t trust that new master.”
He nodded. “We’ll have to worry about that after I retrieve the skull.”
In a lower voice, she asked, “What of the boy? Was he able to cast any light upon the skull’s origin?”
“More than you could imagine.” He didn’t have time to go into his story at length, and he feared speaking of the boy’s black stone, gifted to him by the very god whose skull lay below. “He’s coming with us.”
Thinking upon it, he was glad he had not been more stubborn about permitting him to come. Best to bring the skull and stone together well out of sight of that strange master.
Kathryn looked on inquiringly, but trusted him enough not to press. He squeezed her arm. “I must go.”
For a moment, their eyes met. A flicker of something conflicted flashed across her features. But before he could pin it down, it vanished, replaced with worry and the weight of their situation.
“Come back,” she said.
He let go of her arm. “I will.”
He set off, hoping it was a promise he could keep.
Brant shifted back as the heavy iron bar was lifted from the gate. It was the last of three. The wyrmwood gate itself was constructed of massive planks, woven like cloth under an alchemy of Grace and banded in more iron. Rogger had explained its history, how it was placed at the threshold to the Masterlevels shortly after the founding of Tashijan.
“Some said to keep any wild Grace from escaping the master’s subterranean dungeons…others because the knights had not truly trusted those first masters, men who dabbled with the Grace of gods. The knights were ready to bottle them up if necessary. And maybe they weren’t half wrong. Look where we are now.”
But all had gone silent by the time the last bar was shoved free.
Everyone held their breath.
Giant braziers flanked both sides, roaring with fire. Torches as thick around as Dralmarfillneer’s thigh encircled the walls and continued down the tall halls, all the way to the great doors that led from Stormwatch into the outer bailey.
Brant wiped his brow on his sleeve. The very air steamed from the many flames. But he did not complain.
“Ready your torches,” Tylar said.
They each carried an oiled brand. Rogger also had a lantern hanging at his hip, flame flickered low. The giant had a cask of the oil under one arm, ready to be cracked opened, spilled, and set to flame.
One by one, they lit their torches from the brazier.
Tylar nodded to two knights at the chained mechanism for the gate. The pair began hauling on the wheels, drawing up the barrier. Another knight ran forward and cast a lantern through the widening opening, splashing oil and fire down the mouth of the steps. They dared not risk an ambush outside the gate.
Brant hunkered down and searched the lower stairs. The way appeared empty, free of any black ghawls.
“We stay together,” Tylar said. “No more than an arm’s length apart. Understood?”
Nods all around.
The regent led the way, with Rogger a step behind him, and Sten flanking his other side. Brant went next. He had two guards: the dour-faced Dralmarfillneer and the woman in black ash, the Flagger whose name Brant learned was Calla. Or was it Carra? His heart had been pounding too hard to truly note it.
Behind them trailed Krevan. The large man stood nearly as tall as the giant, though not as bulky. Despite his misgivings about the man’s trade, Brant was still happy to have him at his back.
They headed down the stairs, skirting the fading flames from the broken lantern. As they continued, wending round and round, Brant risked a glance behind him. The fires above were only a distant glow.
Brant had never considered himself a coward, but only one certainty kept him descending into the deepening darkness. He clutched the stone at his throat. It lay as cold as granite against his heated skin. No matter the risk, he would find the end of this path that started with this stone.
“Where are these daemons already?” Rogger grumbled.
Sten glanced to the smaller man with a frown. Brant shared the captain’s distaste. It was like whistling among gravestones. There was no telling what such sentiment might conjure.
They spiraled farther down in silence. Brant peered past Tylar, who still led them by two steps. The blackness seemed to stir away from his flames. It was as if the darkness had turned to oil and feared to be ignited.
But nothing worse arose.
“Here is the level of Gerrod’s study,” Tylar said, stopping at the next landing.
They all closed ranks a bit tighter.
“What’s that smell?”
Brant sniffed. But he stood too near the bearded man. He smelled unwashed and ripe. Then a skittering sound reached his ears. It rose from below. He remembered the rustle when he had been with the wyld tracker and Dart. This was something different.
“Back!” Tylar ordered, low and urgent. “Against the walls.”
His warning came not a moment too soon. Brant flattened against the stone as darkness flowed out from below, swallowing the gray stairs.
“Rats,” Rogger said with disgust.
A horde burst up to them, jammed together, climbing over one another. They whisked through the group like so many stones in a flash flood. One rat leaped, landed on the lip of Brant’s boot, and bounced to the next step and away. As suddenly as they had arrived, they were gone again, streaming up the stairs.
Brant shivered all over. Not so much at the number of rats as their silence. Not a single squeak. Only the scrape of tiny, frantic claws on rock. Brant knew the sound would haunt his nights-that is, if he lived to have more nights.
“Those rats can’t seem to find a safe place to roost this night,” Rogger said, glancing meaningfully at Tylar.
“We’ll heed their instinct this time,” the regent answered. “Especially as there’s no reason to traipse deeper.”
“Thank the silent aether for that,” the man answered.
Tylar lifted his torch toward the passage that led off the landing. “This way. Keep alert. By now they must know we’re down here.”
Brant followed, but he stared down the spiraling stairs one more time. Was that the message from the rats? That something stirred once again in the bowels beneath Tashijan?
He hurried after the others.
Dral hunched next to him, all but filling the passageway. Calla- or Carra -was forced back with her leader.
“How much longer?” Dral whispered, sounding like boulders rubbing together. “Those rats reminded me that I didn’t get to finish my dinny. Did you see how plump some of them buggers was? I like them roasted with their own giblets. Mal says-”