"There'd be little enough to burn," replied the curvaceous woman, "built into the mountain as it is."
"The mountain? He lived in a cave? How monstrous!"
"It was part of an old monastery, built before the city," she offered. "But monstrous of him, yes," the woman quickly added. "Monstrous, indeed."
Brek had heard enough such talk. "Now, girls, why don't we let the spellcaster be on his way? I'm sure he's got himself a rendezvous of his own, don't you, sir?"
Zayl recognized the suggestion to leave. With the smile still in place, he said, "Yes, as a matter of fact, there is someone dying to meet me."
The women laughed lightly at this, but the fighter gave Zayl's jest a sour expression in reply. Bowing slightly, the necromancer bid them goodbye, then walked off as if rejoining the celebration.
"Now I know where they got the expression gallows humor," Humbart muttered from his pouch.
"I merely wanted them to think I had no purpose but amusement tonight."
"With jests like that? Now, me, I would've said—"
"Quiet." Zayl gave the pouch a slight rap as added emphasis.
He now knew where to find the former abode of the mysterious Gregus Mazi, and, once there, he would surely be able to locate some item with which to summon the man's shade. Then, at last, Zayl would find out the truth, find out whose version of facts fit.
Find out why a reborn Ureh would trouble him so.
Brek stumbled into the home of one of his two companions with lust fully on his besotted mind. Even the necromancer's thankfully brief interruption of his pleasuring had not lessened his desires. Not only did both young women seem willing, but they were far, far more attractive than those with whom he usually found himself. It would be good, for a change, not to find the next morning that he had bedded some one—eyed she—demon with skin more leathery than his boots. Brek felt certain he had it in him to more than satisfy both beauties, and even if it turned out he didn't, at least if they satisfied him, it would all be worth it.
Only a dim light far, far back in the building cast any illumination. The mercenary wended his way toward it, only belatedly realizing that he no longer had an arm around either of his intended treats. At some point near the doorway, both had gone missing.
"Here now, ladies!" he called. "Where've you run off to?"
"Over here…" called the voice of the one Brek recalled as wearing the striking golden outfit.
If she wanted to be first, then he would not disappoint her. Brek followed the call, reaching out with his hands as he gradually made his way toward the faint light.
"Almost there…" murmured the second, the woman whose shape the fighter had found so appealing.
"So you both want a piece of me at once?" He laughed. "That's fine with me!"
"We're glad you think so," said the first, moving into the light.
Brek screamed.
Under scraps of hair, a husk of a face stared empty—eyed at the mercenary. A mouth shaped into a circle and filled at the edges with sharp, needlelike teeth gaped. Any flesh on what had once been a female face had dried away, leaving skin so taut it barely could hold in the skull.
Bony claws stretched forth, seeking him. Vaguely he noted the tattered remains of the golden dress, then the horror of what he faced finally stirred Brek to action. He reached down for his sword, only to find the scabbard empty.
Where had the weapon gone? He slowly recalled how, at an inn, he had showed the women and some other onlookers how he had helped battle the hellish cat. After that, there had been a round of drinks in honor of his heroism, and then—
He had never retrieved the sword from next to his chair.
Brek fearfully backed away, only to collided with someone. He looked over his shoulder and saw, to his horror, another cadaverous yet hungry face, a mummified shell who could only be the other of his feminine companions.
"We'd all like a piece of you," it said.
And as she spoke, Brek became aware that other figures moved in the dim light, figures with similar outlines, figures all around him, reaching, hungering…
He managed one last, short cry before they enveloped him.
EIGHT
Captain Dumon had always imagined Heaven as a place of light, a place where darkness could never invade. He would have never thought that Heaven could be a realm where shadow preserved and even the light of dawn could mean death.
Of course, Heaven to him was any place where he could be with Atanna.
He had left her some hours before, but still she had his heart and mind. Kentril had only slept lightly since, yet he felt refreshed, more alive than ever in his entire life.
He peered out of the window of the room given to him, to see the city still alive with torches. Although a part of him yearned for some bit of daylight simply in order to mark the passage of time, the captain knew that could not be. Until the people of Ureh could safely stand in the sun, the shadow had to remain fixed over the kingdom.
Atanna felt certain that her father could remedy the situation now that they had some stability on the mortal plane. However, to accomplish anything, he first had to be free, and only through Quov Tsin could that be possible.
Never before had Kentril looked to the Vizjerei for any true magical assistance. He had desired some, yes, during the battle with the demon cat, but had not actually expected much. Now he prayed that Tsin would prove himself the master he claimed to be.
"Kentril."
Gorst stood at the doorway to his chambers, the massive fighter at attention. Kentril blinked, recalling that eachmorning he generally received a status report from his second. Of course, with their work for Tsin seemingly at an end, the captain had put all such tasks from his mind. Only Khan's daughter concerned him now.
"Yes, Gorst."
"Three missing, Kentril."
"Missing?"
"Seven came back." He grinned. "Drunk. Three didn't."
Captain Dumon shrugged. "Not too surprising, all things considered. Actually, I'm amazed that so many returned."
"Want me to watch for them?"
"Not unless they go missing for a couple days. We're all being treated like kings here, Gorst. They're just reveling in it, that's all."
The black—maned fighter started to turn away, then commented, "She's prettier than on the brooch, Kentril."
"I know. Gorst… any word from Tsin on his efforts?" If any of them had kept some track of the Vizjerei's work, it would have been the huge mercenary.
"The magic man thinks he's got something."
That pleased Kentril. "Good. Where can I find him?"
"With the books." When it became clear that his captain did not understand, Gorst grunted. "I'll show you."
Kentril followed him through a maze of halls until they came to what surely had to be one of the largest collections of writings the mercenary had ever either heard of or seen. While he could read and write after a fashion—not something most of his men could do—Kentril could not imagine himself putting together so many words. Moreover, the words in these tomes and scrolls had not only meaning but power. These words had magic.
The shelves rose high, each filled with leather—bound volumes or tightly sealed parchments. No direct system of order could be seen, but as a military man, Captain Dumon assumed that there had to be one. Well—worn ladders stood before every other set of shelves, and tables with stoolshad been set aside for those making use of Ureh's literary treasures.