"Cousin or no, as of today, you are my brother," Teynel vowed.
"Does this mean I can't marry your sister?" quipped Garnan.
Teynel and Garnan struggled for breath in the relatively cool shaft. When they were able, they climbed to the intersecting tunnel. Kireno, Vellian, and Shamus were not at the end of the tunnel where they'd left them.
They retraced their steps through the tunnel. After calling quietly to their comrades and receiving no answer, Teynel paused to listen.
"Hear that?"
A soft tearing sound was coming from down the corridor.
Garnan nodded. "I hear."
They crept on, senses straining to detect any danger. The tunnel curved to the left and rose. Rounding the curve, Teynel spotted something lying on the floor some yards ahead.
Part of the object was moving. As they slowly closed, Teynel made out a pair of booted feet lying motionless on the floor. The remnant of a dirty Rathi army mantle was draped over the rest.
It was a corpse-one of their men. He couldn't tell which one. Standing on the corpse's back was one of those spotty two-legged creatures. It didn't have a head, but it had a mouth full of crooked, needlelike teeth. It pivoted its jaws down and took another bite of the body.
Garnan saw it too and drew in breath with a sharp hiss. Teynel ran forward and kicked the hideous scavenger with all his might. It squealed and went flying. Ominously, there were answering squeals from the darkness. Lots of them.
"Filthy little monsters," Teynel said. "I wonder how many more of them are out there?"
"I don't care to find out," Garnan replied.
The mysterious death of their comrade and the disappearance of the other two men put haste in their stride. When Garnan and Teynel emerged in a normal-sized, well-lit corridor in the lower palace, they paused again to catch their breath.
"Do you reckon they were captured or eaten?" asked Garnan.
"Neither, I pray. I hope Kireno got impatient and went to meet Liin Sivi at the rendezvous."
The pair moved on.
They were within sight of the convocation chamber steps when the alarm erupted. Teynel knew instantly it meant some part of their team had been found out. He resisted an urge to run. He and Garnan stood to one side as palace guards massed in the hall. Crovax appeared, sword in hand, and demanded a report.
"There's been a disturbance," said one of the guards.
"What a revelation! Speak plainly!" Crovax snapped.
"Some soldiers attacked the workers on Predator-"
Teynel gripped his partner's arm. Sivi! Damn her! He told her not to act on her own!
"Soldiers? What soldiers?" Crovax was pacing and swinging his sword. "Sounds like rebel infiltrators to me, probably trying to liberate their leader."
He swiftly ordered army troops into the Citadel. When the captain of the guard protested the use of regular troops in the palace environs, Crovax raised a flowstone tentacle and strangled the man where he stood.
"Any other objections?" he asked. "Good. You men follow me."
Fifty guards formed ranks and marched away to the stairs and lifts. Teynel and Garnan were about to slip away.
"You there! Where do you think you're going?" Crovax was looking right at them.
Teynel saluted. "Returning to our company, my lord."
"Never mind that. I need you now."
Teynel spread his hands. "I've no sword, my lord, nor has my friend."
Crovax raised an eyebrow slightly. Two spires of flowstone rose from the floor. The formed into identical short swords, complete with cross hilt and moon pommel. Teynel and Garnan stared in amazement.
"Take them, you idiots," Crovax said. When the rebels did, the supporting rod of flowstone detached and retracted into the floor. The swords took on the color and weight of standard steel weapons.
"Come." Crovax swept away, mantle billowing. Teynel and Garnan sheathed their new swords and ran to catch up. One way or another, they would find their comrades, even if it meant joining the troops sent to catch them.
CHAPTER 17
He was no stranger to pain. He knew it in many forms, from the bite of a Skyshroud snake to the ragged kiss of a merfolk blade. His had been an active life, and he had endured many injuries. There were worse forms of suffering than the physical kind: The vision of a wife in the burned and shattered remains of the home they'd built together. An empty bed where a gentle daughter had slept and died.
He learned to kill his enemies as revenge for these hurts. It didn't help, but he was never troubled by their blood on his hands. What did weigh on his conscience were all the dead friends and allies, people he led to war who died for his cause. Each of their lost lives was one more scar to bear, a burden he knew would grow larger before life was done with him.
Since he was alone, Eladamri let the tears flow down his lined face. He'd always been awake, even through the worst of Greven's torment. At times his mind departed on its own, leaving him unsure of what he was seeing or feeling. He remembered-thought he remembered-Greven il-Vec sitting across the table from him, watching him with something like puzzlement on his evil face. He'd been joined by another, someone
Eladamri hadn't known. His erratic eyes showed him the face of Furah, the Kor tribal chief, but Furah was dead. His daughter was dead too, yet someone was walking around with her face. Was this unholy fortress full of ghosts?
Tears softened the crust of dried blood that glued his right eye shut. He opened both eyes and stretched them wide. Coals glowed feebly in the iron brazier by his feet. Thumbscrews, branding irons, and other horrible instruments lay scattered about. He could smell water in the pot on the table. Licking his parched lips, Eladamri yearned for a sip.
Thinking him unconscious, Greven had tied Eladamri to the chair by the wrists and ankles-a mistake. Eladamri relaxed his hands, folding his fingers inward to make his wrists as small as possible. He worked his left hand backward against the cords. The black rope was made of the same mimetic cable used on Predator and was thus a form of nano-machine like flowstone. When he pulled against it, it shrank tighter around his wrist. He stopped, and the cord ceased shrinking. Eladamri realized Greven's mistake was not so grievous. If he continued to fight the mimetic cord, it would eventually cut his hands off.
He leaned forward and managed to lift the rear legs of the chair off the floor. The chair weighed a good forty-five pounds, but once he got it rocking, it was easy enough to tip it over. It crashed to the floor hard on his left side. The brazier overturned, scattering embers.
How did magic rope like heat? Eladamri scraped a glowing coal closer with his ruined fingers. What did a blister or two matter when your fingers were already broken?
He pressed the cord against the coal. A stab of heat passed through the binding to his wrist. Nothing else happened. So much for burning off the cords. He heaved the heavy chair forward to a pile of now-cold branding irons. He couldn't quite wrestle the heavy irons into his grasp with just his fingertips. Now what?
He could see the pottery pitcher on the table above him. What he wanted most, perhaps even more than his freedom, was a cool drink of water. Since he couldn't get to the pitcher so long as he was tied to the chair, it was a moot point. Eladamri butted his head against the table leg. He did this again and again until his vision dissolved in a haze of red. This couldn't go on.
With the lightest touch, he let his battered head rest against the table leg and sighed. The jug, shaken to the edge of the table, promptly toppled to the floor. It smashed to pieces in a spray of water. None splashed his face.