That was the first trap. The next was a bridge over a small, sluggish river. Barrels of naphtha had been rigged beneath it, fixed to break open and catch fire when he stepped upon the bridge decking.
This time the diversionary troops waited atop a ridge beyond the river. Light engines hurled missiles at him as he used his power to jam the mechanism meant to breach the barrels and start the fire.
A five-pound rock hit him in the chest, flung him backward. He sprang up angrily and sprinted toward his tormentors.
Held only by a feeble peg, the center section of the bridge collapsed under his weight. The falling timbers smashed the naphtha barrels. A swarm of fire missiles was in the air before he hit water.
They had made a fool of him twice.
They would not live to try a third time.
He came boiling out of the water, up the bank below the burning bridge, into the face of renewed missile fire, bellowing…
He tripped something. A vast net flew up, toward, and over him. Its cables were as strong as steel but of a sticky, flexible substance like spider silk. The more he struggled, the more tangled he became. And something kept drawing the net tighter and dragging him back toward the water. He would have great difficulty with the verbal parts of his sorcery beneath the river.
The knowledge of the possibility that he might be vanquished by lesser beings stabbed through him like a blade of ice. He was up against something he could not overcome by brute force.
The blow of fear—the existence of which he could not confess even to himself—stilled his rage, made him take time to think, to act appropriately.
He tried a couple of sorceries. The second effected a break in the net just before he was pulled beneath the surface.
He came out of the river carefully, with concentration, and so avoided a trap armed with a blade that could have sliced him in two. Safe for the moment, he took stock. Minor, all the damage done him. But a dozen such encounters could accumulate into something crippling.
Was that the strategy? Wear him down? Likely, though each phase of each trap had been vicious enough.
He proceeded much more carefully, his emotions, his madness, under tight rein. Vengeance could await achievement of the more important triumph in the north. Once he had taken that keystone of power he could requite the world a thousand times for its cruelties and indignities.
There were more traps. Some were deadly and cunning. He did not escape unscathed, alert as he was. His enemies did not rely upon sorcery. They preferred mechanisms and psychological ploys, which for him were more difficult to handle.
Not once did he see anyone other than the cavalrymen who dogged him. He found the gates of the great port city Beryl standing open and its streets empty. Nothing stirred but leaves and bits of trash, tossed by winds from the sea. The hearthstones were cold and even the rats had gone away. Not a pigeon or sparrow swooped through the air.
The murmur of the wind seemed like the cold whisper of the grave. In that desolation even he could feel alone and lonely in spirit.
There were no ships in the harbor, no boats on the waterfront. Not so much as a punt. The haze-distorted shape of a single black quinquirireme hovered beyond the harbor light, well out to sea. There was a statement here. He would not be allowed to cross the sea. He was sure that whichever way he chose to walk along the coast he would find the shores naked of boats.
He considered swimming. But that black ship would be waiting for that. He was so massive that all his energy would have to go to staying afloat. He would be vulnerable.
Moreover, salt water would leak through his protective spells and gnaw at the grease, and then at the clay…
So there was little choice. He must do what they wanted him to do and go around. He pictured the map, chose what seemed to be the shorter way. He began running to the east.
The horsemen paced him the rest of that day. When dawn came they were gone. After a few hours he became confident enough to increase his pace. Curse them. He would do what they wanted and slaughter them anyway.
The miles passed away as they had before he had entered the empire.
As he ran he pondered the hidden purpose behind his having been turned onto this extended course. He could not prize loose the sense of it.
XLVIII
Smeds found Old Man Fish as soon as he had gotten himself some rest. Fish listened intently and watched him through narrowed eyes as he told his tale. "Didn't think you'd have what it takes, Smeds."
"Me neither. I was scared shitless the whole time."
"But you thought, and you did what you had to do. That's good. Think you'd know the man who got away if you saw him again?"
"I don't know. It was dark and I never got a real good look at him."
"We'll worry about him later. Thing we got to do now is get rid of those bodies. Where's Tully?"
"Who knows? Probably sleeping. Why not just leave them where they are? It ain't like they're out where somebody's going to trip over them."
"Because somebody besides you and me knows where they are and he might tell somebody else who might go take a look and maybe recognize Timmy Locan as a guy who used to hang around with you and me and Tully. Get it?"
"Got it." Also, maybe Fish wanted a look just to make sure Timmy had gone out the way Smeds said he had. Smeds was related to Tully Stahl and Fish already had a habit of not taking on faith anything that Stahl said.
"So get Tully and let's move."
Smeds went inside the Skull and Crossbones, nodding to the Nightstalkers corporal as he passed. The owner, who didn't have much use for them, scowled at him across the common room. Smeds had to pass close by him. The man asked, "You boys going to pay for your room? You're two days late."
"Tully was supposed to take care of it. It's his turn."
"Surprise, friend. Tully didn't. And he's running a pretty steep beer tab, too. Another day or two, I'll mention it to your buddy the corporal." He grinned wickedly. Nothing he'd like better than to send them to the labor companies.
Smeds held his eye till he flinched, then tossed him a coin. "There's for the rent. I'll tell Tully to cover his tab."
Tully was not asleep. He'd maybe heard some of that. He was pretending. Smeds said, "Come on. We've got work to do." When Tully didn't move, he added, "I'm going to count to five, then I'm going to kick your ribs in."
Tully sat up. "Shit, Smeds. You get more like that asshole Fish every day. What's so damned important you got to get me out of bed?"
"In the street." Meaning he couldn't say there, where somebody might hear. "On our way out you might pay the landlord what you owe him. He's getting edgy. Talking about mentioning you to that corporal."
Tully shuddered. "Shit. That asshole. How about you cover it for me for now, Smeds? I'll get it back to you soon as I can sneak off and tap my stash."
Smeds eyed him. "All right. We'll be waiting outside. Don't fool around." He went out, tossed a heavy coin at the landlord as he passed, said, "Don't give him no more credit," and joined Fish outside. "Back when we hit town I figured my share of the cash take should keep me pretty good for four or five years. How about you?"
"Easy. I'm an old man. My needs are simple. What's up?"
"Tully. You think even a dipshit like him could have blown his whole share already?"
"Tell me about it."
"Tully's been hitting me up for loans. The first couple times he paid me back, but not the last three times. I just now found out he didn't bother to pay the rent and he's running a big beer tab."
"Yeah?" Fish looked downright nasty for a second. "I have something to do. When he comes out you and him head out to the place. I'll catch up before you get there." He stalked off.