“Good!” Tol shouted. “Get more spears-I don’t think one will hold it!”
The carpet tugged and squirmed, working the poleaxe back and forth. By the time Kiya reappeared with an armload of ancient weapons, the carpet was almost free again.
Kiya hurled a spear toward Tol. It stuck, quivering, in the wall beside him. He worked it free and jammed it hard into the carpet writhing at his feet. Kiya added three more poleaxes.
“Look out!” Tol cried.
The rug surged toward the door. Like a purple-red tidal wave, the heavy fabric hit the cluster of pole arms restraining it, snapping their shafts.
A wall of rug knocked Kiya flat. When the carpet began flowing over her, she tried to struggle free, but her bad knee betrayed her. Wool covered her face.
“No!” Tol shouted.
Heedless of danger, he leaped from the table onto the rippling rug. It surged and twisted, trying to engulf him. He punched and kicked his way across the room, but the carpet finally managed to send him sprawling on hands and knees.
A broken bedpost lay nearby and he grabbed it. Using it like a quarterstaff, he fended off humps of carpet and reached Kiya at last.
Dropping the post, Tol clawed at the thick wool with his bare hands. He cleared Kiya’s face but could not free her. Even bringing to bear all his considerable strength, he could do no more than hold the quivering fabric away from her head.
“Behind you!” Kiya sputtered. At Tol’s back, the carpet was gathering itself high to crush them both.
Egrin, Miya, and the men of the marshal’s retinue came thundering down the hall. When they saw the battle was not with assassins or thieves but with an ordinary hall carpet, the men halted and stared, transfixed.
“Sister! Help!”
Kiya’s cry brought Miya forward, shoving men left and right. She snatched the lamp carried by the nearest Ergothian and hurled it over Tol’s head. The oil spilled on the carpet and ignited. The carpet spasmed visibly Egrin followed suit with his own lamp, and the others did likewise. Soon, a smoky fire was burning on the thrashing carpet. The terrible pressure on Tol and Kiya slackened as the rug surged first to one wall then the other, blindly seeking escape from the flames. When it found the window, it smashed through the shutters and poured itself out. Paces of bulky fabric hissed over the sill to land with a loud crash in the street below.
Rescuers and rescued sorted themselves out. Egrin pulled Tol to his feet, and they went immediately to Kiya, who was sitting up with her sister’s help.
“Filthy rug!” Kiya said, coughing and spitting dirt. “Didn’t those dwarves ever beat it?”
Miya snorted. “Would you?”
They went to the broken window. The hall carpet, twenty paces long and eight wide, lay in a mound on the pavement, burning fitfully. Now and then an edge twitched feebly. The stench of burning wool was sickening.
Egrin sent his men to search the villa for further menaces. Kiya put a hand on Tol’s shoulder and squeezed.
“Thank you,” she said simply. Weaponless, he’d stormed across the room to save her. Tol patted her long, rawboned hand.
When he was alone again, Tol immediately searched for the millstone. To his vast relief, he found the precious artifact in his discarded clothing. It was undamaged. It must have fallen out of his pocket while he was undressing.
A simple accident, yet it had very nearly led to more deaths.
Tol lit a candle. By its meager light, he got to work with needle and thread to repair the worn pocket.
Dawn was not far off. A heavy dew had fallen on the sleeping city, silvering the worn cobblestones in the street. A taste of autumn was in the still air, hinting at the cold that would grow stronger with every passing day.
Wrapped in a brown cloak against the damp, Tol stood before the door of a sumptuous residence. The gates were barred and the door certainly bolted, but that wouldn’t stop him.
He grasped the black iron chain securing the gate and drew it taut. Number Six flashed in the pre-dawn light, and the links parted. He shoved and the gate swung inward without a sound.
The courtyard beyond was tidy, paving and granite benches scrubbed clean, but something about the scene bothered Tol. The answer struck him-nothing grew here. Every fine house in Daltigoth had a garden, with flowers or vines, a tree or two for shade. Even the poorer domiciles boasted a flowering bush or some sort of greenery to ease the harshness of endless stone. The courtyard of Mandes’s grand mansion was as sterile as a quarry.
Approaching the bronze door, Tol felt a flicker of heat over his hands and face, a fleeting touch, like a baby’s breath. Of course Mandes would have wards around his home to keep out unwanted visitors. For Tol, with the Irda artifact firmly in his possession again, these were no more of an impediment than a wisp of fog.
The door latch yielded to the keen edge of his steel blade as had the gate chain. Unlike the gate, though, these doors squeaked as they swung open, rousing the guard dozing on a stool just inside the door.
He was a hulking brute, not entirely human. When he spotted Tol striding in, saber in hand, he gave a surprised grunt and vaulted off his perch. He grabbed frantically for the halberd tucked beneath his arm.
Tol wasted no time. He lopped off the halberd’s head with a single two-handed stroke, presented the tip of his blade to the guard’s thick gullet, and hissed, “Get out.”
The guard wisely wasted no time. He grunted once and went out the door. Tol heard his heavy footfalls crossing the courtyard and going out the gate.
A great house such as this would have a maze of additions and extra chambers, but Tol reasoned the layout of its core would be much like his villa in the Quarry district, built on the same pattern as most of the finer houses in Daltigoth.
So it proved. Beyond the foyer was an antechamber of moderate size, richly decorated with tapestries, gilded sconces, and a thick carpet.
Eyeing the milk-colored rug warily, Tol stamped it with one foot and poked it with his saber. It lay quietly, as a good carpet should.
A wide, doorless opening led to a hall with a broad staircase leading up. He dropped his cloak to the floor and strode into the hall. At once he came upon a gray-haired, stooped man, bearing a tray of brass cups and folded linens.
The sight of the grim-faced warrior, naked blade in hand, sent the blood draining from the old servant’s lined face. The tray wobbled in his hands.
Tol put a hand on the tray to steady it. “Quiet,” he said evenly. “Not a sound. You know who I am?”
A nervous nod. “Lord Tolandruth.”
“I am here to kill your master.”
The man’s knees shook violently, setting the cups to rattling again. “I said no sound!” Tol hissed. The servant clenched his fingers hard on the edge of the tray to steady it.
“What is your name?” Tol asked.
“Yeffrin, my lord. P-p-p-please don’t kill my master!”
“Can’t be helped. He owes me many years and many lives.”
Tol ordered him to set the tray aside and lead the way to Mandes’s bedchamber. Teeth chattering in fright, Yeffrin did as he was bid, mounting the steps with a halting, shuffling gait. His obvious terror embarrassed Tol.
“Buck up, old man. You’re in no danger,” he said.
Yeffrin’s expression showed how little he believed that, but he mustered his courage and proceeded up the steps at a slightly faster clip.
At the landing they bore left down a side corridor brightly lit by wall lamps. It did not surprise Tol that Mandes would spend good money on oil to keep the hall illuminated all night. The sorcerer had reason to fear the dark. Miya, the indefatigable devotee of gossip, had collected many tales of his perfidy. Half the wealthy households in the city would like to slit Mandes’s throat. The other half were equally determined to protect the rogue wizard, who performed so many illicit favors for them. Until now Mandes’s life had been delicately-balanced. Tol’s return upset everything.