The grip faltered briefly, squeezed painfully tight, and then faltered again.
Gasping for air, Leesil realized what was happening. The small-boned bastard was bleeding out, weakening. Undeads were not inexhaustible after all.
Ratboy opened his mouth, head thrusting forward. Sharp teeth and fangs rushed at Leesil's face, and he jammed his right blade upward. Its point pierced the underside of Ratboy's jaw, snapping his mouth closed. Ratboy's head barely flinched, but it was enough, and Leesil sliced up with his left blade.
It cut halfway through the forearm of the hand about his throat, and the grip released.
The undead swung wildly with the stump of his right arm, and Leesil ducked aside, slipping to Ratboy's flank. He dropped his right blade and braced his free hand against his left forearm as he swung the remaining blade back.
Ratboy turned his head, open mouth dribbling dark fluids.
Leesil swung down with his full weight. Bone ground on steel as his weapon severed straight through Ratboy's neck.
The headless body splashed down.
Leesil fell to his knees with a second splash, panting.
Anger and dark delight washed from him in the bite of cold water. The tunnel became instantly quiet but for the soft sound of lapping liquid running against the walkways.
Finished-but Leesil felt his past failures only partially rectified.
Exhaustion took him, and he remained there for a long while with his head down, trying to regain his breath. What finally stirred him was Chap's warm and wet tongue upon his cheek.
Leesil crawled slowly to his feet and sheathed one blade, then felt through the water for the other until he found it. Both blades in place, he turned about, searching for the heads, and spotted Chap standing on the walkway next to the torch. Both heads rested before his front paws, as did the sack. Leesil gathered the trophies with a sense of release instead of triumph.
The moment he finished tying the sack to the back of his belt, Chap took off down the tunnel toward where they had first entered. Leesil followed without questioning the hound's decision.
They had to find Magiere.
Chapter 20
Magiere studied Welstiel. He looked much the same as he had in Miiska, composed and controlled. She looked at his black leather gloves and cloak, and his voice echoed in her thoughts.
A moment, if you please.
Lord Au'shiyn's dead face surfaced in her mind. His murderer had used those very words to draw the Suman's attention.
"You," she whispered aloud, still uncertain what her senses now demanded she believe. "Your voice… your hands."
He was calm and detached, still the cryptic mentor he'd played for her back in Miiska. Magiere tried to find the hunger inside that always warned of an undead's presence, but it wouldn't stir.
"Did you follow Ratboy here, or did he follow you?" she asked.
He frowned as if such a question were childish.
"I am not one of them," he said. "I have been preparing you for what lies ahead. You would have never battled these creatures without inspiration, and now look what you've become. So much more than you were, even since your awakening in Miiska."
What did he mean by inspiration? Nausea threatened to creep in upon the tail of Magiere's bewilderment.
"You arranged this?" she asked, a sickening awareness growing. "And what happened in Miiska as well?"
"A simple matter," he answered, "of making sure you were the one to purchase the vacant tavern."
Confusion began to feed slowly into outrage.
The council of Bela, Chap's hidden manipulations, the elves seeking Leesil's life, and now Welstiel. How many had played Leesil and herself like puppets, tugging their strings from both near and far?
Welstiel waved his hand, apparently growing frustrated with her. "All but a means to an end, and you have nearly reached that end. The rest you will learn on our journey, and so I've come for you. The conjuror is unpredictable, and I wanted to be present in case he became a true danger."
He was mad, but Magiere was uncertain what to do. Her gaze kept returning to the black gloves.
"I'm not going anywhere with you," she said.
"You haven't heard where we are going," he responded.
"I don't care."
The torchlight flickered off his smooth face.
"I watched you at your game on the open road. Not often, but enough to follow your progress-and ambition. You are not like other mortals-you do not think like a mortal. When forced, you do what is necessary. What you earned from those peasants was a pittance. What the council offered you is nothing compared to what I seek, and that which I trained you to achieve."
Magiere flinched as he pointed a black-gloved hand at her.
Her shoulder still bled, but the wound was not threatening. Her thigh was more of a concern, as she couldn't put full weight on her leg. Looking at Welstiel, she remembered how undeads seemed to heal themselves through sheer will once they had fed. She focused her thoughts on the slash across her thigh.
The bleeding stopped, though she could still feel the open wound, and she tentatively settled more weight into the leg.
"I am not speaking of money," he went on. "But power. In the ice-capped mountains of this continent is an object long forgotten, guarded by ‘old ones'-possibly the oldest vampires in existence. You were bred to be a hunter, but you will learn nothing more battling these city-dwelling Noble Dead. I must teach you how to truly use the raw skills you have acquired."
His voice, words, and manner recalled her visions and the sensations of Chesna's and Au'shiyn's final moments.
"I know you," he said. "You take risks if the reward is enough, but you have no idea what I offer to make you a part of."
After all she and Leesil had been through to track down the murderer, the pieces of the puzzle suddenly pointed elsewhere. It should have been Chane. The gloves, the dark cloak, and the noble bearing all fit. Even the voice she'd heard in her vision could have been his. Perhaps even the formal words were but a coincidence.
A moment, if you please.
Magiere looked into Welstiel's composed and stern face and remembered the impressions she'd felt in Chane's presence. The mage undead reveled in the kill, enjoyed the death of his victims.
But the killer had not.
Magiere looked to the crossbow's quarrel. Like all those prepared by Leesil before their hunt, it smelled faintly of garlic. There was one way to settle this mystery.
Leesil ran behind Chap, and the tunnel again seemed endless. He had to trust that Chap could pick up Magiere's trail once they reached the house of the undeads. How the dog could follow anything in this stinking sewer was baffling.
Chap pulled up short, and Leesil stepped past him before stopping. The hound stood poised, staring down the tunnel, and before Leesil could speak, he took off again at a run. From a distance ahead, Leesil heard splashing footfalls. When he saw Wynn coming, relief filled him.
Glowing crystal in hand, she stumbled to a stop and let out a shallow whimper before rushing toward them. Robe soaked to her thighs, she gripped Leesil's arms with her small hands.
"Hurry," she gasped out. "I think Magiere is in trouble."
"Chane?" he asked.
"No-he escaped."
A rush of panic struck Leesil.
"What happened to Magiere?" he asked more harshly.
"She is all right," Wynn replied. "But there is someone else." Her hands squeezed tighter on his arms. "It is Welstiel, and I think Magiere is troubled. She told me to run and find you."
"Welstiel?" Leesil answered with puzzlement. What was that deluded man doing in Bela, and why had he followed Magiere into the sewers?