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  Ridley frowned. “I don’t need anyone to speak for me. I can talk for myself.”

  “I know you can, but I don’t see you’re doing it right, if you know what I mean.”

  Ridley turned to Elwood. “What I said I meant. Take it any way you like.”

  “Here now, lad—”

  “Poke another finger at me, and I’ll fair cut it off.”

  “Why don’t you give it a try? I’d welcome the fun, my boy.”

  “All of you,” Norda said, coming up so quickly none of the three knew she was there. “I said I’d tell you when it’s time. It is time now. The hour is right. The forest and those things within it are in the seventh hour of the day. The wind comes quietly now, and you must match its silence as well.”

  She looked in turn at Ridley and Snails. “You will go, and we will follow. When you have—”

  “Wait a moment,” Elwood said, “what about me?”

  “What about you?” Norda said. “I send the wolves in, the stealthy ones, who hunt in shadow. The strong one, the ox, I keep at my side.”

  Elwood’s scowl turned to a grin. “Really? An ox, you say? Well then, I’d guess you’re thinking straight as you can.”

  He reached out a hand and gave Ridley a fearsome grip. “Don’t have a fear, lad, Elwood Gutworthy, known far and wide as the Ox of the Earth, is ever at your call.”

  CHAPTER

  23

  They crouched low, sprinting across the open plain. Ridley kept the elf’s image of the wolf in mind, moving with the wind, trying to make no sound, feet scarcely touching the ground.

  At the ruined wall of the castle, Ridley waited, listening. He could hear the guardsmen’s voices, but they were clearly on the far side of the courtyard near their fires. Ridley looked at Snails, nodded, and they tossed their hooks high above the wall, praying they’d make no sound at all. Elwood had carved the hooks himself, from stout crooks of oak, and he swore upon the honor of his clan that they would hold.

  If they don’t, Ridley told himself, we’ll not be present to complain.

  Ridley signaled Snails to wait then drew himself slowly to the top on strong elven rope. Most of the Crimson Guardsmen were huddled about their fires. Some cleaned their weapons, some spoke in huddled groups, and some simply lazed about.

  Ridley nodded again, and Snails pulled himself up to the top.

  “Now what?” Snails whispered. “There’s a great crowd of uglies down there, and I doubt we’ll be welcome for supper, though supper’s a fine idea.”

  “It is, but I fear it’s to come a bit late this day.”

  With an eye on the soldiers down below, Ridley carefully loosed a piece of stone from the crumbling wall. He glanced at Snails, who didn’t have to ask what his friend had in mind.

  The rock landed just past a pair of guards polishing their weapons by a fire. They looked up quickly, picked up their swords, and moved off to investigate the sound.

  Ridley and Snails were over the wall at once, across the courtyard, and into the shadow of the ruined palace.

  Pressed against the cold stone, they made their way toward the back of the great structure, Ridley in front, Snails keeping watch behind.

  Ridley came to a halt. Just ahead was a doorway, and behind it, a patch of light. Ridley slipped carefully inside, waited, listened. He could smell the musty stench of the place, the dust of ages past. Past the doorway, a narrow stairway curved down into darkness. Ridley drew a torch from the wall, nodded to Snails, and started down into the depths.

  The stairs seemed to twist down forever, deep into the bowels of the castle itself. Ridley could hear the drip of water, a rat or two scurrying about—then, the scrape of a boot, the murmur of a voice nearby.

  Ridley held his torch low, retreated up the stairs. He could feel Snails’ breath at his back. Below, two guards walked past, talking to one another. Their shadows made the shapes of twisted giants against the narrow wall.

  In a moment, the pair were out of sight and sound. Ridley and Snails took the last few steps down to the hall.

  “All tight,” Ridley said softly, “I’ll find Marina. You try the corridor where the uglies came from. Try to find the map.”

  “All right.”

  “We’ll meet back here.”

  “Rid?”

  “What?”

  “How do you always get the girl, and I get the map? We’ve got to talk about that.”

  Ridley let out a breath. “Fine. We’ll do that. Would you go?”

  Snails didn’t answer.

  “And be careful.”

  Snails grinned. “You too, and next time—”

  “We’ll talk. Now get out of here.”

  Ridley turned away, a smile still crossing his features. Not for the first time, he reasoned that the Fates must choose a man’s friends, for few men would pick the ones they got nor have the wisdom to understand how blessed they were to get them.

  * * *

  Elwood Gutworthy muttered to himself, poked his head above the dry brush, and scowled at the castle again. Nothing had changed. Not since the minute before, or the one before that. Something was wrong; he was certain of that. It didn’t look right. It surely didn’t smell right. There was trouble in there, trouble of the very worst kind, trouble that called for the strength, the cunning, and the courage of a warrior dwarf. Someone like Elwood Gutworthy, by the gods, no one less than that.

  “No,” Norda said, before he could ask. “No again, the same as no before.”

  Elwood looked past her to her crossbowmen waiting silently at the edge of the woods. He knew their prowess well, yet it angered him to see them resting there like children playing a game, a game where only shadows were the foe.

  “We’re waiting for what then?” he said, with a hint of mockery in his smile. “Something in the wind? That crystal of yours listenin’ for spirits in the woods? Is that what we’re waitin’ for?”

  Norda looked at him a long moment, then turned away. “You shame yourself with your talk. You and I are not the same, and yet we are. Your kind and mine are far closer to the earth than humankind. I don’t have to tell you that. The dwarves know the signs in the forests, in the streams, in the wind that you so casually toss aside.

  “You know these things, and yet you mock them out of anger, out of your taste for blood, which you cannot wait to shed. You know, do you not, that there will be blood soon enough? You do not have to chase so quickly after death. It will be here faster than you know, and all the world will be in sorrow when it howls out of the night. For it surely comes, warrior, comes on the very wind you so lightly jest away.”

  Elwood didn’t answer, for he knew she spoke a truth he clearly could not deny. She was right in what she’d said. She had seen into his very heart. It was neither wisdom nor reason he sought, but a horde of warriors clad in red, shrieking out of that dark and stony ruin, coming at him with sword and lance and pike, thirsty for the great curved axe in his grasp.

  CHAPTER

  24

  Snails passed several dark and empty rooms before he found one that literally took his breath away. It was a small, vaulted chamber lit by torches in the wall. One quarter of the roof had recently been repaired. The mortar between the stones was still white. However, the stonework was not what caught his attention, left him wide-eyed, left him astonished, left him rigid in his boots. Here, indeed, was a thief’s paradise. The room was clearly Damodar’s workroom, packed with a mage’s secret goods: jars full of powders, full of dark liquids, full of ghastly animal parts, oils, unguents, and salves, alabaster, agate, and shiny crystal spheres. Thick tomes of magic filled shelves. Shelf upon shelf held old scrolls surely filled with ancient spells. A scarred wooden desk was stacked with mystic tools of every sort.

  “Hard to tell where to start,” he said, rubbing his hands together in delight. “Why, a person could spend a lifetime merely—Yaaah!”

  Damodar! Looming right above him, not a foot away!

  Snails took a breath, letti
ng his heart slow back to its normal beat. Not Damodar, but his armor, great plates of shining iron, silver sheathes of mail, all hanging on a rack against the wall.

  Snails walked around the thing, looking it over from top to armored boots. Such a pretty would bring a hefty price from a man who cherished armor such as this. Moving the thing though, getting it out of this damnable place, that would be a chore for sure.

  At the rear of the iron suit, he paused and set his chin just inside the neck.

  “I’m Damodar,” he said, in deep and fearful tones. “I am the ugliest creature alive, and no man dares to say I’m not!”

  Chuckling to himself, he moved across the room, taking a look at this and that. He slipped a pretty gem in his pocket, and another after that. Nestled among a clutter of bottles and vials was a small and dusty sack. He opened it and sniffed. It smelled like sage and heather, a very pleasant scent. He let some of the powdery stuff slip through his fingers, closed the bag, and dropped it in his pocket with the rest of his souvenirs.

  “A little black magic,” he muttered. “Nice to have around.”

  Looking about the room, he spotted a tangle of rope on the floor, bent to pick it up, and wound it into a coil. As he stood, he spotted a small table sitting by itself past a bubbling pot, past a gaily-patterned carpet against the far wall. On the table was a bottle of amber wine, a crystal glass, and a—

  Snails drew in a breath. The scroll! There on the table, right in plain sight!

  He grinned, clapping his hands together. “It’s my lucky day!”

  He crossed the room to claim his prize, one step forward, then the next, placed one foot on the colorful carpet and sank up to his knees—

  Snails gasped for breath, stretched his arms and clawed desperately for a hold on the cold stone floor. The patterns in the rug began to melt and slide away, sucking him ever deeper, past his waist and then his chest, deeper and deeper still.

  His legs were next to useless, mired in a terrible, sluggish mass that drew him down into its depths.

  I’ve got to understand this thing isn’t real. It’s an illusion’s what it is. It isn’t quicksand; it’s quicksand of the mind. All you got to do, Snails, is figure that out in two or three seconds before that illusion covers up your head.

  He felt it, then, seeping past his chin and into his mouth. He flailed his arms about, nearly went under, and spat out a choking glob of sand. He took a last breath and screamed as the muck came up past his nose.

  “Well, little thief, having a bit of trouble?” said a voice Snails had mocked only moments before. “Need a hand?”

  * * *

  The long, narrow corridor seemed to go on forever, twisting left, twisting right, until Ridley lost all sense of direction. For all he knew, he could be walking in circles, getting farther and farther from Marina all the time.

  He stopped and listened. He could hear the drip of water, rats scurrying about in the walls, rats and… something else. Something nearby. It took him a moment to identify the sound: Snoring. More than one man. Maybe three or four. Holding his blade by his side, Ridley reached a narrow archway and peered into a small room. Two soldiers slept on coarse wooden cots. Both lay on their backs, their mouths open wide.

  Armor and helmets lay on the floor beside swords, boots, and a rusty vest of mail. One of the men wore a broad leather belt hammered with crude metal studs, and on the belt—

  Ridley stared. Keys! One of the men had a large ring of keys looped into his belt. Ridley didn’t hesitate, didn’t let himself think. He laid his sword aside, went on his belly, and snaked his way into the room.

  As bad luck would have it, the man with the keys was farther away than his friend. So be it, there was nothing else for it. Even if the man seemed a league away, Ridley knew he must have those keys at any cost.

  Every scrape of his clothes across the cold stone seemed as loud as some rube dropping a keg of ale on the floor. Halfway there, the man by the door turned over, opened his eyes, and stared right at Ridley.

  Ridley froze. The man didn’t move, but his eyes didn’t close. What was he waiting for? Why didn’t he leap up, grab his weapon, and sound the alarm?

  Ridley waited. The sight of the man gazing right at him made his blood turn cold. It seemed a full day, maybe three or four, before the lout turned over and began to snore again.

  Ridley let out a breath. Every tendon, every muscle, every nerve was twisted tighter than a hangman’s noose. He couldn’t stay there, couldn’t crawl another inch. Whatever happened, would happen. The Fates would handle that.

  Bringing all the courage he had to bear, Ridley stood, crossed to the sleeping man, and drew his dagger. After slicing the leather belt away, he lifted the ring of keys, turned, and almost ran out of the room.

  Still shaken by this very near miss, he made his way down the dimly lit hall. To his left and his right were darkened rooms, black maws that smelled musty and old. Ridley hurried quickly by. He didn’t believe in apparitions, except for the ones a mage might conjure up, but why hang around and discover you were wrong?

  Around the next corner, he stopped dead still. A real door this time, old, but with a fairly new lock. The first of his stolen keys didn’t work. Neither did the second or the third. Ridley wiped sweat from his brow. The snoring guard could wake up any moment and find his keys were gone.

  The fourth key stuck. Ridley held his breath, scarcely daring to try and force the thing out. If it broke in there—

  Click!

  The sound was like a blast of thunder in his ear. The key turned easily, as if the lock were a pot of axle grease. He opened the door cautiously and peered inside, weapon at the ready.

  A torch flickered dimly on the far wall. The small chamber was nearly empty. A broken chair, broken stones, a bundle of rags against the far wall—

  Ridley’s heart nearly stopped. Marina! Knees drawn up to her chin, hands clamped tightly about her legs, she rocked back and forth, keening, mewling like a kitten lost in the dark.

  He went to her at once, bent to her side, and took her in his arms.

  “Marina. Marina…”

  She lifted her head slowly, her swollen, frightened eyes lost behind a tangle of hair.

  “Rid—Ridley. Is it… is it… ?”

  “Hey, it’s me. It’s all right now.”

  She looked at him them, and her eyes told him she knew, finally, knew that he was there.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said, gently lifting her to her feet. “Come on, you’re safe, now. You’re safe, Marina.”

  “No,” she said, her face buried in his chest, “not ever safe, Ridley. Never safe anymore… never again…”

  CHAPTER

  25

  Snails shook his head and tried to get to his feet. There were three Damodars. One, or maybe two, had jerked him out of the mire and tossed him across the room. The third one—now somehow joining the other two—was stalking toward him across the stone floor.

  Snails struggled. Something hard was stabbing him in the back. He drew it out and tossed it to the floor. A bottle, half empty, shattered against the stone. He knew where he was now, why everything hurt. Damodar had thrown him into the small table across the room, splitting it in half and hurling Snails to the floor.

  The bottle on the table, the glass, the—

  Snails bit his lip against the pain, turned on his belly, found it there, just where it had to be. A little worse for wear, a little damp from wine, but it was there—the scroll, the lovely scroll, and in his hands now!

  Damodar spotted the prize at once, stopped, and showed Snails a lazy smile.

  “Just like you, little thief. Always turning up where you shouldn’t be. Always taking things that don’t belong to you.”

  “I wouldn’t push it, ugly,” Snails said. “I’m not in the mood for this. In fact—in fact, I think I’m really getting mad. I think that’s exactly what’s happening. Right now. You can likely tell. My eyes get kinda… dangerous looking. Right, that’s w
hat they do.”

  Snails reached out blindly and found the sword he’d lost before the illusion sucked him down.

  Damodar looked amused. “Oh, you want to play soldier? Truly? Are you certain, little thief, that’s what you want to do?”

  “Of course I am.” Snails grabbed the far wall to help him to his feet. “I can’t wait. How about you?”

  Pushing himself off the wall, Snails charged Damodar, his blade slashing frantically at the air. Damodar didn’t move, didn’t try to get out of his way, but in the last heartbeat, his sword flashed in a blur.

  Snails backed up, startled, staring at his hand. His weapon was gone. Damodar smiled and nodded at the ceiling. Snails looked up. His blade was there, the point still humming in wood.

  “Right,” Snails said. “Game’s over then. You win. And a nice little move there, I want to tell you that. You’ve got to show me that when we’ve got more time.”

  Snails let out a bloody scream, turned, and stumbled out of the room and down a low flight of stairs. Damodar was on him in an instant. He jerked Snails up by the collar, held him high, and pounded him mercilessly across the face, one blow after the next with his armored fist.

  Snails gasped, stumbled back, and went to his knees. Damodar reached down and pulled him upright again. Snails snaked a small dagger from his boot, grinned at Damodar through his ruined features, and lashed out in a blur, slicing his foe across the chest.

  Damodar cried out, reeled back, and stared at his wound with disbelief. When he looked up, Snails was gone, lost somewhere along the dark and twisted paths of the dungeon that tunneled its way beneath the ruined castle.

  Damodar roared in anger, his face turned black, and the fierce creatures that lived within his skull snaked out into the dark to coil about his features, to snap at his brow, to hiss and strike at his eyes. Damodar clutched his weapon so tightly that his hand bled through thick leather and mail.