A Prayer for Dead Kings and Other Tales Read Free Page B

beyond Ectauth, leader though he was. He was thus obliged to depend on
the girl’s scholarly arts, Scúrhand decided. An obligation bound to rankle a
combat mage.
    “I expect you intended only to threaten the sage,” Scúrhand said
carefully. Another speculation, but a correct one from the reaction in the pale
blue eyes. “Let us take the arrival of my companion and I as fortune, then. Or
at the very least, let us get on with our research and leave you to yours.”
    Where he stood, Morghan watched and heard it all, motionless
within the grip of Thiri’s spell. His intact senses focused past the paralysis
that the warrior suspected felt far too much like death would someday, and
which was fading with each slow step Ectauth took around him. For all
Scúrhand’s postured tact, Morghan knew that the mage’s words were also designed
to fill up as much time as possible, allowing him to fight the effect of the
spell that bound him.
    From the start, the warrior had still been able to feel the sword
against his fingers, the faint warmth of life pushing through his arms even as
he forced himself to keep the blade steady in its interrupted stroke. As Ectauth
considered Scúrhand’s words, Morghan could feel sensation return to his legs as
well, fought to stay steady. Thiri was watching him, though, where she paced
around him. Cautious of any first sign that her binding was close to the
breaking point.
    The shield was slung to Morghan’s arm, and he could see the faintest
sign of the green eyes straying down to the mark there as the Myrnan smith’s
had. A thing that only one who knew of it would notice, the dark rune all but
invisible.
    Those who know it will kill for this mark.
    Morghan couldn’t shift his eyes without giving away that the
spell’s effect had passed, but at the edge of his vision, he saw the look of
shock on the girl’s face.
    Ectauth saw that look, too. He saw the black rune that inspired
it. With a shout, he twisted his fingers in a silent summoning of spellpower,
a blade of white light suddenly erupting in his hand to stab for Morghan’s
heart. The warrior was already moving, though, finishing the stroke he had held
motionless, driving the battle-caster’s eldritch blade wide and catching him
hard on the backswing as he wheeled away.
    Morghan managed to fall back toward tall shelves at the closest
corridor, protecting him from the first volley of arrows. Scúrhand took to the
air to twist away from the knot of blades that erupted around him. As he sailed
toward Morghan, he heard Ectauth’s voice.
    “Kill them both!”
    “Call it,” Scúrhand shouted.
    Morghan appraised the mass of figures circling, another volley of
arrows hissing past as he pressed back.
    “Run,” he said.
     
    They ran. Out and down the narrow course of a winding stair, then
into the shadow of uncounted corridors beyond. By an instinct Scúrhand couldn’t
name but was grateful for, Morghan lost their pursuit faster than he had any
right to hope for. From shadow to darkness to shadow again, they ran blind
through a maze of stairs and corridors where Ectauth’s forces were already
exploring ahead of them.
    More than once, they tripped across patrols with no warning, the
soldiers of the black boar left incapacitated by Scúrhand’s spellcraft. The
guards came by pairs, mostly. A squad of six once, but where the mage came up
short against them, Morghan’s sword was a blur of red and grey that made up the
difference. No quarter given, the warrior slipping into the well-honed
reactions of a lifetime at the blade.
    Scúrhand was slower than the warrior, but Morghan kept himself
and his armor between the mage and pursuit. He lost track of the turns they had
taken, empty and crumbling chambers flashing past to both sides, when he had to
signal Morghan to stop. In a five-way staggered intersection, he fought to slow
his breathing. Morghan stepped far enough away to listen for any sign of
pursuit, but there was only silence above and