Waiting nightmare; one mistake

Balanced on a slender fate

The wail echoed down the length of the corridor."Not dere! Not dere!" Struggling desperately, Crysk tried to dig his thick heels into the stone floor, but the two huge Grik guards clutching his arms simply dragged him forward regardless. Behind him, the handful of other Griks who had trailed along to witness the fun jeered and sniggered.

Grogdish whirled abruptly and snarled, causing the party to come to an abrupt halt.

"Shuddup, all of yer! Do yer wanna bring da whole eyrie down on us?"

Silence fell. The Griks looked nervously at one another and at the dark corridor stretching ahead. Grogdish snorted, adjusted his grip on the enormous spiked cudgel in his hand, and continued walking.

The others followed in silence save for the ponderous thump of their boots and the faint clanking of their weapons.

Crysk's face was crunched up like a shattered boulder. "B-but," he spluttered. "But it worked! You saw it–!"

Grogdish swung around, hardly breaking stride, and advanced on the hapless Grik. He shoved his big, flat face so close to Crysk's that for a heartstopping moment the smaller Grik thought he was going to bite his head off. Grogdish's eyes were deep, black pits under his brow, torchlight seething within them and reflecting off the gold shards embedded in his face.

Crysk shrank back, his face crunching up even further.

"No, it didn't work, you liddle Maggot 'ead," Grogdish growled, slowly and dangerously, "Coz dat rat weren't dead: it were only stunned!"

"But," Crysk persisted, though in a much smaller voice, "it did wake up after I–"

Grogdish's face was suddenly gone. In its place was the cudgel.

Crysk swallowed. His eyes crossed as he tried to focus on the crushing weapon. Some of the spikes were bent or broken, but Crysk was quite certain that such a weapon, in the hands of an angry Grogdish, was more than capable of smashing even his rock-hard head inside out.

"Do yer know what dis cudgel tastes like?" Grogdish snarled.

Crysk shook his head carefully.

"Do yer wanna know?"

Crysk shook his head again.

"Den shut up!"

Crysk nodded.

The corridor ended after a short distance at a junction. The light from the guard's torches revealed an empty alcove directly before them, and another corridor disappearing into heavy blackness to the left and right.

Grogdish stepped aside as the two Grik guards came forward and shoved Crysk into the middle of the junction. His impact on the floor sent a shudder down the corridor and dislodged a few cobwebs and their occupants from the ceiling.

Crysk picked himself up and stood hunkering in the circle of orange light, peering in dismay down the passageways on either side. He hadn't been allowed a weapon. He felt like a piece of bait that had been thrown down to lure something out, and it wasn't a pleasant feeling.

The darkness pressed silent and expectant all around the group.

Crysk made a small, strangled noise in his throat.

"Well?" Grogdish barked. "Don't jus' stand dere, Slugface! Get goin'!"

"Hang on!" one of the other Griks spoke up. "He oughta bring somefing back, so's we know he's really been dere!"

Grogdish turned back to Crysk and narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "All right," he sneered nastily. "Bring back da fang of a Muron."

Crysk's brow rose, his craggy face bleaching a lighter shade of grey. Even some of the Griks, who delighted in watching others being tortured, quit grinning.

One of the Grik guards threw his torch at Crysk's feet. "Wouldn't want yer ter be alone in da dark," he said.

The group of Griks snorted and cackled with laughter. Even Grogdish sniggered.

He raised his cudgel. "Now move! An' hurry up, before one 'o dem black fings comes down 'ere an' stumbles onto us!"

Shaking, Crysk bent down and picked up the torch. He gripped it tightly in both hands, holding it out before him as though it were some kind of talisman that would protect him from any horrors that might leap out of the dark.

"W-which way?" he stuttered.

Grogdish growled impatiently. "Take yer pick!"

A faint draught was blowing from the left-hand passage: a dusty strand of spider silk was swaying gently from the ceiling. Crysk turned towards it, hoping that where there was air, there would eventually be a way out. A few steps down the passageway, a sudden rush of defiance surged through him. He turned back to face the Griks. "I-I'll show yers! I'll bring back a fang! I'll bring back a whole bloody skull!"

At this, the Griks burst once more into raucous laughter. "Yeah!" one of them called back to him. "Yer own!"

"On a stick!" another added.

The Griks laughed even harder.

Crysk gritted his teeth and turned away. Ignoring their taunts and jeers, he began walking slowly but determinedly towards his fate.

* * *

Sunlight sparked off the gold embroidery decorating Arzath's black tunic as he stood, arms folded, glaring up at the white castle before him as though the sheer, potent venom of his gaze alone could dissolve the shield of magic that protected it. Cloud shadows moved slowly over the milky stone, sliding across the towers and walls like silent wraiths protecting their home. Flashes of gold and silver ignited briefly in intermittent patches of sunlight.

Arzath had risen before dawn and come out here alone in the grey light to explore the bluff upon which his brother's castle stood. His expectations that he would find a way inside were not particularly high, but determination and anger surged through his veins.

As powerful as those feelings were, however, they could only partly fill the enormous aching void inside him that had been left with the departure of a power that had been as much a part of him as his blood for almost all of his life.

He had to get his magic back, and his best hope for that lay inside those infuriatingly perfect white walls.

He had crossed the river downstream at the ford and started his search at the base of the bluff: running his hands over the weathered rock and peering intently at it for the tiniest clue that might indicate the presence of a hidden entrance. Though he had, of course, never been inside Requar's castle, he was almost certain that the bluff beneath it and the cliffs surrounding it were catacombed with secret passages, just like his own.

The passages beneath Arzath's castle were complex, ingenious and extremely useful, and he utilised them extensively, though they were not his own design. They had already been in place, along with the crumbling remains of an ancient fortress, when he had first moved into the valley ten years ago. Requar's castle had already been built by then, but Arzath suspected that this bluff had once contained similar ruins, that Requar had chosen this spot for that very reason.

His four-hour search, however, had proved completely pointless. He had not found the slightest trace of a secret entrance, or anything even remotely unusual, for that matter. If he'd had the aid of seeking spells, it was possible he might have had more success. But of course, if he had possession of magic he would not even be here in the first place, scrabbling through bushes and tearing away ivy vines (that he was convinced were made of steel wire) in the slim hope that something lay beneath. If he had magic–

A sudden burst of pain flooded through his head, scattering his thoughts, and he clutched it with both hands, eyes screwed tight in agony. A sharp gust of wind threw his hair across his face and snatched at his long black cloak, causing him to stumble slightly. He curled his long fingers into his hair and waited for the pain to subside into a dull throb, and his blurred vision to come back into focus. Slowly, he removed his hands from his face, and was horrified to find that they were shaking. He clenched them tightly into fists and forced them to stop, taking long, deep breaths to steady himself.

The headaches were getting worse. Bad enough was the constant, irritating ache that had never left him since the fall, which seemed to creep further through his limbs with each new day, like some kind of poison. But worse – much worse – were the sudden, blinding pains that hit him with unexpected fury: as though someone had crept up behind him and rammed a pickaxe through the back of his skull.

The thought made him feel queasy. He swallowed and took another deep breath, and burned the feeling away with anger, reminding himself once again whose fault it was that he was forced to endure this agony. Gritting his teeth, he turned his attention back to the castle, his determination rekindled.

Spinning on his heel, he set off in a counter-clockwise direction around the perimeter of the keep, despite the fact that his constant pacing back and forth across the bluff was beginning to wear a path in the dry grass.

He stared hatefully at the castle as he walked, careful to keep a generous distance between himself and the walls. The magic shield was invisible, but very substantial. It would not harm him if he touched it, but he knew that it was linked to Requar's mind, and that his brother would most certainly have increased the sensitivity of the shield in order to feel its effect over a long distance.

In other words, if anything so much as breathed on it, Requar would know.

The shadow of the cliff fell across Arzath, and he slowed and stopped.

It was impossible to walk in a full circle around the castle, because it abutted a sheer wall of grey cliffs. Beside him, a mass of pitted rock pressed forward to join with the smooth white stone of the castle's walls.

Arzath studied the corner created by castle and cliff. It was lichen-speckled and seamless. Solid and unyielding and unclimbable. Even without the shield, it was near impossible to scale, but he could have ordered the Murons to find a way inside...

A sudden, loud cry of frustration left his throat and he slammed his fist into the cliff, ignoring the fresh burst of pain that burned through his hand. That damned shield! There was simply no way past the cursed thing without magic! He stood scowling at the rock wall in front of him for a long minute, thinking furiously, then turned and looked at the castle again.

The dark windows of the castle gazed back at him impassively. They seemed as distant and unreachable as eagle's eyries.

Arzath could feel his determination beginning to fray with the ever-increasing weight of despair. He cast desperately in his mind for ideas. He considered, for a brief moment, the possibility of digging underneath the shield. But the idea rapidly faded into yet another impossibility. If this bluff was anything like his own, it was covered with around two inches of topsoil; the rest was solid granite, all the way down to river level. Even if he set his entire army to work on a tunnel, the task would take no less than several months. And Arzath had no idea when Requar was going to return. For all he knew, his brother could be back today, or tomorrow, or a year from now.

In short, it was hopeless. There was simply no way inside.

He turned away and raked his hands through his hair.

"No!" he yelled suddenly, his voice echoing off the towering cliff walls. He spun back and snarled at the castle. "I will NOT let you win!" On impulse, needing to vent his anger, he snatched up a stone.

He managed to control his throw at the last moment and direct it at the boulders at the foot of the cliffs, instead of the castle. But to his surprise, it bounced off a boulder, ricocheted off seemingly empty air and rattled back down the rocks into the grass.

Arzath stood, frozen with horror, his eyes widening as he watched a circular patch of ripples appear in the air a few yards out from the castle wall, spreading outwards like the disturbance caused by a pebble dropped into a perfectly still pond.

He continued to stare at the spot, even after the ripples had faded, his breath stuck in his throat. Wherever Requar was, he would have felt that disturbance, as small and trivial as it had been. If Requar decided to use a Mind Sweep to find out who had thrown the stone…

A mass of grey clouds drifted over the sun, and the air went suddenly cold. Arzath looked out over the valley: a patchwork of cloud shadows and sunlight. He felt even sicker than usual.

Had Requar used his magic? he thought. Did he see my mind? Does he know I'm alive?!

The implications were terrifying. With one single, impulsive action, he might have just made the worst mistake of his life.

"A stone. It was only a stone!" he muttered. His skin prickled all over as though he could feel his brother's eyes glaring at him over the miles that separated them. The wind picked up again, moaning through the empty peaks and shivering the grass at his feet.

Arzath stepped backwards, staring at the white castle, until his back was against the cliff. Then abruptly he turned and ran for the bluff path.

* * *

Long fingers of pale sunlight reached tenderly through the trees to stroke the faces of the sorcerer and the Bladeshifter as they walked through the pine forest. It was completely silent apart from the melodic song of birds echoing through the branches. Even their footsteps were quietened on the thick carpet of pine needles.

Flint trailed Requar miserably at a short distance. He estimated that at the pace they were currently travelling, they would reach Hillbank just after sunset. Nine hours, maybe less.

He was going to have to think of something bloody fast, or he was a dead man.

He kicked at a drift of pine needles in frustration, then looked up quickly to make sure Requar hadn't noticed.

The sorcerer wasn't even looking in his direction. Flint watched him picking his way steadily through the trees. He looked calm and relaxed; perfectly at ease, sure-footed and confident. The hilt of his sword glittered like a bright blue star when it caught the sunlight. Flint suppressed a shiver.

What am I going to do? he thought morosely. The dark, painful knot of dread that had formed in his stomach when Eltorian Nightwalker had given him this mission had steadily grown over the past few days, until now it threatened to squeeze his insides into mush.

Shoot him in the back! a voice in his mind again whispered, with increasing urgency. Get out the Justifier and just shoot him in the back! He's as off-guard as he's ever going to be.

The Justifier was loaded and set, with the safety catch on to prevent it from triggering while he walked. He had loaded it last night, while he was waiting for Requar to return. All he needed to do was unstrap it, flick off the catch and pull the trigger.

Flint licked his dry lips. His fingers tingled. He kept his eyes fixed on the sorcerer's back, carefully regulating his footsteps and breathing, though his heart was beyond his control. A thrill of excitement swept through him. He could end this game, shred this veil of deception, right here and now.

One way or the other.

Despite the insistence of the voice in his head, however, he could not bring himself to reach back for the Justifier. Something held his arms to his sides in an iron grip, and he knew what it was.

Fear.

It was not the prospect of missing his target that he was afraid of. He had been permitted to join the Bladeshifters because there was no arbalist his equal in Daroria, possibly in all of Arvanor. He never missed. At this distance, he could put a bolt into Requar's back and straight through his heart with barely a thought.

At least, he could if Requar were an ordinary person.

But he wasn't. He was a sorcerer.

Flint had no idea how good Requar's reflexes were. He had seemed awfully quick on his feet back in the Bramble Barn tavern. What if Requar sensed that something was wrong before Flint had a chance to shoot him? Even worse, what if he already suspected that Flint had sinister motives, and was simply waiting for him to make the first move?

The consequences of failing this mission were not pleasant to contemplate.

Flint looked at Requar, his initial rush of excitement sinking into bitter helplessness. There is another option, he thought, but it was not a particularly attractive one. He could make a run for it: abandon the mission. To hell with Nightwalker. If he wanted the sorcerer dead, he could assassinate him his own damn self.

But he knew that Lord Requar would come looking for him, as would Nightwalker. He tried to decide which was worse, and gave up. It would mean he could never go back to the Bladeshifters. He could imagine the ridicule: he'd be branded a coward for the rest of his life.

More importantly, he needed the Bladeshifters. Nightwalker had connections: spies and contacts everywhere. He knew the secret locations of safe houses in dozens of towns and cities. He knew how to avoid the Freeroamers. He knew how to acquire information, how to find people.

And there was someone in particular that Starshadow Flint wanted very much to find…

Gazing off into the trees, Flint was so immersed in his own thoughts and worries he didn't notice that Requar had stopped, and walked right into him.

Flint jumped in surprise and leapt backwards so quickly he almost tripped over. He straightened his hat and garbled a hasty apology, but Requar didn't seem to have noticed. He was staring straight ahead, into the forest.

Flint peered warily ahead as well, trying to see what the sorcerer was looking at.

The forest was empty. He glanced up at Requar, and noticed that his blue eyes were unblinking and strangely blank.

Flint stared at him in growing apprehension. He started to ask what was wrong, but at that moment Requar blinked: his eyes refocusing as though returning from a daydream. He gave a slight shake of his head, as if dismissing a thought, and continued walking without so much as a glance at Flint.

"What… was that about?" Flint asked, slightly disconcerted and still glancing about as though expecting to see something.

"Hmmm?" Requar stopped and turned to Flint with a vaguely surprised expression on his face, as though he had forgotten the man was following him.

"Oh. Nothing," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "Just someone throwing stones at my castle. No doubt one of the Griks amusing itself."

Flint nodded, no more enlightened than he had been before he'd asked. "Griks," he replied. "Right."