A Magic of Nightfall (46 page)
Read A Magic of Nightfall Online
Authors: S. L. Farrell
Varina had already repeated the process on the second floor. “I’m about exhausted,” she told him, visibly sagging against the wall. “I’ve only one spell left in me; I’ve been calling the spells up on the fly like a téni.”
He nodded; he felt the same exhaustion, and there was little power left in him. “I’ll take the next one. We need to have enough left when we get to the Regent.” Together, they moved on to the third level, hurrying as quickly as they could. Sergei’s cell, they knew, was on the fourth level, though as they approached the third level, they heard voices talking. “The commandant says that we’re to bring you to him,” someone—the one called Dorcas—was saying.
“He said he would come himself,” Karl heard Sergei’s voice protesting; the man’s voice sounded alarmed.
“The commandant’s rather busy at the moment.”
“Give me my hands, at least. This stair . . .”
“Nah. The commandant said you were to be manacled . . .”
Karl saw a booted foot appear on the curving stair at nearly head level. He felt the roiling of the last remnants of the Scáth Cumhacht in his head, and spoke the release word even as he stepped out from the wall; just behind him, he heard Varina do the same. Twin lightnings shot out, and the gardai holding ca’Rudka dropped. Sergei stumbled and went down, falling on the stair and nearly knocking over Karl. The second gardai—Dorcas, Karl assumed—remained standing, however; his sword hissed from the sheath, and he thrust at Varina, who clutched her arm and fell back. Sergei kicked at the man’s knee; he howled and started to fall; Sergei kicked again, and Dorcas tumbled down the stairs headfirst. He didn’t move again, his head bent at a terrible angle.
“I didn’t think you were coming,” Sergei said.
“I keep my promises,” Karl told him. “Now, let’s get out of here . . . Varina?”
She shook her head. Karl could see blood welling between the fingers she clutched to her arm, and he tore at his own clothing for a bandage. “I’ll slow you down,” she said. “Get going. I’ll follow as fast as I can.”
“I’m not leaving you here.” He bound the wound with strips of cloth, tying them off tightly. Her face was pale, and there was more blood than Karl would have liked soaking her tashta. “I’ve nothing left of the Scáth Cumhacht. You?”
She shook her head. As he knotted the bandages tighter, she grimaced.
Sergei was crouching alongside the garda. Karl heard the rattle of steel against steel and the jingle of keys, and Sergei pulled the manacles from his hand and tossed them on the stair. He took a rapier from one of the gardai.
“Take the one from the other garda,” Varina said to Karl. “We might need it.”
Karl shook his head. “Let’s move,” he said. They hurried down the stair, Karl helping Varina. He could feel her sagging, growing heavier in his arms and slower with each flight. The prisoners screamed and shouted as they passed, shaking the bars of their cells, but Karl ignored them. They reached the ground floor, and—more slowly—started down the long curve to the lower level. Karl began to think that they would make it. They were nearly there. Varina shuffling behind him, Sergei ahead, they hurried down the short passage to the main corridor. Two intersections, another turn and a short corridor, and they would be at the door that would lead them to the ancient, unused tunnel and their waiting boat.
“Stay with us, Varina,” he said, glancing back at her. “We’re almost there.”
They managed only a few strides when a group of a half dozen armed gardai rushed into the corridor from the intersection ahead of them. “There! It’s the Regent!” one of the garda called, and their leader—the slashes of his office on his uniform—turned. Karl knew the man, though the man was looking more at Sergei than him.
“I’m sorry, Sergei,” Commandant cu’Falla said, and then his gaze moved to Karl and Varina. “Ambassador, I’m afraid you and your companion have made a very bad mistake here. I’ll see that she gets proper treatment for her wound. Sergei, put down your weapon. It’s over.”
“I might say the same to you, Aris,” Karl said. “After all, you know what a Numetodo can do.”
“And if you had spells left to you, you would already have used them,” cu’Falla answered. “Or have I missed my guess?”
There was movement in the corridor behind the gardai; a figure in the torchlit dimness. Karl managed to smile. He held his hands wide. He could see some of the garda behind cu’Falla flinch, as if expecting the burst of a spell. “No,” he told cu’Falla. “You’ve not missed your guess. Not for me.”
The commandant nodded. “Then I’d suggest we make this easy for all of us,” he said.
“I agree,” Karl said. He looked past cu’Falla and the gardai, and the commandant started to turn his head. The spell hit them then: the air around the gardai flickered and snarled with lightnings. With cries of surprise and pain, they crumpled to the stone flags, the lightnings still crawling over their bodies, snapping and snarling. Behind them, Mika stood with hands extended. His body sagged as his hands dropped. “Regent,” he said. “Pleased to meet you. Now, if you’ll all hurry . . .”
Varina half-stumbled forward. She picked up cu’Falla’s sword in her good hand and held the point at the commandant’s throat. She looked at Karl. “He knows you,” she said, blood streaking her cheek where she’d brushed her hands across her pale, drawn face. “He spoke your name.”
“No.” The response came from Sergei. He moved as if to take Varina’s wrist, but she shook her head and pressed the sword forward, dimpling the flesh and drawing a point of red. Sergei looked at Karl. “He’s my friend. If you do this, I won’t go with you. I’ll stay here. You’ll have wasted everything.”
Varina was staring at Karl, waiting. He shook his head to Varina, and she shrugged, letting the sword drop with a loud clatter to the flags. She swayed, then caught herself. “We’re wasting time, then,” she said.
Stepping past the prone bodies of the gardai, they ran.
Niente
N
ECALLI HAD BEEN THE TECUHTLI since before Niente had been born. He knew the names of previous Tecuhtli, but only because his parents had spoken of them. It had been Necalli whose name was always roared at the Solstice ceremonies in the Sun Temples; it was Necalli who had sent the famous Mahri to the East after his visions had foretold the rise of the Easterners of the Holdings. It was Necalli who had responded to their cousins’ pleas for help after the commandant of the Easterners had begun reprisals against those who lived beyond the coastal mountains. It was Necalli who had raised Niente up to become the new Nahual above all the other spellcasters, many of whom were older than Niente and were jealous of his quick rise. It was Necalli who had agreed to allow Niente to use the deep enchantments of the X’in Ka to snare the Holdings offizier’s mind and send him back to the Easterners’ great city as a weapon.
ECALLI HAD BEEN THE TECUHTLI since before Niente had been born. He knew the names of previous Tecuhtli, but only because his parents had spoken of them. It had been Necalli whose name was always roared at the Solstice ceremonies in the Sun Temples; it was Necalli who had sent the famous Mahri to the East after his visions had foretold the rise of the Easterners of the Holdings. It was Necalli who had responded to their cousins’ pleas for help after the commandant of the Easterners had begun reprisals against those who lived beyond the coastal mountains. It was Necalli who had raised Niente up to become the new Nahual above all the other spellcasters, many of whom were older than Niente and were jealous of his quick rise. It was Necalli who had agreed to allow Niente to use the deep enchantments of the X’in Ka to snare the Holdings offizier’s mind and send him back to the Easterners’ great city as a weapon.
That spell had cost Niente more than he had anticipated, wasting his muscles so that he still could not stand for long without needing to sit again. The effort had drained him so that the face that looked back at him from the water of his scrying bowl was lined and drawn like that of a person years older than him. He had paid the cost, as Mahri had many times in his days, but Niente would hate to see that sacrifice wasted.
Now he was wondering what the sacrifice had been for.
“Strike the head from the beast, and it can no longer hurt you,”
Necalli had said. It was what Necalli had sent Mahri to do, but it seemed that the beast had instead consumed Mahri. Niente worried that this might be his own fate as well.
“Strike the head from the beast, and it can no longer hurt you,”
Necalli had said. It was what Necalli had sent Mahri to do, but it seemed that the beast had instead consumed Mahri. Niente worried that this might be his own fate as well.
Most importantly, it was Necalli who had been the center of the Tehuantin world in the lifetime of most of those here. Niente could not imagine his world without Tecuhtli Necalli. All warriors must die, and the Tecuhtli not least among them. Yet Necalli had outlived all the sporadic challenges to his reign. Niente wished he could imagine him outliving this one as well.
But he had little hope.
Niente stood in the crowd lining the flanks of the Amalian Valley’s green bowl, the easternmost of the sacred places of Sakal and Axat, his back against one of the carved stone plinths of the ball court and his hands folded over the knob of his spell-staff. He stared down into the shadowed courtyard itself. Below them, Tecuhtli Necalli stood in his armor, a gleaming sword curving sunward from his aged but untrembling hand as he faced Zolin, a High Warrior of the Tehuantin forces and the son of Necalli’s dead brother. Tecuhtli Necalli’s face was dark with the tattoos of his rank, swirling around the features of his face as an eternal, fierce mask, but he was an old man now, his back bent forward, his hair stringy and white. Zolin, in contrast, was a chiseled, perfect image of a warrior.
The challenge had surprised everyone. Citlali, a High Warrior himself, was standing near Niente, and he snorted at the sight below them, as Necalli and Zolin began to slowly circle each other, as the warriors gathered around the court began to chant rhythmically, pounding the butts of their spears on the stones in time. The sound was like the hammer blows of Sakal when He carved the world from the shell of the Great Turtle. “Necalli goes back to the gods today,” Citlali said. “May they be ready to receive the old buzzard.”
“Why?” Niente asked. “Why did Zolin challenge his uncle? Tecuhtli Necalli hasn’t lost a battle to the Easterners; rather, he’s pushed them back toward the Inner Sea. The Garde Civile of the Holdings hasn’t penetrated our own borders yet at all. The Tecuhtli might be old, but he’s still a master of strategy.”
“Zolin says the Tecuhtli has become timid in his dotage,” Citlali answered. His own face was swirled with black lines dotted with searing blue circles. “He dances with the Easterners, but he hesitates to destroy them. He’s become cautious and too careful. Zolin has no fear. Zolin will sweep the Easterners from our cousins’ land entirely. He’ll attack rather than merely defend.”
“If he wins the challenge,” Niente said.
“No one’s stronger than Zolin. Certainly not Necalli—look, his muscles sag like an old woman’s.”
“Must strength always defeat experience?” Niente asked him, and Citlali laughed.
“You’re the Nahual,” Citlali said. “One day one of your nahualli will come to you and demand challenge, and maybe you’ll learn the answer to that yourself. Tell me, Niente, are you afraid that because you were Necalli’s Nahual that your status will change when Zolin becomes Tecuhtli?”
Niente had learned long ago that one never showed fear to a High Warrior. The Scarred Ones already considered the nahualli to be little more than a weapon given human form, and they had nothing but contempt for those they considered weak. Niente forced a grin to his face. “Not if Zolin has a brain to go with his strength.”
Citlali snorted another laugh. “Oh, he has that,” he said. “He learned from Necalli himself. Now it’s time for the student to supplant the master, the son to replace his father’s brother.” Niente could feel Citlali staring carefully at Niente, his gaze sliding up and down his body. “You’ve been tired lately, and those are new lines on your face. You should be careful yourself, Niente. Necalli has used you badly, as he did Mahri. It’s a shame.”
Niente gave a careful nod. It was what he’d thought himself, more than once.
The chant and the pounding of the beat abruptly stopped. They could hear the forest birds settling again. The silence nearly hurt Niente’s ears. Necalli and Zolin were two strides away from each other, in the center of the court.
Zolin roared. He charged. His sword flashed, but Necalli’s sword came up at the same time, and the blades clashed loudly as the warriors shouted approval. For a moment, the two men were locked together, then Zolin pushed Necalli away, and the Tecuhtli retreated.
“You see,” Citlali said. “As they are in battle, they are here. Zolin attacks, while Necalli waits.”
“And if Necalli finds a flaw in Zolin’s attack, or if Zolin is impatient—then it will be Necalli who is still Tecuhtli. There are advantages to waiting.”
“We’ll see who the gods favor then, won’t we?” Citlali grinned. “Care to make a wager, Nahual? Three goats say that Zolin will win.”
Niente shook his head; Citlali laughed. Below, Zolin feinted a new charge, and Necalli nearly staggered as he brought up his sword against the anticipated strike. Zolin slid right, then quickly shifted left, his sword carving a bright line in the air. This time Necalli’s response was late. Zolin’s blade struck Necalli’s body where the chest armor tied into the arm plates, slicing through the leather straps there and cutting deep into the shoulder of Necalli’s sword arm. Necalli, to his credit, only grimaced as Zolin tore the sword out again, blood flying to spatter both of them. Zolin stalked Necalli as the Tecuhtli staggered backward, his armor dangling as he switched the sword into his left hand. Blood was pouring down Necalli’s right arm, dripping from his fingers. Zolin cried aloud again, raising dust from his sandaled feet as he charged once more. Necalli brought his sword up, but the parry was weak, and Zolin’s blade continued downward, tearing into the side of Necalli’s bared skull and burying itself in the neck below his left ear. Zolin released the blade as Necalli dropped to his knees, his sword clattering onto the ground. For a long moment, Necalli swayed there. His left hand pawed ineffectually at the hilt of Zolin’s sword. His eyes were widened as if he were seeing a vision in the air above him; his mouth opened as if he were about to speak, but only blood poured out.
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