The Oathbound (33 page)

“Warrior’s Oath! I
would
tie myself to a head-strong, stubborn, foolish, reckless, crazed mage—”

“Who loves her bond-sister and won’t allow her to throw her life away.”

“—who is dearer to me than my own life.”

Kethry reached out at almost the same moment as Tarma did. They touched hands briefly, crescent-scarred palm to crescent-scarred palm, and exchanged rueful smiles.

“Argument over?”

“It’s over.”

“All right then,” Tarma said after poignant silence, “Let’s get to it now, while we’ve still got the guts for it.”

T
arma led the way, as soft- and sure-footed in these dark city streets as she would have been scouting a forest or creeping through grass on an open plain.

The
kyree
Warrl served as their scout and their eyes in the darkness. The uninformed would have thought it impossible to hide a lupine creature the size of Warrl in an open street—a creature whose shoulder nearly came as high as Tarma’s waist; but Warrl, although somewhere close at hand, was presently invisible. Tarma could sense him, though—now behind them, now in front. From time to time he would speak a single word (or perhaps as many as three) in her mind, to tell her of the results of his scouting.

There was little moonlight; the moon was in her last quarter. This was one of the poorest streets in the city, and there were no cressets and no torches to spare to light the way by night—and if anyone put one up, it would be stolen within the hour. The buildings to either side were shut up tight; not with shutters, for they were in far too poor a state of repair to have working shutters, but with whatever bits of wood and cloth or rubbish came to hand. What little light there was leaked through the cracks in these makeshift curtainings. The street itself was rutted mud; no wasting of paving bricks on this side of the river. Both the mercenaries wore thin-soled boots, the better to feel their way in the darkness. Kethry had abandoned her usual buff-colored, calf-length robe; she wore a dark, sleeved tunic over her breeches. Kethry’s ensorcelled blade Need was slung at her side; Tarma’s nonmagical weapon carried in its usual spot on her back. They had left cloaks behind; cloaks had a tendency to get tangled at the most inopportune moments. Better to bear with the chill.

They had slipped out the window of their room at the inn, wanting no one to guess where they were going—or even that they were going out at all. They had made their way down back alleys with occasional detours through fenced yards or even across roofs. Although Kethry was no match for Tarma in strength and agility, she was quite capable of keeping up with her on a trek like this one.

Finally the fences had begun to boast more holes than entire boards; the houses leaned to one side or the other, almost as though they huddled together to support their sagging bones. The streets, when they had ventured out onto them, were either deserted or populated by one or two furtively scurrying shadows.
This
dubious quarter where the abandoned temple that their priestly friend had told them of stood—this was hardly a place either of them would have chosen to roam in daylight, much less darkness. Tarma was already beginning to regret the impulse that had led her here—the stubbornness that had forced her to prove that she was not trying to shelter her partner unduly. Except that ... maybe Kethry was right. Maybe she was putting a stranglehold on the mage. But Keth was all the Clan she had....

Tarma’s nose told her where they were; downwind of the stockyards, the slaughterhouse, and the tannery. The reek of tannic acid, offal, half-tanned hides and manure was a little short of unbreathable. From far off there came the intermittent lowing and bleating of the miserable animals awaiting the doom that would come in the morning.

“Something just occurred to me,” Kethry whispered as they waited, hidden in shadows, for a single passerby to clear the street.

“What?”

“This close to the stockyard and slaughterhouse, Thalhkarsh wouldn’t necessarily
need
sacrifices to build a power base.”

“You mean—he could use the deaths of the beasts?”

“Death-energy is the same for man and beast. Man just has more of it, and of higher quality.”

“Like you can get just as drunk on cheap beer as on distilled spirits?”

“Something of the sort.”

“Lady’s Blade!
And
he feeds on fear and pain as well—”

“There’s plenty of that at the slaughterhouse.”

“Great. That’s
just
what I needed to hear.” Tarma brooded for a moment. “Tell me something; why’s he taking on human shape if he wants to terrify? His own would be better for that purpose.”

“Well—this is just a guess—you have to remember he wants worship and devotion as well, and he won’t get that in his real shape. That might be one reason. A second would be because what
seems
to be familiar and proves to be otherwise is a lot more fear-inducing than the openly alien. Lastly is Thalhkarsh himself—most demons
like
the Abyssal Planes, and their anger at being summoned is because they’ve been taken from home. They look on us as a lower form of life, a species of animal. But Thalhkarsh is perverse; he wants to stay here, he wants to rule over people, and I suspect he enjoys physically coupling with humans. The Lady only knows why.”

“I ... don’t suppose he can breed, can he?”

“Windborn! Thank your Lady, no. Thank
all
the gods that demons even in human form are sterile with humans, or we might have more than Thalhkarsh to worry about—he
might
be willing to produce a malleable infant. But the only way he can reproduce is to bud—and he’s too jealous of his powers here to bud and create another on this Plane with like powers and a mind of its own. He won’t go creating a rival, that much I’m sure of.”

“Forgive me if I don’t break into carols of relief.”

They peered down the dark, shadow-lined street in glum silence. The effluvium of the stockyards and tannery washed over them, causing Tarma to stifle a cough as an acrid breath seared the back of her throat a little.

The street is clear,
a voice rang in Tarma’s head.

“Warrl says it’s safe to go,” Tarma passed the word on, then, crouching low, crossed the street like one of the scudding shadows cast on the street by high clouds against the moon.

 

She moved so surely and so silently from the shadows of their own building to the shadows below the one across the street that even Kethry, who
knew
she was there, hardly saw her. Kethry was an instant behind her, not quite so sure or silent, but furtive enough. Warrl was already waiting for them, and snorted a greeting before slipping farther ahead of them in the direction of the temple.

Hugging the rough wood and stone of the walls, they inched their way down the street, trying not to wince when their feet encountered unidentifiable piles of something soft and mushy. The reek of tannery and stockyard overwhelmed any other taint. From within the buildings occasionally came sounds of revelry or conflict; hoarse, drunken singing, shouting, weeping, the splintering of wood, the crash of crockery. None of this was carried into the streets; only fools and the mad walked the streets of the beggars’ quarter at night.

Fools, the mad, or the desperate. Right now Kethry had both of them figured for being all three.

Finally the walls of buildings gave way to a single stone wall, half again as tall as Tarma. This, by the descriptions she’d gotten, would be the wall of the temple. Beyond it, bulking black against the stars, Kethry could see the temple itself.

Tarma surveyed the wall, deciding it would be no great feat to scale it.

You go over first, Fur face,
she thought.

My pleasure,
Warrl sent back to her, overtones of irony so strong Tarma could almost taste the metallic emotional flavoring. He backed up six or seven paces, then flung himself at the wall. His forepaws caught the top of it; caught, and held, and with a scrambling of hindclaws that sounded hideously loud to Tarma’s nervous ears, he was over and leaping down on the other side.

Now it was her turn.

She backed up a little, then ran at the wall, leaping and catching the top effortlessly, pulling herself up onto the stones that were set into the top with ease. She crouched there for a moment, peering through the darkness into the courtyard beyond, identifying the odd-shaped shadows by what she’d been told to expect there.

In the middle there stood a dried-out fountain, its basin broken, its statuary mostly missing limbs and heads. To the right were three stone boxes containing earth and dead trees. To the left had been a shrine, now a heap of rubble, that had been meant for those faithful who felt unworthy to enter the temple proper. All was as it should be; nothing moved.

I’d tell you if anything was here, wouldn’t I?
Warrl grumbled at her lack of trust.

She felt one corner of her mouth twitch at his reply.
I can take it that all’s well?

She saluted Kethry briefly, seeing the strained, anxious face peering whitely up at her in the moon-shadows, then slipped over the top to land on cat-quiet feet in the temple courtyard.

She slid carefully along the wall, left foot testing the ground at the base of it for loose pebbles that might slip underfoot or be kicked away by accident. The moon was behind her; so her side of the wall was entirely in shadow so long as she stayed close to it. Five steps—twenty—fifty—her outstretched hand encountered a hinge, and wood. She’d come to the gate.

She felt for the bar and eased it along its sockets until one half of the gate was freed. That gave Kethry her way in; now she would scout ahead.

She waited for another of those scudding cloud-shadows; joining it as it raced across the courtyard. Cobblestones were hard and a trifle slippery beneath her thin-soled boots; she was glad that the first sole was of tough, abrasive sharkskin. Dew was already beginning to collect on the cold stones, making them slick, but the sharkskin leather gave her traction.

She reached the shelter of the temple entrance without incident; Warrl was waiting for her there, a slightly darker shadow in the shadows of the doorway.

Ready?
she asked him. She felt his assent.

She reached for the door, prepared to find it locked, and was pleasantly surprised when it wasn’t. She nudged it open a crack; when nothing happened, she opened it enough to peer carefully inside.

She saw nothing but a barren antechamber. Warrl stuck his nose inside, and sniffed cautiously.

Nothing here
—
but something on the other side of the door beyond; people for sure—and, I think, blood and incense. And magic, lots of magic.

Tarma sighed; it would have been nice if this had been a false alarm.
Sounds like we’ve come to the right place.

Not yet. I want to know you aren’t biting off more than you can swallow.
Warrl waited for her to move on, one shadow among many.

She slipped in through the crack in the door, Warrl a hairsbreadth behind her. Moonlight shone down through a skylight above. The door on the other side of the antechamber stood open; between it and the door she had entered through was nothing but untracked dust.

She hugged the wall, easing carefully around the doorpost. Once inside the sanctuary she could barely see her own hands; she continued to hug the wall, making her way by feel alone. She came to a corner, paused for a moment, and tried to see, but could only make out dim shapes in the small amount of light that came from various holes in the ceiling of the sanctuary. It was impossible to tell if those sources of light were more skylights, or the evidence of neglect. Dust filled the air, making her nose itch; other than that, lacking Warrl’s senses, she could only smell damp and mildew. The stones beneath her hands were cold and slightly moist. Beneath the film of moisture they were smooth and felt a little like polished granite.

She went on, coming at last around behind the statue of the rain-god that stood at the far end of the room. The shadows were even deeper here; she slowed her pace to inch along the stuccoed wall, one hand feeling before her.

Then her hand encountered emptiness.

Then we take it. I’m going on ahead; you go
back
and fetch Kethry.

Now she was alone in pitchy darkness, with only the rough brick wall of the corridor as a guide, and the faint sound of her footsteps bouncing off the walls to tell her that it
was
a corridor. She held back impatience and continued to feel her way with extreme caution—until once again her hand encountered open air.