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the ring on his right hand. Tarscenian squinted, leaning over the railing of the walkway.
Dahos wore the death's-head ring.
I stole it. Mynx gave Dahos's ring to Gaveley last night, he thought. And now Dahos has it back.
That meant one thing: the half-elf had done more than turn down Tarscenian's proposal.
Gaveley had sold him out to Hederick's forces.
Tarscenian glanced behind him, starting to edge backward as Dahos, with a jerk of his head,
summoned a blue-uniformed captain. The high priest bent down to speak quietly to the man. The
captain nodded, saluting crisply. The captain hustled over to a pair of goblins.
Tarscenian paused. Then he sank to his knees and pretended to look for something on the walkway.
His hands plunged into his cloak to search through his pouches.
"Hurry, hurry," he whispered to himself. Soon he was using blood-red sand to outline a fish on the
boards of the walkway. Another fish, the size of his hand, joined the first, and then another. "Pesqi
d'armotage, oberit getere," he murmured. A shout rang out below. Tarscenian hurried to finish.
"Getilin ornest gadillio dehist."
"There he is! Up there!" a man's voice shouted from below.
"Pesqi d'armotage, oberit getere. Getilin ornest gadillio dehist!" Tarscenian finished the chant, then
used both hands to whirl the sand figures into oblivion. The guards' shouts below turned into oaths
as Tarscenian's spell overturned six carts full of slippery fish and water between the guards and their
prey.
Most of Dahos's men lost their footing amid the flopping fish and cursed loudly. A few goblins,
unhampered by hard footwear, made it to the steps. But Tarscenian was already on his feet and
racing away to the north.
After several months of Seeker reign, Solace residents were used to fugitives fleeing along the
wooden walks in front of their treetop homes. They stayed invisible behind their doors, assisting no
one.
This walkway connected with another. Tarscenian chose the path that would take him northwest
toward the lake. This area contained only homes, no shops or open markets. It was deserted now.
Ropes were laced from branch to branch, many of them draped with drying clothes.
Tarscenian glanced back. A hobgoblin was thirty paces behind him, two goblins following.
Three temple guards stood fifty paces ahead, pikes set on the wooden boards of the walkway, smiles
broad under their helms. His pursuers had him cornered, fifty feet above the ground.
Tarscenian could see the lowering sun glittering on Crystalmir Lake behind the guards. The lake
was but a short distance away, yet it might as well have been leagues distant for all the good it did
him now.
To add annoyance, some Solace housewife had stretched her laundry across the walkway.
Tarscenian was forced to slap aside dripping shirts, socks, and bedding as he watched the guards
and goblins edge forward. The sheets flapped like huge wings.
"Wings!" Tarscenian said suddenly. Did he know a flying spell? He drew his sword to worry the
approaching foes. "A flying spell," he hissed. "Think, Tarscenian! By the Old Gods, if only Ancilla
were here!"
He focused intensely on the memory of the white-robed mage. Had she been a goddess, his call
would have been a prayer. "Ancilla!" An answering murmur rose within Tarscenian's mind, teased
him, and died. "Ancilla!" If she could hear him, could she dispatch a spell?
Again the teasing sensation, as though a hibernating animal stirred within his mind. "Ancilla!"
My... My love?
"Ancilla, I'm trapped. They will capture me unless..."
The guards and goblins were short paces away. The hobgoblin pounded one of the goblins on the
head with a mailed fist as though they shared an obvious joke.
"See! Old man crazyfool," the hobgoblin chortled. "Talk-talk self. Stuck now. Bounty bounty." The
goblin, rearranging its helmet, continued its approach, crouching behind its bigger cousin.
"Ancilla ..."
Tarscenian ... I... The voice died away, then returned as though communicating drained almost every
iota of the mage's energy. I have.. .no .. .1 cannot...
The hobgoblin leaped.
Tarscenian sliced through the air with his sword. The weapon severed, not the hobgoblin's neck, but
the laundry rope between them. Tarscenian lunged for the rope, caught it with his left hand, and
swung over the railing.
"Pray Paladine it's well tied at the other end," the man gasped on the way down.
Tarscenian arced through the open space that separated Solace's border from a few scrub pines at
the edge of the lake. Sheets, pillowcovers, and knit socks cascaded through the air.
The captain of the guard was waiting for him on the ground, flanked by six men. Each flourished
swords and spears.
"For the Old Gods!" Tarscenian bellowed, swinging his sword wildly. The guards threw themselves
to the dirt as Tarscenian hurtled directly toward them, but they were not quick enough. Tarscenian [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]