The Children of Urdis (Grimwold and Lethos Book 2) (31 page)

Avulash prodded him with his foot, like checking what remained in a sack of grain.

"Your blood will be far more interesting to work with," he said. "And I will take great pleasure in extracting it from you. No magic this time. We'll take it from the tap, so to speak."

This thin smile was the last thing Lethos saw as the cold reached the top of his head and he fell into darkness.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Syrus's heart was in his throat. All around him at the bottom of the library, books and scrolls lay spread out on the ancient stone floor. Thorgis was staring wide-eyed from beneath the stairwell where the orange firelight of their campfire danced. The scent of grilling fish reached Syrus, the pleasant smell incongruous to the fear bracing the enormous room. The Tsal shouted far overhead in darkness only broken by strangely glowing blue lights.

"Filthy animals, you would defile our halls? You will die!"

If a snake could speak, Syrus decided, this would be its voice. He stared back at Thorgis, whose face had turned white and waxy with terror.

"Help me get these books together. We have to run."

Thorgis disappeared beneath the stairwell again. The clangs and scrapes of the armored Tsal echoed to the bottom of the library. He had no time, and if all six Tsal had made it this far, then he also had no hope to fight all of them. He was not cornered yet. The crack in the wall that led to the natural caves carved by flowing water was a darker streak in the gloom of the far wall. He could evade them there.

Then he realized he might do better than that.

A wave of sickness passed over him at the thought of what he was about to do. He glanced up, still not seeing the threat but clearly hearing the Tsal's hateful curses and the rasp of armor on rock. They had already descended a level. He had to act.

He grabbed all the books he could that had mentioned the Order of Phyros or any of the early history of the Tsal. One book's spine split at his rough handling and its pages dumped onto the floor, cracking like thin ceramic plates. He tossed it aside and grabbed another until his arms were full. Dashing beneath the stairwell, he went to hand off this pile to Thorgis before returning for another load.

"Of course you ran," he said to the abandoned campsite. The fish still smoked on the grill, three neatly arranged skewers making it seem as if Thorgis had just stepped away. The sword of Eldegris was gone as well.

He set the books down then picked up the metal decanter of oil. He had salvaged it from the first room lit by conventional lamps. It had taken a lot of guts to return to the place, but they needed fire and the oil made starting one much simpler. Now he scrambled back among the books. His eyes were hot with threatened tears, such was the pain of this choice.

He splashed the oil over the ancient tomes. Their dry pages eagerly drank it. He saw the first gleam of Tsal armor in the low blue light. They did not see him yet, but were running down the final flight of stairs. A drawn blade flashed blue in the light. Syrus trailed the decanter behind him as he ran to the crack in the wall, then dropped it. The campfire with its savory fish and the stack of rescued books seemed like they were hundred miles away.

The Tsal, all six of them, spilled into the room from the opposite stairwell. They were like tall, blue ghosts in the light, their weapons drawn and curious shell-shaped shields held before them. Their fair hair turned blue in the light.

Syrus could run to the campfire and books, but he would not make it back to the cracked wall without the Tsal intercepting him. His legs weakened with the fear of what he had to do. Duty compelled him. He had made his oath to Eldegris to discover the mysteries of Tsaldalr, and those answers were all piled by the campfire. If he could not salvage them, then his life was worth nothing. Fieyar, the goddess of duty and honor, would never allow him into her hall if he were to die without trying. Instead he would be thrown into the mist realms where worms and beetles would gnaw his flesh for all time. And he would deserve such a fate.

His sudden burst caught their attention. Unexpectedly, they did not dash for him but had to navigate the treasures he had laid out across the floor. They were as hungry as he was to reclaim the lost knowledge of this place and just as loath to ruin it. It gave the time he needed to scoop the books, but he had overestimated his own speed. Even with the delay, the Tsal had crossed the room and trapped him beneath the stairwell.

He had never seen their faces from this distance. They should have been handsome if not cold faces, oddly reptilian in the shadowy light of blue and orange. Some were warped with a leer and others were lined with hate. All their eyes were pale and gleamed with delight. The first one prodded him with his sword point.

"Carefully place those sacred books upon the floor, then kneel before your masters."

A second one jabbed his arm from the other side. "His hair is thick and filthy. He smells like worms."

If anything, Syrus the Silver was famous not only for his charming voice but his fastidious cleanliness. Grimwold had often told him he could be rolled in a cow pasture but come away smelling like daisies. If he could see him now. Syrus carefully lowered the books to the ground.

He had wanted to catch them in the fire as he had the snake demon. Such tricks rarely work more than once, he knew. Yet in the short time he observed these Tsal, he had guessed something about them that he would bet his life upon: they valued their treasures as much as their own lives.

He held his right hand on the stack of books as if to balance them while his left hand flexed away.

Then, with a snap, he shoveled his hand into the flames and threw the fire into the main room.

His hand burned and he screamed, yet it was not hot enough for such a quick thrust to set him afire. The flaming debris landed in a shower of orange sparks and flames all over the books.

Already unreasonably dry, the books caught flame. Then the oil-soaked pages burst into a whorl of fire, sheets curling up into the air with a hoarse roar.

The Tsal screamed as one, but Syrus had already grabbed his books and now rammed into the Tsal directly before him.

The metal armor hurt his face and shoulder, but he hugged the books to his chest and plowed through to freedom.

"Stop the fire! I will deal with the human."

Syrus was running for the crack which now showed clearly on the wall. He was shorter than these Tsal, and with their armor they might not be able to force their way through the crack. Yet Syrus was burdened with his books.

A line of fire raced him to the fractured wall, and now rather than being his ersatz fuse to set off the conflagration, it had become a hurdle to cross. Burning dust spun into the air, making his eyes water as he ran. The oil would burn off fast, but he heard the clang of the Tsal behind him. The others were shouting and cursing.

He glanced over his shoulder to tall flames obliterating the books on the ground and Tsal dancing among them. But the closer Tsal was directly behind him, the heavy plates of his armor not hindering his speed.

The line of fire was already low enough to jump, but the dry books underarm caught fire nonetheless. He screamed as he felt the heat lick his elbow. At the wall he shoved them through, hoping that would extinguish the fire. If the books were destroyed now, he would have lost everything.

"I've caught the worm."

A hand like a bear trap clamped his arm and yanked him back. He spun around, the last of the books tumbling through the cracked wall, and faced the shadowy smile of the Tsal gripping him. His shield had been dropped and his sword was too long to be of use in close quarters. Yet his grip was crushing his entire left arm into numbness.

"You will pay for all the destruction you have wrought here. You are worse than a worm. You are a maggot."

Syrus flew back against the wall with such force that his head spun. Now the Tsal's sword had space to use. The point winked at him as it hovered before him.

"I'm going to pin this worm to the wall then open its guts."

He wished for Grimwold to possess him, for Thorgis to come charging with his sword gleaming, anything to save him from this fate. But nothing came. He was on his own.

But was he not a true son of Valahur? He did not fear death if it was glorious and honorable. He had chosen a soft life, but he had been trained for war like all men of his age. He had sailed with Grimwold and faced trolls and ulfhednar with nothing but a naked blade. He did not need help. The Tsal did.

He lunged for the Tsal's body, aiming for a dagger that hung from his belt. His hands gripped it, but it had been looped into the sheath and would not draw. Still, Syrus's body slammed into the cold metal and drove the unsuspecting Tsal back a step. Giving up on the dagger, his mind leapt to a new plan. He heard the snap of the fire behind them, saw the line of flames still dancing on the ground.

With the Tsal off balance, Syrus hooked his foot behind the knee of the Tsal and pulled. The armored Tsal crashed into the fire and Syrus danced back. The burning oil seeped between the metal links and plates and the Tsal screamed.

Syrus was already pushing through the crack. The dank air inside pressed into his face. The way was dark, but he heard running water and had a passing familiarity with the passage. On the ground, one book crackled like a comfortable log fire while the others had scattered far enough away to escape damage. The shouts and curses were hot behind him, so he grabbed the remaining books. Again the binding of one broke and pages scattered. He had no time, but stumbled toward the water which flowed toward the caverns. Flickering light from beyond the crack lit his way.

A metallic crash preceded a darkening of the light. The Tsal had jammed himself into the crack, but his armor had wedged him into it. He cursed. "Worm! I will shred your flesh and drink your blood. I see you there."

Running in the dark on an uneven floor guaranteed he would stumble and lose the books. The Tsal struggled and cursed as he tried to force himself through an opening not large enough for his size. Syrus began backing out of the light of the burning book to where the underground stream flowed from a pool in a series of natural caves.

Then the Tsal roared as he forced an arm through the crack. He began beating on the opening, his gauntleted fist clanging like a hammer. Rock and wall began to fly away as Syrus watched the Tsal widen the opening. How strong were these creatures?

With two more blows the wall crumbled around the opening and the Tsal fell through. He stood with a triumphant laugh, scanning the gloom for Syrus.

Then the wall cracked again and rock from both the wall and ceiling started to fall. The Tsal dove aside as hunks of rock caved in around the entrance. Syrus turned then fled along the path of the stream to avoid becoming buried. The light of the fire snuffed out and Syrus was moving in darkness. The echoes of the collapse chased him down the darkness, the stream gurgling to his left. In a few strides, the sounds of the collapse dwindled to the thud of two or three falling rocks.

How Thorgis had maneuvered this path without light was astounding, unless of course he had prepared a torch for himself. It mattered little now, for he still stumbled and kicked rocks until his feet and shins ached. Echoing out of the darkness behind him he heard rocks shifting and an angry hiss from the Tsal.

"Impossible," he said as he clutched the books tighter to his chest. He redoubled his pace, but it only caused him to crash painfully to his knees against cold rock.

He heard the battering of metal on stone, the Tsal's armor, no doubt. Then a shout, "Worm! I am coming for you."

Syrus guessed the cavern entrance was close. Thorgis had to hide within, and he at least had a weapon. He would force it into the bastard's hands if he had to. Two on one stood a chance, however slight against inhuman strength and endurance.

"You like fire, worm?" The voice was tired and ragged, but brimming with confidence. "Here, we can play with fire. I will gladly sacrifice the treasures you carry to roast you alive."

He spilled out of the passage into the cavern. A deep pool hid in the darkness, and he did not want to drown in it. He had a vague memory of the pool and the layout, and knew the deep water was close to the entrance. He carefully set the books aside, freeing up his hands.

He heard words muttered that reverberated down to him. The dank air became tinged with the scent of blood. Then fire belched from the passage. Heat scorched his left cheek as it rolled past him.

In the brief flash of yellow light, Syrus saw the cave and marked the start of the dark pool. On the far side, crouched behind boulders, sat Thorgis. He clutched his sword like a mother holding her sick child and his face was as white as snow.

The fire rolled back and the Tsal laughed. "Did I miss you, worm? Do not fear, for there is more of it and time enough for you to burn slowly."

The voice was close now. The Tsal might be able to see in the dark, he did not know. He was certain he had not heard his pursuer fall. In his metal armor he would've made enough noise for it to be obvious. He wanted to call out to Thorgis and make a quick plan, but did not want to give the Tsal more information. He would have to rely on Thorgis to do the right thing.

Feeling around the floor, Syrus put his hands on the largest rock he could grip. It was cold and wet and he would probably drop it if he had to carry it. He was just waiting for the Tsal now. Syrus heard his feet dragging on the stone floor and smelled burned blood. In total darkness, he felt the heat of the Tsal as he passed.

His rock smashed home, striking the back of the Tsal's head. He had just endured a cave-in. Syrus expected nothing from this, but the Tsal shouted in surprise.

Syrus leapt into the dark, colliding with the Tsal. He was already off balance. If he could shove his heavily plated body into the water, maybe these Tsal could drown.