Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [32]
Hope was not anywhere close to as good as a magical balm.
Why didn’t she carry a healing potion in her gloves? Because her oh-so-clever plan of keeping one space empty was the strategy of a moron. As her breath hitched with a new jab from a rib that was probably fractured, she formulated a new plan. If she made it out of these godsdamned tunnels, she’d buy an elixir. If she later happened upon something more valuable than a sunrod, balm, or flare, she would simply replace one for the other. Brilliant.
The passage Riltana followed broke into a divergence of several crossways. The scarf chose one. She hobbled in the direction indicated. The corridor she took sloped upward. A rivulet of liquid trickled down its center too. That seemed promising, but she was wary of another flood.
She said, “Scarf, how do you know which way to go?”
More words flowed across the length of fabric:
I am the Veil of Wrath and Knowledge; what was once recorded, I know. Those whom the gods select for death, I authenticate.
“What is recorded? Those who are selected to die? I don’t understand.”
Apparently, that was all she was going to get. New words stubbornly failed to glitter on the wrap.
“Fine, be that way.”
The slope was sapping the last of her reserves. And it was getting muddy. Gravity and gunk joined forces to grasp at her boots with each step. She paused to catch her breath. The scarf twisted in her grip and almost pulled free.
“Hold on,” she wheezed. “I just need a moment to rest.” She put her hands on her knees and let her head sag. Riltana wanted to sit, but she was afraid if she did so, getting up again would prove too daunting.
When her breathing finally calmed and heartbeat slowed, she resumed her slog.
She lost exact count of the number of rests she had to take; more than five, but less than ten.
When the scarf went limp and dark, she sagged and nearly fell herself. Gray speckles impeded the edges of her vision, visible against another light flickering ahead.
Another light?
She forced herself up the tunnel and entered a large chamber illuminated by a growth of bioluminescent fungi on the walls and ceiling. The place smelled of garbage. Puddles of mud and water covered portions of the floor. She blinked, and realized where she was: the Sepulcher.
She was going to live! A grin stretched her mouth, and she hobbled forward, toward the tunnel through which she first entered this cursed place, making her way around the muddy pools of slowly draining overflow. The residue of the flood that—
“Who’re you?” croaked a voice.
Riltana spun, and nearly fell over as dizziness racked her.
A little man in shoddy leather armor perched on a rock. The figure clutched a ratty bag in one hand, a club in the other. The greenish skin and distorted face told the rest of the tale: it was a goblin.
It looked cautious and ready to flee. Good. Riltana had dispatched her share of the thieving little bastards. Goblins had moved in recent years, like colonizing rats, into the dark alleys and uppermost portions of the labyrinths beneath Airspur. They were becoming more than a mere nuisance, especially for someone like herself, who also preferred to work in the shadows and underbelly of the city.
“Scamper off, blister, or I’ll cut you,” she said in her most intimidating voice, which was ruined as a coughing jag descended.
By the time she had her breath back, stars were dancing across her vision. At least the goblin had disappeared off the rock.
A sinister titter behind her was all the warning she received. Weakened as she was, it wasn’t enough to avoid the brutal club that smashed into the back of her head.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AIRSPUR
THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
WAKE UP.”
Demascus pulled the extra pillow over his head. Someone shook him. His dreamy lassitude frayed. He moved the pillow away from his face and said, “What?”
The overweight pawnbroker was leaning over him holding a lantern. A purring pocket of warmth