Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [77]
Riltana was right on Demascus’s heels. Her face mask made her eyes seem particularly wide.
Chant came next, his crossbow a comfortable weight in his right hand. He didn’t normally think of himself as a violent man, but he’d put in enough time practicing with the unique triple-shot weapon that he was justifiably proud of his precision using it.
Unfortunately the light leaking down the stairs didn’t illuminate the area beyond a few paces.
Demascus said quietly to Riltana, “Do you have the sunrod you bought from Chant?”
“Wait,” Carmenere said. “Selûne can provide.” A silvery glow like the full moon swelled from her outstretched hand. The glow became a distinct sphere of phosphorescence that rolled away from her through the air and into the dark chamber like a miniature moon.
The space was bigger than he’d realized. Though the ceiling was collapsed, an open area was visible beyond the broken timbers, rocks, and rubble that filled the center of the chamber. Several passages gaped on the far wall.
“Perfect,” said Demascus.
The deva edged forward. Chant followed, wary for any timber movement or shifting surfaces in the floor or ceiling. Halfway around he noticed a lantern hanging on the wall above a wheelbarrow lying on its side. Two pickaxes and a pry bar lay on the ground as if they’d simply been dropped.
“Did the workers down here go for lunch too?” Demascus asked.
“Maybe,” Chant replied. But why would they leave their tools?
Carmenere said, “Maybe the queen sent word to pull the workers out on some pretense so we could sneak in.”
“You’d think she would have mentioned that,” said Demascus. He drew his sword.
They advanced around the collapsed chamber’s perimeter in single file, Demascus in the lead, Chant trailing at the rear.
The pale light revealed a short silhouette. He saw it was a whole keg with its brewing seal intact. “Hey, this one’s not broken!” he exclaimed. He bent for a closer look. Yes! Liquid sloshed in the container when he nudged it.
“What does that matter?” asked Carmenere.
“Uh … it seems like a shame to let it go to waste.” By her look, the silverstar thought differently.
A low growl pushed thoughts of salvage from his mind. The sound was guttural, rough, and hungry.
Movement glimmered in Carmenere’s light. What he’d taken for a heap of refuse stood up on four legs and shook out scaled wings that were nightmarishly wide. Eyes wide as tea cups caught the silvery light, set in an almost human face. Almost. Curved barbs rose from its spine, and the tip of its lashing tail was crowned with spikes.
Chant recognized the beast from his books: it was a manticore. Manticores were vicious predators, sometimes trained as sentries by people who didn’t mind losing a few trainers to the process.
The creature growled again as its tail vibrated like a rattlesnake’s.
“Don’t excite it,” said Chant, his voice low. “It’s probably a guard. If we back off, it might leave us alone.”
The manticore’s snarl cracked off the close walls. Its tail lashed more violently.
“Down!” yelled Demascus as he hit the dirt.
Chant ducked behind a timber. A handful of spikes nailed themselves into a splintered rafter overhead. That was close!
He peered around the support, straining to control his rapid breathing. Demascus was back on his feet, sword tip aimed at the manticore. The ribbonlike length of the attached Veil twitched of its own accord.
“Everyone all right?” Demascus yelled.
“It missed us,” came Carmenere’s voice from Chant’s left. The silverstar was behind an overturned workbench.
Chant drew aim on the beast, but the deva blocked his shot.
The manticore advanced. Demascus jabbed at its eyes. It flinched, but flailed with a huge paw, forcing the deva backward. Chant’s line of fire cleared. He took his shot.
His crossbow spat a bolt. An arcane rune on the stock triggered, and one quarrel became three. Two found their mark.
The manticore screeched and reared, reflexively biting at a bolt protruding from its breast. Demascus