The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [29]
Which meant that there was something still above him.
Groping carefully above, he found a great-toothed wheel of wood at the top of the shaft. It was rotating. A little more feeling about, and he discovered the second wheel, set above the first and at right angles, so that the teeth meshed at the bottom of the second wheel to turn the first. Leoff figured that the shaft turning the second wheel must be connected to the windwheel itself.
He found that and followed it, not sure what he was looking for. The smoke had discovered him again, as had the heat.
The shaft passed through a greasy hole in the wall only incrementally larger than the smoothed beam itself.
He began to understand what he was looking for.
“There must be some way to repair the saglwic— Yes!”
Below the shaft he found a latch, and lifting it allowed him to open a small square door. He cracked it open and peered out.
A pale moon sat on the horizon, and by its light he saw the spokes of the malend turning in the wind, and beyond that the waters of the canal, shining like silver. He saw no one below, but there were shadows enough to hide anything.
A shudder ran through the building, then another. Beams were collapsing below. The tower ought to stand, though, since it was made of stone.
A blast of hot air and a fist of flame followed the thought and came punching up through the ladder hole.
Saints, I don’t want to do this! he thought. But it’s this or burn.
Holding his breath, he followed the slow rhythm of the rotating spokes until he felt it with everything he had. The song of the malend came back to him, filled him up, and now he breathed in time with it.
He jumped on the downbeat. His legs jerked when he did it, and he nearly didn’t make it, but one hand caught the wooden latticework of the windsail. Without warning he found himself turning upside down, but he managed to claw his other hand into the fabric. His stomach churned with fear and disorientation as the landscape retreated impossibly far below him. Then it was rushing back at him again, and he started climbing down the vane.
As it dipped near the ground, he hastened his pace, fearing to make another rotation, but it was still too far away. He clung tight as his perch swung up again, and oddly enough, his fear began to turn into a sort of exhilaration. His head was toward the axis now, and something seemed to be tugging at his feet, even when his feet were pointed toward the sky, as if the saints didn’t want him to fall. He went with the tug, climbing on even while upside down, and when next the vane moved earthward, he was low enough to drop.
He hit the ground hard, but not breaking hard, and lay there in the grass for a moment.
But not for long. Keeping low, he moved away from the burning malend and toward the canal. He had almost reached it when a strong hand gripped his arm.
“Ssh!” a low voice commanded. “Quiet. It’s just me, Gilmer.”
Leoff closed his eyes and nodded, hoping his heart would not explode through his breastbone.
“Follow,” Gilmer said. “We’ve got to get away from here. The men who did this—”
“I saw them, on the other side of the malend.”
“Auy. Stupid, they are.”
“Well, there are no windows on this side to watch.”
They reached the canal. Leoff saw that a small rowboat was moored there.
“Quickly,” Gilmer said, untying the rope. “Get in.”
Only a few moments later they were out in the center of the canal, with Leoff pulling on the oars as hard as he could. Gilmer had taken the tiller.
“I was afraid you were dead,” Leoff said.
“Nay. I’d stepped outside to watch her turn. Heard ’em come in and what they were talking about. I didn’t reckon I could stop ’em.” He looked back at the malend. Flames were bursting from the top, and the windsails had caught like torches. They were still turning. “Sorry, love,” Gilmer said softly. “Rot ’em for doing that to you. Rot ’em.” Then he turned away.
“What now?” Leoff asked.
“Now we go to Broogh and see what mischief is goin’ on there.”
“But Artwair