The Dragon Revenant - Katharine Kerr [154]
At that precise moment three great knocks boomed out, rolling through the room and shaking the walls. The altar on which he was leaning cracked from side to side with a noise like the stroke of an enormous gong, and stone dust plumed in the trembling air. With a shriek the Old One pitched forward, but such was his presence of mind and true strength of concentration that he grabbed the lantern as he fell and blew out the flame, or the room would have caught and burnt with him in it. In the midst of the rolling thunder of the knocks, he heard or thought he heard a voice, a single word that was another crash of thunder in itself.
“Unclean!”
Lying in the dark the Old One shrieked again, wallowing from side to side as he tried to rise, as trapped as a tortoise turned onto its back. He could feel his ancient heart pounding, the blood throbbing in his neck and temples, and for a moment he thought his death was bursting out from within him the way a plant bursts open its seed. Then the door, which he’d never properly shut, was flung open, and slaves came rushing into the room, light blossomed from other lanterns; he could hear Pachela’s voice giving orders as well-trained hands grabbed him and hauled him to his knees.
“Earthquake,” he gasped. “Must have been an earthquake.”
“Yes, master.” She sounded panicked and puzzled all at once. “We all felt it. Can you see?”
He realized, then, that she thought he’d had a stroke.
“Yes, yes. It was just the shock.”
With the slaves’ help he got to his feet and realized in a kind of horror that half his household was there and that they’d all seen the forbidden chamber. They would have to die, but without Pachela to care for him, what would he do? He also realized that, although the slaves were frightened of what they took to be a natural disaster, none of them showed the slightest trace of that screaming panic which the room used to induce in its victims. Still gasping and muddled, he smoothed down his tunic and shook off the hands that held him. Though he swayed, he managed to stay on his feet. When he looked around, however, he nearly fell again in a panicked faint. Not only was the altar lying in pieces, but the tapestry of the pentagram was gone—not merely torn, or shriveled, or ripped from the wall, but gone. Only an oblong of scorched paint, already cold, showed where it had hung.
And with a cold stab of certainty, the Old One knew that he had already lost his war. All that remained was to make his enemies pay high for their victory.
“Here, master.” With clumsy fingers Baruma fumbled through the saddlebag and found Rhodry’s silver dagger. “This was his. I used it to scry him out. It made it easy.”
The Hawkmaster took the dagger and hefted it, then peered at the graved falcon on the blade.
“What’s this? Some sort of magical symbol?”
“No, master. It’s probably his mark. The barbarians can’t read.”
“Ah.” The Hawkmaster flicked a thumbnail against the blade, which rang ever so softly. “Well, it’s certainly an alloy you won’t find in the islands. Good, little piglet. This will do splendidly for our last clue.” He waved to one of the Hawks. “Take this into the Ganjalo marketplace and sell it. Make sure the buyer remembers you.”
Once the runner was on his way, the Hawkmaster turned his attention back to Baruma, who was squatting by the dead campfire and shoving food into his mouth with both hands. He was drooling and gobbling so loudly that the Hawkmaster nearly killed him then and there, but he restrained himself. That pleasure would come later, after they’d taken over the Old One’s villa.
“Stop stuffing yourself for a minute and answer me. How far are we from your master?”
“Is it sunset or dawn now?”
“Dawn.”
“We ride all day. Then we’re there.”
“Good. We’ll wait in the hills until the Master of the Aethyr’s nearby, and then we’ll spring our trap.