Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [147]
“Lemures, you’ll see,” Wulfe muttered.
“Someone shut him up,” Sigurd ordered irritably. “Where is the shrine that leads to these catacombs?”
Keeper pointed off to the east. “Over that direction. It is an ancient shrine dedicated to the old gods. Behind the shrine are the catacombs where the dead are laid to rest. We don’t need to enter the house at all.”
“Keeper has a good idea,” said Skylan. “Let us go straight to this shrine. No one will know where we went. The Legate will wake to find us gone. By the time he figures out where we’ve gone, we will be far from Sinaria.”
“Always one to take the coward’s way out, aren’t you, Skylan?” Sigurd said, sneering. “You forget we need the key from the Legate to open the gates.”
“I remember a door made of bronze,” said Keeper. “But it was not locked. We can enter as Skylan says, with no one the wiser.”
“And I say we need a key,” said Sigurd, glowering. “And the man who has it is the one who made us a slave and I, for one, do not want to leave without having my revenge.”
“Would you jeopardize our escape to slit a man’s throat?” Skylan asked, holding back his temper. “There will be others in the house besides Acronis. Zahakis will be there and he will be armed. There will be physicians, priests, the house-slaves. We can sneak into the tunnels with no one the wiser, or you can go inside and create an uproar and maybe some of us will die.”
“Lemures or women mourning, the sound is an ill omen. The Goddess of Death, Freilis, walks that house this night,” said the usually quiet Farinn. “I say we leave them at peace.”
Sigurd gnawed his lip. “Torval will hold us to account. He will want to know why we did not take our revenge.”
“We will take it,” said Skylan. “When we return to our homeland, we will assemble the dragonships and come back here. We will free the Venjekar and have our revenge!”
Sigurd thought this over.
“Just do something!” Aki said nervously.
The wailing sound grew louder, harsh and piercing.
“Go ahead, Keeper,” said Sigurd. “Take us to the shrine.”
Skylan breathed a deep sigh of relief that caught in his throat when the door to the villa opened. Standing in the door, illuminated in the soft light of the flame from an oil lamp, was Acronis, or rather, what was left of him. His shoulders sagged. His head was bowed. His eyes were red-rimmed, his skin sallow. He blinked burning eyes, trying to see, and raised the oil lamp so that its light fell on the warriors.
“Skylan . . . I did not expect you so soon.” Acronis glanced at the Torgun warriors. The weapons in their hands gleamed in the lamplight. “Thank you, men, for bringing him so quickly. I feared you would not . . . not get here in time.”
“What the—” Sigurd began.
“He thinks we are his soldiers,” said Keeper softly, awed.
“He’ll find out different when I slit his gut!”
Sigurd raised his sword and started forward. He was stopped by Skylan’s hand clamping down over his sword arm.
“The man is not armed,” said Skylan. “His child is dying. Will Torval honor you for killing a man whose mind is overthrown by grief?”
Sigurd muttered something and wrenched his arm free. He kept his sword lowered, however.
“You men are dismissed,” said Acronis sharply. “Return to your duties. Skylan, come with me now.”
“Is the Priest-General still here?” Skylan asked.
“I sent the bastard away,” said Acronis. “He told my daughter, my child, that because she would not profess her belief in Aelon, she was doomed to dwell forever in darkness.”
He swallowed, brushed a trembling hand across his eyes, and said brokenly, “It was my fault. The Priest-General told me Aelon could save her. I couldn’t let her go!”
“I couldn’t let him go. . . .” Aylaen whispered. Tears glimmered in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Garn. I am so sorry!”
Skylan spoke in Sigurd’s ear. “Go quickly before the Legate realizes he has made a mistake. Keeper will show you the way. I will stay here, cover your escape.”
“We’re not coming back for you,” Sigurd warned. He turned, motioning. “The rest of