Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [153]
Sigurd saw the flash of the axe blade and he leaped backward. The blade whistled past his midriff. If he had not moved, it would have sliced him in half.
“Farinn, what the—”
Farinn swung the axe again. Sigurd dove to the ground, dropping the torch. The blade clanged on solid stone. Sparks flew, and Sigurd crawled backward on all fours. He did not go far before he bumped up against a wall. Farinn kept up the attack. Fortunately for Sigurd, Farinn fought like someone who had never before used a battle-axe. He swung wildly, without skill.
Sigurd knew the young man was generally silent, but it seemed he should be saying something, at least telling Sigurd why he wanted to kill him.
The torch lay on the floor, but it continued to burn. The light slanting upward cast leaping shadows on the walls. Sigurd jumped to his feet, holding his sword so that Farinn could see it, see his danger.
“I don’t want to hurt you—”
He stopped, staring. Farinn’s eyes had been a bright, vibrant blue. No longer. Now his eyes were white as an egg, with no pupil, no iris. Farinn tried once more to kill him.
Sigurd ducked the wild blow and then leaped at Farinn. Plowing straight into him, he carried him to the ground. Sigurd smashed the young man in the face with his fist and the horrible eyes closed. Sigurd wiped the sweat from his forehead and stood up and looked around.
A body, still and pallid as the stone faces on the tombs, wispy and ephemeral as smoke, floated toward him. A hand, like chill mist rising from a frozen lake, reached out to him.
Sigurd screamed and tried to flee, but the mist wrapped around him and his scream ended abruptly.
Semelon, the Spirit Priestess, watched from the darkness outside the ancient shrine. Enveloped in a dark purple stoa, she was part of the night. Raegar was beside her, keeping behind a pillar, his armor covered by a thick black cloak. Treia pressed against him, keeping hold of him. With her weak eyesight, she was effectively blind, and that always made her nervous.
They had been here when the warriors arrived. They had listened to the men argue about waiting for Skylan and Aylaen, watched Sigurd push open the bronze door, watched the warriors go inside.
“Where could Skylan and Aylaen be?” Treia wondered. “Why aren’t they here with the others?”
“Don’t worry. Skylan would never give up this chance to escape. He will be along shortly. As for Aylaen”—Raegar glanced at Treia, frowning—“you said she was staying behind. You said you had persuaded her to join us.”
“I said I tried to persuade her,” Treia returned in some confusion.
Raegar’s frown deepened and Treia added hurriedly, “You know how stubborn she can be. I reminded her of the bright future you promised her. She spurned and mocked me. She will never worship Aelon. Let her go, my love.”
“But if she enters the catacombs, she will die with the rest of them,” said Raegar. “You don’t want her to die!”
Treia started to speak, but he hushed her.
“Don’t worry. I will find a way to rescue her. I know how much she means to you, how sorry you would be to lose her.”
Treia clenched her fists in the darkness to keep her fear under control. Hevis required a sacrifice—someone Treia cared for. Treia could not sacrifice Raegar; that was out of the question. She loved him with a passion that sometimes frightened her. And it was because of her love for Raegar, her desire to make him happy, to promote his ambition, that she was willing to sacrifice the only other person she cared about—Aylaen.
Treia had not known how much she cared about her sister until that moment on the ship when Hevis demanded her promise. Treia had felt a pang of remorse and then she reminded herself that Aylaen wanted to die; she wanted to be re united with Garn. Treia was granting her sister’s wish. The fact that Treia would also be ridding herself of a lovely rival made her decision that much easier.
Treia had spent a sleepless night devising various ways to kill Aylaen and had at last been forced to admit that she could not do the deed herself. She could not