Gord did not worry about the little slash. In fact, he was glad that the wound was bleeding freely, and it was simple to use his left hand to flick the blood away before the stuff got near his eyes. "Three to one!" he countered as his lightless length of dweomered metal cut another red path along the already scarred visage that snarled menacingly at him. As he danced lightly back, Gord added, "And my blood flows freely, long-tooth. Your poison will have no bane!"
Wilorne was aware of the rest of the fight around them, and the fact that it was not going well for his fellows. Thrice wounded, with the deepest of the cuts sapping strength from him as it bled profusely, with two of his best tricks proven useless, the assassin was growing desperate. Wilorne no longer thought of the pleasure of killing his opponent slowly or using his hands to break the bones. This one was too able a fighter, too wily an adversary for anything other than death of a swift and sure nature.
To accomplish this end, the killer began a crab-wise movement, meanwhile drawing forth and displaying a flat, almost rectangular throwing knife. That made the smaller man cautious and brought him into mimicking the dancelike maneuvering that the assassin had plotted. "Eat this!" Wilorne screamed, making the knife throw obvious and clumsy. Then the assassin leaped in with the narrow-tongued sword he still held, aiming its deadly point squarely at Gord's groin. Head and upper body could be ducked, twisted, turned to avoid such a stroke; but the lower abdomen was most vulnerable.
Instead of dancing sideways to avoid the throwing knife, Gord crouched. He had seen the assassin moving to the right as he released the knife. That fact, and his acrobatic ability, saved him from the real peril, Wilorne's true attack. As the assassin lunged, Gord saw the danger of the low-held sword and from his crouch shot upward. The startled killer saw only a flash as the young adventurer sprang four feet into the air, legs pulled up to avoid Wilorne's low lunge.
The assassin's attack carried him forward to a point where he saw nothing of his adversary. Because of that, Wilorne didn't have the terrible knowledge of his impending death as Gord came down on his feet and whirled with his longsword ready. The sooty blade sunk easily through the assassin's armor, sliding between ribs as it penetrated, seeking his heart, driving on to force its tip a full foot beyond his chest.
"Now, dog-tooth, you can tell the devils that greet your whimpering soul that youVe met Blackheart-seeker," Gord said loudly as he placed his foot upon the dead man's back and yanked free the lightless blade. "Demon and deity both have made it for me thus...." The chaotic clangor of the melee had diminished as Gord spoke. He glanced around quickly, sword ready.
What he saw was reassuring. Chert was starting to clean Brool, Greenleaf and the one-eyed troubador were watching, Timmil was still holding a particular position as he recited some litany, and Allton was likewise engaged in a magical ritual. Gellor smiled grimly at him. The half-elf shot Gord a quick grin and then went to help Chert treat his wounds.
"What about the cut on your brow, Gord?" said Gellor.
"Nothing, my friend. A scratch." Gord didn't mention the poison that the free-flowing blood had kept from the wound. "A bit of bandage will be enough."
Gellor dipped his finger in a little pot of ointment and drew a greasy line on his comrade's forehead. "This salve will do better. I think," he said. "It'll stop the bleeding and begin speedy mending, too."
"Stop coddling each other and hurry!" That admonition came from Allton. His face was strained, and there was an edge of irritation in his voice. Gord stared blankly at him and the mage added, "I am holding open a gateway for us to use — to follow that gimlet-eyed sorcerer who fled us as he gave the alarm. Come on!"
There were distant sounds of shouting and a faint pounding of feet. It was obvious that other guards were on their way. Chert tossed a pair of bodies out of the doorway and slammed the heavy slab of iron-bound bronzewood that closed it. "Help me barricade the door," he shouted, dropping its bar in the meantime. Gellor, Greenleaf and Gord sprang to comply, using the table, a big wardrobe, and the corpses as well. It took only a couple of minutes.
"I don't see a portal," the young thief said to All-ton. The spell-worker nodded in the direction in which his staff was pointed, and then Gord saw a faint shimmering in the air. As he stared, the distortion took on a pale, violet hue. Timmil, the cleric, was still reciting his steady litany. The words seemed to flow into the distortion, making an amethystine current as they went. "You two combine to track our enemies," Gord said as the realization came to him.
"Very observant, champion," the high priest answered dryly. "Now, pray, pass through the gate and along the path of purple. This won't stay open forever, you know."
Because he was the nominal leader of the group, Gord drew a deep breath and went squarely through the center of the rectangle of shimmering force. With his first, long stride the chamber disappeared. Nothing behind, silver-shot walls of ebony close at either hand, an insubstantial floor of shifting lilac fading to deep plum ahead endlessly. Without breaking stride, the champion of the Balance pressed ahead into the strange, dweomered tunnel. There was an eerie oppressiveness that grew stronger as he went on. It was as if he were fighting a current to make progress, a stream that grew in force with every step he took, making progress slower and more difficult as he moved ahead.
Gord felt a hand on his back, then heard Gellor's voice. The others are behind us in the pathway, Gord. Concentrate on the goal, and we will soon be through; otherwise..." The troubador let his sentence trail away.
The result was too obvious to need voicing. If they did not press on relentlessly, they could all be lost in a region somewhere between the ethereal and astral. Perhaps Allton could get them all safely out, but even that might mean losing weeks of normal time. Gord concentrated on the destination of this journey — Gravestone. Surely the mage who had escaped them would go directly to his master, and nothing better could be hoped for. The light of silvery striation and violet path was beginning to grow dim, slowly fading, but a faint speck of magenta glimmered ahead. "Keep your hand on my back, Gellor, and pass the word back to run! I'm going for it now!"
Chapter 9
A DISSONANT CHIMING filled the black-walled room. Despite the monstrous size of the place, the sound was audible everywhere within it, no softer in the farthest corner than in the center, where a number of flying bridges led upward to a platform that was suspended there.
As the nasty sound died away to a tooth-aching whine, a deep violet light suddenly washed over the floating disc in the middle of the vast chamber, its illumination making plain the whole extent of the massive platform that was a bowshot across and covered with dark, jumbled shapes. Into the private realm of the priest-wizard Gravestone suddenly came a wildly gesturing figure.
"Sigildark!"
The wizard of evil had brought himself into the space that was the center of the floating disc, that portion that his lord and master held sacrosanct. "I implore your forgiveness. Great One," he stammered to Gravestone, his arms still flailing in an uncontrolled fashion. "There are enemies in your tow—"
"Be still!" The last word thundered from the tall, gaunt man. It jerked Sigildark into instant immobility. "Open your mind now, and I will see for myself what has sent you into such a state." So saying, the priest-wizard fixed his gaze on Sigildark and shot forth a bolt of tremendous mental energy, a magically enhanced probe that instantly laid bare the compliant mage's mind.