David Drake - The Gods Return

It'd been obvious to her-and she thought to Master Dysart as well-that the priest had nothing more to give to ordinary questioning. Crippling Platt-or worse-before the wizard could use him as a focus of her art would be both cruel and counterproductive. The screams had ended, but servants standing agog in the hallways pointed them toward the basement. As the trooper had said, they were headed toward Master Dysart's suite. The spymaster and four of his agents reached the barred door to his domain at the same time Sharina and her guards did.

"Get out of the way!" the under-captain snarled, but someone inside was already pushing the door open for Dysart. It had been remounted to swing into the hallway, so smashing the latch out wouldn't be enough to move the panel. "I haven't opened the cell in case it's a trick!" said the agent inside. "Open it now!" said Dysart. He carried what looked like a short ivory baton-of-office. Thecling when it touched the stone jamb told Sharina that it was painted metal. The small cell was off the other end of the suite from Dysart's private office. Two of the agents who'd arrived with Dysart positioned themselves on either side of the door. Each held a cudgel in one hand and raised an oil lamp in the other. The man who'd been on night duty lifted out the heavy bar, then turned his key in the separate lock. He jerked the door open. A trooper shouted. The interior of the cell seethed with scorpions, ranging from tiny ones to monsters bigger than Sharina's spread hand. Still more of the creatures were crawling in through the barred window that slanted up to street level. Platt's corpse was hidden beneath the writhing blanket. When the door swung, the chitinous mass surged toward the opening like a single entity. Sharina smashed her lamp in the doorway. The olive oil splashed, then bloomed into pale yellow flames spreading from the wick across the surface.

"Burn them!" she shouted. "Quickly, fire!" One of the agents hurled his lamp toward Platt and jumped away. The other man threw his weight against the door and slammed it closed. Firelight flickered across the thin crack under the edge of the panel. Burne leaped from Sharina's shoulder to the jamb and came down with a scorpion which had scuttled out before the door closed. The snicking of the rat's teeth mimicked the muffled crackle of oil flames within the cell. "We may have to evacuate the palace," Sharina said, suddenly sick with horror. She hadn't liked the renegade priest, butnobody should die from the stings of a thousand scorpions. "The fire may spread." "I think not, your highness," said Dysart. "The walls are stone, and the floor and ceiling are concrete." "I have the fire watch coming," said Lord Tadai, who'd appeared unexpectedly. "Though I think Master Dysart's correct about there not being a serious danger." Burne dropped the remains of the scorpion he'd caught. It had been a big one; the tail, still twitching on the floor, was longer than Sharina's middle finger.

"You seem to have been right, princess," the rat said. "The priest would've been useful to Tenoctris. At any rate, the priest's master thought he would." *** Cashel stepped in front of the women with his quarterstaff ready to strike. The woodsprites, more than a double handful of them, paused their dance in the middle of the clearing to stare at him and his companions. There were about as many men as women, slender and perfectly made. They wore garments woven from gossamer, bark fibers, and the down of small birds. "Oh, look at them!" said a sprite who wore an acorn cap on his head. "He's a big one, isn't he?" "And the girl's lovely. Could we bring her to join us, do you think?" "The other one looks like a cat. Is she dangerous, do you think? She seems old." "We won't harm you," Cashel said. "We've come to find Gorand, is all." The sprites trilled like a dovecote when a snake squirms in.

Some ducked into clumps of grass; others stood with their hands squeezed to their cheeks. He can see us! How can he see us? Oh, what will we do? The trees of this forest were like nothing Cashel had seen before. They weren't especially tall, but some had snaky boles, and the leaves of all were outsized. The black bark of the nearest was as smooth as a palace floor; its simple oval leaves were the length of Cashel's leg, and the varied foliage of some of those across the clearing were even larger. One huge tree had a trunk bigger than two men could've spanned with spread arms, but its grassy leaves reminded him of bamboo. "We'll not hurt you!" Cashel said. It made him uncomfortable to scare innocent, harmless people. "Please, can you show us to the hero Gorand?" "Cashel, who are you talking to?" Liane said, trying not to sound frightened. The goat was nervously trying to pull the lead out of her hands. It wasn't used to breathing air that didn't have the poisonous bite of brimstone. "The little people can't help us," Rasile said dismissively. She looked without affection at the dancers. "They know nothing and do nothing; they merely exist."

"We dance, catwoman," said a tiny female with quiet dignity. "We are very lovely." "Go dance somewhere else, drones," Rasile said. "I don't want to listen to your twittering." She rubbed her muzzle with the side of a paw, then added in a softer tone, "You won't want to watch this, little ones. Dance in another clearing tonight." The sprites gathered, their heads together. They whispered for a moment, sounding like crickets behind a wall hanging. The female turned and faced Rasile again. "We will go," she said. "But you would do better to watch us dance. We are very beautiful." The troupe faded off through the strange trees. The little man in the acorn cap paused for a moment in a patch of moonlight, staring at Cashel; then he too was gone.

"They were sprites, Liane," Cashel said. "Woodsprites." To Rasile he added, "I like their dancing. It's like watching my sister Ilna weave." The wizard's lips drew back in a grin of sorts. "Perhaps it is," she said, "but our sacrifice would disgust them." She lolled her long tongue. "Either they don't belong in the universe," she said, "or I don't. And it disturbs me to think that they may be the ones who belong." An animal screeched. It was hard to tell distance in woods so thick, but Cashel didn't think it was very close. He gave his quarterstaff a trial spin. The cry sounded like a cat, a big one, though it could just as easy be a night bird. Rasile scratched at the loam with her long toe. "Cashel," she said, "can you cut through this to the clay underneath? We need a trough that will hold liquid for a time." Cashel prodded the soil with his knife. He'd thought there might be tree roots, but it seemed just to be just leaf litter and grass as soft as a kitten's fur. He scraped the dirt carefully away.

His knife would do the job, but cutting too thick a slice of the heavy clay would snap the crude iron blade. The goat bleated peevishly.

Liane said, "Rasile? Do we have to do this? I don't…" Cashel had met Liane's father, Benlo. He'd been so powerful a wizard that he didn't let even his own death stand in the way of bringing his wife back from the grave. Liane was as brave as you could ask for, but she wasn't going to forget that her father had tried to sacrifice her.

"Yes, we do," the wizard said. She squatted, taking her yarrow stalks and black athame from the basket which held her gear. "We were fortunate that the folk of the anteroom kept goats, though no doubt Warrior Cashel and I would've been able to find something suitable here." "Not a sprite," said Cashel, concentrating on his shallow trench. "Not a sprite," Rasile agreed. "But there are apes here who wouldn't disturb you to use for the purpose, not if you got to know them." She looked sidelong at Cashel. "Don't let the little drones mislead you," she said. "There's more darkness than light in this land, whatever they may pretend." Cashel stood. The trench was as long as his forearm. He'd dug it a hand's breadth wide and about a finger deep in the clay beneath the leaf mold. "Is that enough, Rasile?" he said. "Or should I go deeper?" "That will do well," Rasile said. She placed the yarrow stalks around the trough, seeming just to throw them down. They formed a neat figure against the black loam, however. "Hold the goat and keep your knife out, warrior," she added. "By the horns, I think. When I begin to chant, it will try to break loose. The cord may not hold." "Yes, ma'am," Cashel said. He took the goat by the right horn and drew it toward him, lifting the animal slightly so that its forehooves didn't have purchase as it tried to resist. It gave another whistling blat, but a peasant doesn't worry about the feelings of farm animals. He wiped the knife on his bare thigh. Liane backed away, her face set in silent misery. "The True People…," said Rasile, looking into the dark distance. "My people. We very rarely use blood magic. Blood is too likely to madden us." She turned to Cashel again and dipped her head to acknowledge him. Her tongue wagged a moment, then withdrew. She said, "I'm past that by now, I trust."