Glen Cook - Splinter Of The Mind's Eye

He crouched among the boulders at the foot of the wall, trying to recall an easy approach to the Disciple's encampment, wondering if anyone up top would spot him and think he was the enemy. Haaken joined him. A third man dropped to one knee on his right. Then a fourth and fifth arrived, and more, till the whole squad gathered. "You idiots," he whispered. "All right. Keep it quiet, unless you want somebody up there to plink you." He stole forward, trying to approximate the route he suspected Haroun had taken.

The fates were kind. The watch on the wall did not spot them. That no longer a worry, Bragi became concerned about enemy pickets.

He stole within bowshot of the enemy encampment without finding Haroun. "He hornswoggled you," Haaken said. "He cut and ran."

"Not him. He's around somewhere, going to pull some stunt." He looked back, eyeing the fortress from the foe's perspective. It was a huge, forbidding outline, looming against the stars like the edge of a giant's ragged saw. Not a light shown anywhere. The construction crews had finished their work. "Spread out. We'll wait here till something happens."

The enemy camp was quiet, though fires glowed behind the stockade. An occasional sentry appeared, silhouetted by the glow.

"Bragi!" somebody hissed. "Over there."

"I see it."

Just a whisper of pale lilac light limned a boulder momentarily. A lilac bead dribbled toward the camp stockade. Defying gravity, it floated upward.

A sentry tilted forward, dropped off the wall. He struck earth with a soft crump.

"What're we into here?" Haaken demanded. "That's sorcery, Bragi. Killing sorcery. Maybe we ought to go back."

Bragi rested a steadying hand on Haaken's forearm. Another lilac glimmer appeared. Another bead danced toward the camp. Another sentry fell from the stockade, dying in utter silence.

Something scraped on stone. Staring intently slightly to one side of the sound, Bragi discerned a shadow sliding toward the wall. "That's him. He's going in." He rose.

"You're not going too?" Haaken whispered.

"No." That would be certain suicide, wouldn't it? "I was going to catch him. But it's too late, isn't it?"

Nightworks

H aroun crouched at the foot of the stockade, uncoiled with all the spring he could exact from young muscles. His fingers found purchase on top. He hung for a moment, listening. No alarm. No footsteps hastening his way. He hoisted himself till his eyes were an inch above the edge.

There were still a few fires burning, and a few men around them. Most were preparing wholesale breakfasts. Evidently El Murid meant to start early. No sentry was nearby.

He heaved upward. Part of the wall gave way, dribbling down with what seemed to him an incredible racket. The stockade was constructed of materials no better than sticks and stones mortared together with moistened clay. The clay was now dry, becoming powdery. He scrabbled for another handhold, rolled across the top and dropped onto a rickety catwalk, slithered into a shadow. He remained as still as stone then, awaiting an alarm and forming a mental map he would not forget in the heat of action.

No one noticed the noise he'd made.

How soon would the sentries be missed? Surely not long. Ten minutes? That might be too tight. He had to locate the Disciple before he could strike.

Before he moved on he assumed the camouflage of a minor spell that would avert the unsuspecting eye, making him effectively invisible till he did something blatant.

He dropped to the ground, stole along the wall till he could move into the camp in the shelter of tent shadows. He harkened to his weakling shaghûn's senses, trying to locate the Disciple through the aura of his amulet. Only a vague sense of direction came, centerward. He needed no sorcery to guess that. He wished he'd had more time with his instructors, had been able to study with the masters, and had attained a higher level of proficiency. But there had been so many things to learn, and so little time for study...

There! That way. The throb of the amulet was strongest thither.

He moved like a panther, shadow in shadow. That romantic undercurrent welled up. He imagined himself more than what he was, nominated himself a mighty avenger. Dangerous as his undertaking was, he was not afraid. Fright did not occur to him. His fearlessness was the fearlessness of folly.

The camp center was set off from the remainder by a twenty-yard width of barren earth. Beyond stood a half dozen tents guarded by twenty Invincibles. These sentries were posted too close to slip past.

He could not pick out the tent occupied by the Disciple. Time fled. Any minute the absent sentries would be missed. He had to do something.

He made the lilac magic, sent several of the tiny, deadly balls hunting. And kept sending them as fast as he could create them.

There was no other way. There would be an alarm, and an alert, and mad confusion. In it he might get close enough to do the deed.

An Invincible shouted. Not one of those touched by a violet pellet, of course. Those would make no sound again, ever.

Still creating and releasing the killing pellets, Haroun crept forward... and found himself face to face with a giant in white. A giant not misled by his feeble spell of concealment. A scimitar howled down. Haroun hurled himself aside, stumbled into a low tent, tripped, scrambled into a shadow, crouched, stared back at the Invincible. The man lost him, but only for an instant. Scimitar raised, he charged.

Haroun drew his blade.

The camp was coming to life. Men shouted questions. In the circle guarded by Invincibles—a dozen of whom lay dead—tent flaps whipped open. Officers demanded reports. Haroun spotted a man who had to be el Nadim. He tried to unleash another lilac bead. But the giant was upon him again.

He blocked a stroke so strong his whole arm went numb.

The Invincible left himself open to a counterstroke, but Haroun hadn't the strength to deliver it.

Another blow fell. Haroun rolled with it. Again he could not take advantage of an opportunity. His weapon had been forced too far out of position.

Men shouted at his opponent, who shouted back.

The third stroke was as overwhelming as its predecessors. This time Haroun kicked as his blade was driven down and away. His toe connected with the giant's knee. The man staggered. He was slow getting his guard up. Haroun struck before he did so.

He whirled and ran a short way, banging bewildered warriors out of his way. He dived into a shadow behind a tent. The tent was unoccupied. He slithered under the fabric's edge.

The uproar grew. There were cries that the Wahlig was attacking. Men rushed to the stockade. As many ran hither and thither in panic. A very few sought the interloper who had slain the Disciple's guards.

The halloo moved away. Haroun peeped outside, saw no one. He crept out and slid from shadow to shadow, toward the Disciple's tent. He knew which it was now.

Behind him flames rose. In their panic some of the enemy had scattered a fire. Some tents had caught. The blaze was spreading.

The fallen Invincibles had been replaced. Haroun cursed. There was no way, now, that he could deliver the stroke he had been anticipating all day.

He would have to use the Power. He hadn't wanted to do that. He wanted the Disciple to see death coming, wanted the man to look into his eyes and recognize the boy from Al Rhemish. Wanted him to know who as well as why.

The lilac killer would not do. It would take the nearest Invincible, not a man cowering inside a tent. It had to be something else. His arsenal of petty magicks contained little that was apt. Again he cursed the chain of circumstance that had prevented his achieving his full potential as a shaghûn.