Another time, another day, Madrenga would have marveled at Daria. At the stone towers sheathed in colored granites, the fountains of polished marble, the broad streets with their elegant shopfronts that were busy with well-dressed citizens.
Hesitant, frightened, well-dressed citizens, he told himself. Peering out from half-open doors and the windows of living quarters above; men, women, and finger-pointing children followed the progress of the young warrior, his female companion, and his hulking animals as they made their way toward the palace. Word had spread quickly through the walled metropolis of the youth who had arrived at the main gate claiming to have single-handedly put an end to the barbarian siege. Admiration for his having managed to reach the gate without getting killed was followed by disbelief at the sight of the besieging army packing up and quietly departing. Once the flight of the enemy was confirmed by outriders, it was a brave Darian defender indeed who dared to so much as approach the stranger to thank him. Clearly powerful forces were at work of which only the most sophisticated and knowledgeable scholars might make sense.
Had they really wrought death by laughing and spitting? Madrenga asked himself. Having as a child on several occasions seen the use to which nobles put the intangible, invisible aura of power, he had no intention of voluntarily surrendering that which had apparently attached itself to him and Maya.
Maya. Another time, another day, he would have enjoyed the sights of the grand city at the edge of the desert. But not at this time and not on this day. Not while she was growing weaker as he watched. Bringing her back with him from the place of the warlock’s banishment had given her a burst of unexpected strength. That was now clearly beginning to fade. She did not have to tell him it was so and he did not have to ask. He could see the increasing tiredness in her face, perceive its consequences in her slowing pace and heavier breathing. Dying in her own realm, she was now dying in his. Soon now, very soon, he would be able to devote all his time and energy toward helping her. But first there was one thing he must do.
In a little while now, he would fulfill his obligation.
Though he had willingly, even gladly, taken on the mission, with each passing day and each subsequent near-fatal incident, failure had come to seem a greater and greater likelihood. Now he was here, in Daria, on the verge of completing the task. It scarce seemed possible.
The palace of Zhelerasjju, Queen of Daria and all the dry lands and green rivers to the eastern horizon, gleamed beneath the afternoon sun like a mirage of the ghost lands it echoed. The royal guard that formed up around him as he dismounted maintained a respectful distance. Though trained to present a defiant and indifferent face to any visitors consigned to their care, individual soldiers could not keep from casting sideways looks at the imposing young warrior who had raised the siege of the city. Despite their curious glances they concealed their nervousness well, save for those who were left behind to look after the visitors’ horse and, especially, his monstrous dog.
There were many steps. Too many for Maya, who had to stop several times to catch her breath. If anything, Madrenga thought worriedly as he watched her, whatever benefit she had gained from accompanying him was wearing off faster with each passing day. If nothing could be done, if nothing was done, the dark understanding in his mind and the cold knot in the pit of his stomach told him she would be dead within the week. That realization had begun to bother him more than he cared to admit.
So many shields decorated with different emblems and insignia lined the walls of the reception room that little of the stone of which the palace was made showed between them. It was as if the chamber had been paneled in shields. The throne on which Queen Zhelerasjju sat was unexpected, fashioned not of gold or bejeweled metals but of the finest bits of marquetry Madrenga had ever seen. There must have been tens of thousands of pieces of exotic wood in the high-backed chair of office, flashing more than a dozen different unstained colors. As an exemplar of royal workmanship it was impressive without being overbearing. Portrayed in wood, entire histories marched in miniature across the arms, legs, back, and seat, ever-present reminders to whoever sat on the throne of the considerable legacy to which Daria and its lands were heir.
Queen Zhelerasjju herself was about the same age as Alyriata of Harup-taw-shet. Perhaps a little older but no less imbued with inherent beauty and nobility of countenance, Madrenga thought to himself as he and Maya approached. In the presence of royalty Maya had summoned her reserves, struggling to look alert and presentable even if within she was feeling very different.
Halting a short distance from the seated queen, Madrenga bowed slightly. Striving to curtsey, Maya nearly fell and had to be steadied by her much larger companion. Though she said nothing, the look on Zhelerasjju’s face denoted her sympathy.
Taking a deep breath, Madrenga removed the corium cylinder from his belt, dropped to one knee, and offered it to the dignified, regally dressed woman seated before him.
“I am honored to present this scroll to Queen Zhelerasjju of Daria on behalf of Queen Alyriata of Harup-taw-shet, with all goodwill and greetings.”
She nodded once, took the cylinder, and started to open it.
Done, Madrenga thought to himself as he straightened beside Maya. It was unbelievable how much joy and relief could come from the saying to oneself of a single short four-letter word. Then, with a start, he remembered what had happened to the Colonel-Captain of the besieging army. He had been so focused on finally delivering the scroll that that extraordinary incident had entirely escaped his mind. As anxiety flooded through him he moved to hastily inform her majesty of what had taken place in the enemy encampment—only to end up maintaining his silence. It was too late.
She was reading the scroll. Attentively, closely, but without a hint of a smile crossing her lips. The reading provoked no amusement, no violent hilarity, no heart-stopping laughter: not so much as a hesitant giggle. When she had finished, Queen Zhelerasjju neatly rerolled the scroll and slipped it back into its container. Madrenga and Maya could only stare.
“Thank you for bringing me this, young sir. It is most welcome. I assure you that in the course of your return journey home you will have the additional pleasure of carrying my reply back to your Queen.”
Madrenga’s spirits fell and he tried not to slump. Really, ought he to have expected anything else? He told himself that he had to return home anyway, and with the still-unexplained changes he and his animals had undergone and the knowledge he had gained, it should prove less of a near-fatal experience than had the journey outward.
“I will of course be honored to convey Daria’s response, your majesty,” he managed to mumble.
“Now then,” she said briskly as she handed the cylinder to the heretofore unmoving albino Harund who had been standing silently at attention to the left of the throne, “I know this must have been an arduous and difficult journey for you.” Before Madrenga could even begin to relate the harrowing details of his trip she added, “in addition to which you have apparently managed to somehow persuade our ruthless assailants to peacefully depart our borders. While the first achievement merits our admiration, the second demands a reward. Though I dislike dealing with magicians and the mysterious, I have no choice but to recognize the results of your efforts. It is undeniable that you have saved many lives and much property. Name your reward, young sir.”
Though he had expected nothing of the sort, Madrenga was quick to take advantage of the offer. With a nod he indicated the now pale and drawn young woman standing beside him.
“My friend is from a land far, far away. Inconceivably far away. As she was suffering there beneath a curse that promised death inevitable, I brought her here in hopes that help might be found for her condition. For a while she bettered from the change itself. That has now begun to seep away from her as does water down a steep slope. Is there anything your majesty might suggest? Perhaps your court physicians and mystics have access to medical knowledge unknown in Daria.”
The look on her face indicated that the Queen was giving the visitor’s emotional request her full attention. Eventually she turned and beckoned to an elderly couple who had been standing in a doorway off to one side. Approaching the visitors they commenced a close examination of a hesitant Maya; running their hands over her body, feeling of her hair, staring into her eyes, sniffing her torso, and generally acting like the doctors they were not.
Upon concluding this idiosyncratic but thorough examination they shuffled over to the queen and bent their elderly bodies toward her the better to hear what their liege might have to say about the matter. While Madrenga and Maya looked on intently, the three important personages conversed softly among themselves. When finally they concluded their conversation, Madrenga felt he already knew what their response would be. He had seen both the old man and woman shaking their heads one time too many for him to be optimistic.
He was right, and yet he was wrong.
“What you ask is beyond our modest curative powers,” the old man explained in an aged but strong voice. “Truly the girl lies under a lethal curse of considerable dimensions. It lies not within our ability to drive it from her body, whose farthest recesses it has already penetrated.”
A barely articulate sound escape Maya’s half-closed lips.
“But,” added the old woman, “there is one who might possess the power to do so.” Her husband, or partner, or paramour, nodded agreement as she spoke. “The Witch of Si’abayoon.”
The strange sibilant name meant nothing to Madrenga and less to the downcast Maya, but mere mention of it was enough to trigger a rush of nervous murmuring among those in attendance. Such reactions did not bode well for contacting the individual in question, Madrenga felt. Even the Queen seemed nonplussed as she regarded her most senior advisors.
“How can you propose such a thing? These who stand here before us are undeniably brave, and perhaps special in ways we cannot conceive, but to suggest that ones so young deliberately seek out the Si'abayoon is effectively to send them to their deaths.”
The old man shrugged ever so slightly. “The girl is already doomed by the curse that lies upon her body. We sense that the boy-man has avoided death many times to reach Daria. They asked for a solution to their problem. We have provided one. The only possible one. What next to do is his choice and her choice. We make no recommendation one way or the other.” His partner added her concurrence.
Maya coughed. She was coughing more each day, Madrenga knew. When she had regained control of her breathing she turned to him and peered up into his dark eyes.
“You don’t have to do this. I’m ready to die. I was ready to die when you took me from my hospital bed and brought me—here. You risked your life to carry out your mission. It would be wrong of you to risk it again for me. Especially when there’s no guarantee of success.”
Ignoring the fact that a queen, her advisors, and her immediate royal court were watching, he replied without hesitation. “If I’ve learned one thing in life it’s that there are no promises. There is only hope. The advisor is right: in coming here I’ve had to face death several times. I think I know him now, a little. Death. He’s no longer a stranger to me and—I’m not afraid of strangers. If you’re willing to chance this, I’ll go with you. We all die some time.”
“Some sooner than others,” she murmured. Then she threw herself at him. When he embraced her back she all but vanished within his enveloping arms.
“Brave and foolish.” The Queen did not smile. “I can do no more and no less than wish you good fortune.”
Releasing Maya, who remained close to him, Madrenga turned back to the Queen. “If this witch has so much power, why did the court of Daria not seek her help in fighting those who besieged your city?”
The old man spoke up. “The Witch of Si'abayoon fights for no one but herself. She keeps to her own counsel and her own ways. Try, and she may deign to speak with you—or as readily turn you into food for worms.”
“In any event,” added the old woman, “she is not free to help anyone, including herself. For the past thirty years she has been held captive by the Woaralins of Mount Murrl. They alternately tempt and torture her in vain attempts to convince her to reveal her secrets. She refuses all and broods alone in the cave that is her prison.”
Madrenga blinked in confusion. “I have heard of many peoples, but never of the Woaralin.”
The elder continued, her tone grim. “They are degenerate Selndar, debased offspring of their dignified progenitors. Long ago they were forced from the Selndar tribe to congregate in the caves and tunnels of Mount Murrl. There they have remained ever since, interbreeding prolifically while garnering powers dark and decadent. Any who stray near are in danger.” She paused. “Any who attempt to enter never come out.”
It was quiet for a moment until Maya spoke. “If this witch is as powerful as you say yet cannot free herself from these creatures, how can we hope to do so?”
“We can only try.” Though it required a conscious effort Madrenga mustered his most encouraging smile. “If we don’t try, you’ll die. As for me, I’m not afraid of death. Not anymore. The boy who left Harup-taw-shet was frightened of many things. The man I have become (and he said it with confidence) is frightened of far less.”
Cocking her head to one side, the old woman eyed him curiously. “Then tell us a thing you are still afraid of, boy-man.”
Drawing himself up to his full height, Madrenga met her wizened stare without flinching. “Failure, for one thing. It is a great motivator.” He smiled a second time down at Maya. “So are you.” Returning his attention to the Queen and her advisors, he posited the next question firmly and without hesitation.
“Now, how do we get to this Mount Murrl?”
As had the caravan merchants when he had saved them from the frost dragon, so the grateful citizens of Daria pressed gold and jewels and other precious objects on the mysterious stranger who had somehow raised the siege of their city. One portly merchant even attempted to make a gift of his exceedingly comely daughter to the solitary warrior in the hope that he might remain among them. For some unknown reason Maya viewed this offering with uncharacteristic disdain. Noting her reaction Madrenga thought he might question her about it, but they had no time. Accepting a few of the finest offerings more to convince himself that he was going to have a chance to make use of them in the future than out of any greed or need, he stowed them away in Orania’s pack as they left the clusters of cheering, grateful citizens behind. Ahead lay the heavily eroded Anandar Escarpment and at its rugged heart, the broken mass of limestone known as Mount Murrl.
With each passing day he urged Orania to greater and greater speed, because with each passing day Maya grew weaker and weaker. The curse that was killing her was spreading rapidly through her body. Now she responded with a wince when he touched certain parts of her, and tiny red spots had begun to appear just under her skin. In addition to her increasing fatigue she started to complain of pain in her bones and joints. It was plain to see that if they could not free the witch and convince her to render assistance, then Maya would be dead within a week or two.
Of course, a brooding Madrenga told himself, even if they succeeded in freeing the Si'abayoon from her captors there was no guarantee that she would do anything to help them. According to everything they had been told by Queen Zhelerasjju and her advisors, once loosed from her bonds the witch was as likely to strike out furiously in every direction as to listen to those who had rescued her.
No distinct or signposted trail wended its way up the mountainside to the lair of the Woaralin, but the two travelers had no difficulty finding it. All that was necessary was to follow the uneven line of dismembered skeletons and decomposing corpses of animals, men, Harund, and yes, even Selndar. A mound of bodies further marked the way into the bowels of Mount Murrl. High, arched, and black as a socket where a diseased tooth had been removed, the stalactite-festooned cave ceiling loomed above them. To Maya it looked like an open mouth just waiting to swallow.
“You’ll stay here,” he told her. “I’ll move faster without you.”
Somehow she mustered enough strength to speak in a normal voice. “I’ll not stay here. If you don’t come back, I’ll die terribly alone. If you succeed, I should be with you.”
His teeth clenched. “You’ll get in the way. And you can’t fight. In your present condition you shouldn’t even bleed.”
“All true,” she argued, “but I’m the one seeking the witch’s help, and I should be the one to ask for it. If she kills me in a fit of rage, or pique, or whatever, I’ll be no worse off than if I didn’t try, and while she’s dealing with me it might give you a chance to escape.”
As always when they were riding he could feel her weight leaning back against him. It seemed so much less now. Just as there was no time to waste in seeking out this last possibility of help, so there was no time to waste in arguing.
Also, it was exceedingly irritating when she was right.
“Come then, and we will triumph or fail together.”
She pushed back against him a little harder than usual. “That’s all I’m asking for, Madrenga.”
While she waited atop Orania he scavenged enough dry brush to make several torches. Putting a pair in reserve, he used flint and striker from his supply pack to set two others alight. Thus illuminated and armed he chucked his mount’s reins and set a course for the dark unknown.
The charnel house road they had followed outside was not replicated within the mountain. Bones and bodies had been cleaned up, or else they had never been brought inside. Only occasionally did they encounter the corpse of some unlucky traveler.
“Wait!” Maya shouted.
“What?” An alarmed Madrenga pulled back on Orania’s reins. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Leaning to her left, she pointed. “What’s that, there?”
He peered in the direction she was indicating. “Yet another who strayed too far and too deep and suffered for his boldness. I see no difference between his bones and the many we have already saluted.”
“Not the skeleton. What lies by its hips.”
Squinting, Madrenga made out the gleam of metal. Some small weapon that had been unable to preserve the life of its owner. From the lie of it, he thought, it had never been drawn.
“A war axe of some kind,” was his appraisal. “A small one at that. What of it?”
Her tone was one of hushed amazement. “It looks like a farsa. A legendary weapon.”
He shook his head. “Never heard of it.”
She looked back at him. “It’s not from your legends. It’s from mine. From my people. I remember my grandfather mentioning it in stories he told to me of an ancient time, in the country of my ancestors.”
“A very small legend, then,” he concluded dismissively. “Would you like to have it?”
“It can’t be real.” She was murmuring as much to herself as to her companion. “Especially not here, in this place. But it looks like a farsa.” She nodded. “Can I?”
“You haven’t the strength to dismount by yourself yet you want a battle axe.” He sighed. “Well, it’s small enough that you can cradle it. Wait.”
Dismounting, he walked over to the finely dressed corpse and took possession of the unused weapon. Returning to where Orania waited patiently, he handed it up to Maya. She studied it reverently as he remounted.
“It can’t be.” She kept repeating the denial as they resumed their advance. “It just can’t be.”
Twenty minutes riding brought them to spacious rooms and corridors that shone with the light of thousands of tiny insect larvae and fields of luminescent fungi that rendered the need for torches superfluous. Save for the occasional bell-like ping of dripping water it was a deceptively peaceful place.
Rounding a corner, they nearly ran over a browsing Woaralin.
Down on all fours grazing a hillside of moss, it hardly looked like a person. It was only when, startled by their sudden and unexpected appearance, it stood up on its hind legs that it became recognizable as something whose forbearers had once walked among men. A short length of cloth barely covered its loins while a vest of crude woven material hung from its shoulders. From a rope around its waist an assortment of small utensils hung from shorter cords. Letting out a reptilian hiss, it drew a knife and bolted.
“Orania, go!” Madrenga yelled.
The Woaralin was fast and agile, but Bit ran him down before he could scramble up a chosen slope and disappear into the crevice at its apex. As the slender biped tried to use his blade to strike at the snarling, barking dog, Orania arrived and Madrenga slid from his saddle. So thin were the Woaralin’s wrists that the youth was able to pin them behind the creature with one hand. The other he placed on the grazer’s neck.
“Now you’ll hold still and listen,” Madrenga growled at his prisoner, “or I’ll break your neck!”
Grinning, the repulsive creature turned his head around to look at his much taller, heavier captor. “Weel yee now, brave cheeld? Go ahead and breek eet, theen. I’ve no gold, no geems, I’ve nothing to geeve yee anywees.”
“On the contrary, creature, you carry something of great value to us: information.”
Bugging out of their too-small sockets, huge eyes stared back at him. “Knowleedge weel do yee no good heere, feellow. Ask awee, theen. I’ll not refuse yee. There’s no need. Yee deaths are alreedy foredained.”
Having been the recipient of far worse threats these preceding months, Madrenga ignored the warning and maintained his unyielding grip on the Woaralin’s wrists and neck.
“We’ve come for the Witch of Si'abayoon. Tell us where she is being held.”
For the first time since his capture the Woaralin looked unsure. “Yee’ve come heere, to the caveerns of Murrl—to reescue a weetch?” When Maya nodded solemnly, the debased creature burst out in a demented cackle that ceased only when Madrenga tightened his grip still further.
“What reemarkable creetures yee two bee! A meesion feet for the Keeng of Fools heemself!” Had Madrenga’s grip permitted it the prisoner would have shaken his head in disbelief. “Weel theen, who bee I to stand in the way of such an admirable goal? Ride on as yee go and yeel come to a treeo of tunneels. Take the right-hand fork. Eet narrows queek. At the end are the ruins of olden Murrl, where first the Woaralin seetled theese mountains. Eet is a place of collapse and ruin. There weel yee find the witch, impreesoned as she has been for decades thrice. If the Woaralin do not keel yee, then by all meens free her and shee surely will.” Once more his inhuman screeching filled the cave. It stopped only when Madrenga, with a single powerful twist, wrenched the grinning head around until it was facing completely backward. Letting the now limp body drop from his hands, it collapsed in a rubbery pile at his feet.
“Did you have to do that?” Though she had seen her share of violence over the past days, Maya was still taken aback by the cold abruptness of her companion’s action.
Madrenga mounted up behind her, chucked the reins, and sent Orania onward again. “I had no choice, Maya. If I had left him be he might well have raised an alarm. I made him no promises. Besides, the thing did not much seem to care if he lived or died. I, on the other hand, do.”
She nodded knowingly, if not entirely understandingly, and went quiet as she solemnly returned her attention to the small battle axe cradled in her hands. There was no rust on it. In the deviant fungal light that suffused the cave through which they were riding it shimmered as if with an unholy glow of its own.
Behind them all was still and silent. Long moments passed. Then the crumpled body of the Woaralin lifted itself up and straightened. Reaching up, one bony hand took hold of the protruding chin while the other wrapped itself spiderlike around the back of the head. A quick wrench, a sharp cracking sound, and the grinning skull was once more facing forward. Gathering itself, the sinister figure scrambled up the steep slope off to its right and disappeared into the fissure at the top.
The ruins the two youths encountered as they turned down the indicated corridor were extensive if not especially imposing. At the age of thirteen Maya had seen far more impressive ones in the course of the trip her family had taken to the old country. Here, as many structures were hewn out of the solid rock as had been constructed with block and boulder. The architecture was as alien to her experience as the rest of this world.
The roof and sides of the cavern continued to contract until they felt sure they must be approaching the end of the corridor and the prison that lay at its terminus. They did not reach it, however, because a line of Woaralin emerged from the rubble to block their progress. Taller and broader than the rest but equally bulging of eye and with a small additional one set too close to the right orb, a figure clad in rags stepped forward to greet them.
“I am Urathu, Chief of the Woaralin. You are weelcome heere, bold strangeers.”
Madrenga’s hand dropped to the hilt of his sword while Bit growled and showed enormous teeth. “That’s not what we were led to believe, Urathu.”
Thick-boned shoulders lifted and fell. “Theen yee were meesinformed. The Woaralin are always weelcoming to a meel.” Whereupon he raised the hatchet he was holding, let out an echoing hiss, and charged.
The chaotic cacophony in the corridor was magnified as the sounds of fighting bounced off the enclosing walls. Orania reared and plunged, kicked and twisted, her heavy hooves smashing one attacker after another into a pile of broken bone or sending them flying to smash into the surrounding stone. Darting to and fro among the army of hissing assailants, Bit snapped off arms and legs and flung them in the faces of their stricken owners. Madrenga’s great sword rose and fell or whirled in sweeping arcs that sliced through several attackers at once. And still the horde came on; relentless, replenished, and undead, determined to bring down the young and careless life force that had dared to intrude upon their misery.
Seated in front of Madrenga, the enfeebled Maya desperately wished to help but lacked the strength to do more than yell and wave her hands. It was only when one smirking foe slipped in beneath Madrenga’s all-devouring blade that she instinctively, reflexively, struck at it with the small battle axe she was holding. Though she could put little force behind the blow, a remarkable thing happened.
Pulsing a bright red, the axe flew out of her hands, propelled by a power unknown and unidentifiable. True to its nature it cut vertically through the skull of the knife-wielding Woaralin. And it did not stop there. Describing a wide arc, it flew completely around the corridor, loping off heads and limbs as it soared. One assailant after another went down beneath the red-tinged blade as it sliced through the oncoming ranks, until at last it returned to nestle soft as a baby’s kiss in her open hand.
She gaped at it for a long moment. Madrenga would have joined her in staring save he was too busy. So she released it again.
Another twenty Woaralin went down beneath the flying axe, then another. Their defensive exertions thus unexpectedly reinforced, Madrenga and his companions bore down more forcefully than ever on the depraved multitude. Blood and body parts piled high around Orania’s hooves until at last, beset by blades both in front and behind, the remaining Woaralin broke. Hissing and screaming their outrage and frustration they vanished into holes and cracks in the corridor walls as swiftly as if they had been sucked from sight by a plethora of unseen throats. On the gore-splashed ground in their wake they left nearly two hundred of their number, among whom was the inhumanly inhospitable Urathu.
As he gasped for breath it took Madrenga a moment to realize that the bloodthirsty denizens of Mount Murrl had been well and truly vanquished. Then he threw back his head and let out a howl of triumph. It reverberated off the walls and echoed up the corridor and penetrated the length and breadth of the three caverns. Turning in the saddle Maya looked at him in shock. So did Bit. Orania whinnied and reared uncertainly.
By the time her hooves once more hit the ground no one was more shaken than Madrenga himself. He gaped at Maya.
“Did—that sound come out of me?”
“You and no one else.” She was eyeing at him uncertainly. “What I’d like to know is where else it came from.”
“I …” He swallowed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that didn’t sound human, Madrenga. Look.” She gestured downward to where Bit was staring up at them. “Even your dog doesn’t recognize you.”
“No. No,” he repeated firmly. “It was a cry of exultation. Nothing more.” He closed his eyes and shook his head violently. “I am much changed in body and form from the person I was when I left Harup-taw-shet. A similar change in voice should not surprise.”
She nodded slowly, unconvinced, and regarded him a moment longer before returning her attention ahead and past Orania’s mane. Picking their way through body parts that oozed and stank, they resumed their measured advance ever deeper into the narrowing corridor. Each lost in his or her thoughts, neither said anything.
At the very end of the long tunnel they halted before a wall of solid rock. Within it was cut a small round window. Closer examination revealed the faint outlines of a door, so perfectly set in the surrounding stone as to nearly be invisible. Dismounting and approaching the barrier Madrenga sought a handle, a pull, a lock. Of these there was none.
“How can it be opened?” he wondered aloud. “There is no place to get a grip, not even a crack in which to squeeze a blade. There is no lock in which to insert a key.”
Standing beside him and swaying slightly as she fought to remain upright, a sallow Maya contemplated the door that wasn’t there. “I would never have dreamed of trying something like this.” A smile creased her wan but still beautiful face. “‘Dreamed of.’ That’s funny. Step back.”
Puzzled, he complied as she moved up alongside him. Taking careful aim with the undersized battle axe she let it fly in the direction of the etched stone, putting as much of her remaining strength into the throw as she could muster. Erupting out of her hand, the farsa struck the exact center of the doorway directly below the small circular opening. The two of them had to throw up their hands and turn their heads away from flying shards and splinters of shattered stone.
Before the last of the rock dust had settled they were rushing forward. Where the impenetrable door had been was now an opening in the rock wide enough to admit Madrenga without bending. Beyond lay a cell of modest size. His gaze swept rapidly over a table on which rested a pitcher and bowl. Beyond lay an unkempt bed, a pair of mirrors, an open wardrobe, a chair, a lounge on which reposed …
A handsome older woman, white of hair and fine of feature, who when erect would stand no taller than Maya. As snowy as her hair, her eyes flashed pupils of gray so faded as to almost disappear. Coughing into one hand because of the still swirling dust, she braced herself with the other as she sat up on the lounge.
“We’ve come to rescue you,” Maya blurted, not knowing what else to say.
The Witch of Si'abayoon finally raised her nearly pupil-less eyes in the direction of her enthralled young saviors. Still choking she nodded at Maya and at the same time took note of the unnaturally large black dog that was standing panting beside her. Finally her gaze fell upon the tall, powerful figure who was warily gripping the handle of his sword. Her eyes widened.
Then she screamed.
“Madrenga!”