himself. For one thing, this would be just the sort of time when his Shaping would work, for once—and he'd literally become the author of his own doom.
How large were these tunnels? It seemed to Rod that he'd been trudging for a long time, and it had certainly been long enough to have risen a level or two, and to get a little warmer, with the gentlest of breezes blowing in other scents than just mold and cold stone and damp dirt...
Cross-passages opened in the walls on either side of the hall the skeletons were moving along, and Rod could see that the hall opened out into an open space ahead. That was about all he could see, in the dim glows from the bobbing bones around him... and all of a sudden, he felt very weary.
Tired of it all. Tired of being always scared and lost and not knowing what he was doing. He'd been that way since being parted from Taeauna, and he was heartily sick of it. In all the stories—heck, in books he'd written—the hero moved steadily on toward completing the quest, saving the world, claiming the throne, winning the princess. Here, where fantasy was too damned real, they called him Lord Archwizard or Dark Lord and expected him to wave his hand and blast his foes to win all battles. And all he did was blunder along like some helpless child, too stupid to even know what the right thing was, let alone do it.
The floor under his feet rose more steeply, and the open space was just ahead, now. The dark mouths of side-passages grew more frequent, as if he was heading through a storage area.
Though it could just be a series of regular rooms separated by passages. It might be... well, anything.
Here he was, captured by a bunch of skeletons who couldn't even talk to him. They knew where they were going—they were certainly headed somewhere definite, and brooking no delays; when he'd tried to slow, feigning weakness, the swords jabbing him from behind had been neither gentle nor hesitant—but Rod didn't. As usual.
"Falcon take us all," he said wearily, more to hear his own voice than to make any of these silent skeletons answer him. "Off I'm being marched again. Now, where to, this time, and why?"
"To the place Malraun first bound us all," came a cold and sour voice from behind and to his right. "To unbind us, of course."
Rod whirled to face the speaker—and found himself staring at a floating head.
The head of a grim-looking, grizzled man whose rotting forehead bore a long white sword-scar, and whose neck had been crudely severed by axe-blows, ending in a ragged mess of flesh. A man who had died long ago, judging by the complete lack of blood and the shrunken, shriveled eyeballs.
It had drifted out of one of the side-passages and, as he stared at it, floated nearer to him.
"Well, man?" it asked irritably, sunken eyes flashing. "Have ye never seen a talking dead man before? Are ye sure ye're the Lord Archwizard?"
ANOTHER MAN OF Darswords stumbled, slammed into the passage wall with a curse, and came back to his feet a little unsteadily.
“Mind out!" the deep-voiced warrior said sharply, but before anyone could reply, the nearest man—the one who'd first menaced Daera with his sword, and was still doing so, trudging close behind her as she led the line of grim warriors deeper into the cold stone heart of the mountain—snapped, "Baerold, Laeveren's not clumsy. He's tired. We're all tired. Too weary to go on. If the wizard attacked us now, half of us'd be dead before we even knew what was happening. We must stop—and sleep."
There were emphatic nods of agreement, and some who nodded were yawning hugely as they did so. The deep-voiced warrior with the broad shoulders stared around at them all from under his bristling brows, then slowly nodded his head too.
"You're right, Roar. Back to that last cavern, then? Smooth stone there, underfoot." There were murmurs of agreement.
"Back," Taroarin agreed, his sword still close to Daera's neck. When he hefted it meaningfully at her
How large were these tunnels? It seemed to Rod that he'd been trudging for a long time, and it had certainly been long enough to have risen a level or two, and to get a little warmer, with the gentlest of breezes blowing in other scents than just mold and cold stone and damp dirt...
Cross-passages opened in the walls on either side of the hall the skeletons were moving along, and Rod could see that the hall opened out into an open space ahead. That was about all he could see, in the dim glows from the bobbing bones around him... and all of a sudden, he felt very weary.
Tired of it all. Tired of being always scared and lost and not knowing what he was doing. He'd been that way since being parted from Taeauna, and he was heartily sick of it. In all the stories—heck, in books he'd written—the hero moved steadily on toward completing the quest, saving the world, claiming the throne, winning the princess. Here, where fantasy was too damned real, they called him Lord Archwizard or Dark Lord and expected him to wave his hand and blast his foes to win all battles. And all he did was blunder along like some helpless child, too stupid to even know what the right thing was, let alone do it.
The floor under his feet rose more steeply, and the open space was just ahead, now. The dark mouths of side-passages grew more frequent, as if he was heading through a storage area.
Though it could just be a series of regular rooms separated by passages. It might be... well, anything.
Here he was, captured by a bunch of skeletons who couldn't even talk to him. They knew where they were going—they were certainly headed somewhere definite, and brooking no delays; when he'd tried to slow, feigning weakness, the swords jabbing him from behind had been neither gentle nor hesitant—but Rod didn't. As usual.
"Falcon take us all," he said wearily, more to hear his own voice than to make any of these silent skeletons answer him. "Off I'm being marched again. Now, where to, this time, and why?"
"To the place Malraun first bound us all," came a cold and sour voice from behind and to his right. "To unbind us, of course."
Rod whirled to face the speaker—and found himself staring at a floating head.
The head of a grim-looking, grizzled man whose rotting forehead bore a long white sword-scar, and whose neck had been crudely severed by axe-blows, ending in a ragged mess of flesh. A man who had died long ago, judging by the complete lack of blood and the shrunken, shriveled eyeballs.
It had drifted out of one of the side-passages and, as he stared at it, floated nearer to him.
"Well, man?" it asked irritably, sunken eyes flashing. "Have ye never seen a talking dead man before? Are ye sure ye're the Lord Archwizard?"
ANOTHER MAN OF Darswords stumbled, slammed into the passage wall with a curse, and came back to his feet a little unsteadily.
“Mind out!" the deep-voiced warrior said sharply, but before anyone could reply, the nearest man—the one who'd first menaced Daera with his sword, and was still doing so, trudging close behind her as she led the line of grim warriors deeper into the cold stone heart of the mountain—snapped, "Baerold, Laeveren's not clumsy. He's tired. We're all tired. Too weary to go on. If the wizard attacked us now, half of us'd be dead before we even knew what was happening. We must stop—and sleep."
There were emphatic nods of agreement, and some who nodded were yawning hugely as they did so. The deep-voiced warrior with the broad shoulders stared around at them all from under his bristling brows, then slowly nodded his head too.
"You're right, Roar. Back to that last cavern, then? Smooth stone there, underfoot." There were murmurs of agreement.
"Back," Taroarin agreed, his sword still close to Daera's neck. When he hefted it meaningfully at her
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