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healing draughts. Just in case.
No. He shook his head. He couldn't afford to take the bombs, because he
couldn't afford to use the bombs. If he did use explosives on the hunters, it
would only call attention to this area and while the offshore island probably
could stand a casual search, it probably couldn't take a more thorough one.
There was a crack in the outer chamber that let in air and, during the day, a
bit of light. A thorough search might involve someone putting his eye to the
crack, and seeing the crystals inside.
Worse, any use of the bombs might suggest to Ahrmin what Karl's game plan was;
the slavers would spread out to several smaller camps, and wait Karl out.
But what if he needed the bombs?
Shit. If I need the bombs, I'm dead anyway.
He set the canvas sack down. Best not to take it.
There was something wrong. It felt suddenly colder in the chamber. But only
physically; inside, he was warmed.
For a moment, he wasn't alone anymore.
He closed his eyes, and they were there. Maybe. He was never sure if it was
real or just his subconscious sounding an alarm in a way it knew would get his
attention, but it was as though the three of them were there, with him: Fialt,
Rahff, and Chak.
He opened his eyes, and they were gone; but when he closed them again, he
could almost see them;
their presence was almost palpable.
Saturnine, slow-speaking Fialt, who didn't want to be a warrior, but had died
on an Ehvenor dock, distracting assassins for a priceless second. Karl knew
the price of that second; it had been Fialt's
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As Karl squeezed his eyes tightly shut, he could almost see Fialt shaking his
head no.
Young Rahff, his face a mirror to his soul, never able to resist asking
why like his brother
Thomen, but even more so. He'd died here, in Melawei, protecting Aeia, here on
the goddam
Melawei sands, his belly sliced open, gutted like a trout.
Karl could almost feel Rahff looking up at him, a puzzled frown on his young
face that would never grow old.
And short Chak, an easy grin always on his dark face. Chak, who had spent too
much of his life protecting Karl's back, making sure it didn't start sprouting
knives. Chak had died outside of
Kiar, blown to pieces in an explosion of slaver powder, protecting the myth of
the invincibility of
Home forces.
It was as though Chak was there, cocking his head to one side.
Leaving the bombs behind doesn't make sense, kemo sabe, he seemed to say.
Since when do we count on getting out of anything alive?
There was a distant chuckle.
If you need them, you need them. Take any weapon you can carry.
Karl Cullinane opened his eyes.
There was nobody there. But there was.
Take the bombs, Karl.
Karl squeezed his eyes shut once more, and then nodded as he opened them to
stoop for two of the packets, packed them in a small leather pouch, then tied
that tightly to his left shoulder. It was less than a tenth of his stock, but
that would surely be enough for now; with any kind of luck at all he wouldn't
even need it.
He patted his bowie for a moment, then shook his head. He was going to have to
make a run from the sea, and take out the two of them before they could react.
It was a chancy gambit, at best.
Better to have more than fourteen inches of steel to use.
He dashed back to the cavern of the sword.
It still hung in the air, the spidery letters playing across the surface.
Take me, they said.
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He fastened his fingers around the grip. It was blood-warm, alive.
"No promises, Deighton," he said. "No deals. But I'd like to borrow this, for
a while. With no obligation." He tightened his fingers around the hilt and
pulled.
The sword didn't give, Take me for your son, the letters said.
"No." He pulled once more, hard. But the sword was anchored tightly in the
air.
"Fuck you, asshole," Karl Cullinane said.
He dropped his hand from the hilt and ran from the cavern of the sword of Arta
Myrdhyn and into the outer chamber. He paused a moment before the pool leading
to the underwater tunnel that was the only exit from the caverns. Karl
Cullinane didn't believe in ghosts. It must have been just his subconscious
acting up, trying to prevent him from making a mistake.
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Still, it wouldn't hurt. He hefted the canvas bag.
"Fialt, Rahff..." He choked for a moment, "Chak. My friends. Thank you. For
everything." He raised his bowie in a quick salute, then slipped it back into
its sheath, thonged it into place, took a deep breath, and dove.
He broke surface on the seaward side, quickly crossed the rocks, and
resubmerged on the landward side of the island to keep the island between him
and the offshore slaver ship.
Good. If only he could keep the island between him and any possible observers,
he might be able to take out the hunters without drawing any undue attention.
Tennetty's group was more than a hundred yards to his left as he crept up on
the shoreline; the two slavers were too intent on them to notice Karl
Cullinane silently rise from the water and bear down on them. The only sound
he made was the whisking of his bare feet on the sand, and that was covered by
the lapping of waves on the shore.
The slavers crept on silently, the leader in his curious half-crouch, the
bowman lagging behind.
Unstrapping the package and setting his packet of explosives gently on the
sand, Karl Cullinane drew his bowie and closed in on them.
Perhaps he was breathing too loudly, perhaps an unconscious growl forced
itself from between his
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