pit. Only his ‘lucky feeling’ caused him to pull back at the last instant.
He took out a small cylinder Nakor had given him, and pulled off the top. Inside was a bundle of sticks, one of which he pulled out. He recapped the cylinder and put it back in his tunic, then waved the stick rapidly in the air, and after a few seconds a tiny flame erupted from the end. As Nakor had promised him, after the total darkness of the tunnels, he’d be surprised at the amount of light the small burning stick could provide.
Bek looked down at a pit that yawned at his feet, and couldn’t see the bottom. He was glad he hadn’t fallen, not because he feared injury, but because he would have had to wait at the bottom until the old soldier’s fighters caught up with him. He didn’t know if they’d even notice until one of them fell in and he didn’t relish the notion of one of them landing on top of him; and he didn’t know if they’d bring enough rope to haul him out.
He took two steps back then with a powerful stride launched himself above the pit and landed easily on the other side, a dozen feet away from his take-off. He dropped the flaming stick to the floor, grinding it under his boot heel.
He paused to see if anyone might have heard his landing, and when he was certain he had gone unnoticed, he continued down the hall. For an instant he wondered if he should have left something to warn the soldiers behind him of the pit. Then he wondered where that thought had come from; why should he worry if one of the old soldier’s men fell into the pit? This was too difficult to consider now: it was something Nakor would understand. He had no time to dwell on it.
Ahead he could hear faint voices, and he knew mayhem awaited.
Magnus studied the sky and judged that it was time to move, so he signalled to two guards to accompany him up the long entryway to the ancient keep. The road appeared to have not been in use for years, but Magnus had secretly inspected it at dawn and saw by tiny signs that the ‘disuse’ had been artfully forged. Someone had been using this road recently, but endeavouring to keep that fact a secret. That as much as anything convinced him that his father’s faith in Joval Delan, the hired mind-reader, had not been misplaced. Some local bandit, smuggler, or gang of errant youths would not have the means or inclination to do so thorough a job.
The soldiers had been creeping up the draw known as Cavell Run, which was the only obvious approach to the ancient keep. Magnus was not the student of things military his father and brother were, but even he could imagine what a lethal prospect attempting to storm this keep would present. Only the rumours of demonic possession and a curse, followed by nearly a century of peace in the region would have kept such an obvious military asset unused.
Still, he had other concerns, the first of which was to ensure that the men with him went undiscovered for as long as possible. Magnus was still young compared to most powerful practitioners’ of magic, and he had inherited certain abilities from his parents. His mother had always possessed a finer instinct for detecting the presence of magic than his father, though Pug was better able to determine the nature of a spell or device once it was uncovered. Magnus had the happy fortune to have inherited both abilities. And so he sensed and understood at least four magical traps located between the floor of the Run and the ancient gate at the top of the ramp.
With the deft moves of a master of his craft, Magnus countered each spell quickly, allowing the soldiers from Erik’s command to approach on silent feet. If there was a lookout above he would have been hard pressed to notice the darting grey figures hunched over, moving along the edges of the roadway in the night’s gloom. Small moon didn’t rise for another hour and its light was faint even on clear nights. Tonight was overcast.
With hand signals, the officer in charge motioned for his men to make ready. An ancient drawbridge had once covered a gap between the top of the roadway-ramp and the keep’s gate. Now it hung by a single chain, dangling uselessly on the other side of the gap, an open space too wide for any man to leap. Signals were passed and from the rear two pairs of men ran forward, carrying scaling ladders that would serve as bridges across the chasm. Magnus used his skills to elevate himself and float above the breach.
He watched the men calmly walking on the ladder rungs, heedless of the yawning space below their feet. A misstep would send a man tumbling to his death. Magnus admired their discipline.
Now Magnus cast his senses forward, attempting to seek out more magic entanglements or lures, and found none. The warder of this keep had been content to trust to the snares left along the roadway to alert the residents of the keep to any unwelcome company. He strode forward, unmindful of any physical danger, for he sensed something in the distance that caused the hair on his arms and neck to stand up.
He held up his hand and a faint light shone from the palm, illuminating the killing ground between the now-fallen outer gate, where once a drawbridge and a portcullis had provided the first barrier, and the inner doors, which were shut and, Magnus supposed, barred from within. The soldiers behind him assembled silently. In the eerie mystical illumination Magnus’s pale hair and height gave him an almost supernatural appearance, but whatever discomfort the soldiers might have felt being given over to the command of a wizard was not in evidence as they waited for his instructions.
Magnus closed his eyes to better aid his concentration and envision the large wooden doors. He reached out with his senses and ran mental fingers over the surface of the wood, then pressed slowly through until he could feel the other side. As he did so a picture as clear as if he were using his eyes appeared in his mind, and he saw the large wooden bar set in two wooden brackets. He inspected every inch with his mental touch, then opened his eyes and stepped back. ‘There’s a trap,’ he said softly to the officer who stood to his right.
‘What do you suggest?’ the young knight-lieutenant asked.
Magnus said, ‘Find a way through that door without lifting the bar.’
He extended his hand and a faint humming could be heard by those standing closest to him. Suddenly, there was a hole in the bottom of the gate, large enough for a man to pass through on hands and knees. ‘One at a time,’ said Magnus, ‘and have no man touch the gate or the walls on either side.’
The officer passed the word and quickly each man in turn made his way through. Magnus got ready to control the magic that would be unleashed should any man falter, but the preparation proved needless. Each man did exactly as he was instructed.
Then it was Magnus’s turn and he crawled through awkwardly, finding his robe an unexpected impediment. Halfway through the hole he was forced to lift first one knee, then the other, pulling the fabric ahead of him, so he could get through without falling on his face.
Chuckling as he stood, he said, ‘There are times, and this is one of them, when I feel the need to question my father as to why magicians are expected to wear robes.’
The lieutenant revealed himself to be a man of little humour as he asked, ‘Milord?’
Magnus sighed. ‘Never mind.’ He faced the soldiers. ‘Stay behind me unless I tell you to move forward, for there are forces here that are more than the bravest man can face without my arts.
‘Any man you see who is not Ralan Bek or one of your own, kill on sight.’
Then he turned and walked forward into the darkness, the light from his hand bobbing like a swinging lantern’s.
Bek walked as if strolling down a street, mindless of the darkness. There was light coming from several distant rooms at the ends of tunnels which crossed the one he had chosen, but he ignored them, and kept going straight ahead. He didn’t know how he knew, but he sensed that he needed to move straight from the secret entrance at the rear of the keep
