But better even than this, according to the Fourth Grimoire, leaders of the Elder Races had been transformed by the crystal, their aging bodies made young again. Zhu Chao’s throat was dry, and this time he succumbed to a small goblet of wine.
‘Lord! Lord!’ pulsed Casta, fear radiating in his spirit voice.
‘What is it?’
‘The sentry is dead, Lord! A crossbow bolt through the heart. And there is the mark of a grappling hook on the turret.’
‘He’s here!’ screamed Zhu Chao, aloud. ‘Waylander is here!’
‘I cannot hear you, Lord,’ pulsed Casta.
Zhu Chao fought for calm. ‘Get the men from the walls. Search the gardens. Find the assassin!’
*
The oil-dipped torch sent crazed shadows across the rippled walls of the stairwell, and black smoke swirled in Angel’s nostrils as he descended the stairs. There was a fear in him greater than any he had experienced. It was a fear of death. Not his own – that he was prepared for. But his terror grew as he considered Miriel and the monster, her young body broken, her dead eyes staring up, seeing nothing.
Angel swallowed hard, and moved on. He could not afford the security of stealth, but blundered on down the stairs, ever down. Dardalion had said the crystal chamber was on the sixth level, but the beast could be anywhere. Angel hawked and spat, vainly trying to dampen his dry mouth. And he prayed to any god that might be listening, Dark or Light, or any shade in between.
Let her live!
Take me instead. I’ve had a life, a good life. He missed a step and stumbled against the wall, sparks showering down from the torch, burning his bare forearm. ‘Concentrate, you fool!’ he told himself, his words echoing along the silent corridors.
Where now, he wondered as the stairwell joined a long, flat hallway. There was a dim light here, glowing from panels in the walls. He gazed around him. Everything was made of metal – walls, ceiling, floor. Shining and rust-free, the metal everywhere was crumpled and ripped, as if it had no more strength than rotted linen.
Angel shivered. The corridors were damp and cold and his muscles ached with it. Ekodas had pointed out how tired he was, and he felt it now. His limbs seemed leaden, his energy waning. Drawing in a deep breath he thought of Miriel and pushed on.
A large, arched doorway loomed before him. He entered it, sword raised. A movement sounded from behind. He swung, his sword arcing down. At the last moment he dragged the blade aside – just missing the child dressed in his own cloak of green. ‘Shemak’s balls, boy! I could have killed you!’
The boy shrank back against the doorway, his lip trembling, his eyes wide and frightened. Angel sheathed his sword and forced a smile. ‘Followed me, did you?’ he said, reaching out and drawing the child to him. ‘Ah well, no harm done, eh?’
He knelt down beside the boy. ‘You take the torch,’ he said, holding it out for the lad. In truth he no longer needed its light, for the panels cast an eerie glow over the hall. There were metal beds here and rotted mattresses. Angel stood and drew his sword once more. Signalling to the boy he moved out into the corridor, seeking stairs.
Despite the danger he was pleased the boy was with him. The silence and the endless corridors were unnerving him. ‘Stay close,’ whispered the man. ‘Old Angel will look after you.’
Not understanding, the boy nodded and grinned up at the gladiator.
*
‘Have you the faintest idea of where we are?’ Senta asked Ekodas, as the silver-armoured priest rounded yet another bend in the labyrinth of corridors on the seventh level.
‘I think we are close,’ said Ekodas, his face eerily pale in the faint yellow light.
Senta saw that he was sweating heavily. ‘Are you all right, priest?’
‘I can feel the crystal. It is making me nauseous.’
Senta turned to Miriel. ‘You do take me to some romantic places,’ he said, putting his arm around her and kissing her cheek. ‘Volcanic caves, sorcerous castles, and now a trip in the dark a hundred miles below the earth.’