“To the Pit!” he roared at the shaking wizard. “Something interferes with the flow.”
As wizards and acolytes alike hurried to do his bidding, Toth-Set-Ra stared unseeing at the awful runes inscribed on human parchment before him.
Was the Council attacking in retaliation for the raid on the North? He dismissed the idea even as the thought formed. He knew Northern magic and there was none of it here. The Council might have a new spell or two, but everything the League faced was new. Besides, he knew the work of every one of the Mighty and this was unlike any of them.
An attack from within, aimed at himself? He considered that somewhat longer. It would explain how someone had gotten into the Pit to interfere with the flow of magic. Had he given Atros too much power? That too he discarded. If Atros or any of the others had half this much power they would have struck long before. And again, he knew the magics of the League even better than he knew those of the Council.
Then who? As the City of Night shook and towers toppled Toth-Set-Ra racked his brains trying to find the source of the attack.
A doom. A plague. A bane upon all wizards.
The demon’s words came back to him and the mightiest wizard in the World shivered.
The alien wizard! The stranger from beyond the world. This mass of army-ant spells pressing in on them must be his work.
It was well for the Shadow Captain that he was already dead, for the wizard’s next oath would have blasted him where he stood. He had the wrong magician! Somehow this other one, this Wiz, the one they called Sparrow, had fooled the Shadow Warriors. The hedge-witch was a pawn to be sacrificed to protect the Council’s king.
And he had fallen for it. By all the demons in the nine netherhells, he had been duped!
For a moment chill panic shook Toth-Set-Ra. Then he stopped short and laughed aloud. The other wizards in the chantry paused involuntarily at the sound. The Master of the Dark League seldom laughed and when he did it boded something truly horrible for someone. They turned back to their spells and incantations with renewed vigor.
Toth-Set-Ra was still chuckling when he reached the door of the chantry. Fool me, will you? We shall see who is the fool in the end. For I tell you Wiz, or Sparrow, or whatever your true name is, you are as much in my power as if it were you and not that red-haired bitch I hold fast.
Far to the north on a crag above the shores of the Freshened Sea three gargoyles stared forever South, testing the wind, sifting the whispers borne to them and sending on what they heard.
“It goes well, Sparrow.” It was not a question. Shiara sat on the bench, pale and calm as a winter’s dawn while Wiz paced the room, muttering in a way that had nothing to do with magic. He paused to glance once more into the bowl of water on the rude table between them.
“We’re shaking them good and proper,” he confirmed. “I can’t interpret everything, but there are fires and earthquakes all over the area. Part of the City of Night’s wall is down and a couple of towers have already slid into the harbor.” He smiled. “We’ve just about ruined their whole day. Now if only . . .”
Shiara nodded. “I know Sparrow. Fortuna grant us this one final boon.”
The crystal contrivance atop the ruined tower sparkled and flashed with the magical force of the messages arriving from the south.
Deep in her cell, Moira didn’t know what was going on, but she was increasingly certain it wasn’t being done to frighten her. Even this far under the earth she could hear occasional explosions, faint and muffled but audible nonetheless. Twice, groups of goblin soldiers tore by her cell in clattering, shouting masses. Once something huge and foul and slithering whuffled up the corridor while she pressed against the slimy rock wall and prayed to the depths of her soul that the thing would not notice her. Even the vermin seemed to have gone into hiding in the crannies and under the piles of rotting straw.