s [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

at hand."
Pook absently dropped the statuette into a pocket.
"I have scoured the planes of existence," the wizard explained. "I knew the
cat to be of the Astral Plane, but I wasn't certain that the halfling would
remain there - if he could find his way out. And, of course, the Astral Plane is
very extensive."
"Enough!" ordered Pook. "Be on with it! What have you to show me?"
"Only this," LaValle replied, waving the scepter in front of the Taros Hoop.
The webbing tingled with power and lit up in tiny flashes of lightning.
Gradually the light became more constant, filling in the area between strands,
and the image of the webbing disappeared into the background of cloudy blue.
LaValle spoke a command word, and the hoop focused in on a bright, well-lit
grayness, a scene in the Astral Plane. There sat Regis, leaning comfortably
against the limned image of a tree, a starlight sketch of an oak, with his hands
tucked behind his head and his feet crossed out in front of him.
Pook shook the grogginess from his head. "Get him," he coughed. "How can we
get him?"
Before LaValle could answer, the door burst open and Rassiter stumbled into
the room. "Fighting, Pook," he gasped, out of breath, "in the lower levels. A
giant barbarian."
"You promised me that you would handle it," Pook growled at him.
"The assassin's friends-" Rassiter began, but Pook had no time for
explanations. Not now.
"Shut the door," he said to Rassiter.
Rassiter quieted and did as he was told. Pook was going to be angry enough
with him when he learned of the disaster in the sewers - no need to press the
point.
The guildmaster turned back to LaValle, this time not asking. "Get him," he
said.
LaValle chanted softly and waved the scepter in front of the Taros Hoop
again, then he reached through the glassy curtain separating the planes and
caught the sleepy Regis by the hair.
"Guenhwyvar!" Regis managed to shout, but then LaValle tugged him through
the portal and he tumbled on the floor, rolling right up to the feet of Pasha
Pook.
"Uh . . . hello," he stammered, looking up at Pook apologetically. "Can we
talk about this?"
Pook kicked him hard in the ribs and planted the butt of his walking stick
on Regis's chest. "You will cry out for death a thousand times before I release
you from this world," the guildmaster promised.
Regis did not doubt a word of it.
21
Where No Sun Shines
Wulfgar dodged and ducked, slipping into the midst of lines of statues or
behind heavy tapestries as he went. There were simply too many of the wererats,
closing in all about him, for him to even hope to escape.
He passed one corridor and saw a group of three ratmen rushing down toward
him. Feigning terror, the barbarian sprinted beyond the opening, then pulled up
short and put his back tight against the corner. When the ratmen rushed into the
room, Wulfgar smashed them down with quick chops of Aegis-fang.
He then retraced their steps back down the passage, hoping that he might
confuse the rest of his pursuers.
He came into a wide room with rows of chairs and a high ceiling - a stage
area for Pook's private showings by performing troupes. A massive chandelier,
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thousands of candles burning within its sconces, hung above the center of the
room, and marble pillars, delicately carved into the likenesses of famed heroes
and exotic monsters, lined the walls. Again Wulfgar had no time to admire the
decorations. He noticed only one feature in the chamber: a short staircase along
one side that led up to a balcony.
Ratmen poured in from the room's numerous entrances. Wulfgar looked back
over his shoulder, down the passage, but saw that it, too, was blocked. He
shrugged and sprinted up the stairs, figuring that that route would at least
allow him to fight off his attackers in a line rather than a crowd.
Two wererats rushed up right on his heels, but when Wulfgar made the landing
and turned on them, they realized their disadvantage. The barbarian would have
towered over them on even footing. Now, three steps up, his knees ran level with
their eyes.
It wasn't such a bad position for offense; the wererats could poke at
Wulfgar's unprotected legs. But when Aegis-fang descended in that tremendous
arc, neither of the rat men could possibly slow its momentum. And on the stairs,
they didn't have much room to move out of the way.
The war hammer cracked onto the skull of one ratman with enough force to
break his ankles, and the other, blanching under his brown fur, leaped over the
side of the staircase.
Wulfgar nearly laughed aloud. Then he saw the spears being readied.
He rushed into the balcony for the cover the railings and the chairs might
provide and hoping for another exit. The wererats flooded onto the staircase in
pursuit.
Wulfgar found no other doors. He shook his head, realizing that he was
trapped, and slapped Aegis-fang to the ready.
What was it that Drizzt had told him about luck? That a true warrior always
seemed to find the proper route - the one open path that casual observers might
consider lucky?
Now Wulfgar did laugh out loud. He had killed a dragon once by dislodging an
icicle above its back. He wondered what a huge chandelier with a thousand
burning candles might do to a room full of ratmen.
"Tempus!" the barbarian roared to his battle god, seeking a measure of [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]