Portents of Doom ( Kormak Book Ten) (The Kormak Saga 10)

by William King

  He needed to get into the city and find his allies before then.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The much-depleted company marched out through the gate of the fortress. The men glanced nervously about as if they expected another attack any moment. Zamara shouted a hearty farewell to Kurt who stood on the walls waving goodbye. Rhiana walked beside the Admiral talking with Anders. Kormak strode along, keeping himself to himself.

  The mountains loomed overhead like a wall built by titans. Kormak fell into the rangy hill man’s stride of his youth. He had spent a lot of time among the peaks back then, first in Aquilea then at the ancient fortress-monastery on Mount Aethelas.

  The road rose. Behind them the Keep dwindled to a toy castle guarded by insects. The trees of the jungle became a green carpet stretched out over a rolling plain. Kormak looked down on the forest canopy in the way a raptor might wheeling in the mountain peaks overhead. Slowly the fear that they might be pursued by the tribesmen faded. They were not going to leave the shelter of the jungle at this time.

  The vegetation flanking the road became thinner, the bushes more stunted, the trees less tall. They clung to thinner soil or sank their roots into rocky shelves on the slope. The call of the birds changed. The buzz of insects diminished. The land changed in numerous subtle ways.

  Brilliant flowers lined the road side. Purple Emperor’s Toga’s lay aside sweet scented Golden Sunburst. The Sunlanders spread the seeds of both wherever they went. He had seen them in the hills of Taurea and as far away as the boundaries of the Courts of the Moon. He had passed them in the deserts of Umbrea. And now here they were again. A reminder of previous places and times.

  The soldiers grumbled as they marched, cursing the heat and the small stones that found their way into their boots.

  Zamara rode up alongside him. Kormak felt the massive presence of the horse. “You are not your usually smiling self, Sir Kormak.”

  “You are being ironic, of course.”

  “Perhaps.” He turned to study his troops. There were a lot less of them than had set out from Maial. It looked like half their number had gone. Most of the casualties had come from the city guard, but there were holes in the ranks of the marines as well. When he spoke again, he kept his voice low. “In truth, there is not a lot to celebrate. Even our victories are starting to feel like defeats.”

  Kormak kept his voice just as low. “I know what you mean.”

  “Count Balthazar seems to have an infinite supply of allies in this land. Where does he get them?”

  “The tribesmen resent your conquest of their lands. That resentment makes them turn to those who promise aid.”

  “And the Shadow promises great power.”

  “It might not even call itself the Shadow. It might simply offer magic to counter yours.”

  “I would have thought you would be decrying them as heretics and fools, the children of darkness itself.”

  “I leave that to the zealots,” Kormak told him. “In my experience, the world is more complex.”

  “I thought your Order were meant to be fanatics. The righteous fist of the Holy Sun.”

  “Some of my Order are.”

  “But you are not.”

  “I have seen the Sunlander conquests from the other side. Aquileans have a long memory for such things.”

  “And yet you stand guard over the Sunlanders.”

  “The world is a complicated place.”

  The Admiral changed the subject. “You saw that thing that flew over last night? What was it? A demon?”

  “Most likely.”

  “It did not attack us.”

  “No doubt it had another purpose. One we would not like if we knew it.”

  “Do you have any idea what that might be?”

  Kormak considered. “A messenger perhaps. To other tribes, other cultists, or perhaps something in the Wastelands.”

  “I hope that is all it was.”

  “What else might it be?”

  “You’re the expert on that.”

  They fell silent. The mountains rose around them. The air grew chiller.

  Balthazar hunched down in his seat as the cart rumbled towards the city gate. Already there was a line of other vehicles moving through. They had come from closer farms along with drovers herding sheep and goats, milk-maids bearing yokes with urns hanging from them, and farmers’ wives bearing trays of produce.

  The guards wore the tabards of Helgard city, a black tower against a white background above it. They nodded pleasantly enough to those who passed and were quite clearly familiar with the faces they saw.

  Fear punched Balthazar in the pit of his stomach. He was not a local. They would not recognise him the way they recognised the others. He was driving a local cart and perhaps they would know its owner. He could not claim to be a merchant from distant parts. Perhaps they might even recognise him from his previous visits.

  He considered his options. If he turned the wagon around now, he would be noticed. If he got down from it and fled, it would draw even more suspicion to him.

  The best bet would be to press on and play things by ear. He was too weary to run, and he could not risk any delay. He needed to get into town, make contact with his allies and be gone by the time the Guardian got here.

  He drove the beasts into the line of vehicles at the gate. Slowly the line inched forward. Balthazar waited, all the time expecting to hear the clop of hooves behind him or running feet and some hysterical peasant announcing there had been a murder on the road.

  Sweat rolled down his face. His eyes threatened to force themselves shut. He felt certain that all of those around him could smell the blood and guilt rolling off him.

  Were the guards eyeing him warily? Had one of them just looked at him, then sent a comrade off into the gatehouse? He told himself he imagined it.

  He stifled a yawn and tried to avoid falling into a waking dream. The events of the previous night felt like a hallucination. Had he really flown up the pass in the single night, his form altered and cloaked within that of a demon? It felt impossible, sitting here in the morning light, listening to the chatter of peasants and the noises of their beasts.

  It felt impossible and yet he was here. He sat atop an unfamiliar wagon looking at the walls of a city that had been leagues away the previous night. Part of his mind still rebelled against the idea.

  He had not hallucinated the flight. He had worked potent sorcery and would do so again. He held a secret power that separated him from the sheep, human and otherwise, who surrounded him. He was one of those destined to be a ruler of all he surveyed when Shadowfall came. His strength would be amplified a thousandfold. He would be immortal and potent and beyond all fear and weariness.

  He was not mad. He could not be mad.

  A soldier was definitely pointing at him now. He turned to a man in a sergeant’s tabard, nodded, said something. The sergeant’s face turned grim. His hand went to the sword at his belt.

  Balthazar riffled through his mind for a spell that might save him, but he could not come up with anything. He did not have the power to invoke the spell of slumber and anyway, there were too many people around to affect them all. He did not even have the strength to get up and run. He composed his features and prepared to speak. He must not use his normal accent. He was garbed as a peasant. He must sound like one.

  “You there!” the sergeant said.

  He looked up blearily as if he did not quite understand that the words were being spoken to him. He did not have to fake much. He was so tired. “Yes, sir,” he said, forcing himself to impersonate a dirt-munching cow fondler’s thick accent.

  “Get down off that cart!”

  “Why, sir?” Balthazar considered striking the man and fleeing, but there were too many soldiers, and none of them were tired, and no doubt the peasants would be only too pleased to join in any manhunt. It would bring some excitement to their otherwise dull lives.

  “Get down! Now!” There was an arrogant authority in the ser
geant’s voice that he would not have dared to use if he had recognised Balthazar as a nobleman. He was too wealthy and powerful to be treated that way. There was no fighting it. He would need to do what the man ordered, put up no resistance and hope to gain the time to recuperate his sorcerous strength.

  Balthazar climbed down and shuffled forward. As he did so something impacted on the back of his head. The last thing he heard as he tumbled forward into the darkness. “Count Balthazar! You are under arrest for heresy, treason, and dark sorcery.”

  Balthazar awoke to find himself on the back of the cart. He tried to sit up, but a booted foot came down on his chest and pushed him back down. He had just time to catch a glimpse of stone-walled buildings with roofs of grey shale, of low colonnades and mullioned windows. He fell back onto the wooden floor of the cart, dizzy and feeling sick.

  “Blood on the seats, sergeant,” he heard one of the soldiers say.

  “This one is a right devil,” said the sergeant. “Must have killed some poor farmer and stole his wagon.”

  “Farmer’s bad luck is our good fortune,” said the first voice. “The reward on this one will keep me in Blossom’s brothel for six months.”

  “Aye, it was lucky you were there when the bird brought the message, Silvio, no doubt about that. And luckier still you had the good sense to memorise the description.”

  Balthazar tried to sit up again, but he was too dizzy. He tried to speak, but he found there was something foul in his mouth. He had been gagged. Images of the girl he had sacrificed to summon Xothak sprang to his mind. Now he knew how she felt.

  He wanted to beg for his life. He wanted to tell these greedy bastards that he had gold and would split it with them. He wanted to offer them power and place and immortality, but he had no chance of doing so and all because of a bit of cloth rag forced between his teeth.

  He rocked forward again, aware of something biting into his wrists. His hands were bound as well. They were taking no chances. There was no possibility that he could cast a spell under these circumstances. The talismans that might have allowed him to do so were hidden under the wadded blanket these simpletons were sitting on, along with his sacrificial dagger. Proof positive that he was exactly what they thought he was, if only the fools looked.

  He cursed inwardly and turned his eyes to the sky. It was cold and blue overhead. Sometimes he caught sight of a jeering face looking out of a window above him. Sometimes a chamber pot was emptied on him, forcing the soldiers to protest. They did not do so out of concern for him but to prevent the foul contents splashing on themselves. The people doing the dumping seemed cheerful. No doubt they were looking forward to seeing the evil wizard burn.

  He was going to be sick. He mustn’t. He might choke on his own vomit with the gag in place. He had had to be careful that such things did not happen to his sacrifices.

  Perhaps he would be better off if he did choke, or found some other way of killing himself. The Sunlanders were not gentle with those they suspected of dark sorcery. He would be tortured until he confessed. He knew that under those circumstances he would give up everything he knew. He was not a coward, but every man had his limits.

  He wondered how he might do this and then he thought about what would happen next. If he died without having performed the mission Xothak had given him, his soul would be forfeit. He would fall into an eternity of torments that would make those inflicted by his fellow men seem like the gentle chastisements of loving parents on an errant toddler. There would be no escape from those tortures until his soul decomposed or was devoured.

  He took a deep breath through his nostrils, drinking in the stink of the city. So be it. He had known the stakes he was playing for when he had set his foot on the path of Shadow. It would be foolish to whine about them now. What he needed to do was find a way to free himself or to hold out until his allies could come to his aid. If his allies were still at liberty to do so.

  He had no real way of telling of how bad things were. The Shadow had followers in this place, some in positions of very real power. Many of them had been dilettantes, seeking only entrance to what they saw as a means of promotion and social elevation. Others were sincerely dedicated to the cause.

  Of course, that did not mean they would lift their hands to aid him, particularly if they might put themselves at risk. He was not sure he would help one of his brethren under similar circumstances, particularly if it were someone whose position or power he coveted.

  There might be no help coming. His situation might be hopeless. Nonsense, he told himself. While he lived, there was the possibility of finding his freedom. He was rich. He was powerful, and he was a sorcerer. There were always those who were weak enough or greedy enough to be influenced by any of those things.

  He just needed to keep his wits about him and wait for any opportunity. He had been in worse situations. He would be free once again, and he would complete the mission the Lord of Skulls had given him.

  Chapter Twenty

  Balthazar opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Things had not changed in the last five minutes. The cell still stank. A feeble light showed the shadowy outlines of the prison bars. He could still hear the screams of his fellow prisoners.

  He sniffed the air. Excrement. Urine. Unwashed bodies. Gangrene perhaps. Decomposing fish? What could have caused that? Or maybe he was mistaken. Maybe it was something else rotting.

  He glanced over to his right. More metal bars descended from the ceiling. The area he was in was like a large cave, broken into holding pens by a maze of metal bars. As far as he could tell, he was the only one in his small cell. Except for the skeleton of course. The skeleton was chained to the wall in the same way as Balthazar was. He had died in this place.

  Or perhaps that was simply the message his jailors wanted to convey to him. Perhaps this was intended to soften him up before the real interrogation began. If that was what they thought he would be happy to prove them wrong. He was not a man to be daunted by such theatrics.

  Part of him realised that this was not simply a drama, though. His captors were not play-acting. They had the power of life or death over him. No one cared if he died here. Or if anyone did it would be a long time before they found his corpse.

  Balthazar heard footsteps approaching, and the chinking of metal on metal. A huge figure approached, dragging a massive keyring along the bars. It paused in front of Balthazar’s cell, smiled and said, “How are you today, my pretty? Ready for a visit from His Excellency and the torturers?”

  That was not so good. Balthazar remembered Commander Herrero, a humourless prig with a burning faith in the Holy Sun. All attempts to recruit him to the cult had failed. The man had not been attracted by power, prestige or the possibility of gold. His family had enough of all of those already.

  Balthazar controlled the urge to spit. He had never liked the scions of the ancient families, with their pride and their air of superiority. They always felt they were so much better than everyone else simply because they had been squirted out of the breech between some aristocratic cow’s legs.

  “His Excellency?” Balthazar said. “I am not dressed for a social visit.”

  The jailor snorted and rapped at the bars with his keys. “You won’t sound so bloody flippant when the hot irons are being applied to your nadgers.”

  The man clearly wanted to see him afraid, to exercise his smidgeon of personal power. Balthazar was not going to let this brute feel superior to him in any way.

  “Once Governor Aurin finds out I have been imprisoned I won’t be the one with his testicles in the fire; I can assure you.”

  The jailor paused to consider this for a moment. Clearly, the process was giving him some difficulty. He was used to prisoners grovelling to him, not making veiled threats. He tugged his ear as if pulling the reins of a reluctant carthorse.

  “I’m just doing my job,” he said.

  “And one I am sure you are admirably suited to both by intellect and birth.” Balthazar kept his tone jovi
al and he wondered if the jailor even understood the depth of his mockery.

  The sound of keys jangling and footsteps on the stairs sounded through the dungeon. Balthazar fought down the urge to gulp and swallow. He was not going to give this ape the satisfaction of seeing him afraid. Giant shadows marched across the wall, huge evil gods bringing doom to mere mortals.

  Moments later, an officer arrived, garbed in a fine tunic, with a gold embossed breastplate encasing his narrow chest. His long walrus moustache drooped down over his chin. He was flanked by two brutish looking but familiar soldiers. He was not at all who Balthazar had expected to see.

  With a wave of his hand, the officer dispatched the jailor to examine some distant part of the dungeon. “Orm,” Balthazar said. “This is an unexpected pleasure. Whatever happened to Commander Herrero?”

  “He had the misfortune to choke on a fishbone after you were arrested. I have assumed command of the Fort until Governor Aurin can be notified, and a replacement sent.”

  “That might prove difficult. The lowland tribes have risen.”

  “Indeed. So I may be in charge for quite some time. Perhaps even permanently.”

  “That is welcome news.”

  “It gives me great pleasure to hear you say so, Count,” Orm said. A cruel smile twisted this thick lips. White tombstone teeth flashed beneath the bristles of the moustache. Orm was enjoying this, Balthazar realised.

  “I trust you are going to release me from these cells. This is all an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

  “No misunderstanding, Count. The papers for your arrest came through with the last courier from the lowlands.”

  “I think if you consider the matter carefully, you will see that a mistake is being made. Perhaps by yourself.” Balthazar allowed a little steel to show in his voice.

  “Things had to be handled with some delicacy. We are not in the majority here, Count. And there are those who have seen the warrant for your arrest. It seemed for the best that warrant to appear to be executed until we could assume control.”