by William King
Zamara was trying so hard to put a bright gloss on things that Kormak knew the Admiral must share at least some of his suspicions. He kept quiet, knowing that if he did so, Zamara would speak to fill the silence.
It took but two minutes before Zamara spoke. “If it will make your mind any easier, I don’t like the look of this Orm any more than you do, and I can’t help but notice the way his men have shadowed us since we got into town. Why there’s even some of them outside our door right now.”
“You notice something else?” Kormak asked. “He has not even mentioned the demon that has everyone else so upset. I’ve never met anyone who would not, at least, ask me for my professional opinion under the circumstances.”
Zamara laughed. “Is that what is annoying you, Sir Kormak? Mere vanity.”
“You know it’s not.”
The Admiral nodded. “Indeed I do. I’ll keep a weather eye on our host when next we see him. I expect you will do the same.”
Orm entered the kitchen, wiping sweat from his face. As ever the heat made him uncomfortable. It reminded him too much of the sweltering lowlands he had spent so much of his life avoiding. Just the memory of fighting in those jungles, evading poison darts and monstrous beasts made him shudder.
The chief cook looked up at him, a smile dimpling his doughy face and piling his multiple chins on his neck. He scratched his shaven, egg-like head, rubbed his hands together and said, “Commander! This is an unexpected pleasure.”
Orm rubbed his hands together. He was still pleasantly surprised to be called Commander. He wondered if he would ever get used to it. He might not have the time to if the accursed Guardian upstairs ever found out what he was up to.
“I have special instructions for the feast,” Orm said. “Our guests have come a long way and their journey has been most taxing. They deserve a special treat. Something to help them relax. Something that shall come as a most pleasant surprise.”
“Indeed, Commander,” said Chef. “And very much would I like to be able to oblige you, but, alas, I am a merely a cook, not a miracle worker.”
Orm gave his warmest smile. The chief cook cringed back a little. Orm had noticed that people often did that when he smiled. It was a pity. He wanted to be friendly. He really did. “Fortunately I have the very thing here.”
Chef frowned as Orm produced the leather packet from within his jerkin. His nose wrinkled as he caught a familiar pungent odour. “Dreamroot, Commander?”
“Dreamroot.” The drug was almost tasteless, a soporific that brought on sleep accompanied with mild euphoria. The dreams it brought were always interesting. It was often used by chirurgeons on the sick. Sometimes sorcerers used it as part of their rituals because it let them become more attuned with the powers of magic. Orm wondered whether Balthazar did. He supposed it was likely.
“Are you sure, Commander? There’s an awful lot here. Such a dosage could put a man into a coma, or even kill him. Or so I have heard.”
“I just want it in the stew and the herb cakes and the wine. Spread it around. It will help our guests relax. I want them relaxed. I want them to have fond memories of their visit to Helgard.”
All of this would have been so much easier if Chef had been a member of the cult, but alas he was not. Still, he would understand he was not being asked to commit stealthy murder, merely loosen up the guests for whatever purposes his commander had in mind.
Not that Orm would have minded killing any of the newcomers but so much could go wrong with the use of poison. This way they would merely be slowed and sleepy and lulled into a relaxed state that would make them vulnerable to whatever Balthazar had planned for this evening.
Orm felt a thrill when he considered that. Tonight, real magic would be worked. If what Balthazar said was true, the Lord of Skulls himself would manifest. That would be a great opportunity for Orm. He looked forward to seizing it.
Who would have thought the sixth son of an impoverished minor nobleman could have come so far, so fast? He was not handsome and charming like his brothers. Not as intelligent as his sisters. But he had found his way forward in the world. He was the one who would restore the family fortunes. He would show them all.
The chief cook bowed his head and pursed his lips before touching them with the tips of his fingers. It was a gesture that Orm recognised all too well. The man would do what he wanted.
“Make sure all of the dreamroot is used in the food and drink,” Orm said. “I will be most grateful.”
There was no need to spell out the threat. The man knew he would be rewarded if things went well and punished if they did not. Orm gave a satisfied little smile and turned to go. It was almost time for the ritual to begin.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Balthazar glanced around the storeroom. It was better than his cell but not by much. They were deep underground and the place smelled of damp and mould. The men with him sniffed the air and eyed him suspiciously. They did not know who he was. Those deep into the cult’s affairs were worried that he might be a spy or an informer. Those who were not took their cue from those who were.
The Count did not care. Just so long as they did as they were told. And in a few hours, he would not even be worried about whether they did that. He touched the dagger Xothak had blessed and felt the power within it. There was not a man or woman there who would not give their souls to possess such a sign of their dark god’s favour.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Several hands went for concealed weapons. One of the conspirators put his hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. Orm strode into the cellar, smiling his oily smile. “So nervous. No need. Our guests are all settled in their chambers. No need to look so pale, my friends. No need to look so afraid. Tonight you are given a chance to advance deep into the ranks of our brotherhood. Count Balthazar is here to provide you with that opportunity.”
He gestured to Balthazar who smiled and said, “Enemies are present in the keep above. Enemies who would destroy all we have worked towards. Enemies who would kill us if given the opportunity. They have already killed many of our brothers and sisters in Maial.”
That caused a murmur of consternation. It was the first such news any of those present had heard, and they were worried. They had not joined the cult to hear such talk. They had been promised success and power and worldly wealth. Balthazar raised a hand and said, “These are minor setbacks. I have spoken with the Lord of Skulls, and he has given me the means of ultimate victory.”
One woman grunted in disbelief. An old man curled his lip in a sneer. Orm’s face wore an expression of mockery once more. Balthazar could not tell whether it was directed at him or the brethren.
He sliced his finger on the edge of a blade and dribbled a drop of blood onto it. At the same time, he murmured a faint incantation and drew upon its power. The red of the blood flowed along the lines of the runes etched on the amulet’s surface. It became brighter and ruddier till it glowed like a hot coal surrounded by a cloud of Shadow. The woman who had grunted gasped. The old man raised a snowy eyebrow, and his sneer widened as if he was a watching a conjuring trick performed by a strolling jongleur.
Balthazar spread his hands, and his shadow leapt to cover the wall. It changed, deepened, shimmered. The temperature dropped. Odd whispers mingled with the sound of dripping water.
The sneer froze on the old man’s face. Orm’s features were a waxy mask. Sweat beaded his brow. They all sensed the power now. None of them could deny it. None of them wanted to become the focus of it. They did not know what it was for or what it could do. This went beyond anything any of them had witnessed in rituals before, save for Orm and those of the inner circle. None of them had ever seen anything like what he planned now.
“Brothers and Sisters in Shadow, tonight the power we serve will be unleashed,” Balthazar told them. “Tonight you will wield it yourselves. Tonight you will be granted a taste of how things will be on the glorious day when those who serve the Lord of Skulls become like unto gods, and those who oppose us
lament.”
Smiles trembled on a few lips now. Eyes narrowed. The old man licked his lips. The soldier’s hand was white-knuckled on his sword, but he eyed Balthazar like a hungry man looking at a banquet. He could sense them thinking this was more like it. Their lust for power warred with their fear and swiftly conquered it, just as he had known it would.
A feral look gleamed in every eye, a hunger to learn more and gain more that he well recognised, for he had felt it himself on many an occasion.
“Tonight you will participate in a ceremony older than this world. You will perform a ritual to summon a god from the Outer Dark. You will be given power, as great as that known to any mortal mage and you will use it to further our ends, to win yourself a place at the side of Xothak when the Lord of Skulls returns to claim what is his. When all shall bend the knee before the Lord.”
All true but not quite in the way the brethren of the coven expected it. No matter. They would get what they wanted. In a way.
Suspicion still lurked in some eyes. They all knew that nothing was ever given freely, that everything had its price. Fortunately, in this case, he knew it was a price they would all be willing to pay. More than willing, glad.
“Tonight I will invoke the ancient powers, to call them as prescribed by our most sacred rituals, to ask them to shower their blessings on you. In return you will perform one simple task.”
There was a collective intake of breath. They all knew they were getting to the point of things now. Balthazar explained the plan and then dispatched Orm to begin his part.
The hall was not as large as many Kormak had been in but it was big enough to make the space seem empty with so few people in it. Zamara and Anders and Rhiana sat at table with Orm and some his lieutenants. Servants brought in platters laden with meat and drink. It looked like a whole pig had been killed to provide the meat for this feast and Orm was not stinting with the wine.
Zamara picked up a goblet a servant had poured for him and took a sip. “Very good. Castle Redhorn. Ten years old.”
Orm shrugged and smiled his off-putting smile. “I can take no credit. Commander Herrero kept a famously good cellar. I have merely inherited it and his wine steward.”
“He has certainly chosen a fine vintage,” said Zamara. “It tastes a little odd. I am wondering if transporting it all the way from Siderea has had some effect on it.”
Orm shrugged and took the smallest of sips from his goblet. He smiled as if to indicate that he knew he was supposed to think it was good but evinced no obvious pleasure. “I would not know. I am no expert on fine wines. I am afraid my father could not afford such rich vintages. I have spent most of my life as a poor soldier.”
“Then you should make the most of this opportunity,” said Zamara. “I am going to.”
“It does me good to see a man with such a hearty appetite for the good things in life, but I am myself an abstinent man. As the Guardian appears to be. What is the matter, Sir Kormak? Is the wine not to your liking? Perhaps you would like to sample a different vintage.”
Kormak had taken only the smallest sip of the wine. It tingled on his tongue ever so slightly and then his sense of taste diminished fractionally. He thought he detected the tang of dreamroot. His training in the use and abuse of medicinal drugs and poisons had been extensive. There was something about the setup here that made him uneasy. He did not normally drink heavily, and this strangeness in the wine made him even more reluctant to indulge.
“Like yourself, Commander Orm, I never got into the habit of drinking much wine. Too often I have been in places where I needed to keep all my wits about me.”
Orm’s smile became even more of a grimace. The man was concealing something, Kormak thought.
“It is a pity. So often our upbringing prevents us from really appreciating life’s pleasures. Is that not so, Mistress Rhiana?”
He reached over and patted the merwoman’s hand. She withdrew hers as if his touch was slimy. If he noticed, Orm gave no sign of it. Maybe he just tried too hard to be ingratiating, Kormak thought. He was not an attractive man, and he overcompensated for that.
Orm reached over, ground two carving knives together and began to cut the meat. It had been cooked in a thick gravy. Orm cut a massive portion and placed it on a plate then he put it in front of Rhiana, then repeated the performance with everyone’s plate. He was making a point of serving them with his own hands. Everyone waited politely then Orm said, “Dig in,” and began to eat himself.
The gravy was heavily spiced and once again Kormak thought he detected the faintest hint of something in it. His lips tingled and went a little numb. His sense of smell dulled a little. He felt a little elevated. He had to resist smiling happily at Rhiana. She hid her mouth with her hand, to keep him from seeing she was smiling back.
Something odd here, Kormak thought. He chewed more slowly and tried to identify the tastes. Apple, and cinnamon and, yes, definitely dreamroot. Perhaps this was just part of the local cuisine.
The others looked relaxed and a little sleepy. Rhiana yawned. It was hardly surprising. They had spent a hard few days on the road with little rest, and this was the first good meal they had had in ages. The fire was warm. They felt safe. The prospect of a pleasant meal and a warm bed loomed ahead of them.
There was nothing to be worried about. Nonetheless, Kormak chewed slowly and inspected the others. Zamara held up his goblet and inspected the wine as if he found the way it reflected the light fascinating. Anders had drunk three goblets and was putting away another, like a man who might be taking his last drink. Rhiana’s shoulders had slumped, and she drummed her fingers on the table. The faint translucent webbing between them flickered in the lantern light.
A man in the tunic of a soldier entered and gestured to Orm. The Commander rose and went over to the door. The soldier leaned forward and whispered something in his ear. Orm listened, nodded then listened some more. After the soldier finished, he turned to his guests and said, “You must forgive me, but some pressing administrative matters have come up. It’s something I must deal with personally, but I shall return in a few minutes. In the meantime, please make yourself comfortable and help yourselves to anything you want.”
Zamara nodded. “Pressures of command,” he said. His words were slightly slurred. Kormak wondered at that. He had seen the Admiral drink before, and he had never seen him get so drunk so quickly. Perhaps it was the altitude or the effects of the past few strenuous days. Perhaps he was simply tired. “Hurry back, Commander. We look forward to your company.”
Orm scurried from the chamber. Kormak watched him go. His hand toyed idly with the knife. Its blade seemed very sharp, and it glittered very brightly.
Orm hurried down the stairs into the cellars to join the coven. That had gone well. His guests were sitting in the chamber like fatted calves waiting to be slaughtered. All except that accursed Guardian. He had eaten and drunk with considerable restraint. Orm was starting to dislike the man. He felt slighted by Kormak’s refusal to accept his hospitality in the spirit it had been offered.
His excitement mounted. There was an elation in him that was not just brought on by the dreamroot-touched wine and meat. It was the thrill of a man expecting a transcendent religious experience. He remembered once as a youth being taken to hear the famous Frater Luminez preach. It had been a powerful revelatory experience and it had lived long in his memory, even after he had turned his face from the Holy Sun’s Light. He had the same feeling now about what Balthazar was going to do. The man was a prophet of sorts, and had a feeling for the ways of the Shadow. Orm reckoned he could go far attaching himself to Balthazar’s coat tails.
He felt beneath his tunic for the sign of the Lord of Skulls. The lead felt dull and cool beneath his hands. He had rather enjoyed wearing it beneath his tunic while he talked with the Guardian. He was not normally a man to take needless risks, but somehow it felt right. He had made his allegiance clear and trusted in the Shadow to protect him, and it had.
The
coven all reached for their ceremonial daggers nervously as he entered. He had deliberately given them as much warning as he could by clumping down the stairs and still the fools started like scared rabbits. All except Balthazar. He looked calm and poised and ready to take on the mantle of ritual leader.
“How did it go?” Balthazar asked as Orm entered the room and began dawning his black robe.
“About as well as could be expected. Most of them dug in like trenchermen but the damned Guardian seemed to suspect something.”
“You do not live long in his profession if you are not always sniffing around for trouble,” Balthazar said. Orm warmed to his tone. The man was speaking to him as an equal, one who understood his value. Here was a man he could follow. He wondered if it could be the dreamroot at work that made him think so, then dismissed the idea.
“Well, let us pray to the Lord of Skulls he does not live through the night,” Orm said.
“Have no fear on that score,” said Balthazar. “Come join us in fellowship. Form the ritual circle." Orm looked over at the gagged prisoner. He had begun to writhe. No doubt he would have screamed if it were not for the gag in his mouth.
Oh well, we all have to make sacrifices, Orm thought and laughed inwardly at his little joke.
Chapter Twenty-Three
One by one the coven raised their blades in ritual salute. One by one they drew back the left sleeve of their robes. Balthazar did the same and then scratched his arm, drawing blood. He tasted it. The coven mirrored his action.
He imagined the hundreds of priests who had done this. The line stretched back to the dawn of time, to those ages when the Old Ones had ruled humanity and the Lords of Shadow had ruled even them. One day soon those days would return, and those who helped that happen would be rewarded with power like unto that of a god.
