“Next door.”
The corridor was a scene from an addled drunk’s nightmare. Shadows played on the walls like black flames, licking along the floor and up to the ceiling. Shapes came and went on the edge of seeing, distorted heads and bent bodies scampering on unnaturally elongated limbs. One capered in the stairwell, darkness incarnate, eyes of starshine, teeth and nails the pale silver of a mist-shrouded moon. A valiant arrow shot through it, clattering against the wall behind. The figure ducked, huddling in on itself, shadows folding and moulding anew. We heard determined boots thudding on the stairs, shouts urging them upwards.
The darkness reared up with a new mask, a wolf’s head snarling and weaving, twice life size and topping a man-shaped body with clawed hands tipped with ice-white talons. The beast snatched up the fallen arrow and threw its head back to howl like a gale from frozen -heights. Breath steamed icy from its maw and rolled bodily down the stairs. We heard frantic feet taking flight even before the arrow tumbled down after them.
“Nice to see Shiv paid attention to ’Gren’s yarns,” muttered Ryshad.
I was too busy gaping for comment. Startling illusion overlaid Shiv’s crude disguise with a vision of Eldritch Kin seen in fever dreams. Too tall and too thin for ease of mind, a shaft of moonlight in one bony hand, his skin was the bottomless blue of a still pool caught beneath twilight. His hair was shadow darker than those rarest of nights when lesser and greater moons both quit the sky for mysteries of their own. His eyes were black hollows seeing into the very shades, threatening to suck the life from any who caught their gaze.
Sorgrad and ’Gren crouched by his side, visions to terrify Poldrion’s own demons. A head appeared in the stairwell and the Elietimm man’s jaw dropped as he saw his dread master being butchered by the two eerie apparitions.
“He cut out that lad’s stones and eyes. Why don’t we swap his round?” ’Gren suggested in a low voice.
Ryshad looked at me and I wondered if I looked as unearthly to him as he did to me.
“You said do your worst.” I spoke before he could. “We don’t look, then we don’t have to know. Don’t worry. ’Gren’s on our side.”
“I’ll take your word for that.” Ryshad’s tone suggested we’d debate this further when people weren’t trying to kill us.
The awesome Eldritch Kin that was Shiv stepped forward, levelling its cold, gold spear. The Elietimm man froze on the stair, white faced and trembling in the darkness.
“Bless the ancestors who chose you to witness our retribution.” ’Gren looked up and hissed with silken spite.
“We curse Ilkehan to the ninth generation. Cursed be all who pervert the sacred lore.” Sorgrad rose, a figure born of nightmares, blood dripping from the ivory-handled knife to be greedily sucked up by scurrying rat-like shadows. “Thus to all who profane the compact between dead, living and yet unborn.” His words echoed around the stone walls so uncannily Shiv had to be working some magic on them. The reverberations followed the fleeing soldier down the stairs.
Then Shiv winked at me and I could see through the delusion of light and magic to the reality beneath. “Hurry up.”
We skirted round ’Gren and Sorgrad now chuckling evilly. Ryshad kicked in the door and we found a room dominated by a large table strewn with maps and parchments. A window embrasure held a sturdy chest of unmistakably Tormalin origin.
“In there.” It was locked. I reached for my picks.
“No time.” Ryshad grabbed a handle. “Dast’s teeth!” he rasped as he lifted it on to one shoulder.
Sorgrad appeared in the doorway. “We need to go now or there’ll be too many for us to break through.”
“We’re coming,” I assured him.
Scarlet flame danced on his outstretched palm. “Get clear.”
Sorgrad’s handful of fire skidded the length of the table, igniting everything in its path. The wall hangings blazed around us and I swear I felt the hair on my neck crisp as we raced through the doorway. “Curse it, ’Grad, you nearly fried us!”
“Main stairs or back?”
’Gren was standing by Ilkehan’s body, gory to his elbows. I tried not to see what had been done to the body and just about succeeded; apart from realising it wasn’t the enchanter’s tongue poking from his mouth.
Ryshad glanced down and swallowed hard. Even painted blue, I swear he blenched.
Shiv held the silver salver before him, magical fire from a scrap of burning cloth reflecting oddly on to his painted face. “I don’t have time for this, Planir. Just do what you can.” He shoved the metal inside his jerkin and threw the cloth away.
“Back stairs.” Ryshad jerked his head.
“Sorgrad,” I urged. “We’re leaving.”
“Just a moment.” He was crouched over Ilkehan, his back to me.
I moved to get a clearer look and then thought better of it. “You’ve done enough!”
“I promised I’d carve the boy’s name in this bastard’s forehead.” Sorgrad spoke with slow concentration.
“That won’t lead them straight to Olret?” snapped Ryshad.
“Not unless someone hereabouts can read Mandarkin script.” Sorgrad finished with a flourish of his blade sending drops of blood spattering the wall.
“Let’s go,” I begged.
“Stay close,” warned Shiv, raising his hands. Drawing them close, he flung another sweep of glittering magic ahead. The shadows took on a mossy hue, shifting into spectres of trees. We moved and they moved with us, dappled darkness shifting and changing, Eldritch shapes on the edge of sight passing all around us.
“Here.” Sorgrad reached for the other handle of the chest and Ryshad let it slide from his shoulder so they could carry it between them.
We reached the back stairwell, narrower and more steeply pitched than the one we’d come up. Shiv and I took the lead as we descended as fast as was still safely cautious, shadows alternately deepening and fading around us. The formless blackness shaped itself into foxes, rats and ravens that ran on ahead. The rushing sound that presages the most violent storms in the wildwood surged around our heads before scouring down the stairs.
“Pered’s not the only artist in your household, is he?” At the turn of the stair, I looked back to see Sorgrad and Ryshad balancing the chest between them, each with a blade in their free hand. Rearguard, ’Gren was coming backwards down the stairs, sword and dagger ready. I knew he’d done that often enough not to worry about falling.
As we reached the floor below, a handful of men braver than the rest charged us with viciously flanged maces. Shiv sent them reeling back with a brutal storm of hail crystallising out of the very air. The ice was sharp enough to draw blood from faces and hands before falling to the floor and flowing together to coat the flagstone with lethal slipperiness. The soldiers fell heavily as they struggled to stand, more interested in retreating than pursuit. We ran on down the stairs and along the one corridor we found not peopled with panicked Elietimm. New screams of anguish and horror echoed from the floor where we’d left Ilkehan.
“Over there.” Ryshad nodded to a sturdy double door as we found ourselves in a lofty entrance hall.
Shiv raised a hand and the wood darkened, swelled and ruptured. The metal bands and hasps rusted before our very eyes.
“Come on.”
’Gren brought up his distinctly non-magical boot to kick at it. The rotten wood sagged from splitting hinges now just metal flakes held together by corrosion. I ripped at the wood and we hammered out a hole big enough for Ryshad and Shiv.
“What’s out there?” Sorgrad was barely visible as Shiv filled the entrance hall with roiling shadows to baffle our pursuers hesitant on the fringes of the unknown darkness.
I squinted cautiously through the splintered gap. “Courtyard and the main gate which looks very much locked. Some troops and it’s a safe bet more are on their way”
“How much more have you got in you?” Ryshad looked sharply at the mage.
“Enough,” the wizard
assured us. The illusions concealed him as thoroughly as ever but we all heard the weary note in Shiv’s voice. “Sorgrad can try a few of the tricks Larissa taught him, if he likes.”
“No holds barred?” I’ve never seen Sorgrad at a loss in all the years I’d known him and I was relieved beyond measure to see this was no exception.
“That’s battlefield rules, according to Halice.” I glanced at Ryshad.
“It may not be a usual kind of war but they started it.” He shrugged. “ ’Gren, help me with this.”
The brothers swapped places by the chest and Sorgrad stepped up to the breach in the door. He clapped his hands together and a sheet of flame sprang up, spreading to encircle us all. The damp chunks of broken wood hissed and steamed and the firelight played eerily among the shadows that Shiv was still keeping as black and impenetrable as ever.
“Let’s get out of here while they’re all still gawping,” I suggested. If Ilkehan’s people could barely see us, we could barely see them and that made me nervous.
“Slowly, concentrate.” Shiv’s calm voice encouraged Sorgrad and we began walking towards the main gate. Slingshot whizzed into the flames where the stones shattered into razor-sharp, red-hot fragments. I swallowed an un-Eldritch yelp as one stung me on the face.
“What about the gate?” asked Ryshad tightly.
“Just get ready to run,” Sorgrad replied through clenched teeth.
The flames disappeared and the shadows shrivelled. All that protected us were our tawdry disguises and the terrified imaginations of the onlookers. The gate exploded into a ball of fire before anyone could see through our masquerade, shards of burning wood and blistering metal shooting in all directions. People ran for cover, screams from the slowest. The fell rain would have seared us too but for a sandstorm that reared up from the dusty earth to envelop us, sucking the lethal fragments into the maelstrom. We stood in the calm centre of the silently howling winds, a wall of dust and debris concealing us from all the hostile eyes.
I’d kept my bearings, thanks to so many years making my way without benefit of a light to alert a nosy watchman or some indignant householder. “Forward.” I pointed and we moved, the storm cloaking us.
“Faster,” Sorgrad hissed.
We ran, Ryshad and ’Gren grunting as they lugged the weighty chest between them. Shiv was puffing like a man who’d been on the battlefield all day and even Sorgrad’s steps looked leaden as I watched for the changes underfoot that would mean we were through the gate.
“Where do we hide up?” I demanded as soon as we were beyond the wall.
“The hargeard.” Sorgrad looked around, frowning at the constantly shifting veil of wind and dust.
“That way.” I pointed.
“Is there anywhere to hide there?” Ryshad looked at Shiv with concern. “We can’t rely on Gebaedim superstitions to stop them stringing us up if they get their hands on us.”
I shivered. A quick hanging would be the most merciful fate we could hope for.
“Trust me.” Sorgrad’s eyes were bright blue against the black that rimmed them.
My fears receded to a manageable level; after all, he’d never let me down before.
CHAPTER SEVEN
From Keran Tonin, Mentor,
To Pirip Marne, Scholar.
Dear Marne,
I hear you’re doing some interesting work on the Ancient Races. You might find this useful. I can vouch for it as a genuine copy of an old record; it came from the Isles of the Elietimm a few years ago, when the Archmage’s man and those two sworn to D’Olbriot tried to rescue poor Geris. I’d so far rather have had the dear boy home safe instead but at least we’re unravelling some notion of what we’re dealing with from documents like this.
By the way, have you considered a visit to Kellarin at all? Let me know your thoughts in due course.
With compliments, Tonin
Being a true record of the meeting between Itilek
of Froilasekke and Jinvejen of Haeldasekke on this
sacred night of the empty sky. Let the neutral
stones of Heval Islet bear witness to the bones
of each clan that both halves of this hide carry
the same words.
Itilek tells he has heard of disaster befalling Kehannasekke’s bid for the empty lands to the south.
Jinvejen agrees that he has heard the same. The feeling among his clan is that this is Misaen’s judgement upon Rekhren for his over-reliance upon Maewehn’s priests.
Itilek announces his own priest finds himself powerless.
Jinvejen admits his own councillor is similarly stricken.
Both take time to consider this puzzle.
Jinvejen declares his forefathers have counselled suspicion of Maewehn’s priests ever since all in this common exile were driven from our true home by Sheltya malice.
Itilek allows such a sudden and unexpected loss of priestly powers looks like divine retribution but asks what might Misaen’s purpose be in doing such a thing?
Jinvejen wonders what does Misaen ask of us all in less troubled times? That we strive to better our lot through hard work and unity of purpose. It was for fear of such uncompromising strength that Sheltya rallied the weaker clans to hound our forefathers from their home. It was only such determination that brought our forefathers across the ice to these isolated rocks. Perhaps Misaen has visited his judgement upon Kehannasekke to rebuke him for seeking a new home to the south rather than returning to reclaim his true inheritance through ingenuity and valour.
Itilek points out how many generations have passed since our forefathers were exiled. Hopes of return to our true home seem ever more distant now the descendants of those that exiled us find themselves assailed by Southrons driven out of their own lands by the men of Tren Ar’Dryen.
Jinvejen reminds Itilek that Southrons are ruled by priests devoted both to Maewehn and to Arimelin and have long counselled retreat rather than making a stand for their sacred places. Cowardice has sewn the seeds of its own destruction.
Itilek asks what Jinvejen proposes.
Jinvejen suggests all ties with Southrons be cut and we tend our own hearths in amity for a full cycle of years. Misaen has shown us plainly that we have no friends but our own blood kindred. Kehannasekke’s misadventures prove all other arms will be raised against us. Let us hone our skills and bide our time, raising our sons to strength and singleness of mind. If we prove ourselves worthy, mayhap Misaen will add the edge of true magic to our hard-hitting swords once more.
Itilek agrees to consider this and undertakes to lay the hide with his hargeard that the bones might make their wishes known to him.
The Island City of Hadrumal,
10th of For-Summer
Thank you so very much, my dear.” Planir lifted his hands from the rim of the silver bowl, face intense. He smiled at Aritane but the courtesy couldn’t entirely banish the line between his fine dark brows.
“It is a welcome change to find my talents appreciated.” The Mountain woman’s voice was tart, her deep-set blue eyes hard.
“I’d welcome your thoughts on what may happen now,” invited Planir. He rose from his seat across the table from Aritane. “May I offer you refreshment?”
“Some wine, white if you please.” Aritane smiled at some passing thought before her face returned to its guarded expression.
Planir poured two glasses of a straw-coloured vintage from a dark bottle adorned with a crumbling wax seal. Resuming his seat, he passed one over. “So Ilkehan is dead. What does that mean for us?” The Archmage was in his shirtsleeves, a silk shirt befitting his rank.
“The manner of his death interests me.” Aritane’s exotic accent sat oddly with her everyday gown of Caladhrian cut; serviceable wool dyed a neutral fawn. She raised a hand to brush the corn-coloured sweep of hair falling loose to her shoulders away from her narrow face.
“I take it that savagery has some point beyond simple bloodlust?” Planir gestured towards the empty water. “A
nd the masquerade?”
“If his people believe Ilkehan’s arrogance has summoned retaliation from the Gebaedim—” Aritane pressed her full lips tight together. “The confidence of his acolytes and thus their power will be all the more thoroughly broken.”
“When can we establish what aetheric strength remains, among the Elietimm or in Suthyfer?” asked Planir slowly. “I don’t want to risk anyone working magic if there’s the slightest chance they might suffer Otrick’s fate.”
Aritane retreated behind the curtain of her hair. Planir waited patiently.
“I will look for a mind open to true magic tomorrow,” she said finally. “Then we can judge the consequences of Ilkehan’s death.”
“We have many consequences to consider.” Jovial, Planir disregarded Aritane’s sour tone. “Without Ilkehan to menace you or your people, you should consider your opportunities in the world beyond Hadrumal. The universities at Col and at Vanam would welcome your insights into the study of aetheric enchantments.”
“I’ve met some of these scholars in your libraries. I wouldn’t spend a night on a bare mountain with any of them.” Sarcasm tainted Aritane’s words. “So you want rid of me?”
“Not in the least.” Planir’s unemotional reply made his sincerity ring all the more true. “I value your skills highly. Archmage or no, I could never have dared this scrying without your Artifice to defend me.” He waved his wine glass at the silver bowl. “But I would like to see you find a place where your considerable talents are accorded due respect—and I don’t just mean your mastery of aetheric arts.”
Aritane made a non-committal noise before taking a sip of wine. “Sheltya remain, even if Ilkehan is dead.”
“Is there no way you could make your peace with them?” Planir asked gently.
“When I serve as your scholars’ conduit into the secrets of the wise?” Aritane set down her glass with a snap that slopped wine on to the polished table top. “I hardly think so.”
“The books we’ve just recovered from Ilkehan’s library should hold more than enough secrets to satisfy the mentors of Col, Vanam or anywhere else.” Unperturbed, Planir gestured at a door skilfully concealed in the panelling of the far wall. “I would see you make peace with the Sheltya so you may be free to live your life as you wish. Until that day comes, I will defend you to the best of my abilities against Sheltya, Elietimm and all who might disparage you hereabouts.”
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