Defiant Peaks (The Hadrumal Crisis)

by Juliet E. McKenna

  ‘What exactly did you pull out of the zamorin’s head?’

  ‘He knows how to find Hadrumal.’ Micaran couldn’t hide his own disbelief. ‘Him and Jagai Kalu’s most trusted shipmasters.’

  ‘No one can find Hadrumal.’ Corrain insisted,obstinate. ‘The whole island is hidden with magic. I’ve travelled there myself. Only the captains whom Planir trusts can find a way through the rocks and fogs and they have to follow magical guidance. No one can see the sun anywhere close to the island and no mariner can use a compass or take a bearing to find his way back.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Jagai’s shipmasters know exactly where to sail to find the wizard city.’

  Somehow Micaran’s certainty resounded through Corrain’s thoughts.

  ‘How?’ he demanded.

  ‘Someone,’ Micaran said grimly, ‘has put that knowledge into their heads. More than that, this unknown adept has done it in so subtle a fashion that the Jagai mariners and this zamorin don’t think to question it, any more than Jagai Kalu himself does. This is something they have always known, as far as their memories tell them.’

  ‘Has this same Artifice somehow done away with their fear of wizards?’ Whether in reality or this waking dream, Corrain’s throat was dry as dust.

  ‘No, that would be a folly too far. Such a suggestion would surely fail when anyone of Jagai was challenged by an Aldabreshi from another domain reiterating the Archipelago’s reasons for detesting magic.’

  Micaran shook his head before Corrain could express any relief.

  ‘This unknown adept need not attempt anything so risky. The Aldabreshi have always hated wizards but they’ve always known that even the most powerful mage can be overwhelmed,’ the mentor pointed out. ‘Jagai, Khusro and Miris were prepared to send hundreds of men to their deaths when they first attacked the Mandarkin, all for the sake of seeing one warrior live long enough to put a sword through Anskal’s head.’

  Corrain gasped, floundering neck deep in salt water. The waves burned with magefire as the corsair island ripped itself apart underfoot. Bodies and broken lumber thumped him from all sides. His men’s terrified yells filled his ears. He felt the sinking ground beneath his feet shift, unseen fissures opening to swallow him as the waters closed over his head—

  In the next instant, he was standing in the deserted carillon square, bone dry and unbruised.

  ‘That’s it!’ Micaran snapped his fingers like a gambler rolling the winning rune. ‘The Aldabreshi know that any wizard’s strength has its limits. They believe that the Archmage and his cohorts have exhausted themselves destroying the Mandarkin and his apprentices. So they’re confident that Hadrumal lies undefended against these mercenaries.’

  Corrain shook his head. ‘Mainlanders will never attack the wizard isle.’

  ‘No?’ Micaran challenged him. ‘Not mercenaries from Col whose heads are full of tavern gossip insisting no mage can be trusted? When they’ve heard tell of the riches which the Relshazri found when the wizards fled their city? Why would they leave such wealth behind? Because they have no need of it in Hadrumal when the Archmage can pluck coin out of the air to fill his purse.’

  The empty air of the paved square filled with the clamour of voices, echoing every sly criticism and sneer which Corrain had heard in the taverns through these past few days.

  ‘The Soluran’s done this.’ He was certain of it.

  ‘Complex enchantments are spreading through the city.’ Micaran couldn’t hide his reluctant admiration, ‘I’ve never encountered such Artifice before.’

  ‘Can it be undone?’ Corrain leaned back against the tree, grateful for its shade.

  Micaran bit his lip. ‘I will ask—’

  ‘Not such a pair of lackwits, are you?’ the Soluran said ruefully.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Corrain reached for his sword only to find himself stripped to the tattered breeches he’d worn as a corsair slave. Heavy fetters linked by a rusting chain hobbled his bare feet.

  ‘Where is this?’ Micaran looked around the dusky woodland apprehensively. He was also barefoot, wearing only threadbare breeches and a ragged shirt. He stared at the Soluran. ‘Who are you? This is no memory of mine.’

  The Soluran smiled with malicious satisfaction. ‘You are lost, my friend.’

  Corrain lunged for the man. Before he could lay a hand on him, the Soluran vanished. He swallowed a vile oath. ‘Take us back, Micaran.’

  The mentor didn’t seem to hear him. He was pressing his hands to the side of his head, eyes tight closed as he muttered something under his breath.

  Corrain recognised the lyrical flow of Artifice even if the words were meaningless to him. He waited for the carillon square to reappear. Meantime, he looked warily for any movement in the shadows beneath the oak trees. Somehow this unreal day had shifted from mid-morning to late evening.

  Nothing changed.

  ‘Come on, Micaran!’ he demanded curtly.

  With no sign that the scholarly adept had heard him, Corrain took a swift step towards him. The clanking chain between his feet pulled him up short, forcing him into the loathsome slave shuffle of the Archipelago. Anger rising to match his growing fear, Corrain shoved Micaran’s shoulder to compel his attention.

  Corrain’s hand passed straight through the adept’s shirt and the flesh and bone beneath. Worse than that, as Micaran opened his eyes and looked fearfully around, his gaze swept straight past Corrain.

  Had he somehow become a shade himself? Despite himself, Corrain tried to grab the scholar’s arm. Once more, his fingers found only empty air.

  ‘Micaran!’ He yelled so loudly that his throat burned.

  The scholar backed away. Corrain’s instant of relief died as he realised Micaran wasn’t looking at him. The adept’s eyes were fixed on something behind him, white-rimmed with terror.

  Corrain heard a footfall and whirled around. He took a startled step backwards, initially unable to believe what he was seeing.

  A handful of Eldritch Kin, blue-skinned, wearing loin cloths and scanty wraps of black fabric as insubstantial as shadow. Man-shaped but subtly different. Subtly wrong, with their limbs too long and their bodies unnaturally thin. Their black hair was more like a cat’s pelt and their eyes were featureless pools of darkness without white, iris or pupil.

  Eldritch Kin. As the thought formed in Corrain’s mind, the closest turned its inky gaze on him. Its smile widened to reveal teeth as wickedly pointed as the sharks which had followed the corsair slavers, ready to eat those thrown overboard, dead or alive.

  Breaking off from its companions, it stalked towards him. As its form shifted eerily with every stride, Corrain couldn’t help thinking of a man’s shadow on a sunny day; rising and falling, now tall and thin, now short and squat as he passed by walls and alley ways.

  Corrain clenched his fists. Eldritch Kin were children’s tales, phantoms born of grandmothers’ warnings to frighten children away from hot hearths and to curb any wish to stray from their skirts.

  The creature’s smile widened and it shook its head as though chiding him. Corrain took a hasty step backwards, only to find himself hampered once again by that cursed chain. The Eldritch Kinsman matched him pace for pace while the others advanced, intent on Micaran.

  The mentor had his back pressed hard against an oak tree but he was no longer standing tall. Micaran cowered like a child, hiding his face in his hands.

  One of the Eldritch Kin lashed out with a talon-tipped hand. The filthy claws ripped five deep gouges in Micaran’s shoulder. Blood soaked torn, grubby linen as the adept screamed.

  Corrain took a step towards him but the smiling Eldritch Kinsman swiftly blocked his path. Corrain snarled wordlessly and threw a brutal punch at its skinny midriff. His fist passed straight through its shadowy form and he sprawled headlong, to land flat on his belly.

  He heard Micaran scream for a second time before choking on a sob of agony. The Eldritch Kin were laughing; a hateful, whispering cackle. Micaran screamed again.


  Corrain planted his hands in the leaf litter, ready to spring up. Before he could move, the Eldritch Kinsman landed on his back, knocking the wind out of him. The creature leaned forward, its face close to his ear, hissing with wordless malice. Corrain felt its cold breath on his cheek and terror threatened to unman him utterly.

  Shame was more lacerating than the creature’s talons now digging into his shoulders. He was no warrior when he couldn’t even safeguard this defenceless scholar. He was failing Micaran just as he had failed every last one of those Halferan men enslaved alongside him. He was truly only fit for chains.

  Chains. Corrain swung his feet upwards and forwards with all his might, arching his back so violently that his knees left the ground. If it could claw him then he could surely hit back and that heavy loop of chain striking the Kinsman’s back should give it something to think about.

  The creature sprang away with a venomous gasp. As soon as he he was relieved of its weight, Corrain rolled over, his fists ready.

  The Kinsman crouched like a wrestler, its unnatural mouth wide in a menacing snarl. Corrain got slowly to his feet as he waited for the creature to make the first move. He was more concerned with assessing Micaran’s plight.

  He could see the adept huddled on the ground with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around his head. Micaran was doing nothing to fight off the Eldritch Kin. His shirt was a bloodstained mess of rags and Corrain could see bright lifeblood pumping from a rip in his breeches to stain the dry turf.

  ‘Micaran!’

  As he yelled, the Kinsman leaped forward, clawed hands spread and fangs bared. Corrain dived straight at it, ready to wrestle it to the ground and snap its neck if he could.

  Instead, he felt a paralysing chill as he passed straight through its shadowy body once again. The only constant in this fight seemed to be inconsistency. No matter. Only the remaining four stood between him and Micaran. He just had to get the scholar away before the murderous creatures ripped the fool to shreds—

  ‘You can strike them when you’re angry enough but you can’t hurt them,’ the Soluran observed, leaning against an oak tree. ‘They’re not your fear.’

  Corrain halted. ‘Who are you? Why are you doing this?’

  The Soluran smiled with malice to equal any of the Eldritch Kin. ‘I’m the man who knows what you fear most.’

  The Kinsmen now looming over Micaran tore at his quivering flesh. Their taloned hands were bloodied to the elbow, wet stains dark on their dusky blue skin.

  But Corrain had seen the evil creatures standing immobile while the Soluran was speaking. His silence had loosed them to renew their attack.

  ‘What do you think you know about me?’ he challenged him.

  In the next instant, the Soluran was at his side, whispering into his ear. ‘I know that you fear losing those who look to you to defend them. I know that you fear seeing them die while you look on, unable to do anything to save them. I know that you fear dying alone, so far from home that no one ever knows what has become of you, only wondering if you failed or you fled to live out your days in disgrace.’

  Corrain couldn’t help shuddering. The Eldritch Kinsman at his other shoulder hissed with satisfaction. Its spittle stung his cheek, sharp as frost. The Soluran chuckled and Micaran screamed.

  Corrain couldn’t look away. Micaran wept, his defiance weakening. His arms sagged to leave his head unprotected. His eyes were screwed tight closed as his mouth gaped in a silent scream of terror.

  One of the Eldritch Kin clawed at his head, ripping locks of hair from his scalp. The pale bone of Micaran’s skull showed through the bloody gashes. Another stabbed at his hand, time and again until the scholar struck out, flailing wildly in vain hope of evading such torment.

  The Eldritch Kinsman thrust its talons deep into his forearm. Micaran couldn’t shake off its grip so the creature wrenched his arm wide. The third creature sprang forward to rake at his face. Micaran barely managed to block its blow with his free hand.

  Corrain’s warning died in his throat, bitter as ashes. That was just the move his attackers had wanted the scholar to make. The third Kinsman dug its claws deep into Micaran’s wrist, securing a firm hold. The two creatures pinioning him cackled with terrible glee as they dragged his arms wide.

  The last Kinsman advanced, hissing with delight. It drew one talon delicately down the side of Micaran’s face. Blood gushed from the wound, oozing down his neck.

  The mentor suddenly thrashed in his captors’ grip. Where he had been weeping in utter despair, now he bellowed with furious defiance.

  Corrain’s heart soared. ‘Fight back! You know they’re not real!’

  What did this Soluran know? He was right about Corrain hating the memory of chains and being stripped of his weapons but he hadn’t been most afraid of dying in this northern forest. This was where he’d come in hopes of finding a wizard, only to secure the Mandarkin Anskal’s services and to double and redouble Halferan’s misfortunes.

  True enough, Corrain was terrified of his guilt being revealed and he had buried that dread deep in his innermost heart. But such fear still came second to the nightmare of finding himself back on the corsair island. If the Soluran knew that, surely this forest would have been fringe trees and ironwoods, not oak and hazel thickets?

  In the blink of an eye, the Soluran was on the far side of the clearing. The Eldritch Kinsman hissing at his side was nowhere to be seen. Corrain took a long stride forward, free of his fetters. He took another step, ready to drag the vile creatures off Micaran.

  Too late. Even as the scholar fought to free himself from the two holding down his arms, the third slashed at his face and neck in sudden frenzy. Blood sprayed high into the air and Micaran slumped insensible between the Eldritch Kinsmen. The creatures crowed with exultation as they ripped into his chest and stomach to eviscerate him.

  A horse whickered irritably at the rankness of murder tainting the sweet woodland air.

  Corrain spun around to see the man from Wrede, dressed as he had been in Ferl, riding the same bay colt.

  The man pursed his lips. ‘This hardly seems fair.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Corrain was ready to pull the man clean from his saddle. He wanted to get his hands around someone’s neck today.

  ‘That doesn’t matter.’ The man smiled. ‘What matters is what you believe.’ He jerked his head beyond Corrain. ‘Do you believe you can kill him? If so, you can avenge your friend.’

  Corrain heard a twig snap behind him, as though someone had taken an incautious step. Turning as quickly as he could, he saw the Soluran barely a pace away, staring with horror at his own foot.

  The Eldritch Kin had disappeared. Micaran lay limp in a welter of blood.

  The Soluran looked at Corrain, aghast.

  The Soluran ran. Corrain chased him. Without any clear path, the undergrowth was thick enough to hamper the desperate Soluran. Not thick enough to slow Corrain with the prospect of vengeance before him.

  Birds flew up from the thickets, calling loudly, harsh with fright. Corrain ignored them along with the thorns raking his bare arms and the brambles tearing his unprotected shins. If such discomfort was real then so was the Soluran.

  He was gaining with every step. Now the man was almost within reach. With a sudden lunge, Corrain seized hold of his cloak. He hauled on the cloth, twisting to use his body weight to bring the Soluran down.

  The clasp at the cloak’s collar gave way with an audible snap. No matter. The man was staggering sideways in a vain attempt to regain his balance.

  Corrain was on him, wrapping his arms around him and bearing him down to the ground. As the Soluran writhed, Corrain twisted to get on top of him. He drove his knee into the man’s groin to cut his struggles short with a shrill yelp of pain.

  The Soluran doubled up around his agony. Corrain got one hand around his throat and forced his head backwards, driving his other fist deep into the man’s midriff just for good measure. The Soluran retched, about to
vomit.

  Corrain clamped the hand he’d just used to punch him over the man’s face, to hold his nose and mouth closed. Drowning on his own spew would kill the bastard just as surely as a blade and Corrain had nothing to cut his thrice-cursed throat.

  The Soluran tried to dig his nails into Corrain’s hands. His fingertips slipped on the sweat and muck coating the Caladhrian’s skin. Corrain tightened his grip around the man’s throat, feeling for the vessels carrying blood to Micaran’s murderer’s brain.

  The Soluran struggled more frantically. Corrain pinned him with a brutal knee just below his ribs. As he brought all his weight to bear, the man’s thrashing weakened. Corrain didn’t yield, not about to be caught out by that brawler’s trick.

  The hired gig swayed as they rounded a corner. Corrain grabbed frantically for the rail. Micaran’s body slid across the seat and the adept’s dead weight almost tipped them both out onto the cobbles.

  The driver glanced over his shoulder as he felt his vehicle so perilously unbalanced. ‘Is your friend all right?’

  Corrain searched desperately for any sign of life; the faintest breath or the slightest hint of Micaran’s heart still beating to be found at wrist or neck.

  ‘Get us to Tolekan Street,’ he yelled. ‘As quick as you can!’

  Or should he direct the gig to the Red Library? Could Master Garewin and one of his fellow adepts work some marvel? If Micaran wasn’t truly lost but somehow held at Saedrin’s threshold? For an endless moment, Corrain clung to that frailest of hopes; that Micaran’s undeserved fate wouldn’t be another death to be laid to his account.

  Then brutal reason reasserted itself. Corrain had seen enough dead men to know that he held Micaran’s corpse in his arms.

  Tears trickled down his cheeks even as he felt rage burning beneath his breastbone.

  What of the Soluran? He could only hope that somewhere in this city, the bastard’s body lay just as lifeless.

  Though that wouldn’t be the end of it, not by a long measure. Not once Corrain called down Hadrumal’s vengeance on whoever was behind the murderous adept. As long as some wizardry could find out who that might be. Despite himself, doubt closed cold fingers around Corrain’s heart.