Thief of the Ancients

by Mike Wild

  Slowhand stared at her. “You’ve experienced Querilous Fitch’s manipulations first-hand. Yes, I believe they turned her, somehow – her and others.”

  Kali swallowed. “But why Jenna? And where is she now?”

  “Jenna was a battlefield tactician for the Freiport Independents – I guess they had a use for her talents. As for where she is, I don’t know – but not for want of looking. She could be garrisoned somewhere remote, maybe even a member of the Order of Dawn. But I’ll find her, Hooper – if I have to tear the Final Faith apart, eventually I’ll find her.”

  “I know,” Kali said.

  Slowhand lapsed into silence after that, and after a few minutes turned in his bedroll, settling himself down for sleep.

  Kali lay there staring at him for a moment, deciding.

  Maybe it was the flummox, but more likely it was the fact that Slowhand had just revealed a side of himself that she’d never suspected before.

  She stroked his cheek.

  “In the meantime...” she said.

  And agony hit. Another vision. Only this time she was outside of herself, looking at her own body as it lay slung in the arms of an ogur. Her flesh was grey, her clothing thick with blood, and worst of all, she did not appear to be breathing.

  The ogur pounded through the night, carrying her body and, as it went, it roared and roared and roared.

  Kali heard herself scream.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” Killiam Slowhand said urgently, soothingly, and as quickly as it had come, the vision was gone. Kali realised that she had screamed out loud and was wrapped in his arms and he was rocking her back and forth. “Bad dream, bad dream,” he said. “Shush, shush.”

  The night had not turned out quite as she expected, but Kali did not move from Slowhand’s arms. She continued to lie there and he continued to rock her back and forth, and she stared up at the stars.

  So much had happened to her since this whole thing had begun – so much she didn’t understand – but now at least she knew how it was all going to end.

  She knew she was going to die.

  Here. Soon.

  And she knew what was going to kill her.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  DAWN CAME – AND at the same time, didn’t. The eclipse that had been on the cards for weeks was now finally coming to fruition, and instead of daylight replacing the azure twilight that had bathed them during a fitful sleep, a different kind of halflight made it seem as if the night simply continued on, imbuing the air with a languor that seemed to depress and slow the morning down. It was an atmosphere that failed to make Kali feel any better about her vision.

  The languor did not last for long, however. The imminent cosmic conjunction also brought with it one of the worst storms Kali or Slowhand could remember, beginning with heavy and warm drops of rain that soon became splatters and then a downfall, this whipped by an increasingly tumultuous wind that Kali reckoned would be a full-blown hurricane within the hour.

  The light and the weather worked to their advantage, though. Both of them donned squallcoats and, from the ridge that had sheltered their camp, watched and waited as Makennon and her expedition broke their own, ready to move out as soon as they did. Guiding Horse by a horn, they walked him through the gorge perhaps a hundred yards behind the Final Faith, their presence so close to the enemy group obscured and obfuscated by the driving storm. As soon as their party had passed through the gorge, Kali and Slowhand veered to the east, and when they were a sufficient distance away both of them mounted the bamfcat and rode him on. They could not spur Horse on to full gallop – the terrain near the edge of the peninsula was simply too treacherous, unpredictable and prone to landslip even in good weather – but that didn’t really matter because, even at the rate they travelled, they had soon drawn ahead of Makennon and Munch.

  They were going to find the site and they were going to beat the Final Faith to it. The only thing they had to do was work out what to do when they got there.

  They continued on for another hour, checking occasionally that Makennon’s party remained behind them and that they hadn’t missed something obvious – unlikely but still possible in the continuing storm. The sky darkened more and more as each minute passed, until it was a deep purple verging on black. It seemed logical that the worsening light would make finding Orl more difficult but, in fact, it was becoming an increasingly more simple task because they were running out of land. They could hear the Sarcrean Sea breaking violently on the far western edge of the peninsula now, and ahead of them Kali was just able to make out the looming and jutting stone of the coastal feature she had heard about but to this point never travelled this far west to see – the so-called Dragonwing Cliffs. The peculiar rock formations did sweep up on the horizon almost like wings, reminding them both of the fossilised remains in Scholten, but these were merely inanimate rock, carved over the years into their current shapes by the rather unique weather patterns of the nearby Stormwall. A meteorological anomaly that defied all natural explanation, the Stormwall wrapped the end of the peninsula about a league offshore, like a giant hand formed out of cloud, thunder, lightning and rain. No one had ever passed through it, only around it, and all shipping – what shipping dared this roughest part of Twilight’s already tempestuous seas – avoided it by as much wheelage as they could. Why it was there – and why it maintained its roiling, booming and flashing presence in all weathers – no one knew, only that what lay beyond it – the Sarcre Islands – basked in a tropical weather system that was unknown anywhere else in the known world, and that, strictly speaking, should not exist.

  The Stormwall and the Sarcre Islands, Kali thought. If she were to believe all normal accounts of this desolate part of the peninsula, there was nothing beyond them and nothing else here. But according to other accounts, there had to be.

  Kali decided to tether Horse before they went any further, the terrain becoming too dangerous for his large and heavy form to negotiate. And, as it turned out, she did so just in time. Kali and Slowhand were making their way forwards, their long squallcoats flapping about them, when Twilight’s distant sun moved fully behind Kerberos and its eclipse became full, plunging the Dragonwing Cliffs into almost total darkness. The pair could still see where they were going, by starlight, and just, but for the most part now the only guide they had to how close to the edge they were was the increasingly deafening roar of the waves crashing onto the rocks below. Even this, though, was only an intermittent guide, and they had to pause quite frequently when the sound of the sea was obliterated by the whistling and insanely howling wind.

  Able to communicate only by gestures, they at last reached the edge, expecting to look down and see only the wild turmoil of the Sarcrean Sea. For a moment their expectations were met but, then, glimpsed between squalls, they spotted what they might least expect to see in the presence of so much raging water – fire. Both faltered momentarily but, yes, fire it was – flickering and fluttering plumes floating on the surface of the water. No, Kali realised, after a second, not on the water but leading across the water, twin lines of wind-blasted and mounted torches, to be precise, forming a wide avenue that narrowed with perspective as it led out into the sea.

  Kali followed the fiery avenue back with her eyes, able to distinguish more now that she knew what it was. The torches seemed to climb the cliff face, disappearing only the higher they came, where they were obscured by the very edge she overlooked. Swallowing slowly, she beckoned Slowhand to follow her, moving slightly along the cliff, and there the two of them found themselves standing at the top of a part of the Dragonwings that veered diagonally rather than vertically, an age-old projection down and beyond the cliff wall that was less precipitous than its bordering sides. The feature at first seemed natural but then revealed itself to be distinctly and unnaturally shaped. In fact, it appeared as if at some time long in its past the projection had been deliberately and laboriously carved into deep and broad increments that looked suspiciously like risers.

  The
hells with suspiciously, Kali thought. They couldn’t be anything else. At the same time as Slowhand lowered his jaw in surprise, she realised she was looking down a mammoth flight of steps.

  This was the site. Orl, it had to be, she’d found it. Her elation at the fact was, however, marred by the knowledge that, while the steps were clearly old, the torches were not. She might have beaten Makennon herself here but the Anointed Lord had obviously sent in advance troops, probably during the night, to prepare the place for her arrival. Gods, what was it with that woman – did she want everywhere she went freshly painted too? Would she only use a privy where people couldn’t hear her tinkle?

  Advance troops or not, she was still going in. The question was, into what? She hadn’t until now known what to expect of Orl, but if she had pictured anything it wouldn’t have been this. She stared at the avenue of torches again, leading into the sea. What exactly, she wondered, was Orl doing out there?

  Kali patted Slowhand on the shoulder, pointing down, and the two of them moved onto the steps, but Slowhand halted her almost immediately, pointing out two sentries illuminated by the flare of the torches a good way below and away from where they stood. Both Final Faith thugs were positioned beyond what would have been the shoreline but on what, they could now see, was actually a rock jetty thrusting out between the waves. While their presence was a hindrance to Kali and Slowhand’s immediate plan, what was more disturbing was what lay at the end of the jetty itself. For there, half-obscured by the lashing rain and battered by the thrashing waters, was an ominous-looking grey structure shaped something like a cowl. Enshrouding the end of the jetty, it sat solidly amidst the maelstrom, a great shadowed maw offering entry into whatever the cowl enclosed, what appeared to be gigantic black pipes arching from its roof and down into the sea – or from the sea into its roof – that from this distance appeared to thrust from it like an insect’s legs. Whatever the hells it was, both Kali and Slowhand knew what it looked like. A giant, heavy spider, just sitting there, waiting.

  Kali knew she had to get closer, find out what it was. But with the presence of the sentries, there were only two ways they were going to be able to do that.

  Slowhand had already thought of one. He was already raising his bow and lining up twin arrows, but Kali stayed his hand, shook her head.

  “Take them down and Makennon will know we’re here!” she shouted. “We have to get around them!”

  “There is no way around them!” the archer shouted back.

  Kali nodded. “Yes, there is!” She pointed down the steps to the side of the stone jetty. “We swim around!”

  “No chance, Hooper. If the cold doesn’t get you, then the currents around the Dragonwings will. You’ll be smashed and dead on some Sarcre Island beach before you know it!”

  Kali stared at him. “No, I won’t!”

  Slowhand sighed. The trouble was, he knew Kali was right and that, really, they had no other choice. “Remind me again – why didn’t I escape the sewers when I had the chance?”

  Crouching and keeping low, using alternate torch supports for cover, the pair began to clamber down the weatherworn rock steps, each of which was half as high as themselves. As they did, they noticed that the tops of the risers were fractured and cracked in places, as if they had once been trodden by some immense and sustained weight, something formidable that had at some point in the past ascended these cliffs. They couldn’t concern themselves with what, though, as their immediate priority was to reach the jetty unseen. Thankfully, the sentries appeared to be more concerned with what lay behind them than in front, and they managed the long descent without discovery. Once down, they crab-walked to the edge of the jetty and, other than a moaning hiss from Slowhand, slid silently into the water.

  As Slowhand had no hesitation in pointing out, the water was farking freezing, and even right next to the shore Kali could feel strong, swirling undercurrents tug at her and try to pull her away into the darker depths, but she fought against them, keeping to the jetty’s side and clinging to it with cold, wet hands. As Slowhand followed, she inched her way along the stone, and the further she went, the more uneasy she began to feel – a feeling that was difficult to explain, almost as if they were sharing the water with... something. But she saw nothing.

  At last they drew even with the two sentries, waiting for a particularly strong gust of wind before continuing, lest the smallest ripple give them away. They pulled themselves perhaps another twenty yards along the jetty before deeming it sufficiently out of view to climb out, but just as they were about to do so, a series of clatters and rumbles from the shoreline made them plunge back into the water.

  “Dammit, Makennon!” Kali hissed.

  “Too late to make a run for it,” Slowhand advised. “Stay down.”

  They did so, heads bobbing as if decapitated on the surface of the water, and watched as Makennon and her retinue rumbled slowly along the jetty towards their position. The woman had brought everything with her down the steps, including the wagons on strangely articulated wheels, and staring up from the water at the torchlit procession of horses, mages and soldiers – not to mention Munch and his cage containing the ogur – both Kali and Slowhand felt like small children watching the arrival in town of some bizarre carnival. The trouble was, it looked as if this particular carnival would be pitching tents just ahead of them, blocking the path to the cowl.

  Or would they? As Kali and Slowhand watched, the procession reached the far end of the jetty and then continued on into the cowl-shaped structure, each of the wagons disappearing into the maw until the rear of the last seemed to tip and was gone. Slowhand stared at the front of the cowl, craned his neck to stare at its rear, and worked out that there was no way it was deep enough to take them all.

  “Now there’s a turn-up for the books,” he said. “Like that magic trick where you pull worgle after worgle out of a hat.” He paused. “Only in reverse.” He paused again. “And with wagons instead of worgles.”

  “Make more sense if it just continued down, eh?” Kali said. She looked at Slowhand’s bemused expression and found she had to explain by waggling her fingers. “More steps,” she said. “It must be underwater. Orl must be underwater.”

  The concept was clearly difficult for Slowhand to grasp, and she couldn’t blame him – she had never seen anything like it either. “Underwater? Hooper, you are sure this is Orl, aren’t you? Not some forgotten tunnel under the Stormwall? Maybe they are taking the ogur on holiday, after all.”

  His question was half-rhetorical and, in truth, he expected an answer like: “Of course I’m sure,” but what Kali actually said was: “No.”

  “No?” he repeated.

  “No,” Kali echoed. “The scrolls in Andon were... a little contradictory in places. Oh, don’t get me wrong, this is Orl all right, I’m just not sure that it’s called that. But now that we’re actually here there may be a way to find out. Come on.”

  Kali heaved herself from the water and a confused Slowhand followed, shaking his leg to rid his pants of water. Kali had already reached the cowl and was examining it when he caught up.

  “Old Race sites sometimes have identifying runics,” she said, “particularly if they’re of dwarven origin. I think it was a clan thing.”

  Slowhand smiled. “You mean they gave their houses names? Like Dunhammerin’?”

  “Something like that. Should be one just about – ah.”

  Kali knelt by a rough inscription, brushed away seasalt and grime with her hand, concentrated and frowned. These carved runics were never completely decipherable – there were far too many cryptographic elements she simply didn’t have knowledge of – but in general she was able to get the gist of what they were saying. And the gist of this one confirmed what she thought. This place wasn’t called Orl, it was called Martak.

  No, wait, she thought. The runic contained too many characters, there were gaps where they shouldn’t be, and the emphasis was wrong...

  Hells, Martak wasn’t a word,
it was a –

  Kali’s mind filled again with the images and accounts from the manuscripts in the Three Towers. Yes, what she read fitted with them, made sense. But if that was the case – if this place wasn’t called Orl – then why the reference to the Clockwork King of Orl, a phrase that even the old man himself had used? Could it be he was mistaken – that Makennon and her people were also mistaken – and it was again a reflection of how difficult it was to decipher the Old Race language? That, or perhaps even some of the old manuscripts themselves were wrong, that somehow, over the long years, the phrase had become misinterpreted, corrupted? What she would need to do in that case was put the phrase in context, think about it in the overall terms of the accounts she’d read...

  Unbidden, her second vision leapt once more into her mind, the desolate landscape, the pounding, the figures rising over the horizon.

  My gods, she thought, what had happened here at Martak? What had driven the dwarves here, to this lonely place at the edge of the world? What had become of them?

  Exactly what was the Clockwork King?

  Questions, again. And only one way to find out the answers.

  Kali peered into the cowl, making sure their way was clear. They were going in.

  “Well, this is a new one,” Slowhand said, gazing uneasily up at the shadows that enveloped them. He felt as if he were indeed entering some giant maw.

  “What are you talking about?” Kali said, her voice echoing slightly in the dark.

  “You – actually going in through a front door.”

  “Hey, there’s a first time for everything.”

  They might have been going in through the front door but that didn’t make them welcome guests – just the opposite, in fact. While there was little danger of their being confronted by the original inhabitants of Martak, there was no way to tell if Makennon had stationed any men on the steps down. They could also hear the clattering of her convoy further below – sound travelled easily inside the cowl – and they took care to move slowly, making no sudden moves whose echoes might alert the Faith to their presence behind them.