Over the heads of the Dead they leapt, stormcloud-demons of the thuribles’ fire, striking down with tzerbuchjer-lightning. Tearing off their hoods, they pulled closer their prey to embrace them with sweet garrotte, face to face. That these were no longer truly human could indeed be seen, if truly human they had ever been, for in their lust for blood they had let their own as if they resented the stuff of life flowing in their cold veins. So impressed by the Dead they were, they had further tightened the wires around their heads, which now cut deeply into the flesh, in some cases to the bone, the better to emulate their new comrades. Thus their faces were masks of blood whose steady dripping freshly emblazoned their aprons.
Squeals rose as for the first time Englarielle’s followers became acquainted with the cheesewires of the leaping Oghain, squeals swiftly cut off in liquid chokes as the garrottes bit deeply into necks. Beneath the attentions of these deranged assassins, both Vetter and Cervulus went down in hideous thrashings of limbs.
‘Get the freaks! Get those freaks!’ Nibulus screamed as he became aware of what was happening. He leapt backwards up the step behind him, leaving his place in the line to be filled by a hefty Cervulus, and ploughed his way through the throng, battering Vetters aside and even trampling them underfoot as he struggled to come to their aid.
Quick as vipers and agile as tree rats though they might be, he found the Vetterym crushed together in a solid pack, almost unable to move. Their legendary toughness availed them little against shining wires that cut to the neck bone or flayed the entire face from the skull, nor against the tzerbuchjers that ripped and crushed defenceless flesh.
In among them the tall Cervulice strove to impale these leaping lords of wire-faced dementia upon their spear-like horns, or pull them down, snarling like snared badgers, from their head-dancing perches. Under the splayed hooves of the Vettersteed they were trampled, and their bodies speared with Jordiske bones by the enraged Vetters clustering around.
Among these latter were Radkin and Ted, whose eyes blazed as red as their fur, sodden with the blood of those they slew. They grappled with a high-leaping wire-face in an effort to bring him down. No savagery was spared, as fingers, toes, teeth and tails were brought to bear, but after tortured moments, the tzerbuchjer, still in its owner’s steely grip, was gradually swivelled around and forced back up towards the Ogha’s own face.
Ted was right on top of him now, straining with every sinew of his blacksmith’s frame to push the lethal instrument’s jagged edge closer to the wire-encased flesh. Their faces were now so close he was forced to inhale the carrion-breath directly from the enemy’s lungs into his own. But as he stared into those inflamed eyes, even now at the point of dying, he recognized neither pain nor fear, no vestige of mercy, love or humanity. For these wire-face elite were brothers-in-arms, whose arms would embrace only death.
If it’s death you love so much, then who am I to stand in your way . . .
And slowly, ever so slowly, the sharpened bones and teeth that adorned the tzerbuchjer mingled with those of its bearer.
But for every one they skewered, and every one the Vetters hauled down and overwhelmed, another two wire-faces would leap over the heads of the advancing foe and begin afresh. And as the besieged stared up at them in dismay, there arrived another source of agony and death, only this time from below.
Kids. Not the Children of the Keep but zombi-brats, crawling between their legs and stabbing up with rusty knives. Death from above, death from below, and death from all around, an entire new chorus of screams filled the hall, and the defenders began to crumble.
‘Bastards!’ Nibulus was crying. ‘Bastards! Bastards!’ And with each imprecation he sent further Dead to their destruction. Still caught in the thick of the assailed Vetterym, the Peladane had no room to wield Unferth and was lashing out instead with gauntleted fist, elbow-spike and iron-tipped boot. He was now possessed by an uncontrollable fury he had never known possible, till steam seemed to blow hot and red from the nostrils of the boar visor masking his face.
But in all his bellicose career Nibulus had never slain children. He had sent entire battalions in to sack cities, knowing in a reluctant part of his mind that no mercy would be shown to its inhabitants of whatever tender years. Once inside the breached walls, his green-cloaked knights errant, his noble defenders of the faith, would become merely joyful bulge-eyed rapists and guzzlers of human blood. But staring down into the dead eyes of those undead imps as they brought their rusty little knives up into the vitals of his comrades, Nibulus knew that this truly was hell he had descended into. These were the ghosts of every child he had allowed to die: vengeful merciless revenants, ice-cold spirits that merely returned the blades of the murderers into their guilty owners’ own flesh.
Had those eyes of theirs shifted but once to fix the Thegne in a reproachful glare, he would have broken down and succumbed to their knives, bled tears of pity for what once they had been. But there was not one flicker of recrimination to be seen, and for that small mercy at least Nibulus was thankful. As he continued putting these children to sleep forever, rather than an act of brutality it felt to him more like an act of long-overdue mercy.
Thus the defenders fought, and thus they died, for it was a losing battle, and could not be otherwise. Further up the ziggurat they were pushed for they were now far fewer. They trampled and slipped upon the bodies of their own fallen as they ascended, and left behind the remains of others, making even higher the wall of slain. The air thickened with censer fumes, the wails of the dying, the snapping of bones and the despairing yammering of those few who had breath enough in their lungs to manage it.
At the very top, gasping for breath, stomach heaving, Paulus yammered along with them. Like a wounded rat, he had wedged himself into a corner of the altar and lay choking in terror.
No one could begin to guess what was unfolding in his mind, for no one had been to the place where he had been, or where he was now, or where he felt he was going. For, as he writhed up there upon the very altar of Drauglir, once more an explosion of shattering glass had filled his head. Red, blue and green swam before his eyes, then blackness, cold, still and complete. Down a long tunnel his soul had sped. A journey through long centuries and out to the days beyond. And at the end of it, bizarrely, the single small figure of Radnar. The boy turned slowly to regard the newcomer, and Paulus saw that his eyes were glassy with petrifaction. Within them he could see a vision of the hell that approached all of them within the chamber:
Shadows flickering against the roof of a flame-red cave . . . figures beneath it, their hair matted and slick with steaming blood . . . rising from the depths of a river of magma. And above it all, the ghost of a sound: the distorted laughter of children playing out in the woods.
A connection? Like Paulus, the boy had been incarcerated by rawgrkind and, just as the boy did, so too did Paulus now feel their dread presence. So close. Mere minutes away.
The Children of the Keep are coming . . .
It was into the pandemonium of the failing battle that a new evil strode. Amid the escalating clangour of those awful tolling bells and the deranged screeching of the wire-faces that rose now to a frenzied crescendo, the smog parted, divided into two by a rawgr-wind to form a narrow corridor that climbed the ziggurat from base to apex. And ascending the steps leading up this passage, swaggering like a god, Scathur finally came into their midst.
They parted for him, the regiment of the damned, backing away to line the smogless aisle and howl in jubilant supplication. Up the steps of his master’s altar he trod, and with each step he took his pale robe furled back to reveal what lay beneath. A habergeon of polished yttrium he wore, each scale wrought in the likeness of a flame. But these were flames that appeared to writhe and constantly change shape, so that this rawgr armour did indeed appear to be made of real fire. And in each flaming scale could be seen the tortured faces of the victims he had sacrificed, for Scathur would have his loved ones close to him at this his hour of victory.
His head turned slightly and, though at this distance none of the company could see clearly his eyes, Nibulus sensed beyond doubt that Scathur was looking directly at him. Then the D’Archangel’s bardische appeared. He did not draw it out from concealment, neither did it magically materialize in his hands; it was simply there. Power and pestilence ran along its length, and its gleaming axeheads whined in expectation, sweated with red-brown lubrication.
Nobody, nothing, now stood between Scathur and the Peladane. For five hundred years the Rawgr had waited for this moment, half a millennium of pure hatred compressed by the rock of this island, forged into something inconceivably terrible by the fire, hardened by the ice into a coldness that was the antithesis of life. Now at last the tables were turned, and the Rawgr would drive out the Peladane.
Slowly, relentlessly, he ascended.
FIFTEEN
Last Leave-Taking for the Lost
ON DOWN THE LONG hallway they ran, the long final hallway that led to the Chamber of Drauglir. In a ragged and strung-out line – Dolen well out in front, Brecca right at the rear – the thieves of Tyvenborg tore along, almost reaching the very limit of their stamina. And still the phantasms of Finwald snapped at their heels.
Mauglad Yrkeshta’s meat-chariot pounded along as keenly as ever, but there was something bothering him now, something he was becoming increasingly aware of. Those revolting little evocations of the mage-priest that continued to pop out of the air like impudent blisters were still occurring as before, but a change had taken place. For the conjuror’s illusions were no longer emanating purely from himself, the original source behind them, herding them onward like scourged dogs, but from all around them . . .
Yes, there was a power in this passageway. There always had been, he recalled, even back in his day. It was a power capable of producing illusions matching those of the priest way behind them. Illusions from behind, illusions from all around? But there was more: it was all very muddled, and there was no way he could be sure, but to Mauglad it seemed that there might be yet another, third, power source helping create these phantasms, one that was neither behind them nor around them but rather right in front of them.
The Chamber of Drauglir itself.
There of course had lain the greatest source of power in the whole of Vaagenfjord Maw. But why would it now produce such illusions? What purpose could that serve? Were they mere reflections of the Lightbearer’s magic-lantern tricks, stirred into glowing life once more by Finwald’s reawakening of the tomes, humming in accord with sympathetic resonance? For, as Mauglad drew nearer, it became increasingly clear that there were sounds of pandemonium coming from the chamber. Sounds of evil, sounds of death . . . sounds of conflict.
It then hit him: Unholy god, these are no illusions! The Sword has arrived before we have! The battle has already begun!
For Mauglad, he whose very soul was at direst risk here, there was no longer any need for Finwald to crack the whip. Mauglad now charged ahead so madly that he reopened the wound the arrow had made in his current host’s back and trailed blood behind him like the quarry on a paperchase.
The sword the sword the sword the sword the sword the sword . . .
It became the one thought in Mauglad’s awareness. In effect, that thought was all that he was, during those infinite seconds as, trailing blood, he streaked along the black passage, a fallen angel plummeting through the lightless void of eternity.
No thoughts of what might happen if he failed, fot that was unthinkable. No thoughts of regret at what he might have done earlier, for that was past. Mauglad just ran and, as he ran, the noises of battle waxed ever louder in his ears. Though aware of these, there was no room in his thoughts for them.
The surge of armies. The crackle of arcane power. The howling of rawgrs. And one sound rising above all else: the roaring of Scathur.
The doors raced up towards him, those blasted-down portals of twisted and molten metal, with black smoke billowing out through them.
The screams of the exultant and the despairing, so loud now they reverberated within his borrowed skull.
Closer. Closer.
Then he was through. Plunging into the pall of smoke. Through the door, into the chamber. Into the battle . . .
And the silence rang as loudly in his head as did the sound of his heart beating.
For there was nothing. No battle, no people, no noise, no light. It was as still as the graveyard it had been for the last five hundred years. The battle was over, finished, cleared up. As finished as Mauglad’s soul. He had arrived too late.
The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps seeped into his consciousness. Seconds later the thieves arrived and slowed to a stop just as he had done. In confusion they fumbled for their lamps for the fires of Finwald’s spells had gone out.
Finwald’s spells! That’s all it was! Mauglad, hardly dared to believe this revelation that flooded into the abyss of his despair. Finwald’s spells and the sympathetic resonance they had set up from the chamber.
Moments later Finwald himself stepped through the doorway and peered about. Then he noticed the varying expressions on the thieves’ faces, and a glint appeared in his eyes.
He winked at them.
He had reached his destination and needed no illusions any more.
‘Hope I didn’t scare you boys too much,’ he said softly, then looked around for a comfortable place to await Bolldhe and his company.
Perhaps they should have been angry. And perhaps they were. But Finwald’s aura of protection was raised again, and there was nothing they could do about it. In any case, relief now overrode any feelings of exasperation they may have harboured and, without hesitation, the thieves hared off as swiftly as possible towards the flue. They had had as much of Vaagenfjord Maw as they could take, and their only thoughts now were of immediate and speedy escape.
Finwald watched them go, and his inner smile finally managed to reach his lips. He reached out a hand towards them and, with the words ‘Here’s one I prepared earlier’ sent out a bolt of white light from his fingertips towards the departing thieves just as they reached the great fireplace. Through their midst it snaked, continued straight up the flue and then disappeared. There was a surge of burning power and a moment later every metal rung that had been clamped into the stone came clattering down in a din that rang harshly throughout the chamber.
The thieves, picking themselves up from the floor where they had dived, stared incredulously at the white-hot rungs that lay in a useless pile before them, then turned and faced Finwald, who now strode past them.
‘Sorry, gentlemen,’ he began conversationally, not bothering to look at them, ‘but I’ve got some work for you yet.’
Finwald hesitated in mid-stride, shaking his head as if to clear it, and blinked one, twice. Such a rush! he thought, still marvelling at the power within him. But he was himself again after only a moment. He may have been high on magic, his brain effervescent and his extremities tingling with the new power that was all his, but he was not so drunk with it as to lose touch with the situation at hand. He had magic to do very soon now, magic of the highest magnitude, and he would need every scrap of concentration to master it. There could be no distractions whatsoever.
For what he had in mind he would first need protection. In this at least his situation had not altered. Had not altered in years. In his present predicament the thieves were the best – the only – protection available. They were far from perfect, he knew only too well, and it might indeed be that they would fail him. But they were now all he had. He would have preferred to continue using his aura of protection, but that required concentration too, and he could not manage two spells at once.
He pricked up his ears. A second later the Dhracus sensed it too, and in another moment all the thieves were looking back towards the door by which they had entered.
Footsteps in the dark.
‘Here they come,’ the mage-priest announced. ‘Best we be about our business.’
He paused for a second and studied the thieves closely, probably more closely than at any time since their first encounter in Eotunlandt. Just look at them. They’re not just hiding – they’re huddling! Perhaps I overdid it a little with my illusions . . . That was always going to be the trouble with this tome-magic, Finwald reflected. It was a little like progressing from rowing a simple coracle to steering a trireme – at least to begin with.
A strange warbling from Dolen’s throat that might have been a chuckle caused them all to start. A second later a weird whispering breathed through the darkness towards them. Holding themselves absolutely still, they listened, not knowing who or what it was out there. After a moment they heard it again and could just about make out what looked from this distance to be a reed-thin beam of pale light, coming from where they guessed they themselves had entered the chamber.
Moments passed, then all of a sudden there came a terrible ‘NO!!’ that reverberated towards them in vertiginous waves that rose and fell, misshapen by the air in this place that seemed to have the power to warp even sound.
My old mates, Finwald reminded himself, smoothing down the shudder that rippled from toes to hair. And that, I would guess, was Bolldhe. Couldn’t have timed it better.
He turned back to the thieves and noticed that they were all pressed against the rear wall with a solid determination not to move. But he also noted how they had their weapons drawn and held steady before them. Like cornered rats, they had an air of intending to sell their lives dearly.
Finwald pondered. Probably best not to push it any further now. Not until I have to. Don’t suppose it would do any harm to risk waiting for the old crew right here; it’s probably as good a place as any.
He took his place among the thieves and, though they recoiled from this dreadful warlock that had brought such terror into their lives, they made no move to leave the fireplace. It seemed to Finwald that they feared whatever was outside even more than they feared him.
A Fire in the North Page 51
