by Matthew Ward
I glanced at Jamar. He responded with an imperceptible nod. Calda was too busy staring daggers at the magistir.
With a low moan, Jamar collapsed to his knees before one of the torches. The magistir fell silent, the echoes rippling into nothing as he scowling at the interruption. Two cultists dragged Jamar back into position.
Before they could lay a hand on him, Jamar slipped his bonds. Springing to his feet, he tore the torch from its stanchio. With a sweep of the makeshift weapon, he drove them back.
Others hurried forward to help contain Jamar, leaving Calda and I with only a single guard apiece. I stamped hard on my captor's instep, and slammed my shoulder into his chest.
Ignoring his own captive, Calda's guard lunged at me. "Look out! He's free!"
As he moved away, Calda sprang forward and looped her bonds tight around his throat. The cultist let go of his sword, and scrabbled at the improvised garrotte.
"Edric!"
Calda's shout warned me my own captor had recovered his balance. Scooping up the fallen sword, I knocked the man's clumsy strike aside, stepped inside his reach, and ran him through. As the sword clattered from the dead man's grasp, Calda released her prisoner. He fell gasping to his knees, then collapsed as she slammed a boot into the back of his head.
Calda nodded approvingly, and claimed the masterless sword for herself. "Maybe you aren't so soft."
Two cultists peeled off from fighting Jamar. Clearly their fellows' fate had taught them nothing, because they came Calda and I in a mad rush. I took the leftmost, leaving Calda to deal with the other. Scarcely had my cultist come into range when he had at me with a great haymaker of a blow. I parried the strike, and lunged at his throat.
At least, I tried to.
Without warning, weariness overtook me, like tidal waters closing over my head. The sword in my hand tripled in weight. My thoughts flowed like treacle. The cultist darted aside from my counterblow with a sneer. I barely noticed. My leaden eyelids yearned to close. My breaths rasped in my lungs. My ears filled with a dull, listless drone.
The cultist came at me again. Once more I parried, although only through what felt like divine effort. Had I been poisoned? And if so, how? I abandoned all hope of cutting my opponent down, and instead retreated as fast as numbed legs would allow. I was fading fast. My only hope lay in one of my companions coming to my rescue.
I caught a sidelong glance of Calda, and realised the folly of those hopes. Her movements were but a fraction less laboured than my own, and she was blinking groggily, as one emerging from a deep sleep. Of course, Calda being Calda, she didn't retreat from her opponent, but threw her remaining strength into an all-out attack. But her steps grew increasingly stumbled.
Of the three of us, only Jamar seemed fighting fit, but then I'd never known a time when he wasn't. His movements were perhaps a hair slower than normal, that was all.
He swung the torch in dizzying, two-handed arcs, and it seemed no one wanted to risk being struck. Sadly, there was little chance of rescue from that quarter either. The cultists had correctly recognised Jamar as the greatest threat – he would have been even if Calda and I were fighting at full capacity – and all but the magistir and the pair fighting myself and Calda had moved to contain him. They might as well have tried to contain a flood. In the moment my eyes rested on Jamar, he planted a boot firmly in a cultist's chest, shoving the screaming fellow over the ledge and into the molten river far below.
My opponent came forward again. This time, instead of retreating, I took heart from Calda's example and threw my last strength into an attack of my own. The cultist twisted away, screaming as the blade sliced into his arm. He shrank away, clutching at the wound. With one last effort, I lunged. The cultist's screams ended in a spray of blood. I sank to my knees, breathing like a man four times my age.
Through blurring vision, I saw the rest of the cultists charging across the bridge. In moments they'd be on me. I braced the point of my sword against the ground, and tried to stand. My limbs refused to respond. I tried again. All I achieved was to unbalance myself with the effort.
I toppled over and found myself lying on my back, staring up at the giant stone figure upon the altar. His stone 'skin' had broken up into fist-sized platelets. A dull red glow, suspiciously akin to the worldblood below us, seeped through the cracks. The Burning Lord wasn't some godly figure, but a slumbering creature. Worse, it was waking.
I rolled laboriously to my knees. The cultists were almost upon me. I needed to fight, but couldn't even find the energy to stand. The droning thickened in my ears, and the light of the torches seared my eyes. As I blinked away the glare, my vision settled on the magistir. He stood at the far end of the altar, his lips working furiously in time with the droning. Suddenly, many things made sense; not just the weariness in my limbs, but how we'd been captured without Jamar sounding the alarm.
"It's the magistir!" I'd meant to shout, but the sound came out as a hoarse croak. "We have to silence the magistir."
Yet how we were to do that, I'd no idea. Calda's initial burst of rage-given strength had faded, and she now fought from her knees. Even Jamar was beginning to tire. Again I tried to stand. Again I met with failure.
With another mighty swing of his torch, Jamar scattered his enemies. One, a dagger-wielding fellow, went back more slowly than the others. Jamar let the torch fall and pounced, cat-like, onto this unfortunate and bore him to the ground. Slamming the cultist's head hard against the floor, Jamar tore the dagger from his grasp. The other cultists closed in, but too late. Reaching his feet, Jamar took the dagger between finger and thumb, and let fly.
The dagger was a crude thing, and ill-suited to such a purpose; neither was Jamar terribly skilled in that manner of fighting. A few months ago, I'd known a man who'd have placed that blade in the target's throat or eye without even appearing to aim. But Constans was gone; he'd sacrificed himself to prevent a great disaster, robbing me of a good friend and a formidable ally. Constans would have deplored Jamar's throw, mocked him for its lack of grace and accuracy. I didn't care. All that mattered was the magistir's scream as the dagger thudded into his shoulder.
The droning ceased as the magistir lost focus on whatever charm he'd been weaving. Like sunlight emerging from behind a cloud, my strength flooded back. Calda sprang to her feet and ran her opponent through. Loosing a savage whoop, she ran to meet the cultists by the bridge.
I left her to it. Jamar needed my help. Weaponless now, he was all but helpless before his opponents. For the moment, none of the cultists seemed to be able to muster the courage to attack him – they'd seen what had happened to the last person who'd come within his reach – but that would surely change soon.
Shouting a raw and wordless challenge, I ran to Jamar's aid. The nearest cultist half-turned at the sound of my approach. My blade lanced into his spine. Another turned his back on Jamar and lunged at me with a rusted spear. I twisted aside. The spear-point passed within a finger's breadth of my ribs. I backswept my sword, hoping to knock the spear aside or split its haft, but my opponent was too canny for that and twitched the weapon out of my reach.
It didn't matter. I'd achieved what I'd intended. Where Jamar had once faced four opponents, now he had to contend with only two – a laughable contest, even bereft of arms. Sidestepping a clumsy lunge, Jamar locked one hand around the cultist's weapon arm, pulling the unfortunate around and behind him. There was a brief and pitiable scream as the second cultist's battered sword, originally intended for Jamar's spine, instead plunged into the first cultist's chest. With a snarl of desperation, the survivor attempted to pull the blade free. He was a lifetime too late. Jamar had the dead fellow's weapon in his hands now. One swing, and his opponent's head tumbled from his shoulders.
My spearman saw none of this. I don't think he even heard Jamar approach. He certainly didn't feel the lunge that took his heart from behind.
I clasped Jamar's hand in thanks. "Now we know why you fell asleep." Awake, the magistir's charm
had barely slowed Jamar, but in the still watches of the night and dreams ever lurking on the threshold...?
Jamar grunted noncommittally, a little tension bled from his shoulders all the same. He nodded at Calda. "I'm not sure she needs our assistance, savir."
It was hard to argue. Her vigour returned, Calda fought with a flamboyance more suited to acrobatics than to war. One moment she stood tall, blade whirling above her head; the next she crouched to sever an ankle. Every sweep of the blade flowed seamlessly into the next, whether it was parried, dodged or sliced home in a spray of blood. There was bravado to it that I'd never dare attempt, but it worked for her. What was all the more remarkable was that Calda still had breath and concentration enough to mock and taunt her opponents as she fought. In years past, before peace had finally arrived, I'd seen her overwhelm Tressia's finest warriors in this manner. The cultists, bullies and rogues to a man, stood no chance. Already, two lay dead at Calda's feet, and she'd driven the remainder back to the neck of the bridge.
So far, there'd been no sign that anyone outside the vault had noticed anything untoward. The doors at the top of the great staircase were still sealed, and I heard no panicked shouting or running feet that would indicate more cultists were on their way. But it couldn't last forever.
"She doesn't get a choice," I told Jamar firmly. "Help her."
Jamar nodded, and moved to join the fight. I'd something more important to do. Stalking around to the side of the altar, I found what I sought.
The magistir lay slumped, his eyes closed and his robes bloody. He'd torn the dagger free, and clutched at his wound in an attempt to stem the blood flow. He was a pathetic, snivelling sight, who shuffled away from me as I approached. With his charm broken, it seemed he had no more weapons. I wasn't happy about killing an unarmed man, but I couldn't afford him to let him live.
The magistir's eyes snapped open, glassy and unfocused. "The Burning Lord must live."
I think he was speaking to himself rather than to me. My eyes flickered to the figure atop the altar. It was black and lifeless again, the sparks of red light gone as if they'd never been there.
"The fire comes, and we must be ready," the magister breathed. "The fire comes." With that he looked up at me. "The only thing that can stop it is the Burning Lord. Below must fight above. Only..."
I put the point of my borrowed sword to his throat. "You've one chance to walk out of here. Do the others you've taken still live?"
"No." Dejection stole over his expression. "We gave them to the Burning Lord, but he did not awaken."
A flash of anger overwhelmed what little pity I felt. I thrust my blade down. With a feeble choking noise, the magistir slumped dead.
Stooping, I retrieved my stolen sword from his corpse. We'd been through a lot, that weapon and I, and I'd no desire to lose it now. Better still, a quick search of his robes turned up the three silver remembrance rings that Calda, Jamar and I habitually wore, as well as the thicker, sapphire-encrusted band that had been Arianwyn's generous gift. It had been her father's before his disappearance, and I was relieved I'd not have to explain its loss.
I stared again at the statue at rest upon the altar, but it remained still and lifeless. Had I imagined things? Had it all been a hallucination brought on by the magistir's charm? It would have to wait.
First, we needed to get out.
Two
Calda cast aside her borrowed sword and searched the dead for her own weapon. "Where's the magistir?"
I tossed Calda her remembrance ring.
"Dead."
"Good. I hope it hurt." Mages were rare to the point of extinction, but Calda had encountered a sufficient number to kindle a deep and abiding hatred of their kind. One of the reasons, perhaps, that she disliked Arianwyn so.
"If I might suggest we get as far from here as possible?" Jamar put in calmly. "That creature seems to have gone to sleep again, but I'd rather not be here if it wakes up."
Calda glared at him "What do you mean 'it seems to have gone to sleep again'?"
"I think it started to move," I said. "It's the Burning Lord they wanted to awaken."
Her eyes narrowed. "I'm not sure I like that. It's one thing to have a cult running around, but quite another when it's a cult with pet monsters."
"Either way, there's not much more we can achieve here," I said. "We need the army. If that thing wakes up, it'll take more than the three of us to bring it down."
"You're probably right," said Jamar. "So how do we do this?"
"Easy," I lied. "We'll mingle."
After a brief search, we found three sets of robes that weren't too bloodstained and ragged. In the darkness of the tunnels, we'd just about pass muster – at least if we kept our hoods up. Everyone we'd seen so far had the pale skin typical of Tressians. Our own autumn tones would be sure to give us away.
"This is a ridiculous deception," muttered Calda, as we slipped out of the vault. "They'll see through it in a moment."
Jamar arched an eyebrow. "Not if their minds are on other things."
When we reached the door to the armoury, Jamar beckoned us to one side. Muscles straining, he levered open one of the massive doors, then the other, leaving the second with enough space behind that Calda and I stood concealed between the wall and the door. Then, one hand clamped across a bloodstain on his robes, he staggered out into the chamber.
"They've escaped!" bellowed Jamar. "They're heading into the tunnels!"
At once came an uproar of voices and the sound of running feet. Scores of ash-robed cultists flooded past. Though concealed by the door, Calda and I grasped our weapons tightly, knowing a single backwards glance would give us away. We needn't have worried. The cultists had eyes only for the shadows ahead, not behind.
Scarface was one of the last through the doors, and he immediately started bawling instructions. He was too late. Everyone else had vanished into the darkness ahead. With an angry growl, Scarface turned back towards the armoury, and froze as his gaze fell across Calda and I.
Scarface's shout of alarm was simultaneous with his hand going for his sword. Neither action saw fulfilment. Before the cultist made a sound, Jamar came up behind him and clamped a massive hand to his mouth.
"Shhh." Calda rested the point of her sword against Scarface's chest. "I've a headache."
The cultist's hand – which wasn't even halfway to his weapon – jerked to a halt.
Jamar and Calda led Scarface into the now-empty armoury. I followed, heaving the doors closed behind us. I'd hoped for a bar or a series of bolts, but sadly there was no such thing.
Calda gave her captive a meaningful jab. "You're going to lead us out of here, without tricks, and without raising the alarm."
At her nod, Jamar loosed his grip on Scarface's mouth.
"And why would I do that, unbeliever bitch?" growled the cultist.
"Because otherwise we'll kill you, here and now. I don't think you're quite ready to lay down your life for the Burning Lord, are you?"
Scarface glared, but said nothing.
"Excellent," Calda continued, "then this is what's going to happen next. You're going to take us to the exit. I and my big friend here..." She nodded at Jamar. "...are going to walk a little behind and to either side of you. If you do anything... anything... that we don't much like, you'll be the first to die. Do you understand me? Good."
Jamar released Scarface, and he and Calda settled into their flanking positions. Calda sheathed her sword, but retrieved her boot-dagger and held it concealed in the sleeve of her borrowed robe.
Scarface led us out of the armoury, with Jamar and Calda ever at his side. I brought up the rear, alert for any sign of trouble. Scarface worried me. He seemed to be cooperating, and certainly didn't attempt to alert the small groups of cultists we passed, but he was far too calm for my liking. That he had a plan – or at least an expectation of an opportunity – I didn't doubt. The only question was whether we'd be able to outsmart him once he played his hand.
A
fter a few minutes, the passageway sloped steeply upwards. The air grew steadily colder as we approached a surface tight in winter's grasp. Around the next bend, I had my first glimpse of crisp, bright daylight.
My elation at the nearness of freedom soured to suspicion. I'd expected some kind of gate on the entrance, or at least a heavy guard. Instead, there were but two cultists hunched over a guttering fire. Calda stepped in closer to Scarface, slid her dagger up through the scales of his jerkin and whispered in his ear. Scarface shook his head, shrugged, and gestured towards the tunnel-mouth.
Calda shot me a questioning glance. I nodded. The cultists at the entrance were paying us idle attention, as bored sentries are wont to do, and I didn't want to give cause for further interest by lingering. It was only when we were past them and into the cold morning light that I realised we'd badly misjudged the situation.
The tunnel mouth was actually a cave, opening onto a snow-laden hillside. This alone wasn't a problem. The decaying walls of a hillside fort were rather more troubling, as were the dozens of armed cultists in evidence. Just how large was this group?
Not for the first time, I wished we'd avoided subtlety and gone to Salkard with an army. The fort, though a formidable obstacle for three of us, was time-worn and poorly maintained. It would never have withstood a determined assault. Likewise, the cultists arrayed in the courtyard were a steep proposition for us, but no challenge to a few dozen well-led soldiers. To top it all off, I was still none the wiser as to exactly where we were. Presumably we weren't too far from Salkard, but the war between Tressia and the Hadari Empire had created and destroyed countless bastions of this kind, and I doubt even the cartographers of the Golden Court knew where to find them all.
A brisk wind swept swirling clouds of snow across the courtyard, obscuring my view of the forest beyond the walls. Icicles glittered beneath the gatehouse's worn stones. Cultists huddled close to their dull fires. None of them looked terribly alert. That would change all too quickly.
