by Ian Irvine
M’Lainte sighed. ‘I have no quarrel with your work. Swear there’s nothing more I need to know, and we’ll say no more about it … as long as there is nothing more.’
‘There’s nothing more, I swear it.’
‘Good. And swear you’ll treat Wilm like a trusted ally, not –’
‘Later!’ Klarm was staring after the air-floater. ‘We’ve got to get well away from here.’
‘And then?’ M’Lainte had slumped to the ground with her eyes closed.
The sleepless night was catching up with Wilm, too. His split lip throbbed and pain ran up the right side of his jaw.
‘You’ll try to make the spellcaster safe,’ said Klarm.
‘To what purpose?’ said M’Lainte.
‘They’ll come back for it – and they must not get it.’
‘What if it can’t be made safe?’ said Ilisial.
She slanted a dark look at Wilm. She was going to cause more trouble, he knew it.
‘We destroy it,’ said Klarm. ‘And if we survive, we hide, and pray Flydd can get back to pick us up.’
‘What if he can’t?’ said Wilm.
Klarm did not reply. Ilisial wrapped her arms around herself and rocked back and forth.
‘Are there caves around here?’ asked M’Lainte.
‘Wouldn’t have a clue,’ said Klarm.
‘As we flew in,’ said Wilm, ‘I saw white and dark layers of rock running across the mountainside. That’s where I’d look.’
Klarm jerked a thumb upwards. Four guards picked up the spellcaster in its slings and they headed up, keeping to the hardest ground and trying to avoid leaving any tracks, but when they stopped briefly two hours later Wilm was dismayed to see how little progress they had made.
‘How’s your leg?’ M’Lainte said to Klarm.
‘Worn the skin off my stump. Bloody Flydd and his bloody Histories! If I ever see the bastard again, I’ll spit him and roast him over red-hot pig iron.’
Klarm’s skin had a grey tinge and he looked a decade older. M’Lainte was also making hard work of the climb, and even Ilisial, taking her turn on the slings, was labouring.
Wilm was the only one not worn out. He had been used to hard manual work all his life and the time he had spent as a slave for the Merdrun, building a fortress on the Isle of Gwine, had built his endurance. Unfortunately, this freed him to think dire thoughts.
They crossed a line of hills and continued up. High above, the layers of dark and light rock he had seen previously projected out of the slope. There must be seeping moisture too, for he made out patches of scrub and several horizontal bands of blue-leaved trees.
Klarm climbed an outcrop of shiny grey rock and scanned the mountainside with his spyglass. ‘Caves, up there.’
He handed the spyglass down but M’Lainte said, ‘Keep it.’
‘Why?’
‘Thought that’d be obvious. I’m holding you back, and I can’t go much further. Take the spellcaster and go.’
‘Stupid old bag!’ Klarm muttered. ‘We’re not leaving you, even if I have to carry you myself.’
To Wilm’s surprise, M’Lainte laughed. ‘That’s a sight I’d like to see, you old goat!’ But the laughing ending in a coughing and wheezing fit that brought tears to her eyes. ‘Haven’t got the breath for it.’
18
To Whom Do You Owe Your Loyalty?
In the days after drinking Tataste’s life, while Skald worked from dawn until late to master the sus-magiz spells for drawing power from himself, for making gates, and for attack and defence and interrogation, he grew ever more terrified. He kept reliving her emotions and knew he could not conceal them from the magiz much longer. When he cracked, nothing would give Dagog greater pleasure than to suck Skald’s life from him.
The thought made his skin crawl. Even doing it to the people of Santhenar, who were so far beneath the Merdrun that they seemed barely human, he now knew to be wrong. But to drink the life of one of their own, his own tormented self, would be an abomination.
He was trying not to think about Tataste’s dead children when a memory resurfaced – the enemy girl who had briefly touched his mind when he’d found the amber-wood box. Minds were protected, and not even a magiz could look into someone else’s head without the use of a mighty spell, even more perilous to the user than to the target. So how had a young girl done it? She must have a gift for far-seeing and mind-touching. A priceless gift. But why had she come to him?
A messenger entered the spell-casting chamber. Skald was ordered to Durthix’s command post, at once. Had the magiz detected forbidden emotions in him? Skald prayed that Durthix would send him into battle. While he was in action and his life was at risk the tormenting inner voices were silent.
‘Captain Skald,’ Durthix boomed the moment Skald entered the room. ‘Shut the door and lock it, and come here.’
Skald locked the door, marched across to the vast table, which had a map spread out on it, and saluted. ‘Yes, High Commander?’
For once the big room was empty; Durthix was completely alone. ‘I have an urgent job for you. Are you ready to do your duty on a moment’s notice?’
‘Always, High Commander.’
‘Some days ago, the enemy’s sky galleon deposited a team of people here.’ Durthix’s thick finger stabbed a point on the map where an expanse of mountains gave way to a flat oval marked Sink of Despair. ‘What do you know about this place?’
‘Nothing, High Commander.’
‘It’s dry, desolate and uninhabited,’ said Durthix. ‘Scorching in summer, freezing in winter and of no value to anyone, so what are the enemy doing there? You will lead a squad of twelve soldiers there in –’ he consulted a water clock on the wall ‘– thirty minutes.’
‘Yes, High Commander. What is our mission?’
Durthix considered him thoughtfully. ‘Captain Skald, to whom do you owe your loyalty?’
Was this a trick question? As a sus-magiz, Skald had a new master. But Durthix hadn’t called him sus-magiz, he’d called him captain.
‘As a soldier, High Commander, I owe my loyalty to my superior officers, and through them to you, and you alone.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it, because you lead this mission as a soldier, not as a sus-magiz.’
Skald swallowed. He was caught up in the great rivalry between Durthix and the magiz, and if the magiz won, he, Skald, was doomed.
‘Yes, Commander,’ he said uneasily. ‘You’re sending me to fight, rather than to use magic?’
‘I’m sending you because you can fight and use magic, and both will be needed.’
‘What are my duties, High Commander?’
‘You will make a gate to the Sink of Despair and search for a secret weapon the enemy lost there long ago.’
‘How do you –? Ah! This was written in Histories of the Lyrinx Wars.’
‘Which you found. How much did you read before you reported it?’
Skald’s heart was racing now. To admit reading a word might be a crime. On the other hand, Durthix appreciated initiative. ‘A few pages, Commander. And I saw sketches of a number of their devices, as you know.’
Durthix regarded him for a minute. ‘Good.’
‘Can I ask a question, High Commander?’
‘If you’re quick.’
‘Is it a coincidence, the enemy going to the Sink of Despair?’
‘It is not. They were taken there by the wily Xervish Flydd, to a place where one of their air-dreadnoughts crashed long ago and a secret weapon was lost. The team includes their most skilled artisan of magical devices, the mechanician, M’Lainte. You will capture her, alive and unharmed, and bring her back. And the secret weapon, if they’ve found it.’
‘Yes, High Commander. And if they haven’t?’
‘Leave that to me, Captain Skald. You have everything needed?’
‘I’m always ready for action, High Commander.’
‘Go up to the rooftop. Your troop is waiting. Here is a primed focus –’
&nbs
p; ‘A what?’
‘A brand-new device. You’re the first to use one. It will allow you to save power by far-seeing your destination much more precisely than you could on your own, since you’ve never been there.’ He passed Skald a long, narrow white crystal, flat on each end, with mirror-silvered sides. ‘Tell your squad nothing until you reach the destination. Then they need only know that they are to capture the mechanician, unharmed, and bring back the secret weapon. Speak to no one about this, Captain. Do you understand me?’
Skald did. No one included the magiz. ‘Yes, High Commander.’
Skald’s gut was tight as he went out and headed for the stairs. What if he ran into Dagog? But as he emerged on the roof and saw the two ranks of six soldiers waiting there, his spirits soared.
A secret weapon so important that the enemy’s most skilled artisan had been sent to find it. Such a mission would normally be entrusted to a much more experienced officer. Was it his reward for finding the enemy’s Histories? He could not fail; he must not!
He went across to his warriors, nine men and three women. All were battle-scarred; it was clear that they were among the best.
‘I am Captain Skald Hulni,’ he said. ‘We are gating to a far-off place. When we emerge, I’ll give you your orders.’
They saluted and asked no questions.
As he raised the primed focus to the glyph tattooed on his forehead, Skald felt a moment of self-doubt, almost panic. He had been through many gates, and had created several practice gates since becoming a sus-magiz, but this was his first real gate. What if it failed? His fall would be even swifter than his rise.
He suppressed the fear. He knew what to do, and how to do it. He looked into the heart of the focus, to the destination secreted there, drew power from himself smoothly and created the gate.
It was an oval bubble, a little taller than himself and wider at the bottom, with a rim that glistened like clear mucus. He studied it in awe. So mighty a conduit to have come from so little, from him. And it was perfectly made.
He smiled. ‘Go through!’
If any of his troops felt fear, they did not show it. The first soldier pushed through the bubble and disappeared with a hiss of air. The others followed quickly, knowing that it was exhausting to hold a gate open. Skald’s muscles were tense with the strain; sweat flooded down his chest and sides.
He glanced to his left and Durthix was watching. What if he, Skald, lost control? No! He forced through the bubble, which clung wetly. Fireworks flared out in all directions; he was hurled forwards, his organs slopping around in his middle, his vision blurring as his eyeballs tried to flatten themselves against the back of his eye sockets.
He was losing the gate! Hold it! Skald pressed the focus crystal harder against his forehead, re-visualised the destination and held it tight.
His ears popped, he emerged a yard above the ground, and the gate vanished with an echoing booooom. The drenching sweat evaporated instantly in the hot, dry air. He was next to the bleached bamboo hoops of the air-dreadnought. The barren slope, cut with gullies and ridges, extended up, range after range, beyond sight and, according to Durthix’s map, all the way to the top of Mount Tirthrax, the greatest peak in all the Three Worlds.
But Skald had no eyes for scenery, no matter how majestic. He scanned the slopes.
A soldier with bristly white hair pointed, ‘Up there! Eight of them. No, nine. No, ten; one looks like a child.’
‘There’s an important old woman,’ said Skald. ‘Mechanician M’Lainte. She must be taken, unharmed.’
‘Taken unharmed,’ they echoed.
‘And a device of some sort. A weapon. We must have it.’
The troops acknowledged the order. ‘What about the others?’ asked the soldier with the white hair.
‘They can be killed,’ said Skald. ‘But if they get away, don’t pursue them. All we want is the woman and the weapon. Go!’
Wilm, Ilisial and two of the guards took their turn hauling the spellcaster up a rocky ridge where they would leave no tracks, then everyone stopped for a hasty lunch. No one spoke; they did not have the energy. Wilm, gnawing at a leathery slice of salted buffalo between two slabs of stone-hard bread, could see all the way down to the Sink of Despair.
He looked around and caught Ilisial’s hostile eye on him. She turned away at once. No one should have to suffer what she had been through, but why did she blame him? Why did nothing he had done, including saving her life, make any difference? It hurt.
A flash gilded the bamboo hoops of the air dreadnought. Klarm cursed and focused the spyglass. A good few seconds passed before they heard the low thudding boom that had accompanied the flash.
‘Gate!’ hissed Wilm. ‘They’re after us!’
‘Your perspicacity never ceases to amaze,’ muttered Klarm.
‘How many?’ asked M’Lainte.
‘Twelve of their finest,’ said Klarm, using the spy glass. ‘Led by a sus-magiz.’ He looked up at the distant bands of rock. ‘It’ll take us another couple of hours to get to the caves.’
‘We can make it.’ Wilm swallowed the last of his bread and buffalo meat in a couple of gulps and washed it down with warm, iron-tainted water. ‘It could take them hours to find us.’
‘Want to bet? Don’t move, anyone!’
‘Too late,’ said M’lainte. ‘They’ve spotted us.’
Klarm cursed. ‘Go!’
They scrambled to their feet and headed up, over a ridge and down a dip, from the bottom of which they could no longer see the enemy, though Wilm fancied he could feel the ground shaking under their heavy boots. They were tough and tireless. War had been the focus of their existence for ten thousand years. They would be quick.
An hour passed, and most of another as they hauled the spellcaster up, and ever up. The trees were only four hundred yards above them now, a band of woodland a few hundred feet from top to bottom that extended across the slope for miles, nourished by moisture seeping out from the base of those layers of twisted rock. There were caves, too. He could see their dark mouths here and there.
But caves, unless they extended into an underground labyrinth, would not save them. With twelve Merdrun warriors led by a sus-magiz, the end could not in doubt.
M’Lainte was moving ever more slowly. Her saggy jowls were scarlet, and she was panting but could not seem to draw enough air. Would she make it? Wilm assessed the distance to go, and the pursuit, and knew it would be a near thing.
‘Here,’ he said, offering her his shoulder. ‘We can do it.’
She slumped to her knees. ‘No, you’ll have to leave me.’
‘We’re not abandoning –’ began Wilm.
‘It’s not a request, Wilm.’
Leaving her behind would be a betrayal of everything he stood for. Impulsively, he took her hand in his. ‘Let me carry you.’
She snorted. You’re a good man, Wilm, and if you survive this, you’ll go far. But I’m too heavy, and my time is up.’
‘M’Lainte, old friend, I’m sorry,’ said Klarm. ‘What would we have done without –?’
‘I know my worth,’ she said, ‘and when it’s over.’
‘You’ve got a knife?’
‘Yes, but I’m not the kind of person to employ it on myself.’
‘Even facing torture?’
‘I should, so my knowledge and talents can’t fall into enemy hands. But … there you go. Oh, you’ll need this.’ She handed him the green crystal she had taken out of the spellcaster.
Klarm shook her hand, and there were tears in his eyes. ‘I dare the choice will come to the rest of us soon enough.’ He turned away.
Ilisial was crouched beside M’Lainte, quivering. ‘You taught me so much. I’m sorry I let you down.’
‘I should have listened to my misgivings. Off you go.’ Ilisial headed up. ‘Wilm?’ M’Lainte said quietly.
‘Yes?’
‘Would you watch over Ilisial for me? I made a bad mistake with her and I can’t put it right.’
‘I’ll do what I can.’ If she lets me. He swallowed an enormous lump and turned away. This was so wrong!
They continued up, much faster now. Wilm looked back, his view blurred by tears. M’Lainte was writing in a small book. How could she face capture, torture and death so calmly? He would be wetting himself.
He took a tighter grip on the slings and struggled on. Even his iron fortitude was failing him now. ‘How far to go?’ It was an effort to raise his head.
‘A – hundred – yards,’ gasped Klarm, suppressing a howl of agony with every step. How did the little man keep going? ‘They’ve topped the last ridge. We’ve got to go faster.’
They reached the trees, staggering and gasping. Wilm’s fingers and palms, tough though they were, were a mass of burst blisters. ‘Which way?’
Klarm could barely stand up. Blood trickled through the padding under his stump and had dried in ribbons on his wooden foot. He scanned the spyglass along the layers of twisted rock, pointed to a cave and said, ‘That one looks best.’
‘It’s the smallest,’ said Ilisial.
‘Easier to defend, then. And they can only attack straight up a steep slope; there’s no coming at it from the sides.’
Wilm continued, stumbling on rubble, up and up and ever up, and finally they got the spellcaster over the lip of the cave and in.
‘Take it up the back,’ said Klarm. ‘In the shadows.’
‘They know we have it,’ said Ilisial.
‘But they don’t know what it is, or what it can do.’ Klarm sat next to the spellcaster, shuddering. He had been in agony for hours.
M’Lainte must have had second thoughts, for she was on her feet and moving slowly up, but the Merdrun were only a few hundred yards below her. The sus-magiz shouted an order and they stopped while he stared upwards through his glass.
Something snapped in Wilm. ‘This is unendurable!’
He ran out and began to skid down the steep, gravelly slope.
‘Come back!’ bellowed Klarm. ‘And that’s an order.’
Wilm ignored him. He would sooner die than abandon an old woman. And he probably would die.
