The Far Kingdoms

by Allan Cole

  Omerye kissed me, then she said: "Very well, then. Shall we start with your friend? Consider this: if someone came to me, as Prince Raveline evidently has to Greycloak, and promised I could know all chords, all fingerings, tunings and pitches of all instruments of this day and the time of the Old Ones, and be able to use that knowledge to build a music of the future... perhaps I myself might be blind to the failings of that gift-bringer. Besides, there is some truth to what he says. Not that Raveline's great evil can be transmuted to good as easily as base metal becomes gold. But he can be turned aside."

  I felt a bit of hope. "How? Should I go to the King?"

  Omerye gasped in horror. "Do not even think that, my love. If you went to King Domas, and told him all that had happened, he would indeed summon Raveline, and chastise him severely. He might even require the Prince to exile himself in a far-off estate, saying the sight of him sickens decent men's eyes. And you would be rewarded for your honesty. But Raveline would be welcomed back to Irayas in a few months, and you would be gone. Even though the brothers hate one another... no one is permitted to embarrass the Royal Family. No one. Besides, in Vacaan, matters are handled more delicately. A way we might deal with the situation is for me to have a word with some friends who are considered wise in the eyes of the King. And for those friends to chat with their friends. These discussions would be held most privately and most quietly. In time - perhaps a week, perhaps a month, we can also have a word with Beemus. Then a whisper will float past the King's ears. He will have his most subtle chamberlains investigate, most privately, and most quietly. Once he learns the truth, and he will learn it all if he wishes, then Prince Raveline might be reined in. He will suddenly be ordered to mount an expedition against the bandits to the north, perhaps."

  I was incredulous. "Just like that, the situation will return to normal, and Orissa's and my problems solved?" I was quite incredulous.

  "As I said, Raveline has been brought to heel before, and in matters that we, at least, consider more important than the fate of two barbarian cities far to the west. Forgive me, Amalric my love, but that is how Vacaanese think."

  I knew that nothing, especially the vagaries of prices, could be guaranteed. But Omerye had offered the only real plan that made sense. On the morrow, I would return to Janos and we could resolve our argument. I was still angry, having seen the raw steel of his ambition. But I told myself none of us are perfect, and the Far Kingdoms had been his obsession much longer than mine. But still, I knew as I lay down to rest, that our friendship would no longer continue on quite as easy a basis as it had.

  * * *

  I woke an hour later with a scream trapped in my chest. It boiled up violently and tried to prise open my lips, but still it would not come. Omerye tossed and turned uneasily beside me. It was if I was awake, and at the same time deep in a fever-stupor.

  Two things blazed through my mind. The first I already knew, at least in principle: A black wizard will feed and batten off pain, fear and death. If Raveline were to carry out his plan Orissa and Lycanth would become chaos. Armies would clash and sway across our lands, armies degenerating into banditry and murderers. In time, we, too, would be nothing more than bloody wasteland like the Disputed Lands, and I could imagine Raveline's face hanging high above those gory wastes, smiling at the destruction that was as mother's milk to him.

  If Raveline were to be allowed to carry out his plan... and then I recollected what Raveline had said about wanting Janos as his Hellhound. And I thought: Hellhound? Or assassin? Janos was not under any ban preventing him from conspiring against the House of Domas. Mistake me not - even in this waking nightmare I did not vision Janos skulking through the King's Palace with a drawn and poisoned blade. But could Janos mount, lead and execute a coup? To then be cut down in his moment of victory by a newly-crowned King, sorrowing for his brother's murder? No. That was too fantastic. I dragged myself out of my mind's maelstrom. I looked out the window. Even though it was still dark, I could hear the sleepy chirping of birds in my garden. Once more, I should not have been able to sleep, but did. I do not remember my head striking the pillow. All I can recollect is my thought that the morrow would be a very different day indeed.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  THE CAVERN

  I woke into nightmare. Torches flared on either side of me. I lay on cold, wet stone. The reek of mildew filled my nostrils and I tasted the hard iron of blood in my mouth. I knew where I was: I was still in the dungeon of the Archons, far below the great seacastle of Lycanth. I was awakening from one of those marvelous dreams where half a lifetime passes, and every moment is perfectly detailed. Janos and I had never escaped this dungeon, had never fought the Evocators for the soul of the Orissan people, had never journeyed beyond the Pepper Coast and the haunted city to enter the Far Kingdoms. I remembered the dream-woman named Omerye, realized she never was, and my eyes welled. At least the gods had sent me a moment of imaginary happiness in that long and frequently dreadful dream.

  I awakened more, my mind still wandering the maze of that intricate fantasy. I remembered not only escaping from this dungeon, but just how we escaped. That brought me to full alertness. I looked about the condemned cell for Janos. I would tell him my dream, particularly that part dealing with this Lycanthian dungeon, and perhaps we could build on my illusion to prepare a real escape.

  A voice grated: "Up wi' ye, Antero! Th' spell's had more'n enough time to wear away."

  And I was not back in the Archons' dungeon. I was in a sodden stone cell, but it was small and cramped. There was no one else around me - no guards, no torturers across the way, no fellow prisoners, and no Janos. I was alone... except for one other: Greif. He sat curled on a heavy bench against the far wall. He was smiling. I forced myself to my feet.

  "Lord Antero," he mocked. "Y' wake. Shall I send in th' wenches to draw your bath? Servants t' lay out your silks? P'raps that fine-titty musician you been futterin't' play a tune? Woulda' like to have brought that along, an' let you watch me pleasure her f'r a bit. But 'twarn't permitted."

  My mind a whirligig, I said nothing. Nor could I move further from where I stood. Greif got up and strolled to me. I saw his gaping eyesocket, black and oozing corruption. My thrust with the spearbutt had indeed put out one of his eyes. Greif knew what I was staring at and his muscle-knotted fist smashed into my stomach. I gagged, and went to my knees, breath driven out.

  He booted me over onto my back and stared down. "Aye," he said. "You put out one of my glims, you did. But I found a better way to see. M' masters give me... somethin' t' spy with. Gi' me a bit of their power, t' look at men, an' see some'at of their intents." Greif tapped his empty eye socket, then laughed, very hard, and his mirth echoed around the stone room.

  At that moment, I saw, in that empty socket, a red fire, a tiny, red, writhing fire. And I realized I was entering the reality of that nightmare that had cursed me for so many years. It was not meeting Greif in Lycanth that made him my nameless torturer, boatman and escort. I had been permitted, for good or evil, a glimpse of the future. I wished desperately I would have realized my nightmare was clairvoyance and cut Greif down when I first met him, standing below me in the courtyard of the Lycanthian inn.

  "I c'n see you're still mazed, an' wonderin' where you are now. Somewheres in Irayas. Somewheres far, far under th' ground, where there's nobody to hear you scream, which you will be in a bit. Y' know, first thing I learned, first time I was grabbed by th' thief-takers, is you start breakin' someone with words. So... You was duped. Played false by th' man you thought y'r friend. Th' man who cast th' protective spell you believed w'ld keep you from harm also lifted it, so's me and my assistants could slip in, an' winkle you out."

  Despite my efforts to keep control, my face must have twisted from my heart's distress. Greif laughed once more and spat into my face. "Get up... an' look about you. See th' fine toys I've got waitin' to play with. Th' Prince gimme all day t' fun myself with you. All he said is I can't kill yo
u or send you mad. Oh yeah, an' I can't maim you nor break bones neither. Guess th' Prince's got his own games he wants t' play wi' you later on. Wager his games might be even better'n mine, 'though I've had time to think on what I wanted t' do t' you, an' time t' remember what others done to me. Hell, th' limitations he put on, ain't restrictin' to a man who's spent time in th' service of Nisou Symeon."

  My only consolation was that Greif could not have any knowledge of my nightmare, or else he would be even more gleeful as I contemplated the horror that was to come. But even as I faced this, that agony was not as great as learning of Janos's betrayal.

  "First," he said. "Lift up y'r hands. There's manacles hangin' down. Clamp 'em on y'r wrists." He chortled, as I found my body obeying. "Ain't the spell th' Prince's man gimme somethin'? Gonna be a boot, seein' you actin' as my assistant."

  A spell had stolen my will, and I could not resist the order; I clamped the shackles on my wrist. Greif cackled, and went to the wall where a rope hung from a bolt in the ceiling, and ran down to support the cuffs. He untied it the rope and yanked until I was lifted almost clear of the ground, my toes just touching the flagstones.

  "Y' dislocate anythin', there'll be time enough t' snap th' bone back in, afore we... take our trip," he said. "Now, I'll just let y' dangle for a few, 'cause I'm sure you got some questions t' ask. An' I'll answer 'em all, 'cause th' answers'll just make th' last few hours you got worse." He went back to his bench, and waited.

  I did not want to give him any gratification, but there was one thing I had to confirm. "You still serve Nisou Symeon?"

  Greif laughed that foul laugh of his, and nodded vigorously. "He thinks I do... an' I take his silver so long's his wishes match mine. Ain't never left his employ, if that's th' question, an' this marks th' second time I've snared you. Three times, if y' count th' time I cut th' guts out'n your slave, back in Lycanth, tryin' t' get y'r relics for Symeon's incants."

  Of course he'd been the murderer of Eanes, and I tried to make myself believe I would avenge that death and put his spirit to rest before I, too became a ghost. But hope flickered but dimly in my chest.

  "'Course," Greif went on, "mebbe ye c'd question who m' real master is, since Lord Symeon's sworn obeisance t' th' Prince."

  Again, my intuition had been confirmed. The thought I'd had some hours ago must be true: Raveline indeed planned to turn our lands into slaughterhouses, setting each against each.

  "How did he... and you... get to Irayas?"

  "Lord Symeon ain't here," Greif said. "He's back in Lycanth preparin' matters for th' move against Orissa. He's ne'er been t' Irayas, neither. When y' have a lord as powerful as th' Prince, man don't have to be standin' there in body t' kiss his ring. Symeon's been servin' him f'r...damned if I know how long for cert, since he ain't exactly my bedpartner an' sharin' secrets, but for a long while, I'm guessin'. I on'y found out 'bout th' wheels wi'in wheels couple, three months ago. As t' how I got here?" Greif looked momentarily troubled. "Can't speak on that, neither. Lord Symeon gimme orders t' serve th' man I'd see when I woke, e'en t' death or th' fires'd take me, put a spell down, an' th' next thing was I woke here, in that six-sided castle th' Prince has, out'n th' country. Not that I'd need any threats hangin' t' obey him. I know real power when I sees it... an' what he's tasked me for, I'd be likely as not to pay to do as a priv'ledge."

  He rose and strolled around the cell. It was littered with instruments of pain, ropes, ringbolts, lashes, pincers, fire, water and vises. He picked up, then set down, first one, then another. "Hard tellin' what t' start with," he mused. "But there's been enough words. Ain't but one more thing, Antero, my friend, my prize," his voice growing thick as anticipation and passion of a sort rose within in him, "f'r you t' think on. Y' c'd a had it all, y'know. If y'd but bent knee t' th' Prince... y' could've been Lord Symeon's flunky when things shake out, an' y' could'a had all Orissa bow an' scrape afore ye, near as much as f'r Symeon himself. But y' had t' let th' pride show. Y'll be regrettin' that. Now... an' f'r etern'ty t' come. I got the feel th' Prince ain't plannin' to allow you th' real death."

  He picked up a scourge and ran its thongs over his hand. "E'en if that's what y'll be beggin' for," he hissed, and the lash came down on me.

  * * *

  There is no point in soiling these pages with the details of my torture. Those who wish to know more on the subject are advised to find the nearest wineshop to any prison, and purchase drink for a warder to have their curiosity satisfied. Suffice it to say that Greif had paid close attention when he had been the tormentors' subject; so he was quite skilled in plying the various instruments of agony.

  There are only four things to note: The first is that a bond is formed between torturer and his prey. It is neither sexual, nor non-sexual, and I am not sure how to describe it. Others I've known who spent a longer time in the grasp of inquisitors have told me eventually the victim becomes a near-willing slave of his afflictor as his soul is ground away by the endless pain. The second is the red delectation that comes as a tittering observer to pain. This feeling, too, is complex, partially nerve-propelled and from close to the same source as sex, or so I'm guessing, but more from the challenge to preserve a bit of your soul, a bit of your own, against the invader and his fire and the agony. The third thing I learned was that Greif's desire outran his performance. A skilled torturer, I have learned, never allows his victim the pleasure and relief of unconsciousness. This was Greif's greatest error, and possibly my salvation. Three times that blessedness washed over me, and allowed my inner being to rearmor itself for Greif's next assault. The final thing was the most valuable: All things come to an end... eventually. As did that day.

  But then the real nightmare began.

  * * *

  I recovered consciousness as I was dragged down stone steps, half-carried by two men. In front of me, lighting the way with a lantern, was Greif. I knew him by the scars of the lash on his back. He wore naught but a pair of black breeches. The stairway was old, and I could see white nitre outlining the stones around us. It ended abruptly in a pool of water where a small boat... the black boat of my Dream... was moored. I was slung aboard, and Greif's two helpers left, with never a word being spoken. Greif untied the boat, stood at its tiller, and a current caught the craft, sending us rushing into and down a tunnel whose roof curved but a foot above his head.

  In bare minutes we were swept into open waters. It was night, and there was no moon, no stars. We were moving along a canal that seemed familiar to me. We were in the heart of Irayas, but I saw no other gondolas or watercraft. I was neither chained nor fettered, and should have leaped out of the boat; failing that, I should have shouted for help. But I could do neither. I suppose I was ensorcelled, although it is equally probable I was simply in shock from the abuse. In fact, the latter is more probable, because events were as vague and as hallucinatory now, as they had been before in the Dream.

  What I remember from that passage are but fragments. We travelled at a speed as great as I had on the river that had brought us down from the mountains when we entered Gomalalee. The canal entered the Serpent River, and now I knew we were powered by sorcery, for the boat flew upriver against the current, without aid of oars or sails. As we passed beyond the city's outskirts I saw the Holy Mountain on my right, then we sped past it into the range beyond the Old Ones' peak. I next remember being in a deep gorge. The hissing river beside the boat's gunwales looked as if it were no longer water, but a dark, thick, oily fluid.

  Greif did not touch the tiller, but suddenly the craft bore sideways, about to crash into the rearing cliff. Instead of meeting stone, however, a cavern's mouth yawned; a cavern the river's currents had carved over centuries. Inside the cave a stone dock waited. Greif tied up the boat, clambered out, turned and beckoned. Every piece of my soul that remained mine fought, but I followed, stepping awkwardly across the boat's thwarts and then lunging upward to the slime-thick dock carved from the living stone. My feet dragged as my mind screamed: Strike out. You ca
nnot go up those stairs. You must not. But I did.

  Greif took one of the torches that guttered on either side of the arched passageway, and beckoned once more. I heard the baying, and knew what was above: There was a great, ruined, cursed city on the gorge's plateau. Far above me, far outside this river-dug cavern, in the city, in the shattered amphitheaters, in the gods-hammered stones, the creatures sat in patient rings. Up there in the dark of the moon the creatures that bayed like hounds bore no semblance to anything seen on this earth. The thought came to me they might have been men, once. Men who had struck a dark bargain.

  I followed Greif. My mind, moving as slowly as if I were drugged, told me no victim had ever come back down these steps, and desperately tried to devise a strategy. I found none. The thunder of a great drum began. We entered a great chamber, with its arches lifting into blackness. I heard a gong resound, and as Greif turned I saw that wormlike fire writhe brightly in his dead eyesocket.

  I heard him say words about my desire, this was what I wanted, this was my weird, and he laughed. The laugh boomed loud, louder, joined by the baying from the creatures beyond, laughter of joy in pain and death, laughter rising to cacophony, and Raveline was there. Silence dropped across the chamber and above among the damned creatures like an axeblow. Greif became a statue, and considering Raveline's words, I believe was under a momentary spell of paralysis. The Prince wore blood red pantaloons and a black, full tunic with gold lace showing at his wrists and neck. He wore an ornate dagger on a belt. He might have been dressed for a casual court affair.

  "So we reach the end, Antero," he said. His voice was calm. "Do you wish to know your doom?" I said nothing. "In bare moments, I shall obliterate your physical being. Most of your soul will be scattered to the winds when I take you in my embrace. But you will be more than just a hapless wandering ghost like your brother or that slave this brigand killed. I shall keep a part of you in my own soul, and it shall witness, through my eyes, the great changes that are to come on this world. Witness them, but without ever being able to do more than scream in mute horror as they happen."