by Marc Turner
What Luker had taken to be a small doorway was in fact no more than an irregular hole before which were scattered frost-rimed blocks of sandstone. The titan … It just punched its way through. In the darkness beyond the wall was a Merigan portal, and Luker gave a low whistle. He had come across such gateways before, of course, but always at a distance, for the empires in which they were located tended to guard them closely for fear of unannounced visitors. Carved into the portal’s architrave were hundreds of runes, one of which was glowing blue. The blackness within the frame sparkled as if Luker were gazing at a starry night sky.
“Whose temple is this?” Merin asked.
Luker cast an eye over the carvings on the wall. Above him a masked and horned figure was firing an arrow at an unseen assailant, while to his right a hooded character, winged this time, sat on a throne before a cowering, animal-headed crowd. He had seen images like these before at a shrine in Balshazar. “The Lord of Hidden Faces.”
Chamery spoke. “Hah! A conceit! The god is no more than a veil behind which some other power lurks.”
“Unless that’s what the Lord wants you to think.”
The mage paid him no mind. Raising his glowing staff closer to the portal’s architrave he said, “Fascinating, wouldn’t you agree? These symbols … a variant on Fangalar script, I believe.”
Merin squinted. “You can interpret the marks?”
“Ah, yes! The emperor’s singular obsession.” Chamery’s gaze flickered from Merin to Luker, then back again. “But why should Avallon need my aid to unlock the mysteries of the gateways when he already has the Guardians to help him.”
Luker stared at him. “Meaning?”
“You did not know? While you were sulking on Taradh Dor the emperor’s pet mages unearthed a second Merigan portal at Amenor to go with the one at Bastion. In an effort to decipher the code behind the symbols Avallon has been sending Guardians through the gateways.”
Luker faced Merin. The tyrin’s frown suggested irritation at the boy’s revelation. “Who?” Luker said. “Who has been sent?”
“Senar Sol. Jeng Elesar. Others.”
Admirers of the emperor, one and all. Small wonder Gill was feeling the pinch. “And how many have made it back?”
“None, as yet.”
Chamery laughed. “Nor will they.” He gestured with his staff at the solitary glowing symbol on the portal’s architrave. “This mark indicates the gateway’s destination, not its location. One cannot simply pass through a portal, then step back and expect to return to where one started. Hah! The Guardians could be thousands of leagues away.”
Merin’s tone was unapologetic. “To be able to travel between the gateways would bring great strategic benefits to the empire.”
And in the meantime Avallon gets the chance to pluck a few thorns from his flesh. “How did the emperor smuggle that past the Guardian Council?”
“He didn’t have to. Avallon’s orders are to be obeyed, not questioned.”
Luker slammed his swords back into their scabbards. The tyrin’s tune was beginning to grate on him. But then the man’s mouth had been fastened to Avallon’s ass so long it was no surprise he’d started talking shit.
Merin forestalled his response. “Enough of this! We now know how the titan came here. The question remains, why?”
“Convergence,” Luker said.
“You think the titan was drawn by the Book of Lost Souls? A necromancer, then?”
“Doesn’t need to be. I’m no corpse-hugger, but I can still sense the Book like a needlefly buzzing round in my head.” He looked at Chamery. “The sorcery’s getting stronger, isn’t it? Not just because we’re getting closer, either.”
The mage nodded.
“I’ve sensed you questing toward the Book. What have you found out?”
“As yet, nothing,” Chamery said. “We’re still too far away for me to follow the threads to their source.”
“But Mayot’s using the Book, right? What’s he up to?”
“Hah! You’ll have to do better than that if you want to trick me into revealing—”
“Is he under attack?”
The mage’s eyes glittered. “Perhaps. There will be some that want the Book’s power for themselves.”
“And if the titan gets his hands on it? I’d like to see you wrest that thing—”
“‘You,’ Guardian?” Chamery cut in. “Don’t you mean ‘we’?”
“You heard me.”
Merin spoke. “How much of a lead does this titan have on us?”
Luker considered. “My guess? A few bells, no more.”
“Can we overtake it?”
“Sure. Right after we grow ourselves some wings.”
The tyrin’s gaze strayed once more to the carvings on the wall, a frown forming on his face. “Mage,” he said. “Is Mayot capable of defeating a titan?”
“Let’s hope not,” Chamery muttered.
“Explain.”
But the mage turned away without answering.
* * *
It had taken Romany the night and most of the morning to construct her web, extending her senses deep into the forest on all sides. As she wove each new strand, another part of Mayot’s fledgling empire yielded its secrets to her, yet even as she completed the most distant sections, those closest to Estapharriol began to unravel. The Book’s threads were to blame, she knew: they were as poison to anything they touched.
The dome of black magic Mayot had raised was proving a particular nuisance, for the strands of Romany’s web withered the moment they came into contact with it. In the end she had made a few unobtrusive holes through which her web could pass, but even then the threads would need constant tending to maintain their integrity. A tedious endeavor for someone of Romany’s standing, but a necessary one if she was to keep tabs on Mayot’s schemes. The old man was certainly keeping his minions busy. Sections of forest round Estapharriol were being cleared to fuel weaponsmiths’ forges that burned day and night, and the debris from ruined buildings was being used to fashion barricades across the major roads leading to the city—a senseless undertaking to Romany’s mind, since it would take mere heartbeats for anyone traveling along them to step round.
The priestess allowed her consciousness to drift along her web. There were still great gaps in her awareness, of course, but there would be time enough to fill those during the days to come. From what she had seen up to now, the Vamilian kingdom consisted of six cities and a host of smaller settlements, bounded to the east by the White Road, and to the south by the Gollothir Plains. To the north and west, the Forest of Sighs stretched far beyond the reaches of her web.
As she approached one of the cities, something caught her eye. A group of Vamilians were on their knees in the dirt and appeared to be … Digging? Drifting closer, she saw scores of threads of death-magic disappearing into the ground. In their midst, the undead diggers clawed at the earth, throwing up handfuls of soil and stones as they sought to uncover whatever lay trapped below. Romany shivered as a Vamilian man was pulled stone-faced from his muddy prison. How many undead were still underground, caged in darkness? How long before Mayot decided the effort of freeing those remaining did not justify the reward?
No doubt the old man was even now extending his search deeper for more formidable servants, for who knew what ancient horrors lay buried beneath the forest floor? Fortunately Romany had, as in all things, anticipated him in this. A few discreet questings of her own had discovered the bones of a tiktar no less, just a short distance from Estapharriol, and the elderling’s remains were now hidden behind a veil of impenetrable wards. As yet, she hadn’t decided whether she would reveal the creature’s presence to Mayot, but if she did so it would be on her terms and at a time of her choosing.
Thus far only two of Shroud’s minions had entered the Forest of Sighs, but they were too weak to warrant Romany’s interest …
A sound broke her concentration—a perception not from her spiritual body, but from her corporeal
one in Estapharriol. Curious, she sped along the strands of her web to the ruined house where her body lay. Opening one eye, she squinted into the sun. Before her stood a young Vamilian woman with the empty expression only the undead could adopt—an expression which was, Romany decided, most unsuited to the laugh lines round her eyes. The girl seemed in no hurry to speak, and Romany knew better than to test the patience of a walking corpse. What language, though, to choose? She had come across the Vamilian tongue in old scrolls, but had never before needed to speak it. Then again, did not the language derive from High Celemin? Surely the girl would comprehend that. “And who might you be, my dear?” she said.
“The master sent me,” the Vamilian replied in the same tongue. Her tone was as flat as her chest.
“You can understand me? Excellent!” Romany rose and looked the girl up and down. Not a day over eighteen, she would swear, or at least that would have been her age when she died, millennia ago. She might have been pretty were it not for the overlong nose and square jaw. Her cream-colored gown was covered with muddy smudges, and there was soil in her hair and scratches on her arms. “What is your name?”
“Danel.”
“Well, Danel, I am pleased to make your acquaintance. You may call me ‘my Lady.’”
The girl did not respond.
“Have you ever been a servant before?”
“No.”
Romany rolled her eyes. Was it really so difficult for Mayot to find a single maid in a civilization of thousands? “Is there a bathhouse in this city?”
“No.”
“Nevertheless, I wish to take a bath.”
“There is no bathhouse.”
“Then you will just have to use your imagination, my dear! Perhaps one of the richer houses…” Romany looked about her. “When you’re done, you can start tidying this hovel. Sweep the floor, clear the roots and rubble away, that sort of thing.”
Danel stood unmoving.
The priestess waved a hand at her. “Well? Be about it!”
She listened to the girl’s retreating footfalls, then sat down with a sigh.
Where was I? Closing her eyes, she relaxed and allowed her mind to wander again along the threads of her web. Every tremor conveyed a message, every jolt a new move in the game. All Romany had to do was allow her subconscious to sift the information and take her where it would.
She found herself floating north.
The undead were gathered in force in this part of the forest, sent by Mayot to attack the few remaining occupied Kinevar settlements within striking distance of Estapharriol. Drawing near to one of them, the priestess saw hundreds of Vamilians swarming over its primitive barricades. Two Kinevar mages unleashed a flood of sorcery against their attackers, but the undead were too many. When the slaughter was done, the dead Kinevar rose to swell the ranks of the Vamilians.
Romany yawned. Surely this insignificant skirmish was not what had drawn her attention. There must be something else …
Well, well. What have we here?
Concentrations of power at the farthest reaches of her web. The first, and strongest, lay deep within the woods to the north and west, and Romany flashed across the intervening leagues.
The trees in this section of woods were clustered so densely that no daylight penetrated the canopy of foliage, and the air was thick with earth-magic. As yet, the forest showed no trace of the Book’s taint, but it was not this fact alone that had drawn the priestess here. Far ahead death-magic and earth-magic warred with a ferocity that made her wince. A battle was evidently being fought between Mayot’s forces and those of some unknown adversary, but who? Shroud, perhaps? No, that would not explain the prevalence of earth-magic. The Kinevar? Surely most of the creatures had already fled north. Patience, Romany told herself. The mystery would have to wait for another day.
The second concentration of power lay north and east: a sprawling city at the edge of the forest. Majack, if her memory served her correctly. Drawn up before its walls was an army of several thousand Vamilians, and the priestess shook her head in disbelief. Spider give me strength. What was Mayot thinking? Instead of preparing for Shroud’s onslaught he appeared intent on picking fights with the nations bordering the forest. How long before every kingdom this side of the Sabian Sea knew about the threat he posed? As if that were not bad enough, the mage was clearly ignorant of even the basics of siege warfare. The undead were just standing there, looking up at the city walls as if they were waiting to be invited inside. Did Mayot think he could simply …
Her thoughts were interrupted by movement among the Vamilian forces closest to the forest. The undead host parted to make way for a figure dressed in purple robes.
Romany felt the color drain from her face.
Is that…?
No, it could not be.
“Oh my!”
* * *
By the time Ebon reached the battlements his legs were trembling so violently they could barely take his weight. He tottered to the parapet and leaned against one of the merlons. His gaze searched the enemy below. A woman was approaching from the direction of the Forest of Sighs. This one is no Vamilian. Straw-colored hair hung unbound to her waist, and she wore purple robes that shimmered as she walked. What caught Ebon’s attention most, though, was her bulb-shaped skull, for it was twice as broad at the cranium as at the jaw.
The spirits’ terror was a knot in his stomach. His hands were turning white where they gripped the wall. As the urge to flee intensified he shut his eyes, only to find he could still feel the newcomer somehow, like a bright light through his closed eyelids. But hers was not the only presence he detected. The alien entity from his nightmare had returned, lurking at the back of his mind. This time the cold detachment was gone, and in its place was a hatred too vast for Ebon to comprehend. Not directed at him, he sensed, but at the woman below. He groped toward the presence, seeking something, anything, he could hold on to. The entity, though, remained beyond his grasp, and it was fading further with each moment.
Who are you?
Silence.
When he opened his eyes again, the purple-robed woman had moved level with the guardhouse. At some unspoken command, the Vamilians ahead of her parted to leave an avenue to the gate a score of paces wide. The battering ram lay forgotten along it; evidently the undead had no further use for it. Ebon’s stomach lurched. He took deep, shuddering breaths in an attempt to steady himself, but the spirits would not be calmed so easily, and his snatched breakfast of dried fruit came boiling up. He retched over the battlements. A hand shook his shoulder. Someone was talking to him, but the voice was muted as if the speaker were a great distance away.
Ebon’s vision blurred. Just like during the clash last night, a series of images flashed across his mind’s eye, each so hazy he could pick out only the most cursory of details: a building of white stone falling to ruin beneath a wave of sorcery, trees burning like pillars of flame, a yellow-robed horsewoman bearing down on him with swords in her hands and death in her eyes—a horsewoman with an oversized skull like the woman outside the city. Tightening his grip on the parapet, Ebon forced the visions down.
When his sight cleared he saw the purple-robed woman raise her arms, her sleeves sliding down to reveal milk-white skin.
The howls of the spirits fell to a whimper.
A blast of wind struck Ebon from behind, pinning him to the battlements. From along the wall came cries of alarm, and to the king’s right a Pantheon Guardsman stumbled between the merlons. A despairing cry, and the soldier was falling. The woman next to him thrust out a hand in an effort to grab him.
Missed.
The Guardsman tumbled from view.
Clouds were reversing their course in the sky, gathering to form a thunderhead. The light started to fade, and the air about Ebon grew colder even as a tremor shook the ground. The stranger was drawing in power, he realized. Earth, air, and fire, all at once. Gods below, is that even possible? Most mages were able only to soak up the energies of their
particular element, and even archmages could only absorb two.
Abruptly the air became still again, and Ebon looked left to see Mottle standing beside him. The mage’s gaze was fixed on the sky overhead. He’s battling for control of the air. The old man was winning the struggle too, for the clouds were already breaking up to let in chinks of light.
But who was going to contest the other elements?
A wall of fire was forming in front of the sorceress. Within the flames, Ebon could make out molten rock and burning roots, all wreathed in smoke. An arrow arced out from the battlements, landing well short of the woman.
Reynes’s voice rang out. “Hold your fire!”
Ebon silently swore. The general was right not to waste ammunition, but it still rankled that they could do nothing to disrupt the sorceress’s preparations. It was too late to sally forth and attack her even if they’d stood a chance of cutting a path through the undead.
Fissures opened in the earth round the woman like the spokes of a wheel. Most of the rifts were no more than a handspan across, but one, extending west toward the forest, was wide enough to swallow the undead in its path. The battlements beneath Ebon began to shake, and a crack appeared in the merlon by his right hand. All the while, the wall of fire before the sorceress continued to grow. The chill had now gone, and waves of heat washed over Ebon. The armor of the Vamilians closest to the sorcery started to glow red, then their hair and clothing burst into flames. The fires spread along the ranks of besiegers until scores were ablaze. The hapless undead stood silent and unmoving as their skin blackened.
Mottle spoke from beside Ebon. “Flee, my boy. Save yourself.”
Before Ebon could reply, Rendale was prying his hands from the wall and dragging him along the battlements.
