by Ian Irvine
Wilm slipped inside and across to the further door, which stood open, and saw stairs running up and down. He crept down, the darkness thickening with every step.
One step, two, three, four. He caught the faintest hint of citrus oil and his heart leaped. Even in this cold, the scent would not last long. Aviel could still be alive. He edged down into the gloom, reached a landing and went down another couple of steps. It was almost dark here. Now he caught a different scent – black pine, and a few steps below that, cedar oil. She must have laid a scent trail in the hope that someone would come after her.
The drumming sounded and the steps quivered underfoot, a deep, slow reverberation. He went a few more steps and his foot slipped in something thick, almost jelly-like. He sniffed it.
Blood!
Had Unick discovered the trail and killed her as coldly as he had killed Dajaes? Despair overwhelmed Wilm but he had to fight it. One little patch of blood meant nothing. She was down here and he wasn’t going to fail her.
He went down another flight, then another. It was utterly dark, dank and oppressive; he felt almost as confined as he had in the cramped tunnel into Pem-Y-Rum. The drumming was all around him now. Everything was vibrating, even the bones of his skull, and he had an unscratchable itch in his left inner ear.
A scraping sound, like a boot dragging across rough stone, was followed by a hissing breath and a stench he would never forget. The reek he had smelled when Unick had—
Wilm could not afford to go there; not now. He thrust the black sword into the dark. The dragging sound grew louder, the stench fouler and so thick that he could barely breathe. The vibration was stronger here; it felt as though the walls were moving in and out.
He was panting. Something brushed his arm and panic swelled; he was trapped, slowly suffocating. He turned round and round but could not tell which way was up and which was down. Then, in an instant, claustrophobia overwhelmed him. The walls felt as though they were moving in, the ceiling dropping on him, the air being sucked from the passage. He had to get out!
He tripped on steps that ran upwards and bolted up them, despising himself for a coward, a loser and a failure but unable to stop. After several flights he burst up into the empty room near the stone door. He stood there for a second, gasping.
“Hand over the manuscript,” said a man’s voice from outside.
“Be damned,” said Llian.
Clang – a sword glancing off stone. And Llian didn’t have a sword. He was under attack!
Llian was so preoccupied with mentally trying to recreate the labyrinthine lower levels of Carcharon that he did not realise Wilm had disappeared. The wind was rising, the sleet turning to snow and, hunched in the most sheltered corner he could find, neither did he notice the lean, cloaked figure of Jundelix Rasper, Snoat’s most reliable assassin, enter the yard.
Rasper’s short hair was thick but white; his lean face was tanned to the colour of tea. He must have been fifty though he moved like a younger man. He drew a slender knife, so sharp that it could slit a throat without its owner noticing, and crept towards Llian.
A concealed door opened on the far side of the yard and Unick slipped out, pack on his back. Llian did not notice him either; Unick was upwind. Rasper gagged, though it was inaudible over the wind.
Unick drew the stubby brass Command device and pointed it at Llian. Rasper sprang, slashing at Unick, who blasted at him. Rasper swayed aside and kicked the Command device out of Unick’s hand, then whirled and ran at Llian, trapping him in the corner.
“Hand over the manuscript.”
“Be damned,” said Llian, feeling for his blunt knife.
Unick came after him, moving in on the left as Rasper approached from the right. Llian waved his feeble weapon in front of him, cursing his own inattention. Where was Wilm? Had they already finished him?
Wilm burst out through the narrow opening of the stone door and went for Rasper, who was closest. He whirled and in a fluid movement hurled his slitting knife at Wilm’s throat. Llian let out an involuntary cry.
The black sword flashed up into the fourth basic stroke, and the ten thousand times Wilm had practised it in the past week must have ingrained the movement, for he executed it flawlessly. The flat of the blade covered his throat; the hurtling knife struck it full on and the thin blade snapped.
Wilm moved instantly into the second basic stroke. Rasper drew his sword and lunged to gut him. Wilm sidestepped, swung the black sword with all his might, and Rasper barely ducked in time as the blade cut a tonsure through his white hair. He turned and ran into the sleety snow, vanishing from sight.
Llian didn’t have time to admire Wilm’s swordplay. Unick had put the Command device back together and was pointing it at him. It was the weapon with which he had killed Dajaes.
“Die, you bastard!” he said thickly.
But before he could fire, Wilm thrust his sword out in the sixth basic stroke and it pierced through the back of Unick’s thigh to the bone. He howled and flailed around, dislodging the dark crystal at the front of the Command device. His pack fell off, landed on a block of stone, and the Identity device broke apart. The Origin device skidded across the stone-surfaced yard, caught on a projection and the tubes separated, exposing the device’s innards.
Unick, blood pouring down the back of his thigh, hopped after the Origin device. Wilm stood over it and swung the sword back.
“This blade can cut rock,” he said softly. “It’ll chop you in half like a lump of suet.”
He leaped at Unick, clearly intending to avenge Dajaes. The drumming became a shuddering roar, though for once it did not affect Llian.
Unick’s fists balled like small melons. He had recently lost the little finger of his left hand, for the stump was scabbed and oozing blood. He let out a screech; he was going into one of his berserker furies and Llian did not see how Wilm could deal with it.
Llian ran three steps and swung the heavy manuscript bag by its strap at Unick’s head. It slammed into his right ear, knocking him off his feet, and when he tried to get up his right leg refused to cooperate. He looked down at the blood, shook his head as if he could not believe this was happening to him, then ran in a scuttling limp up the yard and in through the stone door.
“Well done!” said Llian. “Yet again you’ve saved my life.”
Wilm was shaking but managed a wobbly smile. “I can’t believe I did that.”
He lifted the Origin device, which looked remarkably heavy. Its brass tubes had separated, revealing a glass cylinder almost full of quicksilver. Wilm thrust it into his pack.
“Believe it,” said Llian. “Keep watch while I take a look at this.”
He picked up the Command device and put the dark crystal back in its socket. The drumming sounded, soft but compelling. Could he destroy the summon stone with the device? Yes, he could. He must! Now!
“Come on,” cried Llian. “We’re going down to the stone. I know the way now.”
“Are… you sure?”
Fury flared. “How dare you question me!” Llian swung the device towards Wilm. “Are you with me or…”
Wilm froze, his eyes searching Llian’s face. Llian felt a momentary unease but the drumming sounded again, overwhelming all restraint. With the Command device he could blast the wretched summon stone to dust and keep the Merdrun out for ever. He ran for the door.
No, Daddy!
Llian stopped dead. The drumming was gone and so was the compulsion. “Sulien?” She had never spoken to him mind to mind before. “Sulien, where are you? Are you all right?”
No answer, of course. He lacked the gift.
He looked around. Wilm was gaping at him and Llian realised that he was still holding the Command device, that he had threatened Wilm with it, that under the influence of the drumming he had actually imagined he could use it. He shuddered and dropped it in the snow. A burning flush made its way up his face.
“Sorry, Wilm. The drumming…”
“Yes,” said Wilm, w
atching him warily. “I saw.”
“I heard Sulien’s voice.” Shame crushed him; his nine-year-old daughter had far more sense than he did.
“Is she all right?”
“I couldn’t tell.” Her contacting him was troubling. Llian desperately wanted to reach her, speak to her and make sure she was all right, but he had no way of returning her call. “We’d better go after Aviel.”
“Yes,” Wilm said hoarsely.
Then Rasper reappeared out of the whirling snow, and this time he had four subordinates, all armed with swords longer than Wilm’s.
72
HIS LEGS ARE GOING
“I can’t believe how changed Carcharon is,” said Shand, peering at the ruined tower through eyes slitted against the icy wind. “It… feels as though it’s part of another world.”
Karan was profoundly shocked. She had been thinking the same thing. “It feels like the sickest part of the void I ever saw.”
“What have we got ourselves into?” said Ussarine.
“What have Karan’s corrupt ancestors got us into?” said Shand, though mildly this time.
“Is there anything you can do?” said Ussarine.
Only in dire circumstances did Shand practise mancery, and then with the greatest reluctance. But Karan had seen him do remarkable things, and despite his protestations of being “past it”, she felt sure that he still could do them.
“The power at work here is way beyond my ken,” he said.
They were half an hour’s climb below the tower and the weather was closing in rapidly. Scudding snow showers were starting to blur Carcharon into grey.
“We’d better get a move on,” said Ussarine, studying the weather.
“If we ever get out of here,” said Karan, “I’m going to tear Carcharon down, stone by stone.” She considered the monumental labour that would be. “No, I’ll bring a hundred barrels of blasting powder up and blow the wretched place to bits.”
“I’ll help you carry them,” said Shand. “Stay here. I’m going to take a look.”
He laboured up and out of sight.
“He’s afraid I’ll betray him,” said Karan.
“Via the stigma?” said Ussarine.
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe it for a second.”
“Thank you. But… I’m starting to think that I’ll have to go to Cinnabar again.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. The second time I used Malien’s spell, the magiz was waiting with traps set. It’d be suicidal to use it a third time.”
“And yet?” said Ussarine.
“If I don’t go back and kill the magiz, will Sulien ever be safe? Will I?”
“There’s no point going back to Cinnabar unless you have a new way to attack.” Ussarine looked up. “Shand’s waving; he wants us to go up.” She strode up the track.
Mummy, where are you? Mummy, you’ve got to answer.
Sulien’s link was full of child-like bewilderment. Why wasn’t her mother answering? Then, desperately, Mummy, are you all right?
Karan doubled over, digging her fists into her belly, trying to distract herself from one pain with another. It did not work; she could not take any more. Surely it could not hurt to reassure Sulien… just one sentence? One word.
She began to make the link, then forced herself to stop. Before she could go back to Cinnabar she had to convince Malien to unblock her gift for mancery. Malien’s dire warnings surfaced but Karan forced them down again. It simply had to work.
She slogged after Ussarine and reached the tower, now an outline through whirling snow.
“I think we should go in a rush,” said Ussarine, “just in case.”
Shand was grey-faced and breathing hard. “If I drop dead, don’t try to revive me.”
Karan clapped him on the shoulder. “I dare say you’ll live to a greater age than I will.”
“Given that you’ve got both Aachim and Faellem blood, that’s debatable.”
“Well, I’ve got neither,” said Ussarine, “so I win!”
Shand chuckled. Karan managed a smile. “Let’s go.”
The wind dropped momentarily and she heard the clashing of swords, followed by a familiar, desperate cry.
“That’s Llian!”
She ran, drawing her knife. The doors were open and she burst through them, sliding on the icy floor almost to the stair. She looked around wildly. Where was he? The wind had resumed with greater ferocity, howling around the battered tower and through the window holes.
Ussarine came flying in and went skidding across the room towards the steep stair. If she fell down it she was liable to break her neck. Karan grabbed her outstretched left arm and heaved, and went spinning around Ussarine like a small red moon orbiting a giant dark planet.
“Thanks,” said Ussarine.
Shand entered less precipitously. Close by, swords clashed. “They’re out in the yard!”
Karan raced through the partly open door. The wind blasted snow into her eyes and for a few seconds she could not see. She rubbed it away.
Llian was on his back, desperately trying to hold off a snarling Unick, who was trying to strangle him. Wilm, a few yards away, was attempting to keep five armed men at bay. They were led by a wiry white-haired fellow, and all wore shoulder badges indicating that they were Snoat’s men.
Karan left the five to Shand and Ussarine, and ran at Unick. Llian’s face was purple. She leaped into the air and drove both feet at the back of Unick’s head.
His face slammed into the rock with a crunching sound. Karan hoped it was his neck; if ever a man deserved to die, he did, though she suspected it was only his cauliflower nose. And his huge hands were still around Llian’s neck.
She took hold of one shoulder and heaved, trying to drag him off. Unick rolled over and let Llian go, and she saw his ghastly face close up. His nose was gushing blood, his face was scarred and bloated, and his flip-flopping red eyes were one of the most sickening sights she had ever seen. She froze, staring at him. Beside him, Llian choked and gasped.
Unick’s hands closed around Karan’s shins, then he wrenched her legs apart so hard that she went over backwards. He came to his knees, still holding her shins. She kicked furiously but could not break his grip. The stump of his missing finger made bloody smears on her calf. Karan groped for her knife but it wasn’t there; it had fallen out of its sheath in the struggle.
“Shand?” she cried.
He did not hear; he was fighting one of Snoat’s five. Ussarine was defending against three more, and Wilm was trying to hold off their white-haired leader.
Unick came to his feet, changed his grip and she realised what he planned to do – swing her around by the shins and smash her head into the wall. She tried to double up and punch him in the face. He laughed and fended her off. He began to swing her, and there was nothing she could do to save herself; he was far too strong.
Llian scrabbled across, caught Unick’s left leg with both hands and sank his teeth into the back of his calf. Unick howled and let go of Karan, who went flying over a pile of tumbled stones into a snowdrift. Unick flailed at Llian, who bit him again then reached up and punched the bloody wound on the back of his thigh.
Unick shrieked, toppled, recovered and hopped away into the snow, blood pouring from his nose, his calf and the back of his thigh.
Karan stared at Llian, who was gagging and spitting and scrubbing his mouth with the back of his hand. There was no time for a reunion. Shand had just gone down and his attacker was looming over him, sword raised for the death stroke.
Karan snatched up a fist-sized piece of rubble and hurled it at the man’s head. It went wide and struck him on the right elbow. The sword fell from his hand and hit the ground point first between Shand’s ribs and his arm. The man threw back his head in silent agony – the rock had struck him on the funny bone. Shand caught the hilt of the sword as it toppled towards his face, thrust it up into the man’s middle and rolled out of the way as he
fell.
“You all right?” said Karan.
“Bastard stabbed me in the arse,” said Shand. “Left cheek.”
“Want me to take a look at it?”
“No, thank you.”
She looked around, dizzy from all that had happened. Ussarine had efficiently dispatched two of her opponents and now took on the third man, but he turned, snatched up the Command device and ran.
“Send word to Snoat!” said the white-haired leader, who was still fighting Wilm.
Wilm had a small patch of blood on his right shoulder and a cut on his chin. The white-haired man was wounded in the left ribs, and there was a smear of blood across his hair.
He lunged at Wilm, who barely evaded the blow. His own sword strokes were starting to look clumsy and he was panicking. Karan could not imagine how he had lasted this long against a man who was clearly a professional killer.
But the white-haired man was also middle-aged. He’d had a week-long pursuit and an exhausting climb at the end of it, and perhaps he was more used to slitting throats in the dark than fighting a long duel face to face. Karan, who had seen more fighting than she cared to remember, saw what Wilm could not.
“His legs are going, Wilm! He’s tired; he can’t take much more. Wear the bastard down!”
Wilm’s legs did not seem tired. He was just a youth and used to hard labour. He flashed her a strained smile, parried the next blow, then lunged and pinked the white-haired man on the breastbone.
It wasn’t a serious injury, but it could have been, and the white-haired man knew it. He checked and Karan saw the moment that he started to panic. He tried to fight it and went at Wilm with a series of furious blows, but his knees were wobbling, the heavy sword had exhausted him and none of his blows went quite where he wanted.
Wilm had his confidence back. He wielded the black sword as though it was an extension of his arm – he parried three blows then struck between the white-haired killer’s ribs and into his heart. He fell back, dead.
Wilm stood there for a moment, panting, his face covered in sweat. Then, in a moment that showed his quality, he bent, closed the dead man’s eyes and stood before him for a minute, head bowed, acknowledging his victim.
