by Ian Irvine
“Shand!” she yelled. “Down here.”
The drumming swelled and drowned her out. The crimson light flared, bathing everything, even this far below the chamber of the stone, but shortly the light reverted to normal. Had Unick fed them to the stone? Was that why it had flared so brightly?
No, for she heard the voices again, arguing, though she could not make out what they were saying until one voice soared above the others.
“You’ve got it arse about,” cried Wilm. “If we destroy the stone the Merdrun won’t be able to get through. That’s a far better outcome than going to war against them.”
Aviel’s heart lurched. What was he doing here?
“How the hell would you know?” bellowed Shand. “You’re a seventeen-year-old kid whose life experience consists of labouring jobs in the back end of nowhere.”
“And you’re a bloody old fool who can’t see that he’s being corrupted by the very thing that he thinks he can control.”
“Shand!” Aviel screamed into the silence. “Wilm!”
She shouted until she was hoarse, but when there was no reply Aviel plunged into an abyss of despair. Wilm was her oldest friend but she had no illusions about his abilities. Unick would kill him for the joy of it.
And why had he said Shand was being corrupted by the very thing that he thinks he can control?
Shand had taken Malien’s first warning very seriously, so why was he now thinking about using the deadly power of the stone? Was it corrupting him, trying to make him do the worst thing he could possibly do? And Wilm, who was normally so quiet and polite?
How was she to get free and destroy it? Scent potions only worked on people. Could she force Unick to destroy the stone with a potion of command or control? Could she even make such a potion with what she had?
She dredged the grimoire up from the bottom of her pack, eased her bad foot into the least uncomfortable position and turned the pages. The darkest scent potions were in the last section, and there were several that might be used to control another mancer, though all required scents and stenches she did not have.
It was the same in the middle section of the grimoire, which described the Lesser Potions, and even in the first section, “Introductory Scent Potions”. Only in the “Preface, Practice Potions” was there a scent potion she could make with what she had – the Electuary of Compulsion. The trouble was, it simply wasn’t strong enough to use on Unick.
She was stymied.
Then she saw the answer. She had to escape and convince Shand that the stone had to be destroyed, not used – by using the potion on him!
Aviel was surprised at her own ruthlessness. Maybe the summon stone was working on her too, but she planned to use it. Shand must have doubts about going against Malien’s warning, and Aviel had to heighten his self-doubt at the same time as she reinforced Malien’s authority. The scent potion might just do that.
She was halfway through her blending when Unick popped his grotesque head over the wall of her prison and leered down at her. “If you think they’re going to rescue you, think again.”
She stared at him, wondering what he was on about.
Unick held up a slender black sword. “This is a famous enchanted blade once owned by Mendark the Magister. Your feckless friend Wilm found it, and when he comes back for you I’m going to lure him into a trap with it.”
“What did he ever do to you?”
“He wounded me with this sword, and for that he has to die.”
Wilm never knew how he found his way out of the labyrinth. Within minutes of leaving the cavern he was lost in a claustrophobic nightmare, and it took hours, and dozens of false turns, before he encountered a narrow conduit where he felt a current of icy air on his face. Outside air.
He followed it up, but it steadily narrowed until he had to hunch his shoulders to squeeze through. Should he go on? What if he got stuck here? What if he could not get out? The claustrophobia was rising again. He wanted to shout and thrash his arms but did not have the room to move them.
Just another yard. He could manage that, surely. And then, just another yard, until he dragged himself around a gentle curve and saw gridded daylight ahead, coming through a cast-iron grating over the end of the conduit.
The pins that secured it to the rock had rusted, and after three desperate heaves he snapped them off and forced it out. It was still snowing though the wind had eased. The quality of the light suggested that it was late afternoon.
He wriggled out onto a foot-wide ledge, then let out a squawk of fear. He was on the edge of a precipice. The yard wall loomed above him and the ledge ran along the base of the wall in either direction, out of sight. What was he to do? If he went back down the conduit he might not find another way out. He dared not spend the night down there.
He could not climb the wall either. His only option was to shuffle along the ledge until he got to the end and hope a way out would present itself. But which way? The outer wall of Carcharon was shaped like a tilted boat, with the tower at the lower end and the bow a couple of hundred yards further up the ridge and at least a hundred feet higher. He was halfway along the left side and he knew there was no ledge around the tower itself; it must end where the wall joined the tower. He would have to head up towards the bow.
Wilm stood up, swayed, his heart gave a terrified lurch and he slammed his back against the wall. A foot-wide ledge was plenty to stand on, so why was inching along it so terrifying? He took a step, and another, sweating so much that he could smell himself.
The light was fading quickly now; he had to move faster. On he went, step after step after step. The ledge sloped up steeply here and was icy; he had to dig the sides of his boots in to prevent himself from slipping.
Finally, however, the ridge curved away to his left and the curving wall – the bow of the boat – went right. With no danger of falling he made faster progress and soon reached the end, though the wall was as high above him here as everywhere else. He had to find a way over it and into the yard – without shelter, he would not survive the night.
Wilm continued until he found a place where the mortar had crumbled out of the joints between the blocks, leaving spaces where he could insert fingers and toes. He went up the first ten feet easily enough, though after that the cracks were shallower and it was an increasing strain to support himself. Fifteen feet to go. Could he do it? He had to, though after another five feet the tips of his fingers were bleeding and his grip was slipping. It was so cold he had no feeling in his fingertips.
Ten feet to go. The wind was stronger up here, catching his coat and pack, and trying to tug him off the wall. His fingers felt as though they were being pulled off at the knuckles, and the strain of supporting his weight on his toes ran from his heels up to the base of his skull. But he had to keep going. If he failed, Aviel would be fed to the stone.
Five feet and he could go no further. He tried a new mantra, Just one more block, just one more block, but it didn’t work. The willpower was there but his muscles had nothing left.
“What the hell are you doing down there?” Ussarine was leaning out over the wall.
“Falling off!” Wilm gasped.
She lay on the wall on her belly and extended her long arm, but could not reach him by a foot. “Push yourself up.”
“Can’t do it.”
“Yes, you can.”
He tried and failed, tried and failed again. She slid sideways off the wall, evidently holding onto the inside with her other arm, and gained another six inches of reach.
“Go back!” he said. “We’ll both die.”
“Nonsense.” Ussarine’s voice projected calm confidence, though her teeth were bared under the strain. “Take my hand but don’t put all your weight on it.”
He strained up and managed to touch her fingers. She stretched down and caught his hand, then closed her fingers around it in a crushing grip and lifted him. But she pulled his toes out of the crack and suddenly he was swinging across the face of the wal
l, and the only thing holding them up was her other arm locked over the inside of the wall… and she seemed to be slipping.
His toes scrabbled at the wall, bumped across a crack but slipped out again. He jammed the fingers of his free hand into a higher crack, drew his knees up, then slid his toes down the wall until they found a deeper crack and took some of his weight. Ussarine rolled back the other way, lifting him. He went up another block, then she came to her knees and swung him up onto the wall.
“Thanks,” he gasped. His calf muscles hurt so much that he had to sit down.
She rubbed her right arm, which was grazed from elbow to wrist, even through her coat and shirt. “Pleasure.” She squatted down, frowning at him. “Though all things considered, I don’t think I’ll mention it to Shand.”
“He might get a bad impression about me,” said Wilm, and they both laughed.
But it was miserably exposed here and, now he was safe, the cold crept into his bones. Cold and fear.
“This way,” said Ussarine.
He followed her down steps into the upper end of the yard. “What were you doing up there anyway?”
“Keeping watch. And staying away from Shand – he’s poor company right now. Why did you keep the device?”
“I just thought—”
“Have you ever displayed the slightest aptitude for mancery?”
“No… but…”
She made an exasperated sound. “Anyone can learn sword fighting if they work hard at it, but without the gift for mancery you could study it all your life and still not be able to scratch your bum with it.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been stupid.”
“Unbelievably!”
“Do you think I should apologise?”
“I’d give Shand a while to cool down.”
“How long?”
“A couple of decades might do it.”
Ussarine did not seem to be joking. She opened a door and, holding up her lightglass, passed into an old workshop. It was empty except for a few broken, rusting tools and some crumbling wooden benches. “You can sleep here.”
She turned to go out again and stopped. “Where’s that fine sword of yours?”
Wilm slapped his thigh, then sweat burst from his forehead. “After you and Shand went, I… I left it in the shadows by the wall, before I went back into the cavern.”
“You went back?”
“Dajaes was killed because I failed her.”
“How?”
How could she not know? How could anyone not know? But then, why would Ussarine know the story? Only he, Llian and Unick had been there. And Dajaes. He told Ussarine what had happened back in Pem-Y-Rum, and how he should have attacked Unick but had choked.
“How can you blame yourself?” said Ussarine after a long silence. “Before you got within striking distance he would have blasted you down as well.”
“I didn’t have the courage to try,” Wilm said miserably. “That’s why I had to go back down. I can’t fail Aviel as well, I just can’t.”
“You’re taking too much on yourself.”
“And now I’ve lost my only weapon. I’m the biggest fool that ever drew breath.”
Ussarine shook her head. “It beggars belief how you’ve survived to be as old as you are. Old Mendark would be turning in his grave.”
“Why?”
“It was his favourite sword.”
“How do you know?”
“My father used to talk about it.”
“Who’s your father?”
“Osseion. He was Mendark’s personal guard for many years.”
“Thandiwe said the sword could be enchanted. Is it?”
She hesitated fractionally. “Father never said, and neither did Mendark. He was close-mouthed about such things.”
“You knew Mendark?”
“I often went to see my father at the citadel in Thurkad, where Mendark lived. I was thirteen when he was killed.” She handed Wilm the lightglass and headed for the door.
“What’s happening?” said Wilm. “With you and Shand?”
“He’s trying to contact Malien and Nadiril. After that he’ll decide what to do and where to go.” She went out, came back and said, “Did you find anything in the cavern?”
“No.” He told her what he’d seen and done.
“You may be a bloody idiot,” she said, thumping him on the shoulder, “but your heart is where it should be.”
75
TO LURE, ENSNARE AND CORRUPT
“Malien?” Shand was calling wearily. “Malien?”
Wilm looked down from his vantage point up in the smoke-stained rafters. Shand, who had taken refuge with Ussarine in the ruined stone bakery at the end of the yard, was sitting in the front half of the partly collapsed baking oven. The brickwork arched over his head and ran back like a cave for six feet.
He had been repeating the call for the last hour, without success. Whatever mancery he was using, it was exhausting; his voice was slower and wearier with each call.
Wilm could only see one side of Ussarine’s face from here. She had glanced across as he settled into his hiding place, and though she had not looked his way again he felt sure she knew he was there.
Shand suddenly leaned forward. “Where are you, Malien?”
“Almadin.” Her voice sounded impossibly distant. “Thirty miles west of Morgadis. What news?”
“Bad! I’m at Carcharon. We’ve seen the summon stone.”
Succinctly Shand described what had happened and what they knew, including how Unick’s Origin device had been gained and lost. Wilm squirmed.
“Is Karan with you?”
“She was.” Shand explained about Karan and Llian being taken by the gate to Alcifer, and Maigraith going after them.
“I don’t like this at all,” said Malien. “Alcifer is a construct built to a purpose that only Rulke ever knew…”
Her voice faded, then returned strongly.
“You must destroy the stone at once.”
“Can’t get near it,” said Shand. “And if I could, each piece weighs tons.”
“Tons?” Malien sounded alarmed. “I thought it would be small enough to hold in the hand.”
“It’s a trilithon and each stone is seven feet high. Besides,” he added in a low voice, “we’re going to need its power.”
“No, no, no! Don’t even think that way.”
“I’ve spoken to Nadiril. Snoat’s moving south with an army of sixty thousand men. Hingis has only been able to raise five thousand, and we’re struggling to equip them because Snoat’s armies have robbed our allies of most of their wealth. Only Sith and the far south remain free, but if he lands an army there he could roll over our little force in a day.”
“And a few days later the Merdrun will invade,” said Malien, “and there’ll be no resistance.”
“Because they planned it this way,” Shand said bitterly. “What about your people? They’re strong.”
“The bulk of them are four hundred leagues away in Stassor, and they can’t get here for at least eight weeks. If the stone can’t be stopped, we’re finished.”
“This fight has to be fought now, Malien, but there’s only one way to get the power we need – the summon stone!”
“It’s designed to lure, ensnare and corrupt. Never think that you can use it safely.”
“How do you know?” Shand said with a return of the simmering anger Wilm had seen in him earlier.
“Because Karan saw it all. Meet me in Vilikshathûr in a week.”
There was a snapping noise like a dry stick breaking underfoot, and the connection was gone.
After a long pause Shand turned to Ussarine. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Nadiril wants you to use the power of the stone,” said Ussarine.
“And Malien says I must not. But indecision was ever the Aachim’s greatest flaw.”
“What if she’s right?”
He rose and paced, hands clasped behind his back. “Malien wo
n’t arrive for a week, and it’ll take us longer than that to ride to Vilikshathûr – assuming we can get through at all. I’ve got to act now. Do I use the stone? Or try to destroy it though I don’t know how? Or ride away and hope we can find a way to beat Snoat, whose army is twelve times bigger than ours? Then, with only a few days to prepare, face the most brutal fighters Santhenar has ever seen.”
“Rasper told the fellow who escaped with the Command device to send word to Snoat. If he had a caged skeet below, it will have reached him by now.”
“It’s got to be a gate then,” said Shand. “Assuming I can find the strength for it.”
“How long will it take to make one?”
“I don’t know. I’m… out of practice. A day or two, I expect. I’ll make a trial gate first, and if it looks safe I’ll go down to the stone. That way, if things go wrong we’ll have an escape route.”
“Using the summon stone should be a last resort.”
“Oh, it will be,” Shand said darkly. He looked directly at Wilm’s hiding place, scowled and said to Ussarine, “Another thing.”
“Yes?”
“Do you think I don’t know you’ve been helping Wilm behind my back?”
“He means well.”
“Some of the biggest disasters in the Histories have been created by people who meant well. Keep the wretch out of my way. This is going to take everything I’ve got.” He rubbed his old eyes. “Maybe more than I’ve got.”
Wilm slipped away but did not return to the workshop. Whether Shand succeeded or failed it would be bad for Aviel. Wilm had to try and rescue her now and he wasn’t going to think about what could go wrong; he was just going to do it.
He went down, following the path he had taken with Shand and Ussarine. Could his sword still be there? He allowed himself to hope.
He had thought it would be easier this time, since he knew what he was facing, but going down turned out to be harder. The darkness was blacker than before, the air hotter and thicker and more stifling, and his claustrophobia was more overwhelming. If Unick chose to, he could kill Wilm as easily as he had Dajaes.
