The King's Justice

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  None of this surprises Black. He knows there is sorcery in his blood, a necessary effect of his shaping. He knows Sought can take power from his veins as well as from his silver, and from other details also. And he finds that he now understands more than he imagined. The conundrum that has baffled him since he heard Jon Marker and studied Tamlin Marker’s grave is the impossibility of concentrating the elemental energies of heat and air so that they will serve as a source of power. But here that riddle is answered. The slow boil of stone in the crevice will supply Sought with all the concentration he can require.

  Then there will arise a form of sorcery for which the King is unprepared. No amount of resolve and strength will suffice to preserve the balance to which the King has given his life.

  His fists Black keeps closed. Perhaps Sought has not studied them. Perhaps the hierophant does not know that there is thin silver under the surface of Black’s palms.

  Haul Varder does not understand Sought’s caution. He does not care to understand it. Explanations and warnings only aggravate his impatience. He is entirely aware of the old man’s scorn. He does not trust Sought to fulfill any promise. Yet if there is doubt in the wheelwright’s eyes, if there is fear, he does not know it. His rage overcomes every qualm, every scruple, every hesitation.

  “Then do it,” he demands. “Cut him. Take what you need. Keep your word. I am done with your endless preparations. They are timid, old man. They show that you are unsure of yourself.

  “He is helpless now. He will not be more helpless in an hour’s time.”

  Sought replies with a smile like a wolf’s. The wheelwright’s insults stoke his own hot hungers, but he does not speak of them. Instead he offers his mildest quaver.

  “Very well. I am ready. At your request, we will begin.”

  Holding Haul Varder’s gaze, the hierophant nods to his guards.

  They have been well instructed. They know their master’s will. It rules them. One remains with Sought and Haul Varder. His comrades cross the cavern to enter the wagon.

  When they emerge, they are carrying two square-cut timbers, one twice the length of the other. They have rope. Near Black, they lean the longer timber against the wall. With rope, they lash the shorter timber across the longer. When they are done, they have fashioned a rude cross.

  Haul Varder snorts at the sight. “What purpose does that serve?” The wellspring of his rage provides an abundance of bitterness. “Is this some trick? He cannot be made more helpless than he is. I can do whatever I wish to him as he stands.”

  Black has a better understanding of the old man’s intent. Any ritual of shaping must begin with natural flesh. He is not surprised when the guard at Sought’s side strikes the wheelwright’s head, a clout that drops him to the stone. While Haul Varder writhes in pain and shock, stunned by the blow, Sought’s servants drag him to the cross. With practiced ease, they bind his arms to the shorter timber. His ankles they secure near the floor. When they are done, Tamlin Marker’s killer is as helpless as Black.

  The guards do not remove Haul Varder’s trousers. Sought has seen Black’s legs. He has studied them. He knows that their shaping contributes much to Black’s purpose, but will not serve his own.

  As the wheelwright recovers, he shakes his head frantically. “This is not—” His voice fails him until the effects of the blow diminish. Then he is able to shout. “This is not your promise! Bastard! Whoreson! I did not consent to this! You assured me I did my part when I killed the boy. When I harvested him.” His eyes glare in his head like a madman’s. “This is not your promise!”

  Sought now stands in front of Black. He is planning his cuts, his maimings. He does not disguise his eagerness as he answers Haul Varder.

  “You did your part. Indeed, you did. I acknowledge it freely. And I will fulfill my promise. You will see how I fulfill it. But the boy’s death required your willingness. For my ritual, innocence must be voluntarily taken. If one of my men did the deed for me, the effect of the outcome would be lessened.

  “Now I do not need your willingness. It has no further use. For the fulfillment of my promise, you are merely an implement. By choice or not, you suffice.”

  Haul Varder screams his rage and fear, but Sought no longer heeds him. The gaze with which the priest regards Black suggests that the old man is amazed to come so near his goal, but Sought knows only his own eagerness. After so many years of toil, so many victims, so much extreme deprivation, so much arcane study, he now stands in the perfect place for his purpose, and has been given the perfect tools to achieve his ends. No hierophant has ever accomplished what he attempts here. He finds that he must take a moment to calm himself so that his hands will not tremble.

  From hidden pockets, he draws out a delicate knife of aching keenness and a small vessel shaped like a trough slightly curved. Pressing the vessel to Black’s flesh, he sets his blade to an inlay below Black’s collarbone. With extreme care, he cuts to remove the silver. Black’s blood he collects in his vessel.

  This is a pain with which Black has long and extensive experience. He accepted it during his shaping. He does not accept it now. Howling hoarsely, he twists as much as he can from side to side, playing the part of a man who squirms in a wasted effort to escape excruciation. Yet his demonstrated agony is a charade. He uses it to disguise the way he invokes the inlays of his palms, the way he strains to free his right arm from its bonds. He knows that he will not break the rope. He has never had such strength. Yet with time and effort, a bolt hammered into stone may be worked loose.

  If Sought and the guards do not recognize what he strives to do—

  From the place where the bolt enters the wall comes a small sifting of grit, nothing more.

  With one thin bar of silver removed, the old man sets his vessel aside. He confronts Haul Varder. Vexed by the wheelwright’s screams and curses, Sought gestures to his guards. One man steps forward to gag Haul Varder’s mouth. The gag is driven so deep that Varder retches. He can scarcely breathe. He cannot scream, though his gaze is white terror.

  Satisfied, Sought finds a place among Haul Varder’s ribs, a place unlike the inlay’s location in Black’s chest. He opens a substantial flap of Varder’s skin, inserts the silver, then settles the flap over it. Responding to Sought’s nod, another guard uses a leather-hook and twine to sew shut the wound so that the inlay will not shift.

  As his servant treats the wheelwright, Sought returns to Black.

  Briefly the hierophant considers his task. When he has made his choice, he slashes with his knife again and again at Black’s sigil of command, taking care only to catch Black’s blood in his vessel. He does not stop until the sigil is marred beyond use or name. Then he proceeds to remove another inlay from Black’s chest.

  During these cuts, Black continues his raw-throated howls, his twisting, his show of anguish. The slight flexing of his elbow allowed by his bonds does not enable him to exert much force, but he does what he can. And he does not only pull. He jerks upward, downward.

  The drift of grit from the place where the bolt enters the stone is not enough.

  When the second of Black’s inlays has been imposed on Haul Varder, this time deep in the man’s belly, and the wound has been sewn shut, Sought begins to draw cuts on the wheelwright’s flesh. Some are symbols and whorls that Black recognizes. Others form patterns unfamiliar to him. Soon Haul Varder’s torso is a sheen of sweat and blood, his beard is a mute cry for help, and his eyes flutter on the edge of unconsciousness.

  For the moment, the old man is content with his work. A sign to his guards brings one of them to remove the gag from Haul Varder’s mouth. While the wheelwright whoops for air, Sought retrieves his supply of Black’s blood. Obeying a silent command, the guard grips Haul Varder’s head and tilts it back. The guard’s fingers gouge Varder’s nerves until Varder’s mouth is forced open.

  The old man pours Black’s blood down hi
s ally’s throat until it has all been swallowed.

  Black feels that he is suffocating in the heat. Sweat runs from his body. His new wounds pump trickles of blood. But he ignores those sensations. While Sought’s attention, and that of his guards, is occupied with the wheelwright, Black works against the bolt that secures his right hand.

  He cannot work long. The hierophant soon returns to him. Sought has much to do to complete his designs. Black endures as best he can, feigning torment, while another of his sigils is destroyed and two more inlays are cut out. As best he can, he fights the bolt. Yet despite his straits, his growing weakness, his imminent betrayal of the King, he finds comfort in Sought’s actions. The old man has not touched the signs he indicated to Haul Varder, the signs that demand the King’s attention. He avoids attracting the King’s notice. Also Sought has not harmed the place on Black’s hip that summons his longsword. The priest believes that Black cannot move his arms. Therefore Black cannot invoke his powers. Sought has not examined Black’s palms.

  The hierophant’s knowledge is not as complete as Black feared.

  Haul Varder is unconscious now, or he has fallen into the compliance taught by his mother’s harsh love. He does not struggle as he is wounded with Black’s inlays and the wounds are sewn. He does not protest as Sought’s cuts proliferate on his chest and belly, his arms and shoulders. He does not resist drinking Black’s blood.

  While the wheelwright is shaped, Black risks more obvious efforts to loosen the bolt. He knows that he has little time. Sought’s ritual approaches its culmination.

  Still the grit falling from the bolt is not enough.

  For the first time, Black hears Sought speak to his men. “I must pause,” he says. With studious care, he mops blood and sweat from Haul Varder’s torso. “One more inlay will be enough. More than enough. But the last cuts are crucial. I must see clearly what I do, and I am old.

  “Ready the organs while I rest. Scatter the powders I have prepared on them. Say the words I have taught you. Then bring our harvest out. There must be no delay at the end.”

  Two guards enter the wagon. They do not return quickly. When they do return, they carry between them a large wooden tub crusted with old blood.

  The organs, Black thinks, straining his right arm until the muscles and sinews threaten to tear. The lungs and livers. To invoke heat and air. To rule them. Not the fierce heat from the crevice. Not the comparative cool of breezes from the tunnels. Rather the elemental energies themselves, the gods of heat and air. Concentrated here as they are nowhere else in the kingdom, or in the known lands.

  Still Black does not believe that Sought can draw force from air. The hierophant needs lungs only to stoke the fire in the rift, to fan the flames like a bellows. His ritual will evoke the sorcery of heat.

  When the old man stands before him again, Black summons his last desperation.

  Another inlay Sought cuts out of Black, this one from Black’s lower abdomen near his groin. Playing his charade, Black stretches against his bonds like a man on the rack. But he does not exert his full strength. He allows his growing weakness, the effect of his losses, to affect him. When this silver is gone, and his blood has been collected, he slumps in the posture of a man defeated.

  He waits until Sought has returned to Haul Varder, until the wheelwright is being cut, until the old man’s eagerness and the attention of the guards regard only the ruined man. Then Black puts all that remains of him into his right arm and pulls. He pulls until his heart threatens to burst.

  Grit trickles from the hole made by the bolt. The bolt wobbles. For an instant, its resistance is greater than Black can endure. Then a cruel effort draws the iron from the stone.

  His arm is free.

  He is close to fainting, but he does not hesitate. One guard notices his success. Sought himself notices. They will act. One two three, Black slaps the places on his marred body that demand the King’s awareness. And with his summons, he sends a piece of his soul. He cannot do otherwise. It is his soul that the King will hear, his soul that the King will understand.

  By so doing, Black commits himself to death. Even a shaped man cannot live long when so much of his soul is gone.

  Still he regrets nothing. He is near the end of all fear.

  And he does not falter in his purpose. A guard rushes toward him. Sought turns in surprise and outrage. Black responds as swiftly as his failing strength allows. He claps his hand to the glyph on his hip that manifests his longsword. With the hilt in his grasp, he swings outward. The tip of his blade catches the guard’s throat, but Black does not pause to observe the effect of his slash. His return stroke hacks at the rope binding his left hand to its bolt.

  The rope is tough. Though it is damaged, it does not part.

  The old man is shaken to the core of his ambitions, his hungers. He knows what Black has done. He knows his peril. But he also does not hesitate. He has come too far for too long to draw back. He snarls an instant’s incantation. With one trembling hand, he sketches an arcane symbol across the air.

  Black’s longsword becomes smoke in his hand. It dissipates quickly, tugged away by the breezes from the tunnels.

  The guard is on the floor. He clutches at his neck. Blood gasps from the severing of his windpipe. Already he is too weak to seek help from his master. In moments, he is dead.

  Two servants remain to the old man. They await his bidding.

  “Curse you!” Sought yells at Black. He is incandescent with rage. “Curse you to all the hells that were, or are, or will be! Curse you eternally!”

  Black replies with a smile that does not encourage confidence. He has taken the hierophant’s measure now. He knows that Sought’s knowledge is incomplete. He knows the ways in which that knowledge is incomplete. And he knows that the old man’s hungers will overcome both his outrage and his danger.

  Also Black knows that his own task is not done. His purpose demands more of him.

  Writhing in his robe, Sought masters himself. He has only one hope left, and his craving for it is endless. He turns away from Black. To his remaining men, he shouts, “The organs first! Quickly! We must complete the ritual before the King can intervene!”

  The guards do not delay. They have no personal fears. Despite their great skill with weapons, they are Sought’s puppets. As one, they turn to the tub of lungs and livers. Carrying it to the crevice, they heave it and its contents into the depths.

  A roaring from the fissure answers them. Black hears louder boiling. He sees flames at the lip of the rift.

  “Now the wheelwright!” shrieks the old man. “Let him see how I keep my word!”

  The guards obey. Returning to the wall, they lift the cross between them. Haul Varder attempts some weak protest, but he is not heeded. Carrying him bound to his crucifixion, Sought’s servants approach the fissure. Without ceremony, they drop their victim into the seething heat, the flagrant light.

  The roar in the rift resembles the priest’s eagerness. It resembles his hunger. A gyre of flame rises into the cavern, circling itself until it is sucked into the funnel of the ceiling.

  “Now!” Sought exults to Black. “Gaze on what I have wrought! Gaze and know despair!”

  His men stand as though they have forgotten themselves. One or both of them can kill Black now, but they do not move. They have come to the end of their instructions. They wait for their master’s commands.

  Black does not know what preparations the hierophant has performed in secret. Like the guards, he waits.

  The roar has a voice. Black almost understands it, but its meaning is confused in the fissure, in the deep boiling, in the tremendous increase of heat.

  A hand of fiery stone grips the rim of the crevice. A shape of flame climbs into view. Black sees a head that may once have been lava. He sees shoulders as heavy as boulders, yet as liquid as molten wax. A second hand grasps the rim. It melts purc
hase for its fingers in the rock.

  Loud in ecstasy or agony, the outcome of Sought’s promise to Haul Varder heaves upward. A knee that mars what it touches braces itself on the floor. The voice howls, “At last!” Another heave brings the old man’s creation to its feet at the edge of the rift. “Now I am made FEARSOME! I am fear INCARNATE.

  “She will not hurt me again!”

  Haul Varder has become lava, or the lava has become him. He retains the shape of a man, though he is twice Black’s size. His eyes are the blaze in the heart of a forge. His voice is living heat, and his hands are formed to incinerate lives. His proximity alone turns flesh to tinder. Standing where they have been left to wait, Sought’s last servants burn like fagots.

  He is Sought’s triumph, and his own. No human force can stand against him. He will make infernos of towns and forests. He will burn entire lands to ash. He is ready to rampage wherever he chooses.

  For a moment, the old man regards what he has achieved, exulting in his own greatness, and in his creation’s. He has proven himself. He has done what no man before has or can. At another time, he would be content. Now, however, seeing the fruition of his life, he wants more. He wants to prove himself against the King.

  Then Haul Varder’s heat drives Sought back. And when he turns away, he perceives that the crisis of his ambitions has found him. Black and Haul Varder and the smoldering corpses of the guards are not alone.

  From the tunnels on one side of the cavern, darkness pours inward. It flows like water over the stone. It is colder than the oldest ice, deeper than the gulfs between the stars. Though it only flows, and does not seek or act, its presence spares Black the worst of the wheelwright’s fire. When it reaches Haul Varder’s feet, it begins spilling into the crevice, where it or the lava cease to exist.

  At the same time, the tunnels on the far side grow brighter. The brightness emerges in globes of purest radiance. Some are smaller than others, but all resemble instances of the sun’s best light. They float in the air without apparent aim, riding the breezes. Some are carried upward and swept away, funneled into the night above the mountain. Others bob here and there, avoiding only the flow of darkness on the floor. Those that collide with Haul Varder’s fire do not harm him. They are not harmed themselves.