The Covenant Rising

by Stan Nicholls

The echo died. Nothing happened.

  They decided on the simplest stratagem: a rush en masse for the stairs. The company readied themselves. Serrah’s escorts looked ready to drag her if necessary. Their fingertips brushed her arms, within grabbing distance.

  The leader gave his sign and they started to run.

  A dozen swift paces on, disaster struck.

  Armed men poured from the tunnel mouths. Warders and militia mostly, with a smattering of paladins. Serrah reckoned their number at above a dozen. At least half as many again as her side.

  The rescuers’ dash became an unplanned charge. They had no choice. The two groups’ leading edges met. There were cries and clashes of steel.

  Serrah allowed herself to be steered through the initial chaos. As the mob distilled into a series of separate fights, she shook free. Her escorts stayed close but their attention turned to the advancing melee. Whoever her mysterious allies were, they fought like maniacs.

  The tide rolled in and Serrah found herself at the centre of the brawl. For a long moment, incredibly, it engaged everyone but her. She seemed to exist in a bubble, with duels raging on every side. Her abused body throbbed. She was sucked dry and disoriented. But all she felt was fury. Blistering resentment and hatred of her persecutors smothered any other thought.

  She needed to kill something.

  The battle had drawn her bodyguards away. As she moved, she heard one of them calling out to her. She ignored him and plunged into the scrum.

  A blade scythed the air above her ducking head. Another cleared her ribs by a hairsbreadth. The twisting and dodging was excruciating. It didn’t matter.

  She picked a target. A stocky militiaman, fencing with a rescuer and getting the better of it. Serrah had no taste for honour or subtlety. She buried her knife in his back. As he went down she took his sword. Her victim’s opponent turned away and piled into another foe.

  One of the masked rescuers collapsed in front of her, his chest ribboned. She leapt over his corpse and into the path of a warder with a rapier in play. Deflecting a blow with the knife, she thrust her sword into his belly. Nearby, one of his comrades lost his footing on the dank flagstones and fell heavily. A masked rescuer impaled him, delivering his broadsword two-handed to the heart. Bathed in the catharsis of violence, Serrah looked for more trouble.

  It found her. Moving with liquid agility, a paladin laid siege. He was a head taller than Serrah and powerfully built. Like her, he wielded sword and knife. Their legendary fighting skills and savagery made paladins opponents to be avoided at the best of times. But in the worst of times, and impelled by bloodlust, caution had no hold on Serrah.

  Their swords collided. The strength behind the paladin’s blow sent a spasm through Serrah’s knotted arm muscles. She took a swipe at his face with the knife, forcing him back a pace. Swift as thought he retaliated, sending a downward slash that could have split her to the waist. She replied with a combination of jabs and swipes that briefly staved him off.

  They joined again in a flurry of scathing passes and grating blades. It seemed his defence was impenetrable. Then with will and luck guiding her hand, Serrah battered through. He tried to block a side-swipe. Her momentum was too great and snapped his sword in two. The paladin brought up his knife. She evaded it and planted steel deep in his guts.

  He slumped to his knees, mouth agape, eyes wide. Serrah drew back her sword and sliced into the side of his neck. Blood sprayed, the paladin toppled.

  Breathing hard, she backed off and looked around. The frenzy was decreasing. Her allies had downed the last of the enemy and bodies littered the corridor. Two of them were rescuers. Several others had light injuries. Some of them were staring at her, but nobody said anything.

  Healing salves were quickly pressed to wounds. One or two of the group broke small phials under their noses and inhaled restorative vapours. Then the signal went out to move on. This time, nobody offered to help her.

  The depleted band reached the stairs and began to climb again. They ascended four more levels without incident, save for disturbing the odd rat. But they could hear sounds of pursuit from below and hurried their flight. The effort vexed Serrah’s body. It felt like she had lava coursing through her veins.

  Finally they arrived at a wide, high passageway marking ground level. The entrance was here, its robust doors standing open. A handful of masked men guarded it. Corpses of militia and paladins had been dragged to one side of the corridor. The guards eyed Serrah, but no questions were asked about their missing comrades.

  “How does it look?” the leader of Serrah’s group wanted to know.

  “Our luck won’t hold much longer,” one of the guards replied. “We have to move now.”

  The leader nodded and steered Serrah to the door. It was night outside and a fine rain was falling. He pointed to the massive wall opposite. Three thick ropes hung down it. “Could you climb that?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  He held out a hand. “Your weapons.”

  Serrah tightened her hold on the blades and shook her head.

  “How will you climb?”

  Reluctantly, she gave him the sword and knife, and suddenly felt naked. He passed them back to his crew.

  “Who are you?” she asked yet again.

  “Now isn’t the time. We’ll explain when we’re away from here.” He indicated one of his men. “He’ll go with you. The rest of us will be right behind. Just keep moving. Don’t stop for anything.” He took her silence as assent and mustered the others.

  “Go!” he barked.

  Serrah and her attendant raced through the doors. The chill night air jolted her and she took an involuntary gulp. Rain lashed her face. Underfoot, the ground was spongy. She could hear the others thundering along behind.

  Somebody shouted. She turned her head. A large party of armed men, including many paladins, was rushing at them from the corner of the building. They were yelling too.

  “Keep moving!” the leader bellowed.

  Serrah slammed into the wall and grasped a dangling rope. Her escort did the same. They began pulling themselves up, feet slipping for want of purchase on the wet walls.

  An ear-shattering explosion rang out. There were flashes of light, brilliant as lightning. She looked down. Somebody was letting off magical munitions.

  They detonated in great round clouds of green and red and gold, then spewed their deceptions. Grotesque beasts erupted, and dozens of chimera duplicates of the rescuers, designed to confuse.

  “Look away!” her companion cried.

  She understood and averted her eyes. A tremendously intense light bathed them, illuminating the wall brighter than full daylight before it flickered and died. An optical glamour. A light burst that blinded. She wondered which side had used it. Screams and other sounds of combat drifted up to them. They continued climbing.

  The edifice seemed eternal. About two-thirds of the way up, Serrah’s arms grew numb and her strength faltered. Her companion, keeping pace, urged her on. Something sliced the air and stilled his tongue. An arrow quivered in his back. Serrah reached out to him. He fell. A downward glance showed her his fate.

  Mixed with phantasms and dazzlements, men were fighting in the grounds below. A couple of her rescuers had made it to the ropes and were hauling themselves up. She kept going, fearful of an arrow meant for her.

  At length she arrived at a broad ledge topping the wall, fighting for breath as she dragged herself onto it. She crawled to the far side and looked down. Three more ropes hung on the outside of the wall, tied to a segment of crenellation on the ledge. In a side street directly below, a hay wagon had been parked, full of stuffed sacks. Two masked men looked up at her and gestured furiously.

  A whoomp and crackle sounded to her rear. In the palace grounds a geyser of purplish smog billowed high. As she watched, it took on the form of a gigantic red dragon, tall as a temple tower, its green eyes ablaze, spiked tail lashing. A glamour, though the fire it breathed was real enough. She saw men en
gulfed in flame. But the ones on the ropes were still coming, despite arrows clacking all around.

  Serrah crossed the ledge and began lowering herself to the street. All she could think about was getting away, and of her revulsion at being so completely at the mercy of others. In that moment she vowed it would never happen again. When she had scrambled about halfway down, she let go of the rope and dropped.

  She landed heavily but unharmed on the pile of sacks. One of the waiting men moved to take her arm. She dodged him and jumped from the wagon. Then she ran. They shouted after her.

  Serrah discounted her pains and ran faster still. Perhaps they tried following, she never knew. Soon she was in a maze of bustling lanes.

  Barefoot, smock tattered and bloodstained, wet hair plastered to her forehead, she limped into streets where nobody stared.

  Chapter Six

  Rain lashed Bhealfa’s eastern region all through the night. But dawn broke sunny and clement.

  Kutch Pirathon sat by a swollen brook, idly lobbing pebbles into the rushing water. He was growing restive. For the hundredth time he glanced at the tumbledown stone cottage further up the barren hill. Its ill-fitting door remained resolutely closed.

  He sighed and continued bombarding the stream. There was little else to do. The hillside had nothing to offer but dripping scrub, a few withered trees and a lot of rocks. His only company was a brace of circling crows.

  In truth, he could have employed himself gainfully. He was obliged to, in fact. More than obliged; bound by an oath. He should be undertaking the mental exercises necessary to advance in the Craft. His time was supposed to be spent honing his will, recognising the vital currents and channelling them. But they were techniques taught to him by his master and he couldn’t focus properly for thinking about the old man. There was no shaking off the feeling that he had let Domex down, that he might still be here if it hadn’t been for his timidity. Neglect of duty added to his guilt. Yet, for the moment, his heart wasn’t in it.

  His melancholy would have deepened had the door of the cottage not creaked open. He looked up to see Caldason emerging. Flinging the last of the stones at the stream, Kutch stood and dusted off his breeches. He watched as the Qalochian addressed a few last words to the elderly hermit he’d consulted. Then he waited as he made his way down the crude path to him.

  During their short acquaintance, Kutch had found that Caldason wasn’t one to volunteer information. Nor was he easy to read. Now was no exception.

  “What happened?” Kutch asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh.”

  “But you weren’t to know he couldn’t help. I’m grateful for you bringing me here.”

  They began their descent.

  Kutch still didn’t know what Caldason’s problem was, beyond the so-called fits. He tried fishing. “Did he, er, say anything at all about your… condition?”

  “He didn’t say anything. He wrote his questions on a slate.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course.”

  “Is he naturally dumb?”

  “No. When he was a boy, his father cut his tongue out. To stop him talking about the mysteries of the Craft. It was the kind of thing they used to do in those days.”

  “The world’s just full of delights,” Caldason remarked cynically.

  “His father would have had it done too, by his father. The knowledge was passed down, generation to generation, and that was the price. It was considered normal in some branches of the Craft until not that long ago.”

  “I thought magicians were constrained by secrecy anyway.”

  “True. Though I’m not sure how reliable some of the licensed ones are.” Kutch jabbed a thumb at the hovel. “But he can be trusted.”

  “So why did they go in for mutilation?”

  “It was extra insurance. Some of the older practitioners think it was a good thing and should be brought back. Maybe they’ve got a point. It seemed to work.”

  “You wouldn’t have minded your master doing it to you then?”

  “Well…’

  They continued in silence.

  After a few minutes, Kutch ventured, “You don’t seem disappointed. About him not being able to help, I mean.”

  “I’ve learnt not to be.”

  “There are other seers I can recommend.”

  “Maybe provincial sorcerers aren’t up to what I need.”

  “A lot of them are as good as any you’ll find,” Kutch replied indignantly. “They just prefer the solitude of the countryside. They’re less likely to get harassed by the authorities too.”

  “Like Domex? All right, low blow. Sorry. But the fact is there’s more money and status in the cities, and that tends to attract the best talent. Perhaps that’s where I’ll find the right magician. If there are any left I haven’t already tried.”

  “Come on, Reeth, there must be thousands of them.”

  “I’ve been searching longer than you know.”

  Kutch didn’t expect any expansion on that and was proved right. Silence descended again. They reached the foot of the hill and struck out for the house. A gentle wind ruffled the trees.

  The quiet was broken only by distant birdsong.

  At length, Caldason said, “So, how far advanced in magic are you?”

  After yesterday’s display with the homunculi, Kutch reckoned his companion already knew the answer to that. It was Caldason’s way of changing the subject, or being polite. But he played along with it. “Fourth level, going on fifth.”

  “Sounds impressive. Out of how many?”

  “Sixty-two.”

  “Right.”

  “Mind you,” Kutch quickly added, “anything above twenty-three’s considered pretty rarefied.”

  “I think I must need the highest possible level.”

  Caldason’s expression was inscrutable. It was difficult to tell if he was serious or making an uncommon attempt at humour.

  “I may have a way to go in my practical studies,” Kutch admitted, “but I do understand something about occult philosophy. Whatever ails you should have a magical remedy. It’s just a case of finding it.”

  “I’m not so sure of that.”

  “Let me tell you about one of the Craft’s basic principles.”

  “Careful, you don’t want to lose your tongue.”

  “It’s not really giving anything away. We’re taught that magic is energy, and energy can’t be destroyed. It can only be converted into something else.”

  “That much I’ve heard.”

  “Then you’ll know that spells vary in quality and durability.”

  “Of course. That’s what determines their price.”

  “I’m not talking about their coin value. I’m referring to their strength. For example, there’s no reason why a building couldn’t be a glamour, and last forever. But creating and maintaining it would be incredibly expensive.” He pointed to a boulder at the side of the track. “That rock could be a glamour. It would only take a simple spell. Except nobody would bother. What would be the point?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “I’m guessing that what’s wrong with you is magical in origin.” Caldason gave no hint that Kutch was right. The youth carried on. “If you are under some kind of enchantment, it should be possible to convert its energy from malignant positive to benign negative. In the same way that the rock could become non-rock or the building cease to be and rejoin the energy pool. At least, that’s the theory.”

  Caldason looked thoughtful. “You put it better than most other magicians I’ve spoken to, Kutch. But why haven’t any of them been able to do it?”

  Kutch felt a glow at the compliment. He also took the Qalochian’s words as tacit confirmation that his problem was magical. “I don’t know. Maybe the spell, if it is a spell we’re talking about, is especially powerful. Or the result of some really esoteric branch of the Craft. There are many different disciplines, you know.”

  “Something rare enough to be unknown to most sorcerers
, you mean?”

  “It might be. Or it could be a question of balance.”

  “Balance?”

  “Another cardinal law of magic. The Craft has rules just like the mundane world, as we call it. For instance, drop a stone and it falls to the ground. It’s obeying a rule. A glamour looking like a stone might fall upwards, or fly, or mutate into something else. But it would still be following a rule; one dictated by the type of spell governing it.”

  “I don’t see where balance comes in.”

  “My master would have said that a real stone falls because of the balance between our expectation and experience. We expect the stone to fall. Stones have always fallen. So the stone falls. In magic the balance is between reality and unreality. There has to be symmetry for the spell to work. The same way the military and magical balance between Rintarah and Gath Tampoor stops one empire overcoming the other.”

  “I think I almost understand that,” Caldason said. “But how does it apply to me?”

  “Maybe you’re caught too tightly between the real and the unreal. As if you were in a clamp.”

  “Like Bhealfa.”

  Kutch smiled. “Yes. Or it could be that the balance is out of kilter, blocking rescue.”

  “Neither seems a comforting thought.” If Caldason resented learning from someone so much younger, he had the grace not to show it. “Ironic that it should take a humble fourth level…’

  “Nearly a fifth.”

  “…practically a fifth level apprentice to make it clear to me.”

  “I’ve not told you anything you couldn’t have found out for yourself. You look for a solution in magic, Reeth, but take little interest in its workings.”

  “I see it as a malevolent force.”

  “It’s the foundation of our culture.”

  “Yours, not mine. Not Qalochian. For you, magic is a needful, benevolent thing. To me it’s deceiving and pernicious. It helps maintain injustice.”

  To Kutch that seemed close to blasphemous. “My master always said that magic has no morality, any more than the weather does. The people who command it decide if it’s light or dark, as suits their purpose. Your argument should be with them.”