The Covenant Rising

by Stan Nicholls

  The building expanded to the size of a rich child’s doll’s house, filling the table. All the other buildings and streets were pushed away, and vanished.

  Then the building disappeared too, leaving a three-dimensional representation of its foundations. It was riddled with tunnels.

  “What you’re seeing is the sewage system, and the channels that bring in fresh water from artesian wells, here and here. All the modern conveniences.”

  “It’s a maze down there,” Serrah said. There was a hint of disquiet in her voice.

  “Yes, but we’ve plotted a course through. That was Quinn’s responsibility, so I’ll let him explain.”

  Disgleirio took over, using a dagger to point things out. “This large channel here is the key. As you can see, a lot of lesser conduits branch out from it. The trick is to find the one that feeds directly into the building. That’s here.” He jabbed the blade at an underground junction.

  “How big are these tunnels?” Serrah asked.

  “They vary. Some are surprisingly large, others tight. All of them seem to be of a size that people can move through, though it’d be a bit of a squeeze in some.”

  “We’d be using what?” Caldason said. “Water or sewage tunnels?”

  “Sewage.”

  “Sounds pleasant,” Serrah mumbled.

  “Fortunately they tend to be the larger tunnels,” Disgleirio explained, “and most have narrow walkways along their edges. See?” He pointed to one.

  Caldason studied the model. “How do we get into the system in the first place?”

  “This big outlet tunnel passes underneath several adjoining buildings. One of them happens to be a place we have access to. The outlet runs directly under its cellar. That’s been verified; we’ve already broken through to the tunnel.”

  “Serrah’s right about it being a labyrinth. It’d be easy getting lost down there.”

  “You’ll have a map. And of course there’s no light so you’ll need glamour illumination.”

  “What part of the building do we come up in?”

  Disgleirio nodded to Phoenix. The building reappeared, transparent this time. Disgleirio indicated an area on the ground floor, near the back wall. “Just about here. We reckon that should be the easiest place to get through the flooring.”

  “Why is so much of the inside of the building blank?” Serrah said. “What’s on the rest of the ground floor, and the upper floors?”

  “We don’t have a plan for any more than you’re seeing now,” Karr answered. “Our informant couldn’t supply that, no matter how greedy he might be. What we’re told is that the ground floor doesn’t contain much of interest except a guard room. The upper storeys are where the records are kept.”

  “You can’t be entirely sure?” Caldason prompted.

  “Not completely, no. But you can be certain there are glamour alarums and traps in there. Quite apart from any human opposition you might meet.”

  Serrah exclaimed, “Might? The place is going to be crawling with people, isn’t it?”

  “Normally it would be. But remember what’s coming up in a couple of days.”

  Disgleirio supplied the answer. “So-called Freedom Day.”

  “Precisely. The day when demonstrating our loyalty and great love for the occupiers is compulsory. None of the clerks are going to be working in this repository, and there’ll only be a skeleton crew of guards, if that. Not to mention that the streets will be full of the usual dragooned parades and marches. That should provide a nice diversion and tie up most of the security forces.”

  “You’re sure about all this?” Serrah queried.

  “Our intelligence unit’s been working on it for nearly two years. It’ll be a heavy blow to the authorities if we can pull it off, so naturally we’ve tried to plan for every eventuality. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t very hazardous. That’s why we’re asking you to go, not telling you. Everybody has to be a volunteer.”

  “There’s the question of getting your band back up to strength,” Disgleirio added. “We can do that with Righteous Blade members. It means you’ll be going in with new men you haven’t had time to gel with. There’s no way round that. All we can do is give you our best.”

  “Before you make up your minds,” Karr returned, “there’s another consideration. I said this place is going to be well protected magically. That means you need to have a sorcerer with the band, and for preference a spotter. They’re in short supply, as you know. So what I’m proposing is that Kutch fills that role. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t ask this. But these aren’t common times.”

  Kutch looked thunderstruck.

  “Wait a minute, Karr,” Caldason rumbled. “He’s just a boy, and this is a dangerous situation we’d be getting into. His inexperience could put all of us at risk.” He turned to Kutch. “Sorry, but that’s how I see it.”

  “I think Kutch should make the decision himself, don’t you? Go ahead, Kutch. What do you think?”

  The boy had coloured from being the centre of attention, and at first stumbled over his words. “I want to do whatever I can to help. I know I haven’t got much experience, but I learn fast. Don’t worry about me, Reeth, I wouldn’t let you down.”

  Caldason asked Phoenix, “Is he fully trained as a spotter yet?”

  “Nowhere near.” The magician held up a hand to still the protest. “But he’s made good progress and he can do the job. Besides, as the patrician said, we’ve little option. Spotting is incredibly rare, and having a spotter with you could make the difference between success or failure for this mission.”

  Reeth pondered that. “Are you sure, Kutch? Do you know what you’d be getting yourself into?”

  “I have a much better idea of what violence is all about since knowing you, Reeth.”

  “Er, I’ll take that as a compliment. All right. Kutch is included only on condition that once he’s done his job he’s out of there. I don’t want him exposed to any more danger than necessary.”

  “Work it out in whatever way you think appropriate,” Karr told him.

  “What about you, Serrah? Are you in for this one?”

  “I’m in.”

  Caldason sighed. “Assuming the rest of the band volunteer too, which I’m sure they will, that seems to settle it.”

  “Excellent, Reeth.” Karr beamed benevolently.

  Kutch wore an expression of cheerful self-importance. Caldason seemed less happy.

  “So, what’s the plan once we’re inside?” Serrah said.

  “Arson,” Karr replied. “Phoenix’s people have developed some concentrated flammables. Light enough to carry but strong enough to do the job.”

  “I bet it’d be interesting to see what those files say,” Kutch speculated.

  “We’d all be intrigued to find out, I’m sure,” Karr smiled. “But that’s a pleasure we’ll have to forgo, I’m afraid; removing even a percentage of them would be impossible. No, we have to destroy them, and get our satisfaction from knowing we’ve struck a heavy blow against the oppressors.”

  “Does this mission get me any nearer to my goal?” Caldason wanted to know.

  “It does. Trust me.”

  “Then we’d better start preparing ourselves, hadn’t we?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  There were fires all over the plains, reddening the night sky.

  A township was burning. Buildings collapsed, cattle stampeded. The crops in surrounding fields were ablaze, trees converted into huge flaming torches, smoke driven by chill northern winds. Choking, tear-stained, the vanquished streamed from the settlement, herded by their conquerors.

  The town’s last enclave had fallen. It was adjacent to the final battlefield, which was littered with defending and invading dead. The first far outnumbered the second, as was to be expected given the winners’ advantage. Already, scavengers were moving through the carnage, gathering loot and ending misery with sharp blades.

  The new master watched it all from a commanding cliff-
top.

  He was The Awakened. Emperor of the Barbarians. Shadow of the Gods. The Man who Fell from the Sun.

  He was Zerreiss.

  Nothing he wore distinguished him from the lowliest of his soldiers; no finery, no golden armour. If anything, he was less well built than was the norm for his race, and no taller. He had still to reach his middle years, and retained a measure of youthful looks, which his rugged complexion and beard failed to conceal. His features were even, average, ordinary.

  Yet he was phenomenal.

  He had a quality some called presence. Others said authority, charm, allure, seductiveness, charisma, strength. But, in truth, words were too feeble to describe his singularity. For he had all these traits and something more. Something indefinable. It was as though he embodied a nameless force of nature. A power that left an indelible brand on all who came within its range. It beguiled, inspired, and never failed to excite awe. Fanatical devotion or dread were kindled by it.

  This day, the warlord had come with the gift of darkness.

  Only true fire ravaged the mesa; there was no longer any synthetic illumination. The lights of his invasion fleet, anchored in the shallow bay, were fuelled by oil and tallow. His horde, their numbers blackening the plain, held aloft genuine brands.

  They gloried in his latest victory, chanting his name as though it were an incantation. It sounded like a great sea swell crashing against rocks. The rhythmic pulse of a hundred thousand hearts and voices, laced with pounding drums.

  His guards brought him the chieftain of the defeated. The man dropped to his knees, in supplication and terror.

  “Get up,” the warlord said, speaking softly, “I have no need of idolatry.”

  The captive met a gaze that seemed all-knowing. “You’ve brought us to waste. Where else should I be but on my knees?”

  “Your people fought well. Do not abase yourself.”

  The chieftain slowly rose. “We posed no threat to you. Why make war on us?”

  “What other option did you leave? Had you united with me this could have been averted.”

  “My people want no truck with devilry.”

  The warlord laughed, not unkindly. “You think me evil?”

  “Look about you.” The chieftain swept an arm to take in the violated landscape, his ruined fiefdom. “Isn’t this bad enough to count?”

  “No. This is restraint.”

  “You consider yourself a benign conqueror?”

  “I don’t consider myself a conqueror at all. I’ve come to set you free.”

  It was the chieftain’s turn to laugh, cynically, and notwithstanding his plight.

  Zerreiss smiled, easily and in good nature. “So, how are we to proceed?”

  “With my death,” the chieftain replied, his chest swelling.

  “You can join me yet. Many have.”

  “I expect no mercy.”

  “Your bravery does you credit. But why throw away your life? I offer pardon for you, your family and kinsmen. For your people. You have only to swear fealty to me.”

  “And live in shame?”

  “You would be part of a great enterprise. What shame is there in that?”

  “A great madness, more like.”

  For an instant, the warlord’s eyes were stone. “Look at my army. See how many different bloods it holds. They do not think of themselves as subject.”

  “But why are you building this massive force? What goal do you have beyond subjugating your neighbours?”

  “I told you. Liberation.”

  If the chieftain hoped for clarity he was disappointed. The warlord’s expression was enigmatic. “They say you’re wise beyond your years,” the chieftain said, “and your skills as a general can’t be doubted. Yet you pursue some grand scheme whose aim you do not state.”

  “You need only know that what I bring cannot be resisted.”

  “I must be more simple-minded than I thought. All you say is a riddle to me.”

  “Rally to my banner and everything will fall into place.”

  “I can see one thing already; that you push ever south. Soon you’ll be in the domain of others not so easily overcome. Then you’ll meet powers greater than your own, Zerreiss.”

  “We’ll see.” The warlord was unperturbed. “But you still have to decide. Should my army be fire-raisers or firefighters? Are you with me or –? Wait.’ He closed his eyes and tilted his head, as though interrupted by a sound only he could hear. “It comes,” he mouthed.

  “What?” The prisoner looked around at the warlord’s retinue. They resembled a carved tableau, frozen mid-task. Listening. The army below had also fallen still, and silent. Although well accustomed to the northern climate, the chieftain shivered.

  “Let your decision rest on this,” Zerreiss told him.

  The chieftain could feel it now. A bass sensation in his bones; a sound too low to be audible. The distinct impression of events about to collide. He gazed stupefied at the warlord. “Who… what are you?”

  “I am Doubt, made flesh,” Zerreiss proclaimed.

  And the Earth began to shake.

  The royal palace in Merakasa was a vast bubble of tranquillity in an ocean of foaming disorder.

  Away from the city’s glamoured chaos, inside the palace’s innermost walls, another world turned. Paths wound gently through sumptuous grounds which were thick with trees. The colour of every bloom delighted the eye. But no birds ever sang there.

  Nearer the palace itself, the pastoral met acres of white marbled courtyard. Here there were arbours, arches, and benches no one ever sat on. Where grass ended and flagstones began the tradition of marking subterranean power channels was respected. Coloured lines, unerringly straight, homed in from all compass points. A spider’s web of red, black, peach, blue and a dozen other shades, all kept freshly tinted.

  The vivid stripes continued inside the palace itself, running the length of corridors and under walls, cutting across the floors of rooms. They intersected deep in the palace’s heart, in the sanctum sanctorum which only Gath Tampoor’s ruling dynasty had ever entered. A massive vaulted chamber, ringed by impossibly tall pillars, lit by radiances whose source could not be seen. Quietly opulent in its decoration, sparely but tastefully furnished, it was perfumed by rare essences smouldering in iron braziers.

  Entering from every direction, the lines gave up their rectilinear courses, curved, intermingled and flowed into an enormous circle upon the floor. Their colours blended too, and became glistening silver. Within the circle, and linked to it, shimmered the burnished emblem of Gath Tampoor: the pyramidal teeth of a stylised sunburst, enclosing a magnificent dragon. Permanently glamoured, the coiled, scaly beast belched sheets of orange flame.

  One of the dragon’s great eyes was a hollow cavity. A smooth-sided pit large enough to comfortably drop a stagecoach into. The content of all the channels fed the pool at its bottom. Magic’s chariot, quicksilver with the consistency of honey, coursed and blended there. The pool’s shining surface, agitated as the liquid ebbed and fluxed, would often settle and take on the properties of what might best be described as a window. A window that showed images from a myriad elsewheres.

  Not that most people would recognise the images as such, or indeed the window.

  A small group clustered around the eye. One of them held the most powerful position in the empire. The others had blood ties to her. They dressed in spectacularly expensive glamoured raiment, and several were accompanied by chimera companions. These were beautiful or repulsive in the extreme, as dictated by taste.

  Empress Bethmilno XXV was very old. Though assuming she was senile could prove fatal. She wore thick white face powder. Her lips were a scarlet wound, her eyes and lashes heavily lead blackened. Artificially dark, her hair was piled up and lanced with long silver pins. Her garb was light-coloured and delicately glamoured, so that its continuously shifting display of patterns changed subtly.

  The group studied the recess, seemingly untroubled by the intense cold i
t gave off.

  “There!” the Empress exclaimed, pointing to a stir of shadows in the quicksilver. “And again, there.”

  “Does it have the same source, Grandmother?” a young man asked.

  “Yes, the barbarous lands. Though not so far north this time.”

  “These disturbances in the grid grow stronger and more frequent,” an older man remarked. “It beggars belief that one human being could have such an effect.”

  “Yet it appears so,” Bethmilno said, “for all that he’s an ignorant savage.”

  “Is there any precedent?”

  “None.”

  “This should have been nipped in the bud,” another grumbled. “It’s past time this upstart was dealt with.”

  The Empress viewed him sternly. “You can’t honestly believe the warlord could endanger us in any way. When has any threat from the people ever done that? To interpret this as some kind of hazard to the imperium would be to take it too seriously.” She paused, and added, “We have not come this far, however, by being incautious. And there are considerations beyond the problems a single warlord may bring us.”

  “Rintarah,” the grandchild supplied dutifully.

  The Empress smiled indulgently. A sight which, to an outsider, might appear grotesque. “I could wish others were as focused on realities as you, my dear. It should never be forgotten who the true enemy is.” She looked to them all. “Rintarah. Of course. Always Rintarah. An alliance between them and the barbarian could seriously upset the balance.”

  “As could a union with the insubordinates,” the first man suggested.

  “We are alive to that possibility. Although for my part I consider them more a nuisance than a threat. A disorganised rabble.”

  “Not everyone holds that opinion.”

  “I am aware of that. We take every precaution.”

  “But still they strike at us.”

  “The way a gnat might attack a buffalo.”

  “Surely the real danger is the possibility of the Resistance and Rintarah uniting against us?” another of her kin offered. “It would make sense, backing one side against the other.”

  “I consider that the least likely option. The insurgents are equally opposed to both empires, and their movements in both are linked. No, Rintarah wouldn’t unite with them any more than we would.”