by karlov, matt
They were tall and graceful. They were broad and stocky. They were all alike, and each one was different. They held swords and maces and nothing at all. Most stood facing the front of the room, though some seemed caught in the act of glancing to one side or gesturing to their neighbour. A few were kneeling. One, close enough for Arandras to reach out and touch, had its hand raised as though in supplication.
But the eyes in each expressionless face were the same. Two narrow pits of empty, black oblivion which, if they had ever held a semblance of life, possessed it no longer.
Yet far from reducing the figures to mere statues, the terrible absence invested them with a weight of dignity that was almost painful to behold. That these creatures had once marched and fought at the command of their makers could not be doubted. The sight of them here, now, bearing silent testimony to the unimaginable power of the fallen Valdori, filled Arandras with inexpressible awe.
He gaped at the sight like a moonstruck child. Just one would have been a wonder. Here were hundreds.
Thousands.
Weeper forgive me. I had no idea.
•
“Hello?”
The bellowed word struck Clade’s ear like an iron spike. He flinched away, glaring back at Sinon; but the big sorcerer merely stared at their trail, insensible to Clade’s distress.
There was no response from the other side of the rise.
Sinon exhaled in aggrieved disbelief. “Gatherer’s arse, why can’t the man just stay put?”
A look passed between Terrel and Hosk. The lean mercenary gave a minute nod and turned, retracing their path with smooth, economical strides.
“Oh, great, another one. Hells, why don’t we all just split up and —”
“You want to be rearguard, Sinon?” Clade said. “Because if I hear one more word out of you, that’s where you’ll be.”
Sinon treated Clade to a filthy glare, then stomped away with a muttered oath.
And Terrel would probably put his own man at Sinon’s back anyway. Clade dropped to his haunches, grimacing as he rubbed the muscles in his neck. Kalie and Meline sat together a few paces away, Kalie taking a mouthful of water as her sister examined an acacia leaf in apparent fascination. Just keep your mouth shut, Sinon. Please.
“Terrel.” The word floated down to them from beyond the rise. Terrel’s expression shifted fractionally and he turned, tramping away in the direction of the call. After a moment, Clade followed.
The sight from the top of the rise brought him to an abrupt halt. Gods, no. Someone behind him called out a question, but he ignored it, descending the slope with hurried, stumbling steps until he reached the site.
Yuri’s body lay face-down on the trail, back soaked with blood, braided hair splayed about his head. Hosk and Terrel crouched beside his prone form, impassive, examining what appeared to be a hole in the man’s sodden shirt. Terrel muttered something and the two of them heaved the corpse over, revealing Yuri’s slack, flat-nosed face.
Gods. We’re meant to be following the Quill, not the other way around. Footsteps halted behind him, and he heard Meline’s gasp and Sinon’s curse. What in the hells is going on?
Terrel rose, hands on hips, and looked down the trail. Clade joined him.
“Talk to me,” Clade said. “What happened?”
The mercenary captain sucked in his cheeks. “Knife in the back, straight through the heart,” he said. “Killer knew what he was doing.”
Clade waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. “That’s it? How in the hells did he get the jump on your man?”
Terrel’s shoulders twitched in the faintest hint of a shrug. He glanced away, clearly considering the comment not worth a response.
Clade drew a deep breath. “Killer, you said. Just one?”
“Very likely.” Terrel’s gaze flicked to the body, then out to the featureless forest.
“Where did he pick up our trail?”
Terrel’s expression became ever so slightly sour. “Probably when we crossed the river. Maybe earlier.”
Exasperation rose within him. Clade corralled it, contained it, shut it up in a box and closed the lid. When he spoke, his voice was steady. “You knew we were being followed.” And you didn’t mention it.
“I suspected,” Terrel said. Clade wasn’t sure whether the words were meant as correction or admission. “Yuri was trying to draw him out.”
Looks like it worked. Another time Clade might have spoken the thought, just to see Terrel’s response. But the man had already made clear his desire to have nothing more to do with Clade’s project. Antagonising him further in the wake of yet another loss was hardly going to improve the situation.
All right. The Quill are ahead. So who’s behind us? More Quill? He frowned. It seemed unlikely. If the Quill had known they were being followed, they’d have been laying traps or diversions, not picking his men off from behind. Besides, opportunistic killing wasn’t their style.
Not the Quill, then. Who else?
Oculus, maybe. Perhaps Estelle had survived, somehow, and sent someone after them. But it was unlikely anyone nearby had both the training and the locus to hear the god; and even if they did, Azador’s presence with the group had been far too sporadic for it to offer such a person meaningful directions. Which left…
An unknown. A wild die. A savage, perhaps. A madman. The Gatherer’s avenging angel. Who knows?
“He must still be nearby,” Clade said. “Can we flush him out?”
Terrel’s lips thinned as he considered the question. “Not reliably,” he said at last, and Clade understood his meaning: not without risk of further loss.
“Very well.” Whoever the killer was, he was beyond Clade’s control. He turned away. “Let’s go.”
Hosk tugged Yuri’s swordbelt free and tossed the sheathed blade to Terrel. Then he stood, slinging the dead man’s pack over his shoulder.
Meline shuddered, staring at the body as though transfixed. “Aren’t we going to bury him?”
“No time,” Clade said. “We move on and we stay close. Deny him another chance to strike. Nobody wanders off on their own.”
Sinon gave a grunt of approval. “Finally, someone speaks sense.”
“Meline,” Clade said. “Look at me.” There was curiosity in her eyes, and a strange, almost hypnotic fascination, but no fear. “We need to go. Now.”
She nodded, shaking as though rousing herself from sleep. “All right.”
Terrel took the lead, assigning Hosk as rearguard. Clade allowed the others to fall in behind Terrel, choosing the second from last position for himself to show the rest there was no need for concern; but as they resumed their journey, he felt the prick of watching eyes at his back.
Not worth my energy, he thought. Nothing I can do about it now. Think about something else.
Like the fact that Tereisa’s widower is seeking revenge and is with the Quill party up ahead.
He paused at the thought. Could this Arandras have left the Quill party, circled around them and killed Yuri? Clade frowned, trying to remember all he could about the man. They’d never spoken, as far as he could recall. It was a dagger that Clade had been after that time, in the Oculus’s first foray as far west as Chogon. He’d slipped the ransom note under Arandras’s door, and then he’d left.
The job had gone bad. Arandras had defied instructions and gone to the Quill, leaving Clade with no choice but to kill the woman. She’d seen his face. And then I had to pay off the guard to find a body in the river and call it the perpetrator. He shook his head, recalling his exasperation at the man’s idiocy. Arandras had as good as killed his wife himself.
But from what Bannard had said, he hadn’t learnt his lesson. A more intractable man you’ll never meet, he said. Utterly uncompromising. Bannard had shaken his head, but there’d been a note of admiration in his voice. He’d envied the man his principles, maybe. Was he too principled to kill Yuri? It was impossible to know.
Then again, Arandras had been just another
scholar, one who’d sought help from the Quill and, through them, the city guard. Hardly the action of a killer. Still, a man could direct a knife without wielding it himself. And there was no telling how he might have spent the intervening years. Clade exhaled, frustrated at the paucity of his knowledge. Best to avoid dealing with him at all, if possible.
They walked, and rested, and walked some more. The sun crawled across the sky, moving gradually lower into their path and forcing Clade to squint against its glare. He was still pondering the riddle posed by Tereisa’s widower when they emerged from the forest at the edge of a cliff, the lake sparkling before them under a clear, late-afternoon sky. Terrel crouched by the edge a short distance away, Yuri’s sword slung across his back, peering at the stony shore below. At Clade’s approach, he gestured to a ledge that slanted down from the top of the cliff, and a rope that trailed over the drop from a short, thick-trunked tree.
“Quill went that way,” he said.
“Nice of them to leave us a signpost,” Kalie said, joining Clade by the edge. “But I’m thinking we might not want to be quite so hospitable.”
Clade nodded. “Scout ahead,” he said to Terrel. “See if you or Hosk can make it down without the rope.” Perhaps they could at least make things harder for their unwanted tail.
Terrel left to confer with his man, leaving Clade and Kalie on their own. Kalie shot a glance after him and leaned closer to Clade. “Do you trust him?”
“Who? Terrel?” Clade frowned. “Yes, of course I trust him. And so should you.”
She bit her lip. “You’ve seen how they hold themselves apart. I don’t think he —”
“Stop.” Clade allowed a scowl to fill his face. “Terrel works for me, just like you. I trust him. So should you. Understood?”
Kalie nodded, abashed.
“Good. I don’t want to have this discussion again.”
He folded his arms and she took the hint, moving away to where Sinon and Meline gazed out at the lake. Gods, I’m already one man down. The last thing I need is for Kalie and the rest to start suspecting. He rubbed his chin, the stubble of the journey scraping against the palm of his hand. Birds circled above the lake, high and graceful, their forms too distant to make out. We must be getting close now. Soon we can deal with the Quill and have done with this charade.
It’s a shame, though. She really would have made an excellent adjunct.
•
Arandras wandered the room, gazing at the golems in awestruck wonder. In the thin light they seemed wrought of shadow and stone, as though some unknown sculptor had laid hold of substances from another realm and somehow transmuted them to physical form. Closer examination revealed neither stone nor fired clay, but something in between, smooth to the touch yet fractionally warmer than the surrounding rock. Arandras tapped a fingernail experimentally against a graven thigh and received a dull clink in response. Like bone on tin, if the tin was a solid lump the size of a mountain.
This golem appeared to be a fighter, insofar as any motive or purpose could be ascribed to any of them. Its face lay obscured in shadow above Arandras’s head, but its nose seemed a little broader than its neighbour’s, its cheeks a little lower. A naked sword hung from its waist, weapon and belt both formed of the same strange substance as the rest of it. Much of its body had the appearance of clothing, but there was no clear point at which garment ended and wrist or neck began. Yet the figure gave an impression of vitality that transcended any suggestion of artifice. The fingers resting on the massive pommel looked like they might stir at any moment, perhaps to extend in greeting, perhaps to swat him away like a bothersome insect. Each seemed equally likely.
The light shifted as a nearby Quill moved away, exchanging hushed whispers with her companion. Arandras chose a different direction, walking slowly across the cavern through ranks of motionless figures. For all the years he’d spent studying the relics of the old Valdori Empire, he realised he’d never truly grasped the magnitude of their accomplishments, or their astonishing, brazen audacity to even attempt such feats. Who were these people, to have built such things as this? What must their cities have been like? Their learning? It was no surprise their empire had spanned the continent. The only wonder was that it didn’t still.
The golem at the end of the row caught Arandras’s eye and he halted before it, gazing at its kneeling form. The oversized face was on a level with his own, upturned as though awaiting a blessing. Its features could never be mistaken for human: the brow was too heavy, the jaw too blunt, and the rough, hairless head larger even than a Pazian roundshield. Arandras gazed into its vacant eyes, wondering what they’d seen and how they’d seen it. The creatures had plainly been capable of distinguishing friend from foe. How much more had they been able to perceive? Could you hear, golem, when your master required it of you? Could you smell? Its mouth was closed; Arandras had yet to see one whose mouth was open. Could you speak?
There was no expression in the golem’s face. All seemed to possess the same inscrutable countenance. Yet something about its posture gave a feeling of purpose, as though its attention had been directed toward something or someone. Like the others, it faced what appeared to be the front wall; yet this particular golem was oriented away from the centre, gazing instead at the corner of the room. Arandras looked around, hunting for another kneeling golem amongst the forest of upright figures. There was one, left knee on the ground, hands clasped above its right; and it too seemed drawn to the same corner.
What are you looking at? Arandras peered into the dim corner. Something was there: a vertical shape, grey against the black. He moved closer for a better look.
The shape resolved into a reading stand, oddly small in this room of giants. Formed of the same half-stone, half-ceramic material as the golems, the stand was fixed to a short platform, similar in height to the one at the room’s entrance, just wide enough for a single person.
A dais. The place of the master.
He stepped onto the platform and gazed out across the room. There was the kneeling golem he had paused beside; there the one clasping its hands; there another, and another, all facing directly toward him. Many of the standing figures too seemed oriented toward the stand, though it was only now, when Arandras could see the direction of their heads, that their focus became clear. This is where they were looking when they were stopped, or put to sleep. Which meant, perhaps, that it was from here that they might be reawakened.
Arandras squinted at the stand. Its angle shielded it from the light streaming in from the rear wall, leaving it shrouded in shadow. He ran a hand along its smooth, slightly powdery surface, halting when his fingers came to an indentation. The hole was round, about the width of an eggcup at the mouth but narrowing abruptly, making it barely as deep as it was wide. Arandras traced its rim, pressing his fingertip around the familiar shape. It felt just like the urn…
The urn. He reached into his pouch and pulled the bundle free, pushing aside its wrappings and tracing the circle of its lip. The same. They’re the same size. His hand found the lid, twining it between his fingers. I wonder…
He held up the small metal cap, studying it as best he could in the dim light. Then he lowered it to the stand, sliding it across the smooth surface until it dropped into the hole.
The golems stood frozen in place. Arandras scanned the assembled figures, willing one of them to move; but the only motion came from the Quill roaming between them, and the play of light from lamps and sparkers.
Oh, well. It was worth a try. He felt around the indentation. How do I get this thing back out?
Someone in the room chuckled. Then came a gasp, and a cry of surprise. Arandras looked up.
The eyes of the golems were glowing.
Tiny points of light filled the dim room like stars reflected in a pool of water, their luminescence as low and steady as a monk’s candle. Their tones were earthen: reds and yellows, browns and whites. Yet there was something in the still pinpricks that spoke of distance, as though the minute
glints were in truth mere byproducts of some other, entirely unseen phenomenon.
“Nobody move!” The voice was Narvi’s. “Did anyone touch something or say something? Anything that might have activated a binding?”
They’re not here. Not yet. Arandras wasn’t sure how he knew, but the thought felt right. This is something else. A semi-dormant state, maybe. At rest, but awaiting orders.
Perhaps I should give them some.
“Everyone move back to the entrance,” Narvi called. “Do it now.”
Arandras turned his attention to the nearest golem. It held a great mace in its outstretched hand, the weapon upright as though being presented to a general. Lower your arm, golem, he thought, pushing the words outward. The book in the Quill library had suggested they could hear thoughts. Now, having seen them, it seemed almost irreverent to imagine they couldn’t. Lower your arm.
The golem stood motionless, unresponsive. The remote amber glint in its eyes stared at him, through him, past him to nothing at all.
I need its attention. He grasped the edges of the reading stand and leaned forward, projecting his words as best he could toward the golem’s upturned face. Hear me, golem. My name is Arandras Kanthesi. Hear me. A sea of pinprick lights hung before him, and he raised his gaze. All of you. I am Arandras. Hear me. Know me.
“Where’s Arandras?” Narvi sounded harried, uneasy. “Arandras! Where are you? Are you all right?”
Arandras ignored him. The golems had been there for millennia. They were hardly going to know Yaran, or Kharjik, or any other present-day tongue. I need to find a language they understand.
He took a breath, shifting his thoughts to Old Valdori. Hear me. Know me. I am Arandras Kanthesi. Know me as your master. He pressed the words outward, offering them to each figure in the cavern, every pair of glittering eyes.
It felt almost as though he were praying.
