Orb Sceptre Throne

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  The guard reluctantly put down the chisel. Behind, the captain came from where he’d been leaning against one of the stone arches, staring at the figure on its black onyx plinth.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Drin said to his man. The fellow took hold and pulled. The stone ground and scraped. The man tried again, jerking, pushing against the wall with one booted foot. He grunted, cursing, but the slab would not budge.

  ‘Let me.’ Drin pushed the man aside and took hold, tensing. Ebbin was impressed by the breadth of his bunched shoulders, his thick roped forearms. The man snarled, his breath hissing from him as he pulled. A crack shot through the slab like the strike of a slingstone. Dust billowed from the seal round its edges, then it juddered outwards to fall crashing to their feet.

  Studying the fallen rock, Ebbin suddenly recognized the pattern. All the other niches shared it. All their doors had been pulled outwards to fall into the chamber. Pulled out … or pushed. Sudden renewed panic clenched his throat. He could not swallow; his heart seemed to be bashing against his ribs. He raised the lantern to reveal something lying on the plinth within. A corpse.

  It was nothing like the figure behind them. This thing was quite obviously dead. And not human. It was massive, its bones far thicker and more robust than those of any human. Its desiccated fingers ended in bear-like yellowed talons, as did the toes of its naked feet.

  ‘Demon,’ Captain Drin breathed.

  Ebbin stepped within for a closer look. He was confused. This was not what he’d expected. Not at all. Where was the artwork? The funerary offerings?

  Something caught his eye: a cold white gleam shone from deep within the cadaver’s hollow chest cavity. Ebbin bent closer. It was a pale stone bearing the oily shimmer of the insides of shells. Perhaps it was a pearl itself. Ebbin reached for it.

  ‘Find something?’ the captain warned, his voice suddenly tense.

  Startled, Ebbin snatched his hand away, glanced over. ‘I’m sorry …?’

  Drin was reaching out one hand while his other held his drawn weapon. ‘No, scholar. It’s me that’s sorry. Measure’s orders, y’see …’

  A yell of warning from behind snapped the man’s attention round. He gaped, cried ‘Shit!’ and ran.

  Ebbin ducked from the niche to see the two guards struggling with the figure from the plinth beneath the spans of the arches. The two mouthed yells and screams yet no sound reached Ebbin. The captain was running for them.

  Ebbin shouted, but too late. The captain swung a great two-handed blow that hammered home, yet appeared to have no effect on the cloaked and masked figure, which had lashed out and caught one of the guards. While Ebbin watched, petrified, it gripped the man’s neck with one hand and with the other pulled the gold mask from its own face. Ebbin glimpsed a ruin of sinew and rotted flesh over bone, and stood rooted to the ground in horror as the fiend ignored the increasingly frenzied attacks of Drin and the other guard and slowly, inexorably, pressed the mask to its victim’s face.

  The guard fell to his knees, pulling frantically at the mask, but he was unable to move it. Transfixed, Ebbin watched as the cloaked figure disappeared in a great swirling cloud of dust and the dark cloak fell empty to the floor.

  The captain and remaining guard now beat at some sort of invisible barrier beneath the intersecting arches. They screamed unheard commands at Ebbin, who could only shake his head in mute appalled terror while behind the two men the corpse of their fellow climbed to his feet. The gold mask shimmered brightly in the lantern light, its mysterious graven smile now horrifying in its promise. Ebbin pointed, his other hand covering his mouth.

  The two men turned. It seemed to Ebbin they both leapt in shock, dismay and terror as they realized what awaited each in turn. The captain swung a huge two-handed blow at his ex-guard’s neck but the corpse took it on an arm. Though the strike slashed along the bone, flensing that arm, no blood flowed, and the revenant was not slowed.

  The captain danced away out of reach. The remaining guard punched at whatever barrier it was that held him captive. Falling to his knees he held out his arms to Ebbin, pleading, begging, as if this were somehow all the scholar’s doing. From behind, his dead companion wrapped an arm round his neck, and tearing the mask from his head – in the process pulling away the flesh, which brought up Ebbin’s gorge in a gasping heave of vomit – clamped the mask over the other’s face.

  When Ebbin looked up, wiping his mouth, coughing, only two figures remained within the arches. The captain and his last guard. Drin was retreating round and round the onyx plinth, always giving ground before the slow relentless advance of the masked fiend.

  Ebbin could only sit and watch, fascinated, helpless. As time passed he decided that there must have been good reasons why this man Drin was a captain. How long had he held out? How many hours caught there in the confines of his inescapable prison, avoiding his unkillable foe? He himself would not have lasted more than the first minute. Yet for what seemed half a day this man had ducked and flinched aside, postponing his end. Occasionally he would dash in to aim a blow at his enemy’s neck, perhaps in the hope that decapitation would end the curse. But Drin faced something extraordinary – blades damaged it, but it seemed that none could bring it down. No blow could dismember it, or slow it.

  Finally, after hours of that macabre dance around the raised plinth, Captain Drin turned his strained, sweat-sheathed face to Ebbin. He mouthed something, perhaps ‘Remember me’. Ebbin wasn’t sure. And though no soldier, he roused himself to salute the man.

  The captain nodded in bleak acknowledgement and then, throwing aside his sword, launched himself upon the creature. Legs clamped around the revenant’s waist, he clasped both hands on the mask and worked to yank it free. Ebbin’s heart leapt in admiration: Yes! If he can dislodge the mask before it is set upon his face! Perhaps then this curse will somehow be broken …

  Though a bear of a man, Drin was no match for the fiend. One by one, his fingers were prised from their grip on the gold, and the fiend took hold of the mask himself.

  Ebbin looked away. Gods! Was there no escape for anyone? Was this to be his end as well?

  After waiting a time, his limbs twitching in dread, he could not help but glance up.

  All was as it had been before under the arches. A figure lay upon the black stone plinth, dark cloak wrapped tight, gold mask covering its face. But Ebbin knew that Captain Drin, or at least his body, now bore that mask. As for the others, all the countless others who preceded him, well, there was plenty of dust on the floor of the chamber.

  The scholar staggered to his feet, gathered up his shoulder bag. There was nothing here. This whole tomb was just one gruesome trap. A trap for those foolish enough to come digging up the past. Everything he had ever hoped for was now shattered. He stumbled for the exit. On the way he froze and his gorge rose again in a wrenching dry heave.

  Set in the stone floor of the chamber lay three fresh skulls. The bare bone of two still gleamed wet with gore.

  *

  After the guards descended, Scorch and Leff peered down into the darkness of the well for a time before wandering over to the shade of a lean-to to return to teaching the two Gadrobi youths how to play troughs. The boys didn’t seem able to grasp the basic arithmetic; or perhaps the problem was their own disagreements over the rules. Humble’s two guards sat down to lean against the stone lip of the well.

  Leff tucked an arm under his head, sighed, ‘If only we were still with Her Ladyship, hey? Too bad …’

  Scorch threw the carved knuckle dice so hard they bounced from the board to disappear into the dirt. The two youths hunted for them. ‘What was that?’ he answered, his voice low.

  ‘What was what?’

  ‘Was that an impercation? ’Cause it sounded like maybe you was makin’ an impercation!’

  Leff pushed himself up on his elbows, rolled his eyes. ‘Gettin’ all huffy won’t change the facts, Scorch.’

  ‘Facts? And just what facts might those be?’

  ‘Th
at it was you that lost us the job with Lady Varada.’

  ‘I did not—’ Scorch threw up his arms. ‘Tor explained it. The lady didn’t want so many guards no more. So who gets the axe? Why, us outside guards, right? Plain and simple. That hierarchy thing, right?’

  Leff waved that aside. ‘Didn’t you see through all that bullcrap? I did. Tor was just coverin’ up the truth. Sparin’ our feelings.’

  His shoulders falling, Scorch frowned, uncertain. ‘Really? Then … what was he really sayin’?’

  ‘That it was you lost us the job.’

  Scorch threw himself aside to sit facing the opposite direction.

  Towards noon the old hag came limping up to the lean-to. She shooed the youths away, gabbling in Gadrobi, then turned on Scorch and Leff. ‘You two, get out!’ she spat. ‘You go! Bad things come. I see in the sands. In smoke!’

  Scorch and Leff shared a knowing look. ‘Better stay off that fermented goat’s milk,’ Leff said. ‘That kefir can sneak up on ya.’

  The old woman waved an angry dismissal. ‘Die then … Daru dogs!’ And she scuttled off.

  Leff stretched out, yawning. ‘Keep a watch, Scorch,’ he said, and closed his eyes.

  Around mid-afternoon Leff awoke to the screeching of the winch. The guards were raising it. He and Scorch wandered over. It was the scholar, Ebbin. Scorch leaned over to help him out, then lurched as the man seemed to fall into his arms. Leff helped to yank him over the lip of the well and set him down in the dirt where he lay panting, his face gleaming pale as milk.

  ‘Where’s the captain?’ one of the guards asked.

  ‘Water,’ Ebbin gasped, and Leff helped him to sit up while Scorch went to fetch a skin. The scholar took a long drink, then splashed his face and pulled out a cloth to wipe it dry. ‘Down below,’ he breathed, hoarse. ‘A trap. They were taken.’

  ‘Taken?’ the guard echoed.

  Ebbin nodded. He appeared on the verge of tears.

  ‘Show us,’ the guard said.

  Ebbin gaped up at him. ‘What?’

  The guard stepped back and drew his longsword. Scorch and Leff eyed one another, set their hands on the grips of their shortswords. Ebbin struggled to his feet. ‘Show you?’ He laughed. Rather unnervingly, Leff thought. ‘You have no idea—’

  The second guard raised a cocked crossbow. ‘You show us, old man. Or die now.’

  Ebbin looked from one to the other, pressed his hands to his face and moaned from behind his fingers: ‘Gods forgive me …’ Then he brushed Scorch’s hand from his weapon. ‘You wish to see?’ he asked the guard. ‘Truly see?’

  The man gestured to the well with his longsword. ‘You first.’

  ‘If you must.’ Ebbin looked at Scorch and Leff. ‘You two. Lower us.’

  Leff scratched his cheek, bemused. ‘Well – if you say so, scholar.’

  ‘Those are my orders.’ He swung his feet up over the stone lip of the well, began readying the sling seat.

  ‘We come back up first,’ the guard warned.

  Ebbin gave a long slow nod. ‘Yes. You first.’

  It seemed to Leff that no sooner had the second guard descended than the rope shook with a signal to be raised. He and Scorch rewound the barrel winch to bring it back up and were surprised to see that the occupant of the sling seat was Ebbin. Scorch helped him out.

  ‘And the guards, sir?’ Leff asked. ‘They saw?’

  The scholar was sickly pale and panting once again. He drew a cloth and wiped at his sweaty face. He nodded. ‘Oh yes. They found out what happened to their captain.’

  ‘So …’ Scorch began, ‘we wait for ’em?’

  ‘No. They won’t be coming back up.’ Ebbin held his brow, looking faint.

  ‘You all right, sir?’ Leff asked.

  ‘No. I … I don’t feel well. I need to get back to Darujhistan.’ He nodded with sudden vigour. ‘Yes. That’s right. I must go to Darujhistan.’

  ‘We’ll pack up the camp then,’ Leff said.

  ‘No! You two wait here. Guard the camp. Wait for me. Yes?’

  Leff frowned, doubtful. ‘Well … if you say so.’

  Ebbin took his forearm. ‘Excellent. Thank you.’ He paused, blinking, then glanced about as if confused. ‘Now, you’ll close up here, yes? You won’t go down?’

  Scorch and Leff eyed one another: the man’s mad! ‘No, sir. You don’t have to worry about that. We ain’t goin’ down there.’

  ‘Good! Good. I knew I could trust you. Now, I must go.’

  ‘Go? Now?’ Leff raised a brow. ‘Night’s comin’, sir. We really shouldn’t let you go all alone. Can’t you wait till tomorrow?’

  Ebbin jerked as if stung. ‘No! I must go! It is important … I feel it.’

  Scorch and Leff exchanged looks. Scorch inclined his head, indicating that Leff should accompany the scholar. Leff flinched, offended, and pointed back. Scorch gestured angrily that Leff should go. Leff’s hand went to his sword grip and he glared his defiance.

  ‘Uncle!’ a voice called from the gathering dusk and both guards spun, hands at weapons.

  A slim girl was suddenly quite close. She wore loose white robes that rippled in the weak evening wind. Her feet were bare. Rings glinted gold on her toes.

  Ebbin stared at the girl in utter incomprehension. ‘Uncle?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, smiling. She took the man’s arm, leaning against him. ‘May I call you that? I feel there is some sort of connection between us, yes? You feel it too?’

  Scorch cleared his throat. ‘Ah, miss? You lost?’

  She ignored him so completely it was as if he hadn’t spoken. She whispered something into Ebbin’s ear and the scholar’s brows rose. ‘Really? From him?’

  She nodded eagerly. ‘Oh yes! And he is ever so keen to hear what you have found.’

  Ebbin passed a hand over his eyes. ‘Gods! What I have found! Yes. Of course.’ He turned to Scorch and Leff and rubbed his eyes, squinting, as if trying to focus on them. ‘Ah, you two. I will go with this girl here. You two stay.’

  The guards shared another look. ‘I think,’ Scorch began respectfully, ‘you should both come back to camp with—’ He stopped because the girl had flicked out an arm and a knife blade appeared in her hand. Its razor tip hovered a finger’s width from his throat.

  ‘You have seen and heard enough,’ she said.

  ‘No!’ Ebbin shouted, rousing himself. ‘Ignore them. They have no idea …’

  The girl’s kohl-ringed eyes, now touched by a deep smouldering crimson, slid to the scholar. The arm flexed and the blade disappeared. She bowed her head. ‘As you command, Uncle.’

  But Ebbin had staggered off. ‘Darujhistan,’ he was muttering. ‘There’s something …’

  The girl remained a moment, eyeing the two men. A smile played about her full lips as she enjoyed their extreme discomfort. Then she winked and blew a kiss at each, and sauntered off after Ebbin.

  Leff let go a long tensed breath.

  ‘Gods below,’ Scorch murmured.

  ‘Reminds me of the Mistress.’

  Scorch cocked his head. ‘Yeah. Don’t she just. Now what?’

  ‘Now?’ Leff kicked at the lid of the well. ‘Now I’d say we’re out of work again.’

  ‘Shit.’

  *

  Lying flat on the crest of one of the low rises of the Dwelling Plain, Picker watched the white-robed girl escort the old man north. If they kept going in that direction they’d make the trader road to Raven Town, then on to Darujhistan. A long hike, but if they didn’t stop at an inn they’d make Darujhistan near dawn.

  A noise from the dark behind her announced Spindle’s presence and she slid backwards down behind the rise.

  ‘See that?’ Spindle hissed from the dark.

  ‘Yeah,’ she answered drily. ‘I was watchin’.’ Struck by a thought she raised her chin to the north, asking, ‘What does your mum say about that girl?’

  Spindle reflexively rubbed his shirt. ‘My mum tells me to watch out for girls
like that.’

  Picker grunted her agreement. ‘Well … she was right.’

  ‘’Course she’s right! She’s a witch!’

  Picker paid no attention to the tense in that statement since the man’s shirt was woven from his mother’s hair, and that shirt was the main reason he was still alive.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Now?’ Picker gave a slow shrug in the dark. ‘Maybe we should eyeball that well.’

  ‘Hunh. Well, I ain’t goin’ down.’

  She raised a hand as if to slap him. ‘’Course no one’s goin’ down! Six go down. One comes up! They ain’t payin’ us enough for that!’

  ‘Where’s Blend anyway?’

  ‘She’s around. C’mon. Let’s see if those two guards are gone yet.’

  ~

  Blend joined them at the well. She just appeared out of the dark, as was her way. Picker examined the wooden lid and the lock. ‘All back like nothin’ happened.’

  ‘Mark it,’ Blend said. ‘We may have to describe its location.’

  Picker used a rock to scrape the side – a mark that would only mean something to a Malazan marine.

  Spindle had been standing motionless as if listening, and now he raised a hand for silence. He pointed frantically to the well. Picker stilled, listening. A blow from down below. Falling stones, rubble. A muted splash. Another strike, like a punch. Closer. She raised her stunned gaze to Spindle, who was now backing away, a hand pressed to his chest over his shirt. Picker signed a retreat and scrambled for cover.

  Moments later some sort of blast sent the wooden lid erupting into the night sky, where it turned over and over, hung for a moment, then fell with a crash.

  A figure climbed from the well. He wore a long dark cloak and a mask. The mask caught the moonlight and for an instant it glowed like a moon in miniature. Then the man turned away to walk off north, calmly and regally, as if out for a stroll in his own pleasure garden.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Picker breathed. She eyed Spindle behind their pile of stones. ‘What does your mum say about him?’

  ‘I think she would’ve shat herself.’