by David Hair
‘Does it open into the church vaults?’ Ril asked.
‘No idea,’ the axeman admitted, ‘but I’m an Earth-mage. I’ll get us in either way.’ He scrambled down, gnosis-light illuminating the way. Setallius indicated Ril and Basia should go next, and Ril stared into the hole . . .
. . . and a thousand nightmares arose in his mind. He froze, and Basia gripped his hand, hard. His first thought was that she was trying to give him strength, but when he saw her face, illuminated faintly from below, he knew that she felt exactly the same as him. They were in that well again, as the walls caved in . . .
No, we’re right here! ‘Hey Fantoche, it’s just a hole in the ground,’ he whispered, putting his arm around her. ‘We can handle it. We’ve done it before.’
She looked at him gratefully. Despite the hours they’d spent trying to cure themselves of this terror, it had never quite left. But it was a familiar fear, by now. ‘It’s only a little hole, isn’t it?’ she murmured.
He squeezed her hand and they did it together. The hardest moment came when Singolo pulled the slab closed behind them, but they made it through that too. The walls crowded in and the ceiling pressed down on them alarmingly, but if they concentrated, they could pretend the small chamber was just an inner room in the Bastion. Mort’s mage-light showed stone shelves surrounding them, labelled with bronze heraldic plaques bearing names.
‘It’s the tomb of the Ulvensen family, Argundian half-bloods,’ Setallius said. ‘A bastard line of some Emtori pure-bloods. They’re river-traders.’
The spymaster walked to a wooden door at the far end of the mausoleum and pressed his eye to a keyhole. It glowed as he engaged gnostic-sight to penetrate the darkness. ‘Better and better: they’ve connected the crypts to a corridor that runs into the church vaults. Makes the funerals easier on a rainy day, I suppose.’
He pulsed energy into the lock and pulled the door open and they followed him into the low-ceilinged, narrow stone passageway – another test of resolve for Ril and Basia. Neither was willing to back down before the other, so they went together. The short corridor led into a wider chamber. Metal grilles above let in enough dim light for Setallius and Singolo to banish their gnostic-lights.
Ril remembered the ventilation holes he’d seen in the church floor: they were right beneath the centre of the church. The air absolutely reeked of lamp-oil.
Someone was walking around on the stone floor of the church above them, punctuated by splashing sounds. There was a glassy crunch as something was dropped, the oil-smell redoubled and Ril realised what it meant. He peered up through one of the ventilation grilles as the boots came nearer, and someone appeared, head and shoulders in half-profile, looking at something in the church. Ril caught his breath: there was no face, just a Lantric mask: Angelstar, the nemesis. Then it was gone, the footsteps receded, they heard a door rattle open and the room above fell silent.
Then there was a surge in the aether, the sensation of very powerful gnosis being unleashed, and he turned back to the trembling Basia, pressed his mouth to her ear and whispered, ‘Did you feel that? Did you see him?’
Before she could respond, flames gushed through the chamber above and vivid orange knives of fire stabbed through the holes of the grille. There was a great roar and the air was sucked from the chamber. Filled with panic, Ril jerked Basia back the way they’d come as smoke poured into the catacomb. The flames were swirling like liquid; already they could hear beams cracking. He slammed into a door and reeled backwards, then Basia stumbled into him, crying out in terror.
I ran the wrong way – this isn’t the way out!
Then Setallius was there, the gnosis-light glowing from the periapt at his neck illuminating his spectral face. He tried the door, wincing at the power of the wards, then he shouted with his mind and Mort appeared.
The next few seconds were a blur as he pulled Basia along, petrified at the darkness and weight of the stone above and the flames, aware that every gulp of air might be his last. Heat drenched them as they crossed chamber after chamber, with Setallius conjuring air now, no mean feat as he pulled all that was breathable to their mouths while beating back the flames trying to burn the oxygen. Then they staggered into another door and this time there were no wards – and no exit.
Mort hurled Ril at a dark square in the wall and he fell, sliding, shouting in terror, before spilling from the sloped chute into pitch-darkness and hitting the stone floor damned hard.
Three seconds later a howling Basia hit him in the small of his back with her artificial feet, but he grabbed her and scrambled away from the exit. The two of them just lay there, half-hysterical with relief and terror, as Setallius arrived, feet-first and landing elegantly. He stepped aside before Mort shot through and crashed onto his tail-bone, leaving him writhing in agony.
‘I rukking hate you,’ Basia panted, glaring at the spymaster, the only one of them on his feet.
For a minute, they all just gasped for air, then Ril locked eyes with Basia. Her gaze was naked, all their shared fears reflected between them like two facing mirrors. He reached out and pulled her to him, kissed her cheek and said, ‘Sister, I can do this if you can.’
She forced a weak smile and murmured, ‘Me too.’
He helped her up. Her strapping was coming apart, but she engaged a little animagery, though it wasn’t her strongest suit, to fix the leather, and tightened the whole harness. He looked around and decided the chamber they’d fallen into was a storage room. Singolo stood painfully and hobbled to the door. He worked at the lock, while Setallius examined something on the wall. He illuminated it with his glowing periapt and beckoned to Ril: the tree-and-key sigil of Loekryn had been carved into the stone.
‘What does it mean?’ Ril wondered.
‘Remember what I told you about the Canonical Crisis and Grand Prelate Loekryn’s boast that he’d build a bridge across the Aerflus? Perhaps it wasn’t a boast? Perhaps he did build a bridge: an underground, underwater one: a tunnel from Surrid to the Celestium.’
‘And it’s still here . . .’ Ril stared, his mind racing despite the claustrophobic pressure building in his skull. ‘What if all those . . . those biting people, those “Reekers” – what if they got sent down here before that masked man burned the church – which he must have done to close the door behind him.’
Setallius frowned. ‘It’s not impossible . . . but if you’re right, that means this isn’t aimed at you and Lyra but at Wurther: a secret army of these Reekers to take down the grand prelate?’
Ril tried to picture that – he could see how such a thing might cause chaos in a city street – but the Celestium was full of real soldiers, and magi too – a Hel of a lot of magi, some of the most powerful in Yuros.
‘There’s something more to this,’ he mused aloud. ‘I’m sure of it. It’s not enough to unseat Wurther.’
His thoughts were interrupted by Mort Singolo, who had managed to open the lock. He drew one of his twin throwing-axes from his harness and stood. ‘We can move on. Shall we?’
Setallius faced them all. ‘We need to confirm that there really are secret tunnels under the Aerflus, and if these Reekers have been sent along them.’
They each drew light from their periapts and held them aloft as they crept out of the room. Overpowering heat and smoke was rolling down from the left of the sloped tunnel outside the door, and Ril groaned and held Basia against him. It was strange – they’d never really been close physically, as if those three days trapped in the well had given them a very specific phobia of touching each other – but the moment they were underground together again, they couldn’t let go of each other.
And she’d kissed him.
It’s Lyra I love, he told himself. His wife had changed since the tourney, opening up emotionally and physically. The more jaded, knowing part of him just laughed. But he had a duty to his queen, even if that had just got harder.
Setallius pointed to the right. ‘I
think we have to go that way.’
Basia looked at Ril miserably; if he was correct, this tunnel led under stone and water, deeper than they’d ever gone. ‘I’ll do it if you do,’ she told him, the old mantra.
‘I don’t think we have a choice,’ Singolo growled. ‘Stay here, and you’ll run out of air.’ He threw them a sympathetic look. ‘Come on, we need to move.’
Ril swallowed as the nightmares closed in again: to be below ground, truly in the depths . . . to be trapped, with fire behind them and who knew what ahead . . . that was bad enough – but another fear compounded it all. That what they’d seen was the beginning of the end, that the axe poised above their heads was beginning to swing, and there was no way he could warn Lyra.
He wavered, begging his brain for some clever way to get back to the surface, but another crash reverberated through the tunnel and the smoke and heat billowed in like some dark daemon reaching for them. As one, they began to run down the sloped tunnel as fast as Basia’s artificial legs could manage – then Ril stopped her and lifted her onto his back and they redoubled their pace, rushing into the nightmare.
The Bastion, Pallas, Yuros
Solon Takwyth knew that someone had been in his room the moment he entered. The Corani knights had been housed in the giant barracks of the Bastion for five years, and although he’d only just arrived, he’d been given one of the finest rooms: a loyal knight had sacrificed his own comfort in honour of him, and he’d publicly thanked the man, praising him in front of them all.
No one should have been able to penetrate the wards on his doors and windows. But he concealed his unease, promising the man he’d been conversing with a pint downstairs in the hall, then he entered, locked the door and walked to his desk.
Two things lay there: a Lantric mask, a beautifully made bronze and lacquer depiction of Twoface – half of the face fair and serene, the other half a skilfully rendered expression somewhere between malice and sorrow. Twoface the unpredictable: the man with secrets that drove him to act against his nature. Such masks could be found in the markets, though seldom as beautifully rendered as this.
He stroked his own disfigured face while he examined the other item: a note, in an almost familiar hand.
Dear Solon,
Forgive me for taking the liberty of contacting you at this crucial juncture. I’m sure you’ve been guessing at who is who, just as I have.
I just wanted to say that I understand what drove you to this point, and I respect it. When we are victorious, and I remove my own mask, I’ll know you understand me as well.
There was no signature, just a neat sketch of another Lantric mask: Tear, the spirit of Tragedy. He frowned, studying both note and mask. Then the Bastion’s alarm bells began to ring.
36
Magas Gorge
Tabula
The ancient ‘Game of Kings’ was devised in Lantris and popularised during the Rimoni Empire as the favoured board-game of the nobility. On an eight-by-eight squared board, two armies of sixteen pieces with varying powers contend to take the opposing queen. Emperor Sertain claimed the game kept his mind sharp through his centuries-long reign. His queen was never taken, and he died in his sleep.
ANNALS OF PALLAS, 804
Magas Gorge, Mollachia
Junesse 935
The waning moon had already left the sky when Kyrik crawled out of the tent in the predawn, leaving only a fading band of stars above the gorge. Tonight would be the first night of Darkmoon, a month full of superstitions, and Luna wouldn’t reappear for six or seven days. No doubt Hajya’s people have hundreds of beliefs about it too, he reflected as he stretched, then strode to the river. Most of the riders were already awake, and Hajya too. Dozens of men were in the river, darting in and out, exclaiming at the cold, but she was actually swimming, drawing on raw gnostic energy to keep herself warm. He did the same and swam to where she floated in the eddies at the edge of the current, seized her from behind and kissed her firmly. She twisted in his grasp like a wet otter and pressed herself against him.
‘Do you always wander around naked in front of your tribe?’ he chided.
She chuckled throatily. ‘These young bucks all have far prettier women – younger too. I expect they feel sorry for you.’
‘Jealous, more like. But in Hegikaro, women wear seventeen layers, minimum.’
‘Liar,’ she laughed. ‘Are you worried your savage wife will embarrass you?’ Then she whispered, ‘I bled this morning – Darkmoon is my moonblood time. I have no child for you this month, my Kirol.’
He couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or not. ‘With all we must face, I think I’m relieved,’ he said. ‘We’re going to war. It would frighten me to know you were with child at such a time.’
‘But it would strengthen me,’ she murmured regretfully. Then she leaped on him and pushed him under, and as he thrashed beneath the surface, she kicked away. By the time he’d regained the surface and his breath, she was wading into the shallows, water streaming down her back and buttocks.
He grinned at the sight, thinking, Who wouldn’t be jealous?
But the day wasn’t going to wait. He strode ashore himself, dried off and girded himself for the journey. A rider brought bowls of hot, spicy gruel, which he and Hajya gulped down, then he prepared their horses while she reapplied her blue face-paint, a ceremony being mirrored by many of the riders. The line across her eyes re-emphasised their differences.
‘Husband – would you like some paint also?’ she offered. ‘The men would appreciate it.’
‘Your men might – mine would think I’ve gone mad.’
She gave him a meaningful look. ‘You are among the Vlpa now: we must remind them that you are Kirol.’
He frowned, then he sighed and held still, despite his impatience, while she deftly daubed at him with her fingers from her jar of blue paste. ‘How does a kirol relate to a nacelnik?’ he asked when she was done, reaching up to touch the unfamiliar paste.
‘Let it dry!’ she snapped, slapping away his hand. ‘Kirol is a foreign king; he is the equal of the nacelnik.’
‘A kingdom cannot have two kings,’ he said, a little troubled. ‘My people will expect him to bow to me.’
‘Ah, the famous “equality” you speak of,’ she remarked, her husky voice neutral. ‘A problem for tomorrow, mm?’ She showed him his face in the reflection of her dagger blade. ‘See, a crown for Kirol Kyrik.’
There was indeed a blue crown painted on his right cheek – and a silhouetted fox on his right, amidst a swirl of decorative lines. ‘Once we can be crowned we will bear the Rondian titles “King” and “Queen” – although for all I know, Robear Delestre has sold my father’s crown as well.’
They broke off the discussion as Brazko and Rothgar approached. As the four of them huddled together to plan the day ahead, Kyrik was interested and pleased to see that the young Sydian appeared to admire the Stonefolk hunter. ‘We’re still six miles north of Neplezko Flat and the Gazda’s Stair,’ Rothgar reminded them, after staring at Kyrik’s warpaint with raised eyebrows.
‘Our hope is that Dragan and his Vitezai will reach there today,’ Kyrik replied. He turned to Brazko. ‘I want to take forty riders on ahead, to climb the Stair as soon as possible. Rothgar will guide us, and I’d like you with us, Brazko.’
‘I will come, and climb this Stair,’ he agreed. ‘If there are enemies, we will chase them away.’
‘Good. Rothgar, we’ll leave Vitezai at each ford, to show the following riders the best places to cross.’ He turned to Hajya. ‘How can the Sfera help us, my Kirolyna?’ he asked, as if they’d not discussed it already.
‘My people are positioned all along the column to help the riders cross the most treacherous of the fords; they will also provide mind-to-mind communication, so that we’ll know if anything goes wrong. One of my young men can take bird form: I sent him south. I have heard nothing since, so I will try and reach him during the day.’ There was a tinge of worry in her voice.
/> ‘Might he have got lost?’ Kyrik asked.
‘Following a river?’ Hajya pulled a face. ‘Though he’s not a bright boy, and easily distracted. Bird-mage, ysh?’
Animagi can grow too much like their favoured shape, Kyrik thought.
‘Can you fly to find him?’ Rothgar asked – he sounded fascinated at being exposed to so much that was foreign and strange.
‘I can take two shapes,’ Hajya said; ‘steppenwulf and vlpa – plains-wolf and fox. The former is for hunting and fighting, the latter for scouting. Neither is useful in this situation – the best thing I can do is help at the fords, and maintain communication. I will come with you to these Narrows and position myself there.’
‘What about Valdyr?’ Rothgar asked. ‘Are you able to find out where he is?’
Kyrik licked his lips. ‘I’m not a good scryer – clairvoyance-gnosis isn’t an affinity – and as he’s not found his gnosis, he doesn’t know how to receive a gnostic call. Non-magi can be taught, but it takes time and it’s short-range – so unless Hajya’s bird-mage returns, we’re blind until we reach Neplezko Flat.’
‘Then the sooner we’re out of this place the better,’ Rothgar observed.
‘Indeed. Let’s move.’ He mounted his horse and led off, leaving Rothgar’s second to marshal the next groups. A long day awaited.
*
Feher Szarvasfeld, Mollachia
Junesse 935
The day had dawned bitterly cold and fresh snow, thick on the hills above, dusted the valley floor as Robear Delestre led his legions northwest through White Stag Land. He’d been trying to remember what the natives called it, but it was another typically tongue-knotting Mollach word.
Why do they bother with their ridiculous language when Rondian is so much easier?
The windskiff scouts on the northern flanks hadn’t reported in, which was annoying him, but the massive peaks and the high winds were likely playing havoc with their ability to fly, let alone using gnostic-contact. But he felt somewhat blind as he led his escort along the trail through the woodlands. The only colours were the white of the snow and sky, the black of the exposed trees and rocks and the red of the legion cloaks. But they were making good progress; at this rate they’d reach Magas Gorge before dusk, in time to make camp.
