At the rear, the entourage followed, a line of drones trailing their mammoth queen. They swarmed at the bend in a hovering queue, each slowing as much as they dared to traverse the turn. But one of the last, a multi-turreted affair faced with alabaster, approached a grandiose castle that lay in its path too fast. The speeding structure resorted to braking and swerving at the same time. It clipped the castle, sending it wobbling aside, and careered towards a cliff wall. The speeds involved were relative, so to onlookers it was like watching a clumsy underwater ballet.
The ricocheting palace struck the cliff and literally compressed, a good third of its mass compacting in on itself. Chunks of masonry dislodged and fell. For a drawn out moment the building hung in the air, cerulean lightning playing all over its surface. Then the light went out and its compact with gravity was cancelled.
It plunged like a rock.
That part of the horde unlucky enough to be directly below stood no chance. The palace, disintegrating as it fell, shedding screaming occupants, came down as an avalanche. Its impact was thunderous, and released huge billows of dust that even the heavy snowfall was hard put to dampen.
Melyobar stood to get a better view of the chaos visited on the gorge. ‘I believe that was Count Barazell’s residence,’ he observed, addressing no one in particular. ‘Damned bad luck.’ He sank back into his throne, sighing. ‘Still, should keep Death diverted for a while. Every cloud and all that.’ He waved a languid hand at the crew. ‘Full speed ahead.’
The palace gathered momentum. The end of the valley could be seen, and soon the procession would be in the open snow-covered fields beyond.
Melyobar beckoned an aide. The man was ashen, like everyone else in the room; but they differed from the Prince insofar as his features were permanently wan.
‘As soon as we’re clear,’ he said in an undertone, ‘have search parties sent back.’
The aide stooped. ‘Of course, my lord. I’ll have the rescue teams prepare.’
‘Rescue? Oh. Very well, if they find any surviving aristocrats they can bring them out. But tell them to give corpses priority.’
‘Corpses, Highness?’ The aide’s rigid, tight-lipped response made him look like one himself.
‘Just a selection. I could use a couple of dozen.’
‘Does your Highness require any particular kinds of…cadaver?’
‘I’m not fussy. But come to think of it, bodies of the lower orders serve us best, I think.’
‘Very good, sir. Will that be all, Your Highness?’
‘Yes, yes. Get on with it.’
When the official had gone, Melyobar rose, passed a gamut of bowing flunkies and left the wheelhouse. Outside, he was joined by an escort of his personal guard, four strong, who fell in behind him. He led them to a corridor terminating in an oak door. The sorcerer lounging in a chair beside it leapt up, and in a flurry of obsequiousness opened the door and ushered in the Prince and his guard, then squeezed in after them.
They were in a perfectly square, wood-panelled room not much bigger than a large cupboard. The only things in it were a glamoured lighting orb on the ceiling and a book-sized slab of brown porcelain, etched with runes, set into the wall by the door. At Melyobar’s curt order, the sorcerer laid his palm against it.
The room began to descend. Slow at first, it quickly picked up speed, causing the Prince’s stomach to take a little tickling flip. It was a sensation he quite enjoyed.
His private elevation chamber was essentially a box. It sat inside a shaft that ran from this high point to one of the palace’s lowest, with access to various levels in between. Magically generated pressure, drawing from the same energy propelling the castle, moved the chamber up or down at the direction of its wizard operator. Melyobar prided himself on embracing all the latest conveniences.
The limit of the chamber’s capacity was six people. Consequently they were all crushed together, with Melyobar at the centre of the scrum, allowing his bodyguards a unique opportunity to experience his eccentric attitude to personal hygiene. The descent passed in an awkward silence.
When they finally arrived at their destination, to a chorus of expelled breaths, they tumbled into a subterranean corridor. Leaving the sorcerer behind, the group entered a labyrinth of tunnels which led to a lengthy journey through a series of checkpoints and locked gates. At last they came to a pair of heavily reinforced doors guarded by armed men. Melyobar ordered his escort to wait and went in alone.
He was in a large, windowless room with rough stone walls that made it resemble a cavern, though scores of glamoured globes kept it well lit. Perhaps twenty people were working there, most of them sorcerers.
A wizard greeted him. ‘You’ll require this, Highness,’ he added, offering a bulky white mask identical to the one he and all the others were wearing.
Melyobar needed the sorcerer’s help to position it correctly over his nose and mouth. The mask had been soaked in some kind of sanitising agent, mixed with a mild perfume, which made the Prince cough.
‘How goes the work?’ he asked when he stopped spluttering.
‘Well, sire. Would you care to see?’
‘Why else would I be here?’
The sorcerer guided him to the far end of the room. Four huge metal tanks stood there, each with a glass window. Melyobar went to the nearest and peered in, but all he could see was milky liquid. He was about to complain when a spherical, deathly white object bumped against the glass. The Prince jerked back in shock, emitting a startled squeak.
‘No need for alarm, Highness,’ the sorcerer assured him. ‘Nothing here can harm us providing we’re careful.’
Melyobar stared in morbid fascination at the floating corpse’s head. It looked as though it had been a man, but as putrefaction had set in, it was hard to tell. One eye was missing, the other bulged. The flesh was bloated and turning green.
‘Begging your indulgence, Highness,’ the sorcerer went on, ‘but we really do need some more subjects.’
‘I have it in hand. You’ve made use of all the others?’
‘Oh, yes, sire. But the process is experimental, as you know, and wastage has been high.’
The travelling court yielded dead people on a regular basis. Melyobar had supposed enemies hung from the battlements in cages until they starved. Others he tortured at random on the chance they might be his shape-changing arch-foe in disguise. Some he merely had stabbed while having dinner with him. But these obviously weren’t enough for the sorcerers’ needs.
‘What else have you to show me?’ the Prince said.
‘We have our first distillation, sire,’ the wizard informed him with a note of glee.
‘You’ve produced the essence?’
‘Not quite, Highness. But we’re very close. Come, sire. See.’
He took his liege to a secure cabinet and inserted a glamoured key. Reaching inside, he brought out a tiny glass phial. Praying Melyobar wouldn’t demand to handle it, he held the container up to be examined.
The Prince blinked myopically. ‘It’s completely clear,’ he complained, ‘like water.’
‘Don’t be deceived, my lord. There is much here that cannot be seen.’
‘But will it do the job?’
‘In sufficient strength and quantity, sire, yes. Indeed, we’ve begun testing.’
‘Show me.’
An adjoining chamber, one of many, housed a pigsty. It wasn’t possible to enter as the door had been replaced with a thick sheet of glass, but Melyobar could see well enough. The sty was filthy. Two mature pigs lay on the straw, shivering convulsively, their legs in spasm. Their skin had a mottled, greasy appearance, and their eyes were glazed.
‘How do you get in there?’ the Prince wanted to know.
‘We don’t, sire. Once the subjects are exposed to the solution we seal the chamber. We leave them enough food and drink so that we know it isn’t starvation that’s making them ill. Then we observe. We could never dare open this room again, Highness.’
&nb
sp; ‘Hmm. What of higher forms?’
‘We’ve had some success there too, sire.’
He showed him to another glass-fronted antechamber, this one having bars in addition.
There were three crude bunks inside. Two men and a woman occupied them. All were covered in sweat, and looked as if they were in a twitching coma. The woman’s eyes were open and she was staring glassily, like the pigs.
‘Excellent,’ Melyobar said.
6
No one would have begrudged the warlord riding in a splendid battle sledge, or on the back of a magnificent charger. But that wasn’t Zerreiss’s way. He chose to walk, and his followers loved him for it.
He marched at the head of an army unlike any the so called barbarous lands had ever seen before. Its numbers could only be guessed at. The great multitude covered the vast plain it crossed, so much so that the layers of snow they trampled underfoot couldn’t be seen. They resembled a plague of ravenous insects carpeting the earth.
As remarkable as its size was the constituency of the horde. Many of its members were drawn from the lands Zerreiss had conquered, yet no element of coercion had been involved. Nor were there mercenaries in its ranks, as was often the practice when armies were mustered. Far from being driven by the lash, or marching for the hope of coin, the prevalent mood was that of a crusade.
The one they followed bore many epithets–the Scythe, the Silk Claw, the Man Who Fell From the Sun–though all had been bestowed, not claimed by him. Yet few men belied his titles as much as Zerreiss. There was nothing outstanding or even particularly notable about his appearance. He was ordinary in face and form, and if he stood in line with a dozen others, he would be the last to be remembered. However, the way he looked had nothing to do with the extraordinary charisma he possessed. No words could describe his allure. His empathy with the troops, and infectious passion for his cause, inspired a loyalty that was genuine and bottomless.
Though still in the region loosely designated the northern wastes, they had made considerable headway in their journey southward. Thus far, no force had successfully stood against them, or even appreciably slowed their progress. But for all that Zerreiss had led them a great distance from his place of birth, in the inhospitable core of the barbarous heartlands, the weather wasn’t noticeably kinder. The temperature rarely lifted above freezing. For weeks the snow had been continual. Now they were enjoying a rare day without it, and the sun had appeared to lift their numbed spirits.
The warlord was flanked by his two principal aides. Sephor was the younger of the pair, and might have been thought too tender in years to hold a position of such responsibility were it not for his proven skills. Wellem was an old campaigner, a veteran of many conflicts, whose experience and good sense proved an ideal counterweight to the younger man’s comparative rawness. Both had licence to speak freely in the presence of their leader; indeed, Zerreiss insisted upon it.
As they reached the top of a hill covered in ankle-deep snow, they paused to catch their breath and look to the host tramping in their wake. The tundra was black with an uncountable mass of warriors. Hundreds of siege towers bobbed amongst the crowd, and as many massive catapults were being hauled, while thousands of drums kept up an incessant rhythm.
‘You must find it very pleasing, sir,’ Wellem said, ‘to have so many flocking to your banner.’
‘When you show them the truth,’ Zerreiss replied, ‘the people rally.’
‘Could it not be, my lord, that they’re drawn to power?’ Sephor wondered.
‘You have a very cynical view of human nature, Sephor, for one so young.’
‘I hope that isn’t true, sir,’ the younger man returned earnestly.
Zerreiss smiled. ‘Of course it isn’t. But sometimes you’re so serious I can’t resist tugging at those chains of sobriety you bind yourself with.’
‘Our aim is serious.’
‘Indeed. But you must learn to trust me, and know that through me we will prevail.’
‘I have faith in you, sir. It’s those we’ll be up against that I don’t trust.’
‘Then you’re saying you doubt my power over them, Sephor. Haven’t you seen enough of my victories to put such fears behind you?’
‘More than enough, sir. But this is different. We’ve never been so bold as this before.’
‘People are people, whether they be citizens of the empires or thought of as savages. The gift I have for them will be equally prized.’
‘We’ve certainly found that to be true up to now,’ Wellem chimed in. ‘But Sephor does have a point, if I may say so, my lord. We’re not going against some chieftain’s clan or a city state this time. It’s imperial forces we’ll be facing, and not just one empire but the pair of them.’
‘In attacking protectorates of Rintarah and Gath Tampoor simultaneously we stand a chance of breaking their fragile truce in these parts,’ Zerreiss reminded him. ‘If their rulers back in their capitals blame each other they’ll do our work for us. More animosity between the empires can only serve our long term aims.’
‘I can see the possible benefit in tweaking both their tails, sir, but I’m worried about splitting our forces to do it.’
Zerreiss indicated the army with a sweep of his hand. ‘You think we lack sufficient numbers?’
‘It wasn’t our armed strength I had in mind. I’m concerned that you can’t be in two places at once.’
The warlord laughed. ‘Even my abilities fall short of that, Wellem.’
‘Make light of it if you will, my lord, but you can’t dismiss the problem.’
‘Problem?’
‘While you’re here for the storming of Gath Tampoor’s outpost, the rest of your army approaches Rintarah’s without you. How are they going to fare?’
‘You overlook the fact that my reputation moves ahead of us. The defenders there, and here, will know about the others who’ve fallen to us. Don’t underestimate that advantage.’
‘What about the morale of the army marching against Rintarah’s settlement?’ Sephor wondered. ‘If you’re not with them–’
‘They’re perfectly capable of achieving their mission without me. In fact, that’s part of my intention.’
‘Sir?’
‘Wellem here was only stating the obvious by saying I can’t be in more than one place at a time. Yet as our campaign proceeds we’ll be increasingly fighting on several fronts at once. The army needs to know it can win victory without my presence. To some extent they have to be weaned off their reliance on me. We’ll never achieve our goals otherwise.’
‘I can see the sense in that, sir.’
‘I mean to plan for future eventualities, too.’
‘How do you mean, my lord?’
‘I’m just as vulnerable as the next man. If I take an arrow in this battle, or get cut down in a cavalry charge, I’ll be no less dead. I want to be sure my work doesn’t die with me.’
From the looks on their faces, neither aide had considered the possibility of Zerreiss’s mortality.
‘How could we carry on without you?’ Wellem said. ‘If you weren’t here, the gods forbid, what would inspire us?’
‘I’m touched that you should feel that way,’ the warlord replied with genuine warmth. ‘But that’s exactly the attitude that has to change. I’d want the momentum of what I’ve begun to carry you through. The worst way you could repay me would be to abandon our cause simply because I couldn’t finish it with you. My wish is to kindle a movement, not self-aggrandisement.’
They knew this to be true.
‘Be assured,’ he added in a lighter tone, ‘that if our forces attacking Rintarah’s outpost run into fierce opposition, I’ll travel east to join them. Does that make you feel better?’
His aides chorused that it did, though they found it hard to conceal a note of unease about what he’d told them.
Sephor wanted something clarifying. ‘You said that our actions today could set the empires at each other’s throats, sir, even more tha
n they already are, that is. But surely when word reaches their capitals they’ll know the truth?’
‘If we bring about more discord between the empires it’ll be a bonus; it isn’t our main target. As to word getting back; they’ll hear what we want them to. The more conquests we make, the more we control the channels of communication.’
‘That will soon be like trying to bail out the ocean, my lord,’ Wellem offered.
‘The empires used to neglect these lands. Now they encroach by the day, mostly because of your victories. The expeditions Gath Tampoor and Rintarah sent into our waters are an example.’
‘At the moment we need to move with caution. But soon we’ll reach a level of dominance where it won’t matter what they do. And you’ve no need to worry about those two little armadas. I’ve taken steps against them.’
He said nothing more, and they didn’t press him. Now rested, they moved on. The sky was starting to darken again, promising the return of snow. The army burrowed deeper into their furs.
The scenery, too, had started to alter. Trees had been felled, and through the expanse of white there were traces of low stone walls slicing the land into growing fields. Clear signs that they were nearing their objective.
‘I hope you’ll forgive me if I raise a sensitive matter, my lord,’ Sephor ventured.
‘You’ve been with me long enough to know there are few sensitive matters in my company. What is it?’
‘These dreams you’ve been having, sir…’
‘Ah. Sensitive in a way, because they’ve challenged my view of the world. Though I still think they’re a part of nature rather than outside it, for all their incredible vivacity. Not like dreams at all.’
‘Do you have any understanding of them?’
‘Understanding, no. But there’s a…compulsion in them. I’ve no doubt there’s a reason why I’m having them. And I’m quite aware of the irony that I, of all people, should pay attention to something like ethereal dreams. But the man I saw in them, though it was more like an encounter than seeing, that man felt like part of what’s supposed to happen. I can’t put it plainer than that.’
The Diamond Isle Page 7
