by Tom Lloyd
‘Kohrad is no toy to be shared,’ Styrax snarled. ‘Nor is he a possession of either God or daemon. If one seeks to claim him, it will have to fight my armies for him.’
‘It already has staked its claim.’
Styrax hesitated. ‘The armour? That is what gives it power over him?’
‘Ah, a suit of armour? If that is true, then you are dealing with an old one, the most ancient and cunning. Filled with malice they are - and hard to trick out of their prize. Take care how you proceed.’
Styrax hesitated. He knew which inhabitant of the dark would want a hold over him: the daemon-prince he had made a bargain with many years ago. It feared his strength and scrabbled for purchase. So be it; he had always known a reckoning had to come one day. Strange that it comes this way though, I wouldn’t have expected a daemon to choose such an oblique path.
‘Was that what you came to tell me? A warning from a loyal servant?’
‘No.’ The corpse gave a wheeze, a dribble of cloying blood emerging from the corner of its mouth. Styrax suspected Purn, back in his festering laboratory in Scree, was laughing at the notion. ‘To tell you there is a new air in Scree. Figures of power walk the streets, unknown songs drift on the air. It is nothing I have ever felt before, but it is more akin to the currents surging through the Dark Place than the politics of a city. Something calls to me in the night, something of incalculable power.’
‘You’re asking for help?’ Styrax’s puzzlement was plain in his voice. He glanced at Larim, but the young white-eye looked just as confused. A necromancer as powerful as Purn was unlikely to ask for assistance, no matter what the task. Sharing, spoils or troubles, was not often part of the mindset.
‘Scree becomes the focus of something quite remarkable, I believe. I do not know what dangers lie here, but they shift and feed off each other. Scree sees the convergence of horrors. I fear this home will soon be no home, not even for a man of culture such as I.’
Styrax knew what Purn meant, but when he glanced at Larim, he didn’t appear to understand; his contact with necromancers during his fifteen-year apprenticeship would have been limited. Necromancers disliked states descending into chaos. There were too many factions involved, too many mobs roaming the streets and disrupting their work. They liked their shadows still and peaceful, rather than flickering in the flames of funeral pyres.
‘You lack the power to compete for whatever it is that calls to you in the night?’
‘If this convergence draws more people to Scree that will certainly be true, but in fact I suspect the artefact would draw me into the games of lords and Gods, and in these troubled times that would not prove healthy. Instead, I offer to help you secure it.’
‘You’re offering me this artefact? in exchange for what? A manor back home with your pick of the gaols? A guarantee that your activities will be unrestrained?’
‘No. The pickings will be richer this side of the waste. Every denizen of the dark knows that a storm has scattered the strands of the future far and wide. Fate lies in her chamber and weeps for what she has lost. I do not wish to be absent from such delicious chaos. The freedom you offered me is my price - as well as men to assist me here - but in Thotel, where I am not answerable to anyone but you. That - and one of the Chetse’s Bloodroses for my personal use.’
Styrax frowned. A necromancer offering to hand over something of such power? it hardly seemed creditable, yet Purn knew his lord well enough not to expect some foolish mistake that could put Styrax in danger, or honour an agreement where he’d been lied to. ‘If this artefact is as great as you claim, I agree. I will send you some men to help and they will accompany you back here.’
The corpse shuddered, slumping to its knees before Purn regained his control. ‘I cannot hold this much longer. Who will you send? They must leave word for me at a tavern, the Lost Spur.’
Styrax’s thoughts began to race. Killers would be easy enough to find, but who of his staff could he send to lead them? All those men whose names came readily to his lips were men of importance, and he had few friends he could spare for such a thing. Then one appeared unbidden in his mind. Styrax pictured the terror it would cause even as he spoke, and the picture it made caused him to smile inwardly.
‘Mikiss. A messenger called Koden Mikiss will lead them.’
Not waiting to hear any more, Isherin Purn broke the link and the mage’s corpse collapsed in a heap of stained, stinking robes. Styrax didn’t move for a moment, thinking over this remarkable conversation. Of what importance was Scree? What sort of convergence could be happening there? Then Kohrad’s still form returned to his memory. There were more important things to deal with this night. His skills would be required if they were going to break whatever hold the daemon had over his son. Once that was done, there was revenge to be planned.
‘Major,’ Styrax growled. The tall soldier hurried over, his amber eyes glinting in the firelight. ‘Find our friend the messenger and have him waiting for when I finish with Kohrad. Do you have a few men you can trust for a trip such as this?’
‘If it’s as important as he said,’ the soldier replied with a nod towards the corpse, ‘I’ll go myself, and take the twins with me. Any more than that will make it hard to travel quick and quiet.’
Styrax gave a nod of approval. ‘Good. I don’t want to send an army all the way up there, not yet. Find out what Purn is talking about and if you think it worthwhile, send word with what assistance you’ll need to secure it. Get yourself ready, then bring the messenger to me. But first, find me a horse.’
CHAPTER 10
Mayel pressed his palm flat against the door and stopped. In the gloom of the cellar stairwell, he could just make out the pitted iron ring that opened the door. He held his breath, feeling the insistent thump of his heart pounding as his ears strained to detect any sound from the house above. All was silent, but for a flutter through the house as the blustery wind rattled the shutters. A droning whistle abruptly pierced the quiet, making Mayel’s heart almost leap into his throat.
Then he recognised it, and grinned in relief. ‘Just the wind coming through the keyhole,’ he muttered. ‘Idiot!’ The lock on the kitchen door was old and broken, like everything else in this house, no matter how grand it had once been. Mayel could hardly believe anyone would let such a fine house fall into disrepair like this, letting the damp to creep up the walls and seep into the floorboards until they swelled and burst like overripe fruit. The surrounding area might explain a lot for, like the house at its centre, the district was decayed, half-abandoned, home mostly to furtive figures who lingered in dark corners, hiding from the light as much as the rain. The abbot, of course, thought the area ideal. Having escaped the austere bleakness of their island monastery, Abbot Doren had sought out its cosmopolitan equivalent, much to Mayel’s indignation. That the abbot had paid good silver for it only compounded the young man’s irritation.
Mayel had adopted the kitchen as his own and scrubbed it clean. The abbot had the cellar room for his studies, and the rest of the house they had sealed off and left for the rats to enjoy. The abbot worked through the night, talking to himself and clattering around down here as Mayel drifted off to sleep in his makeshift bed. When the old man did sleep it was usually in a chair shaded from the afternoon sun, though his slumber was far from peaceful, his dreams plagued by fell shapes he refused to discuss … Mayel could see them haunting his waking hours too.
Abbot Doren was far from young, but Mayel suspected he was not as old as he appeared, despite the tired look in his eyes. Perhaps it was the dreams that aged him, perhaps it was something else. He was a mage, like most high priests, and neither magic nor Vellern were easy masters. The two together would take a lot out of any man.
Flickering light seeped through the cracks, outlining the door. Finally, Mayel turned the iron ring, and waited. Salvation or damnation, he wondered, slowly easing open the door. Wincing slightly at the creak of the hinges, he poked his head around the door and looked into the cella
r.
The morning light was streaming down through the two grime-smeared windows facing him. The cellar had been underneath the main entrance to the house, looking up at what was, at one time, a busy street. The tall oak door that had been the grand entrance to the house was now rotten and broken, with black paint peeling from its surface like a leprous skin.
Miraculously, neither of the windows had been broken or stolen - folk avoided the house, though Mayel did not know why. Shandek insisted it wasn’t haunted, and blamed the atmosphere of fear that permeated the district on a rash of recent, unsolved disappearances. Mayel hadn’t been quite convinced by that, but the abandoned house was still imposing, even now, so it wouldn’t be surprising if it had become the focus of suspicion. He had to admit no one was likely to store goods in a place he feared, so it was more likely Shandek had spread the rumours himself.
Mayel took a lamp down off its bracket and, stepping over sacks full of strange plants and pots of dark, glutinous liquids, took it over to the scarred table in the centre of the room. He noted the lamps were burning low. If the abbot returned from his walk early, Mayel could say he was refilling them. Mayel recognised the heavy tomes that he had personally lugged from the monastery amongst the piles of books that covered the table. He picked up one that lay open and scanned the feathery script, hoping for an indication of what the abbot was working on. It was hard to read, and even harder to make sense of. At the bottom of one page was a strange drawing, vague lines swirling about each other, that he struggled to understand. He cocked his head to one side and was frowning at the page when it came into focus: a tall figure with sword drawn, standing over a prone knight. The artist had carefully blacked out the sword’s blade with ink. The caption below said Velere’s Fell. Mayel assumed that the prone figure was Velere, the Elven prince. The archaic text appeared to be describing the feats of an immortal hero called Aracnan, and his particular devotion to his lord, though Mayel couldn’t actually work out who this lord was, as his name was never mentioned. There was something about a battle in a field of wild flowers, and a shifting wall of smoke which had aided Aracnan’s holy quest. That passage was worn dark, smudged by past scholars who had run their fingers along the line as they read, but Mayel could not fathom why it was important. He knew it was not from the library, but from the abbot’s personal collection, and that meant the abbot himself, and maybe past abbots too, had thought that bit important.
‘Don’t mind that now,’ Mayel told himself, ‘you’re just getting distracted. You’re not here to read his books but to find that bloody box.’
The room was in a chaotic state. Mayel hadn’t been allowed down here since he’d dragged in the table for the abbot to work at. He continued his search, finding another valuable-looking book, bound in tarnished, silvery metal, hidden under the table. It was wrapped in waxed cloth. The cover looked as if had been inscribed by hand, but the words meant nothing to him - even in the monastery he’d not seen this language before … He thought it was strange that the title had been written on to such a fine book rather than embossed. He tried to open it, and found to his surprise that the cover was glued shut. There was no locking mechanism to be seen, and even turning the book over he could see nothing that would lock it shut. Mayel ran his finger down the inside edge of the hard leather cover and yelped as something sharp dug into his finger. He dropped the book back onto the table and stuck his finger in his mouth. After a moment he pulled it out again to inspect the cut. Blood still welled from a tiny incision but when he licked it clean again he realised the cut was a strange shape, almost like a tiny formal monogram of two entwined characters, V and V. Mayel, intrigued, compared it to the cover of the book. It had the same device on it, within a wreath of ivy leaves.
‘Well, that’s strange,’ Mayel muttered as he turned the book over to inspect it. Oddly, he could see nothing sharp - but when he gingerly ran a fingernail down the same spot, there was a flash of silver as if from nowhere and the same strange shape was cut into his fingernail.
‘Magic,’ he breathed in wonder. The abbot was a skilled mage, but Mayel had no talent himself. Even holding a book bearing some small enchantment gave him a thrill that took away the sting of his bleeding finger entirely.
A scraping sound from upstairs made Mayel flinch: the kitchen door had been opened. Mayel had jammed a small stone under the door, and it was that scraping that had alerted him. He grabbed the lamp and blew out the flame and as he cast a last glance around the room, he finally spotted the box. It was open, a long red velvet scarf all that remained inside. Clearly the scarf had been protection, but whatever had been inside the lacquered box was gone now.
Mayel cursed softly, then muttered, ‘Well, you don’t need padding for gold.’ With the extinguished lamp still in his hand he opened the door and started back up the stairs.
‘Abbot Doren, you’re back,’ he exclaimed, startling the old man as he appeared silently behind him.
‘Yes, yes, I had an idea that I needed to note down.’ The abbot scowled suspiciously, but the novice had long since perfected his naive expression for the monastery elders.
‘You really should have stayed out for longer than five minutes. You need some air. You ate hardly anything last night, and you worked the whole night again.’ Mayel raised the extinguished lamp as though presenting evidence.
Ah, you were changing the oil?’
‘Of course, Father.’ his face creased into innocent puzzlement. ‘You said you didn’t want your laboratory tidied, but you still need light to work by.’
The abbot studied his young charge for a moment then scratched at his head in a distracted manner. ‘Very good of you.’ He looked unconvinced, but lack of sleep had made him a little addled. ‘I have an errand I need you to run,’ he said finally.
Mayel smiled up at the sun. It was just two hours since dawn and still cool compared to the cruel afternoon sun. The street was deserted, despite the fine morning, though he could hear the city’s constant grumble all around him. He jumped at a scurrying sound from the scorched shell of a shack off to his left, feeling suddenly isolated. He could see nothing behind the shack, where bare parches of earth were interspersed with dark green clumps of grass, not even a rat or feral cat.
‘Good mornin’, cousin,’ called a voice from behind him. Mayel whirled around, a look of panic on his face, only relaxing as he recognised Shandek, who had appeared from nowhere with one of his thugs. His cousin was a burly man of thirty-three summers, with the hair and complexion of a Farlan. Mayel, who was half his age, had darker skin and fairer hair, although he’d shaved his head to get rid of the tonsure that marked him as a follower of Vellern. It felt curiously liberating to feel the breeze curl around his ears and down his nape. Shandek, however, was proud of his long, lank hair, which marked him out on the streets he ruled.
‘A better morning than the previous ones that have welcomed us here,’ Mayel replied with a smile. Six years in the monastery had left him with a cultured voice as well as an education. Despite Shandek’s wealth and influence, Mayel knew his unschooled cousin held a secret regard for those who could read and write, and he was counting on that, because the ties of blood would go only so far.
‘True enough. We’d begun to wonder whether your abbot brought the dark clouds with him.’ Shandek stepped forward with a grin and slung his arm around Mayel’s shoulder. ‘How goes your abbot’s experiments? Have you yet learned what he’s up to?’
Mayel shook his head. ‘He still doesn’t let me in to his laboratory. He tells me it’s for my own safety, but I know he’s worried about trusting anyone. If Jackdaw could turn on him after years of service, anyone could.’
‘I still think we should just go and take it off him,’ rumbled Shandek’s companion, a man who was wide enough to appear squat despite being almost six feet tall. ‘One old man won’t cause me an’ Shyn any problems.’
Shandek reached over and gave his comrade a friendly cuff on the shoulder. ‘Shut it, Brohm. Even in hi
din’, the man’s still a high priest. He’d turn you insides-out soon as you burst through the door.’
‘I thought they had to brew up potion to use magic? Can’t see that bein’ quicker than the time it takes to shove a knife in his gut.’
‘That just shows your ignorance, Brohm,’ Mayel declared. ‘He can draw energies out of the air - I’ve seen him light fires with a snap of his fingers, so unless your underclothes are made of steel, I doubt you’d get the chance to use that knife of yours. And if that didn’t work, he still has an Aspect of Vellern to call upon at a moment’s notice, one that will certainly take exception to you trying to hurt the abbot. His Aspect-guide is called Erwillen the High Hunter, and he has claws large enough to rip off your head and a trident to place it upon afterwards. You’d wet your drawers just to look at him in the flesh.’
The larger man took a step forward, fist bunched, but Shandek stepped between them with a chuckle. ‘Peace, friend. Mayel, keep your bloody mouth in check until you have the muscle to back it up. Brohm in’t the fool you think he is, but he is three times your size. Brohm, let me talk to my cousin alone. You keep an eye out for our dark man.’
Brohm grunted, glaring at Mayel, then walked the few yards to the corner of the street.
‘Dark man?’ Mayel asked as he watched Brohm go.
‘Rumours we’ve been hearin’; nothin’ to concern a man of letters such as you. Maybe somethin’ to do with the disappearances round here. Normally I’d say it’s folk being fanciful, but with all the bad sorts that’ve turned up since the turn of the year, I’m not so sure. It may be nothin’, but best you keep an eye open. Strangers walkin’ these parts alone, that sort a’ thing.’
