A Place Among the Fallen [Book One of The Omaran Saga]

by Adrian Cole

  That night was spent in the village. Korbillian persuaded his guards to allow him to visit Wargallow. The latter stood beside the flooded river, watching the wide causeway that crossed it as though he expected it to be washed away. Wargallow unexpectedly agreed to speak to Korbillian, and he motioned the two guards away. He still had Sisipher watched, but no longer believed Korbillian would oppose the visit to the Direkeep.

  'I must ask you something,’ said Korbillian.

  Wargallow removed his hood, and Korbillian looked at the face for the first time. It was not as cold as he had expected, and the eyes were not deep set as he had imagined, but liquid, wide. There was a fierce will there and a look of constant challenge. Wargallow studied an expression of doubt and uncertainty, the face of a young man that had been lined by, not age, but possibly pain. The man may well have power of some kind (he felt that he could no longer dismiss that) but he bowed to a burden that seemed to reduce not only his will, but his great stature. Wargallow did not fear him, but felt that perhaps he should. He remained guarded at least. ‘If you wish.’

  'You are dedicated to the destruction of evil—”

  'What is evil? One man's evil is another man's boon, or so it sometimes seems,’ said Wargallow. ‘Greed is evil, I think. The desire of one man for something that he has no right to.’

  'Such as power?’

  'A good example, yes. The Abiding Word teaches us that power is corruption.’

  'And gods?’

  'The extreme expression of power.’

  'And Emperors, kings, Commanders?’

  Wargallow smiled. ‘More subtle. Their rule is more local than that any god would assume. But authority—that, I feel, is important. The law is important. Codes of behaviour. For the good of Omara. They are above the whim of any gods.’

  Korbillian nodded. It would be interesting to question the one who had created the Abiding Word. ‘Tell me, you will not tolerate power, and yet what of the east? Those beings at the gorge? You allied yourself to them to trap me.’

  Wargallow nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes. My instincts told me to go against them, and I will, in time. There is something in those lands that fills the air with menace.’

  'Yet you choose to concern yourself with me, rather than with them. Why?’

  'You claim to possess power.’

  Korbillian looked at his gloved hands. ‘It is no idle claim. I possess terrible power, power that terrifies me.’ He gently held out his hands and Wargallow felt the nape hairs on his neck stiffen as if touched by an icy draught.

  'My law says this is not possible, but I do not doubt you. My law also says you must die.’

  'I am not from Omara,’ Korbillian went on, as if he had not heard. ‘Yet you deny other worlds.’

  'My law does not permit belief in them.’

  'I am here to protect your world, to make it secure from its doom. It is what I seek to use my power for.’

  'What doom?’

  'It lies in the east, across the Silences. You heard that creature scream for my death at the gorge.’

  'Before the bird destroyed it.’

  'Somehow those creatures know me and what it is I seek to do. What can you tell me of them?’

  'Only that they claim to serve others called the Children of the Mound.’

  Korbillian gasped. ‘As I had guessed, the Mound.’

  Wargallow seemed surprised at the man's reaction. ‘It is important?’

  'There must be life in that place.’

  Wargallow had not expected to see Korbillian so troubled. The man was almost grey. ‘I know nothing of them.’

  'Sentience?’ Korbillian was saying to himself, looking out to the east, up the river as if he could see to its source. ‘But how?’

  Wargallow pulled up his hood. It could be that this man was no more than mad after all. But he felt disturbed by him. ‘It seems to me that the Preserver knows best. He will give you answers. You are marked because of your claim to power, but the Preserver may see fit to absolve you of your transgressions.’

  Korbillian finally spoke again as if coming out of a bad dream. ‘I did not come to Omara to die by his hand.’

  Wargallow said nothing. He stifled his own confusion and walked away. Korbillian's guards drifted in like ghosts, but they were no more than a gesture now. It occurred to Wargallow that Korbillian should be able to strike them all dead with this power, but it seemed unlikely that he would. Not now.

  The following day they rode across the causeway, the weather remaining fair and mild. Again they passed through fields of marsh and reed, and on their southeastern horizon a range of hills rose up; these tiered upwards to become mountains, and it was towards them that Wargallow led the company. Apart from isolated farms, they saw little sign of human life, although they all sensed that they were watched, by human eyes as much as by the abundant wildlife. For the moment the lands to the east seemed no less tranquil than any others.

  Sisipher had almost abandoned hope of seeing the great white owl again, for where his voice sometimes was, was now no more than a void. The further into the foothills the party travelled, the more oppressed she felt, isolated and lonely. Wargallow had insisted on having her every move watched, as though not trusting Korbillian's anger at having lost Guile. Wargallow spoke patiently to the huge man, promising that no harm would come to Sisipher, and though he seemed at times almost reasonable, she yet felt the impending touch of steel in her mind, sure that it must be the true metal of Wargallow's heart. Of all the men she had seen, he was the only one who looked at her without a hint of revealing what emotions she stirred within him. His mind was closed, almost as if it had been locked.

  For days they wound through sleeping hills, keeping to the valleys but always rising. This was well known territory to the Deliverers and they were noticeably more relaxed. It was impossible, however, to draw them into conversation. They spoke very little to each other, almost as if talk itself were offensive. Even Djemuta, whom Sisipher sensed wanted to question her, kept his distance, though with an effort. Korbillian had attempted to engage Wargallow in conversation again, but Wargallow would not cooperate any more and remained stoically silent.

  They came around the steepening curve of one of the first mountains and ahead of them had their first view of the unique structure that was the Direkeep. Korbillian nodded to himself as if his view of it had confirmed something. Like a single great tower of rock, the peak on which the fortress had been built rose up from the valley floor, backed by a jagged, forbidding line of peaks. The lowest depths of the tower were like the titanic roots of a tree that had been turned to stone over countless centuries, and as the tower soared up for hundreds of feet, its sides as smooth as glass and utterly unscalable, it narrowed, only to burgeon out in a huge fist of stone at its peak, knuckled and encrusted. It was inside and on top of this extraordinarily gnarled fist that the Direkeep had been built. It almost seemed to Sisipher, gaping in amazement, as though the entire structure, from Keep to roots, had been drawn up from the molten earth and shaped as though by a potter in one simple working, hardening as it dried. She could sense about it a kind of power, but it was both old and stained. She found that she had to look away.

  'How do we enter this soaring building?’ Korbillian said aloud, and Sisipher thought for some reason he was amused.

  'It is no secret,’ said Wargallow. ‘Apart from the Deliverers, no one has ever returned from the Direkeep.’ He pointed to the sloping mountain whose feet came close to the base of the tower of rock. ‘We climb. There is a bridge.’

  Up into the dusty heights they rode, finding the journey deceptively long. The Direkeep was far larger than they had anticipated. Little vegetation grew here and both Sisipher and Wolgren imagined that something dark and unhealthy spread out invisibly from the Keep, contaminating the land around it. Korbillian noticed the condition of the land, so reminiscent of decay. There was power in this place, he knew well enough, but it was ailing, as if a disease ate into it, weakening
it. How could men give themselves to it so freely? It held no fears for him, only a sense of sadness, of waste. He thought of Ratillic, squandering his gifts when he could have used them so well. To the people of Omara, this place must appear terrifying, with its chilling Deliverers and mysterious ruler, and they would not be aware of the decay and dissolution here. To Korbillian it was pathetic, a travesty of true power.

  By the time they had reached the place where Wargallow had told them the bridge would be, night had fallen. They were met by men who had apparently been watching their ascent for a long time (everything could be seen from here) and these men, Deliverers, recognised them. As soon as Wargallow spoke, they stiffened to attention and hurried to do his bidding. He turned to Djemuta.

  'Remain here with the men. Await my return, or word from me.’

  Djemuta tried to mask his disappointment. Wait here? his mind echoed. After a journey like that, I am not to be permitted to enter the Keep? ‘But, sire, you cannot mean to cross the bridge alone with the prisoners?’

  'No.’ Wargallow went to the captain of the bridge guard and spoke quietly to him. ‘I want four of your men. One for the girl, one for the youth and two for the other, as escorts. My own men will remain with you. Do not let them go from here.’

  The captain issued instructions at once. Simon Wargallow was not a man to argue with. The escort was ready within minutes. Djemuta remained bewildered, but dared not ask why. Had he displeased Wargallow? Had he failed some test? Surely not: he had done his duty well, and during the fight with the owls had shown no fear. When the party was ready to move, Wargallow spoke again to Djemuta.

  'When I return, there will be many men at my back. I will ask the Preserver to allow me to retain you as my immediate deputy. I am well pleased with you, Djemuta.’ He said no more, but turned his horse away, leaving Djemuta no less baffled. And yet, if there were to be many men riding out, could this be war? An attack on the arrogant men of Empire?

  Wolgren saw the twilight pierced by a long sliver of moving rock, which emerged from somewhere across the drop to the Direkeep tower. The bridge met this side of the mountain, dust swirling as it settled, and through the shadows the youth saw the narrow but high opening across the span in the sheer side of the tower. Wargallow had given final instructions and they rode slowly across the bridge. It was narrow, the drop frightening, but the horses kept their heads well. There was no breeze and the air was silent, the stone fortress hushed but almost expectant as if the Preserver's eyes saw them through the layers of stone.

  Wargallow was well pleased with his decision to leave the party of his Deliverers behind. Fortunately the captain on duty was known to him, not one of his chosen Faithful (though a potential candidate) and would do precisely as told. Djemuta was faithful to the Preserver, and Wargallow had reached the conclusion that he might even betray Wargallow if it promised a reward. He would not be given the opportunity. Already Wargallow had laid his plans.

  As they rode under the arch that led into the tower, they came into torchlight hung with smoke. They were aware of men on either side, toiling at the wheels and devices that operated the bridge of stone. Wolgren felt horribly trapped, as if he had entered a region of terror, a prison fashioned as nothing less than a place of execution. The only way he was able to cling to his sanity was by seeing Korbillian's calm, as though he saw no threat to their safety here. Sisipher's heart thundered in her breast. So much pain clung to the naked rock, and she could hear the echoes of long dead screams.

  After they had dismounted, Wargallow spoke to yet more Deliverers in the tunneled passageways. Some of them started to lead Sisipher and Wolgren away, but Korbillian spoke up at once. ‘I insist that we are kept together.’

  Wargallow tensed. ‘In the Direkeep, you insist on nothing.’

  'I have promised to obey you. Let them come with me.’

  Wargallow spoke softly to him. ‘Many ears are listening.’ He turned abruptly. ‘Take them away!’ he snapped, and to Korbillian, loudly, ‘If you wish them unharmed, let them go.’

  'What do you intend with them?’

  'I have no quarrel with them. It is you who are responsible for them, and their actions.’

  Korbillian was surprised. ‘You accept that?’

  'I do. And will say as much to the Preserver. Whatever he decides for you will apply equally to them.’

  'Then they are quite safe.’

  'Quite safe. Unless, of course, you decide not to cooperate.’

  Korbillian looked at the girl and youth, and they seemed here no more than children, but he nodded. ‘Very well.’

  As they were led away, Wargallow breathed words so quietly that only Korbillian heard him. ‘I have my position to think of. I dare not be seen to accede to your demands, or accept your claim to power. But they are safe.’

  As Sisipher and Wolgren were led away, the youth at last managed to speak to her. ‘He protects us,’ he said. ‘Remember that.’

  'We will not die here,’ she whispered back, the certainty of her statement like a torch before her. They were taken up endless flights of stone stairs that made their legs ache, until eventually they reached a door that led into a simple room. There was water and surprisingly, fresh fruit. The guards left them, locking them in.

  Wolgren went straight to the open window, but immediately pulled back from it when he saw the sheer drop beyond. They were so high up that the ground was invisible. Sisipher collapsed, sobbing with exhaustion, suddenly unable to resist the need to give in to it. At once Wolgren knelt beside her and put his arm about her, embarrassed and unsure of himself. But she was glad of the comfort and hugged him out of sheer relief. Within moments she was asleep. Wolgren felt himself on the brink of tears. How desperately he wanted to caress the girl. He told himself repeatedly that Korbillian would not let them down.

  Wargallow led Korbillian up a broader, more gently curling stairway than that taken by Sisipher and Wolgren. Although he felt secure in the fastness of the Direkeep, he found himself becoming even more reconciled to Korbillian's claims. The latter was not at all awed by the Keep, as though there was nothing here, not even the Preserver, that held any terrors for him. And if he was not afraid of the Preserver, did he believe his powers to be greater? If they were, Wargallow would have to plan accordingly.

  Korbillian felt as though he had entered the body of a giant that was riddled with disease. He calculated that they had reached the upper heights of the Keep as they had been climbing for so long. He had noticed that everyone they had passed (less of them higher up) had acknowledged Wargallow, and he had come to the conclusion that he must be as important as anyone else here, saving the Preserver. That was good: it meant he would be dealing with the real power behind the Direkeep.

  They reached a wide hall with a spectacularly vaulted ceiling, and along one side it was open onto a fountained courtyard, a square beyond which the last towers poked up at the night sky.

  'I am taking you to the Preserver now,’ said Wargallow, the first words he had spoken since the climb began. ‘I am sure you would prefer to meet him without delay. Assuming he will see us, of course.’

  Korbillian nodded. ‘Indeed.’

  Wargallow again noted the anticipation. In spite of the lined face, the seeming anguish, Korbillian did not appear disturbed. Wargallow had to know, quickly, what it was that drove him.

  They came to guarded doors that would well have graced Quanar Remoon's opulent palace, and as Wargallow spoke to the men there, they stood aside to open a smaller door set into the large one. Wargallow stepped through and Korbillian followed. He was surprised to find himself in a large hall, but one that was completely bare of everything but the basic requirements of any household. There was a small fountain, a few simple wooden seats, vases filled with scented plants (the only real luxury here) but no magnificent tapestries, carpets or paintings, no treasures, no works of art. Somehow he had expected all these things. Possibly this could be abstinence, part of the image the Preserver had create
d for himself.

  Wargallow motioned him to sit on one of the featureless seats, and as he did so a white robed figure appeared. It was the first woman Korbillian had seen here. She spoke quietly to Wargallow, then left them. Wargallow threw back his hood. The scent from the plants was almost overwhelming, thick as perfume, even by the night-lights.

  'He is asleep,’ said Wargallow. ‘But he will be woken.’

  So you have that much influence? thought Korbillian, interested. And it seemed odd that the Preserver was not aware of their coming. Presently another door opened and four bearers entered, carrying a litter with white silk hangings. They placed it down opposite the seat on which Korbillian sat. For a while there was silence, broken at last by a harsh cough from within. The hangings parted, and Korbillian's amazement was chalked across his features. The man within was incredibly old, wrinkled and haggard.

  'So my favourite warrior has returned,’ said the man in a voice that choked off in a spasm of coughing.

  Wargallow stepped before him. ‘I have, sir, and wasted no time in presenting myself.’ He seemed perfectly at ease here, confident, almost arrogant. He waited for the old man to cease coughing, and with a dismissive flick of the wrist sent the bearers away. When the Preserver had ceased coughing, his face turned to Korbillian, who received yet another shock, for the man was blind.

  'You are not alone,’ said the Preserver, whose other senses at least were not impaired. ‘This must be someone you think most important.’

  Wargallow took another seat and a servant, a girl in a short white tunic, appeared and offered what looked like wine. He shook his head and waved her away gently. ‘I am convinced of it, sir.’

  'A transgressor?’

  'Of the first order,’ agreed Wargallow, smiling at Korbillian, almost as if sharing a private joke with him. What deadly game was the man playing?

  'Yet you have not given his blood to the earth, but have brought him before me. For this I would normally chastise any Deliverer, for the Abiding Word is very clear on these matters.’ He was speaking to Korbillian now. If there was a threat in the words, it was directed at him, and not at Wargallow. ‘I will not tolerate transgression. Omara must be kept pure.’