by Ian Irvine
It brought him back to the rumoured mutiny. Further enquiries had told him that there were half a dozen ringleaders and another twenty or thirty sympathisers. But for a mutiny to succeed, they’d need far more sympathisers than that — at least a third of the population of the fortress. It was some way off, then, as Swelt had said. How could he prevent it, and strengthen his hand for the coming battle?
Rix was studying the painting, thinking about the opalised Grandys trapped in the Abysm, when an outlandish idea struck him. It would take a miracle to survive the coming battle. A miracle — or some supernatural aid — the one way to raise morale in the fortress from the depths to the heights in a moment. The one way to dismay his enemies, even Lyf.
Especially Lyf.
By invoking the memory of the one man everyone in the north-east revered. The one foe Lyf feared more than all the others put together.
Rix took another look at the mural. Was it the right thing to do, or would he be challenging fate? The figure wasn’t just a lump of opal — it was a mighty symbol. And if Lyf’s victories were largely due to his use of the supernatural force of magery, why not use another supernatural force against him?
Could it be done in time? An hour’s study in the library told him that it could. He would need helpers, half a dozen at least. And it would take a day and a half. Plenty of time to go and return before the enemy arrived. If he could bring this symbol back, it could stop any mutiny in its tracks. The plotters wouldn’t dare continue then. Yes, he thought, it’s the answer to all my problems.
But he wasn’t going to tell Tobry in advance. He had a feeling Tobry would disapprove.
Rix would send a select band of men out in the morning, to a rendezvous halfway to the destination. An hour later he would simply say that he was going hunting. No one would query that — in winter, fresh meat was always welcome.
Rix did not know this country and took many wrong turnings before finally locating the rendezvous, hours later than he had planned. By that time the sky had gone the colour of brass, and both men and horses were nervous. Rix did not blame them. A mountain ridge was not the place to be when a storm struck.
“We’ll take cover down under that ledge ’til it passes,” he said, pointing with Maloch. “Ride!”
His band of ne’er-do-wells roared, raised their fists in the air and pounded down the slope at speeds likely to break their necks, or their horses’. Rix followed more steadily, going over his plan. A forgotten detail niggled at him, but he could not dredge it up.
“The hunt was a cover story,” he said once they were under the ledge and the rain was streaming down all around. “I’ve got a bold and audacious plan that, if we pull it off, will make all our names.”
“Bugger our names,” said Yudi, a big, foul-mouthed fellow with a pink face and yellow, curling hair. “Can’t eat a name, can I?”
“Once you have the name,” said Rix, “it’s not hard to trade on it for gold, if that’s the most important thing in your life.”
“It’s the second most important thing,” Yudi said, nudging his neighbour and sniggering.
“A name will help with that, too,” Rix said coldly. “Shut up and listen. A few miles across yonder ridge there’s a great sinkhole, sacred to the enemy before Hightspall was founded. Some people say it’s one of the co-existing branches of the Abysm — ”
“What the hell’s an abysm?” said Yudi. “Sounds like a — ”
Rix cut him off. “It’s the conduit down which the Cythonians’ souls pass from life to death. At least, that’s what they believe.” He paused for a full minute. “But it’s also the place where their wrythen king, Lyf, hurled Axil Grandys after he killed him — and turned him to stone.”
He had their attention now. Every child in Hightspall knew about the Five Heroes’ mysterious disappearance, though no one knew what had happened to them until Lyf had admitted it to Rix and Tali almost six weeks ago.
“Co-existing?” said Legz, a slender, black-haired fellow with a hungry eye. “What are you talking about?”
“There’s only one Abysm, but it exists in a number of places at the same time.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Nor to me,” said Rix. “But it’s so.”
“What good’s a bloody bit o’ stone anyway?” said Yudi disgustedly.
“Actually, Lyf turned Grandys to precious black opal,” said Rix. “But the body, not being Cythonian, couldn’t pass through the Abysm. It’s still floating there, deep down.”
Someone whistled, and a small, black-haired fellow said, “All that opal must be worth a chancellor’s ransom. And we’re going to get it out, right? Then break it to bits and share out the opal?”
“Certainly not! We’re going to take it back to Garramide, in one piece.”
“What’s the use of some crappy old statue?” said Yudi.
“It’s not a statue,” Rix said. “I just told you, it’s Grandys’ petrified body. And it could win the war.”
They stared at him. No one spoke.
“How?” said a grizzled old fellow with a dingy, stringy beard and ears that stuck out like butterfly wings.
“I’m going to mount his body on top of the main tower at Garramide, behind the gates. Anyone who comes within a mile will see Grandys perched there, watching over the fortress.”
“How’s that gonna help?”
“The enemy are very superstitious. They wouldn’t dare attack while looking their destroyer in the face, even if Lyf himself led them.”
“Why not?” said Yudi.
“Because Grandys betrayed Lyf in the first place, then hacked his feet off with this very sword — Maloch.”
Rix raised it with a flourish, and felt a surge of strength and certainty burn through him.
“Lyf’s terrified of this sword, because it contains one of Grandys’ greatest spells.” Rix didn’t know that, but the deception was justifiable. “I’ve fought Lyf with Maloch, twice, and I know how it terrifies him. Ready?”
“Yes!” they roared.
“Then let’s go and get Grandys.”
As he led them back up the ridge, Rix heard Yudi muttering to the man next to him.
“Black opal is priceless, ain’t it?”
“A man-size piece would be worth buckets of gold,” said the other man. “Maybe barrels.”
“And there’s no saying Grandys has got to be complete. Bits could have cracked off him at any time, with all those dead souls whizzin’ past. Don’t reckon old Grandys would miss a finger now. Just snap one off, slip it in your pocket and when we get back home, we’re made.”
“Reckon I’ll snap off something a bit bigger than a finger,” said the second man, and they laughed like blocked drains.
CHAPTER 59
Tali could not sleep for thinking about Tobry’s fate, and the approaching army that looked likely to end them all, plus the last resistance in Hightspall.
Eventually she gave up and went up to the observatory to study the mural. It looked different now. The body and limbs were less twisted, the florid face showed less pain and more rage, far more menace. Rix must have changed it.
But how could he have? He’d gone out hunting during the day and had not yet returned. She raced down the broken steps.
“Holm?” said Tali, shaking him awake. “I’m worried.”
“About something else, you mean? Something new?”
“Do you know any way that Rix’s portrait of Grandys could change itself?”
“No.” He rose at once. “But if it’s due to magery, Tobry might.”
They found Tobry up under one of the empty domes, where he practised magery in private. He was lathered in sweat.
“I didn’t notice any magery in the mural…” Tali said when she had explained. “But I wasn’t looking for it either.”
“Let’s take a look,” said Tobry. “If I’m right in what I’m thinking, every moment matters.”
They followed him down, then up the broken s
teps to the observatory.
“It is different,” Tobry said after studying the mural for a minute or two. “And if Rix isn’t here to change it, who did?”
He waved his elbrot back and forth over the mural, concentrating on the places where the changes had occurred. Tali saw no discernible difference to the elbrot’s aura, and neither could her own senses detect any magery.
“Nothing,” said Tobry.
“But it’s definitely changed,” said Tali. “Do you think one of the servants could have done it?”
Tobry snorted. “The brushstrokes are consistent. And masterful.”
“Could it be affected by a form of magery we know nothing about?”
“Anything could be affected by a form of magery we know nothing about,” he said wryly. “But I don’t think so. I think it’s got something to do with the painting itself, and Rix’s gift for producing paintings that are divinations.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I,” said Holm.
“I don’t think Rix has gone hunting,” Tobry said slowly. “I’m afraid he’s gone off to do something so wild that it’s actually changing his divination — creating a new future, if you like.”
“Where could he have gone?” said Tali.
“No idea.”
“Swelt will know,” said Holm. “Come on.”
“Rix went alone,” said Swelt, when they ran him to ground in the buttery where, though it was after 2 a.m., he was taking inventory of the kitchen stores on a grey oval slate. “And no one has left the fortress since.”
“Damn,” said Tobry.
“But half a dozen fellows, mostly hotheads, left an hour before he did.”
“Were they going hunting too?”
“That’s what they told the stable boys, but I’m not so sure. Come up.”
In his little empire, Swelt consulted a scribbled note in a ledger. “They took a lot of rope, a large block and tackle, canvas and other gear.”
“Did they say why they wanted it?”
“No, and no one asked. But clearly, they mean to lift up something heavy.”
“Something heavy?” A wave of nausea roiled through Tali’s belly.
“But they could be anywhere,” said Tobry.
“Not anywhere.” Swelt turned to a side table, riffled through a pile of papers and pulled out a small map. “When I came in, this map had been left out. Only Rix and myself have keys to this room.”
“Does it give any clues?” said Holm, examining it.
“Yes, it does,” said Swelt. He tapped a pudgy finger on a circular feature on the southern side of the map. “Some people say this sinkhole is co-existent with the Cythonian Abysm, so it’s obvious what he’s up to.”
“Unfortunately,” said Tali.
“I assume you’ll be riding after him.”
“At once.”
“Rix is a good man,” said Swelt. “And he could become a fine leader, assuming he learns when to trust his judgement…”
“And when not to,” said Tobry.
“Quite so.”
They went out. “So Rix means to raise Grandys’ petrified body and bring it back,” said Tobry.
“Why?” said Tali as they headed for the stables.
“I understand why — I understand that very well.”
“I don’t!”
“Even without people plotting mutiny, Lyf’s approaching army is too big to fight. Rix has always been prone to self-doubt, and he’s worried sick. If the enemy take Garramide they’ll put everyone to the sword, because that’s how rebels are dealt with in wartime. It’s going to take a miracle to save us, so is it any wonder he’s looking to set up his brilliant ancestor as a symbol?”
“How can that help?”
“In these parts, Grandys is considered the greatest warrior of all time. If Rix held Grandys’ long-lost body it would draw fighters from everywhere and make Garramide the centre of resistance. No one would dare talk about mutiny then.”
“And,” said Holm, “it would terrify Lyf. It’s a brilliant plan — ”
“Except for one thing,” said Tobry.
“What’s that?” said Tali.
“I’m worried that it’s not Rix’s plan.”
“How do you mean?”
“He thinks the enchantment on Maloch led him to Garramide, and possibly put the idea into his head to paint the mural of Grandys — the sword’s original owner. Rix is worried that the sword has a mind and purpose of its own, and I think he’s right. What if it’s also leading him to the Abysm?”
“To throw him in?” said Tali.
“No — to get back to its master. Or perhaps both.”
“Come on, come on!” she cried.
They took horses from the stables and set off, riding carefully in the dark, around the edge of the escarpment then up into the most westerly of the mountains at its back. It was slow riding in deep snow. They had not climbed far before Tobry took a winding path up a steep valley, then a track that curved around behind the mountain for several hours, then down steeply.
“What did Swelt mean by co-existent?” said Holm. “Tali, when you saw Grandys’ petrified body it was in the Abysm, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Where was that?”
“Next to Lyf’s caverns under Precipitous Crag.”
“But this sinkhole has to be a hundred miles from Precipitous Crag. How can the Abysm be here as well?”
“I was drawn through a peculiar crack from Lyf’s main cavern,” said Tali. “But now you ask, I have no idea where the Abysm was. It could have been next door, or on the other side of the world. I’ve never been in any place like it.”
“I’ve heard that it co-exists in several places across the realm,” said Tobry.
Dawn broke, cold and clear. He consulted the map, headed across into the neighbouring valley and took another path, now heading west. They were still riding down and the snow was scanty here. They followed the path for some hours more, crested a hill and Tobry stopped.
“There it is!”
The sinkhole lay in shadow, surrounded by tall trees, but even so it seemed unusually black, as if a pool of night had collected there and could not escape.
“Why is it black?” said Tali. “When I saw the Abysm before, it was pure white.”
Holm and Tobry exchanged glances but no one spoke. On the far side of the sinkhole, something flashed, as if a powerful lantern was being used to probe its depths.
“Hurry. He mustn’t get Grandys’ body up.”
There must have been rain recently, for the snow was gone and every brook running. They galloped across the ridge, angled down the wooded flank and across the valley floor.
“We’ve got to go faster,” said Tobry. “Tali, you’re the lightest. Ride ahead.”
She urged her mount to give everything it had and the horse lengthened its stride. It flashed between the trees, leapt a rivulet in the valley bottom, slowed momentarily in the soft soil on the far side then accelerated again.
For any non-Cythonian, merely approaching the Abysm was a shocking sacrilege. Stealing Grandys’ body from it must be an offence so monstrous that it would shake Cython to its foundations.
Her horse careered up the long slope. Mist wisped from the sinkhole and a halo of green grass surrounded it, out for thirty or forty feet. It looked unnatural at this time of year, when the grass everywhere else was brown and sere. A triangular frame made of freshly cut timbers had been constructed near the downhill edge of the sinkhole, and a wooden beam extended from it over the edge. A thick rope ran across the arm, through a block and tackle at its end and down over the edge into the Abysm. Judging by the tension of the rope, it held something heavy.
Rix’s bravos turned away from their work, laughing. Making some offensive joke about me, no doubt, Tali thought. Her horse skidded to a halt, tearing up chunks of moist turf. She tried to scramble off, caught a foot in the stirrup and fell on her head. The men roared.
&n
bsp; She got up, wiping her face. “Rix, stop!”
He jerked a thumb at his grinning men. They moved down the slope, reluctantly.
Rix’s tanned face was unnaturally pale. “It’s the only way to save Garramide.”
“Where did you get the idea?”
“It came to me yesterday morning.”
“What if it came from Maloch?”
“How do you mean?”
“The sword’s enchantment has been working on you since the first time you used it. Tobry thinks it put the idea in your head to come here, and so do I.”
“Why would it do that?”
Rix’s dead hand stirred. The top of Tali’s head throbbed, above the master pearl. He forced his hand down. Maloch rattled in its scabbard, then jerked sideways so wildly that he was heaved towards the edge of the Abysm. He braced himself against the force. The scabbard gave another jerk, tearing one of its leather straps.
“Come away from the edge, Rix. It wants to get back to its master.”
Rix tried to move away, but the sword was straining so hard towards the edge that his feet began to slip on the damp grass. Tali took him around the waist and heaved but could not resist the force — it was dragging them both to the brink. Tobry and Holm galloped up.
“Give us a hand, would you?” Rix said in a croaky voice.
The scabbard jerked again. Holm took hold of it and held it until it stilled. Tobry cut a length of rope, took ten turns around the scabbard and tied it down. The three of them held Rix and tried to heave him away, but could not budge him. Tobry tied another rope around Rix’s chest, mounted his horse and looped the other end around the saddle horn. He spurred his horse. It strained forwards as though trying to drag a boulder and, with Tali and Holm also heaving, they got Rix away from the edge.
“Further,” said Tobry. “Out to the outer rim of the green grass.”
The sword was still rattling, though the resistance seemed lesser now, and after a couple of minutes they had Rix out of the halo onto the winter-withered grass. Maloch went still in its scabbard. The rope was so tight around Rix’s chest that he was gasping. Tobry untied it; Rix fell to the ground.
